you sigh deeply, peering at him over the edge of the blanket which you’ve tucked right up to your chin. “i was just thinking.”

“was it hard?” he coos sympathetically, snickering when you lightly shove him away, offended.

“you’re being mean.”

jeonghan cups your cheeks, still smiling as he kisses your forehead apologetically. “okay, i’m sorry, my love,” he soothes. “go on. i’m listening.”

your arms stretch out a little, waving them above your curled up figures as you speak, all drawn-out — “i was just thinking…”

“mm.” he can tell you’re getting to a stage of tiredness nearing delirium. it’s cute, how hard you’re trying to force your eyes open and not slur your words.

“do you even like me?”

whatever jeonghan was expecting, it sure as hell wasn’t that. the question throws him for a loop, and he sits up in bed to look down at you properly, trying to understand if you’re serious. “there’s no way,” he says finally, “that you’re actually thinking about this.”

“i just meant — ”

“the tiredness has gone to your head.”

you’re smiling suddenly, because that’s all the answer you really needed. you feel silly for asking the question in the first place — a momentary lapse in judgement.

jeonghan, however, is still reeling. “do you even like me,” he repeats to himself, scoffing. “weren’t you there?”

“where?”

“at our wedding. where i married you.”

“kind of, but — ”

“i didn’t kind of marry you!”

“okay, okay, i’m sorry!” you explode, giggling at his expression of absolute increduloty.

he lies back down, finally. muttering again — “do i like you. what a fucking question. i’m literally in love with you.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, wrapping your arms around him with a smile, “i was being stupid. i just wanted to hear it!”

“i told you, like, ten times today!”

“one more. pleease.”

jeonghan sighs and smooths a hand against your forehead, softening against you. “i love you and like you and everything. just go to sleep now.”

satisfied, you curl against him. “i love and like and everything you too. goodnight, baby.”

an / just a very small very terrible thing because i can’t sleep 😨 one day i will write something better today is not that day

OCTOBER 2

Perfect wouldn't be the exact word to describe today. In fact, it's an understatement. Maybe it's your habit of romanticizing life, but the autumn leaves seem to fall in a much slower, sweeter way these days. The wind that flows through your window feels a gentle reminder of the approaching winter. And every day, it feels a bit chiller, pushing everyone to put on more fabric to face the cold.

It has already been a week since you came to your hometown to spend the winter season with your family. But, to be very honest, it feels the exact same as living alone in Seoul because your parents are barely home; going on dates every now and then, abandoning you and your brother, Joshua. And it gets worse, because Joshua physically cannot stay at home for longer than one hour and always has to go out with his friends.

That leaves you, your emotional support—a crocheted heart shaped pillow and the emptiness of your nostalgic childhood home alone for almost the entire day. You didn't mind, though, because being a grown adult meant you had to get used to doing everything alone.

Like usual, you woke up early in the morning, not surprised to find no-one else in the house. After a few hours of laying around, you decided to do something productive—clean your room. So, you plugged your headphones and jammed to your favourite summer songs in the sole presence of winter. Not that you dislike winter, in fact it's your favourite, it's just your unpromising choice of music at the most random times.

Your taste in music is unmatched, though. You have full confidence in that.

You wiped the windows one last time, and leaned back to look at the entire room. A proud smile bloomed on your lips, satisfied with your much-needed hard work. And after all that, you deserved a treat. A sweet one.

You put all the cleaning essentials aside and jerk the dust off your hands before sliding your headphones down to rest around your neck.

As you open your bedroom door, you're met with an unfamiliar noise coming from downstairs. You head towards the staircase, taking conscious steps on it, trying to decipher the voices.

It should be Joshua, but you hear a much deeper and sweeter voice alongside. The tone sounds oddly familiar but you don't remember ever hearing the voice in your twenty-six years of living. It's obvious enough that your brother probably invited his friend over without informing you beforehand, but you still decide to risk it anyway.

In a very, very careful manner, you tip-toed your way down the stairs and leaned against the wall, peeking your head just enough to get a glimpse of the kitchen. It wasn't too far from where you were standing right now, and it shouldn't be a big problem to make a run for it without being seen in your old clothes that you wore because you didn't want to get the good ones dirty while cleaning.

But you're quick to hide behind the wall with a small gasp and change your mind within seconds. And the reason? An insanely gorgeous guy around the age of Joshua in your common room, unpacking a guitar. Your heart jumped a little, and you found yourself peeking again, just enough to get a better look at him.

His eyes traced the shape of an almond, coloured in the hues of the same. His black, flowy hair rested just above his upper neck, shining under the warm afternoon sunlight. His pink lips were pressed into a thin line, the corners curved like the softest smile you'd ever seen. He gently held the guitar with one hand, twisting it out of the carton box. Your heart refused to believe he wasn't an illusion of the love-sick mind. He was right there, in front of your eyes, all flesh and bones.

Just another second more, and maybe you could've gathered the courage to say something. Anything. But here your brother was, calling out for his friend with a name that sounded too familiar. Before his eyes could catch your sight, though, you were already racing back upstairs as quietly as possible.

“Jeonghan!” Joshua shouted from the front yard, sounding completely exhausted. A few more shuffling noises continued in the common room before a voice cut through.

“What's wrong?”

It was warm, light and clear. A confusing mixture of soft and deep. But angelic enough for a chill to run down your spine, and for your heart to soften. Then, the name that Joshua called, clicked in your mind.

“Jeonghan…” the name slipped from your mouth, curious and also aware at the same time. Pretty name, you thought. But you've definitely heard it somewhere before.

——

Your room felt too empty, too quiet. The silence was heavy with your own embarrassing internal monologue: You, an adult, had practically hyperventilated in a stairwell because of a man who looked like an angel and whose name you knew but couldn't place.

It had been atleast two hours, and Jeonghan was long gone—a beautiful phantom who had entered your home, dropped off your brother's things, and left without ever knowing he'd been watched, much less fled from. But the name, Jeonghan, was still stuck in your mind. It was an itch you had to scratch. You were an author; you solved puzzles for a living.

You were leaning against your pillow, trying to start a new show, or most probably, attempting to divert your mind from the guy named Jeonghan. Just then the muted clatter of the front door indicated that your parents were finally home from their date.

The soft tapping came almost immediately after. Your mother’s footsteps had paused just outside your door.

Knock, knock. Just two quick taps.

“Y/n, are you awake, honey?” her voice was low and warm. “I just wanted to tell you about the terrible lighting in the bistro before I forget.”

You smiled as soon as your eyes met hers, inviting her into the comfort of your room. But before she could launch into the decor review, a kind, clear voice called up the stairs.

“Y/n! I served your favourite cheesecake on a plate, it’s sitting right here in the fridge. Come get it before I accidentally mistake it for my own!” Joshua warned playfully, followed by a soft laughter from your dad. 

Your mother smiled, leaning against the door frame. “See? A devil disguised as a gentleman who might steal your snack. Come on, sweetie. You deserve a bite of something good after a long day.”

You pushed her blankets back with a laugh. “This guy…”

“Wait! Can you bring my phone from my room, please? It'll be quick!” Joshua shouted urgently, afraid you might ignore his words if he's a second late. Already halfway down the stairs, you sighed loud and dramatically before taking a full u-turn and dragging your foot along the steps.

“I need half of your cheesecake in return!” You exclaimed, earning a scoff from him. But he couldn't disagree, atleast, not while you're doing his work.

You marched into Joshua's room, intending to raid his bed looking for his phone, but spotted a dusty, faded photo album resting on his bedside table.

“2002.” — the cover read. Your eyebrows furrowed, your posture softening curiously. You grabbed it without hesitation, just wanting to have a look at it.

Holding the album tight against your chest with one hand, you searched through Joshua's bedsheets for his phone with another. You took his phone, ran to your room and hid the photo album under your pillow, your heart racing with uncertain hope.

You had an overwhelming feeling that Jeonghan might be someone you've known in your past.

Taking one last look at your perfect hiding spot, you shut the door behind you and crept down the stairs, as if you suddenly became too self aware. Then, clearing your throat, you plopped down on the couch beside Joshua and snatched his bag of chips.

“You know you could just ask for one and I won't bite, right?” Joshua remarked, clearly not bothered, yet feeling the need to make facts clear to you.

“Where's the fun in that?” You smiled, munching on your brother's favourite flavour of potato chips. You two continued to chat, and he continued to crack his very unfunny jokes, oblivious to the fact that his bedside table will be missing something tonight.

——

It didn't take long before evening passed by. For the first time, though, someone didn't have to tell you to go to sleep. Because the moment you were done with dinner, you were already taking two steps at a time towards your room. Your night routine lasted for a few minutes—a quick warm shower, your skin settling for only moisturizer for tonight. Because you had something much more exciting waiting for you other than your usual relaxing skincare.

Finally, you lifted your pillow and grabbed the photo album with enthusiasm, settling onto your bed with a soft blanket proving warmth till your waist. ‘2002’, it read, making you a bit confused until you flipped the cover. The first page contained photographs, dating way back to 2000.

12th April, 2002. It specified, followed by a bunch of photos of you and Joshua, racing through the nostalgic fields of your once favourite lilies. White t-shirt with a blue jean jumpsuit and a white breton cap, posing with a cute peace sign—Joshua, you recognised. Peeking over his shoulders from behind was you, dressed in a yellow printed bright frock, making you glow in the garden of flowers.

Your lips bloomed with a smile, and widened with each page you flipped, each photograph an embarrassing and lovely reminder of the beautiful childhood you’ve spent with your family.

You found yourself hooked to it, flipping past years of awkward childhood photos until you hit the deep past—the messy, grainy world of kindergarten.

And there it was. A picture of three small children covered in mud, squinting into the sun. A goofy Joshua was grinning, flanked by a messy-haired girl with two cute buns (you), and on the other side, a skinny, handsome boy with an angelic smile.

The realization was a punch to the gut. The handsome man whom you had stumbled into this afternoon wasn't just a stranger; he was a friend. He was the friend. Your first childhood confidante, the boy who shared his best toys, the one who had taught you how to tie your shoelaces, though wrong himself. And the one you had always found a bit more charming and special than the rest since the day you two met.

The friend from twenty-three years ago had spontaneously combusted into a full-blown adult attraction, all while turning into a distant memory in your mind.

The memory snapped the name into place: Jeonghan. He was the reason you and Joshua used to sneak out to the playground at sunset. The reason you learned addition and subtraction better than your classmates. He was a piece of your past, and you had never tried to look back for these whole 23 years.

You slammed the album shut, realisation hitting you like a jolt of electricity. It had been twenty-three years. Twenty-three years since the last time you saw that angelic smile, and today, you saw it all over again. Except it was much brighter and sweeter now.

You flip the photo album to that specific page again, carefully taking the photograph of seven year old Jeonghan, your heart melting at the sight just as it did all those years ago when he gave you his ice-cream after you dropped yours. Putting the album aside, you keep the photograph between the pages of your diary safely before turning the lamp off and tucking yourself in the sheets.

It leaves you on a cliffhanger all night—“If you stood before him, would he remember you in a heartbeat, or has your shared childhood simply faded into a past he would no longer care about?”

—

OCTOBER 4

With a huff, you placed the plastic bag full of snacks on the table, making your colleagues erupt in excitement.

“You're the best!” Seokmin stood up from his seat, clapping his hands like a toddler getting ice cream for dessert. Mingyu snatched the first thing he saw from the bag, a big wide grin stretching across his face as he giggled. Minghao, on the other hand, sighed at the sight unfolding before him. But not long after, he also got up, unable to avoid the temptation.

 “Oh my god! Where did you get this drink from? Everywhere I go it's always sold out…” Mingyu pouted, scanning the cold drink can with a frown.

“There's a shop just a few blocks away, I got all this from there.” You sat down on a chair, grabbing a small fruit cake packet. Seokmin swallowed his food, clearing his throat just to stupidly ask, “Do you just have this many snacks lying around the house or what?”

You paused and shared a look, almost sad. “This was supposed to be my monthly restock if y'all didn't just barge in my house without notice.”

Mingyu choked on his food, looking at you horrified. “That is your monthly restock? You eat all this alone?” He gasped, making Seokming and Minghao wheeze loudly.

“Hey, I have three other people living in this house!” You defended, unable to hold back your smile at his goofiness. Minghao lightly smacked Mingyu's shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

“Maybe you should slow down on that sugar, or you’ll be meeting up with Dr. Jeonghan tomorrow.” He remarked while Mingyu sulked, and Seokmin threw himself on the floor, cackling.

You froze. Your hands stopped mid-air as your ears perked up, your heart pounding in your ribcage a little louder now. The name echoed in your memory, sending your mind into a spiral. Seokmin wasn't helping either.

“Also, didn't Jeonghan warn you that day too?” He doubled down as the room erupted in laughter while you sat there in complete silence.

Calm down, Y/n. There are thousands of other Jeonghan in this world.

The careless repetition of the name felt like an invasion. You wanted to interrupt, to confirm which Jeonghan they were talking about, but the name itself was a trigger. It silenced the question in your throat, leaving you with a blinding surge of nervousness and a heart that felt ready to beat its way out of your chest. Everywhere you turned, the name followed, not just a whisper but a persistent, inescapable sound—as if it were hunting you down. As if you had to fill in the gap of those twenty three years you've missed.

——

EARLIER THAT DAY.

“I'm not paying 5k for this and that's final.” You slammed your hand on the stall’s counter, frustrated. The middle aged shopkeeper annoyingly mirrored your actions, an insufferable expression painted on his face, clearly meant to provoke you.

“Then don't. Feel free to walk away, young lady.” He gestured towards the roadside, fueling your frustration. You snorted.

“Listen, uncle,” you leaned over the counter, ready to drop an earful. “I’ve been a customer of this store even before you stepped foot here, respectfully. So I don't understand why I'm having to deal with you this early in the morning just because your arrogance is out of control. I bought this exact one just yesterday and it was two times less than whatever price you're telling me to pay right now.” You spilled out everything under one breath, then leaned back huffing to grab the small menu.

“And mind you, this is not even 3k so you may be a bit sick in the head to think I'd pay you 5k.” You glared into the shopkeeper’s soul, and for a split second, you could see his expression falter.

Yes. Victory.

Silence. Then he began to argue again, leaving you jaw-dropped. The audacity of this man needed to be studied or you might just go insane on a random Thursday morning. But then, like a gift from the heavens itself, a deep, soft, and familiar voice cut through the tension. It came from directly behind you, blocking the sun and casting a sudden, sharp shadow. You froze for a beat. Two beats. then practically spun on your heel as the recognition hit.

There he was: the same captivating, brown almond eyes; the silky, dark, impossibly shiny hair. The beautiful, sharp detail of his cheekbones that you hadn't noticed before, and now that you had, the pang in your heart was almost painful. You could run away and hide—not just from the man, but the insane, radiant energy he possessed. It was a beauty so profound, so utterly gorgeous, you almost felt plain and unremarkable infront of him. You were looking directly at an angel's twin, made human.

His lips looked baby pink, soft and magnetic. You almost felt embarrassed at the way your eyes were travelling and scanning each and every detail—even his lips, but could you really blame yourself? He was Jeonghan. The same pretty, mischievous kid who used to chase you around dressed in a ghost costume who had now grown into such a fine man you almost couldn't believe your eyes. Just like he always guessed and remarked, he had grown taller than you thought he would, and it was taking your breath away seeing how he towered you so easily.

But why was he here?

“Ah, Mr. Shin?” Jeonghan spoke into the speaker of his phone, catching the shopkeeper's attention. His steps halted just beside you, although he hadn't met your eyes yet.

“Jeonghan-ah? Is something wrong, you don't call at this hour.” A voice followed through the phone almost immediately, and you instantly recognised the voice. It was Mr. Shin, the actual owner of the store you knew since childhood.

Jeonghan reached out to grab the menu, his eyes examining the price of the pastry you had wasted your past 20 minutes for. “Something is very wrong, actually,” he sighed, placing the menu back on the counter. “I didn't know you changed the prices for the strawberry chocolate mousse…”

You paused, fighting back a smile. You knew exactly where this was going now. He sounded almost sad, his expression worried and distressed, but you could tell it was fake. Even after all these years, you haven't lost the ability to tell he was faking it, although he looked too convincing to others.

The shopkeeper was horrified, and you loved each and every second of it.

“Wait what? I don't— I don't remember doing so. Are you sure you're not mistaken?” Mr. Shin sounded puzzled and worried, recalling everything he did before leaving for a few days of vacation.

He looked directly at the shopkeeper, causing him to startle a bit. “I can't be mistaken because that's what I'm being told by—”

“No, wait a minute! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just take it!” He slid the pastry box towards you on the counter, panicked and scared for his dear job. “Don't complain, please, I beg you.”

Jeonghan glanced at his phone, then spoke, “Mr. Shin, I'll talk to you later, it's an emergency.” Before ending the call.

You were stunned. He was still so clever and troublesome, just a lot kinder now.

The shopkeeper bowed one last time before hurrying away to the other side of the stall, leaving you and Jeonghan alone. You hadn't looked away from him until now.

Grabbing the pastry box, you gathered every last bit of confidence left in you to turn to him with a tight-lipped smile.

“Thank you, Jeonghan—” the name slipped from your lips before you could process it, and you noticed the way his eyes immediately turned to look at you. You averted your gaze at the realisation, trying your best to not drown in the awkwardness. Your heart was racing at the sheer thought of your childhood bestfriend recognising you after twenty-three years. You were excited, even. Until he spoke. Too casually, too nicely and too normally.

“You know my name?” He asked, tilting his head with a genuine surprised look on his face. Your stomach dropped, the hint of eagerness in your eyes fading slowly.

He didn't recognise you.

You were a stranger to him right now, and at that very moment, you lost every intention to remind him. But you pushed the personal thoughts aside, thinking of an excuse to get out of the awkward situation.

“I heard Mr. Shin call you that on the phone,” you say, forcing a smile that he mirrored.

“Ah, ofcourse, that was nothing special. Just use this trick when needed, although I doubt there'll be a next time.” He joked with a soft chuckle, the sound sending a jolt down your spine. You nodded along, your smile reaching the eyes. He still carried a spark within him, enough to light up a person's mood.

“Enjoy your pastry, I'm in a bit of a hurry right now.” He said, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “See you around.” With one last look and smile, he jogged down the street. It was only when he reached the turn that you realised his words.

You do wish to see him around, hopefully.

——

OCTOBER 7

The morning sunlight shone through the tall windows into the small shop. You stepped inside, closing the door behind you gently. The room had dim lighting, each corner filled with musical instruments and lit up by the sun rays alone. The shop is owned by one of your grandfather’s closest friends, whom you've known for years by now. You stopped by the store to share some of the dumplings you had cooked this morning for your family as your mother reminded you of the fact that it was his favourite.

“Uncle?” You called out, looking around the room curiously. You walked inside further, your eyes glued to the various instruments. He has always been the biggest lover of music, if it wasn't obvious enough. Not receiving a response, you called out once again, a bit louder this time.

​"Y/n, I'm in the storeroom, hold on a minute!" Uncle Kang called out, his voice accompanied by the distinct sound of tools at work. You acknowledged with an 'okay' and set the lunch box on a small table in the corner.

The guitar leaned against the wall by the table, and a ridiculous, irresistible urge flared in you. You wanted to snatch it up and play, never mind that your skill was only mediocre. But just as you had moved to take a seat, the tiny bell above the entrance door chimed. You glanced up from the floor, your eyes instantly locking with familiar ones.

Your hands froze halfway. The guitar slipped your mind instantly. Your heart didn't just beat; it slammed against your ribs, once, a heavy, silencing thump. You blinked, hard, once, twice, three times, a desperate attempt to reset your vision and your reality. But the impossible was standing there: Jeonghan. He was here, he was everywhere. A shiver traced your spine. It was a coincidence, you told yourself, a trick of the city's sprawl, yet his shadow followed yours like a magnet.

“Ah, Jeonghan! You're here!” A voice suddenly echoed in the store, and Jeonghan had almost lifted his gaze, but you turned away. As fast as you could. You froze, a single, desperate thought screaming in your head: please don't let him recognise you—atleast, not as the one who sent him a matching request on a literal dating app two days ago. That too, accidentally. While stalking. Uncle Kang was standing infront of the store room, patting the dust off his shoulders.

“Good morning,” Jeonghan greeted, your heart melting as soon as you heard the sweet tone of his voice. Maybe it was a mix of fluttery nerves and a tiny bit of sweet panic at the thought of facing him. Or perhaps he just looked so wonderfully fine now, years later, that he felt like a brand new person—making your heart tap out a silly, fast rhythm it hadn't before.

“Good morning, good morning, take a seat.” Uncle Kang gestured for him to sit beside you, causing you to shut your eyes in defeat.

Okay, act like an adult.

You tracked the sound of approaching steps until they stopped. Then, with a soft sigh or perhaps just the scrape of wood on the floor, he pulled out the stool and sat down in the space next to yours. From the corner of your eye, you saw him carrying a gig bag—probably a guitar—which he settled against the wall on the floor just as Uncle Kang began to speak again.

“Just a moment, I'll be right back.” He announced. “Y/n-ah, can you pour him a glass of water?” He requested, shifting his gaze on you. You quickly darted your eyes between him and Jeonghan—who was just now registering your presence—before giving a slight, tentative nod. With a smile, uncle Kang turned away into the dusty storeroom again, getting busy with the tools.

Finally, you looked over at Jeonghan, his expression softening as soon as your eyes met. You offered a soft, polite smile that he mirrored.

​"It's you," he murmured, a sound of calm surprise. You gave a short nod in reply. "We meet again," you answered, surprised by the low, steady quality of your own voice, which seemed to rise from a place of unexpected composure. You saw his expression soften, then a small, knowing smile bloomed on his lips.

His smile was to fucking die for.

“Do you live nearby? It's almost impossible we've run into each other twice in a week.” He asked with a soft chuckle. His eyes followed you as you stood up from your seat and walked to a small cabinet to pour a glass of water for him.

“My parents live in this town, so I drop by on holidays to visit them sometimes.” You replied, placing the jug on the cabinet. “I moved out years ago.” You added, then walked over and handed him the glass of water. He hummed in acknowledgement, taking a quick sip of the water.

“What about you?” You questioned. He glanced at you, then back at the glass of water. “I grew up here as a child, but my family moved out too soon. I think about when I was like… seven?” He smiled, his expression softening slightly as he recalled. “I never visited after that. I think this might be my first time in years.”

You slowly nodded, biting down on your bottom lip. The words were right there, hot and eager on your tongue: I grew up here, too. I grew up with you. But the timing was wrong, the risk too great. Could he handle that much information all at once? Would he even care? Maybe your hopes were a ridiculous height, and all you'd achieve was an immediate, uncomfortable silence. Right now, you were sitting with him—as a stranger—and that was enough. You wouldn't poison the atmosphere just to ease your own mind.

“It must feel weird to see everything in here change so much.” Your voice dropped to a softer tone. ​He grew utterly still, his shoulder softening without a trace of tension. The look in his eyes held a moment of vulnerability, a silent pause before speaking. It was then he carefully formed his response, the words slipping one by one, like gentle steps.

“It really does. I keep trying to find the corner where the old bookstore was, but I can't even trace it. It feels like everything got scrubbed clean.” Then a quick chuckle left his mouth before he added. “I mean, I can't expect everything to be the same after more than a decade.”

You nodded slowly, your mouth a tight, thin line. A wave of pity, almost regret, washed over you for him. You didn't know why he'd been absent all these years, but you suspected the crushing weight of his studies was a major part of it—the curse of the "gifted student", who was supposedly immune to the very real pain of pressure. You understood that void perfectly: the hollow ache of a life half-missed. You knew, with a painful certainty, that you couldn't rewind time, couldn't reclaim those lost years, no matter how desperately you wished to.

“But hey, did you have to use my trick a second time, though?” Jeonghan’s voice cut through your train of thoughts. You registered the question and chuckled, shaking your head. “Thankfully, not yet.”

The sound of his laugh filled the space, chasing away the silence. You spotted his gig bag and gestured toward it with a slight tilt of your head. "You're here to get this repaired?”

​His eyes followed yours, and he shook his head with a small smile. “Just an exchange. Uncle Kang is particular about this specific guitar, so I volunteered.”

​“Ah, I see,” you said, your attention snapping from the bag to him. “If you haven’t picked the new one yet, let me show you around.”

​He studied you for a moment, a flicker of genuine relief crossing his face. “Please. Yes. I’d love that. I doubt he'll be finished tuning up today.” His weary sigh earned a quick laugh from you. ​You stood, the stool screeching a little on the floor. “Exactly, let’s get this over with.”

He nodded, rising from his seat as you started toward a part of the shop he’d never seen before. He followed, familiar with the layout yet thrown by the presence of a new door. You stopped, turned the knob, and stepped aside. Jeonghan stopped short, taking in the sight with unconcealed awe. This wasn't a shop; it was a vault. Massive cabinets and polished displays were packed with guitars of every conceivable make and style. The air felt different here—heavy with the scent of aged wood and lacquer. Each instrument, from the simplest acoustic to the most vibrant electric, seemed to hold its own unique story.

Jeonghan's breath hitched, and he choked, “This is... crazy.” He finally stepped past the threshold, shoulders slumping as he tried to take in the sheer scale of it all. You followed, letting him drown in the awe. You remembered that feeling—the moment you couldn't stand up from your knees when you first saw Uncle Kang's magnificent, hidden vault.

“I know. It feels like stepping into a musical dream,” you agreed, your voice hushed as you walked straight to a cabinet. The smooth, heavy wooden door hissed open at your touch. You glanced over your shoulder at Jeonghan, who looked lost amid the treasure. “Are you looking for something specific?”

He shook his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not really, just with a pretty print is alright.” Hands tucked casually into his pockets, he walked over to where you stood. You nodded, immediately pulling out the ones you thought would catch his eye.

The two of you began your easy, rambling walk through the guitar section. It was full of easy laughter at the oddly broken guitars and hushed admiration for the beautiful ones. You were slightly stunned by how much Jeonghan knew. He wasn't kidding when he announced he'd be a “guitar genius” years ago—a time when he could barely manage to tie his own shoes.​

“What about this one?” Jeonghan asked, his hand hovering over an acoustic guitar lying on the far end of the cabinet. You immediately shot him a look of disapproval, scrunching your nose as you recalled your last experience with it.

​“Absolutely not. That might be the worst one here,” you declared with a definitive grimace, still vaguely icked by the memory of its dull, rattling sound. Jeonghan simply chuckled, a glint of amusement in his eye as he gave a slight nod. You turned your back on him, walking deeper into the room and launching into an explanation about the better models in the other display case.

​But then, you froze.

​A chill chased down your spine as the most exquisitely clear and resonant melody sliced through the air. The sound didn't just reach your ears—it enveloped you, stopping your breath mid-sentence.

​You spun around in a flash, completely astonished.

​Jeonghan stood there, the very guitar you had called the “worst one here” cradled in his arms. His fingers danced effortlessly over the fretboard, coaxing a sound so rich and magical it felt like a musical paradise had suddenly been unveiled. The melody filled the space, clean and captivating, leaving you utterly transfixed. You could only stare, your lips slightly parted in sheer awe.

​With a final, clean slide across the strings, the music ceased. He gently returned the guitar to the cabinet.

​“Wait a minute,” you managed to murmur, your voice barely a thread. You walked toward him, your eyes wide as if he’d just transformed into a superhuman. You reached into the cabinet, pulling the same acoustic guitar out again. “How did you—” You paused, genuinely floundering for words. “play it so… perfectly?”

​Your raw surprise made Jeonghan’s lips twitch; he had to bite down slightly to suppress a laugh. He inhaled, ready to speak, but you were already extending the guitar back to him.

​“Please play it again,” you pleaded, your expression a mix of urgency and desperation, a furrow deep between your eyebrows. “I need to hear it again.”

​Taken completely aback by your sudden, fierce passion, Jeonghan needed a few seconds to register the request. Then, a soft, amused smile finally broke free as he took the instrument back, dipping his head in a quick nod.

