Things I Want To Get Off My Head

Upon receiving the slew of concerning texts, you quickly go into 'fix Rin' mode: make the room smell like a bakery, unpack every blanket you own, and make copious amounts of popcorn. After becoming the most talented architect in your generation, the fort is complete.

With chairs stolen from the kitchen and a tunnel built beneath your desk, Rin's safehaven is built. Chips, popcorn, and sodas all sit prettily in the blankets while you wait for that familiar knock on the window.

Speak of the devil and he shall...bring candy? Suna crawls through your window in a fox onesie, arms full of various candies and eyes still red from what you presume is crying.

"Hey." He says simply, grin softening upon seeing you in that stupid mouse onesie he bought for your birthday. You sit up and hug him, candy be damned; with the way he practically collapses forward you know it was the right call.

His arms tighten around your waist and you fall back in that mountain of pillows, Sunas nose digging into your collar and deeply inhaling that scent that is so you. It tickles so you laugh, fingers weaving through his hair to gently scratch at his scalp.

"I made popcorn-"

"Oh my fuck, you made popcorn-" He groans, grabbing a bowl with inhuman speed. If there is one thing Suna Rintarou loves, it's your seemingly magic touch with all things microwave related. As you settle to his side, legs hopelessly tangled and backs propped against pillows, you click onto his favorite binge series - Godzilla.

Some time passes before either of you speak, instead letting his emotions settle.

"His name was Kenji." His voice startles you but you make no sign of replying. All you do is squeeze his hand - you aren't even sure when you grabbed it, or if he did. "I think they've been hookin' up at parties and shit. Maybe a dealer, dunno. I've been waning off so i'm outta the loop." It makes your heart clench for him. Your Suna, the same one who struggled to open up after his parents divorce. The one that finally broke and cried for five hours on your bed, you holding him the entire time. He may not show it, but he's sensitive. More than anyone you know.

His head drops to your shoulder, popcorn set aside as his eyes shut. Suna only sighs when you place an arm around him, holding him to the moment. "What do you want to do?" You speak softly. In moments like these he needs an outlet, a place to let his brain work without toxicity. Where you seek reassurance, he seeks silent support until he can stand on his own again.

"I broke up with her over text. Didn't even feel shitty." He exhales a heavy weight. "She didn't care either, jus' said that I should get tested." He scoffs in disgust but you feel his fear. You have your own fear too; that this girl got him sick because she was too selfish to let go. To appreciate that she took your Rin and made him hers. "Can't fuckin' believe 'Samu was right." He flops onto his back, snorting as you flail and fall with him. Your head tucks just under his chin, those lanky arms anchoring you in place.

"On the bright side, you get to have a revenge arc." You whisper in hopes of making him laugh. Thank fuck he does. "A whole glow up sequence, fix that fuckass face-" He smothers you with a pillow before you can finish, flipping your bodies so he hovers above your laughing frame. "This face? Really? C'mon mouse.." He drawls, deft fingers tickling your sides. You wriggle around, legs kicking his as you try to breathe between giggles.

"Ri-Rinnie!" You wheeze, dying further as he throws a bunny plush at your face. "Mercy, Rin, mercy!" You squeal but he just laughs, eventually relenting by dropping his full weight on you. "Ooph-" The air knocks out of you, his body borderline engulfing yours. If Oikawa saw you now...

"Am I crushin' you, mouse?" He taunts, nose poking up under your jaw. Now you feel flushed for a different reason; that low tone, out of breath from laughing. He'll know if you gulp, which you unfortunately did. "Somethin' wrong?" He continues pestering, lips now brushing against your ear as you struggle to work your mouth.

"Rin get your big ass off 'a me-" It's a weak response, not nearly as insulting as it could have been. That's how he knows. Your body feels like it's burning up in so many ways, painful and bliss at the same time. "Nah, I'm good where I am." He mutters, lifting his head to peek at you from beneath that ridiculous fox hood.

His eyes are half-lidded, lips pulled still into a victory smirk, and his skin flushed. Your own eyes dart everywhere, lips unconsciously parted. Suna has never felt so laser-focused on a detail in his life.

It's natural the way he leans in and the way you meet him, the kiss only staying gentle for a second before he groans and dives in, fairy lights blotted out by his frame as he cups the back of your head with a newly spoken hunger. It's so much but not enough - he bites your lip so you slip your tongue in, reveling in the sound of his gasp. Godzilla lays long forgotten as the pillow mountain gains a valley from where the two of you lay, permanently interlocked and content to die as long as he keeps kissing you as if you're some holy idol.

hey...hey...how yall doin'..?

extras:

Rin had to hype himself up that entire time

He went home and...yknow

EVERYTHING WAS OVER THE CLOTHES, RELAX (he wants to get tested)

uh oh communication

sakusa...

oikawa threw his phone (iwa was sleeping on his chest)

yall kissed for AWHILE.

yes he spent the night

yes you have matching onesies

“they’re journalists,” he mutters, pushing the phone back. “this is what they do.”

his agent groans, and what follows isn’t quite an eye roll (although it’s a near miss). if his gaze actually hit the ceiling, he could be out of a job. “doesn’t matter. sponsors want warmth. humanity. a pulse, preferably.”

sae decides to not play into the comments. and as his agent sits in his silence, he could begin to see why the public found him so unnerving. at first, “curious” was the word that they used. an attempt to romanticize the unknown of his character. weirdly enough, the word stuck around for a pretty long time—longer than expected. fans spewed theories online about who he might be on and off the field, speculated endlessly about both his personality and private life. though over time, that curiosity dulled, soured, and settled into something completely different than before. now, he’s looked at with discomfort. more recently, he was described as “crude”. 

“right now?” his agent clears his throat, “the public thinks you’re an asshole,” he leans forward, fingers lacing together. “and when the public talks, managers listen.”

that is what finally catches sae’s attention. and not because he cares what strangers think—he couldn’t care less about people making theories about him on social media—making a game of operation out of dissecting his personality. what matters is this: the last thing he needs is more cameras focused on his team instead of the pitch.

he drags a hand through his hair, then down his face, “so what? i don’t see why we can’t just make some public statement telling them to get over it.”

across the table, his agent blinks slowly at him. then, without a word, reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a biege folder, sliding it onto the table.

sae glances at the folder and then his eyes slowly trace back to his agent, who has the audacity to smile and usher him to open it.

“well, go on. look inside!”

he reluctantly flicks the folder open, eyes landing on the picture that’s been pasted front and center.

it’s you.

mid-laugh, mouth open, standing under the red carpet lights—is you. you’re waving at someone just out of frame, dressed in some designer’s latest work and heels that you embrace so naturally it’s as if they were second skin. the faces of the people standing in the background are blurred out, but it’s obvious that they’re starring. it’s safe to assume they adore you, the cameras surely do.

he flips the page, more from obligation than interest. he makes a quick scan of your profile: finds out your name and that you’re a model. apparently, you’re even a “social media darling”. overall, you have a pretty clean record. not a single misstep aside from an alleged boyfriend a couple of years back. one write up, bold and underlined even goes as far to call you, “beloved.”

he’s not impressed.

not by your smile, not by the headlines, not by the supposed perfection you wear. 

if anything, all of those factors makes him suspicious of you. this couldn’t possibly be your actual life. what could you be hiding? 

“she’s your fix,” his agent declares. “i mean, her spotless record? her image? she’s the kind of person who makes people feel something—or in your case? be something. something even remotely close to being human.”

sae makes a mental note to fire his agent after all of this is done. he’s sick of his jokes. raising a brow, he asks, “so?”

“so we stage a relationship, get enough photos to swarm the headlines. you could have a few interviews. maybe a red carpet appearance or two…you’ll be seen with her, and suddenly the media won’t think you’re a cold, selfish dickhead. they’ll just see you as misunderstood! private. selective. romantic, even?”

“she looks annoying,” he scolds, closing the file shut. 

“well, it’s not like you’re supposed to fall in love with her, itoshi. just hold her hand and smile like you’re not bored or plotting murder.”

inside, something disrupts sae. it’s not fear, most definitely not interest—could it be irritation? yes, he thinks, definitely irritation. 

because he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need it. definitely doesn’t need you to fix a narrative he never asked for. 

but still, he isn’t stupid. he’s calculatedand strategic. he’s the type of player who sticks to his game no matter how long they run. all because you can’t hate the player—you have to hate the game. 

“fine,” he blurts out, standing up to stretch. “let’s get this over with.”

his agent gives him a short nod, too busy checking his watch, “great, great. i think she should be here any—”

a knock interrupts him, but before either man can move to answer it, you’re already pushing the door open and letting yourself into the room. you walk into the conference room with a bounce in your step and a smile on your face.

sae doesn’t believe in theatrics. but if he did, he’d swear the entire room shifts the moment you enter. like the air itself exhales, finally remembering how to breathe.

“hi there! sorry i’m a little late—traffic was a mess, and i refused to let my stylist redo my hair just because the wind had an attitude,” you exclaim, half-laughing, as you pull your sunglasses from your head and tuck them into your bag.

your perfume follows you in—it’s sweet and floral. nothing that sae ever smelled before. 

you wave to everyone in the room, even tossing one back toward your own management team lingering behind you.

your manager, stylist, and pr rep all follow you into the room with a poor attempt at trying to keep pace with your own. they’re quieter, more focused, though are clearly used to the way you present yourself.

sae had already assumed you’d be annoying, and the moment he sees you? that assumption is immediately confirmed.

there’s just too much energy. too much movement. too much noise.

you spot him instantly and step towards him, eyes flicking over his appearance.

“nice of you to join us,” his agent smiles. “sae, meet your fake girlfriend.” 

you softly laugh, “girlfriend? wow, we’re skipping the small talk, huh?” then, smile still as evident and bright, you extend your hand toward sae, “pleasure to meet you.”

sae glances at your hand, then back at your face. he doesn’t take it.

“yeah,” he says, voice low and flat. “a pleasure.”

you don’t allow your smile to falter. you drop your hand with grace, tucking it into your pocket instead. nodding, you click your tongue in disapproval, “seems like this’ll be fun.” 

he sits back down in his chair. your heels click softly as you move to the seat besides him, settling in with one leg over the other. 

“so,” you chirp, “you’re the great sae itoshi. guess the internet wasn’t exaggerating about you.”

he doesn’t make an effort to reply.

you hum, “‘m guessing small talk’s off the table?”

he rolls his eyes, “do you always talk this much?”

you flash a grin, “only when i’m nervous.”

he studies you, expression unreadable as he bites the inside of his cheek, “alright, then let’s hurry up and sign these papers. wouldn’t want you getting too flustered hanging around someone as distracting as me.“

your manager slides a packet between you. which, after further investigation, you learn is a three-month contract. there’s no real obligations during your relationship with sae beyond the illusion you need to give off. you’re required to have: two outside documented joint appearances, one red carpet, one charity gala, and a fashion show appearance on sae’s end. after that, you’re free to stage a “mutual” breakup. one due to the “consistent clashes” from your career schedules. 

“well,” you chime in sae’s direction, skimming to the last page, “we don’t even have to like each other. just pretend we do.”

he meets your eyes, “i’m good at pretending.”

you give him a dry, unimpressed laugh, “so am i.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the back and forth motion of your pen against the contract. then, you slide the folder across the table toward sae.

you’d heard all the talk—the media speculation, the analysis of his private life on twitter, the words fans used to describe his presence. so it’s safe to say, you thought you knew what to expect walking into this. still, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. a little grace. you were hoping for professionalism at the very least, maybe even a halfway civil conversation. if you were really lucky, maybe he’d let some childhood story slip out. 

but the second you walked in and caught that look—sharp and dismissive, a quiet judgment—you knew exactly what this was going to be.

so you lean forward, elbows propped on the table, chin in your hand, “so, how do you wanna play our first public interaction? we need a strong debut…something cutesy, obviously. because if we’re doing this, it can’t be boring. i will literally shrivel up.”

he silently accepts the pen handed to him, flipping straight to the signature page of the contract.

you have to admit, watching a world-famous footballer size you up like you’re some sort of threat? it’s honestly hilarious.

“what about hand-holding on a picnic? oh—an amusement park date? i’ll pretend to fake swoon if you can manage to fake charm.”

“i don’t do charm,” he doesn’t bother to look up.

you smile widens, “great! and i don’t do dull. so we’re both making sacrifices. you know, most people would ask how i plan to fake-swoon. or at least pretend to care about the public’s reaction.”

the pen scratches roughly against the paper “good thing i’m not most people.”

your smile tightens a little, “right, you’re special… allergic to personality. that does stand out.”

with a quick flick of his wrist, he finishes his signature and finally looks up at you, “i just don’t like wasting time on things that don’t matter.”

“you think this doesn’t matter?”

“it’s fake,” he replies, fighting a sigh. “so no, i don’t think whether we hold hands or share a cupcake in public is life or death.”

you hum, unfazed, “of course you don’t. because you think this is all about you. in case it slipped your mind, my name’s on the line too. and your sponsors aren’t paying for an emotionally draining man with acting skills—they want chemistry, warmth, something human. you’re gonna need to show at least a little bit of growth by the end of this so-called relationship.”

his jaw tightens, eyes narrowing, “i didn’t ask for this.”

“and i didn’t ask to babysit someone who can’t even pretend to be likable,” you tilt your head, “but here we are.”

he leans back in his chair, “if you’re so good at pretending, just smile and do your job.”

you sit up straighter now, smile fading entirely, “say that again.”

the room goes quiet. even your team uncomfortably shifts in the background.

sae holds your gaze, his tone mockingly even, “you’re only here to fix a problem. don’t forget that.”

you lean back in your chair, arms slowly crossing. your eyes stay locked on his and to his surprise, you smile once more, “oh, don’t worry. i won’t forget.”

you don’t catch sae watching you leave. but you do hear his agent mutter a string of curses under his breath as the door clicks shut behind you.

it’s unfortunate that you leave the meeting with your jaw tight and your pulse louder than it should be. it’s unfortunate that you let such a irritable person get to you. 

but you can’t help it. there was just something about him—about that flat, bored tone and that unreadable face—that grates against you. he spoke as if he knew you. as if everything you’ve worked for could be summed up with a pretty smile and an empty laugh.