Jeonghan's smile deepened, a playful challenge in his eyes as he accepted the guitar. “I only know a few chords, though,” he teased, a blatant lie that made you roll your eyes.

That's how you two dropped everything and went back to the same spot to sit down.

You watched, mesmerized, as he settled the guitar against his chest, his gaze dropping to the fretboard with a sudden, serious focus.

He didn't launch into the complicated melody from before. Instead, his fingers started a pattern that was simpler, yet deeply moving: a slow, familiar, melancholic piece. It wasn't showy, but every note was perfectly placed, resonant, and clear—a testament not to the guitar's quality, but to the player’s skill.

The sound of the cheap wood vibrating against your chest was almost secondary to the pure feeling in the music. It was a song you had heard countless times, but played with a sincerity that made it sound entirely new. You found yourself swaying slightly, the initial shock giving way to a profound sense of calm. The way he manipulated the sound, softening a chord here, letting a note sustain there, was nothing short of artistry.

When he finished, the silence that followed felt enormous. He looked up, his expression innocent. “Better?”

You glanced up, locking eyes with him. You nodded, involuntarily and basically hating the fact that the music stopped. “I guess I'm just bad at this.” You chuckled, embarrassed as you recalled how you labelled the guitar ‘the worst one’, when, infact, it was perfectly fine.

The morning sunlight had long since surrendered to the warmer afternoon hours, but neither of you noticed the passing time. Uncle Kang, realizing you had everything completely figured out, had quietly slipped away with the lunch box ages ago.

“It's not like that. I've had my hated guitars before too.” He admitted, but you didn't budge. “Then, it was probably broken. I don't believe you'd embarrass yourself like me when you play so professionally.” You sighed, a small smile hovering on your lips.

He shifted, bringing the guitar back into his lap. “Want to try something simple? No labels, no judgment. Just... a chord?”

The afternoon sun, now a deep, buttery gold, stretched long shadows across the floor. You felt a quiet shift inside—the enormous silence had become a comfortable calm. You nodded, a genuine, unforced smile replacing the embarrassed one. “Yeah. I think I'd like that.” You reached out, slowly taking the neck of the guitar back into your hands, the light catching the polished wood. The lesson wasn't about the music; it was about the fear of failing, and that, at least, felt a little lighter now.

——

OCTOBER 9

The chair screeched against the floor, making Joshua hiss. Jeonghan rounded the table of his common room and plopped down on the couch beside Joshua, practically sticking to him like a magnet now.

“Can you literally leave me alone, you're a grown ass man, Jeonghan.”

“Well, I'm in need of some entertainment right now and you're not telling me about your long term girlfriend you soft launched yesterday.” He grinned teasingly, wiggling his eyebrows as Joshua glared at him.

“If it's so obvious, stop asking me,” Joshua sighed, scooting away on the couch to rest his elbow on the arm rest. Jeonghan clicked his tongue in disappointment, sinking into the couch with a bored expression on his face.

“Man, I'm just bored.” He grumbled, folding his arms as he stared up at the ceiling. “So basically in the whole friend group, I'm the only one who lacks a life partner now. Wow.” Jeonghan scoffed sadly, looking around the house as if he'd spot cupid somewhere in the corner.

“Well, not really,” Joshua's voice cut through the still silence as he scrolled through his phone. Jeonghan jolted awake, confused but eager.

“What do you mean?” He asked, adjusting his position to sit straight. Joshua tapped a few buttons on his phone screen before a small smirk bloomed on his lips.

“I mean this.” He said, flashing his phone screen toward Jeonghan. He immediately leaned close, eyes glued to the screen. Then his expression fell as soon as he understood—a whole new page on a dating app with his information and pictures.

Jeonghan snatched the phone from his hand, shouting complaints at the top of his lungs as Joshua fell to the floor laughing and wheezing.

“Are you sick!? I have a reputation to maintain, what the f—” He paused, stumbling on his own steps as he halted. “Wait, but I'm lowkey famous though,” he boasted, scrolling through all the list of people who wanted to match with him, a ton of them being his colleagues.

“See? That's why I—”

“Hong Y/N…” The name caught Joshua off guard, making him pause. Jeonghan stared at the phone screen, the words that left his mouth and the photo causing him to pause. Joshua stumbled away from the couch, immediately walking up to Jeonghan and grabbing the phone.

His jaw dropped. The name, the bio, the photo—it was you. His very own sister.

He stared into the screen, concerned and confused, but also feeling a bit cringe. The thought of his sister sending a match request to someone who had been like a brother to her in the past sounded too awkward to begin with. It sounded unbelievable too, because the request was from just yesterday, and Joshua is damn sure you don't remember Jeonghan even in your most nostalgic dreams.

“Wait,” Jeonghan murmured, peeking over Joshua's shoulder. “I know her—”

“You what!?” Joshua turned around at the speed of light, eyes widened. Ofcourse, he should know her as a childhood friend, not something more, nor something less. Jeonghan stumbled backwards, startled as he nodded slowly. Joshua shoved the phone closer towards his face, making him lean away, concerned.

“You mean this woman?” He repeated his question, but got the same answer. A quiet, simple nod. Joshua sighed in defeat, completely and utterly beyond confusion.

“How and where on earth…” he mumbled, putting his phone in his pocket as he made his way towards the couch again. Jeonghan leaned forward as soon as Joshua moved away, sighing in relief.

“What's so wrong with her anyway?” He asked, sitting at the edge of the dining table as he fixed table cloth. Joshua paused, coming to a realisation.

Jeonghan had probably seen you around. He definitely doesn't recognise you. Definitely.

“Literally everything,” Joshua sighed, having no intentions of telling him as he rested his head on the palm of his hand as he scrolled through his phone, stressed.

“Why? Do you know her? Who is she?” Jeonghan looked up from the table, raising an eyebrow as he tapped his foot on the wooden floor.

“No, and you don't have to either." Joshua dismissed with a clear tone of strictness in his voice. Jeonghan clicked his tongue, disappointed.

“Well, I think I like her. Send me her account.” Jeonghan said as he took out his phone from his pockets, ready to send a text as soon as possible.

“Yah!” Joshua huffed, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. Jeonghan reciprocated his expression.

“What!” He exclaimed. “Stop acting like that!”

“I told you you don't have to know her!” Joshua repeated.

“Why! Is she someone so special to you?” Jeonghan questioned.

“Yes, right, she is. So what?”

Jeonghan opened his mouth to say something but stopped, and sighed, turning away. “So I was correct. I am dying single and alone.” He pouted, scrolling on his phone, uninterested.

“There are literally hundreds of patients who come to the clinic just to see your stupid face everyday by the way.” Joshua reminded him of the fact that people were dying over him, yet he always told himself that he didn't have anyone.

“They just…” Jeonghan paused, scrunching his nose. “They're nice, just not what I think I need.”

“Then leave it up to me, I'll find you one like literally next week.”

“Only if she's better than Y/n, tho—”

“Don't get on my nerves!” Joshua threw the couch pillow, hitting Jeonghan's head as he yelped in pain.

——

OCTOBER 10

Jeonghan felt like he was staring at a mirror reflecting his own stupidity. An idiot. A brain-wrecking fool. How could he have been so blind? He blankly stared at the photograph resting on the dark wooden table, the image itself a silent, sudden heartbreak—like the needle skipping on a record just as the music soared.

The photograph was old, a little faded, but safely preserved in a plastic sleeve. Yet, it felt less like a precious memory and more like a heavy revelation dumped on him all at once.

“Mom…” he finally managed, his voice a low drag. “Are you absolutely sure this is Joshua’s sister? It could be a friend… a cousin.”

​His mother didn't even look up from slicing strawberries. She gave a confident shake of her head, the action final and uncompromising. “I’m not mistaken, dear. Not at all. I even remember the exact park, the exact day your father took this.”

​A bizarre cocktail of emotions—surprise, a dizzying happiness, a sense of rightness—churned in his stomach. A precious, lost piece of his childhood had been right here, close enough to touch. He’d unknowingly found a profound connection with someone who now filled his thoughts.

​But the joy curdled into a sharp, bitter regret. The easy, genuine smile you brought to his face—the one that was rarely offered to a stranger1—was shattered by the ghost of a childhood promise.

​Brother. He’d sworn to be your strongest brother.

​How, in the face of that memory, could he ever look at you now as a woman? How could he see you as anything other than the little sister he'd promised to protect?

But a more bitter, chilling thought silenced him: Did you know? Were you aware from the very start? You couldn't have been as blind as he was. So, why didn't you tell him?

——

OCTOBER 11

The sharp, metallic slam of the mailbox echoed through the quiet afternoon, cutting through the soft hum of the dishwasher your mother was running. You were curled up on the common room sofa, a half-written chapter open on your laptop, pretending to work while really just scrolling through every possible old photo of Jeonghan you could find. Your mind was a messy battlefield: disbelief that you had been so willfully blind, and a terrifying elation that the man who had effortlessly charmed you was, in fact, your childhood confidant.

“Y/n-ah! Did you order something?” your mother called out, her voice slightly muffled.

You closed the laptop lid with a weary sigh. “No, Mom! I don’t think so.”

A minute later, she walked into the living room, her arms full. Full of things. There was a massive white bakery box tied with a silky silver ribbon, a small bouquet of delicate white orchids, and nestled amongst them, a thick, cream-coloured envelope.

She set the gifts on the coffee table with a surprised, pleased smile. “The delivery man just dropped these off. It was a rather big parcel. And guess who sent this?” She asked, more than excited to reveal the name.

“...who?” You asked, still processing the mountain of gifts. “Yoon Jeonghan.” She chirped, picking up the elegant, cream envelope. “I think he is back in town, but oh I wish he visited himself. That boy remembered us after decades.” She smiled before handing the envelope to you.

“And he specifically marked this one as ‘Read First.’ for you.” She looked at you with an almost too-knowing glint in her eyes.

You stared at the pile, your heart beginning to beat a frantic, uneven rhythm. Orchids. He still remembered. It felt too grand, too fast for a person who, as far as he knew, was still a complete stranger who haggled over pastry prices and guitar chords.

But then your mother pushed the cream envelope toward you.

“Go on,” she urged, heading back to the kitchen. “I’m putting the box in the fridge. That beautiful cake needs to be saved for later.”

Your hands were shaking slightly as you picked up the envelope. It was heavy, sealed with a sophisticated wax stamp you couldn't quite decipher. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the single sheet inside, and instantly recognized the elegant, slightly tilted handwriting.

You read it once, quickly, the words a blur of shock and excitement.

You read it again, slowly, letting the weight of each line settle in your chest.

Now, before I begin, I asked Joshua.

Yes, you knew everything. No wonder I connected with you so well, orchid. I know it sounds sudden but let’s meet tomorrow, there’s too much to catch on. Hopefully I’m not getting stood up –

hannie

Your breath hitched, painfully trapped in your throat. He knew. The realization hit with the force of a sudden stop. How? It didn't matter. Your internal world exploded: joy and terror indistinguishable in the chaos. Were you free now, or just exposed?

The air left your lungs with a soft puff. Orchid. The silly, childish nickname he'd given you because you were holding two orchids in your hands on the first day you met. And Hannie. Your own silly nickname for him. Twenty-three years had vanished in a single, perfectly written word.

You lifted your head, a dizzy smile blooming on your face. He knew. And he was asking to meet. The suddenness of it was jarring, but the sincerity, the sheer relief in his words, was palpable. He hadn't wanted to be a stranger either.

You checked the small note tucked into the end of the letter. “Tomorrow. 10 AM. The old clock tower near the riverside park.”

10 AM. You smiled. You wouldn’t be late for this.

——

OCTOBER 12

The cold rain wasn't a sprinkle; it was a rhythmic, drumming downpour. You were huddled deep under the narrow, cracked awning of the old closed bus stop nearest the clock tower, pulling the sleeves of your cardigan over your hands. It was 10:05 AM, and the riverside park was deserted, save for the relentless drumming of water.

You'd arrived too early, a flutter of excitement making punctuality impossible. Part of you was eager to witness the end of that polite, awkward distance—the shift from stranger to friend—and the other part simply dreaded being late for a moment you'd awaited so long.

A few minutes later, you heard a hurried splish-splash and looked up. Formal was the last word to describe Jeonghan's entrance.

He came jogging into view with a huge, bright yellow plastic bag pulled over his head like a makeshift, ridiculous poncho. It was a perfect absurdity that made you instinctively laugh under your breath, your nervousness dissolving for a split second. He skidded to a stop, quickly shoving the bag off and running a hand through his perpetually damp, black hair, sending droplets flying.

“I'm sorry I kept you waiting,” Jeonghan huffed between breaths, his voice warm despite the cold. He was already wet, but the smile on his face was sweet and genuine. “And this isn't a very ideal way to show up.”

“I think you're perfectly fine, hannie,” you assure with a smile, the nickname slipping through like an old, familiar habit that happens before you realise it. His lips twitched at the name, the nervousness that was tightening in his chest earlier soothing now.

“And I think you're lying, orchid,” he replies, a velvet layer of playfulness in his voice that makes your heart flutter. You smile, a genuine and soft one.

You lean in just a little, your gaze warm and steady as you hold out a handkerchief. “I mean it. A little rain can't possibly change that this warmer tone of brown suits you alot.” You pause, offering a gentle, almost shy smile. "Now please, dry off a bit before you freeze.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer, then he gently takes the handkerchief. “You think so? I think green suits me more, doesn't it?” He asked, keeping his eyes on you as he began wiping his face and hand.

You watch a kid passing by on his bicycle under the rain before nodding toward the street, a soft laugh escaping you. “You're not wrong,” you confirm, your voice soft and honest. “But I'm worried that sweet smile of yours is about to turn into a shiver. We can debate colors once you're standing next to that restaurant heater. Come on, let's get going.”

——

The cozy ambience of the traditional restaurant soothed your cold senses as your fingertips absorbed the warmth from the cup of hot coffee. You look outside the small, wooden window, the rain tapping mutely against the glass. The weather was completely contrasting with your heart. The rain brought immense cold, winter air swooshing through and through the town, but you felt warm inside.

You don't know if it's the coffee, or the fact that you were sharing a day with someone you'd known 23 years ago.

A soft, weary sigh left you. Your eyes traveled back to the door that led to the restroom, waiting for Jeonghan to step outside any moment.

To be honest with yourself felt like a punishment. You were nervous. You didn't know what to say to him. You don't even know if he enjoys grapefruit now as much as he did back then. Why is fate even bringing you together again?

“Did I take too long? I'm sorry,” Jeonghan's voice pulled you out of your thoughts as he sat down across the table, his hair looking a little less damp. You shake your head, wearing a small smile.

“No, not at all.” You reassured, adjusting your position on the cushion.

“This feels nice, although I don't remember the last time I visited this restaurant.” Jeonghan says, grabbing the coffee mug that you ordered for him. It was lukewarm, heat spreading through his hand as he wrapped his fingers around the cup, seeking warmth. 

“Me too, actually,” you responded, turning to face him better. “I don't remember stepping in here after you went away. This was like a resting place in the evening after we played all day. I guess my 5 year old mind just couldn't wrap around the fact that she'd have to spend time without her friend.”

A soft smile ghosted your lips as you recalled, your finger tracing shapes absent-mindedly on the wooden table. Jeonghan's eyes softened, his heart tugging at the memory. He felt guilty, regretful and empty whenever he thought of his childhood days. His memories became a blur whenever he tried to think of the days after he moved away. It's faded, dusty and forgotten.

“Well…” Jeonghan's voice was a soft, low murmur, and you would barely catch it under the sound of the heavy rain outside if you weren't so absorbed in the moment. “It was unfair, we shouldn't have been forced to separate as kids.”

You managed a small, subtle nod, your lips flattening in a tight lipped smile. “Hey, I don't think I'm prepared enough to talk about the past yet. I might bawl my eyes out.”

A soft, breathy laugh followed your words, and you honestly wouldn't be able to take it all without a drop of year rolling down your cheek. Jeonghan's eyes drifted to the weather outside, then dropped to the mug he placed on the table with a quiet thud.

“Then we won't,” he said, his voice softer than ever, a smile gracing his lips. “I’m not really able to sort my mind out yet, but I felt like I had to meet you. I was… anxious that if I wasted any more time, I'd lose this chance.”

Jeonghan wasn't looking at you, but you couldn't look away from him. He had a relaxed, thoughtful, almost pensive expression on his face, his finger tracing the mouth of the cup. For the first time since you'd met him, you truly studied his face, taking in every subtle detail that had changed. And now that you realise, he hasn't changed so drastically for you to not recognise him at first glance.

“I'm sorry,” the words slipped out before you could think straight, your emotions taking over your tongue. Jeonghan raised his gaze, his eyes, which held a hint of confusion, lingering on you.

“Why?” He tilted his head, his eyebrows lifted slightly.

You bit your lower lip, briefly meeting his eyes. “For not telling you,” your voice wavered lightly, your eyes lingering on his hands for a moment before you squirmed on your seat, locking eyes with him. “Even though I knew everything.”

Jeonghan's lips curved into a smile, and a flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You almost made me feel better about myself,” he chuckled, observing your face for a split second. “But no, it's not you who should be apologising. I literally met you, talked to you, even shared a guitar, and still had the stupidity to ask you how you knew my name.”

A quick chuckle escaped you, forcing you to cover your grin and bite back a full laugh. Propped up on his elbow, Jeonghan watched, his cheek resting against the back of his hand, his eyes glittering with focused amusement.

“To be honest, I found out about that through a photobook that Joshua had in his bedroom from ages ago.” You admitted as you sheepishly glanced at Jeonghan. He leaned forward with interest, keeping his arms folded on the table.

“Joshua has a photobook? From our childhood?” He asked, receiving a nod from you as a response. Jeonghan sat back slowly, a deeply suspicious look spreading across his face. “Wait. Does it have a photo of me falling down from the stairs and landing my head straight on the huge wall ahead, then dad had to drive me to ER?” 

You wheezed, nodding at the memory that always stayed as clear as day in your mind. Jeonghan laughed along, but his eyes were following your every movement. He noted every detail he could: the curve of your lips looked so familiar even after years, your eyes still crinkled whenever you laughed, and your hand still instinctively went to tuck your hair behind your ear, the same nervous habit he remembered.

Your laughter died down to a soft, happy sigh. Jeonghan was still observing you, his initial amusement giving way to a more sincere, gentle smile. He waited patiently for you to catch your breath, the sound of the rain and the soft restaurant murmur filling the brief silence.

“Well,” you finally said, wiping a stray tear of laughter from your eye, “it has a picture of you right after the incident. Your head's wrapped in a giant white bandage, and you’re giving the camera a grumpy look while holding a melting popsicle. Joshua wrote ‘The Great wall of Korea (Jeonghan's version)’ underneath it.”

Jeonghan let out a loud, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Oh my God. That idiot kept that? I never healed from that embarrassment.” He paused, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his slightly damp hair. “But seeing you laugh like this… it brings back a lot. Maybe it's not too late yet.”

“It was never too late. I mean, atleast not until we die.” You chuckle softly, looking at him with a glint of newfound hope in your eyes.

——

The air was sharp and cool against your cheeks. You and Jeonghan had left the warm anonymity of the café, stepping onto a quieter, tree-lined street where the residual cold drizzle kept the atmosphere misty and clean. He held the umbrella high over both of you, moving with a calm, easy rhythm that finally made the overwhelming tension from earlier feel manageable.

“You know,” you said, enjoying the comforting sound of the light rain hitting the nylon above your heads. “Your schedule seems surprisingly flexible for a man who claimed his life was just 'work.' Are you secretly retired? Does aunt know?”

Jeonghan chuckled, the sound warm and close. “Let's just say my team can handle things for a few more hours. I'd rather be here, judging your choice of umbrella color.” He nudged his shoulder lightly against yours, a casual, friendly gesture that was anything but casual.

“Well I think black and yellow is a cute combination.” You were about to continue, when a sudden splash of color caught your eye. Tucked into the wrought-iron fence of an old house was a dense burst of late-blooming, dark purple flowers.

"Woah, what are these flowers?" you murmured, stopping abruptly to admire the vibrant hue against the muted backdrop of the rain-damp street.

Jeonghan stopped with you, pulling the umbrella back slightly to give you a clear view. He looked at the flowers, then back at you, a soft, unguarded look in his eyes. He lowered his voice, just for you.

“They're called 'Love-in-a-Mist',” he explained, his tone gentle and patient. “I think they’re beautiful because they shouldn’t survive this late in the year, but they do anyway.”

He shifted the umbrella, ensuring you were perfectly shielded. For a long moment, he simply looked at you, the easy banter gone, replaced by profound sincerity.

“Look,” he said softly, his voice barely rising above the sound of the mist. “I know I might've asked to meet too soon. I'm sorry. I haven’t figured out... the right way to be around you yet. But I'm having a really good time, Y/n.”

His lips bloomed a small, honest smile. You couldn't help but reciprocate, you hummed softly and nodded in understanding. But before you could say a word, his phone blared with an urgent, piercing alert tone. It was a sound that signaled immediate, non-negotiable crisis.

The change in him was instantaneous and shocking. The warm, playful man vanished. His eyes went cold, clinical, and intensely focused. He answered the phone with a low, firm, authoritative voice.

“This is Jeonghan. What's the status? I need a clear assessment of the damage. Is the site secure? I'm ten minutes out. Tell the team I need everyone prepped immediately.”

He snapped the phone shut, the decision final. He was already moving.

“Y/N, I have to go. Now. This is... a situation that requires me there immediately. I’m sorry and I'll call you, okay?”

He thrust the umbrella into your hand, the weight of the object a startling substitute for his sudden absence. He turned on his heel without waiting for your response, and sprinted away down the street.

You stood alone on the damp sidewalk, the umbrella heavy in your hand feeling suddenly foreign and huge in your hand. The air, which had felt warm moments ago, was now just a cold, biting mist.

You watched the space where Jeonghan had just been, your mind refusing to process the speed of his departure. One second, he was looking at you with that gentle, sincere expression, making a sweet, playful promise. The next, he was a cold, efficient stranger barking commands into a phone, sprinting away as if you were entirely irrelevant.

You blinked once, hard. The silence was deafening now, broken only by the persistent tap-tap-tap of the drizzle hitting the umbrella above your head.

Your heart, which had just been thrumming with anticipation, felt like a small, startled bird trapped in your chest. You walked a few steps, dragging your feet, the sound loud on the wet pavement.

You looked down at the umbrella he had thrust into your hand, its handle still slightly warm. It was his last physical trace, the only evidence that the moment of connection hadn't been a dream.

You kicked a small, loose pebble across the sidewalk, feeling the sudden, ridiculous surge of sulky frustration.

"Unbelievable," you mumbled to the empty street, your voice muffled and small. You tightened your grip on the umbrella. "A situation at the site? Is that really more important than finally meeting your best friend after two decades?"

The absurdity of the comparison made a tiny, bitter laugh escape you. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that you were finally making progress breaking through the initial awkward barrier, only to have his entire secret, high-stakes life intervene. He had chosen the crisis over the connection, leaving you holding his umbrella and his unspoken promise to walk you home.

——

The day went by with absolutely no text or call from Jeonghan, leaving you feeling forgotten. You held your phone as your finger hovered above the keyboard many times, only to drown in your thoughts again and refuse to be the one to reach out first.

It wasn't stubbornness, it was self respect. He was the one that abruptly left and you stood under that umbrella all alone. He had some explanation to do, and you weren't going to ask him for it.

But he called a day later, repeating apologies like it was a prayer, a routine. You couldn't really say ‘it's fine’ sincerely until you understood his situation, but you did say it, atleast for the name's sake.

——

OCTOBER 15

The air outside was cold, damp, and perfectly still—the kind of light weather after rain that felt comfortable even when large puddles covered the streets. You were ready, dressed in your heaviest coat, feeling a tight, wary tension coiled in your chest. You needed answers, but you didn't want to show how much his abrupt departure had affected you.

You peered through the window before opening the door.

Jeonghan was standing just outside your garden gate. He was leaning against the stone pillar, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his heavy wool coat. He looked tired and slightly rumpled as if he hadn't gotten enough sleep because he was worried. He was completely still, patiently waiting, exposed to the cold air.

His car was idling silently at the curb nearby.

When you pulled the front door open, the sound drew his attention instantly. He straightened up, pushing off the pillar, his eyes meeting yours with a look of pure, focused sincerity.

You walked down the path, the crunch of your shoes on the damp asphalt loud in the quiet street.​You walked down the path, the crunch of your shoes on the damp asphalt loud in the quiet street. You simply reached the gate and waited for him to speak.

​“Good evening,” you greeted softly, a subtle smile on your lips. You noticed the way Jeonghan's worried expression softened, a huge weight—one he didn't even realize he was carrying—lifted off his shoulders.

​He opened his mouth to speak, his voice just above a whisper. “I almost thought you wouldn't want to see me again.”

​Jeonghan's face wasn't marked by panic, but by a deep, weary guilt. His eyes, though relieved you were here, still held a gentle seriousness. He had resolved many high-stress situations with unmatched calmness, but this felt different. He looked like he genuinely needed this conversation as much as you did.

​”I need to apologize properly, Y/n,” he continued, his tone low and soft, conveying a deep respect. “I know I left you confused.”

​You watched him carefully, realizing how much the awkwardness was genuinely affecting him. You knew this conversation needed to be serious, but you needed a break in the tension.

​“Well, I'm not very convinced yet,” you replied, leaning slightly against the gate. You managed a lighthearted, playful tone. “You might have some bribing to do.”

​A flicker of genuine relief and warmth crossed his features, melting some of the fatigue around his eyes.

​”I will,” he said immediately, his voice earnest. “I want to, and I need to. I promise I won't make the apology feel half.”

​You smiled at him then—a warm, true smile that reached your eyes, signaling that while the issue wasn't resolved, you were willing to listen.

​In that brief moment, Jeonghan's composure slipped. His heart gave a heavy, rapid jump in his chest, a purely physical reaction to the sight of your unguarded warmth. He instantly told himself he was being stupid; he shouldn't be getting distracted from the actual, serious reason he was here. He tried to convince himself it was just the residual nervousness from the emergency call, causing his heart to beat a little faster than usual.

​He tried to smile back fully, managing only a quick, controlled curve of his lips before he gestured and guided you toward the idling car.

​“Let's go,” he murmured. “I have the perfect spot for you to feel a bit better.”

——

You stepped outside the car, the crispy autumn leaves crushing beneath your shoes as the cool breeze hit almost immediately, making you hug your torso tightly. You walked a few steps ahead, admiring the view as Jeonghan closed the car door behind you.

The lookout point was not a formal park, but a wide, flattened shoulder of the hill, edged by a low, weathered stone wall. Along this wall, facing the illuminated city, were several sturdy, built-in wooden benches, permanently installed for visitors. They were worn smooth by the seasons.

Beyond the wall, the world dropped away.

​The rain was long gone, and the sky above was a breathtaking canvas of deep, cold navy, pricked everywhere by fiercely bright stars. Directly in front of you, the vast, sprawling city was laid out like a geographical map made of light—a mesmerizing, chaotic blanket of white, gold, and amber.

​The distance was immense. The usual sounds of horns and traffic were completely absent, replaced only by a low, continuous hum—the abstract, collective sound of thousands of lives being lived far below.

“I drove up here because I knew we couldn't do this conversation next to a cash register.” Jeonghan's voice, low and gentle, blended seamlessly, making the silence feel even softer. He stood behind you, maybe a few steps away, but you felt him come close just a bit, enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“I think you like it,” he remarked, a soft smile ghosting his lips. “Maybe a bit too much.”

You tilted your head, a relaxed smile already on your face. “I like it here. It feels like I'm looking at Beon-dong from the sky.” You say, turning your head and glancing at him for a brief second. He hummed in response before a comfortable silence fell, the chirping of crickets and the faint sound of wind making the atmosphere peaceful.

“I'm sorry,” then, it finally happened. Jeonghan's gentle voice reached your ears, and your eyes drifted off to a tree that stood a few feet away. He didn't wait for a response, nor an action, and continued with the same tone.

“It was disrespectful to just leave you there all alone, especially in that weather,” he said, his gaze flickering to you before it faced ahead at the town lights. “I might've looked or sounded crazy after that phone call, but I need you to know it was just… important. Too important. Someone's life was at stake, and I had to be there.”

You spun around, a subtle shock instantly painting your face, your lips parting in silent confusion. "Had to be there...?"

​Jeonghan nodded, his gaze meeting yours for a heavy moment before dropping to the floor. A low, weary sigh escaped him, an answer in itself. “It's my job. I always have a life on my hands, depending on me completely to save it. It's scary, sometimes, but it feels like I'm built for this now.”

Your eyes never left him as he spoke, taking in the way his calm, soft expression didn't match his heavy words. His eyes were quiet, settled on the town beneath the hill. He kept his hands deep in his pockets, and the only break in the stillness was his smart watch that would light up on its own, flashing a quick glance at his long schedule.

“You…” you murmured, your eyes lingering on his face as if you were trying to see through him. “You're a doctor?”

Jeonghan's eyes turned to you, a glint of surprise in them. “You got it.” He chuckled, his lips blooming with a charming smile.

——

“So 7 year old Jeonghan, who taught me how to cheat better without getting caught, was actually serious when he did experiments with thermocol hearts?”

Jeonghan's bright, chiming laugh filled the air, his eyes reflecting the dazzling, scattered jewels of the town lights far below. You glanced at him, a warm grin stretching across your face. He took a shaky breath to quell the laughter, then turned to you, his smile reaching his eyes—a soft, genuine curve.

​“I guess so,” he managed, chuckling quietly. “He really took it seriously.” His gaze drifted back to the view. You took a moment, letting the cool evening breeze wrap around you, smelling the faint scent of pine before you spoke again. “And I’m really proud of you.”

Jeonghan's cool composure visibly cracked. His expression softened, a subtle smile touching his lips, and his eyes glinted with a raw, unmistakable gratefulness. He was genuinely taken aback. Slowly, his gaze turned to meet yours.

​Your smile didn't waver; it grew warmer, an open, honest expression that met his gaze and confirmed your sincerity.

​“Although that doll of mine never healed from your experimental ‘surgeries',” you said gently, “she’d be happy to know she wasn't sacrificed for nothing.”

​Jeonghan blinked, his chest constricting. The sudden silence seemed to amplify his heartbeat, a loud, heavy thump-thump in his ears, and he prayed you couldn't hear it. His face held nothing but pure gratitude—the exact reassurance he hadn't realized he’d been craving. He had heard the words from his parents, but hearing them from you, now, was different. A tremor of emotion ran through him, and he had to look away as his lips twitched, threatening to bloom into a wide, unguarded grin.

​He took a breath, letting a fraction of his usual coolness return. “Thanks,” he replied, his voice surprisingly steady. Then, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. “You’ll get a complimentary discount on your first heart surgery.”

​The dark joke landed perfectly, making you laugh—a bright, genuine sound—as he finally allowed himself a small, fond chuckle.

——

OCTOBER 18

The university library was quiet, warm, and smelled pleasantly of old paper and dust. You were hunched over a spread of notebooks at a large mahogany table in the reference section, your forehead resting against the cool wood in a gesture of absolute defeat.

“I just don't know why she wouldn't trust him!” you groaned, lifting your head. “It makes no sense for her character arc.”

Mingyu, your colleague, leaned in close, his posture easy and familiar, his large frame crowding your space slightly. He rested his elbow on the table, tilting his head. “She wouldn't trust him because she's always been betrayed,” he whispered back, gently tapping a note on your page. “You need to plant a seed of doubt, Y/n. Something small, something unavoidable.”

You laughed, a quick, genuine burst of air. “You're right, you're always right!” you said, patting his arm.

A few minutes later, the door to the reference section hissed open, and someone walked in. But you two were too engrossed in fixing the plotholes to see people come and go.

It was Jeonghan—wearing a simple, dark turtleneck and his thin, silver-rimmed glasses, presenting a look of focused purpose.

His gaze was immediately trained high, locked onto the section of the shelves that held the obscure medical journal he needed. He walked directly to the required shelf, his attention entirely devoted to finding the rare volume.

He pulled out the heavy journal with quiet satisfaction. It was only after the book was safely in his hands that he allowed his concentration to break. He leaned back slightly against the shelf, and his gaze drifted down and across the room.

That's when he saw the table.

And that's when he saw you.

A soft, genuine smile began to form on his face—he was completely unprepared to see you here, in the serious, quiet corner of the city. He started to take a step toward the table, eager to greet you, but he stopped short.

He registered the man sitting beside you—Mingyu. The younger colleague leaned in close, his posture easy and familiar, his shoulder lightly pressed against yours as he pointed to your notes. You both looked utterly engrossed in a private consultation.

Jeonghan frowned. Recognizing Mingyu, he instantly decided not to disturb, assuming that it had to do something with your work. He turned his attention back to his books.

As he shifted the heavy journal, he noticed a brightly colored paperback wedged sideways next to his serious tome. He pulled it out of idle curiosity. The title screamed in bold font: “10 Ways Guys Act When They Like Someone.”

Jeonghan frowned, flipping it open. His eyes landed on the line at the top: “He Gets Too Physical.”

He immediately glanced back at your table. Mingyu was now resting his chin on his hand, tilting his head dramatically, his large frame occupying your space as he spoke earnestly about plot twists.

They are colleagues. That's professionalism. But why is his arm practically around her? He quickly flipped to the next page, trying to rationalize the strange, tight feeling in his chest.

The next point read: “He Finds Excuses to Delay Leaving.”

Just then, Mingyu sighed dramatically. “Okay, I'm starving. I need coffee. You are not to move until I get back. This is the crucial part.” He then paused, looking down at his notes for an exaggerated amount of time before slipping away.

​He just found an excuse to come back and delay this. This book is absurdly accurate.

Jeonghan felt a knot tighten in his chest. He snapped the paperback shut, looking genuinely irritated with the book's author, and shoved it back onto the shelf.

He took one last, lingering look at your table before turning to leave.

But you looked up just as he was turning away. Your eyes widened with immediate surprise, then lit up with a brilliant, genuine smile.

“Jeonghan-ah?” you called out softly. “What are you doing here?”

Jeonghan froze mid-step. The shock of being seen, combined with the warmth of your spontaneous smile, instantly melted his… whatever he was feeling a second ago. A true, full smile broke across his face.

“Y/n,” he replied, walking slowly toward the table, adjusting his sleeves. “Just borrowing a ridiculously outdated journal. I figured you and Mingyu were having a serious conversation so I just decided to slip away.” He pulled out the empty chair Mingyu had just vacated and sat down seamlessly next to you.

Mingyu, halfway to the door, spun around at the sound of Jeonghan's name, his face lighting up with genuine excitement. “JEONGHAN HYUNG!” He rushed back. “What are you doing in this corner of the library? I thought you lived on the other side of the town!”

Jeonghan smiled fondly at his younger colleague. “Hey, gyu. Still shouting in quiet zones, I see.”

“You know each other?” Mingyu asked, looking between the two of you, bewildered.

“Yes,” you confirmed, amused by the sudden, intense shift in focus.

“How? Why didn't you say anything?” Mingyu persisted, a small pout on his face.

“None of your business, little one.” Jeonghan answered smoothly, but without malice—it was the familiar, exasperated bickering tone they shared. He pulled the chair closer to your side.

“Hey! I'm literally the same age as Y/n!” Mingyu argued, but sat down across the table with a defeated sigh.

Mingyu immediately started trying to engage Jeonghan in a rapid-fire discussion about his recent work, but Jeonghan simply leaned toward you, his attention laser-focused on the problem you had introduced.

“So, about this betrayal plot hole,” Jeonghan began, immediately looking at your notes. “You’re missing the logical motivation. I had a thought while I was looking for a book.”

You laughed softly, easily pulled back into the problem. “See? I knew you'd have an opinion.”

Mingyu watched the two of you fall into a deep, intense discussion about character motivations and structural integrity. Within five minutes, he was slouched over the table, his enthusiastic excitement replaced by genuine boredom. Soon, Mingyu's head rested on his crossed arms, and he was completely asleep, his soft breathing a quiet counterpoint to your suddenly intense conversation.

Jeonghan glanced at his sleeping friend, a small, endearing smile briefly touching his lips before he turned back to you, his eyes shining with focus and a comfortable, undeniable connection.

“Why doesn't she trust him?” he murmured, lowering his voice now. “Let's figure this out.”

You nodded, finally feeling relieved with someone by your side who was as thoughtful as Mingyu.

——

OCTOBER 25

The small, independent bookstore café you favored was closed, but the owner—a friend who admired your work—had let you use one of the cozy, partitioned booths in the back. The air was quiet and still, smelling faintly of roasted beans and damp paperbacks. A single low lamp on your table casted a focused, golden pool of light over a scatter of notebooks and research papers.

Jeonghan had arrived shortly after you, wearing a comfortable hoodie, and the sight of him dedicating his intense focus entirely to your chaotic creative process made your chest tighten with an unfamiliar emotion.

“Okay,” you said, gesturing to the papers. “I'm stuck. It's the moment the protagonist needs to choose her motivation, but the logic is flimsy.”

Jeonghan leaned forward, his whole being narrowing onto your words. You watched the way the lamplight highlighted the clean, strong line of his jaw and the singular, focused intensity in his eyes. This was the quality you found so intoxicating: his ability to shut out the world and apply his sharp, systematic logic to your creative, chaotic universe.

“The logic is never flimsy, Y/n. It's just buried under the emotional wreckage,” he murmured. He pointed to a specific note you’d written. “You said she values safety above everything, right? So, ask yourself, if safety is the highest value, what is the least logical thing she could do that still serves that fear?”

As he spoke, he traced a line across your notes. His index finger, surprisingly elegant and steady, drifted onto the edge of your hand. He didn't pull away immediately. The brief, electric contact—skin to skin—felt like a small, unexpected surge of static in the quiet room. Your breath hitched slightly. He continued speaking, completely unaware of the physical contact, yet the quiet intimacy of the shared concentration felt like a secret confession only you received.

You realized with startling clarity that this feeling was no longer just the comfort of a childhood friend. It was the specific, overwhelming pull of attraction. He was focused on solving your problem, and that total, selfless attention was the most intimate thing he could offer.

You quickly pulled your focus back to the problem. “The least logical thing that serves the fear…” you repeated, your voice trailing off as the ideas began to flow. “Wait. What if her motivation isn’t fear of loss, but fear of hope?”

“Hope is a risk,” Jeonghan agreed instantly, his eyes shining with understanding. “If she chooses hope, she has to trust. And if she trusts, she can be betrayed again.”

For the next half hour, the two of you worked in perfect harmony, a seamless braid of logic and creativity. He was brilliant, precise, and completely absorbed in your world, offering the full capacity of his focus. Every time he validated an idea or dissected a premise, your respect and something you couldn't or didn't want to pinpoint—deepened.

When the final plot point snapped into place with satisfying certainty, you both leaned back, simultaneously sighing in relief.

“You are incredible,” you breathed, gathering the papers, meeting his eyes. “I would have been stuck on that for weeks.”

Jeonghan met your gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “We are incredible,” he corrected softly, his eyes reflecting the deep, private pleasure of shared success.

Your heart skipped, acknowledging the ‘we.’ You knew, sitting there under the café light, that your heart was reacting in a different way. And now, only a cardiologist could fix that.

——

OCTOBER 30

Jeonghan texted you the next afternoon: No emergencies. Clean sweep. 7 PM. I want to see if you can keep up with me when the stakes are low.

You met him not at the university, but at a large, brightly lit independent bookstore downtown. It was deliberate, public, and not work-related, which felt like a victory.

Jeonghan was leaning against a shelf near the entrance, looking relaxed in a dark sweater. He spotted you, and the easy smile he wore suggested he was already planning his victory.

“You shouldn't keep me waiting for so long, orchid.” Jeonghan teased, an easy smile on his face that you loved. He pushed himself off the shelf and walked to you, placing the small book he had in his hands on a table.

“I'm only five minutes late, hannie, don't exaggerate.” You replied as you side eyed him, trying to hide your smile.

“Hm,” he hummed in understanding, looking away for a split second before a soft smile bloomed on his lips. “Anyways, this is a date. In the sense that two adults are attempting to spend time together without a medical emergency or a dissertation crisis.”

You smiled, taking a step forward as you looked around. “That sounds fun. But, why here?”

“Because,” he said, coming to stand beside you, his voice lowering to a playful conspiratorial whisper, “We’re going to play a game, and that requires being in the presence of books.”

You turned your head, just enough to be able to meet his eyes. “A game? With books?” He nodded, the edges of his lips tightening as he closed his eyes for a split second.

That smile. The simple act he always does that gives reassurance, understanding and affection—all at once.

“If you want to, ofcourse.”

“I’d love to. Tell me about it.” You agreed immediately, not leaving any room for further questions. Jeonghan paused for a moment, then broke into a grin.

——

And that's how you went round and around the library in less than ten minutes, checking each and every corner or shelf.

Yoon Jeonghan, the simple menace he is, had set a challenge for the both of you—find a book that describes eachother the best. Familiar with almost every corner here, you figured it'd be easy for you, as long as Jeonghan didn't try to do something funny.

You spotted him a few minutes later, hunched over a shelf, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Find anything interesting, Doctor?" you teased, walking past.

He immediately snatched the book he was looking at and held it behind his back. "Nothing you need to worry about. Just making sure the philosophy section hasn't corrupted me yet."

You didn't push. Instead, you found a ridiculous, brightly colored paperback titled The Existential Dread of Being Very Attractive and held it up. "Does this count?"

He just laughed, his eyes crinkling. "Thirty minutes, orchid, focus!”

——

You met him by a cozy corner of the library exactly on time. The sunset glow through the window complemented his features, making him look angelic. You were holding a small, serious-looking volume titled The Unwavering Line. Jeonghan was holding two books, a complicated, slightly sheepish expression on his face.

“I’ll go first,” you say, placing your find on your lap. “I chose this. The Unwavering Line. Because even when you're laughing, your core is rigid. You're driven by duty, and you will choose the difficult, ethical, logical path every single time.”

Jeonghan let out a soft exhale. “Ouch. That's a direct hit.”

He placed his first book down. It was the thin black volume he'd tried to hide, titled: A Quick Guide to Fixing Broken Things.

“I chose this for you,” he said, his smile faltering slightly. “Because your entire life right now is fixing the broken narrative threads of your protagonists. You are constantly in repair mode.”

You pouted slightly. “Jeonghan, you're doing that clinical thing again. Are you still seeing my writing career as a problem that needs a solution?”

His eyes immediately went wide before he pushed the book aside. “I— no, orchid, I didn't mean it like that. I'm really sorry,” he sighed.

“Hey, I was just joking. You don't have to explain yourself.” You smiled, taking the black book from his hands. 

He then placed his second book on his lap. It was a slim, unassuming poetry collection, its title warm and inviting: Quiet Lessons under the glow of the moon.

“This is what I chose first,” he admitted, looking vulnerable. He didn't look at the book; his eyes were on you. “I chose this because, honestly, you make the serious moments feel easy. You remind me that there's a space—that this space is simple and hopeful. You embody the beautiful, messy, domestic comfort I forgot existed. I chose it because I think this describes… you.”

The sincerity in his gaze was a direct hit.

“...that's beautiful,” you whispered, reaching out to gently touch his sleeve, your eyes on the book. “You definitely win, hannie.”

“We both won,” he corrected, picking up both your book and his poetry book. “So let me treat you tonight. You can do it someday later.”

He gently took your hand—this time, it was a soft, gentle grip that felt like a clear statement of affection—and led you out of the bookstore and toward the warm glow of a nearby café.

——

NOVEMBER 8

A few days later, you found yourselves in the bright, busy supermarket. Jeonghan pushed the cart, leaning casually on the handle, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the errand.

"Wait, you're telling me your ‘monthly’ restock lasted less than a week?" Jeonghan chuckled, shaking his head, finding your frustrated expression adorable.

"Don't look at me," you huffed, crossing your arms. "It was seok, hao, and gyu. They basically showed up, opened all the cabinets, and became human vacuum cleaners."

"Ah, the price of collaboration," Jeonghan teased, pulling your list out and snapping it open. "Right. 'Essential comforts' only. No more raiding."

He paused in the produce aisle. "Okay, we need lettuce, sure. But we need fun food. Snacks are essential for emergency meetings."

"That sounds suspiciously like a bribe for your future plotting help," you countered, reaching for a bag of chips.

He took the chips with a laugh, gently tossing them back. “Nuh-uh. Gourmet pretzels. Less guilt, better crunch.” The casual bickering felt effortless and wonderfully normal.

You were arguing over which frozen pizza was “least disappointing” when Jeonghan's phone ringed. He pulled it out, glancing at the caller ID: Dr. Choi.

Jeonghan frowned slightly, then leaned back against the cart, shifting his focus. You watched him answer the call, his voice dropping slightly.

“Hey, Dr. Choi,” he answered. “Lunch at the new place?”

He listened for a brief moment—you could hear the muffled, excited chatter of his friends on the line.

He glanced over at you, smiling lightly at your intense study of the pizza box.

"Yeah, sorry," he said into the phone, his voice easy but firm. "Can't make it today. I've actually got a prior engagement I can't ditch... Yeah, it's a pretty important consulting gig. Tell them I said hi, and I'll catch them next week."

He hung up, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

He pushed the cart toward you and looked directly into your eyes. "A lunch invite from the guys," he explained simply.

You felt a little flutter of warmth—he was choosing this.

"A very important consulting gig, huh?" you teased, nudging the cart. "Does this gig pay in pepperonis?"

Jeonghan's eyes crinkled with genuine, affectionate humor. "It pays in domestic bliss. And yes, it requires my undivided focus." He gently guided the cart forward, resting his hand softly on your lower back for a fleeting, intentional moment.

"They'll survive lunch without me," he murmured, his voice low and sincere. "I'm off the clock. And my new routine involves making sure you're properly stocked for whatever chaos your friends decide to unleash next."

The simplicity and certainty of his choice made the sterile supermarket feel warmer than any café. He was prioritizing the small, comfortable moment with you.

——

NOVEMBER 20

The hospital lobby was aggressively bright and cold, even at 3:00 AM. The hallways were empty, the air heavy with the pervasive, slightly bitter scent of antiseptic and stale coffee—the smell of duty. You had been waiting nearly an hour in a stiff plastic chair near the residents’ entrance. Your phone, sitting in your lap, still held the last message from Jeonghan: Clear in 10-15. Don't wait. It arrived four hours ago.

You adjusted the bag beside you, which contained a thermos of steaming black coffee, a massive high-protein sandwich, and a clean, soft crewneck sweater. You weren't here to demand his time; you were here to perform a necessary, quiet function.

A door swished open down the corridor, and a figure leaned heavily against the jamb. It was Jeonghan, but reduced to his most fundamental, exhausted state.

He wasn't wearing his usual crisp shirt or even clean scrubs. His hair was damp and matted to his forehead, his scrubs were wrinkled and likely stained with old coffee or something worse, and his face was pale, lined with a deep, crushing weariness. He was holding himself up only by leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his eyes half-closed.

He saw you, but the sheer effort of pulling his lips into a smile seemed too much.

“You didn't leave,” he murmured, his voice rough and low, sounding like gravel.

You were instantly on your feet, moving toward him. “You said 'ten to fifteen,' Jeonghan. That was before the last two hours of silence.”

You reached him and didn't try to touch his face or hug him—you knew better than to interfere with the exhausted shell of a surgeon. Instead, you gently took his elbow, steadying him, and guided him toward a nearby bench, carefully maneuvering his heavy body.

“Sit,” you commanded softly.

He obeyed instantly, collapsing onto the hard plastic. He dropped his head into his hands, his messy hair falling over his fingers. You heard him breathe a deep, shaky sigh that held the exhaustion of a hundred hours.

“It was… exhausting,” he managed to say, the words alone costing him visible effort. He didn't offer a diagnosis or a story. He didn't need to.

You opened the bag, pulling out the coffee first. You didn't ask if he wanted it. You simply placed the hot cup directly into his trembling hands.

“Eat this,” you said, unwrapping the sandwich. “You probably haven't had a calorie in twelve hours.”

Jeonghan looked at the sandwich. Then, his eyes—dark and utterly devoid of his usual playful light—flickered up to yours. He had absolutely zero energy left to maintain his clinical facade, his flirtatious teasing, or his patience. He was completely, devastatingly exposed.

“I'm tired,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “The energy... it’s all gone.”

​You didn't need to say anything. You gently wrapped the soft, clean scarf around his neck, providing a small barrier against the cold air and a comforting texture. Then, you eased his coat open and tucked a soft blanket you had also brought around his shoulders, wrapping him in a makeshift cocoon of warmth.

​He leaned his head against your shoulder as soon as you were seated beside him. The weight of his head was immense, and you realized how long he must have been on his feet. He didn't move to speak; he simply existed there, using your stability as his anchor.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice muffled against your coat, a genuine, raw sound of gratitude. “I don't know why you're still here, but... thank you. I needed you to be here.”

You simply held him, steady and quiet, in the cold, harsh light of the corridor. You understood then, with a crushing finality, that this was the life you would be committing to—a love measured in sterile hallway visits and exhausted, half-spoken confessions.

——

DECEMBER 2

It was a crisp morning, three days after the first significant snow of the season—the kind of soft, deep quiet that muffles the city. Around ten-thirty, you were exactly where you wanted to be: curled up in the warm cocoon of your bed, lost in a book, with a mug of hot coffee warming your hands.

Your phone buzzed softly on the bedside table.

You glanced over, and a small smile touched your lips at the sight of Jeonghan’s name.

Hannie: the snow near your house is much cleaner, I don't know why.

You paused, sipping your coffee, curious about the odd comment. A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again.

Hannie: did you wash the snow? With detergent?

You chuckled, shaking your head at his obvious teasing. You knew this was leading somewhere.

Hannie: Okay, what do I have to say for you to know that I'm outside your house right now.

That made you laugh aloud, setting your coffee down quickly. You recognized his cute excuses and his impatience. You quickly opened the curtains and slid the glass door open to your balcony.

The cold air hit you immediately, raising goosebumps on your arms, but your gaze was locked instantly on the ground below. There stood Jeonghan, dressed in a thick, handsome coat and a knitted beanie, looking up and waiting impatiently for you to see him.

His expression lit up the second he saw you standing on the balcony.

“What are you doing here!” you shouted down, chuckling at the pure delight radiating from him.

With a wide grin, he shouted back, tilting his head with a teasing challenge. “Why can't I be here?”

You laughed, the cold air stinging your cheeks. “I'm not coming!” you shouted, just as a joke. He didn't budge. He knew you wouldn't let him wait long.

“Then I'll freeze here to death!” he shouted back, dramatically pulling his coat tighter around his neck.

You couldn't help but smile widely. “Okay, okay, Elsa! I'll be right there!” you shouted one last time before retreating quickly back inside to pull on a thick sweater and a muffler.

Meanwhile, Jeonghan’s grin was reaching his eyes, the victory of your simple compliance filling him with pure joy. He let out a deep breath of relief, watching the curtain fall back into place.

Then, he turned slightly to look toward the left side of your house, and his entire body immediately froze.

There stood Joshua. Leaning casually against a snow-dusted tree, dressed in a stylish but casual coat. His arms were crossed, his eyes narrowed, and the subtle, dangerous sign of his displeasure was the slight, deliberate poke of his tongue against his cheek.

Jeonghan's triumphant grin instantly dissolved into a sheepish, caught-in-the-act expression. He swallowed hard.

——

The rooftop patio of your house was surprisingly cozy. Joshua, always one for comfort, had strung warm fairy lights everywhere and set up a temporary clear roof and heavy plastic siding to protect the area from the elements. Inside, the space was filled with blankets, thick mats, and an enormous, soft beanbag chair.

You, Jeonghan, and Joshua were bundled up, sprawled around a low table littered with empty snack bags and nearly finished mugs of hot cider. The hours had flown by, filled with the easy humor of lifelong friends.

Joshua sighed dramatically, stretching his arms high above his head. “So basically, you two are making me feel left out, and I'm not liking it.”

Jeonghan smirked, nudging your foot with his. “Joshuji, you're my favourite loser, how could I do that to you—”

“Don't say that to my amazing brother,” you defended, smacking his shoulder light, earning a shared chuckle from both of them. Jeonghan raised his hand to rub the area you had hit, a pout of betrayal on his face.

"Exactly," Joshua agreed, pointing at Jeonghan. "Take that, my second favourite loser. It's a miracle we still hang out."

“Wait, who's the first favourite loser then?” Jeonghan asked, suddenly shifting the tone of air. Joshua bit his tongue, his eyes turning to look at you. But before he could confirm, you were already tackling him to the floor while Jeonghan protested only with his words.

The lighthearted conversation continued for nearly four hours—a perfect blend of shared memories, gentle ribbing, and comfortable silence. It was a demonstration of the easy, interwoven history the three of you shared.

The easy familiarity eventually gave way to heavy exhaustion. Joshua, unable to fight the warmth and the late hour, gave up first. He laid out completely on the huge, soft beanbag chair placed right at the center of the rooftop, spreading his long legs out with a groan of relief. Within minutes, his soft, steady breathing confirmed he was completely asleep, acting as the perfect, unconscious chaperone.

You were only a few minutes away from dropping dead yourself. You tried to shift on the mat, unable to find a comfortable position to truly surrender to sleep.

You looked over at Jeonghan, your eyes barely open and heavy with sleep. He was watching the steam rise from his forgotten mug of cider, looking perfectly content.

Unable to find comfort alone, you acted purely on instinct. You reached out, grabbed his arm, and snuggled close to him. You rested your head right on his shoulder, keeping your arm securely wrapped around his bicep, pulling his warmth closer.

Jeonghan froze instantly.

You felt the immediate, abnormal thump of his heart against your cheek. He didn't move a muscle, suddenly acutely aware of the deep, trusting weight of your head against him. He was thinking of all sorts of things right now: the warmth of your hair, the soft pressure of your arm, the fact that Joshua was right there.

He slowly gazed down at your face, which was relaxed and peaceful as you drifted off to sleep. For the first time since his feelings started to grow—since he diagnosed himself with “a disease called you”—he allowed himself to lean into the feeling, not run away from it. He made no movement to pull away, to categorize the contact as platonic, or to regain control.

With immense tenderness, he reached up and gently placed his other hand over the hand you had wrapped around his arm. He brought his head down to rest gently on top of yours, softly closing his eyes.

Under the silent, watchful protection of the sleeping Joshua and the soft glow of the fairy lights, Jeonghan finally surrendered. He didn't need to fix anything right now, he only needed to hold you.

——

You woke up slowly, feeling the distinct softness of a pillow under your head. You blinked, staring up at the temporary clear roof, where the fairy lights cast a diffused glow. You were wrapped in two thick blankets and perfectly situated on a plush mat.

A puzzled frown crossed your face. You didn't remember starting your nap on the mat. The last thing you remembered was practically glued to Jeonghan’s shoulder. You shrugged off the minor mystery, assuming you’d shifted in your sleep, and simply burrowed deeper into the blankets.

You looked over and saw Jeonghan already awake, sitting just a few feet away from you as he collected the mugs. His eyes crinkled with soft humor as he watched Joshua stretch.

A loud groan broke the spell. Joshua stretched out on the beanbag, announcing his return to consciousness. “My neck is going to kill me. What time is it?”

After a flurry of stretching and gathering blankets, Joshua checked his phone. “Shoot. Mom needs help with something downstairs. Duty calls, unfortunately.” He gave Jeonghan a ‘I’m sorry’ look before heading toward the exit, leaving the door slightly ajar.

——

You grabbed your coat and muffler and walked Jeonghan to his car, which was parked just outside the perimeter of the melting snow. You both stopped next to the vehicle, the air instantly cold again after the rooftop warmth. Jeonghan turned to look at you, his eyes soft and content.

“I'm cold,” he mumbled, a soft, playful pout curving his lips.