“don’t take it personally,” your manager tells you once you’re out of earshot. “he’s like that with everyone.”

you say nothing, you simply just keep walking.

the first appearance is set less than three days later, and you just happen to arrive ten minutes early.

you try not to read too much into it—but your nerves refuse to let you go so easily. you lean further against the cool metal railing of the parking garage and look down at the view below. crowds move in and out of boutiques, swarming around food trucks and pop-up shops. 

you’d meant every word during that first meeting with sae—you really were hoping your big debut together would be cutesy, maybe even rom-com worthy. anything, as long as it was something memorable. for instance a cute cliché photo op or a amusement park date that fans could gush over.

instead?

your grand “pop-out” happens on a mall date.

you should’ve expected this, since sae received the honors of choosing the location for today. of course he would pick somewhere like this—something entirely off-brand for you, a little standard and dull, just like him. it was so him to ignore what you might’ve liked and choose something purely for himself. how selfish. 

you hum to yourself and tap your phone gently against your palm. the screen lights up with a vibration, and you smile before even reading the notification. its a text from your manager:

[my winggirl🥹]: don’t let him get you out of character, gorgeous! remember, a little hand holding, one meal, and one outfit purchase is all you need and then you’re done! make sure to look atleast just a little obsessed with the man, okay??

you softly laugh, text back a quick spam of heart emojis, then swipe to your camera app. the outfit for today is simple: a solid black top, a matching mini skirt, as well as the sleekest pair of heeled boots you own. you catch your reflection in a car window and tilt your head, playfully posing. 

you practice your smile in the reflection for a little, before finally calling it a day and adjusting your hair once more. all in all, you’re camera-ready. 

everything’s set. everything’s fine. that is until—

“how nice of you to dress up.”

you whip around, “oh my god, do you practice sneaking up on people or are you just naturally creepy?”

there, standing behind you, sae stands in a replica outfit of yours. a pair of black jeans, a matching crewneck, and black shoes to top it all off. was it a coincidence he happened to match with you? or did your agency plan this out?

“you should be more aware of your surroundings.”

“well, hello to you too,” you mumble, dropping your phone in your purse. “didn’t know you had it in you to compliment someone.”

“that wasnt a compliment,” he replies. “i said you dressed up. that’s just a fact, no?”

“you’re so exhausting. no wonder your team begged for this fake relationship.”

he gives you a look over. 

“and you have the nerve to be late,” you add, crossing your arms.

“by…” he glances at his watch, “two minutes.”

you curse underneath your breath, and push past him. you make a bee-line for the garage exit stairway, heels clacking loudly against the floor, “two minutes can cost a headline. in case you didn’t know, punctuality is what creates chemistry and it’s important we give off that energy!”

that earns you nothing but an eye roll as he quietly follows your path.

you ramble as you make your way down the stairs, “we don’t even have to actually like eachother. but faking it works better when you stop looking like you’re in a hostage video—and for the record—” you look back at him. “most guys would be thrilled to be dating a model. even if it was for show! you’re the only person i’ve ever met who makes the entire experience feel like a curse. i mean, the fact that you can’t even act as if you’re happy is just—“

“are you nervous?”

you nearly trip on the next step, “what?”

he doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking, “you said you talk a lot more when you’re nervous.”

your breath catches from the pure absurdity of that asshole.

“oh, how nice of you to remember,” you snap, although it’s more of a clarification than anything. because somehow, he remembered. he listened.

and truth be told, you are nervous.

you snort, “didn’t think i left much of an impression that quick.”

“not a positive one,” he notes, making his way outside. 

under normal circumstances, you’d be thoughtful enough to choose to go to a store that you both could enjoy. but sae had decided to be selfish—deliberately picking a date spot he knew you’d hate. and while you’re not one get out of character—stray too far from your usual self, you retaliate with a choice of your own: the dainty boutique with two security guards stationed at the door. sure, it’s filled with delicate, designer dresses—but have a small section dedicated to suits too! how considerate of you. 

behind you, sae lets out a sigh so dramatic, you don’t even need to look back to know he absolutely hates this.

“why this store?” he grunts, staring at the pink ‘open!’ sign. 

you spot them the moment they round the corner—two different pairs of paparazzi, their cameras already raised and aimed in your direction. instantly, you turn and reach for sae’s hand.

his eyes narrow the second your fingers brush against his. “what are you doing?” he mumbles under his breath, low enough for only you to hear. he makes a slight attempt to pull his hand back.

you catch his wrist before he can completely retreat, intertwining your fingers with his in one fluid motion. “they’re watching,” you whisper, flashing a smile. “you’re supposed to be obsessed with me. now, play the part.”

he gives you a dry, unimpressed look. “seriously, don’t flatter yourself,” he tells you, but he doesn’t pull away this time—just lets his hand sit limply in yours. as if it pains him to be touched.

you give his hand a subtle squeeze and turn toward the boutique, leading him forward as the cameras click behind you. “you can hate this all you want,” you mutter through clenched teeth, “but if we’re doing this, you better commit.”

sae sharply exhales, biting back a comment as you lead himinto the store.

the boutique is a maze of clothing racks holding delicate, beautiful dresses. minty perfume drifts in the air and there’s soft instrumentals playing as background. luckily for you two, the shop already happens to be cleared out. there’s not one citizen in sight.

a boutique worker rushes to you with an eager smile—one that practically screams that she was prepped and fully briefed. she hurries to the entrance to signal the security guards, then quickly returns to you, motioning toward a display of brightly colored dresses.

“these just came in yesterday!” she exclaims. “would you like to try a few pieces?”

“yes, please! just give me one…” your eyes drift back toward the entrance you came through. outside the windows, you see that a line has already formed around the boutique’s entrance, cameras flashing so much that all you can see is white. the security guards make sure to block anyone from coming in. 

whatever privacy you had when you walked in is clearly gone.

you glance down at your hand, only now noticing that sae had let go. you look across the room, and it takes you a few moments to find him. but when you do? you find him a few feet away, standing with his hands shoved into his pockets, scanning the shop up and down with a frown.

you spot the worker, who is now peeking over at you two from the cash register. great. you give her a sweet syrupy smile and walk toward him, steps echoing in your path.

sae doesn’t move as you approach, but his eyes don’t fail to flick toward you.

without hesitation, you loop your arm through his, pressing in close until your side touches his. his body goes stiff at the contact—especially when your cheek almost brushes his shoulder. but he doesn’t pull away. that’s good, you think. good for the image.

you tilt your head up, and finally, your eyes meet his. when you speak, your voice is soft, “relax. you’re gonna make it obvious. stop acting like i bite.”

“maybe i’m hoping you do,” he whispers back, “so i can sue.”

you smile a little wider for the benefit of the worker watching from behind the counter. then, you shift so that you’re standing in front of him, leaning in until your temple rests against his shoulder. from the corner of your eye, you catch the way sae’s gaze sharpens, your nose hovering just near the line of his jaw.

“the boutique girl’s watching,” you coo, “and so are the cameras outside.”

he moves to look at the windows, but you use your hand to guide his face back to you.

“if you keep dropping my hand and acting like you’d rather be anywhere else, she’s gonna figure out this is fake in two seconds,” you let your fingers slowly trail down his arm before loosely lacing them through his again.

“i’m here aren’t i? that alone should say something.”

“we’re supposed to seem madly in love. not… co-workers forced into a group project.”

he exhales roughly through his nose, but he doesn’t shake you off. he doesn’t even do so much as look away.

“look like you like me,” you add, then glance at the boutique worker. you return your gaze to sae and give him a pointed look, “or at least act like i’m not annoying you to death.”

for emphasis, your grip on his hand tightens. after all, you weren’t doing this for your own amusement. this was for the boutique worker. for the photos. for the narrative. you try not to make a habit of doing things half-assed. 

still, you can’t help but notice—he hasn’t let go. in fact, he squeezes your hand back even harder.

you take advantage of that, dragging him over to a random clothing rack.

“help me pick something,” you chirp, holding two dress up to your chest. “something boyfriend-approved!”

he lazily scans the options before stating, “that one.” he points at one on the rack that you’re not holding, “that one’s not stupid.”

“wow,” you gasp, lips twitching. “romantic and poetic.”

you pick a few more outfits and make your way to the worker, asking, “fitting room?”

“right this way,” she guides you. “would your boyfriend like to wait outside the door?”

“actually,” you stammer, “he’s very opinionated. i think he should be in there with me.”

sae visibly chokes on air, pulling you close before whispering, “the hell i am.”

“relax i don’t want you to see me naked, weirdo. in there, at least you don’t have to worry about your public image.”

he glances back at the worker, and for the first time—you see a different expression plastered on his face. the switch is terrifying. he loops an arm around your waist, face melting into what you would assume is his wacky version of a smile.

“we’ll be quick,” he announces. 

and just like that, the curtain closes behind you two.

you find that the dressing room is small. really small. as in, it’s a hazard small. 

the two of you awkwardly shift around in the cramped space, doing your best to avoid brushing against each other. once you’ve each claimed your corner, you gesture for him to turn around.

“don’t look,” you warn.

he does as told, turning away without a word. you toss the dresses onto the bench and quickly reach for the zipper on your skirt.

“i’m not a perv,” he mutters, pulling out his phone. “trust me, the last thing i want is—”

“okay, okay,” you shush. “shut up, just don’t comment on anything.”

you slide on one of your many options. it takes you a while to zip it up by yourself, but eventually, you get the job done. 

“well?” you ask.

he turns around and glances up from his phone, eyes moving slowly, deliberately, from head to toe.

“it’s fine.”

you scoff, “fine? that’s it?”

“what do you want me to say?” he asks, and you can’t quite tell if he’s serious or not. “you’re not ugly. congrats.”

“i hate you.”

“feelings mutual,” he tilts his head. “you just like being told you look good.”

“turn around,” you direct him, moving to slide on another one of your options.

you can feel a lump form in your throat as you quote what he said. “‘you just like being told you look good,’ and you like what? brushing off your fans? spreading doom and gloom? oh please.”

your irritation only grows worse from there. you hastily slip into a few more dress options, ready to get it over with and escape the annoyingly cramped dressing room. when you’re finished, you finally move toward the curtain in a huff—only for him to catch your wrist before you can pull it open.

he’s not even looking your way when he speaks, “don’t act irrational. don’t you remember we still have an audience out there?”

you blink once, then twice. 

right. 

there’s an audience. 

you give yourself a moment to recollect yourself. then you pull the curtain back, just a few inches to get a look around before stepping into the light. you feel sae shift behind you, his hand resting lightly on your hip. 

for someone who’s never touched you before today, who acts as if he loathes you with his every being—he sure seems like he knows exactly where his hands belong on you.

you go to a few more stores after that, and somewhere along the way, sae even forces himself to initiate a few staged couple poses. in the past two hours with him on this date, you’ve learned that he’s most comfortable wrapping his arms around your waist. a simple gesture for the paparazzi to feed on.

eventually, you both end up on a park bench, food truck meals balanced on your laps while a not-so subtle crowd begins to gather nearby, phones pointed in your direction.

“are you gonna complain about the food too?” you judge between sips, eyeing him over your drink.

he peers down at the plastic container holding his steak, “depends. is it actually safe to eat?”

“well, if you die, ‘m not doing cpr. failed that test in high school,” you warn, placing your cup on the floor as he shakes his head.

“so….” you take a bite from your skewer, “did you always hate people, or is this new?”

“i don’t hate people. some just get on my nerves. you specifically are just…exceptionally good at it.”

you clutch your heart, “wow. you’re meaner in person.”

“i’ve been in person this whole time?”

“exactly,” you grumble with a long, exasperated sigh. “it’s been exhausting. i deserve double pay.”

it gets quiet after that, and you decide to fill the space by sharing your admiration for one of your favorite designers. you’re just about to finally switch topics when he interrupts you.

“do you ever stop to breathe?”

you snort, arms crossing lazily as you shoot him a look, “well i’m sorry, is my joy offensive to your pity party?”

“watching you is like i’m watching a permanent sugar rush.”

you grin, “aw, you actually pay attention to me?”

he scoffs under his breath, “occasionally.”

you lean toward him with mock curiosity, “seriously though. what’s your problem with me? you act like i’m a disease.”

he eyes your figure, “you’re always… loud. energetic. there’s no way that’s what you’re like when no one’s watching. has to just be for the cameras, no?”

you raise a brow, “what, you think i’m fake? huh, tell me how you really feel.”

“i just did.”

“well, i hate to disappoint, but this—” you gesture to yourself dramatically, “is very real. i’m not performing. i just don’t wake up every day wanting to punch sunlight in the face like you do.”

he shrugs, “i think most people hold some type of fakeness to them. especially in this industry. but you? you laugh like the world itself and everyone in it is something worth celebrating—worth romanticizing. that doesn’t happen unless you’re pretending.”

you stare at him for a second, lips quirking, “and you think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“i don’t care enough to figure you out,” he replies. then, quieter, “i just notice things.”

your teasing tone falters, “like what?”

sae bites the inside of his cheek, “at our first meeting i thought you were just loud noise. always talking. smiling. probably acted like every day was the best day of your life.”

you watch him intently, “and now?”

he hesitates at first. but then, “now i think… it’s kind of nice. that you can be like that, even with people watching. or not watching.”

your lips part slightly, “so—wait, you think i’m nice?”