You immediately reached out to tug at the muffler around his neck, instinctively fixing the thick material. “Why? Do you need another coat? I can get one right now—”

Before you could finish, Jeonghan quickly pulled you into a hug—a warm, gentle one, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You were taken aback for a second, but a smile spread across your face as you wrapped your arms tightly around his waist.

“Just say you want a hug, doc,” you chuckled, your voice muffled against his coat.

“Where's the fun in that when I can steal them,” he replied, his voice muffled as he buried his face into your shoulder that was heavy with sweater and muffler.

You two stayed embraced for a quiet while, the simple comfort of his weight sinking into the moment. You tightened your grip on his coat, finding the courage to finally speak the raw thought that had been building all afternoon.

“Please don't leave this time,” you whispered softly, your breath warm against his coat collar.

Jeonghan paused, the easy affection in his grip immediately giving way to absolute stillness as he processed your words. “Hm?” he hummed in question a few seconds later, gently pulling back a fraction to look at your face.

You took a shaky breath, tightening your grip on his coat again, afraid he might disappear if you let go. “Let's stay together this time. We're adults, Hannie. Not five or seven.” You meant the full weight of your words.

Jeonghan took a couple more seconds, absorbing the weight of the request. Then, he pulled away fully, his almond eyes soft and gentle, full of acceptance and promise.

“I won't leave,” he said firmly. “At least, not right now. So let's spend this winter together, just like we did back then.”

He lightly pecked your forehead, sealing the quiet promise in the cold winter air.

——

The winter agreement Jeonghan made in your driveway—the promise to just stay and “spend this winter together”—became the simple truth for the next three months. From late November on, the line between your personal lives got fuzzier, not because of big dates, but because you just slowly started sharing routines.

Jeonghan's intense work didn't slow down, but your apartment became the safe, quiet spot he always came back to. He started leaving little things at your place—his favorite coffee mug, an old hoodie—small, quiet signs that he belonged there now.

You both fell right back into the easy rhythm you had as kids, but now there was a constant, low buzz of adult attraction simmering underneath the surface. You shared late-night meals (always with those gourmet pretzels he insisted on), worked side-by-side in comfortable silence, and texted until the moment one of you finally crashed.

New Year's Eve was a perfect example. After a big party, you two had a quiet takeout. Jeonghan showed up after every guest left, too tired for anything but sitting on the sofa with his head on your shoulder, just grateful you were there. In those small, stolen moments, the real feelings grew—deep, tender, and way past just being friends.

You loved having that precious part of your childhood back, but now it felt stronger, more necessary. Every time he laughed at your chaos, every time he just watched you quietly, or every time he leaned into your hug, the truth became clear—He wasn't just Hannie anymore.

By late February, the pressure was huge. You weren't dating, but your lives were completely tangled up. The comfortable “winter agreement” had run its course. But what now? You had to move back to Seoul, and you're certain that Jeonghan had to aswell, but he probably couldn't tell you about it yet.

Maybe falling in love with your childhood friend wasn't the best choice. Maybe, just maybe, if it stayed the same—you as his little sister that he'd become a second brother to—everything would've been fine. But you two were in too deep to look back now.

——

FEBRUARY 18

The evening air was dry but cold, carrying the final chill of late February. The family function had long since ended, and the sudden quiet of the street felt vast after the hours of socializing. You emerged through the heavy wooden doors, already drained by the forced pleasantries and endless small talk.

You stopped dead on the top step.

Leaning against a sleek black sedan parked across the street, illuminated by the distant yellow glow of a streetlamp, was Jeonghan, scrolling away on his phone. He had clearly been waiting. He was wrapped in a long, dark coat, his hands tucked into his pockets, his posture easy and patient. The exhaustion from the day dissolved instantly, replaced by a surge of pure, delighted relief.

Your eyes widened in surprise, and a wide grin reached your eyes as you broke into a spontaneous run across the pavement. 

You didn't hesitate—you flung yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. He chuckled, the sound muffled against your shoulder, and instantly wrapped his strong arms around your waist, pulling you securely against the length of his body.

The natural, familiar force of the hug made both your hearts race—a simple, reflexive response to the sight and touch of him after a long absence. You breathed in the comforting scent of his cologne and the fresh winter air.

Finally, you pulled back slightly, planting a quick, loud kiss on his cheek before letting go of his neck.

Jeonghan's composure broke for the briefest moment. His eyes fluttered shut on the impact, and the smile on his face became something soft and uncontrolled before he quickly masked it, clearing his throat.

“You survived,” he noted, his voice smooth again. He reached out and gently smoothed your coat.

“Barely. I think I used up my entire social battery for the next three months.” You reached into your pocket and pulled out a crinkled, pocket-sized packet of chocolate buns, already tearing it open. You held a bun out to him. “Here. Restorative treatment.”

Jeonghan looked at it, then stuck his lower lip out in a small, ridiculous pout. “Oh, but I can't get my hands dirty right now,” he feigned sadness, lifting his empty hands slightly to emphasize the tragedy.

You sighed dramatically, though a chuckle escaped you instantly. You plucked a piece from the bun and held it up to his lips. “You are absurd,” you muttered, blushing fiercely at the absurdity of feeding the renowned Dr. Yoon Jeonghan on a public street although it was quite empty at this hour.

The moment he bit down, his soft lips briefly grazed your skin. He pulled back just enough to let his tongue trace the sweet smudge of chocolate on the corner of his lips, his eyes never leaving yours.

You spent the next few minutes finishing the snack as you walked toward his car, ranting about everything that had happened—the awful canapés, the confusing distant relatives, the boring speeches. Jeonghan listened patiently, his hand almost holding yours as you walked. His eyes held affection, amusement and something you couldn't quite pinpoint. But he was fighting the urge to lean down and simply kiss you right there.

He approached the passenger door and reached for the handle. Then, just as the moment was about to normalize, a powerful, unexpected twist hit him—an undeniable urge to seize the moment.

Jeonghan paused. He gently and suddenly grabbed your wrist, halting your movement.

You looked up, surprised by the abrupt shift. His easy playfulness was gone, replaced by a sweet, fragile sincerity. His eyes were wide, tender, and searching, and you could practically hear the abnormal, frantic thumping of his own heart in the sudden silence. You instantly felt nervous, your heart beginning to race in response.

He looked down at your hand, then back up to your eyes, his voice soft, barely audible above the quiet street sounds. “Can you let me do an experiment on your heart?”

“Hannie, what?” you joked, the nervousness palpable in your voice. “You're not going to rip my heart open, are you?” You knew, deep down, he meant something different. Something you probably weren't expecting tonight.

He shook his head slowly, his expression still locked in that tender, intense way. He took two steps closer, closing the distance until you were only inches apart. “No, but I... Just tell me. Will you allow me to do that? Allow me to test your heart?”

You were speechless, just staring at him, waiting for him to do anything to stop your heart from beating so ridiculously fast.

His hands came to rest softly on your back, a deliberate action, as if he was testing to see if you would move away—giving you full, final authority to reject him. He then leaned closer, his eyes never leaving your lips. He tilted his head slightly as he did, moving with agonizing slowness, giving you all the time in the world to pull back.

But you didn't.

He knew he couldn't back away now. This was what you both wanted.

He pulled you gently against him and kissed your lips—a quick, soft press, as if testing the waters, hesitant and almost scared to fully touch your soft lips with his. He pulled back, his breath coming short, and locked eyes with you.

You stared at him speechless for a few lingering seconds before you let out a little squeak, covering your face with your hands at the speed of light, the chocolate bun wrapper finally falling from your nerveless fingers.

Jeonghan laughed heartily, a deep, chest-shaking sound that made your heart hammer faster.

“This is so embarrassing, I didn't even apply lip balm properly today!” you mumbled into your hands, whining and wanting to disappear.

He stooped, picked up the wrapper, and tossed it in the nearby garbage can before reaching over to cup your cheek with one hand. “Your lips are soft enough, love,” he said, his voice laced with amusement and deep affection.

You instantly dropped your hands, your face flushed scarlet. “...What did you call me?”

He paused for a moment before looking around with a playful smile. “I don't know, what was it?” He looked back at you, his gaze teasing and you wanted to smack him across the face right there and then. “I'd remember if I had someone’s lips on mine right now.”

Despite being as red as a tomato, you hesitantly reached out. Jeonghan gazed at you with the same fondness, patiently waiting without any interruption. Then you did it. You kissed him—a long, lingering, and loving peck this time.

​His heart melted completely. He desperately wanted to sink to his knees, but he forced himself to maintain his composure—for the sake of both your sanity.

He chuckled softly when you pulled away. “You're a good kisser, love,” he said before leaning over and tilting his head. “Did you perhaps train with someone in those twenty-three years I was absent?”

You burst out into a shy laugh, shaking your head. “No, Hannie, you're my first kiss.”

Jeonghan's eyes instantly filled with such profound pleasure and love. He locked his arms securely around your waist, pulling you close, his forehead resting against yours.

a/n... i am back? kinda? life has just been quite busy i apologize!! i MISS writing so so much... this was so short sorry... but i wanted to at least put something out while i can! i am also so into riize and cortis right now ^_^ so look forward to some special works soon (maybe)... if i get the energy to post <3 I LOVE YOU ALL THANK YOU FOR STICKING WITH ME! hanniehaeo in 2026!

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© intellectual property belongs to hanniehaeo 2026

images belong to original owners; the work isn't an accurate representation of reality

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૮ ․ ․ ྀིა taglist: @livelaughloveseventeen @coupsarchive @choco-scoups @markoplolo @strawberry-yeo @minorwithchampagneproblems

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ᯓ★ YOU KNOW I’M SUCH A FOOL FOR YOU… DO YOU HAVE TO LET IT LINGER?

joshua isn’t subtle. 

he thinks he is. thinks he’s sly when he leans against the kitchen counter like that, as if this is all casual, no ulterior motives, no grand plan. 

his “hey, what are you doing later?” comes out just a little too rehearsed, like he’s been practicing it in the mirror.

“why?” you ask, pouring yourself a glass of water. the morning sun catches the rim, makes it sparkle like you’re in a toothpaste commercial. you take a slow sip just to make him wait for your answer.

“no reason,” he says, too fast. “well. jeonghan’s dropping by. we’re gonna play that new board game i told you about. you should join.”

you blink at him, resting your glass on the counter. “you invited jeonghan over without telling me?”

“‘cause you like him,” joshua says, with the smugness of someone who thinks they’ve just uncovered a great mystery. “he’s funny. good at games. you’ll get along.” 

there’s a laugh bubbling in your chest that you have to swallow down. “hm,” you say instead, leaning on the counter across from him, mirroring his posture. “and this is totally not you trying to set me up with your best friend?”

he scoffs, looking anywhere but your face, like he’s afraid you might see right through him. “don’t be ridiculous.”

“right.” you nod slowly. “ridiculous.”

joshua shrugs, pretending to be absorbed in his phone. “so you’re in?”

“i guess,” you say, as if you weren’t already planning to see jeonghan tonight anyway. the corner of your mouth threatens to curl upward, but you hide it by sipping your water again.

later, when jeonghan shows up, the front door creaks open and he steps in with a smile meant just for you. warm hand on your shoulder, the tiniest squeeze, before he moves on to greet joshua. 

as joshua rambles about the board game rules, jeonghan meets your gaze across the room. the smirk that tugs at his lips is for you alone.

you don’t have the heart to tell your brother he’s just a little late to the party. 

--

joshua’s been at it all morning.

he’s pacing between the couch and the kitchen, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how “you should really help jeonghan with that thing later.” no context. no explanation. only that loaded sentence and a look that screams i’m doing you a favor. 

every time he passes by, he glances at jeonghan as if they’re co-conspirators. in reality, joshua’s the only one convinced this is all his idea.

jeonghan plays along, because why not? it’s harmless. and it’s amusing to see how hard your brother is working for something that’s already long in motion. besides, it’s the perfect excuse to spend time with you.

when you finally wander into the living room, hair still a little mussed from sleep, hoodie sleeves covering half your hands, joshua perks up like a golden retriever who has heard a squirrel. 

“perfect timing,” he says, a little too triumphant. “jeonghan needs your help with—” he falters, clearly realizing he has no idea what to insert there. “—uh, that thing.”

“right,” jeonghan says easily, “that thing.” 

his gaze flickers to you, catching the sleepy curve of your smile as you settle into the seat beside him, close enough that your knee brushes the cushion near his thigh.

joshua hovers for a moment, shifting his weight like he’s waiting for something magical to happen, he then disappears into the kitchen, probably patting himself on the back for his matchmaking genius.

jeonghan doesn’t waste the opportunity. his knee nudges yours—lightly enough to pass as accidental, but lingering long enough to send a quiet pulse of awareness up his leg. his hand drapes casually over the back of the couch, fingertips grazing your shoulder in a way that makes his pulse skip. he catches the brief glance you shoot him, the twitch of your lips, the silent acknowledgment that you know exactly what he’s doing.

jeonghan likes this game. the pretense. 

the stolen inches of space. the warmth of your thigh against his. the way he can make you shiver from a single touch and still pretend it’s nothing. 

he’s enamored—has been for a while—and there’s a thrill in knowing he can indulge in small, quiet touches right under your brother’s nose.

joshua calls something from the kitchen, breaking the moment. jeonghan answers without looking away from you, his voice perfectly even.

he’s not in a hurry to end this charade. not when he’s winning, and not when every round feels like this.

--

joshua picks the restaurant on purpose. 

somewhere casual, good food, big enough that you can sit three to a table without feeling cramped. but not so big that he can’t watch the two of you from where he sits across. he thinks he’s subtle, blending into the background with his straw in hand, though the small, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips probably says otherwise.

he pokes at the ice in his drink, pretending to read the menu while you and jeonghan fall into your usual rhythm. banter that’s half-bickering, half-flirting, threaded with the kind of ease you can’t fake.

“you’re holding the menu upside down,” you point out.

“maybe i can read upside down,” jeonghan counters without missing a beat. “can you?”

“maybe i don’t need to,” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow.

“sounds like someone doesn’t know how,” he teases, and you roll your eyes in a way that makes him cackle.

joshua hides a grin behind his straw. 

to anyone else, it probably looks like harmless teasing. to him, it looks like progress. the way your eyes spark when jeonghan says something ridiculous, the way jeonghan’s smile softens when you push back. it’s exactly what he’s been hoping to see.

he waits until the food arrives before standing. “i’m gonna hit the restroom,” he says casually, and neither of you look up for more than a second. perfect. 

he steps away from the table, weaving through other diners. instead of heading toward the bathrooms, he makes a detour toward the front windows. he pauses to check his phone, pretends to read a dessert menu, and linger near the display case. he takes his time.

this is part of the plan. give you two space. let the conversation breathe without him sitting there like a referee. let the little moments happen when no one else is watching.

because that’s the real reason behind all of this. the careful invitations, the little nudges, the conveniently timed errands. joshua likes seeing his two favorite people happy. 

separately, sure, but especially together. you bring out a gentler side in jeonghan; jeonghan makes you laugh in a way few people can. and if it takes a little gentle orchestration to make sure you both realize that, well… joshua’s happy to keep playing the long game.

when he finally wanders back to the table, you’re leaning in, fingers brushing jeonghan’s as you slide him a dipping sauce. you’re laughing at something he’s just said, shoulders relaxed, faces a little too close.

“what’d i miss?” joshua asks, sliding back into his seat with an air of nonchalance.

“nothing important,” jeonghan says with a smile that’s far too knowing.

“just proving i’m better at reading menus,” you add.

joshua chuckles, picking up his fork. he takes a sip of water, still smiling to himself as the conversation between you two picks back up.

yeah, joshua thinks. sooo worth it.

The dorm living room was warmer than usual that night.

Soft lamplight filled the space, reflecting off the polished floor and the slightly messy couch where you and Keonho were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. The familiar Weverse Live interface glowed from the phone propped up on a small stand on the table in front of you.

Thousands of comments were already streaming by. Hearts floated up the screen like bubbles.

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leaned closer to read the chat. “Hi everyone,” you said brightly, waving. “It’s been a while since we did a live together.”

Next to you, Keonho grinned and leaned into the camera a little too close. “Hello!” he chirped, his voice light and playful as always. “Did you miss us?”

The comments exploded.

WE MISSED YOU

KEONHO LOOKS SO HAPPY

YOU TWO AGAIN???

You laughed softly, the sound warm and easy as it blended with the quiet hum of the dorm living room.

The soft lamp beside the couch cast a golden glow over the space, making everything feel comfortable and relaxed. The phone sat propped up on a small stand on the coffee table, the Weverse Live screen bright as thousands of comments streamed past too quickly to read all at once.

Hearts floated endlessly up the screen.

Next to you, Keonho rested his elbow against the couch cushion, chin propped lazily in his palm as he faced the camera.

At least, that was what it looked like. In reality, his eyes kept drifting away from the phone, back to you.

It was supposed to look casual, friendly, normal, but he kept looking at you. Not just quick glances, not the polite kind of attention idols usually gave their members during lives.

These were slow, lingering stares. The kind where his gaze followed every little movement you made without him even realizing it.

Meanwhile, you were completely focused on the chat. Your eyes scanned the endless stream of messages, trying to pick out actual questions between the constant flood of:

NOTICE ME

PLEASE SAY MY NAME

HELLO FROM BRAZIL

WHAT DID YOU EAT TODAY

You squinted slightly, leaning a little closer to the phone.

“Someone asked what we ate today…” you read aloud, your voice thoughtful as you tried to find the comment again in the blur of text. “Oh! We had ramen earlier, right?”

You turned toward him.

He was already looking at you, his expression was soft, too soft. Like you were the most interesting thing in the world.

“…Right?” you repeated.

He blinked, realizing you had asked him something. “Oh— yeah,” he said quickly. “Ramen.”

You laughed, the sound bright and light as you nodded. “Yeah, ramen,” you confirmed to the camera. “But the best food we had recently was in Japan.”

Your eyes lit up immediately as the memory came back. “We flew to Japan for the performance last week,” you continued excitedly. “And we had a free day after the concert.”

Your hands moved as you talked, growing more animated the more you remembered. “I went thrifting during my free day.”

Keonho’s lips twitched slightly, he already knew where this story was going.

You leaned forward a little, elbows resting on your knees as you faced the camera more directly “Guys… I found the best thrift store.”

Your eyebrows lifted dramatically. “It looked really small from the outside,” you explained, “like just a normal little shop on the street. But when I went inside it was huge.”

The chat started flying even faster.

THRIFT HAUL PLEASE

WHAT DID YOU BUY

NOTICE ME Y/N

You kept talking, trying to keep up with the comments. “And the clothes were so cute,” you said. “Like vintage jackets, oversized sweaters, these really cool baggy jeans—”

You groaned softly, shaking your head. “I swear I almost went bankrupt in that store.”

Keonho let out a quiet laugh beside you.

You turned to look at him. “It’s true!”

“You bought a lot,” he said, amused.

“It wasn’t that much!”

“You had two bags.”

“That’s because coats are bulky!” you protested immediately.

He smiled again, not at the camera, at you.

The chat kept racing by, fans asking questions and spamming messages faster than you could read them.

“Wait— someone asked if we tried matcha in Japan,” you said suddenly, spotting the question.

Your face brightened. “Oh my god yes.”

You sat up straighter, clearly excited.

“I was determined to find the best matcha while we were there,” you said proudly.

Keonho nodded slowly. “You tried like five places.”

“They were all different!” you argued.

You turned back to the phone, explaining enthusiastically. “One place had the best matcha latte I’ve ever had. It wasn’t bitter at all and the foam on top was perfect.”

Your hands moved while you described it. “Like fluffy but not too sweet,” you said. “And the color was that really bright green so you know it’s good quality.”

Keonho watched you talk.

Your eyes sparkled every time you got excited about something. Your nose scrunched slightly when you described the bitter matcha you didn’t like. Your hands moved when you explained things.

He barely looked at the phone anymore, his attention stayed on you.

Meanwhile, you were still trying to keep up with the endless stream of comments. “Someone’s asking what I bought from the thrift store,” you said, squinting slightly at the screen.

“Oh! I got this really cool oversized jacket, two sweaters, a skirt, and—”

You paused suddenly. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”

Keonho blinked.

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re staring.”

He shrugged slightly, still resting his chin in his palm.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the camera. “Anyway,” you continued, trying to remember your list. “I also got this really nice cardigan that I’m probably going to wear way too often—”

Keonho smiled softly as you spoke. He wasn’t even pretending to read the chat anymore.

Your voice filled the room while he watched you ramble about thrift finds and matcha shops like it was the most fascinating conversation in the world.

After a moment, you turned toward him again. “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what did I just say?”

He opened his mouth, paused, then smiled sheepishly. “…Matcha?”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Keonho!”

He laughed, the sound soft and boyish as he leaned back against the couch.

And you went right back to talking to the fans, completely unaware that half the chat had stopped asking questions entirely.

Because they were too busy watching the way he looked at you.

Your hands moved when you talked, expressive and animated without you even realizing it. Every story you told came with little gestures, pointing when you remembered something specific, waving your hands when you got excited, tapping the couch when you laughed.

Keonho watched every single one.

Like it was fascinating.

Like the movement of your fingers and the sound of your voice were somehow more interesting than the thousands of fans currently watching the live.

Your eyebrows lifted when you spotted a funny comment buried in the flood of messages.

You burst out laughing, leaning slightly closer to the phone. “Oh my god— someone said I probably used Jame’s money to buy my clothes that day,” you read aloud.

You nodded immediately.

“They’re not wrong,” you admitted.

Beside you, Keonho let out a quiet snort. “You use his card for everything.”

You turned to him with an offended look. “Hey!”

“I swear you spend everyone’s money but yours,” he said, grinning.

“I spend my money!”

“name a time.”

You nudged his arm.

“Like a few days ago!”

“A few days ago or months?”

You gasped dramatically and looked back at the camera. “He’s lying, I do spend my money.”

The chat flooded again.

DEFEND Y/N

SHOPPING QUEEN

KEONHO IS EXPOSING YOU

You smiled when someone complimented your outfit. “Oh thank you!” you said brightly. “This sweater is actually from the thrift store I was talking about.”

You grabbed the sleeve, holding it up slightly for the camera. “I found it on the second floor,” you explained. “There were racks of oversized sweaters and I swear I wanted to take all of them home.”

Keonho nodded slowly. “You almost did.”

You elbowed him lightly. “Stop exaggerating!”

He laughed under his breath.

But even while laughing, his eyes stayed on you.

Your voice filled the room again as you scrolled through more comments. “Someone asked if Keonho bought anything,” you read.

You immediately turned toward him. “Did you?”

He shrugged casually. “No.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You didn’t buy anything??”

“There was nothing I needed.”

“You didn’t even try!”

“I did try,” he said.

You crossed your arms.

“Oh really? What did you try?”

“A beanie.”

You stared at him. “A beanie.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded.

“You were there for two hours.”

“I was supervising.”

You groaned loudly while the chat exploded with laughing messages.

“Anyway!” you said quickly. “What should we talk about next?”

While you scrolled through the comments again, Keonho’s gaze softened. He watched the way your eyes moved across the screen.

The way your lips curved when you smiled at certain messages, the way you hummed quietly when you were thinking.

You didn’t notice at first, you were too focused on reading the chat, but the chat definitely noticed.

The messages suddenly started changing.

STOP LOOKING AT HER LIKE THAT

THIS IS SO OBVIOUS

IS THIS A KDRAMA

HE LOOKS LIKE HE’S LISTENING TO HIS WIFE

Your eyes widened. You blinked rapidly at the screen. “…Why are they saying wife??”

Keonho snorted beside you.

You turned to glare at him instantly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m not—”

He was, his shoulders were shaking slightly as he tried to hold it in.

You leaned closer to the phone again, trying to steer the conversation somewhere else before the fans got even weirder.

“So someone asked if Keonho has any new hobbies,” you read quickly.

You nudged him. “Answer.”

He turned toward you instantly, like he had been waiting for you to look at him again.

You felt it before you even fully turned your head, that gaze.

You sighed quietly and looked at him, and there it was again. That stupid, soft, affectionate stare.

Your face warmed immediately.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Nothing,” you muttered.

You turned back to the phone quickly before the camera could catch your expression.

The comments were going feral.

OH MY GOD SHE NOTICED

THIS IS SO FUNNY

KEONHO IS DOWN BAD

HE IS GIGGLING

You buried your face in your hands for a second.“Guys,” you said weakly, peeking back at the screen. “Please stop making things up.”

Keonho leaned slightly closer to the camera. “They’re not making things up,” he said casually.

You whipped your head toward him so fast your hair swung. “Keonho.”

He looked at you, and smiled.

Not the playful idol smile he gave during performances or interviews, a soft one. The kind he only gave you when the cameras weren’t around.

The chat erupted again.

HELLO???

WHAT WAS THAT

THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER

Your heart jumped in your chest, you kicked his shin under the table.

He winced slightly but didn’t stop smiling.

You shot him a warning look.

He only looked more amused.

“Okay!” he suddenly said brightly, leaning forward and reaching for the phone before you could react. “I think that’s enough live for today!”

Your eyes widened. “Wait—!”

The screen went black, the live ended.

And just like that, silence filled the room.

The moment the screen went black, the room fell quiet.

The cheerful flood of hearts and comments disappeared, leaving only the soft hum of the dorm lights and the faint buzz of the phone still resting on the table.

For a second, neither of you moved, then you slowly turned your head.

Keonho was already looking at you, still smiling.

Your eyes narrowed, before he could say anything, You smacked his arm. “Keonho!”

He blinked at you, still smiling like he had no idea what he did wrong. “What?”

“You almost exposed us!”

He let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the couch cushions like the situation was somehow funny. The sound was warm and boyish, the kind that always made it hard for you to stay mad at him.

Unfortunately for him, you were trying very hard right now. You crossed your arms, scooting slightly away from him on the couch. “They literally thought you were in love with me!”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was genuinely thinking about what you said. “I am.”

Your face went red instantly. “That’s not the point!”

Your voice came out louder than you expected, and you quickly glanced toward the hallway in case anyone else in the dorm heard.

Keonho only chuckled again, he shifted closer on the couch. The cushions dipped under his weight until your knees brushed together.

“You kept staring!” you continued, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“I was listening,” he said calmly.

“No you weren’t!”

“I was.”

“You looked like a lovesick puppy!”

“That’s rude.”

You shoved his shoulder. “You’re supposed to act normal on lives!”

“I was acting normal.”

“No you weren’t!”

He leaned even closer now, completely ignoring your attempts to keep distance between you. His eyes were bright with amusement, like he found your frustration adorable.

“But you’re interesting,” he said.

“That’s not—!”

Your sentence cut off abruptly, because his hand suddenly slid around your waist.

You froze.

His arm wrapped comfortably around you like it belonged there, his fingers resting against your side.

“Keonho—”

Before you could protest, he gently pulled you closer. Your body slid across the couch until you were pressed against him, your knees brushing his and your shoulder bumping into his chest.

“You’re interesting,” he repeated softly. His voice had dropped slightly, the teasing tone replaced with something quieter.

Your irritation wavered immediately. “I’m never going live with you again,” you muttered.

He chuckled under his breath and leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against yours.

Up close, his eyes looked warm, happy. The kind of happy that made your chest feel a little too full.

“You were talking,” he said quietly. “Of course I looked at you.”

You tried to hold onto your annoyance. Tried to remember that he almost got both of you exposed to thousands of fans.

But his thumb had started tracing slow, lazy circles against your side. The gentle motion made your shoulders relax before you could stop it.

“You’re going to get us caught,” you said more quietly this time.

He shrugged a little, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I was just teasing.”

Your heart fluttered traitorously, before you could come up with a response, he leaned down and kissed you.

One of his hands slid up from your waist to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin while he tilted your face slightly toward him.

Your arm instinctively warped around his neck as you kissed him back.

It was slow, comfortable, the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world feel quiet.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again, and he was grinning ear to ear.

You poked his chest lightly. “If we get exposed it’s your fault.”

He leaned forward and kissed the tip of your nose. “I don’t care.”

“Keonho.”