“i didn’t say you’re nice,” he smirks. “i said what you do is nice. big difference.”

you roll your eyes, “so just to be clear, you don’t think i’m fake anymore?”

sae looks away briefly, then back at you, “i think you’re real in ways i didn’t expect.”

you try to speak, but nothing comes. he takes note of that, and instead of smirking or tearing you down, he softly reassures, “don’t get it twisted. you still annoy me, plenty.”

“you still act like a jerk.”

the rest of the time you two spend on the bench, he stays quiet—to avoid asking questions and making you get sidetracked, you think—as you talk about whatever comes to mind. he watches you absentmindedly twist your napkin between your fingers, doesn’t even interrupt when your thoughts drift into a ramble about some model you hate.

for once, in this moment, you find yourself actually willing to withstand him. 

your mall date had been a success. the results were actually better than expected. that day, you received three published articles, a huge boost in your follower count, a flood of different hashtags with your name beside sae’s—and the best part of all? your favorite part? the fan edits.

that was two weeks ago.

two weeks since the fitting room. two weeks since you shared a deep talk with sae. two weeks since the headlines labeled you sae itoshi’s “perfect match,” after seeing you both on two more dates later that week. 

and not a single text or call from him outside of the time you’ve spent together. 

not that you were expecting one, he’s made it clear that you aren’t exactly high on his list of priorities. neither does he exactly give off “i care deeply about my fake girlfriend” energy. it just came off as strange to you.

so when your pr manager messages you:

[my winggirl🥹] : livestream tomorrowwww! its at your house gorgeous. sae’s coming, make sure to keep it close. make them believe it! 

you nearly throw your phone across the room.

your home is yours. your escape. the only space he hasn’t been able to invade with his unreadable stares and silence. you don’t want him here—especially not with cameras watching your every move.

so you do the only reasonable thing.

you call her.

“please,” you beg. “can’t we do something else? a café, a picnic, a fake cooking class? anything but my apartment. that’s a huge step! and we haven’t even been supposedly dating for long so that’s, that’s—i mean there’s so much intimacy there!“

but she’s made it clear that this appearance isn’t negotiable. the audience wants to see intimacy. they want raw action of your day to day lives. they want to see sae—someone who’s known to be cold and off putting on your couch, in your kitchen, brushing shoulders with you in your own space. logically, this is the next step. if you were your manager, you would recommend a q&a livestream too. 

but you’re not. you’re you. 

you hang up and throw yourself onto the couch, groaning into a pillow.

when you push yourself up, you find yourself staring at sae’s contact on your screen for longer than you’d like to admit, thumb hovering over the call button.

you thought you should call him, just to see where his head is at. clarify a plan, maybe even a few rules. after all, he is going to be in your apartment. it would be weird not to at least touch base beforehand, right? 

before you can overthink it, you hit “call.”

it rings once, twice, three times.

you’re already preparing to hang up when—

“hello?”

his voice is low and familiar in the worst way. it scratches against your nerves.

“hi! it’s me.”

he’s quiet for a second, “i figured. there’s not really…well nevermind.”

you roll your eyes, raising your hands to look over your nails, “so… livestream, huh? at my place too, that’s new.”

“mhm, so i hear.”

“right, well—” you continue. “i just figured it might be nice to, y’know, not wing it for once. not that winging it wasn’t fun and all because it was, really! but this is different. there’ll be so many cameras in my apartment, more than i could ever keep track of. like, you’re gonna be sitting on my real-life couch.”

“are you worried i’ll break something?”

you fidget with a nearby couch pillow, fiddling with the fabric before pressing it snug against your chest, “no. i just… i think we should plan this one. it’s different,” you snort, “i’m being filmed inside my home. so, this is real personal for me.”

he’s quiet again, but this time it doesn’t feel so cold to you. more like he’s thinking. 

“alright,” he agrees. “let’s plan it.”

and though it’s just a word—something in you unclenches.

he said let’s. a synonym for “we.” a confirmation that he’s willing to actually hear you out, and make a plan because of your worries. your concerns. he’s being considerate. 

“okay,” you slowly drag out, as if his word might break if you say it too fast. “so…we’ll have a q&a livestream, right? they want something that shows we’ve been dating for a while. something that shows our lifestyles merging together. we need fake memories and—“

he hums, “i know how to act that out. i did it at the mall.”

“you don’t need to act like a boyfriend, sae. you need to act like my boyfriend. there’s a difference y’know.”

“whatever you say. guess i’ll trust your judgment.” 

you pause. he’s not usually this… affirming.

“anyway,” you mutter. “if you’re gonna be at my place, you’ll need to act comfortable too. like it’s not your first time being here. ill give you a facetime tour in a minute.”

“you want me to sit through a real estate presentation?”

“i want you to stop being difficult for two seconds.”

you expect him to say a smart comment back. instead, he hums. 

“i’ll bring coffee.”

“…what?”

“tomorrow. i’ll bring coffee. if i’m intruding into your apartment, might as well bring a housewarming gift.”

your lips part, but words don’t come.

someone bringing you coffee is a gesture that shouldn’t mean much—but coming from him, the simplicity of the thoughtfulness lingers longer in your head than it should.

“uh—sure! ueah. that’s good, i’ll just text you my order later tonight, okay?”

“okay.”

he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. the silence lingers for a long while, until—

“so, do you wanna facetime me so you can see my apartment? then we can talk about a few rules and all that stuff—“

“sure,” he says. and it’s faint, really faint, but you swear you hear him laugh to himself. 

true to his word, sae brought you a coffee the next morning. by then, a camera crew had already begun setting up. tall stands, lights—all sorts of equipment you couldn’t name if you tried, cluttering up your space. 

you hate it. the disruption and the random faces appearing in your home. sae’s presence is already an adjustment, but eight more strangers stepping into your space is far, far worse.

eventually, the crew clears out to go eat lunch, leaving you two with some privacy. you and sae end up side by side on the bench in front of your vanity, an uneasy silence between you.

then, you break the silence, “okay… are you ready, sae?”

he’s already pulling out his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly across the screen, “yeah.”

he props his phone onto the vanity, the livestream feed already visible on the screen. immediately, viewers flood in.

it doesn’t take long for the view count to reach over a thousand, as sae fails to make a habit of being on social media at all. for his fans? this was a shock. you watch as heart emojis and fire symbols flood the screen, ecstatically waving at the phone. 

sae angles the phone and taps on the pinned question at the top of the Q&A queue.

“how did you two meet?”

you glance at him, though he doesn’t make a effort to look back at you.

even so, your nerves don’t feel as if they’re tearing up your insides. you don’t feel the need to fill the silence with rambling—you don’t panic. because you prepared for this. last night, on the call with sae, you both agreed on the backstory of your relationship. you met at a charity gala, and bonded over a disinterest of the event. quick and simple, end of story.

“do you want to take that one, babe?” you ask, a sweet smile on your face. you were ready to pick up where he leaves off. 

“we met through mutual friends,” he replies. “at a party.”

you smile flickers away. your head turns slowly, eyes narrowing. that wasn’t what you agreed on.

you pull yourself back together, a smile snapping into place once more, “a really boring party,” you add. “if he hadn’t insulted me within the first ten minutes, i probably wouldn’t even remember it.”

“i was being honest—someone had to tell you that dress was trying too hard.”

you swear you can feel your eye twitch.

“wasn’t that the night i wore couture?”

he shrugs, “didn’t look like it.”

the chat does nothing but spam crying emojis and exclamation points. “omggg they’re so real for this,” someone comments.

you force a laugh and sip your coffee to stop yourself from snapping. sae taps onto the next question.

“who confessed first?”

with this question, the two of you weren’t supposed to talk over each other. you were supposed to lead with a statement. then, just like you practiced, he'd jump in after with a silly add on. 

however, the both of you answer this in unison. claiming, “neither of us.”

you hesitate to turn his way. but when you do, you wish you hadn’t done it at all. he stares back at you with that awful, goofy thing he calls a smile. you can't stand it. 

“i mean,” you backtrack, “it was kind of mutual. wasn’t it?”

sae nods, “something like that.”

that wasn’t the line either. can’t he do anything right? he was supposed to say he asked you out first in private. that he was shy about it, but sincere. something soft to make the fans believe it.

he’s blowing it all off.

sae reads out the next big question, “what’s your favorite thing about each other?”

you smirk and shove his shoulder, “you go first.”

he side-eyes you, leaning forward, elbow resting on his knee. then, he hums, “perhaps the fact she’s quiet when she’s sleeping.”

“seriously?”

you’re even more annoyed that he doesn’t even flinch when he says, “it’s peaceful. unlike now.”

you force out a laugh, “how sweet, right guys? personally, i love how emotionally guarded he was when i first met him. really made a girl work for it.”

the comment section is losing it. 

the screen is a mess of rapidly moving words, but you manage to catch a few glimpses of what people have to say. “this is peak love language” one reads. the other calming that you two, “bicker like old married people.”

sae slides a hand around your waist, and despite your urge to pull away—scream him at most—you lean in just enough to sell the lie.

the show must go on. 

he reads out the next question, “when did you know you were in love?”

this time, you’re not surprised when he goes off script. you simply stare ahead at the screen, smile straining at the edges. silently wondering if there was a loophole in disobeying your shared contract. 

the moment the livestream ends, you push away from the vanity, reaching forward to slam his phone face down.

you turn to him, arms waving around, “what the hell was that?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just leans back, one arm draped behind the bench, “what?”

you scoff, “what? are you serious? you went completely off script.”

he finally glances at you, giving you a look over, “relax.”

“no!” you snap, “don’t tell me to relax. we spent half the night going over what we were going to say—and not because i enjoy rehearsing fake couple stories with someone who clearly can’t stand me, but because i wanted this to be smooth. you said—you said—you were fine with the plan.”

sae looks away.

“and on the phone yesterday,” you continue, voice rising with every word, “you were actually…i don’t know. decent? you offered to bring me coffee i didn’t ask for. you were listening to me when i said this whole livestream thing with you in my house today made me anxious. you weren’t acting like a complete asshole. i thought maybe, maybe, you’d actually try to make this work.”

he stands up slowly, “it is working—“

“no, it’s not,” you grimace with a mocking tone. “you made me look like a liar. you made us look like a joke. we planned out a whole story—and you just threw it out because what? you were bored? was that it?”

he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. 

you step in front of him, “say it. say the reason—because i need to know, now.”

he finally meets your eyes, “i went off script because it sounded fake.”

“this is fake, sae.”

he nods, “exactly. but like you proved before, it doesn’t have to look like it. i had a feeling that it’d be easy for people to tell we were lying, i mean our story was just too cliche. so, i acted on it.”

you don’t fight back. instead, you silently glare at him, because you don’t want to admit he has a point. looking back on it? the curated story, the scripted affection—it was a little too perfect. clean, boring and safe. something that a pr team would write up, not people who actually know each other.

nonetheless, that doesn’t make his actions right.

“then why not tell me you were going to change it?”

“because you would’ve overcorrected…and i just needed you to trust me on this.”

you hate that his opinion stings more than it should.

he keeps going, licking his lips, “you’re too concerned with what people want to hear, with how they’ll see us. you forget the whole point of this is to convince them we’re real. not just marketable.”

you swallow back the lump forming in your throat, “and you think dragging me on camera and blatantly ignoring everything we planned made it look real?”

“we looked like a couple that fights. that annoys the hell out of each other. that knows each other too well to pretend we’re all preppy and perfect.”

the worst part about all of this, is that the audience did love your banter. the viewers did think that there was chemistry, that there was something real. the chaos, the bickering, the off-script tension? it played itself perfectly.

your chest is tight as you declare, “well…next time, tell me.”

he looks at you again, and you expect him to say fine or whatever, yet he gives you a reassuring, “okay.”

you pause, “you know,” you mutter, “i let you into my space. i told you this whole thing made me uncomfortable. i thought you understood that.”

sae takes a step toward you, “i do.”

“then why make me feel like i was the only one trying?”

“i am trying,” it comes out as if it’s hard to admit. “just not the way you want me to.”

you look at him for a long second, not knowing if that’s supposed to be an apology or another excuse.

and then you turn away and head towards the living room, leaving him standing there in your room. 

you knew what this was.

currently, you’re sitting at a café table across from sae. and besides the fact the scenery happened to be weirdly photogenic—every corner looking as if it were made simply for instagram (which isn’t sae’s style at all), what made it so special? was that it was home to the most exotic foods. a fact you vaguely mentioned in a conference room days prior, during a check up meeting with you and sae’s agency’s. 

you chose to eat in the rooftop seating, something nice and open. to your satisfaction, sae didn’t complain once. he even let you order for both of you—claiming that it was because he didn’t quite know what to get, as he’s not one to go out of his nutritionists recommendations.

the fact that he wasn’t on his phone right now only helped prove this was apart of his apology. apart of his effort. 

when your food comes, you pick at it, sunglasses perched on your nose, glancing across the table at him. he didn’t pay you much mind right now, choosing to stare at the scenery surrounding you both instead. but he was here, with you. eating a meal he normally wouldn’t eat, eating simply since it was recommended by you. that had to count for something, right?

until it didn’t.

“excuse me—sorry,” a voice interrupts. “are you…sae itoshi?”

you both look up.

the girl was pretty, though you cringed at the fact that she wore winter boots in the scorching hot summer heat. you recognized her instantly: a micro-influencer you’d met maybe once or twice at a after party. 

sae gave a short nod, “yeah.”