“Yes, baby?”

You tried very hard not to melt at the pet name, you failed. “I hate you.”

He laughed softly and pulled you fully into his arms, wrapping them around you in a warm hug that pressed you comfortably against his chest.

Your cheek rested against his shoulder as his hand rubbed your back gently. “No you don’t bunny,” he murmured.

You buried your face into the fabric of his hoodie with a small sigh. “…Maybe.”

His quiet laugh rumbled in his chest beneath your cheek. He tilted his head and pressed another soft kiss to your hair.

Your trip back home isn’t as rough as you expected it to be. 

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between coming home alone and coming home with Jungkook. There’s an irreplaceable weight in your chest that still flares even at the mention of Yoongi, the anger you have towards him mixing with the trepidation of holding everything in you, not just him, for another three days. There’s an angry rash around your fingertips just waiting for you to pick on your nails until they’re raw because atleast in that way, you get to forget the way Yoongi’s hand picked up yours in the dark.

There’s an ache in you that not even Yoongi and Hyewon could undo by never having met in the first place. It’s long been there, perhaps even older than Haneul. The ache of unfulfillment in you is bred by everything significant in your life — all from your first argument with your mom because of your lack of direction in life, to your latest heartbreak that keeps manifesting into your first ever.

You're no longer angry recounting the fact that you weren't destined for greatness. Namjoon turned out beyond great, world-renowned even, despite living in the same home that you did. Maybe it's not your environment or your lack of a passion that hindered you — maybe, it's just you alone.

Maybe, some part of you had ached too much from reaching (read: loving) too far up, you're doomed to live the rest of your life unfulfilled. Yoongi's never been yours, but the way your heart withdraws from him is as if he's always been.

You've done your share. You've completed your fill. You've worked yourself to the bone to make anything (not something, and certainly not everything) out of yourself that even if you're not decorated in sports like Namjoon nor celebrated in music like Yoongi, you have a fail-safe to fall back on.

You're earning more than the white collars you could recognize from your old yearbook and even if it's to look after someone, to look after Jungkook and his craft, and neither use your actual degree nor make a name out of yourself — a part of you feels fulfilled.

If being fulfilled meant being in the shadows as a manager; if it meant caring for someone in a professional context yet in a way you've always known with practice, with love, through the years– you'll take it.

You'll take the peace of being fulfilled without a trophy than to be listless trying to compete for first place.

You're fulfilled now to be sitting at the passenger seat of your own car because despite having never been to your place anymore, Jungkook fought with you in order to get his hands on the wheel.

You're fulfilled now, even if you only took Jungkook's silly suggestion (read: insistence) of fake-dating him just so you wouldn't have to face your family and Yoongi alone. You're fulfilled despite having no real place in neither men's lives.

Oddly enough, Jungkook wants to be both. He wants to be fulfilled and compete for first  place in a position in your life that he can't even say to your face.

Jungkook holds you right in the middle of the living room, his eyes wide and grin sparkling as if the director had already said action! and the task for him was to act out what being in love looked like, right in front of his female lead's family in her childhood home. (Read: he isn't acting at all.)

“And he’s…?” your mom lets the question hang in the air, eyes trailing from Jungkook’s face, to his bicep, to how his forearm fits snugly against your back and his hand curls around your waist. Your mom visibly looks surprised, although you don’t know if it’s about the fact that you actually came back despite everything, or if it’s because her favorite actor is in her kitchen while she’s sweaty in an apron, or if it’s because said favorite actor leaves no space between the two of you.

“Jeon Jungkook, ma’am. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he greets politely, a little jittery now that he’s face-to-face with her. He’s only heard of the woman she is from you and as much as he tried to picture her from memory, your stories don’t do her much justice. Jungkook’s always loved your kind eyes and your sweet smile, but he knows now where you’ve got it from; in fact, if he turns around right now right after shaking her hand and bowing profusely, you’re showing exactly those to him — that, along with a pair of gazes he can’t place.

Those gazes aren’t kind at all. One is confused and dumbfounded, and the other harbors nothing but hostility and anger.

“Sweetheart, I know you. Who doesn’t?” your mom’s at a loss for breath, mouth still agape as she keeps flickering her eyes between the two of you. She knows that you’re his manager, but what she doesn’t know is why the Jeon Jungkook is in her humble kitchen of all places. He has the most expressive and sincere eyes ever — he can’t possibly mistake your childhood home as a filming set and your waist as a hand rest.

You finally placate her thoughts when you speak, the loaded silence between the three of you (it’s buzzing with tension if you account for the other two) breaking. You actually giggle, your laughter taking the load off her shoulders because you’re happy; you don’t feel an ounce of guilt even if you’re lying to her face. 

“We’re dating, mom,” you grin. “Jungkook’s my boyfriend.”

Jungkook smiles automatically, feeling your hand snake towards his own. His palm’s much bigger than yours yet it’s warmer than you’ve ever imagined, the envelope both of your hands make putting you at ease.

Your mom’s gasp bounces across the walls. Namjoon’s head that’s only been lowered the entire time you’ve been back suddenly whips to look at you and Jungkook. The fridge even lowers its hum to make way for the theatrics aimed at you, yet your eyes are fixed on your mom’s and Jungkook’s alone.

You came home for her and with him. You’re not here for anyone nor anything else because it’s merely a play for your survival, only this time, Jungkook’s hellbent on increasing your odds.

Yoongi freezes evidently, hand tightening around Haneul’s bottle as if it would do anything to release the red from his vision. He staggers silently, breathing suddenly ragged as he stares down at the offending steel cylinder. It’s small. Compact. If anything, he figures it would hurt if he were to throw it at anything. Anyone. Someone, even.

“Wow, that’s.. that’s amazing!” she embraces the both of you, making you and Jungkook share a gaze you only laugh through because he actually looks honored.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry I haven’t had the time to let you know personally,” he apologizes meekly for a mistake that isn’t even one in the first place, the humility in his tone making your ears perk. It’s Jungkook onceagain with the apologies towards you that he shouldn’t be making at all, and yet, even in front of your family, he persists.

Jungkook apologizes even for the things he hasn’t done, not because he plans on doing them, but because a large part of him wants to be in the actual situation wherein those mistakes were merely possibilities.

“It’s no problem at all. You’re busy getting all these awards, I know how that’s like,” she jokes, unable to stop smiling. “I’m just glad someone’s taking care of my baby.”

“And I don’t plan on missing a single day, ma’am.”

“Stop that,” she chides, shaking her head eagerly. “You can call me mom.”

Yoongi lets the bottle clatter to the sink.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi hadn’t been able to sleep last night.

He’d woken up in a cold sweat hours before his alarm was supposed to go off to cook dinner for everyone, even if it was only yourfavorite. The anxiousness that bubbled in his veins when he was asleep was going to burst and while Yoongi thought nothing of it initially, he realizes in panic that it was actually pointing to something. 

He woke up next to Haneul and he was placated momentarily, but the knot tied around his heart tightens twofold when he sees Hyewon on the same bed.

On your bed.

The guilt that filled Yoongi then was enough for the bile to creep up into his throat, making him stagger outside to find Namjoon pacing right outside of his own bedroom. His personal phone’s tucked in between his ear and his shoulder, his hands preoccupied scrolling through whatever it is on his work phone. Yoongi momentarily stops his panic to inquire why the hell Namjoon’s panicking and why did he just see a glimpse of your social media accounts pulled up to the screen, your following list staring your brother in the eyes.

“What? What happened? Is it Y/N?”

Namjoon only looked at him with nothing but pity and guilt, the resentment he had for himself bleeding through the way he shifted his gaze to him.

“She saw you and Hyewon.”

Yoongi hadn’t been able to sleep since.  

He didn’t even blink when Hyewon thanked him and said her goodbyes. He wasn’t even fazed when his ex-wife kissed Haneul goodbye and his son only resumed playing with his blocks. Yoongi hadn’t even tended to himself throughout the entire night, surrendering himself to be awake in your couch in the far event that you’d come home.

Yoongi wanted to follow you home, except almost exactly similar to the past, he had chased you out of what’s supposed to be your own home in the first place. The difference now was that he didn’t mean for Hyewon to be on your bed at all, let alone your room, but in the back of Yoongi’s thick skull — he figures that it won’t be enough for you.

Yoongi waits for you all night throughout the morning like a loyal dog waiting for its master, his chest rising up and down in hope yet his chin down in despondence. You do end up coming back home though, but your presence is neither unaccompanied nor for him.

With you is Jeon Jungkook, your boyfriend.

If only Haneul hadn’t asked for his bottle to be brought upstairs because he’s watching cartoons on Yoongi’s laptop, he would’ve collapsed on the floor then and there, uncaring of the way everyone else would be looking down on him.

If only Namjoon’s gaze wasn’t flitting to him to gauge his reaction because it’s the first time he’s, or by everyone else rather, hearing that you have a boyfriend, Yoongi would put his hands on his head and curse until his piercing migraine suddenly disappears.

If only your mother wasn’t here, frozen in the kitchen mostly because of what you just revealed and who you came home with, and partly because she’s waiting for him to finish washing Haneul’s bottle, he would’ve thrown up right in the sink.

Yoongi gathers all his pain and keeps it shut within himself until he gets you alone, catching you by the staircase when everyone else has dispersed.

“I’m sorry. Namjoon told me what you saw and-…” he stops himself when you look up at him with an innocent yet empty gaze, the weight of it (or lack thereof) startling him. “Let me explain why Hyewon was there in your bed.”

“I don’t want to listen,” you enunciate clearly, keeping your voice down because both Jungkook and Haneul are a few steps away. You do it for their sake and not for Yoongi’s, the bitterness in your chest physically restricting you to think about his state.

Yoongi pushes on, breath already catching in his throat when you’re still stiff as a stone. You haven’t even made a break for it yet; he only unconsciously held onto you out of fear that you’ll be out of his sight. “She was in the area because her parents are old and they don’t know much about selling their house here a-and well, she knows that I did the same for my parents when they sold ours. Nothing happened. I just helped her with the sale! S-she was playing with Haneul in the living room while I napped a-and, I just… when I woke up, they were right next to me. Y/N, I swear, nothing-…”

You shake your head fervently, the innocence of his reason doing little to break the seal in your stomach. You feel it dropping once again and even if Yoongi’s right, even if he’s saying the truth, the sight alone of him appearing to be a part of a happy family jogs up all the pain.

“I don’t want to listen and you don’t have to explain either.”

“But I hurt you. That’s why I want to explain,” he stutters. Yoongi’s eyes are so glassy, you could see your reflection in them.

“Oh. So you know,” you whisper, teeth harshly digging into your bottom lip. “I hate Hyewon for a lot of things but not for being the mother of your child. That’s out of my reach. I get it. She’s his mom and that’s that,” you admit, the vacancy in your chest and on your ring finger reminding you what Yoongi had never given you the chance for. “What I hate is that you let her sleep in my room. Seeing Haneul in there is good. You and him? That’s okay because I let you sleep in there,” you heave, voice close to breaking because of how you force it to be tamped down. “I hate how you let her sleep in my room, Yoongi. I-I, I fucking hate it because it’s just like that time I caught you practically fucking her in my room.”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-…” Yoongi sniffles, tears already pouring. The staircase in your house is far too narrow to hold the both of you, let alone your history. “I didn’t think. I didn’t notice, a-and, I didn’t think. I didn’t think at all, Y/N. I thought it was okay for a split second because we looked like-…”

“A family,” you finish for him. “I get it. I do,” you nod your head fervently, your own hand snaking to your lips to stop the sharp inhale that pains you from the inside. “Almost everyone loses their sense of reason when it comes to family.”

“I didn’t notice she already entered the room. But I-I woke up,” Yoongi still swears up and down, adamant on his truth that you aren’t open to entertaining because he’s hurt you far too many times before. “Hyewon and I… we’re not. We’re co-parenting.”

“Still a family.”

“But-…”

“What the hell do you want to hear from me, Yoongi?” you snap, voice finally toning down when you notice faint footsteps coming from the second floor. “Do you— do you want me to agree with you and say that the three of you aren’t a family? And for what, s-so that could somehow excuse you for everything you’ve done? I don’t even know what family’s supposed to mean at this point!”

From upstairs, Namjoon suppresses a sob.

“My mom doesn’t know a single thing about all of this. I-I can’t even cry to her because I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of protecting you, your son that she looks to as a grandson, a-and even your mom who’s her best friend,” you break into tears, ignoring the baby towel that Yoongi keeps on his person all the time that he offers to you. You sound far too defeated, and maybe you actually are, that Yoongi lets you push past him. “Meanwhile, my own brother probably knows everything but his first instinct is to protect you. Not me, his actual sibling. You.”

.

.

.

Namjoon had been waiting for you upstairs. He’s been barricading the door to the bathroom because he knows you can’t go to bed without your nightly shower, and because he knows that out of every space in the house, it must be the only one left wherein you can be truly alone with no hint of Yoongi.

“We have to talk,” he gets out as soon as you make eye contact with him, the towel that’s slung on your shoulder almost falling at the urgency to which he pulls you aside.

“It can wait.”

“I need to apologize,” he pleads once again, gripping your wrist gently like he had always done when you were kids to get you to listen to him.

“And I said it can wait. I can’t stand you right now,” you grit, the tears on your cheeks barely being dried up when Namjoon, unsurprisingly, decides to apologize to you within the same timeframe as Yoongi. They hadn’t planned it at all — the guilt and remorse weighed far too heavy for them to actually communicate.

“Where will you sleep?” he asks instead, exhaling heavily because you’re insistent on not crying again in barely your first night back, again. “Where will Jungkook sleep?”

“We’ll sleep together in a hotel.”

“Hotel?” Namjoon asks loudly, eyes bulging in shock. His voice is far too loud that everyone in the house (and maybe even your neighbors) must have heard him. “That’s nonsense. This is home, Y/N. You don’t have to book a hotel.”

“It is?” you seethe, your closed fists tightening on themselves painfully. “Did you also say the same thing to Hyewon? To Yoongi in the first place?”

“It’s my fault for-…”

You’re unaware that you and Namjoon are neck to neck until your mom chimes in out of nowhere, her gentle eyes asking more questions than she’s actually uttering. “What’s going on?” she switches her gaze between you and him. “Are the two of you fighting?”

“No,” you answer in unison, unable to fit a relieved sigh in between the terse silence.

“It’s nothing, mom,” Namjoon puts a hand on your shoulder, his smile tight and tense. “I was just telling Y/N that she doesn’t have to book a hotel.”

“Why would you book a hotel?” she gasps incredulously, her tone being the exact copy of Namjoon’s just a second ago.

“It’s just crowded in here, mom. That’s all,” you muster a sheepish smile, your posture slouching the more you realize that there’s no way out.

“I can ask Yoongi and Haneul to transfer to Namjoon’s so you can-..”

“No-!” you interrupt her in a hurry, breath hitching at the mention of him. “No, no. That’s unnecessary. I don’t want to sleep in my room.”

There’s a loaded pause between all of you, even between the door that Yoongi has his back on as he listens in.

“You and Jungkook can take my room instead,” Namjoon insists, his offer only barely scratching the surface of the apology that you truly deserve.

“Great. Thanks,” you conclude, already halfway into the bathroom when the sudden thought strikes you, your curiosity (and limit, by extension) getting the best of you to ask Namjoon while your mom’s still here. “How… how much longer are they gonna stay here?”

“I… haven’t asked yet,” Namjoon admits, the animosity you have towards Yoongi not going unnoticed by your mother.

“You need to ask then,” you quip. “This house is too small to have everyone and anyone.”

( ♡ ) 

Jungkook woke up in peace from sleeping in a bed that isn’t his.

Even before you actually got to shower (and not just sit on the toilet seat whilst trying to compose yourself) since you forgot to retrieve your clothes from your suitcase, Jungkook was already starfished in the middle of Namjoon’s bed. It’s a touching sight atop your own blanket and bug spray that your brother put in for you.

The two of you are far from okay. As a matter of fact, the only people you’re truly okay with in the house is your mom and Haneul; despite knowing that fully, Jungkook still dived in head-first in the middle of your situation. You’ve tried to dissuade him all throughout the five-hour long car ride, and not once did he even budge.

He’s here for you and no one else. He’s snoring in the middle of your sibling’s bed whom you aren’t in good terms with. He’s at ease with you in a province that he’s never stepped foot in, all because he felt compelled to protect you somehow and wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

Jungkook cares for you, enough to write a note and place it beside him just before he went to sleep, telling you that he’s a messy sleeper and to either jolt him awake to move or just manhandle him to the side so you could also sleep on the bed.

You go for the latter, trying to pry him as gently as you could (but even if you just hauled him like a sack of potatoes, he still wouldn’t wake up because he’s at ease too much; it’s you, of course) before finally calling it a night.

You may have lied awake mulling over the perpetual ache in your chest, but you didn’t cry at all.

Eventually, you fall asleep to the sound of Jungkook snoring.

.

.

.

Jungkook may have slept earlier than you, but he makes sure that you stay in late. (read: he physically tucked you into bed so snugly, you probably can’t even shift your shoulders by a centimeter). He wants to pull his weight around a house he hasn’t even been in, even if you hadn’t asked him to — you’d never do, because even as a manager and not as a fake-girlfriend, you don’t let him lift a single finger. Simply put, Jungkook feels this massive pull, not to perform for you, but serve you.

He finds himself quietly going down the stairs, still in his socks because you had stolen his house slippers just last night and he doesn’t have the heart to ask you to give them back. He’s quickly figured out the kitchen, getting a soup started before he allows himself to sit on the dining table by himself.

It turns out that Jungkook’s not alone at all.

“Hi.”

His ears perk at the soft voice that comes from the side of him, eyes immediately setting on the toddler who’s still dressed in his pajamas and has a similar case of bedhead to him.

“Hey buddy. Nice bangs,” Jungkook chuckles invitingly, pulling out a chair for Haneul to which he gets up on easily by himself. 

“My appa cut them for me,” he answers with a smile, shyly pointing to Jungkook’s forehead with an eager finger. “You have bangs too. Who cut yours?”

“My girlfriend. I think she can be a hairstylist one day,” he hums, not feeling guilty over lying to him when it’s only a half, easily-corrected lie. You may not be Jungkook’s actual, real girlfriend, but you did cut his bangs when he asked you to. He couldn’t be bothered going to the salon and you didn’t have the energy to argue with him otherwise, so that’s how he ended up with choppy, viral (it only became viral because he has them) bangs that gained him a few dozen articles or so.

Jungkook doesn’t have kids of his own, but what he does have are several nephews and nieces. He’s the youngest of four children, and that’s perhaps the reason why he could empathize with you. He’s never been through what you have, and although you would never wish for him to do so, a part of him wants to know what it’s like — not because he seeks the pain, but because he wants to know how he could empathize with you better

With Jungkook being Jungkook, it’s perhaps the reason why he’s one of the gifted few people who could strike up a sensible conversation with a toddler and make them laugh without doing anything at all.

Something about Jungkook makes Haneul laugh so loudly, he wakes up almost everyone in the house in peace. Even Jungkook’s attempt at lame jokes tickle Haneul more than the way Namjoon’s ever tried in earnest to make him laugh.

You’ve already slinked past the two of them on the dining table, tending to the soup and the few hundred side dishes Jungkook started on but paused just to talk to Haneul.

“Haneul, don’t believe your uncle-…” you chime over a playful dig that Jungkook makes in your expense, the giggles that had only been filling your ears just seconds ago instantly ceasing when you notice Yoongi standing near you.

“Uncle?” he raises his brow at you, turning his attention to his son. “Haneul, what did I say about talking to strangers?”

“But he’s not a stranger. I saw him in that movie!” he frowns, the immediate awe that slips out of Jungkook’s lips not helping his case in the slightest.

“Still a stranger,” Yoongi smiles tightly, his exhale dragging out as he mulls over the eerily domestic sight of the three of you.

“But he’s Uncle Kook,” Haneul reasons with him, pointing his finger at you. “He’s auntie’s boyfriend.”

.

.

.

Yoongi’s softened a little bit since breakfast.

He was never mad at Haneul in the first place (more like halfhearted because he still stands by his lesson of not teaching him to talk to strangers, even if they’re a worldwide-famous actor, but those are not his words at all) but what he is annoyed about is the scene that he walked into.

It looked far too natural for you to look like Haneul’s mom and for Jungkook to look like him, maybe even better as a dad despite not having children at all, that he thought he was seeing red.

Haneul’s lying on his shoulder as they rewatch Bluey for the second time in the living room, the shadow of your alleged boyfriend walking past him until he registers the accent, later doing a quick turnaround that makes Yoongi ultimately irritated and Haneul more than happy.

“Oh cool. I love Bluey!” Jungkook says sincerely, inviting himself to sit on the lone sofa chair to watch the episode.

“Wow, you’re just so… quirky,” Yoongi mutters under his breath with a roll of his eyes, his snarky remark making Jungkook’s ears tingle. The latter scoffs slyly, making him finally acknowledge Jungkook, albeit sarcastically. “So what do you do, Jungkook?”

Even before he could answer though, Haneul does it for him with an excitement that only comes out whenever he’s talking about his favorites.

“We watched his movies in the cinema, appa! Remember?”

“Did we?” Yoongi narrows his eyes, playing his huff into a cough. He repurposes the tinge of embarrassment that he feels into snark, running a hand through his hair cockily. “I’d for sure remember an actor if they were good.”

( ♡ ) 

“Where’s your brother? I need him to do the heavy lifting.”

Your mom asks you with an urgency that parents only past the age of forty could possess, her lips already parted awaiting your response towards a question she asked just two seconds ago. 

Even if you weren’t engrossed on an episode of Bluey (Jungkook and Haneul put you into it and you get their laser focus now) just now, you still wouldn’t know about your brother’s whereabouts. Yoongi saves you this time, his response piquing both yours and Jungkook’s interest.

“He’s in practice. Joon took Haneul with him so he could learn too.”

Jungkook looks up from his phone sharply, eyes wide in eagerness. He and Yoongi haven’t even looked at each other since yesterday yet their coordination (read: competitiveness) syncs with the other at the exact second, their insistence on tagging along a menial task making you jolt.

“I’ll come with, mom!”

“I’ll come with, auntie.”

It’s not a competition, yet Jungkook jumps up to stand so quickly, his head almost brushed the ceiling. “Let’s go, babe,” he holds out a hand for you, making you clear your throat as you’re still trying to gauge the situation.

“But what about Yoongi? Poor thing, he’ll be left alone,” your mom awes, her pout only deepening when Yoongi pretends to look crestfallen at being overlooked. He doesn’t have to pretend that much because despite not being the biggest fan of grocery-shopping, especially in your area because it always smelled of eggs despite barely carrying any eggs, he’ll jump at any task to impress your mom, and you by extension.

“I don’t think you should worry-…” you start, already being interrupted in an instant.

“Oh come on, Y/N. Two pairs of hands are better than one! They really have to do some heavy lifting because I forget to tell you about that one time your aunts hounded me for-…” she trails off while telling you a story about your supposedly huge extended family, blissfully unaware that there’s two men fighting to open the door for the both of you.

Yoongi’s driving his car as the most spacious option, making Jungkook snicker under his breath as he blames himself for not bringing his SUV which is clearly more expensive than whatever Yoongi’s driving, even if you elbow him lightly by the ribs because you didn’t ask him to do that.

“Mom, what are you doing here? Go sit in the front,” you nudge her, unwilling to sit next to Yoongi in an enclosed space.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I was just used to you always taking shotgun whenever Yoongi’s driving,” she squeals, fondly clapping to herself as she revisits the memory. “Do you remember that, sweetheart? You’d always fight with Namjoon because Yoongi got his license first.”

It may only be your mom who’s leaning against the center console to look at you in the back, but it doesn’t mean that Yoongi’s ever taken off his attention from you.

“I remember,” Yoongi smiles, looking at you from the rearview mirror. “I never forget.”

.

.

.

The grocery store hasn’t changed one bit. 

It still smelled of eggs, the lights still aren’t as bright as they should be, and there’s still trinkets that you’ve always been swayed by being displayed near the register.

You’re taking it all in after not having been back for five years, whereas Yoongi strolls right in, but never ahead of you, as if he’s visited multiple times already since he left your town. 

Your mom and Jungkook are side by side as he asks her a question you can’t even discern, only getting to know his actual agenda when you hear his sneakers skidding against the floor as he runs towards the pushcarts. 

Yoongi, without even knowing the full context, runs after him because he didn’t want to come in second place for whatever it is that Jungkook’s challenging him to.

“I’ll steer the cart,” Jungkook presents definitively, his hand raised mid-air as if he’s being graded for eagerness alone. He looks like he wants to prove himself even if it’s only you and your mom present; no director, no producer in sight who sizes him up. 

“No. I’ll do it,” Yoongi argues out of nowhere, his bruised hands reclaiming the cart under Jungkook’s grasp. He’s not even looking at your mom because his gaze is only fixed on Jungkook who’s just two tugs away from actually spitting at him.

“I said it first,” your pretend-boyfriend forcefully pulls the hunk of metal away from Yoongi, the latter coming along with it for the briefest of seconds before he does the same, this time with Jungkook gasping.

“What, are you method-acting for your next role as a cart-steerer?” 

Your mom’s a little perplexed at the scene before her, lips parting in both concern and amusement because for a pair of people who haven’t met each other before, Yoongi and Jungkook are oddly competitive. They want to provesomething, anything, and maybe everything so bad, they neglect the fact that they look ridiculous fighting over a pushcart. 

“We actually need two,“ she says to no one in particular, thinking out loud as she goes through her grocery list. “I think maybe even three because-…”

“I’ll get it,” Jungkook rushes out in panic, almost bumping into you in the process. You were only gone for a minute to retrieve your phone from the car and yet he already looks breathless, the knot between his eyebrows untangling when he realizes that it’s you. “Oh. Sorry, babe.”

“I’ll get it, Koo,” you murmur, catching the tail end of what your mom said about the pushcarts. Jungkook’s cheeks are tainted pink in frustration and you can’t help but to be concerned, the back of your hand already flitting against his forehead before you know it. “Are you okay? Sorry, the AC in here is not like the AC in the city.”

“Huh, what? Oh no, it’s okay. I just got into this heated cart argument,” he waves you off, eyes rapidly moving between you, your mom, and Yoongi who’s mirroring his exact actions, except for the glaring hint of annoyance with the way he’s standing so close to you.

“Cart argument? What’s-…”

“We need meat.” 

You barely even have a chance to digest what Jungkook’s saying to you before you see him glitch right in front of you in a hurry, the only words to register clearly in your mind being your mom’s. She’s absent-mindedly talking herself through her grocery list (as she always does) and yet the two men right next to her hang onto her every word, the speed they take off on giving you no clue to why they’re acting as such.

“I’ll get it, auntie!” Yoongi gets out even before the wheels of his cart could cooperate, momentarily tripping over himself. Jungkook sputters at that, the laughter that builds in his throat being interrupted because he realizes that the other guy is ahead of him and he simply cannot bear that. 

“Beef. We need beef, right, mom? How many kilos. Like… ten? Okay. I’ll get it!” Jungkook dashes even if he’s never been in this grocery store before; even if your mom hasn’t said a single word to either of them.

You’re left dumbfounded in the middle of the store, your gaze unable to locate the distinct sounds of both of their sneakers skidding against the floor. 

“I didn’t even say anything,” your mom mutters in confusion, eyes flitting to you with a wonder you can’t place because even if the both of you are lost, she seems to have a better idea than you do. “Are they… competing over you, sweetie?”

“Competing? Me? Why would you even say that, mom?” you huff, leaning against the cart as you snatch her list to get the things she’s actually looking for.

“I don’t know,” she lulls, shrugging carelessly before nudging you. “Jungkook’s your boyfriend and well, I assume Yoongi’s always wanted to be in his position.”

“How did you even come to that conclusion?”

“Small town. Few people. Cute girl, cute guy,” she places, the end of her hypothesis being accompanied by a chuckle. When she says it like that, it sounds far too easy — it sounds far too seamless, you almost wish it was exactly that. “I didn’t even take the news that Yoongi was going abroad seriously because I thought it was a joke. I thought he could never move on from here or Namjoon,” your mom pouts, tilting her head when you freeze. “Much more, he could never move on from you.”