“oh my god,” she gushes, stepping dangerously closer to your table. “i’m such a huge fan! i didn’t think you’d be here.”

you don’t move or speak. just watch as her eyes flick between him and your untouched drink.

she leans in a little, pressing a hand against the edge of your table. “i hate to interrupt, but…is it okay if i get a quick photo? you’re just so hard to run into.”

you wait for him to say, “i’m eating with someone.” for him to introduce you as his girl. or if that were too much for him, he could simply introduce you as—well—you. anything to imply you’re someone to him and not some random girl who decided to sit at his table.

sae thinks for a minute, chewing his cheek before sighing, “sure.”

the girl shrieks and pulls out her phone, standing beside him and smiling as she snaps not one, not two, but five photos.

“you’re single, right?” she asked, giggling. “just in case i tag the wrong girl.”

“no—“

you laugh under your breath, standing from where you sat.

“i’ll help clarify,” you turn to her, removing your sunglasses. “hi. i’m definitely the girl you’ll be tagging. the one he’s been dating for—well, you could check the headlines for that.”

you watch as the recognition reaches her eyes. her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“and for future reference,” you take a quick sip of your drink, “if you’re going to flirt with someone’s boyfriend, try not to do it in front of someone who’s on this month’s vogue cover.”

the fan stammers and steps back, muttering apologies before scurrying away. the silence that followed felt louder than the café music.

sae watches as the fan leaves, “that wasn’t necessary.”

“wasn’t necessary?”

“she was just a fan.”

you laugh again, louder this time. “right. just a fan who flirted with you in front of your girlfriend. and you? you just let her. are you that oblivious? or—“

“i’m saying that she wasn’t someone of interest or importance, so it wasn’t worth the scene. all she wanted were a few lousy pictures—if i shoved that off, i would never beat the allegations you’re here to help defend.”

“no,” you push your plate forward, appetite long gone. “what’s not worth the scene is apparently me.”

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“i’ve been working hard since i was sixteen. i’ve walked for chanel, i’ve closed valentino, i’ve shot vogue, img, every major cover. do you think i need your name to be relevant? i don’t.”

“that’s not what i thi—“

“then act like it. because i’m not just some girl trying to present herself as a decoration to your being. i have my own damn life too.”

after that day, you stopped talking to him.

not completely—technically you still spoke—but only when necessary. only in the times where it was required so that you could get through your staged appearances. 

you still sat by him on couches and in press rooms, close enough to make headlines. still tilted your head toward him in pictures. still posted pictures and videos to feed the illusion of a happy relationship to the public. 

but the banter was gone.

you stopped challenging him when he teased you on camera. you stopped laughing, even fakely, at his dry remarks. if he made a joke, you let it pass without comment.

you gave him nothing more than what your contract required.

you hid your personality away, giving him a professional kind of distance. one that didn’t give him room to touch anything real again.

and somehow? that hurt worse than the argument ever had.

because before, there was tension—irritation, annoyance, a feeling of comfort here and there. beyond all, there was emotion. something that felt like life. something you could push against.

but now, there was just silence. a cold distance.

sae noticed, you know he did.

he started looking at you differently during events. he was more focused on your being, like he was trying to read between lines you weren’t speaking aloud. he even started texting you more—pointless questions, really. things he already knew the answer to. little excuses to start conversations you never asked for.

he made a habit of bringing you coffee, every morning without fail. still showed up with your exact order like it meant something.

but there was a caution in him, too. he chose his words more carefully around you, unsure of which version of you he’d be getting that day. the warm one he’d briefly known, or the version he’d made you retreat into.

it was always the latter.

still, he never asked about the distance. never brought it up. never said a word about the wall you’d built between you. you never offered him the courtesy of explaining, either. 

because after that argument, you’d decided that there was one thing for sure. you wouldn’t give anything real to someone who didn’t think it mattered

you wave your way through the red carpet, cameras flashing deliberately at your every move. you try to think of that instead of the fact that sae itoshi—your partner in public lies—is nowhere to be found on your big night. 

today was the day of your fashion show. or in other words, the final required joined appearance on the three month contract between you and sae. and while you two haven’t exactly made up from your argument, you have to admit—

you didn’t expect him to stand you up on your big day.

you soon discover that it’s not just you who notices, the press does as well. 

they call out your name as you make your way down the carpet, “where’s sae tonight?”

“trouble in paradise?”

“is it true he’s overseas?”

holy fuck were they annoying. 

“he’ll join later,” you reassure. “he’s proud of me either way.” then you wink at the cameras, continuing your way down the carpet as the paparazzi spews with follow-up questions.

you lied. you don’t know what he thinks. surprisingly, he hadn’t even texted you today with no pointless questions or clarifications about the event at all.

you pose once more for the cameras before stepping off the carpet and slipping into the backstage area. stylists rush by, assistants holding racks of gowns and headsets glued to their ears. the scent of perfume, steam, and hairspray invade your senses. you smile contently at the familiar smell.

you let your team pull you into your dressing room. you’re reminded that you’re the closer tonight—the final look, the centerpiece. you should be flattered. you should feel powerful and confident. 

instead, your stomach churns, and you can’t figure out why. 

perhaps its your outfit. 

the black mesh of your gown kisses your skin, decorated by a flower lace spirals down your hips. the bottom of the fabric flares out, allowing a train to form behind you.

its not something you’d prefer to wear, considering it’s strictly lace all over—but, you slip into it anyway.

for the image, for the look. for your job. 

unbeknownst to you, sae arrives ten minutes before the finale, quietly slipping through the back entrance. his manager had sent him what had to be over a dozen text, questioning him about his whereabouts. he knew he was late, didn’t care enough to explain.

he actually meant to skip the event entirely. 

it wasn’t that he didn’t have the energy to deal with the space growing between you—he planned to fix that. in fact, he was actively trying. when he gets a chance to hug you, he makes his hugs linger longer than they need to. he brings you your exact coffee order every morning without fail, hiding a little note on the cup he hopes you see. he even tries to playfully tease you to try and bring you out of your shell. yet, you won’t budge.

which is what made him figure that showing up tonight would only make things worse. with the way things stood between you, you’d probably just tense up the moment you saw him. the last thing he wanted was to make you more uncomfortable than you already were.

but then he saw your name trending. the photos from the carpet, and the video interview that followed.

you expected him to be there. scratch that, you wanted him to be there. 

the sight made him instantly call his private driver to pick him, quickly getting himself dressed in his best suit and tie. 

his jaw tightens as he enters the dressing room area, spotting your open door and the crowd around you. he notices the way a famous designer—one you once mentioned admiring—leans in too close. the way he places a hand on your hip. the way his mouth gets dangerously close to your ear, and most importantly? the way you laugh.

it’s not the fake one you’d been giving sae recently. its too bright and bubbly to be fake. 

he doesn’t realize he’s moving to make his way to your dressing room until a crew member stops him.

“VIPs only backstage—sorry, sir.”

he doesn’t even speak. just pulls out his lanyard, flashing his credentials like it’s routine.

his body moves faster than his thoughts can form. he thinks to himself, he can’t be doing this off of emotion. right?

because this—this thing between you two isn’t real. none of it is. that was always the agreement.

but then he sees your smile in his head—soft, easy, the kind you used to give him without thinking now aimed at someone else.

the more he thinks about it, something unsettles in his chest. its brief and stupid, so he forces himself to brush it off.

still, he doesn’t look away from your figure. 

and he really should.

you’re adjusting your earring when a low voice cuts through the noise.

“how nice of you to dress up.”

you freeze.

slowly, you turn toward him. sae leans lazily against the dressing room door. he’s relaxed with his hands in his pockets, all as if he hasn’t just decided to show up late on a very important night of your career.

“can everyone leave the room for a second? i think i can do the final touches.”

at your request, your assistants, managers, and the famous designer (who sae is glad to see go), leaves the room. 

“nice to see you too,” you mutter.

his eyes drag across your body. the slit in the gown that exposes the length of your leg. the way it hugs your curves and emphasizes them at the same time.

“talk about revealing, hm?”

you laugh, absolutely fucking stunned. you thought he showed his hand. every little surprise he had, yet he’s still coming up with new tricks.

“you’re late, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

he crosses his arms, “i thought you’d be fine on the carpet without me.“

“oh my—god, you’re unbelievable.”

“you look gorgeous.”

it’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. as if your ambition, your image, your career are somehow less valid than his mood.

“are you serious?” you hiss, rising to close the door. “you left me to walk out there alone. in front of everyone. do you know what that looks like?”

“you looked fine.”

“that’s not the point!” you yell. 

he keeps his tone steady, “then what is?”

“the point is, throughout this entire thing, despite your—the—your difficulty and initial hostility? i’ve shown up to every single one of your matches, even the boring ones. i’ve worn your jersey. i’ve smiled for so many cameras. i’ve done everything this stupid deal required—and more. you can’t even bother to show up on time?”

“i’ve never understood why you read so much into appearan—“

“i care when my name is on the line,” you snap. “and when i’ve spent months trying to convince people this is real.”

sae’s expression falters, just for a second. then he steps closer and scoffs, “you’ve been distant for how long? you barely talk to me unless there’s a camera pointed at us. you’re mad at me for being late, but you’ve been gone longer than that.“

you shake your head, “that’s not fair. that’s not the same.”

“feels about the same.”

“no. you did it out of pettiness. i was hurt.”

the room goes still.

you stare at him. his chest rises and falls with quiet restraint. he’s looking at you like he wants to say more. like he wants to fight, but instead, he breathes out your name—soft and gentle.

from the hallway, you can hear as the producer’s voice yells, “thirty seconds! final model ready?”

thats your cue. 

“i’m ready!” you yell back.

you move to step past him, but sae catches your wrist.

he doesn’t speak right away, taking time to curate his words, “…i was out of line.”

you gape at him.

“for the way i handled everything in this…bond of ours. the way i handled the fan situation a few months back. the way i made you feel as if you had to hide yourself from me. all of it.”

his voice stays quiet and controlled, “all of it, that’s on me.”

your lip quivers. he’s never said anything like this before.

finally, he meets your gaze, “but understand that this is all new to me. and in the end, you were being genuine. i wasn’t ready for that.”

your throat tightens at the confession.

before you can say anything, the runway producer calls your name once more.

you gently pull your wrist from his hold, “we’ll talk after.”

the runway ends in flashing lights and applause. you close the show, and when the curtains fall, you’re swept into a crowd of hugs and praise from your colleagues.

and when the crowd parts, sae is waiting.

he doesn’t say anything, simply nods toward the back exit. you bite your lip at the gesture, your mind pulling you between the decision to stay or go. almost too naturally, you follow.

the limo is quiet when you slide in, the driver closing the door behind you before standing promptly against the car.

sae sits across from you, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, “i meant what i said.”

you make a move to speak, only to be interrupted. 

“i didn’t think your opinion on me would matter,” he mutters, eyes fixed ahead. “but apparently it does.”

you lean back, watching him carefully, “you used to act as if you hated being around me.”

his mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile, “you still annoy me plenty.”

you huff out a laugh.

“for instance,” his hands reach out to your waist, deliberate, and slow. “with how far you are,” he tugs you forward until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. “been ignoring me for how long?”

you shift on his lap, “you deserved it,” you whisper.

“you’re right,” he glances down at the slit of your dress. “so, let me make it up you.”

before you can answer, his hands drag along your sides, settling at your hips. his thumbs press into the curve of your waist, grounding you.

“sae,” you warn.

but its useless, he’s already on you. 

his mouth crashes into yours, and suddenly your detached from every reason you had to stay angry. you brace your palms against his chest, meaning to push him back, to keep the wall you’ve built between you intact. but the moment your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, you only pull him closer. he’s so warm—close, his cologne wraps around you. did he always smell this comforting?

you want to resist, to tell him that this isn’t enough. that apologies should come in a change of actions, and not kisses—but then his tongue slides along the seam of your lips, and your body betrays you. you part for him without thinking.

it’s a mistake. the second he slips inside, he groans. his lips move with yours—you hate how he’s so slow. he moves with a punishing precision, taking in every movement. taking his time, refusing to take a single second of you for granted. his hands roam, one sliding up your spine to anchor you closer. 

you’re melting in his hold. and fuck, do you hate that you’re melting.

you were supposed to still be distant, untouchable. but the way he kisses you makes it impossible to think about anything like that at all. his body is flush against yours, you can feel your chest rising and falling. 

your fingers curl tighter into his shirt. you tilt your head, deepening the kiss, to match the pace he’s set. it’s now messy and fast.

you should pull away.

you should remind yourself why you were angry in the first place. because of how careless he is with your feelings. but instead, your back hits the plush seat cushion, and you let him press you into it. 

he breaks the kiss for just a second, panting, his forehead resting against yours. his breath fans over your lips, and you hate how much you want him to kiss you again.

your voice trembles as you whisper, “i’m still mad at you.”

“we can always stop,” he breathes out.

you stare at him more intently, gently brushing your thumb against his cheek. "don’t torture me. please, sae just kiss me already,” you whine.

he doesn’t wait for permission this time. his mouth finds yours again—somehow deeper—and your anger fractures completely. all that’s left is the ache in your chest, the burn beneath your skin, and the way his hands roam like he’s starving to feel every part of you.

you kiss him back harder, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him even closer. you groan into his mouth.

you feel his lips pull away, and hear him laugh. you open your eyes to be sure, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he’s actually smiling. not the awkward, forced kind you’ve seen before, this one is natural—real. and this time around, somehow, it doesn’t look out of place on him.

you’ll be mad at him later. right now, you just want to feel him.

sugawara koushi. kageyama tobio. kenma kozume.

oikawa tooru. akaashi keiji. atsumu miya.

shirabu kenjiro. semi eita. koganegawa kanji.

©chevxyn

"y/n, the ball!" one of the staff called, tossing you a pristine match ball with a wink. "you said you wanted to try shooting into the net, right?"

your groupmates giggled behind you, forming a semicircle as the cameras followed your every step toward the box. you adjusted your mic pack, tucking hair behind your ear, and glanced subtly (you hoped) toward the bench again.

you turned toward the net, and then you ran. your heel clipped the grass like second nature, leg extending, power snapping through your body as you shot. the ball arced beautifully, maybe not pro level, but definitely impressive, and slammed into the top right corner. the crowd erupted. you turned to your group with a mock bow, biting back a laugh, then made the mistake of looking toward him again.

he was standing now, still infuriatingly calm, but the tip of his ears were pink. and when your gaze caught his, something hot sparked between you. a challenge, maybe?

you knew he'd find you later. backstage, behind closed doors, away from the lights and the cameras. where he'd drop the act, and you'd stop pretending not to want him just as much.

⭑

the roar of the stadium faded as you made your way down the tunnel, surrounded by staff and dancers, a towel around your neck and your in-ears already yanked out. you could still feel the high from performing, heart racing, limbs humming with energy. but all that paled next to the anticipation curling hot in your stomach, because he would come. he always did.

your group's dressing room was chaos. makeup touch-ups, high-pitched laughter, water bottles cracked open, stylists gushing about your goal shot like it was the winning penalty. you smiled, nodded, laughed where appropriate.

but when your manager got distracted dealing with a reporter, you slipped away. the hallway was quieter. the hum of the overhead lights and the low thud of music from the arena's speakers filled the silence. your heartbeat still hadn't slowed from the adrenaline of the stage, but now it pounded for a different reason. and then: footsteps.

you turned, and there he was. hair damp, jersey clinging to his skin, eyes locked on you like gravity. sae itoshi, who didn't smile for the cameras, who barely spoke in interviews, who only ever softened when the world wasn't looking.

so you ran. shoes echoing against the flooor, stage makeup still fresh, lungs tightening, but you crashed into him with all the weight of everything you'd held in for weeks. his arms caught you easily like they'd been waiting. neither of you said a word.

you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in sweat and mint and him, clinging to his waist like the moment would slip if you loosened your grip. and he just stood there, arms around your back, the curve of his palm resting warm against your spine.

after a beat, you heard it, quiet and muffled against your hair: "you killed it out there."

you laughed softly into his collarbone. "you watched everything?"

"course i did," he murmured. "saw you shoot like you owned the pitch."

you leaned back slightly, still in his arms. "we're not supposed to do this in public, you know."

he gazed down at you, eyes lidded and heavy. "you think i care right now?"

you stared at him and he kissed your forehead, quick and hidden in the shadows of the tunnel, but it said everything. you were his secret but never once had you felt like a second choice. the silence between you stretched. you both knew your teams were looking for you, knew someone could turn the corner and catch you here, wrapped up in each other like this. but neither of you moved.

"you looked good," he finally said. "on stage."

you let out a soft huff. "you looked good scoring two goals."

he shrugged. "only did it 'cause you were watching."

you raised an eyebrow. "don't start acting all soft on me now."

he smirked, tugging you in by the waistband of your performance skirt. "you want me to lie instead?"

you tried to step back, but he didn't let go. just looked at you like he had all the time in the world.

"you didn't tell me you were performing," he murmured.

"wanted to surprise you."

he gave a small laugh and then fell silent again. his thumb grazed your hip, absentmindedly. "i hate this part."

"the sneaking around?"

"no. the part where i have to let go."

you swallowed. "you don't have to."

he exhaled slowly through his nose, then leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "ten minutes."

you nodded. "okay."

he didn't move for a moment, like he was mesmorizing your face in this exact second, eyes glassy from effort, glitter still dusted across your cheekbones, lips parted like you were about to say something else. but you didn't. because he kissed you.

not rushed or hungry, but slow with intention. his hand slid up to cup your jaw, and your fingers gripped the sleeves of his jersey like it was the only thing anchoring you to earth. it was gentle but deep, like he'd been holding it in for days.

and God, did he taste like everything you missed. you curled your hands into his chest, pulling him closer, even though there was nowhere left to go. his nose brushed yours when he broke the kiss for breath, but his lips didn't leave yours for long, pressing another against the corner of your mouth. then your jaw. then just beneath your ear.

It wasn’t a problem at first for Sae. When you’d had your first kid, a daughter, she’d been a carbon copy of you. Her sat at your bedside, her swaddled in his arms as he whispered about how pretty she would be since you were her mom.

You two had named her Yuki, since she was born on the winter solstice. Snow. When that pang had shot through Sae, he thought nothing of it.

That changed the minute he saw his second born- his son. Haru still looked more like you than Sae, but his eyes, that teal color that seemed to rewind time itself. It stopped his heart. Those big round eyes, taking in his father for the first time. Sae almost collapsed.

Haru and Yuki got along well enough, and he was glad. Really, he was. Yuki seemed born to be a big sister. When Haru was still a baby, she’d litter kisses along his head while they played and insisted that she’d help feed him. She helped Haru take his first steps, and was the reason Haru laughed for the first time.

All of the adults that knew the pair would say the same exact thing: “Those two will be friends forever.”

Sae would always swallow the lump in his throat, which somehow would work to soothe his rapidly beating heart.

Everyone used to say the same thing about him and Rin after all when they were his kids’ age. Rin wasn’t around anymore though. He’d been in a car accident. He’d been crossing the street when a semi ran him over, killing him almost instantly. Sae could see his brother’s body still, lying pale and still as stone in his coffin. Those teal eyes would never open again, never stare at him as if he’d single handedly hung the stars in the sky. People would mutter than it was on purpose for years to come, but that couldn’t be true. Sae knew, it was an accident.

And he’d never gotten the chance to apologize for the fight he didn’t even know was happening.

When Haru first started acting like Rin, you had recognized the signs but Sae instantly got put on edge. It started from as young as Haru being six months old. He had been focusing so hard on rolling over onto his stomach. You, Yuki, and Sae had been sitting in the living room, you and your daughter cheering on as Haru struggled. Sae was smiling down at his son, his heart softening, before it gave a tight squeeze. Sae's eyes widened as he saw Haru's tongue peeking out from his lips. The tiny pink thing was pushed off to the side when Haru finally managed to successfully flip onto his stomach. It hung out a little bit as Haru smiled and you laughed at how cute your son was. You used your finger to poke it back in, and Sae felt like he was going to throw up.

Two years later, Yuki had been watching a TV show while Haru played with blocks next to her. She’d gotten up to use the bathroom, but as she did, her show ended and another program started to play. It was a nature documentary about dinosaurs, and it had a particularly gruesome display of a T-Rex taking a chunk out of another animal. Haru was mesmerized, before Sae and you rushed to turn the TV off. Yuki got an earful from you, but Haru instantly began bawling. Sae did his best to comfort his son, but Haru was adamantly crying for the next ten minutes, pointing at the TV that never got turned back on.

A few days later, Sae noticed Haru miming his stuffie dinosaur eating Yuki’s Barbie. Sae just told him to stop playing so violently, and ignored the way his mind was reeling.

When Haru was four, there was one day he and Yuki were eating ice creams in the kitchen during a particularly hot summer day.

“Did you win?” Yuki asked. Her face brightened into a smile as she cheered, “Yes! Got it!”

Haru narrows his eyes as he checks. He pouts and mumbles, “I lost.”

You giggled and petted your son’s head as he complained that I always lose! It’s not fair! Sae made a mental note to never buy that brand of ice cream again.

As you stood at the sink and washed the dishes, Sae walked up beside you and said sourly, “I thought they didn’t do that with the popsicle sticks anymore.”

You just shrugged, unbeknownst to the turmoil he had raging in his chest.

Everything eventually reached a head when Haru was old enough to know what soccer was. He'd been fascinated by his father's games since birth, and one day at the park, he'd raced up to a few older boys and asked if he could play. Initially, he'd just been brushed off, but his nagging got insistent enough that the older kids let him join.

Sae had been pushing Yuki on the swings when he heard the commotion from their group. He'd looked up and saw it then. Haru was shoving one of the boys away from the ball, the older kid shouting about how rough Haru was being. The young boy was ignorant though and played with the same brutality Rin had grown to cultivate though.

He was ruthless to himself. By the time Sae collected Haru to head home, he was covered in dirt stains and was bleeding from scratches all over his arm from the mulch. He had a nasty bruise forming on his shin, and when Yuki panicked, Haru brushed it off.

"Oh, this? One of the older kids accidentally kicked me too hard. But daddy! Did you see that amazing cap trick I scored?! It was just like in your last game!" he squealed.

Those teal eyes. His eyes. Rin's eyes. Haru watched Sae's face with enthusiasm, as if his life and death would be determined by whatever Sae was about to say. They were bright and glowed with the sun making them burn like fire.

Sae could only clear his throat and take Haru's hand in his. "It's called a hat trick. Don't play so rough. Let's go."

But Haru didn't listen. He never would. He pushed himself harder and harder, seeking out anyone who would play soccer with him every time they went to the park. Sae warded Haru off of the sport as best he could, but his son's hunger was insatiable. Haru would join games of middle schoolers some times, despite being barely five years old. Yuki wasn't even ten!

One day, the doorbell to his house had rang. When you and Sae went to the door to check who it was, your heart broke as you saw Haru on one of the boys' backs. Another stood in front and said, "I think he twisted his ankle. He started crying really badly while trying to steal the ball from Ken, and he couldn't walk."

Sae felt a bolt of white hot rage towards his son echo through his body. This is why he kept warning Haru. The game was dangerous especially when playing with people who had you out numbered and outmatched! Why couldn't his son have just gotten that.

Sae was silent on the drive to the doctor's. Yuki sat in the backseat comforting her brother while you kept giving his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel an odd look. On the drive home, Sae couldn't contain himself anymore.

"I told you this would happen, didn't I?" he growled. Yuki goes silent beside her brother and you freeze. Sae presses on. "Haru! Answer me!"

Haru's bottom lip trembles as he croaks, "Yes-"

"Then why wouldn't you listen to me, huh?! How could you be so . . . so . . . stupid!" Sae roars.

When the four of you get home, you scoop Haru into your arms and Sae all but yanks Yuki from the car. You guys walk inside, and Sae fixes a stern glare at his son. He practically hisses, "If I ever see you go near a soccer ball again, you'll pay hell, do you understand?"

Haru could only nod, terrified of his father's iciness. His teal eyes wet with tears that are now freely running down his face. Whereas his eyes used to be wide with awe before, they're now wide with horror and fear. Haru trembles and clutches his dinosaur plushie close to his chest.

When Sae looks up, he almost flinches at how horrifying angry your expression is.

"Yuki, take Haru upstairs. Your father and I need to talk."

Sae doesn't bother to check if his kids actually leave. He hears their footsteps on the stairs and that's enough for the two of you to start going at it like lions. Father of your kids or not, no one speaks to your son or daughter that way.

"What the fuck was that Sae?" you ask incredulously. "How fucking dare you call him stupid!"

"He was," Sae's voice is low and menacing. "He was being stupid and callous with his health and look at where it got him! You saw how swollen that ankle of his was!"

"And you saw how heartbroken you made your son, didn't you?" you shout brushing past Sae and into the kitchen. "He looks up to you you idiot. You're his dream. You should know that by now!"

"If he really did, he would've listened the first time I told him to give up! His dream isn't worth getting hurt over, not like I did-"

"Sae shut up!" you scream. "He's not Rin!"

Sae freezes. "The fuck did you just say?!"

"You heard me loud and clear! He's. Not. Rin."

"How fucking dare you-"

"You think I haven't noticed it too?! I knew Rin too!"

"NOT LIKE ME!" Sae roars, his voice cracking. "NOT LIKE HOW I DID!"

He crowds your space, and you stumble back against the counter. "You knew this whole time," Sae growls, "and you've just been letting me suffer in my loathing all alone?!"

"You have never been alone with me, and you know that," you retort, just as venomously. "If you never came to me with your sorrow, then how the hell was I supposed to help?"

"Shut up!" he shouts. You've never seen Sae this unhinged before. He's unraveling at the seams. "Shut up!"

His baby brother. The truck. It's all he can think of whenever he sees Haru. He's had so many nightmares of Haru's body lying in that coffin or on that street, his limbs bent every which way, his teal eyes-

His eyes. The eyes that would flutter closed as Sae would read him a bedtime story, or would light up whenever Sae made an assist for a goal in a game, or would collect tears when Yuki said no to playing together.

Those same eyes stare back at Sae in the mirror with loathing etched into every crease of his iris. Sae feels his self-hatred in every fraction of his body. His heart is full of it and his brain echoes it across his entire nervous system. He's alight with pain all the time, and he's tired.

He can't stand to stare into his eyes a second longer. Rin's eyes. Haru's eyes.

Haru's eyes are staring up at him now.

"Haru get back here!" Yuki shouts yanking on her little brother's arm.

But Haru doesn't move, he doesn't even flinch, twisted ankle and all. He stands in front of you protectively, his little 3 feet a solid wall from his father's rage.

"Don't yell at her!" he sobs, his cheeks covered in tears.

"Go upstairs Haru," Sae says lowly.

Haru shakes his head, even as you repeat Sae's sentiment. "No! Not if you're going to yell!

"Haru-!"

"Why do you hate me so much?!" Haru asks hysterically, his voice high pitched and squeaky. "What did I do?! I don't know what I did!"

Sae steps back as if he got punched. Haru's entire body is shaking with tremors as he continues to cry. He shakes his head and sobs, "You look at me different than you do Yuki or Mama! You look like you want me to run away and never ever come back! You look at me like you want me to do nothing forever, and be nothing! Sometimes I wish I was never born!"

"Haru!" you shout in horror. You kneel down and try to take your son into your arms, to provide him with some comfort, but Haru shoves away from you and takes a step towards Sae, who's recoiling from his son in horror.

"What did I do, daddy?!" he asks desperately. "Why do you hate me?!"