“He did,” you answer through gritted teeth, the grip you have on her list making the paper crumple underneath your hold.

Your mom doesn’t know everything. In fact, you don’t even know if she knows anything at all. You don’t despise her for her lack of involvement because you want to keep her from the chaos of your burdens, and you’ve always wanted to keep it that way.

But the way she speaks now, so full of conviction and faith, you find yourself despising it. She speaks as surely as the way Yoongi speeds past the both of you, weaving through aisles to get items she didn’t ask for, competing for and against a higher power (read: you) that Jungkook himself seeks. 

She says it so surely, it’s as if she knows about every waking thought that Yoongi’s ever had in your absence.

“It doesn’t look like he did.”

You ponder over your mom’s adoration for Yoongi, most of which you can’t decipher if it’s misplaced or not. You know he’ll always have a special place in her heart and in her home because she’s known him even before he was born because she’s best friends with Mrs. Min. 

Yoongi has a place in your life, no matter if it’s in your own or in the lives of the people you love. He probably has a modern penthouse in Namjoon’s life, the decoration in it improving over time. On the other hand, Yoongi probably occupies an ancestral cabin in your mom’s life that’s been well-maintained for longer than he’s ever been alive, the decor in it being handmade and resilient through the years. 

In your life, however, you can’t tell how and if Yoongi occupies it in the first place. For the longest time, his place in your life had come in the form of a mansion that not even a single architect nor engineer could ever think of. For a moment too, Yoongi’s place in your heart came in the form of a little house on a vast farm overlooking the mountains and the sea. Throughout all the houses that Yoongi’s shape-shifted to in your life, you doubt now if he could ever turn into them again.

When you think of Yoongi, all you see is your room. 

When you see Yoongi, all you could remember is your childhood house and its shortcomings in your life, especially when you needed to come home to it— to him, the most.

“I’ll pay, mom,” Jungkook snaps you out of your reverie, his whine making your ears ring.

“What? No, Jungkook. This is all too much,” you refuse vehemently, trying to fight him from extending his black card any further.

“It’s not. This is for your family anyway. I, I might have even grabbed extra portions for myself because mom said she’ll repeat tomorrow what she did for lunch today,” he grins, momentarily losing himself to the sight of you that he doesn’t even notice he’s in the process of being one-upped by Yoongi.

“Jungkook, baby, I’ll feel-…”

“I paid for it, auntie,” Yoongi announces, making your lips part and Jungkook’s jaw drop.

“You shouldn’t have, Yoongi,” you scold him softly, a whine already building at the back of your throat but he waves you off easily. Your mom’s thanking him profusely in the background, and while Yoongi’s pleased with the attention, his gaze remains on you.

“But I wanted to,” he insists, pursing his lips. “I should.”

“You’re not family,” is what you want to say.

“But I want to be,” is what he wants to scream.

Wordlessly, Yoongi puts a plastic toy ring he bought from the register into your bag. It’s pink and it’s star-shaped, its mold still the same from all those years ago.

.

.

.

You barrel into your mom’s room just to see Namjoon.

You bit at the chance of giving him the stuff he’s asked for from the grocery as per your mom, taking advantage of her focus on organizing the groceries downstairs to have a one-on-one with your brother.

“You have to make Yoongi drive into the city tonight. Either that or he flies to the US. The reunion is already tomorrow,” you seethe, crossing your arms as he sighs in defeat.

“It’s already late. Yoongi’s driving with Haneul, a kid, alone,” he emphasizes, running a hand through his hair as he himself is troubled by you being in a bind over everything. “And he can’t book a flight back on such short notice.”

“Short notice? What, did he just happen to book a one-way flight and not a round trip one?” you snort in amusement, shaking your head in disbelief. The thought actually cracks you up because out of the three of you, Yoongi happened to be the one more adept to websites despite your limited materials back then. Namjoon remains silent, and with how serious he looks, your face falls.

You can’t believe Yoongi at all.

“He did? You’ve gotta be kidding me, Joon,” you groan, throwing your head back. “What, does that mean Yoongi gets to stay in our home while we’re in this godforsaken family reunion?”

Namjoon delivers yet another blow, his revelation making you more enraged than the last.

“Mom invited them.”

“What? Why?!” you exclaim, chest rising in frustration. “Yoongi’s not family, Namjoon. Atleast not for me.”

He doesn’t miss your added remark at the end of your sentence, the underhandedness of it making him look down on the floor. 

Namjoon feels guilty, he really does, but he can’t seem to make it right. He couldn’t even fight you in insisting to apologize that night.

For each day that you try to delay the inevitable of confronting him and letting him taking the fall, of letting him apologize, Namjoon feels more like a big failure for an older brother than he already is. 

“But he used to be,” he says under his breath, looking up at you with a stubbornness you can’t place. “Your lifetime versus those five years — which one amounts to more?”

( ♡ ) 

Everyone gushes over Jungkook.

In an altitude higher than the mountainside that you’re in now, the aunts, uncles, and cousins you didn’t even know you have squeal over your fake boyfriend. By the fifth relative, you’ve already got your routine down of letting them hug you and kiss your cheek before holding Jungkook’s bicep, acting as his bodyguard to make sure they don’t squeeze him too hard or not at all.

“Oh my god, Y/N. Jeon Jungkook is your boyfriend?!”

“I knew it, I knew you were gonna have a partner who’s famous! I dreamed about it when you were-…”

“If that’s your boyfriend, then who’s he?” your cousin (?) whispers to you, cutting himself off as he turns his gaze to Yoongi and Haneul. They’re most certainly not your family, meaning that they’re unrelated to everyone present, so what your relatives (some more nosy than others) can’t wrap their heads around is the fact that there are strangers in your family reunion.

It takes one, two times for your mom and Namjoon to explain who they are and what they’re doing here in the first place, the chorus of nods eventually signaling that they’ve moved on. Some of them could even recall Mr. and Mrs. Min from the neighborhood, and Yoongi could only nod.

It’s not that he doesn’t belong right now — he actually feels the opposite. Yoongi feels that he has a place amongst a barrage of relatives he’s not affiliated to by neither blood nor paper, and it pains him; not because he’s scared of belonging, but because you probably don’t think the same way.

Haneul runs to him underneath the umbrella he’s isolated himself at, his son grasping an assortment of cash, food, and juiceboxes Yoongi most certainly did not pack in Haneul’s backpack from the night before.

“Auntie’s family is really nice, appa. Look what they gave me,” he shows everything that his hands could carry, breathing heavily in excitement as he explains that your relatives told him to come back once his hands are empty.

“Oh dear. They really think you’re adorable,” he laughs, pocketing Haneul’s cash (he swears he’ll give it back) and hiding some of the snacks he’s been given so he wouldn’t give himself heartburn eating too many at once.

Yoongi’s smiling from ear to ear, sitting Haneul in his lap as he overlooks the view of your town from above. Everything looks so small and delicate, you’d almost think none of what laid downhill ever even mattered. He didn’t get views like these in New York. 

Yoongi didn’t get people like you in New York.

“Mama’s family isn’t this nice,” Haneul speaks out of nowhere, his thoughts uttered out loud directed more-on to himself than it is for his dad. Yoongi stops in his tracks in trepidation, shoulders tensing over what his son just said. “They never play with me like this. Not like auntie.”

He knows Hyewon’s relatives, albeit not that well. Her family members in the US were not this kind, not this warm, even to a child who’s actually related to them.

Yoongi’s stuck in his thoughts the whole time Haneul sips on his juice, finally being snapped into his reality nowwhen you approach their direction. His son waves at you excitedly even if you’ve just crossed paths minutes ago.

“Here, Haneul,” you hold out a container to him, the gentle smile on your face limited to only him yet Yoongi, for a lack of grace, pretends it’s also for him. “I tried my best to make it look like Bluey,” you chuckle, pointing to the mini sculpture made out of the marshmallows and blueberries that your relatives set aside for him.

Haneul beams at you, thanking you profusely. If only he wasn’t sat on Yoongi’s lap and therefore grounded, he would’ve launched himself at you to hug your legs.

Yoongi takes the hat right off his head, putting it on you while you’re crouched next to his son.

“It’s hot,” he explains, his heart continuously speaking beats the longer that you linger beside Haneul and the longer that he giggles in excitement. “I know you get headaches easily.”

( ♡ ) 

Despite being reachable, Yoongi still yearns for you.

He yearns for you even if you’re only within arm’s reach, sitting near you but never close enough at the long table because with you, he feels safe. He laughs in the background like it’s a sitcom to every joke and every episode of banter thrown around him. He doesn’t feel out of place with your family — he feels out of place with you.

He’s never been a wickedly jealous type. Even when he and Hyewon were still together and she cheated on him, Yoongi felt more resentful than he was jealous. He didn’t feel this type of way; he didn’t feel inferior. He didn’t feel like he was nursing a loss in his life because he has no choice but to. Yoongi had managed to divorce Hyewon because it didn’t work out between them, and that was that.

Yoongi can neither divorce you nor pull away from you because you’ve never been with each other. He harbors no resentment for you and that scares him, not because he wants to hate you so badly, but because he feels as if everything you’ll do to him, he’ll take it.

Yoongi will take it even if you set a plate for Jungkook despite unconsciously forgetting what he’s always disliked eating when you were still kids. He’ll take the serving tray from your hands still, uncaring if eating the tiniest bite of the food you’ve passed gives him an allergic reaction because you were the one who offered.

He’ll take it even if you hold Jungkook’s bicep in a hurry when there’s a bug that’s getting awfully close to your drink. Yoongi would walk to where you sit and dispose of it wordlessly because even Jungkook himself is scared of bugs. He doesn’t mind if you don’t thank him, because atleast now when he looks at you from a distance, you’re sitting in relaxation and you no longer have to hold your boyfriend.

He’ll endure the jealousy that burns through his throat more than the poorly-made, highly-alcoholic vodka your uncle made himself. He’ll hold onto the poison that is yearning and how he’ll feel like his throat would close up because if you were still young, in this setting of free rein, except you were still in love him like you used to be and he’s in love with you like he is now, neither you and Yoongi would be hurting.

Yoongi will take it. He’ll take the nothing that you give him and give you the everything that you don’t ask for anymore.

Five years versus the rest of your lifetime that you spent being in love with him is only miniscule. The suffering that he’s going through now is only a speck of the years you’ve spent in an unrequited love.

Unlike you, Yoongi’s weak. If he were to say it outloud to you, you’ll never agree because you’ve never regarded yourself otherwise. You’ll go on this tangent that you’ve always been weak, influenced by the times that Yoongi had chastised you for your lack of a passion. 

To you, Yoongi had been right in a way.

To Yoongi, he’s always been in the wrong.

He’s crying to you now that the both of you are alone, overlooking the small town he used to be keen on getting out of. Now, more than ever, Yoongi wants to stay in it. He wants to stay with you.

“Why is everything with you so hard?” Yoongi whispers, his tears stinging badly from the corner of his eyes to the point that he can only make out shapes. He’s unkempt and frantic as if his life flashed before his eyes and there’s nothing he could do about it, voice strained like much of the times he’s drank himself to sleep.

He resembles Haneul at the moment. He’s always had because there’s not one bit of Hyewon in his son’s features or personality, but he looks especially like him now that he’s crying. The back of his hands harshly dig into his face, sobs bursting right from his throat. “Why do I make everything so hard for us? Why can’t I— w-why can’t I make it right for once?”

There’s a tremble to your chest that you ignore earnestly, the presence of it enough to scare you because it’s familiar; too familiar. Seeing your past play out in front of you in the form of a seemingly content family sleeping on your bed is one thing, but it’s another to see its patriarch crumble in front of you. It’s different to see your past pleading in front of you for just the slightest bit of your attention.

As a matter of fact, it’s different now because you resemble Yoongi the most. 

“You never tried,” you seethe, jumping the gun before you even try to decipher what’s in the barrel. It’s a bullet you fire haphazardly that comes from your pocket that you’ve always held onto. It’s a misplaced, misshapen, old bullet that you force into a gun that Yoongi passed onto you.

Right now, Yoongi doesn’t resemble Haneul, and neither does he resemble his ex-wife. 

He resembles you with the way his eyes are clearly swimming in hurt while you avoid looking at his, just to relieve the painstaking feeling of guilt and longing compacted into a sob.

“I never tried?” Yoongi exhales shakily, his quivering hands running through his hair to tug on them.“I never tried?”

You hear yourself clearly even if it’s his voice. The tremble and the anger, even all the way to the blind hope.

“I kept trying to reach out to you every single time. Every single birthday, every single Christmas, every insignificant holiday I could search up!” Yoongi cries — he actually thrashes with the way he sobs, shoulders shaking violently. “I didn’t try? If I didn’t try, try looking at every page of my passport to see all the stamps there are whenever fucking Jungkook was reported to be in another country,” he spits his name like poison, the vitriol behind it, however, never catching up to what he feels about himself.

You resemble Yoongi the most because you stand untethered, eyes blurring and lips quivering, yet you only watch him lose himself before thinking of uttering a single word.

“I’m selfish, I’m an asshole, and I’m fucking insufferable. I can’t even apologize to you correctly,” Yoongi lists, chest rising up and down too heavily, he feels like it’ll give out. “But I love you, Y/N. I-I might be every bad thing in your life right now and I own up to that. I’m still trying to be the best for you.”

Not only does Yoongi resemble you — he’s actually become you.

“You can call me the vilest names ever but you can’t say that,” he grits, teeth chattering not from the cold he’s put himself in, but because he can’t stop mentioning your name in between. “You can’t say I never tried because I always have. I’ll never stop becausethat’s what it takes,” Yoongi mutters; because, he says, not if.

“I love you,” he says it far too clearly for someone who’s drunk; far too sincerely for someone who had spent the better part of his life putting it through your head that he can’t return your affection. “I’ve always loved you.”

( ♡ ) 

You don’t feel good.

There’s a fever that’s starting to bloom from the base of your skull all the way to your toes, the abnormal warmth you feel in your chest making you unable to interact with everyone else outside of your room. Jungkook had left with your uncles before dawn to go fishing in the nearby lake and never would you think to inconvenience him; to tend to someone like you for something as minor as a fever, or for anything at all.

You already have a system down for taking care of yourself when you’re ill. It started when neither your mom nor your brother were home with you, and it was finally perfected when you had to live completely alone in the big city. All you had to do was gather all the energy you have, spend it at the start to get everything you could possibly need and put them all at the side of your bed, and rest until everything no longer hurts.

The major flaw with your system now is that you don’t have the energy at all. You can’t build up the strength to get up, walk across the hall and interact with your relatives, and rummage through groceries to get what you need without being questioned; you can’t build up the sense of importance you have for yourself to ask for help.

Namjoon comes into your room before you could dance around the idea of asking him to get you water, all because he has this innate sense of guilt in him and you could utilize it to your advantage. Your brother gets ahead of you before you could even register that he’s here with you, his eyes sullen and pleading.

“Can we talk?”

“I can’t exactly storm off right now,” you rasp, your voice fading out into a low chuckle.

“Do you want to talk when you’re able to storm off?” he asks sincerely with a small smile, his hand fixing your hair as gently as he could without making your migraine ring further. “If you do though, then you probably might never hear me out again.”

You stay silent because he is right, but Namjoon feels otherwise. He feels as if he hasn’t been doing anything right at all and you existing separate from him is a constant reminder. His career is at its peak but he thinks he could go higher; his relationship with you is deteriorating and he doesn’t think it could possibly be worse.

“I’m sorry for being a shitty brother,” he apologizes, the first thing out of his mouth being the last thing that floods his mind before he goes to sleep at night. “I should’ve never defended Yoongi, even Hyewon by extension.”

The heat behind your eyes isn’t all from your fever. The tears that prick your eyes aren’t because of the pressure in your head, but because of the fact that you haven’t heard Namjoon apologize to you in a long time; you haven’t talked this sincerely for even longer

“I should’ve put you first,” he sniffles, muttering apologies in between his pauses for finding the right words that would make it okay; that would somehow undo all that he’s been an accomplice to. “I should’ve been this reliable, sturdy man of the house. I-I should’ve been more of a father figure to you-…”

“Don’t,” you interject sternly. “You never filled in his shoes and you should never will. You’re only mom’s son and my brother, Namjoon. It’s never been your job to raise me.”

Even after everything, there’s a gentleness to you that Namjoon’s always loved but hate the most now. He hates that even if he’s the one who’s apologizing, you’re the one who’s saying sorry for the things you didn’t even inflict on him. Neither of you wanted to be raised by only a single parent, yet you absolve him of the guilt he’s always felt.

“But I could’ve been better. I wish I was already better from the start.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think how hard life was for you growing up. I-I would’ve given up football if only-…” he trembles, unable to get the last of his sentence out because you shake your head in earnest.

“Stop.”

“But I mean it. If only I-I didn’t get into football, I could’ve been there for you and mom much often. I could’ve been better and-...”

“But I grew up to be okay, didn’t I? You’re the best at what you do. We’ve managed to retire mom early because we put in the work,” you whisper, the shrug of your shoulders feeling more heavy that it should feel because the words don’t come out easily from you. 

“But okay shouldn’t have been enough for you,” Namjoon tears up, bottom lip trembling as you try to take in his words that you’ve always wanted to hear at the back of your mind; you hear them now when you’ve already grown up. You hear them now after you’ve already endured the grief. “I— we should’ve given you the fighting chance to grow up more than okay.”

.

.

.

It’s not Jungkook who comes to visit you while you’re nursing a fever, because you’ve temporarily banned him from the bedroom. He only pouted in complaint when you called him, but he didn’t fight you that much either because you’ve called him out for the excitement in his voice to go hiking for the first time.

It’s not Yoongi who comes to visit you while you’re nursing a fever, because Haneul asked him to teach him Go (he’s not even that good at it and being the ever unable to show incompetence and have pride especially when Jungkook’s watching father, he discreetly asked lessons from your mom) so he’ll be able to play with your cousins.

Instead, it’s your mom who visits you. Even if Namjoon hadn’t tipped her off that you were feeling under the weather, she’s already had a feeling this morning.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asks, her hands full of everything you could possibly need and more before plopping them at your side. She makes you sit up even before you could complain, handing you a drink with some medicine you didn’t even know she carried

“Just a little fever,” you answer, getting back into your cocoon. 

You don’t even attempt to make conversation because you fear that you don’t have it in you to have a heart-to-heart talk with your mom just minutes after you’ve had one with Namjoon.

You don’t even say anything to her except your thanks. Namjoon didn’t even tell her about your conversation, even if he approached her with tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes while saying that it was just allergies.

Your mom feels the guilt spring to her chest even if you don’t utter a single word. She feels the remorse in her eyes when you don’t ask her for anything more. She feels the guilt the most in her hands when you don’t ask her to stay.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel like there wasn’t enough space for your burdens growing up.”

“What?”you scramble to get up in a seated position, eyes hazy from how quick you do it. “Mom, you scared me. Where’s this coming from?” 

She shakes her head at your cluelessness, eyes stinging when you genuinely look at her innocently. You don’t know what she’s talking about, even if the thought has plagued her for so long.

“You’re not really okay, are you?”

“It’s… just a fever,” you mumble, your breathing already trembling at the way she looks at you.

She’s looking at you like you’re still a kid; ever so fragile and innocent, it’s as if she wouldn’t let a single thing in this world harm you. She doesn’t know a single thing about your feud with Namjoon and your long drawn-out conflict with Yoongi. What your mom does know is that she doesn’t know a single thing about the heartbreak you suppress, and that thought alone makes her hiccup in tears.

“You’re right, you know? Our house is small,” she says, distinctly recalling the tensioned conversation you had with Namjoon back at home. “It’s tiny but it was far too big for you growing up alone,” she inhales sharply, trying not to sob in front of you. “He wasn’t in the picture. I was working a hundred jobs left and right. Namjoon was trying to make a name for himself,” she shakes her head, so much so that the necklace she’s had since you were children, the same one with yours and Namjoon’s birthstones on it, rattles. “I’m sorry for making you feel that you can’t come to me.”

In just a full day, you’ve heard everything that you’ve ever wanted. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted during the school plays where you had no one from your family, except Yoongi, to watch you become an extra up on stage. He’d always deny that he did show up for you and just say that it’s because he was genuinely interested in a play about a poet he didn’t care about in reality, but you take it nonetheless.

It’s everything you’ve ever prayed for watching Yoongi live a life far too advanced for you as he held Hyewon’s hand after school. It’s what you wanted to hear when you begged him not to leave you behind.

“I-I’m okay. I’m really-…” you stutter, looking away before your tears fall in the fear that they’ll never stop.

Your mom only hugs you tighter.

“I’m here if you want someone else to carry your burdens,” she whispers. “I’m here now.”

( ♡ )

It’s the last day of the reunion when you fully recover, and it’s hours ahead of everyone when Jungkook has to leave by himself.

Without even asking for it, Jungkook grants you another week’s worth of break. You didn’t even plan on asking, yet Jungkook’s willing to give you a month if only you do. 

You’ve already arranged for his personal driver to pick him up and take him back to the city. You’ve already packed his bags, along with the multiple containers of food that your relatives (and especially your mom) insisted for him to take. You’ve arranged for your substitute to take care of him for his schedules throughout the week, along with the insistent reminder to call you whenever Jungkook needs you. (Read: he does, with or without a schedule.)

Everything is set for Jungkook to leave except for his driver who’d been roped by your mom to be filled with breakfast first, yet with the remaining minutes left, Jungkook’s still with you on your bed. 

He lies on your lap even if there’s plenty of space for him to lie parallel to you on a pillow — and you let him.

“Have you ever thought about kissing me?” he asks in the middle of you texting your substitute, the randomness of his thought already being familiar to you. This time, unlike the few thousand times he’s ever asked you something straight off his mind without refining them, is different.

It’s different now because your pretend-boyfriend asks you if you’ve ever thought about kissing him, while looking like he really wants to kiss you.

“Where’d that come from?” you giggle, looking down on him on your lap. 

Not once does Jungkook ever look away from you.

“Dunno,” he shrugs, pointing up at you. “Your lips are close to bleeding and it’s bothering me.”

“Sorry for turning you off,” you snort in laughter, wiping at the tiny specks of blood. Jungkook tuts when you rub at them, feeling for his lip balm out of his pocket.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he stresses, going a little cross-eyes when he applies them for you. His eyes keep goading you, the smile he has on his face widening the more that you look at him incredulously. “Sooo… have you?”

You don’t want to lie to him at all.

“If I answer yes, Jungkook,” you toy around with his hair, setting your phone face-down because you can’t focus on anything else now. “We can never come back from that.”

Jungkook laughs in glee so loudly, Yoongi (who was only passing by; he really, really swears he didn’t just happen to eavesdrop in your room because Jungkook’s driver is all done eating and wants to beat traffic) actually flinches.

Jungkook strains to be closer to you, unconsciously training you to lean down. His lips are far too soft — far too close to you, you could see every line and every nuance in them. He whispers, eyes practically crossing at your proximity.

“And is that such a bad thing?”

( ♡ ) 

You’re back at home when Jungkook texts you that he’s made it back safe, and that he wants to kiss you again.

You’re back at home when Yoongi asks you if he could use the bathroom first because Haneul spilled milk on him during the drive. You’re in your childhood bedroom when you let him clean up first, and you’re sitting on your childhood bed when you volunteer to put Haneul down because he’s cranky and for some reason, wants to be held by you.

You’re back at home too when Yoongi and Haneul are knocked out for the night, and your mom calls you and Namjoon down for all three of you to talk at the dining table.

You’re back at the home you were raised in, sitting on the dining table that’s creaky when more than two people lean their weight into it, in the space you’ve roamed around alone waiting for them to come home, when your mom talks about wanting to sell it.

“You want to sell?” Namjoon’s eyes widen, exchanging a glance with you who’s as equally surprised as he is.

“Yes. It’s under my name, y’know? Not that… man’s,” she snorts, the off-hand mention of your father making you and Namjoon laugh unexpectedly. Your mom looks at ease as she talks about selling your house, the smile she has one her face being shaped with experience and grace. “I doubt the both of you would want to keep this, and besides, the offers I’ve kept for years now are high. You already know that big-shot companies have been buying out houses here for years now because of the growth potential and whatnot. Who knows, maybe our block will be turned into a mall!” she shrugs, the happiness in her tone infectious. 

For someone who’s decided on letting go the house she’s both struggled and strived in, your mom’s beyond excited.

For two adults, who were once kids, who’ve seen the amount of sacrifices your mother’s put into the place by herself, you and Namjoon don’t have any objections.

“Also, consider this as me asking for permission to go on a vacation, even if I’m grown, because some people get so paranoid when I don’t answer calls,” she digs at you and your brother, immediately inciting coughs because you two, in fact, are guilty of worrying over your mom too much. “I’m going on this worldwide trip with Yoongi’s mom,” she grins, pulling out one last surprise. “We’ve talked about it since we were young. She’s earned her stripes working abroad, I managed to raise two amazing children as a single mom. We’ve earned it, I think.”

You and Namjoon share a glance once again, this time more definite than the last. You’ve made up already as far as your mom could tell, and that confirmation is what she needs before finally selling the house you all grew up in.

“You’ve earned it more than anyone.”

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s packing up for their flight tonight when you go into your room to pack up the life you’ve lived there.

“You’re coming with me and Haneul?” Yoongi jokes when he sees you pulling out your own luggage, the tone of his voice highly suggesting for you to become serious. He gets you to smile and that’s big enough of a win as is, the remainder of it more than substantial to hold onto when he’s away from you. Again.

“No, unfortunately. I’m packing up the room and eventually… the whole house,” you answer with a chuckle, voice trailing off when you see the crestfallen look on Yoongi’s face. He looks like someone who’s just absorbed the largest pain to man as he’s trying not to make it obvious. “We’re posting it for sale two weeks from now.”

Yoongi nods tightly, inhaling sharply as he tries to maintain his steady tone. “Then why are you packing up already?”

You could do this tomorrow. As a matter of fact, you could do it tonight because you don’t have to drive them to the airport. You have all the time in the world within two weeks to do this, yet you go into your room now when Yoongi’s still in it.

When Yoongi still hasn’t left, and neither of you know when you’re gonna see each other next.

“I have to get a move on. If I don’t move now,” you trail, voice close to trembling as you open cabinets you’ve never even given the time of day before. “I’m scared that I’ll keep holding onto this house.

Yoongi nods, even if he fully understands — even if he doesn’t want to swallow what you’re saying.

“You want out?”

“We want out — me, mom, Namjoon,” you explain, looking at him properly for the first time since he told you that he loved you. “For the longest time, we’ve held onto this place because we became this house at one point. Namjoon’s this world star, my mom’s traveling the world with your mom-…”

“Oh, they’re finally doing it?” Yoongi interrupts, a smile finally coming to his face at the news. He hasn’t talked to his mom in a month from how busy he’s been, and although he’s always missed her (even if they’re on much better terms than he and his dad could be), he’s happy knowing that your moms have each other atleast. “How about you? What will you be doing?”

“I’ll just be… living day-to-day. I’m not doing anything extremely special, but I’m happy and busy doing it,” you laugh, looking around your room that hasn’t appeared this clean, this warm, since you last stayed in it. “No one’s going to be around here anymore.”

As if on cue, Haneul runs to Yoongi’s arms to be picked up. He knows what the luggages mean and because he’s largely in denial that they have to leave later (as referenced by him crying to your mom and Namjoon), Haneul keeps pretending to sleep so that their trip gets delayed.

Yoongi’s about to put him on your bed even if he knows his son’s antics already, but in the fear that he’ll actually get to sleep and they don’t get to leave (which he isn’t opposed to at all), he keeps him in his arms.

You, on the other hand, take Haneul from him when his arms outstretch for you.

There’s the sentiment of you not having to do it that’s resting at the tip of Yoongi’s tongue but he holds himself back, the image of you and Haneul completely fitting one another, he wants to burn a copy of it to his retinas and designate it to be the last thing he’ll see if he ever goes blind.