A deafening silence fills the kitchen. You and Yuki watch helplessly as Haru cries himself stupid. His tears stain the tiles on the floor and wet his shirt. Snot runs from his nose as he watches Sae with those same haunting eyes.

Eventually, Yuki whispers, "Haru, let's go upstairs, please. Daddy doesn't hate you, let's please just go upstairs."

Haru turns just a little, ready to follow his sister, but suddenly Sae falls to his knees. You and your kids flinch at his anguished expression, the one that has seen a lifetime of pain despite just barely being halfway through his life. Sae is sobbing uncontrollably, a sight you've never seen. Not when you got married, not when you had Yuki or Haru, not even when Rin died. Although now, it seems that pain is finally rearing its ugly head.

"I . . . I don't- fuck. Haru, no," Sae moans, grieved. He crawls across the floor and immediately takes his son into his arms, crushing him against his chest. "I'd never hate you. I'll never hate you. I'll love you forever and ever and ever. I'm so sorry. Daddy's so sorry. Forgive me please. You can play soccer. You can watch TV and fight with your dinosaurs and do everything you ever want, but please Haru never think that Daddy hates you because he doesn't. He doesn't. I don't. My boy. My sweet baby boy."

Sae's breath is coming in short intervals now, on the verge of hyperventilating. He squeezes his son tighter against his shirt and sobs into Haru's hair. "Never. Never ever. I'll never hate you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive me. Daddy loves you. I love you. I love you, forever and ever. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry-"

His breath hitches as you tilt Sae's head up to look at you. You're not smiling down at him, but your eyes hold a softness they were void of just moments before. Sae's own eyes are wild and messy, muddy with his tears. Haru is curled up in his father's arms, crying into his dad's chest.

You put your hand on Haru's shoulder and begin prying your son from his dad, but Sae holds fast, desperate to not let go of his boy. His only boy. His sweet baby boy.

God, what has he done?

Eventually, Sae lets go of Haru, and you give your son to your daughter. "Both of you, upstairs. I'll come tuck you in soon, okay?"

They nod, and Yuki hurries upstairs, carrying Haru in her arms. You turn back to your husband and cup his cheek in your hand.

"Relax for a moment. Then come upstairs. I'll be in our bedroom. We need to talk."

"I'm sorry," he blurts, grabbing your wrist. "I'm-"

You kiss his forehead and he falls silent. "Shh, we'll talk later. Just . . . we both need to cool down first, okay?" When Sae nods, you smile the tiniest of smiles, and head upstairs as well.

He sits in the silence for an hour, a day, a week, who knows really? Eventually, Sae heads upstairs. He walks down the hallway to your bedroom, but pauses when he sees the light on in Haru's bedroom. Haru's scared of the dark after all, and falls asleep with the lights on, for you or Sae to come later and turn them off.

When Sae cracks open the door, Haru is asleep in his race car bed, his dinosaur tucked under his chin. Sae's heart almost gives out as he walks into his son's room. You left the light on on purpose, for Sae to do this now. He flicks the switch to the lamp off and kisses Haru's head, petting his hair with his hand.

His son. His only son. He's fucked things up so badly hasn't he? Just like with Rin.

Sae sobs again and shakes his head. He stays there, kneeling next to Haru for another horrible minute, before standing and making his way to your bedroom. You're sitting with your back to the headboard, your knees drawn up to your chest, staring down at your hands. You look up as he walks in, and Sae closes the door behind him, shutting the rest of the world out to the two of you.

being childhood friends with itoshi sae had been both the most beautiful and most traumatic experience of your life.

when you both were children, being best friends with sae meant co-parenting his brother with him. you would go to their practices and matches every now and then, spend your entire monthly allowance on ice cream that would always tell you you were going to have bad luck, play with dinosaurs instead of dolls and sleep in a too-small-for-two top bunk with the redhead while his little brother kicked the mattress from below in his sleep.

that made you happy, though. their parents never minded having you around all the time —they actually appreciated that their kids had at least one friend outside their football team, and your parents liked the brothers, so they gave you the freedom to spend time with them. they would let you sleep over at their house every weekend, ask santa for presents for them too, and invite them to every one of your birthdays. 

that’s why, right after your thirteen birthday, when sae told you he was moving to spain to continue with his training, you felt your heart break for the first time.

things changed, then. even though sae was who really connected you to his family, rin had you as a big sister too, and sae leaving only brought you closer to him. you never stopped going to his practices and matches —your phone always in hand, recording him and sending all the videos to his brother. rin didn’t ask for it anymore, but you would invite him to walks and ice cream whenever you could —tagging sae in the pictures you would post, with the luck you two had gotten in the snacks; and watching childish cartoons with him whenever you stayed over at their house —messaging sae that the top bunk was now all yours, and rin still kicked the mattress in his sleep, babbling incoherent words about being the best player in the world.

you were a bit insecure about it at first, but sae answered all your videos, pictures, messages and calls. you knew he was a famous player now, and you always went to the itoshi’s house to watch his matches with his family at unmentionable hours due to the time difference —so, even if you were definitely more distant than when you were kids, he was still your best friend, and you were still his. no country, time zone, or ocean could ever change that.

or so you thought. it was two years later when you realized you loved him. 

that's wrong, though —of course you had always loved him. apart from your family, he had been the only consistent presence and support in your life. rin was like a little brother for you too, and, for some reason, your friend group changed members all the time, so you had never had a friendship like the one you shared with sae. you loved him for that. 

but you loved, loved him too, and it took you some years and a few dumb conversations with your friends to realize it. 

at fifteen, everyone in your class liked gossiping about crushes, first kisses, and relationships that never lasted more than three weeks. your friend group at the time was formed by a some girls and a few boys from your class, and all of them liked or were dating each other. you were the only one left out, not because you weren’t likable —you had sae on the phone for almost a full hour when a guy from your extracurricular classes confessed to you, but you didn’t like him, and you didn’t know how to reject him— but because you weren’t interested in dating at all. 

you wouldn’t call yourself popular, but you had a good relationship with all your friends —not like with sae, though—. you found people attractive, but never enough to feel the urge to kiss them —plus, none of them had eyes as pretty as sae’s, nor smiles as cute as his—. you were aware of the rumors about the guys that had a crush on you, but you preferred to act like you didn’t know about them —yet, you would message sae about it, asking him for advice in case any of them tried and confessed to you. 

it was at a sleepover with the girls in your friend group, after almost forcing them to put the international football channel on the tv at midnight because sae was playing, when one of them brought up the topic. 

“have you ever thought that you like that football boy you’re always talking about?”

and, no, you had never thought about it at all until they mentioned it. because sae was your best friend just like rin was like your little brother, and you had spent too many hours complaining to him about the boyfriends and girlfriends in your class for a thought like that to ever cross your mind.

“no.” you had answered then, if only a few seconds too late for your friend to grin widely and point at you, her voice too loud for the time it was when she laughed.

“you do like him!” she exclaimed, full of excitement for discovering, finally, that the i-dont-want-a-boyfriend—yn did actually like a guy “yn has a crush on a boy! and it’s his best friend!”

luckily for you, the girl’s parents had woken up with her loud exclamations, and it didn't take long for them to enter her room to scold all of you for staying up so late. they made you turn off the tv, too, a little surprised to see spanish football there instead of some silly teen movie. 

you weren’t worried about the rumors spreading because no one in your class knew sae or rin anyway, and they shut off quickly because you never said a word about it. however, that thought had been already implanted in your head, and you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

i like sae. i like sae. i like sae? i love sae. oh, i love sae.

so it was at fifteen that you realized you were in love with itoshi sae, but you were too scared to tell him —he was still living on the other side of the planet, and you knew it wouldn’t make any difference anyway. besides, you liked the relationship you had with him at the moment, texting often, calling sometimes. you talked to him about rin, and you knew rin talked to him about you, too —you would never forgive him for sending his brother the pictures from when you had fallen in a mud puddle, and you knew sae’s profile picture for your contact was a photo of you with his old jersey, sleeping in his old bed that his brother had taken.

the next two years had you learning to live with the fact that, for your misfortune, you were very much in love with itoshi sae. you had always thought about him constantly, but it was different now —because when you were told a story that you wanted to share with him, you knew it was because you liked him. when you listened to a song that reminded you of him, you later realized it was about love. when you were feeling down or stressed because of the increasingly approaching date of university entrance exams, the only thought that comforted you was having him close to you, hugging you —and on days when your mind felt too bold, kissing you too.

but sae wasn’t there, not physically, at least. so you would settle for missing him, and talking with his brother about all the plans you three would make once he returned.

until he actually returned.

he didn’t tell anyone —not you, not his brother, not the few more friends he had before moving to spain and losing touch them. only his parents and his manager knew, since his stay was supposed to be short to adjust some legal paperwork.

you weren’t really sure why he hadn’t told you beforehand that he was coming back, and it would have made you very sad if id hadn’t made you so angry. 

because rin had the bad luck of meeting him first. 

the youngest itoshi called you that night, almost crying, his voice altered and choked as if he were ripping his chest apart while telling you about his encounter with his brother. “he broke our dream” he told you, practically sobbing over the phone “he said- he said he didn’t need me in his life anymore. he said…”

even though you knew rin wouldn’t lie to you, and it was too mean to be a prank, you couldn’t bring yourself to believe him at first. sae wasn’t the most sensitive guy, definitely, but he wasn’t cruel. and, right after football, the most important things in his life where his little brother and you. 

or that's what you thought, because when you went to his house after learning that he would stay longer than he had planned, he didn’t even look the same. 

of course he had grown up —four years had passed, he was soon to be eighteen, and the exhaustive training had changed even his features. he was now taller, his gaze sharper, his whole body more toned. the short bangs he would always have falling over his forehead were now styled backwards, and his eyes had become a deeper shade of teal.

you would have gotten dizzy from how attractive he was now if it weren’t for something in his expression that threw you off. sae had never been overly smiley, but there was a hint of something —sadness, bitterness, or maybe disappointment—, that made him look like he had never smiled in his life at all.

“yn, hi.”

those were the first words that left his mouth after seeing you for the first time in four long years. not i missed you, or i’m really happy to see you. not even a good morning, how are you?, just a short and dry hi that got you even angrier than you already were.

at first, you tried not to lose your nerves. you were there for an explanation, yes, and to ask about his behavior with rin. you had waited a bit more than a week before going to visit sae after rin told you he had come back, since you were still upset with him for not telling you personally —but you couldn’t help but explode when he talked to you so nonchalantly after you blamed him for rin’s recently emotional breakdown. 

it felt as if his argument with his brother wasn’t important at all. as if he didn’t think he should have let you know he was coming. as if you —you who had been his best friend his whole life, you who had been in love with him for the last two years— didn’t matter at all.

after you left his house, hands shaking, throat raspy and eyes red from crying so much and so loudly, you could only think that, at least, you were grateful rin wasn’t there —he had gone to that blue lock project he’d told you about a few days ago—. you were so frustrated with sae’s indifferent behavior and somehow cruel answers that you had shouted at him, only to end up sobbing and babbling words just like rin used to when he was younger, dreaming in the bed beneath both of you. 

you didn’t get anything clear after that argument, only the shame of walking back to your house with your makeup smudged —the one you had put on for him to notice, in case he could see you had grown up too, and weren’t anymore the kid you used to be; or in case he had, at least once, thought about you the same way you had thought of him for the last two years. 

that, and the uncomfortable ringing in your ears that sounded just like a heart cracking slowly and painfully after the loss of a best friend, and a first love.

masterlist. part two.

pls lmk what u think in the comments, reblogging, through messages, asks or wtv!! feedback is important to me in these first posts and i'd appreciate it a lot 🤲🏼

Really, your luck must be fucking terrible. How could this happen exactly when your parents weren’t at home?

Your head pulses with another wave of pain as you weigh your options. Do you try fixing it yourself? Do you just shut off the main water supply and deal with it later? Do you-

No.

You’re not calling Seungcheol.

You refuse. You won’t.

You grip your phone tighter, swallowing hard, trying to think. You can figure this out. You have to.

But then to your luck, or rather, the lack of it you hear the sound of tires rolling over, a door opening and slamming shut, paper bags rustling.

And before you even have to look up, you know.

Seungcheol.

You curse internally, willing him to keep walking, to go inside, to not notice the way you’re sitting here, hunched over, stress radiating from every inch of your body.

But of course, he does.

“Hey,” he calls out casually at first.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your gaze on the phone screen, like if you just focus hard enough, the plumber will just magically call you back.

But Seungcheol isn’t an idiot. And he knows you well enough to tell when something’s wrong.

The porch creaks under his weight as he steps closer. “What’s going on?”

You sigh, finally glancing up. He’s standing at the foot of the steps, a grocery bag in one hand, the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. His hair is still slightly damp from the snow, and the cold has left a faint pink tint across his skin.

You look away quickly. Not the time.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight.

Seungcheol doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at the phone in your hands, to the way your grip is a little too tense.

You see the exact moment he puts the pieces together.

“…Something’s broken.”

It’s not a question.

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your temple. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol exhales, setting the grocery bag down on the step. “What is it?”

You hesitate. If you tell him, he’s going to fix it.

But the alternative is letting the house flood while you sit outside, pretending you don’t need help.

You purse your lips, debating. Then, finally you answer. "Pipe’s leaking under the sink."

Seungcheol’s brows lift slightly. “Bad?”

“Water’s spreading. That bad enough?”

He glances toward the house. “Did you shut off the valve?”

Your throat dries up. You should have. You know that. You know enough to do that. But you were so fucking stressed, so caught up in trying to call the plumber, that you didn’t even think about it.

Seungcheol immediately clocks your hesitation.

His expression almost morphs into amusement. “Come on.”

You shake your head immediately. "No."

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “You want to let it keep leaking?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "With what tools?"

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Okay. Fine. Maybe you don’t have a plan.

But that doesn’t mean you need him.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, hand reaching down to loop through yours and pull you up. "Just let me do it, alright? It’ll take ten minutes."

You hesitate for a second too long, brain switching off at the way he effortlessly manages to lift you up. No, you willingly stood up. You shake your head

A moment of hesitation is all that he needs.

With a small shake of his head, Seungcheol picks up his grocery bag and walks past you, shoulder just barely grazing yours as he makes his way inside.

You hover near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching as Seungcheol shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair before crouching down in front of the sink.

The water hasn’t fully spread to the floor yet, but it’s bad enough, a slow but steady trickle pooling at the base of the cabinet, seeping into the wood.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. "You should've shut the valve off earlier."

You bristle. "I was trying to call someone."

He doesn’t argue, just sighs loudly before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he moves.

“Where’s your wrench?” he asks, already reaching under the sink.

You blink. Right. Tools.

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but it comes up empty. You have no idea. Your dad always handled these things before. 

“I-” You hesitate, shifting on your feet.

Before you can figure out what to say, Seungcheol just sighs. Then, without looking up, he mutters 

“Still in the laundry room?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He just pushes himself up and walks off, heading straight down the hall, like he already knows exactly where to go.

And the worst part is that he’s right.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your arms as you listen to the sound of him opening the cabinet, rummaging through old tool boxes like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he still remembers where everything is.

When he comes back, wrench in hand, you don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

He just crouches back down, one arm reaching under the sink, the other bracing himself against the cabinet. His shirt rides up slightly at the hem as he shifts into position, and you immediately snap your gaze to the ceiling.

A few minutes later, when he's almost done,  Seungcheol's phone rings from where he threw it onto the kitchen island. Your eyes flicker to the screen before you look away just as quickly, not catching the name.

“Who is it?” Seungcheol's voice comes out muffled from below.

“Uh, wait,” You mumble before shifting over to see the caller's name. It makes you stop, hand frozen in air for a few seconds before you shake yourself out of it. “It's someone from Aston Martin. Do you want me to bring it over to you?” You observe him as you reply, eyes sharp.

You can see Seungcheol stop for a moment too, like a kid caught stealing candy before he resumes, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, just leave it.”

No.

No, it's been way too long to let this slide again.

You fold your arms tightly over your chest, jaw tight. “Seungcheol.”

His name comes out sounding sharp from your mouth, maybe a little more than you intended, but still, stern.

Slowly, he exhales. Then, bracing a hand against the cabinet, he pushes himself up. Straightens. Stretches his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at you.

Your fingers curl against your sleeves. “What is going on with you?”

He sighs before running a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing. I don't know why they're calling either.”

“Are you done with the leak?” You point at it, already moving past him to the cabinet above the stove where you keep your kettle.

He nods, albeit a little confused before he checks, washing his hands after the water doesn't leak again.

“Okay, good.” You mutter as you start it up, preparing to make tea. This conversation is something that's been avoided for way too long. “Because you're going to sit down, drink this tea and fucking explain what you've been doing in this past one year.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you interject before he can, “Don’t you think we deserve to know what’s going on?”

Seungcheol exhales, shoulders rising before he lets them fall. He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no, like he wants to leave, like he doesn’t owe you this conversation.

But you’re not letting him.

Not this time.

So you turn toward him, crossing your arms, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Well?"

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. But after a moment, he drags a chair back and sits.

He leans back against it, arms crossed, gaze dropping to the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

You huff, setting the cups down harder than necessary. "How about the truth?"

Seungcheol scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," you agree.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, frustrating. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as steam starts to rise.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Like he’s debating. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

When Seungcheol finally begins to talk, his voice is the quietest you’ve heard it in a while.

“Where do I even start? I guess it began last season itself, after I won the world championship. After COTA, I didn’t have much to fight for, other than the constructors. The team started the orders in Mexico and back then it didn’t feel like I was losing out on anything. I’d already made enough points and they wanted to make sure Jaehyun ended up P2 in the driver’s standings to help with the constructors. So I agreed.”

You nod. You remember the second half of the season in 2024. It wasn’t unlike Seungcheol to go a little easier on his teammate once he’d won, so you hadn’t thought anything was off either.

“And then into winter break,” Seungcheol continues, “One of the reasons I didn’t come back home was, yes, because it would be really awkward with us, but the team had kept me really busy too. I’d done so many tests and runs for them that you’d expect the car to come out in a way that suited my driving style a little more.”

“It wasn’t entirely off,” Seungcheol shrugs as you pour a little honey into his cup, “Just, it was quite obvious that Jaehyun was more comfortable in there than I was. Felt like the work I’d done was useless, almost. Pre-season testing too. They were a lot more proactive when it came to Jaehyun’s feedback, but I just assumed it was because he was relatively newer to the team and that they’d have to learn his preferences a little more because they already knew most of mine.”

You settle down into the chair beside him, a soft hum leaving your lips as you listen.

“And you know, for the first few races it felt like things were back to normal in the team itself. I was still qualifying better, still the first one to bring the fight. Yeah, Red Bull were insanely quick and we were—from the start—second to them, but it felt alright inside. So I let it go, thinking I was just being paranoid.”

"And then?" you prompt gently.

Seungcheol exhales, the sound barely audible over the quiet clink of your teaspoon against the ceramic rim of your cup. His fingers drum the outside of the mug.

“And then the calls started,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing major at first. Just small things. Strategy tweaks that didn’t make sense but weren’t outright sabotage. Early pit stops that put me in traffic. Tire compounds I hadn’t preferred. I wasn’t the only one noticing it either—my race engineer, the mechanics, even some of the guys in the factory. But no one wanted to say it outright.”

Your brows furrow. “But you knew.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, not in amusement, but in resignation. “I had a feeling. But when you’re fighting at the front, you can’t afford to doubt. You just drive.”

You nod, thinking back to those early races. From the outside, nothing had seemed blatantly wrong. Ferrari was still Ferrari with their fast cars, quick pit stops, a strong driver lineup. And Seungcheol was still the one leading the charge. If anything, it had looked like he was comfortably holding onto his position as the team’s priority.

But now that he says it, you remember. The radio messages that had sounded just a little too forced. The hesitation before the pit wall gave him the go ahead on certain strategies. And then later, when Jaehyun’s results started coming together, how the dynamic had shifted ever so slightly.

“Monaco,” you murmur, realization settling in.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. Miami. By Monaco, I already knew. But it was Miami where the doubts started.”

You know what he means. That race had been his to win. Fastest all weekend, pole secured by two tenths, an aggressive but clean first stint. And yet, somehow, Jaehyun had come out ahead after the pit cycle. The team had called it an unfortunate timing issue, but Seungcheol had looked more confused than upset in the post-race interviews. Like he wasn’t sure how it had slipped through his fingers.

He rubs a hand over his face, leaning back into the chair. “That’s when I started realizing it wasn’t just paranoia.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “But you still let it go.”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What else could I do?” His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. “I drove for them, remember? They made the calls.”

“I wasn’t okay. After Monza, when you called,” He tries to sound slightly nonchalant. But you know. 

“That’s why I called,” You sigh, “Were there more problems because of that crash? Between you two?”

Seungcheol almost laughs, “You know, throughout this entire season, I don’t think we’ve actually ever argued about all this stuff. The next race weekend was shit. Both of us were absolutely blasted by the team. But most of this isn't his fault. I mean, the crash probably was, but it happens. It's not like I’ve never crashed into a teammate before. ” He admits. You can see that it takes a lot out of him to say that.

You understand. It would be so much easier to blame someone else, someone newer instead of the people who’ve been around you for so long.

“He’d be fucking stupid if he kicked and yelled and made everyone stop to treat us both the same.”

Sighing, you contemplate reaching a hand out to comfort him. Seungcheol sits with his shoulders slumped and head down, fingers fiddling with the cup in a restless way. But you stop yourself. You're listening to him to understand and to clear up things, that's it.

“So you made the decision to leave Ferrari,” You say, humming for him to continue.

“After Monza, I kind of knew, but it was Singapore where I made my decision.”

You remember that race. The tension, the buildup. The entire grid waiting to see if Haechan would clinch the title.

“It wasn’t like some big revelation,” he continues. “I think I’d already been telling myself for weeks that it was over. But that night, it just… solidified.”

His fingers tap lightly against his arm, like he’s still turning the memory over in his head. “They pitted me early. Said it was to put pressure on Red Bull, to force Haechan into an earlier stop. But I knew what it was. It was about Jaehyun. Making sure he didn’t lose time, making sure he had the advantage when it counted. That was my job now.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And then Haechan crossed the line, took his title, and I was standing in that media pen, listening to everyone talk about the championship fight and the future, and I realized I wasn’t part of that anymore. Not with Ferrari.”

“So I told my manager that night. Told him I wasn’t going to re-sign.”

It’s said so simply, so quietly, but you remember twenty two year old Seungcheol when he got his first Formula 1 seat. You remember twenty three year old Seungcheol when he got the Ferrari offer, his biggest dream coming true. You remember seventeen year old Seungcheol, arguing with his school teachers that, yes, racing is what he wants to do. Not school. “I’m serious about this. You can just watch, I’ll get there.”

It must have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made. 

But there’s just one more thing you don’t understand.

“But if not with Ferrari,” You begin cautiously, softly, “You could’ve done it with any other team. They’d be scrambling to sign you. Why’d you leave the entire thing, Cheol?”

Seungcheol slowly shake his head. “It wasn’t just about Ferrari.”

His fingers begin to drum lightly on the counter again. “I thought about signing somewhere else. It would’ve been easy—hell, my manager already had teams lined up before I even told him I wasn’t re-signing. But after Singapore… I just didn’t know if I wanted to anymore.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Why?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. His fingers tighten around his mug, his shoulders tensing slightly. But then he sighs, the weight of it heavy.

“Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”

His voice is quieter now, but there’s no hesitation. No bitterness. Just quiet exhaustion.

“I always knew what I was fighting for. Even in my worst seasons, even when everything felt like shit, I still wanted to be in the car. I still wanted to be in the fight. But after Singapore, I wasn’t sure if I did.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t think I can still win. But because I didn’t know if I could give myself to it the way I always have.”

“You know, for years, I thought that as long as I kept pushing, as long as I proved myself over and over again, everything else would fall into place. That it would always be enough. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like it was.”

You don’t say anything.

Because what do you even say to someone who’s spent their entire life chasing something only to realize they don’t know if they still want to chase it anymore?

Seungcheol leans back slightly, glancing down at his mug. “I needed time,” he says simply. “To figure it out.”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He’s not looking at you, eyes still on the mug in his hands, fingers tracing the rim like he’s still lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

Then, quietly, you say, “That makes sense.”

Seungcheol glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean… you’ve never really stopped, have you?” You tilt your head. “Since we were kids, it’s always been about the next thing. The next race, the next win, the next goal. You never let yourself slow down. Maybe—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe it’s okay that you needed to.”

His fingers still against the mug. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to figure it out, Cheol,” you say, quieter now. “Even if it takes time.”

For the first time since he started talking, he really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually mean it.

And when he doesn’t find doubt in your face, when all he sees is quiet understanding, something inside him loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.

It’s stupid, maybe. He’s had months to sit with this, to justify his decision to himself, to convince himself that taking a step back wasn’t weakness. That it didn’t make him any less of a driver. Any less of himself.

But it’s different, hearing it from you.

Hearing someone else say it—you say it—makes it feel real.

He exhales again, deeper this time, like something heavy has finally slipped off his shoulders. The tension in his posture eases just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lighter than before. “Maybe it is.”

And for the first time in a while, he almost feels like he can breathe.

You shut your laptop with a quiet sigh, leaning back into your chair to give yourself a moment before you start packing up to go home. You stretch your fingers out, rolling your wrist absentmindedly, the stiffness a reminder of how long you’ve been working.

At least you’re leaving earlier than usual today. It’s rare, but you’d wrapped up the project that had been eating up most of your time this past month—sent the final files off, double-checked every detail, and even managed to get your inbox down to something manageable. It’s a relief, a quiet kind that sits at the back of your mind, knowing that for once, you won’t have to think about work the second you step out of the office.

You take your time packing up, sliding your laptop into your bag a little more carefully than usual, making sure everything’s in place before zipping it up. The usual rush to leave isn’t there tonight; instead, you pull on your coat at a slower pace, looping your scarf around your neck as your phone vibrates on your desk.

A quick glance at the screen shows a text from Seungkwan in the group chat.

Seungkwan: jihoon and cheol are you guys free my manager just asked to sit through another client call and it’s going to take at least 45 more mins can ya’ll go pick her up i promised to but i can’t rn [16:48]

Jihoon: yeah sure [16:50]

Seungcheol: i can [16:50]

Seungcheol: oh nvm u can go then [16:51]

Jihoon: no actually i can’t  my meeting got extended too Seungcheol? [16:58]

Seungcheol: omw [17:00]

You shake your head slightly as you scroll through the chat. You could’ve taken the bus ride home, but Seungkwan had sent his car for servicing and had driven the two of you to work in your car today. He’d have fussed about it if you took the bus and, honestly, you didn’t mind the ride back. At least it’d be warmer.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way out of the office. Most of people in your team are still at their desks, wrapped up in whatever they need to finish before they can call it a night, but you get a few nods and murmured goodbyes as you pass. The elevator ride down is uneventful, and by the time you step outside, the sky is a dark shade of blue with streaks of fading orange and pink clinging onto the horizon.

You don’t have to wait long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dimming evening. You spot Seunghceol through the windshield before he even pulls to a full stop, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers drumming idly. His hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he’s got that same relaxed-but-not-really posture you know so well.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, and you pull it open, slipping inside.

"Hey," you greet, settling into the passenger seat.