Without putting Haneul to sleep on your bed, he goes to sleep in peace in your arms.

“Do you regret it?” Yoongi asks throughout the silence between you, sitting next to you at the edge of your bed. “Do you regret ever liking me?”

“I do,” you answer truthfully, rubbing circles at the Haneul’s back. “I regret knowing you.”

Yoongi takes the responsibility fully, even fuller than the way both your hurt and happiness could make or break him.

“I can’t take back all the hurt I’ve caused you,” he admits just as honestly, turning to look at you. He becomes surprised to learn that you’ve been looking at him the whole time. “But what I can promise you is that I’ll never do anything to hurt you again.”

“I have my share of faults too.”

“Eh. Mostly mine.”

“Mostly yours, yeah,” you laugh easily, nodding to yourself as you continue. “But I held onto you as much as you didn’t hold onto me. That’s my mistake.”

Yoongi stays silent at that, not because he agrees, but because the bias that you’ll never be wrong in his eyes overtakes your humbleness.

“Do you think he’ll remember the entirety of the trip?” you ask, gesturing to Haneul who’s already sleeping like a hibernating bear in your hold. “Or will Haneul just remember that time the power went out because he cried a lot?”

“Oh, he’ll remember everything alright. He’s good with retention and people in general,” Yoongi waves you off. “Even if he didn’t come along the trip— even if we didn’t crash the whole thing, Haneul would remember you.”

“Who am I to him?” you ask in curiosity, lips turning into a straight line before they curve in the slightest. “Appa’s friend, I bet.”

“Not really. You’re a lot of things to me,” Yoongi chuckles, looking at the way Haneul grips you as if you’ll float away if he lets go; he’d do the same too. “More like my first love.”

Yoongi loves you quietly.

He loves you quietly with the way he draws the curtains downstairs when you sleep on the couch, tired and stressed over a solution you couldn’t understand. He loves you with the way he’ll scoop the warmest, freshest, least-burnt portion of rice to your bowl without you even asking for it. He loves you with the way he’s willing to let you walk all over him.

He loves you quietly in the way that not even distance nor time could disrupt him.

Yoongi loves you quietly, it might have been too much.

“Is that a lottery ticket?” he asks suddenly as he spots the familiar face of it inside your luggage, tucked into the discreet pocket where your mother’s letters of encouragement when you went to the big city were also kept

“Oh, it’s still there,” you answer, in surprise yourself because even if this is the same luggage you use whenever you go out of the country with Jungkook, you’ve never noticed that it was still there. “I bought it when you left for the US.”

Yoongi stops in his tracks in retrieving the scratch ticket from the pocket, looking up at you in curiosity. “Why did you buy one that day?”

Haneul stirs in his sleep in your arms, waking up right at the middle of you and Yoongi being lost in each other. He mistakes the silence as a signal that they’ll be leaving already, making a mess of himself as he quickly goes down the stairs to look for your family there and cling to them instead.

You and Yoongi are alone again.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, grasping the scratch ticket you used to spend hours looking. “I guess I just needed some proof that fate was against me that day.”

“But how would you even know that?” Yoongi asks, pointing to the card that’s still covered. “You didn’t even scratch it.”

You answer honestly, the reason burnt to the back of his mind.

“Because I knew I would lose my mind if I actually lost.”

“Try,” Yoongi swallows, nudging the ticket closer to you with a gaze that mirrored yours when he left. “Try again. Please.”

You have nothing else to lose.

Yoongi isn’t yours to lose.

You retrieve the same old coin Yoongi gave to you on the same day that he bought you your first scratch ticket, the appearance of it from your luggage making his heart skip a beat.

He doesn’t speak and neither do you, gaze only fixed on the way you scratch the card almost hesitantly, as if you’re still scared of the results of something that you should’ve known five years ago. (Read: you still are.)

When you get to the last digit, you freeze. You comb through the pattern over and over again, yet you still can’t believe it.

You’ve won the highest possible prize.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” you parrot Yoongi, looking up at him as he can’t believe it either.

“You won.”

“I won,” you repeat, running a hand through your hair. You actually laugh, the lump in your throat subsiding. It’s a welcome, albeit loaded, feeling of happiness that comes in between the two of you. “I thought I would lose,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. 

You didn’t lose. Fate wasn’t against you that day, and yet you still lost yourself thinking subconsciously what the proof of it would’ve been.

“Who would’ve thought, right?” you sigh, eyes drifting to Yoongi. “If only I took that chance years ago, I would’ve won.”

Yoongi smiles tightly, breath faltering in recollection.

“I’m familiar with the feeling,”

Yoongi doesn’t get to finish packing for him and Haneul and neither do you with your whole room, the shift in the atmosphere suddenly making him stand.

He’s breathless and he doesn’t know what for, the rapid beating of his chest making his voice louder than necessary. “Hey, what do you say you take a break? I’ll pack up your room. I have to stay alert anyway for Haneul."

You thank him before leaving him alone in your room.

Yoongi can’t find the strength in him to pack. The only power he has left in him is for him to think of taking everything out from his luggages, the thought of leaving again, this time worlds different than the last when you were begging him not to — he feels like throwing up.

Yoongi’s merely an amalgamation of you. He’s only a compilation of your every word, every feeling you’ve implanted in his heart. He’s filled with nothing but your every triumph and shortcoming; every late night hanging out with you as you attempt to study while he keeps you company, every minute he spent going out of his mind trying to look for you when you ran away from home.

Yoongi loves you silently to the point that he gets out of your room without accomplishing a single thing he said he’ll do just awhile ago.

In the grand scheme of things, Yoongi realizes that he was wrong. He was as wrong as you were right that the moment he leaves home, he’ll spend the rest of his life looking for it. 

Even if you left your home like he did, even if neither of you could come home anymore the moment your childhood house gets sold, Yoongi would still search for it. He’ll still search for you. You’re no longer where you were, but you are everywhere that Yoongi is.

He looks for you in Namjoon’s room, to the dining table, and all the way outside, just to ask if he and Haneul could stay for dinner.

Yoongi finds you and Haneul eating sundaes on the pavement outside, with you on the ground and a scrap cardboard underneath Haneul so it wouldn’t be hot for him.

Fate hadn’t been against you five years ago. And even if he’s much too late, Yoongi could only pray that fate isn’t against him now.

He walks over to where you and Haneul are, grabbing another scrap of cardboard to put underneath you.

FIVE YEARS LATER

The trip back home wasn’t as rough as Yoongi expected it to be.

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between sitting in economy seats versus first-class seats, even if they’re situated on the same aircraft. When he left, Yoongi was irritable (amongst other things) to keep bumping elbows with everyone else; now that he’s back, he almost misses the ruckus in the cabin that’s far too cramped for everyone who could afford it.

Yoongi used to hate people like himself — atleast the version that he is now. He hated bastards sitting upfront in seats that reclined all the way back and ate off plates instead of noisy, flimsy plastic containers. Back then, deep down to his very core, he wanted that lifestyle for himself. To become bigger and better than he could ever imagine for the life ahead of him was always the goal.

Now that he’s at the peak, maybe even being the peak himself, he feels weirdly homesick.

“You need to bundle up all the way, Haneul. They’re gonna scold me if you’re not covered from head to toe,” Yoongi playfully chides his son, the insecurity and nervousness underneath his tone flying right over his head. It’s not even that cold, but still, a huge part of Yoongi worries.

He worries everyday if he’s a good dad to his four-year old. He worries if he’s good enough to be a solo parent because after all, he’s the one who has main custody of Haneul anyway. He worries and worries, but there’s nothing quite like the trepidation he feels being back home with everyone who has ever known him prior to all this success, suddenly seeing him come home.

It should be the opposite way around, that’s what everyone says to him. Yoongi had been queasy the whole flight back home despite the flight being one of the smoothest trips he’s ever been on in his life. He’s nervous to be back where he had been born and raised and he doesn’t know what’s that supposed to mean, except for the fact that he has an inkling of what the weight in his chest pertains to.

He’s back because it’s your mother’s 60th birthday. He’s back because her and Namjoon had asked him to, and he obliged without even thinking about it. Yoongi had offered numerous times to throw a party for the woman who had practically raised him alongside his closest friend, and even if Namjoon had backed him up on the grand idea for such a large milestone, she said no. All she wanted was for everyone to be back home, and Yoongi couldn’t say no.

Neither could you.

Yoongi is not the most modest person alive, but he is at his humblest when he drives the long way home just to delay the inevitable. He’s happy to the point he could be sick. He can’t tell if it’s the joy or the anxiety in his chest that makes it tighten, almost unbearably so, that he makes Haneul reach up to his forehead to check if he has a fever.

Yoongi’s home.

Not Los Angeles home, and not New York home. Not his home with a closet that’s the size of his childhood house’s living room, and not his space with the big windows and concierge downstairs.

Yoongi’s home — where the streets are narrow and the stairs are creaky; where this time, it’s all of him and none of you.

.

.

.

Enduring is different than working.

You’ve realized that the two concepts are drastically different as soon as Yoongi left, leaving you to survive the remaining years of your degree before you had to face the reality that you had to work to the bone for the rest of your life if you wanted a shot at living an average, food-stocked-in-the-fridge kind of life.

You didn’t know anyone who was connected to someone of importance one way or another, your family had zero ties, and you graduated from a university that raised more eyebrows in confusion than it tilted heads in awe. Your degree does havehigh promises as far as everyone in your town was concerned — it does and it should be, if only you were born and raised in different circumstances.

There’s not one acclaimed and high-profit company that would ever accept the likes of you. You worked hard and even if there were no exchange student agreements and Latin honors to show for it, you really did. You gave your best to graduate with a degree you never really liked and was only forced upon you, all for the promise of a future. It didn’t matter if it was extremely good or bad — everyone else just said you had to have one.

Your misfortune is what it is. It’s empty and haunting and the two weeks you had spent in the city right after graduating is truly something you never want to relive.

In hindsight, gambling the rest of your pocket money on a bus fare in your last day of job-hunting in the city at the time was a stupid decision. It was impulsive and irresponsible and everything your family scolded you for, what Yoongi hated you for, but it ended up being the single best gamble you’ve ever made, even above entry-level lottery tickets.

The same circumstances that held you back from where you’re supposed to head ended up propelling you to somewhere far, far different. Your degree became completely irrelevant, and the fact that you had nobody of significance in the city– no person to pass malice and gossip onto— made you a manager.

It had been a gamble to go work for an unknown entertainment company, much more a sinking one. It was an insult to have busted your ass back in your hometown, studying and working at the same time, only to work professionally in the city for a field that you didn’t even study about.

Your fate is what it is. You’ve endured and worked hard enough to the point that you had finally lucked out. Being the manager of someone who had later turned out to become the biggest actor in the industry, even in Hollywood, became your biggest break up to date.

Your way back home feels like an embrace you’ve denied yourself for far too long. You’ve mainly stayed in Seoul apart from the several hundred times you had to come with Jungkook for filming outside of the country, yet you could only count on one hand the amount of times you came home without anyone telling you to.

Coming home had become foreign to you as much as leaving it had become familiar.

“I’m near, Joon,” you hum to your phone, taking a quick glance at the cake you’ve strapped to your front seat. “It’s only us, right?”

“Yeah. Just us.”

Maybe it’s your fault for changing what us meant throughout the past five years, but Namjoon’s definition never changed. Maybe it’s your fault for not clarifying what he meant when you’re still kilometers away, when you can still leave, but nonetheless, you were cornered.

Us meant what it used to be when you were a kid in your childhood home — when Yoongi was still in the picture and you didn’t hate him for it.

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that Yoongi was right — nothing valuable was left for him in your hometown anymore. He was as right as you were wrong every time he went on a monologue of how he thinks there’s no problem in him admitting that he’s full of envy. He had been right for being bitter that there’s people who have and get much more than him, more than what they deserve, by not even putting a fourth of the effort that he does.

In the same way that he was right, you were wrong for thinking each time that Yoongi would soon outgrow his ambitions and instead, see things for what they are. You were wrong for thinking Yoongi would stoop down to your page, much less ever think of it.

Yoongi was right for saying that his stomach’s made of steel, and you were wrong for trying to convince him otherwise. He’s always had the appetite for more, the digestion of whatever life throws at him coming easy. Yoongi can choke down the reality of leaving Namjoon, your brother, who’s been buddies with him even before they could talk. He could forgo the only brother figure he’s ever had in his life if it means making something of himself.

He doesn’t get constipated from the reality of no longer having the homemade meals your mother would make that the younger, more innocent, and less ambitious version of him would literally jumps fences for. In fact, Yoongi’s palate craved something more foreign and sophisticated; not familiar, hearty meals served in dinnerware dulled from years of routine.

His stomach doesn’t turn thinking about how the skyline he said he’d never get tired of, wouldn’t appear in his new side of the world. The little, unassuming, and far too comfortable version of him who used to chase sunrises with his bike as a child and chase sunsets with his car as a teenager, doesn’t feel like he’d be poisoned if he were to see the sunlight in a high-rise instead of a run-down pavement.

Yoongi’s right when he said he had a tolerance because he doesn’t even get heartburn when you cry for him to no longer leave. You’re not in the position to beg him to stay (and you probably never will be) because as you’ve come to realize, he would only stay for the big things.

The only thing that would anchor Min Yoongi into place and dissuade him from chasing more is by being the most. One would have to be extremely significant, even bigger than Namjoon’s brotherhood, your mother’s impact, and what your hometown has to offer. You can’t even hold a candle to the aforementioned.

In Yoongi’s grand plan that’s as big as the galaxy, you’re merely a speck of dust that had the luck of hovering around him. You realized it back then when you blew over and fought with him right before his flight; right when Yoongi was clutching his one-way ticket, right when one foot was already out of the door.

“But the future that you want is not easy, Yoongi!” you gritted through your teeth, the grip you had on his suitcase too visceral that it bends under the pressure. Yoongi snatches his luggage from you in a blink, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course you’d be the first to say that,” he seethed, eyes wild and unforgiving. He drills his finger into his temple, inching towards you with an anger he had never shown before. “You don’t work as hard as I do, Y/N! You always settle. You always go for mediocre. You never put your head into anything because you’re too immature for any of this shit!”

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Yes you are, you dipshit!” Yoongi scoffed, throwing his head back. “You cave and you bend and you let the whole world fuck you over, then you come running to me whining. You don’t have a passion in life, Y/N! You’re begging me to stay in the same predicament that you’re in now, what’s not immature about that?”

“When you leave now and decide to come back one day, Yoongi,” you spat with resentment, the tears that pour down your cheeks no longer out of sadness but instead, out of promise. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that when Yoongi left five years ago, he also took the large chunk of your soul that had been shaped over and over again the entire time that he stood by you. He’d gotten his hands on the security and contentment you used to take pride in, weaponizing them against you.

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

When you visit your mother for her birthday and see Yoongi emerge from your childhood bedroom, hand-in-hand with a toddler that looks like an exact carbon copy of him, you’re unsure of what to do either.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“Y/N,” he says breathless, the lump in his throat even bigger than the tiny fist that grips his hand. “I… I-I didn’t-…” Yoongi tries again, his mouth dry at your appearance. “You came home.”

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

.

.

.

You’re numb if that’s the word for it.

Your chest buzzes emptily the same way your fingers clench around nothing. You look at everywhere and everyone but Yoongi and his son. It’s nauseating to even think that everyone’s eating dinner as if everything’s okay; what’s even more sickening is that somehow, you’re willing to settle for it.

Yoongi is your mom’s cross-stitch project of a teddy bear that she hung up in your room one day when you were in school that you never took off by the time you came home. He’s a dent at the corner of your gate that could’ve only been made by Namjoon when he was practicing his soccer skills. He’s a Snellen chart that nobody really uses, stuck to the side of the refrigerator that you walk past.

Yoongi’s here, there, and everywhere, but you don’t question it. He’s simply there in your orbit and even if he exists, you don’t follow up on him.

You stay quiet at the talks of the sleeping situation because it turns out that Yoongi’s family had long sold their house. You never knew that throughout the several times you came down to visit.

Frankly, you’re relieved to barely know anything about Yoongi these days.

“You and Haneul can take my room,” you half-heartedly offer, not because it’s Yoongi who tugs at your heartstrings and demands your pity, but his child instead. The two, three (?) year-old baby (read: you’re too hesitant to ask what his age is because if it’s anything higher, then that meant Yoongi had moved on earlier than you did) you didn’t even know existed because you’ve completely cut off Yoongi from your life and refused to listen to Namjoon every time he talked about him, will be sleeping in your room; it just happens that he’s with his dad.

Yoongi’s awed at your preposition but he’s even more worried. He can’t tell a single thought that’s going on behind your eyes nor a single hint behind your tone. You’re formal; neutral. You’re detached even when you utter Haneul’s name and gesture them to your bedroom as if he hasn’t spent years and years of his life in your home.

“Where will you sleep?” he furrows his brows, his hand that had been rubbing circles on Haneul’s back faltering.

He’s asking because he doesn’t know anything about you at this point. He can’t tell if it’s the indigestion he has from resisting to talk your ear off at the dining table (like he’s always did when you were young) because you barely even spoke to him, or if it’s the overwhelming feeling of being back home with everything feeling familiar but you — either way, Yoongi thinks he’s gonna be sick.

“I’ll sleep at my mom’s,” you purse your lips, leaving him at that.

Between the yearning, demanding looks you get from Yoongi, the nosy and concerned glances from Namjoon, and even the guilt that you get from keeping all of your emotions from your mom when you used to confide in her religiously when you were younger — you’re drained. The urge to wash off all your anxiety can’t be done in your childhood home’s small bathroom. You can’t with the faulty water heater (you have to keep one finger pressed on the button at all times to keep it running) because you can’t even cry in peace under the either scorching or freezing water.

You can’t evade everything by grabbing a drink from the fridge that runs loudly as if it’s excavating oil from underneath your floors. You can’t curl up on the couch that’s become worn with age because there’s dents of you and Yoongi, the only two people who had sat on it the most every late night for years on end. You can’t romanticize any of the things in your home that have brought you joy all your life at this point in time.

To sleep under the same roof with your mother and brother again after so long feels foreign. It’s a language you can perceive but can’t translate and the frustration that comes with it seeps into your bones. There must be some common ground between the three of you; it should be anything and everything. With Namjoon being a world-renowned football player and you being somewhat accomplished and decorated in your field, you’ve managed to retire your mom early.

The three of you are doing fine. Not one interaction in the past five years has ever felt this tense and unfamiliar, but if you could pick just the odd one out, the very reason why you feel like falling to the floor and crawling your way out of your own home because you feel like you don’t belong to it — it’s Yoongi.

You feel awkward in your own four walls, whereas Yoongi finds your nightlight that you keep tucked in your closet without breaking a sweat.

Namjoon tugs you right when you’re about to call it a day in your mom’s room, his hushed whispers taking you back to when he pleaded for you not to rat them out whenever he and Yoongi crashed at the couch drunk.

“Give them this,” he shoves the can of bug spray into your hands, your immediate reaction making him wrestle with you just to push you closer to your own bedroom.

“No, Joon. You give it.”

“Y/N, no. You give it,” he whines, purposely having given Yoongi extra sheets and blankets earlier without the bug spray so you’d have something to take to him.

“I don’t wanna see Yoongi,” you whisper, trying to pathetically regain your footing even if you know your attempts go futile against an athlete for a brother.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snarks, giving you one last shove with a stern finger. “We’re gonna talk about whatever the hell happened between you and him, but right now, you’re gonna offer him bug spray like the gracious hosts that we are!”

You crash too far to your door that it could be mistaken as a knock, making you hiss because you know you can’t retract it. You actually knock this time, being met with nothing but a quiet Yoongi behind your own door.

Even when he opens it fully, even when it’s your own room — you enter hesitantly.

Yoongi’s already made a home out of your room. He knew where your nightlight was, knew which good extension cord (that didn’t spark every time it shifted) to plug into the wall, and even knew where you kept the magazine that you had to wedge between your windows whenever they didn’t fully close.

“Namjoon told me to give you this,” you put your hand out, looking at everything but Yoongi. You could look at Haneul who’s sprawled in the middle of the bed, but it isn’t any different than looking at his dad himself.

Yoongi, on the other hand, can’t see anything but you. He feels like an intruder who just happened to know the confines of your life almost better than his own, holding bug spray and the remainder of whatever recognition you have left for him.

“Will we ever be alright?” he whispers, not for the sake of keeping Haneul asleep, but for the sake of his sanity. If he makes his voice any louder, he’ll spill all his grievances and question if he had ever meant anything to you.

“We’ve always been alright,” you smile tightly, wrapping your hands around your back.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he pleads, swallowing the lump in his throat. “When did you ever give me bug spray? When did you have to knock on my door, o-or when did you ever have to treat me like I’m some guest and not a huge part of your life?” Yoongi stumbles over his words, correcting himself with a huff. “Most of your life.”

The sarcasm that coats the last of his words makes you twitch, the clench in your jaw being unmistakeable. Yoongi almost forgot what you looked like whenever you argued with him — talked to him, even. “Why are you only bitching about this to me and not to Namjoon? He’s the one who told me to give you the bug spray.”

“This is not about the bug spray!”

“What is it about then? Is this, is this some sort of long-winded euphemism that involves bug spray? What is it Yoongi, are you gonna hound me for an essay about it?” you spit, exhaling heavily. Haneul twitches in his sleep from the corner of your eye. “You grew up and so did I.”

Yoongi flinches like you’ve shot him.

“Don’t do this to me, kid. Don’t do this to us.”

You flinch because anything is better than to have him dig up his old nickname for you as if he’s close; as if he’s still the Yoongi that you chased, as if you’re still the Y/N he looked out for.

“Don’t call me that.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi’s in the kitchen with your mom.

He looks domestic this way, hair tousled and pajamas loose. Even if you have unbridled internet access (courtesy of the high-speed package you split with Namjoon for your mom even if the most she does online is repost motivational quotes, reels of Namjoon and his team, and clips of Jungkook where you’re seen), you can’t muster the courage to search Yoongi’s name and what he’s made of himself.

You’re too scared to search up articles about his success as a producer because if you do, you’re terrified by the thought of accidentally clicking a link that leads you to a page of him and his ex-wife.

You’re too weak to search up the songs he’s had a hand in (that is if you hadn’t heard them before) because you fear that if you even listen for a single second, you might hear how perfect his life has been ever since he left behind everything that he’s ever known.

Even now, you’re too uneasy at the sight of him. He’s in your home and he looks like the version of himself that had never left. The Yoongi in front of you, sitting on your seat at the dining table and peeling tangerines with your mom, resembles the Yoongi that would top off your glass with water whenever you ate with him.

It’s as if you’ve always been in touch for the past five years; it’s as if Yoongi has never aged and you never drifted apart.

“You’re awake,” he remarks, greeting you first before your mom could even register your presence.

“You’re still here,” you reply, the exhale that leaves you making you deflate in reflection. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but Yoongi’s already slid over a plate to you.

“There. Just how you like them.”

There’s tangerines with barely any pith on them, and iced tea that had more ice cubes in them than there are in the freezer.

Yoongi smiles at you like you’re the old you again; the one who is more forgiving, and the one who is more hopeful.

( ♡ )

If it wasn’t for your brother guilt-tripping you into joining the impromptu road trip, you never would have come.

You didn’t want to come with them in the first place because the very thought of hanging out with Namjoon and Yoongi like old times, this time with the addition of the latter’s son, was too close; too familial. The three already knew each other and had kept in touch and you’re the odd one out. You’re the only planet out of the system and once you’ve come to think of it, that bit of their galaxy never failed. Whether you were in it or not didn’t matter — atleast that’s what you thought.

Yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you’ve heard nothing about it.

You blocked his number and on every social media account he had to his name. Even with Namjoon as a prominent variable, you’re amazed to how you’ve heard little to nothing about Yoongi ever since he left your hometown. You still talked to your brother, of course, but there was an obvious difference to how your conversations went because none of them ever went to Yoongi.

You didn’t tell him to not talk about Yoongi at all. You didn’t instruct him to never utter a single word about his closest friend whom you also grew up with. You never told Namjoon anything concerning Yoongi and what unfolded between the two of you before you left, and yet, it’s almost as if he had already been in your mind and knew exactly what to do.

You’ve come to realize that the prospect of growing up never used to be in your cards. The whole concept of it sat at the very back of your mind, the only times you used to pay attention to it being whenever Yoongi picked at your brain.

You thought your world would have ended when you were 19. You didn’t think you would grow up and see past high school. You didn’t think you would finish college, much less pick a degree to pursue in the first place. You didn’t think of having a future — you didn’t think you’d be living it now in this way.

“Joon,” you mutter, voice barely being heard at the expanse of the balcony you’re in. It’s his balcony in his vacation house he barely stays in, overlooking the waves by the beach he isn’t even that fond of to begin with.

Yoongi and Haneul are already asleep, the father-son duo knocking out way ahead than everyone else. They stayed with the two of you in the balcony hours ago, the bug spray in both the adult and kid edition being proof of it.

Tonight, alone, felt different. It’s as if the younger version of you was gazing out to what was supposed to be your future, except neither the past nor present variant of you could have ever had it for yourself.

“Hm?” he hums, sipping the last of his drink while he’s sat at the far end. You know about each other’s presence, and while years ago, the two of you would’ve been giddy staying in a house as grand as this whilst drinking behind your mom’s back, you and Namjoon grew up. You didn’t fight or anything — you simply grew up and grew apart.

“I never said it before, but thank you,” you exhale, clenching Haneul’s towel as you try to warm your hands. You may have spent the better part of the day not even acknowledging his dad, but you did fawn over him like you would with any other child. “Thank you for not telling me a thing about Yoongi.”

“You’re welcome,” Namjoon finally speaks as soon as he grasps what you were talking about, the smile on his face only lasting for a second. “If it were up to me though, I would have told you everything.”

“Good thing it’s not up to you, hm?” you laugh uneasily, running your hand through your hair. You didn’t know how much you had to be grateful for until Yoongi came back and reminded you of how little you knew about him.

Namjoon breathlessly laughs, looking up at the sky to try and condense everything that has happened through his words before you leave again. “I would have told you that he confessed what happened that time you ran away from home a couple years back, and I beat his ass. We didn’t talk for like, I don’t know, three months? Even when I was still training in the US that time.”

Your lack of a reply is what makes him take notice, the stunned look you have on your face making him snort.

“What?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed as he throws a stray bottle cap at you. “Why are you so shocked? I love him like a brother, but you’re my actual sister,” he confides his loyalty to you, yet you don’t even have a second to express your awe before he opens his mouth again. “I would have told you that I became the best man at his wedding. Even mom was there.”

“You can stop telling me these things now.”

Namjoon exhales, already feeling deep in his chest that you’re gearing up to leave. He wants to get the last word in, not to prove himself, but to try and vindicate you and the quiet suffering you endured without telling anyone.

“I would have told you that Yoongi kept trying to come back to you.”

( ♡ )

Haneul wakes up before Yoongi does.

You’re confused for a second because the moment you hear the lightest footsteps that you ever could pad along the kitchen, you become completely disoriented. There’s a child that looks like Yoongi, wandering off to where you are.

For the briefest second, your heart drops because the whole situation resembles a vignette. In another lifetime, it could’ve been your child, your Haneul, waking up before his dad, trudging to the kitchen where you are is if you’re his mom.

He’s an observant kid, far too trusting unlike his dad who used to scold you to hell and back for even entertaining strangers that asked you for directions. He’s friendly to you; to someone Yoongi had introduced as appa’s close friend. There isn’t even a single hint in how he introduced you to Haneul that the two of you stopped being close. Yoongi didn’t leave the faintest indicator to him that you most probably hated his guts and would probably choose a lifetime where he hadn’t even been in your life at all.

Haneul is innocent to yours and Yoongi’s history and it’s going to stay that way. You don’t meant to change whatever he introduced you as because by the time your mom’s birthday week is over, or by the time Yoongi takes the hint and leaves your hometown again, you would be a fleeting persona in Haneul’s life.

You’re not his mom. You’re not anyone of significance to either him and his dad.

“Good morning,” he greets shyly, his diction telling of how just attentive Yoongi is as a dad. You mostly listened to whatever Namjoon told you last night anyway, tuning out the parts where he rounded to how Yoongi had been miserable not having any contact with you (you don’t believe that at all), and instead zeroing in on the large details that you’ve missed. “Auntie.”

You smile tightly, patting the empty seat beside to you to which he climbs effortlessly.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you do know him. You know that his dad is a doting, slightly paranoid one whose current dilemma is whether or not enrolling him in kindergarten early or waiting for one more year. You know that Yoongi doesn’t want him to know about the existence of iPads for probably ever, so he spends almost every waking moment talking to him to the point that Haneul’s eloquent at speaking for his age. You also know that Namjoon’s his godfather, and that he had looked after him for a whole day by himself when Yoongi went to settle his divorce.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you know his parents. You know Yoongi is his dad, and more importantly, that Hyewon is his mom — the same Hyewon who had been with him in your room before, and the same woman Yoongi shared his success with when he made it big.

“Hi,” you greet him softly, handing him his bottle for him to drink from. It’s a warm, domestic vignette for a split second. You’ve watched Yoongi far too many times at the corner of your eye to know where he gets the distilled water. “Why are you up already?”

“Uncle Joonie promised yesterday we can watch the sunrise together,” he says in between sips, letting you comb his hair into order unconsciously. You didn’t even think of it before your hand sweeps the strands scattered on his forehead, the hum you have at the back of your throat pausing when you realized what you’ve done.

“He’s still sleeping right now. He had uh, a long night,” you mutter, at a loss for a child-friendly alternative word for hangover. You keep your hands to yourself because you fear falling into the domesticity that isn’t yours to relax into; if you think about it for a second longer, you’d think that Haneul is yours and Yoongi is the final piece to your puzzle.

“Oh. But I, I wanna watch,” Haneul frowns, brows softly furrowed at your revelation. He’s not close to throwing a tantrum, but the upset expression on his face keeps tugging at your heart to cave.

“You can take your dad with you,” you offer, willing to knock on Yoongi’s door if it meant his son smiling again.

Haneul shakes his head at that, looking up at the ceiling as he recalls the events of last night before being tucked in. “Nuh-uh. Appa had a long night too. He just kept crying.”

A part of you wishes that Haneul didn’t speak so clearly.

“What?” you clarify, heart skipping a beat the more you replay his words in your head.

“Crying?” Haneul repeats, tilting his head as he tries to figure you out. He says it again for a third time as if you needed any clarification of the word and not because of your disbelief that his dad was capable of it. “Like this,” he adds, pretending to bawl with his hands wiping at his eyes.

The scene before you is your brief moment of reprieve, making you chuckle breathlessly as you try to regain your senses. Whether or not Haneul was sure of what he was saying, if Yoongi had cried, it’s most probably not because of anything that has to do with you.

“Oh. So that’s what it means. Thank you, Haneul,” you laugh lowly, patting him on the head until you retract your hand again in realization.

Haneul thinks nothing of your trepidation; he thinks nothing of the yearning behind your eyes, and thinks nothing of the tremble in your voice.

“Can we watch the sunrise together?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as if doing so would be the equivalent of hanging the stars up for him in the sky.

(Read: it probably is, and in another lifetime, or in the far-shot that it happens in this one, you’d do it if he asks you to do so.)

You want to ask Haneul why it’s you who he wants to accompany him, but you don’t. You can wake up either Yoongi and Namjoon to go with him instead, but you won’t.

In another lifetime, this would have been your son, your Haneul asking to watch the sunrise with you. There’s a Yoongi-shaped hole and a Haneul-shaped vacancy in your chest, but you don’t prod about it further.

You don’t question what’s happening, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny part of you that wants to fully accept it instead of hesitating to do so.

“Okay.”

Haneul puts his hand in yours, but you don’t pull away. You just hold him tighter.

( ♡ )

A large part of you forgot that for as long as Yoongi’s here, he’ll treat every interaction you have with Namjoon as an open invitation for him. He had always been this way; for as long as you could remember, he’ll include himself even if he isn’t needed nor wanted.

You can’t count the amount of times your mom had berated Namjoon for something and oddly enough, Yoongi also happened to be there. Whether it was to rat out on his own best friend or being at the receiving end of said scolding, Yoongi jumped at every opportunity to come along as a package deal.

When you asked Namjoon to drink with you at the balcony two days ago, Yoongi butted in and asked what brand of alcohol he should buy you at the convenience store. When you were on the way home and asked your brother what he wanted from the rest stop, Yoongi said he wanted the biggest can of coffee you could find.

And when you asked Namjoon what time you should come to the stadium to watch him practice, Yoongi said he’ll pack you an extra cap while Haneul bonded with your mom.

Sometime long ago, you and Yoongi saw each other eye to eye. You can’t determine when and how exactly, but there was a point in your life where everything you had to say to each other was what the other was thinking all along. Nowadays, you can’t even look at Yoongi in the eye while all he wanted was for you to return his gaze.

If there’s just one thing though, one single variable that remained unchanged between the two of you, it would be Namjoon.

The way Yoongi engages you in conversation this time around is not to trap you and to ramp himself up to apologize again, but purely, it’s to talk about your brother. Namjoon’s a lot of things, and one thing you pray would remain unchanged is the love you have for each other.

“Who would have thought, right?” Yoongi nudges, asking you sincerely. “Who would have thought that the Namjoon who had knockoff cleats years ago would become this world-famous athlete?” he chuckles, shaking his head as he once again tries to digest the fact that this very stadium in your hometown had been built and refashioned in his honor.

You laugh genuinely, the sound being the first he’s ever heard in such a long time.

“Abibas.”

Yoongi has his lips parted, shocked that you were even answering him.

“Abibas. That was the brand of his knockoff cleats,” you chuckle, bowing your head as you try to contain your laughter. “He could’ve bought the original with his allowance and everything, but he split it so he could also buy me knockoffs.”

Yoongi laughs at the memory you jog up in his mind, remembering distinctly how Namjoon kept asking for his opinion repeatedly on which colorway of the knockoff pair he should gift you.

Even if things are still tense between you, even if Namjoon is the only salvation that Yoongi could bring up in a conversation to which you don’t run from, nothing from the past five years could ever take this moment away from you.

The three of you have grown up. Some faster than they’d like, and some because they had no choice but to — nonetheless, in this moment, it’s the three of you back at home like it used to be.

“Namjoon was always meant for greatness. Even from the start,” you murmur, your attention waiting on Yoongi’s response even if your eyes were on Namjoon in the field.

“You are too,” he interjects quickly, voice defensive at the lack of your name to your own sentence.

“No I’m not,” you snort, crossing your arms. You’re not angry when you say it; in fact, you’re calm as if you’ve always seen it coming. “You told me I’d amount to nothing.”

You’re calm, seemingly at peace with what you just said and what Yoongi had ingrained in your head before, but he’s the furthest thing from it. His mouth hangs open, chest tightening impossibly as he shakes his head eagerly.

“I never said that!”

You’re about to counter him when you hear a familiar holler reach you at the lower section of the bleachers, eyes perking to see a familiar figure who isn’t blood-related to you.

“Y/N!” Jimin runs up to you faster than to whenever he passes the ball to Namjoon, engulfing you in a massive hug that forces you up to your feet before you know it.

“Oh my god, Jimin! I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” you awe at the sight of him, unwilling to break away from the embrace until he does so. It’s been ages since you’ve seen him, the second-best player in the team (you’re biased because of course Namjoon had been the best player to you since you were kids) being the closest member to you out of everyone.

Jimin doesn’t care for Yoongi. He knows of the guy and he doesn’t want to know any more than he already does. He doesn’t even acknowledge the guy’s presence; all he does is squeeze you tighter and twirl you briefly in his arms.

“Fuck, me neither. Heaven must’ve healed my ankle quicker so I could come here and see you,” he flirts playfully, earning a well-deserved eye roll from you.

“And you know, play for Korea.”

“Eh. That too, I guess,” he shrugs, sitting at the seat beside you. He looks straight at you and only you — Jimin only pauses to snort to himself when he notices that Yoongi’s squirming in his seat, beyond annoyed and frustrated.

( ♡ )

On the fifth day of Yoongi staying over at your house, there’s a power outage.

The sound of everything shutting off together in sync makes you jolt, the collective groan you hear outside from the neighborhood comforting you in solidarity.

You can only make out a grunt from Namjoon and a gasp from your mom until you hear the trembling voice of Haneul, the sound of a cry that crawls up his throat putting everyone on their feet.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay! It’s just a little dark, that’s all,” Yoongi pipes up instantly, scooping him up in his arms without having to fumble for where he is because he could practically locate his son in his sleep.

You didn’t want for it to be a power outage, but oddly enough, you feel sorry that it happened while you’re here. “It’s okay, Haneul,” you whisper as consolation, the dark of the night shielding you from how Yoongi’s eyes widen at your cooing for his son. “Mom, where did you put that generator I got you?”

“About that,” she sheepishly shrugs, turning on her phone to illuminate her shyness. “I donated it last year to the public school nearby.”

“It’s gonna get so hot,” Namjoon groans, the sound of him clumsily feeling around for the lights alerting Haneul briefly. He comforts him instantly, finally turning on the torch in his phone instead of relying on his instincts. “Don’t cry, Haneul, alright? Uncle Joonie’s gonna get the candles and the flashlights.”

“I’ll go try to find a guy,” you get up as soon as Namjoon hands you a flashlight, your contribution to help instantly being shut down.

“You can’t just try to find a guy, Y/N. That’s dangerous,” Yoongi scoffs, putting a hand on your forearm to pull you.

“I meant on my phone, Yoongi,” you grit. “I was gonna go outside to try and look for a signal.”

“That’s still dangerous,” he narrows his eyes at you as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Give me a break,” you mutter, removing his hold from you. You’d save your pride and actually go outside if not for your mom interjecting that she knows an electrician from her contacts.

Namjoon comes back after his quest for battery-powered fans and flashlights, unaware of how Yoongi’s protective streak for you practically never disappeared; in fact, it came back twofold. “Whole neighborhood’s out. Must be a broken transformer or something.”

Your mom consoles Haneul in her arms.

Namjoon waits by the gate for the electrician.

You and Yoongi clean the fridge up before anything spoils.

In between getting food out and embracing Haneul every now and then who insisted on obediently sitting atop the counter so he’s closer to his dad, Yoongi holds your hand.

“That’s my hand that you’re holding,” you murmur, assuming that he had mistaken yours for Haneul’s as he’s always chuckled how yours always seemed to be small against his.

Yoongi only hums.

“I know.”

( ♡ )

You’re falling back into your old routine.

Maybe it’s how your mom has to shake you awake because otherwise, you’d sleep through the afternoon and would therefore be unable to sleep through the night. On the other hand, it could be Namjoon who either hounds you to hang out with him or tell you off for clinging to him too much.

Maybe, it’s just Yoongi. It’s him who’s tricking your brain into thinking that has nothing changed with the way he keeps peeling fruits for you and telling you to be safe even if you’re only buying ice cream from the convenience store.

It’s only been a week and a half of almost normalcy, save for the fact that there are certain things and connections you can neither reverse nor rekindle.

You’re convinced, almost fully convinced that history is repeating itself except for the bitter, ugly parts of it that you never want to pop in your head again.

Like the past, Namjoon blocks you for whatever reason in his head but this time he does it to you while you’re on the way to your room, on the quest to retrieve your charger for your phone that you barely even used for work purposes.

“It’s my room. Why can’t I go in my room?” you furrow your brows at him, your amusement turning into annoyance the more that Namjoon pushed you with actual strength instead of playfulness.

“Are you hungry? Let’s go out for dinner,” he changes the subject quickly, turning you towards the stairs.

You shouldn’t have questioned him further — you should’ve left it at that.

“I guess? I’ll just get my purse,” you concede, dodging his attempts to haul you downstairs.

“I’ll pay,” Namjoon insists and although it’s not out of the blue for him, his franticness is what keeps you on edge.

“I still need my-…” you counter, being interrupted when he holds you firmly as you attempt to walk towards your door. Namjoon grips you with a silent plead, one that you can’t even decipher. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You finally break off his grip at once, walking into your room with a renowned determination.

It’s not only your routine that falls back into place, but it’s your whole worldview that does.

Love is terribly human. It’s a loose thread on your shirt that gets snagged on your doorknob. It’s a coat in your closet waiting to be worn for the supposed perfect time, and when you do, you realize that it no longer fits you.

Love is terribly human, and it is terribly Yoongi, Hyewon, and Haneul.

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user1 need to know where that phone case is from user2 Are you EVER not working dk_is_dokyeom THAT’S MY GIRLBOSS ╰(▔∀▔)╯ ↳ yourusername ❤️ user3 i wanna be you when i grow up <3 xuminghao_o Lovely ♥︎ Liked by creator

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)

Yoon,

I reviewed the validation draft you uploaded this morning. Fascinating interpretation of clause 4.3.2. Bold of you to skip the stability data appendix entirely. I can only assume it was an artistic choice.

Also, the raw tensile data from the 0528 batch isn’t included. If it was meant to be in the shared drive, it wasn’t in any of the usual folders (QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > missing_files > probably_Jeonghan’s).

I’ve attached my edits. I added actual numbers.

Regards, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)

Thank you for the prompt review. I assumed your obsession with clause 4.3.2 would outweigh your impulse to nitpick, but alas—some things never change.

The stability data was excluded intentionally while awaiting results from the accelerated aging test. If you opened the protocol (second folder under QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > definitely_not_missing), you’d see that.

As for your edits, I appreciate the effort. It’s cute when you pretend Excel likes you back.

Best, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

Yoon,

Not that I expect you to read full briefs, but just in case you skimmed this one: yes, the transfer protocols need to be locked before next Friday if we want the France site to hit qualification by Q3.

Your last edits to the QAP template were inspired. I didn’t know it was possible to confuse ISO 13485 with a haiku.

I’ve restructured the equipment IQ section. You’re welcome. You’ll need to coordinate with Wonwoo at the Lyon site for vendor access, assuming you remember to email him this time.

I’ll see you in Lyon.

Disrespectfully, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

Of course I read the brief. Just because I don’t annotate every margin with red ink and superiority complexes doesn’t mean I don’t understand the deadline.

I’ll coordinate with Wonwoo, assuming you don’t scare him off again with your charmingly blunt emails. (I still have the screenshot of him calling you “intimidatingly competent.”)

By the way, your IQ revisions look fine. Shockingly legible this time. Congratulations.

I’ll see you in Lyon. Try not to sabotage the coffee machine this trip.

Until customs detains us, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

If Wonwoo was intimidated, it’s because I sent him instructions written in complete sentences. A rare treat, I know.

You still haven’t confirmed the calibration matrix. We’ll need the traceable certs before equipment ships, or do you plan to charm EU regulators into letting us slide on documentation? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve seen you talk to vendors.

Also: bring the correct adapter this time. I’m not sharing an outlet with you again.

Best of luck (to me), L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

The calibration matrix is in the tracker: third tab, fourth column, next to the thing labeled “READ ME, PLEASE” Try it. It’s fun.

And yes, I plan to charm the regulators. You, on the other hand, can stun them into compliance with your piercing PowerPoint transitions.

As for the outlet. I’m bringing an adapter. And a surge protector. For reasons.

Looking forward to our time in France. Nothing says “teamwork” like four days of jetlag and passive aggression.

Yours in regulatory purgatory, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

YJH 👿 (Work) [8:13 AM]: why do you type so aggressively. the guy next to me thinks you’re yelling at me You [8:14 AM]: he’s not wrong. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:15 AM]: did you really need three highlighters in your carry-on? You [8:15 AM]: yes. the pink one is for your mistakes. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:16 AM]: romantic You [8:16 AM]: if you die on this trip it’s going to be from a highlighter to the throat. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:17 AM]: worth it You [8:17 AM]: you are the worst seatmate in existence. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:18 AM]: you snore when you pretend not to be sleeping and your pointy elbow crosses the line You [8:18 AM]: so we’re calling it a truce? YJH 👿 (Work) [8:19 AM]: we’re calling it foreplay

☾ You have silenced Notifications.

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user1 oui oui 😜 user2 Who are you wearing??? ho5hi_kwon surprised a murder hasn’t occurred lolololol ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n not counting it out just yet user3 WHAT’S 4+4? ATEEE user4 Is he a model? ↳ sound_of_coups please don’t say that his head is going to get so big

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View all comments user1 bwoah . . . feat.dino STUNT ON THEM HOESSSS ♥︎ Liked by creator user2 gender gender gender 😮‍💨 user3 Really need to know where the second pic is !! Plsss DM yourusername i see how it is ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n credits. xo

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

Yoon,

Per our debrief notes (the ones not written on a cocktail napkin), I’ve uploaded the final QAP revisions and vendor qualification summaries to the shared drive. You can stop emailing me pictures of our hotel room as  “documentation.” Though impressive dedication to fieldwork.

Also, your expense report still lists the mini bar from Tuesday night. Pretty bold move, considering you insisted you only drank half the bottle.

Respectueusement, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

You’re welcome for the in-room stress testing of French plumbing. I was being thorough.

Also, I did only drink half. You drank the other half and then told the front desk I was your emotional support engineer.

Re: shared drive. I see your formatting crimes continue. I fixed your spacing in the risk assessment table. Try to be better.

Yours across all timezones, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

Yoon,

I’d fix my spacing if you’d stop adjusting my bullet styles just to mess with me. And next time, maybe don’t volunteer us for the plant tour while hungover. Watching you nearly fall into a vat of solvent was not the regulatory impression we wanted.

Stop calling me yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

P.S. You still owe me one (1) bed. I’m adding it to your performance review.

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

Not my fault someone booked the hotel late and got us the romantic suite. You’re lucky I didn’t call room service for rose petals.

I’ve uploaded the final sign-offs and confirmation from the French regulatory contact—who says we’re the most “thorough and theatrically matched” engineers she’s worked with. I think that’s a compliment.

Let me know if I’ve missed any appendices. Or if you want your highlighter back.

Yours, even if you deny me (hotel registration said so), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

P.S. I liked sharing the room with you. Not because of budget errors or international confusion. Just because it was you.

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from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Great audit notes, as usual. I’ve attached my edits for the CAPA log. We’ll have to discuss column F, because your formulas hate me.

Also, bold of you to post a photo of flowers on a Tuesday. Does SVT approve PTO for midweek romance now?

Am I being cheated on?, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Yoon,

Corrected the formula logic in column F. Try not to break it again.

And yes, Tuesday dates are a thing now. Believe it or not, some people find me tolerable enough to see more than once.

Shocking, I know.

Regrets, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Don’t worry. I’m sure your second date will be charmed by your bullet point consistency.

Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of dating someone like you. Too sharp. Too bossy. Too quick to judge formula errors.

Fortunately, SVT doesn’t require us to like each other outside of Gantt charts.

Yours, whether you like it or not, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Yoon,

Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I'd sooner date a malfunctioning tensile tester.

I fixed your math in the timeline estimates. Again. Please don’t bother me for the rest of the week. I’m going to be busy preparing for date number two.

(You wish I was) Yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected] 

You [11:42 PM]: he ghosted me. u jinxed it. You [11:43 PM]: i shaved my legs for nothing. hope ur happy. You [11:44 PM]: he said he liked my slides. he LIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You [11:45 PM]: sitting alone at a bar rn contemplating the meaning of life.. and if i can blow u up telepahteitcally.... YJH 👿 (Work) [11:45 PM]: *telepathically YJH 👿 (Work) [11:46 PM]: which bar. You [11:47 PM]: fucking MANSPLAINER You [11:47 PM]: don’t come near me EVEREVER

YJH 👿 (Work) requested your location.

You started sharing your location with YJH 👿 (Work).

You [11:50 PM]: fuckfcuckfuckity my fat fucking thumbs FMLLL YJH 👿 (Work) [11:53 PM]: i’m coming. don’t order tequila until i get there. or do. i want to see the disaster myself. You [11:55 PM]: jerk YJH 👿 (Work) [11:56 PM]: always. save me a seat, heartbreak girl

Liked by dk_is_dokyeom, junhui_moon, and others jeonghaniyoo_n   keep the bad shit in my liver and the rest around my heart

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user1 Caption + second slide >>>> joshu_acoustic is that yourusername in the last slide 🫨 ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n is it ? yourusername ↳ yourusername must be a lookalike ♥︎ Liked by creator ↳ dk_is_dokyeom THAT’S ME yourusername & min6yu_k !!! ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ user2 just one chance pls,, user3 Wait was that a wine date or

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

Yoon,

Your revised equipment validation timeline looks solid. I’ve flagged the dates where QRA and process requal overlap. You’ll need to talk to Ops to make sure there’s no resource conflict.

Also, thanks. For the other night.

Don’t make a thing out of it. Reluctantly yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected] 

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

Wow. A “thanks.” What is this, a truce?

Noted on the QRA overlap—I’ll sync with Ops and shift our timeline by 2-3 business days. I’ve attached a revised Gantt for your very critical review.

Also: you owe me fries.

Yours with no reluctance whatsoever, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

P.S. Don’t let your guard down. I’d hate for you to start thinking I’m nice.

P.P.S. You’re beautiful when drunk. Infuriating, but beautiful.

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

Attached: my comments on your Gantt chart (see rows 14–27). Also, your font choices are unhinged. You’re lucky you’re marginally good at your job.

Fries are contingent on you not mentioning the karaoke. Sober now, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

P.S. You’re nice when you think I’m too drunk to remember.

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

I’ll swap the font if it means less red pen in my inbox.

And don’t worry, I’d never mention your rendition of “Dancing Queen” in front of senior management. Or that you made me sing backup.

As for being nice: I was just making sure you didn’t fall asleep in a nacho basket. Again.

Drunk on you, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

P.S. I remember everything you said. Even the parts you don’t.

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user1 fly safe, babygirl user2 ermmm.. am i witnessing a soft launch ?! min9yu_k I’d know that YSL bag from anywhere 😏 user3 How can I be youuu :( user4 is that a BOYFRIEND?! junhui_moon strategic non-response to any of the comments here #respect

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

Attached: updated protocol outline and projected data submission window. Added notes re: temperature excursions flagged by the lab.

Unrelated, but I saw your latest post. Interesting how you managed to frame the lighting just right on that cafe table. Almost as if someone you work with took the photo.

Also, bold choice uploading a cropped version of that one picture of me holding five tote bags. Very “soft launch,” very subtle.

Launched like a rocket ship, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

This isn’t the time.

The humidity chamber failed mid-run and half of the accelerated aging samples are compromised. I’ll need to retest from baseline and revalidate the controls. Not sure yet if it pushes our submission, but I’m flagging it with QA.

I suggest you review section 6.2 of the protocol instead of obsessing over my Instagram.

L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

Didn’t mean to distract. I hadn’t seen the alert yet. Engineering just looped me in on the chamber issue. I’ll prioritize sourcing backup samples and contact Tech Ops to check chamber calibration across all zones.

You’ll have data. We’ll make it work.

(But if you were soft-launching me, I looked great.)

Trying too hard, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

Yoon,

Appreciated. Sorry I snapped.

I just really didn’t want this run to go sideways. I know it’s not your fault—but I’ve been fielding calls since 7:00 a.m. and I’m a little fried.

Yours and then some, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

P.S. You looked ridiculous, but sure. Let the internet wonder.

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

You can yell at me any time. Preferably not before coffee, but I’ll survive.

QA says they’ll expedite sample disposal so we can start the new batch by end of week. I sent you a revised Gantt. And a snack. Don’t fight me on it.

Yours in whatever way you’ll have me, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

P.S. Internet speculation is already intense. I’ve received two DMs inquiring if I’m truly off the market. Is this your twisted little way of staking claim?

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

The snack was suspiciously well-timed. You’re lucky I like sesame.

Re: QA—I’ll update the submission calendar and notify Regulatory we’re adjusting the stability window.

And tell your fans I’m flattered, but my standards are higher than “guy who argues about font weight in shared spreadsheets.”

Yours for some reason (When did I succumb to this?), L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline

For the record, I wasn’t arguing. I was advocating for consistent formatting.

Also: I’m sorry. For earlier. I should’ve checked the system alerts before joking around. You always catch things first, and I forget what it’s like to be under that kind of pressure all the time.

Let me know what else you need. I mean it.

Yours for equally no reason (I bookmarked the first time you signed off with ‘yours’, btw), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

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sound_of_coups 🎣 Hook, line, sinker user1 can this guy fight omfg user2 Even his side view is ethereal. What the hale vernonline okurrr ♥︎ Liked by jeonghaniyoo_n   ↳ yourusername ? jeonghaniyoo_n wasn’t aware i had paparazzi   ↳ pledis_boos IS THIS ALLOWEDDD IS THIS ALLOWED

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Apologies for the Timestamp 

Yoon,

I realize this is past hours. I won’t pretend it’s an emergency—it’s just the draft for the stability test realignment we discussed. I needed to get it out of my head or I wouldn’t sleep. It can wait until morning. I just didn’t want to forget.

Sorry. Again. Sleep well, or party well, or whatever it is you’re doing tonight.

Terribly sorry, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 

Got your email—yes, timestamp noted.

I’m out. Drinking. Loud music, terrible lighting, questionable tequila. I’ll look at the draft during actual work hours. I promise.

Also, you do know that you’re allowed to exist outside work. Don’t apologize for thinking too hard. That’s half your brand.

Buzzing like a drunk bumblebee, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

Yoon,

Enjoy your night out. Try not to bully the DJ. May your drinks be overpriced and your lighting flattering.

And hey—hope you pull. You deserve someone mildly tolerable for a few hours.

Cheers, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 

The drinks are terrible. The lighting is flattering. I’ve technically pulled, but she’s more interested in the bartender now, which is fine because—

I miss you. You, and your midnight overthinking, and your Excel color codes, and the way you always say “don’t wait up” but still check your inbox five minutes later.

I miss you. Stupidly. Even while I’m here.

Yours at my own risk, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

Yoon,

Pray tell why you're getting drunk and you're "pulling" what I can assume to be ABGs whose names you won't even know in the morning, and yet you're still in the club, emailing me? Missing my drunken emails?

Why? Are the girls of Wall Street not enough for you?

Totally not jealous, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

I can answer this so simply, it won’t even be fun.

The girls of Wall Street will never be you.

No one will ever be you.

I'm not enjoying my night as much as I should because you're not here. I'm in the club, drunk AND emailing you. That should tell you everything.

Come out with me next time. Wreck my plans. Ruin the music. Steal my coat.

I may be playing with fire, but to hell with it.

Burning myself, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected] 

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

I can feel you overthinking all the way from here. You’re probably thinking that I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and regret all of this. That I will be unable to face you at work come Monday, when I am no longer drunk out of my mind and thinking you are the most brilliant, most gorgeous, most infuriating person alive. 

You will be right. Thankfully, though, these are—what do the kids call it? ‘Receipts’. You will have a paper trail. These emails will be between you, me, and that Australian guy from IT. 

He will know, and you will know, that I may have the most miniscule work crush on you. 

Jesus Christ. What am I? A high schooler? 

Let’s try that again: Love is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed. What I’m feeling for you isn’t love. It’s so much more than that.

Love sucks, and I need to sober up, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

Get home safe, Jeonghan.

Yours, with questions, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

You just called me Jeonghan.

Yours, with answers (maybe), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

That’s your name, isn’t it?

Stop e-mailing me while you’re at the club.

Fine. Yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]

P.S.: I may have the most miniscule work crush on you, too.

from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

i am  goi n    to die

Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]

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vernonline lfggg min9yu_k 🤮 JK! Congrats junhui_moon saw this coming from a mile away sound_of_coups Gorgeousss   ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n back off, bud. dk_is_dokyeom (˶ ˘ ³˘)ˆᵕ ˆ˶) love is love everyone_woo oh god what about our project   ↳ yourusername please check your e-mail. :)   ↳ everyone_woo fml.

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