Seungcheol glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "Hey. Seatbelt."

You roll your eyes but comply, the buckle clicking into place as he merges back into traffic. It’s only when you hit a red light that Seungcheol speaks again, eyes flitting over to you.

"You finished your project, right?"

You blink, turning to look at him. "How’d you know?"

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "You only leave early when you finish something big."

You press your lips together, caught off guard. He’s not wrong.

"Yeah," you say after a moment. "Finally. Feels kind of weird not having it hanging over my head anymore."

Seungcheol hums, driving forward as the light turns green. "Bet that’s nice."

"It is," you admit, nodding as you slump back into your seat. "Kind of don’t know what to do with myself now, though."

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. "Is that why you let me pick you up instead of just taking the bus? Needed something to fill the time?"

You scoff, nudging his arm lightly. "Shut up."

His chuckle is soft, barely audible over the low hum of the car, but you hear it anyway.

“Can we stop at a convenience store, by the way?” Seungcheol clears his throat after a few minutes of silence.

You hum in response. “Sure, you’re driving anyways.”

He nods, taking the next right turn without another word. The neon glow of the store comes into view a few minutes later, its sign flickering slightly against the darkening sky. He pulls into an empty parking spot, shifting the car into park before turning to you.

“You want anything?”

You shake your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m good.”

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out. You watch as he stretches—arms over his head, a quick shake of his shoulders—before heading inside.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol returns, a plastic bag in hand. He slides into the driver’s seat, the faint rustling of wrappers filling the car as he rummages through it. Without a word, he pulls out a bag of chips and hands it over, like it’s second nature.

You blink, looking down at the bag in your lap, then back at him.

You narrow your eyes at him as you open the bag, pulling out a chip and popping it into your mouth. “What if I didn’t want this today?”

Seungcheol hums, setting his drink down before shifting the car into reverse. “Then you’d tell me to go back inside.”

You make a face, annoyed that he knows you too well, but let it slide. Instead, as he pulls out of the parking lot, you reach into the bag again—this time, holding a chip out toward him.

Seungcheol glances at it briefly before flicking his eyes back to the road. “What?”

“You want one?”

He hesitates—just for a second. And that’s when it hits you.

Your hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, you almost pull back. But then, Seungcheol leans in just slightly, just enough.

And without a word, he takes the chip from your hand.

Neither of you say anything after that.

—

The evening is loud, the kind of easy chaos that comes with Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol crammed into your living room, half-watching something on TV while bickering over absolutely nothing.

Seungkwan had claimed his usual spot on the couch, legs kicked up onto the coffee table despite your protests. Jihoon sat on the floor, leaning against the armrest, scrolling through his phone but still chiming in whenever Seungkwan said something particularly stupid. 

It’s normal. Stupid jokes, Seungkwan laughing too loud, Jihoon threatening to leave but never actually moving. And for a while, you let yourself fall into it, let the noise drown out the things you don’t want to think about.

But then, Jihoon stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I should go,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Seungkwan groans dramatically but stands up too, stretching in sync with him. “Yeah, yeah. I should head out too.”

After Jihoon and Seungkwan leave, you linger by the door for a moment, listening to their voices fade as they walk down the street. When you turn back, Seungcheol is still there, getting off the couch to walk into your kitchen.

You hesitate, then exhale, shaking your head as you make your way back to the couch. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier.

You sink into your usual spot, pulling your legs up beneath you, reaching absently for the TV remote even though you’re not really paying attention. But after a few moments of silence, you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Is it just me, or do I keep running into you everywhere?” You scoff, finally turning to face him. 

Seungcheol stands behind your kitchen counter, filling a glass of water before he stops at your words. He searches your face for any signs of playfulness, but finds none. Your eyebrows are knitted, a slight scowl on your lips and your words come out sharp and almost irritated.

“What?” He asks, a little confused, “I mean, I am living next to your house. Would be weird if you didn’t see me around.”

"You know that's not what I mean." You cross your arms, getting off the sofa.

“Well, for starters. Everyone was here today, so you kind of invited me over.” Seungcheol shrugs. “I was going to leave anyway, sheesh.”

"Yeah, this time," you say. "But what about the rest? It’s like things are just happening again, like nothing’s changed. You keep showing up, and it’s not just at work or around the neighborhood, it’s—" You pause, shaking your head before scoffing. "God, I don’t know. It’s confusing."

Seungcheol only watches you, setting his cup down with an unreadable expression. 

So you continue.

“It’s been over a year, Seungcheol. And then you come back and suddenly we’re going back to whatever this was. As if that entire period of our lives didn’t even exist. We didn’t talk to each other, Cheol. Didn’t talk, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend that we existed and now—” You huff out, shoulders dropping, “Don’t you think this is strange? That we can just pretend like nothing happened and fall back into line like this?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, fingers tapping idly against the counter. Then, finally, he says, "Maybe it’s not that strange."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. It seems to tick him off a little because he speaks up again.

“You were the one that said that we were best friends, and that you wouldn’t stop treating me like that because we broke up,” Seungcheol says, voice firm. “You told me that none of it would change, that we’d figure it out. And now you’re acting like it’s weird that I’m here, like I’m some stranger you keep running into instead of the person who—” He stops himself, shaking his head before he can say too much. His fingers tighten against the counter. “I’m not pretending nothing happened. But I’m not the one who changed their mind.”

“Fuck, I know!” You exclaim, a little louder than before, “God, I know and I’m sorry, okay? I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it but it’s not, Cheol. It’s not.” Swallowing, you hesitate. “It’s just hard, okay? Seeing you, talking to you and being around you like this just reminds me of everything and I don’t know how to act like it doesn’t hurt.”

You look up at him to gauge his reaction, but the way his jaw tightens just makes you feel worse.

“You think it wasn’t hard for me? That it still isn’t?” His voice is low, but his eyes are bright, anger slipping into them. “The difference is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we shouldn’t be together anymore.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was you.”

You throw your head back, eyes scrunching in frustration before you snap back, “Do you really think I didn’t think it over? That I didn’t even try or want this to work? I wanted it to. But it always felt like I was waiting for you, Seungcheol. Waiting for the next race to end, waiting for your next flight home, waiting for a moment that never lasted long enough before you had to leave again." You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I know it wasn’t your fault—I never blamed you for any of it. But you have to see how unfair it was, too. I was the one adjusting, always making room in my life whenever you had the chance to come back, and when you left again, I was the one picking up the pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You think I didn’t try? That I didn’t want more time with you?" His voice rises slightly, rough around the edges. "I missed things too, you know. I missed birthdays, I missed stupid little inside jokes, I missed you. But I tried. I called every chance I got, I stayed up even when I was dead tired just to hear your voice, I—" He cuts himself off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know it wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care."

"I know you cared, Seungcheol," you say, voice quieter now but strained nonetheless. "But caring wasn’t the problem. It was never just about missing each other—it was about how impossible it felt to keep up. You were gone all the time. I couldn’t call you whenever I needed to, I couldn’t just show up when things got hard. And you—you were so busy, and I didn’t want to be just another thing on your list to worry about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not fair," he mutters. "You were never just some obligation to me."

"But that’s what it felt like!" The words leave you before you can stop them, your voice cracking and your chest heaving. "Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the way things were. I felt like I was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away no matter how much we wanted it to stay."

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, frustration clear in the way his fingers ball into fists at his sides. “So what, then? We just give up because it was hard?” His voice is louder now, the calm he’s tried to hold onto starting to slip away. “You think I didn’t feel like I was losing you too? You think I didn’t sit there in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, wishing I could be home with you instead?”

“Well, you weren’t home, Seungcheol!” you shoot back, eyes stinging. “And I couldn’t keep waiting for something that wasn’t going to change! I had to live my life too, I had to stop putting everything on hold for a relationship that—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, willing your voice not to break. “That wasn’t going to work no matter how much we wanted it to.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You didn’t even let me try. You made the choice for both of us.”

 “Are you serious right now? You did try, Seungcheol. We both did! But you were never going to have a life where you could just stay, and I never wanted you to give that up for me. I just—I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one adjusting, like I wasn’t always the one left waiting.”

His whole body goes rigid, and when he speaks next, Seungcheol’s voice is clear but scalding.

“Well, I quit,” he says, the words sharp and deliberate. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to look away. “So are you happy now?”

It hits you like a slap to the face—sharp, stinging, and almost disorienting. You blink at him, air knocked out of your lungs, stunned, mouth opening slightly but finding nothing to say.

Because this isn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not for you. Not because of you.

But Seungcheol is still looking at you, chest rising and falling, waiting for you to say… say what? What do you even say to that?

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Your voice is quiet but fierce when you finally reply, unyielding.

Seungcheol scoffs, running a hand over his face, but he doesn’t respond.

You shake your head, throat tightening. “I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

He laughs dryly, shaking his head as he looks away. "Right. Of course, you don’t."

You clench your jaw. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His gaze snaps back to yours, frustration smeared across his features. "You get to throw all of this at me, tell me how impossible it was, how you couldn’t keep up. And then the second I react, you decide you don’t want to talk anymore?"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Because you’re twisting my words, Seungcheol! I never wanted you to quit. I never wanted you to throw everything away for me.” You breathe in, feeling the tears fill your eyes as Seungcheol’s figure starts swimming in your vision. You look away, quickly wiping them and willing your voice to come out calm before you continue.

“I only ever wanted to be equal, Cheol. Just equal.”

His brows furrow, the sharp edges of his anger dulling into something heavier and blunt. His lips part like he wants to argue, to fight back, but nothing comes out. Instead, his shoulders drop just slightly, like the weight of everything between you is finally settling in.

"I would’ve done more," he says finally, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. "If you had told me, I would’ve done more."

You sigh, feeling all the fight and adrenaline draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion and regret. “I know. But I didn’t want to have to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “For not talking to you about it properly before. For not giving us a real chance to figure it out together.”

Seungcheol stands still for a few beats, looking unsure. Then, he grabs the glass he’d left full on the counter before turning around to dump it in the sink. The sound of water slinking down the drain fills the heavy atmosphere between you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you knows what to say next.

His back is to you, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is dull and subdued.

“I should go,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you. Seungcheol sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off everything this conversation has brought up.

You don’t know what else to say, so you swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see you. When he pushes himself out of the kitchen, you step aside. He walks slowly, almost like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore. It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt this exhausted and on-edge around him either.

A muted, confused voice in your head, tells you to stop him before he goes. This isn’t done. Even if it is, you don’t feel like it is anyway. With the way Seungcheol hesitates, you can tell he doesn’t either. 

But you ignore it, for now. 

Seungcheol walks out of your door, closing it softly behind him. You think it’d be a little easier if he’d slammed it instead.

—

Seungcheol remembers being sixteen, sprawled next to Jihoon on the floor of your room. He can hear your dad watching the news on the TV, the loud and clear voice of the anchor cutting through the house.

“Seven-time Formula 1 world champion Lewis Hamilton has announced his retirement from the sport, shocking fans and experts alike. The Mercedes driver, widely regarded as one of the greatest of all time, confirmed in a press conference earlier today that this season would be his last."

Seungcheol barely pays attention. He’s freaked out over it already and so he idly flips through one of your textbooks, while Jihoon hums to himself, distracted with his guitar. Meanwhile, you sit straight next to him on the floor, biting on your lower lip in concentration as you try to tackle the integration worksheet your class was handed today. You twirl a yellow mechanical pencil between your fingers as you scan the page in front of you, brows furrowed. The dim yellow glow of your lamp casts soft shadows on your face, and Seungcheol finds himself staring without meaning to.

It’s nothing new—you studying, the three of you lazing around in your room, wasting away a slow evening together. But something about this moment feels different.

Your hair slips over your shoulder as you reach for another page, and for some reason, he can’t stop staring.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. You’ve been best friends since you were kids, growing up side by side, running through the same streets, bickering over stupid things only to make up a few hours later. You’ve always been there, always been you.

But right now, in this quiet moment, you look—

Pretty.

The thought creeps in so naturally that it startles him. His grip tightens on the textbook.

It’s not like he’s never thought about it before. He’s not blind. But this is different. Because it’s not just pretty, it’s you. And it feels important. Like something’s cracked open, like something’s about to change.

He quickly tears his gaze away, back to the textbook in his lap, but he doesn’t see a single word. His heartbeat is suddenly too loud in his ears, his skin warm under the collar of his hoodie.

Jihoon groans again, shoving his guitar aside. “I give up. This song is cursed.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, almost lets himself be pulled back into the moment. But then he glances at you one more time, catching the way you tuck your knee to your chest, biting your lip as you concentrate.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows that something is different now. Knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to unknow it.

Seungcheol remembers finally, finally telling you that he likes you. He does it on a call, early morning on a Friday in Australia. Not ideal, not how he pictured it, but the words are there, pressing against his throat, demanding to be let out.

You look so soft on the screen, eyes half-lidded from sleep, cheek pressed into your pillow. It’s late where you are, but you still picked up when he called, even though you had work in the morning. The thought makes something warm settle in his chest, until he realizes he’s been staring at you too long, silent for too long, and you’re blinking at him now, confused.

"Cheol?" your voice comes through the speaker, quiet and a little groggy.

He sighs, shaking his head softly. He should wait. He should do this in person. But waiting has never been his strong suit, and the thought of another day, another week, another month of keeping this to himself—

"I like you."

The words fall out before he can stop them, before he can overthink them.

You blink slowly, drowsiness slipping away. “You what?”

He huffs out a little nervously.

"Say it again." You stare back at him with wide eyes, your head raised to get a better view.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I like you.”

Your breath catches. He sees it, sees the way you bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile, like you knew but needed to hear it anyway.

“You’re insane,” you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, “Come back home, Cheol.”

Seungcheol grins, relief rushing through him. He laughs, a little breathless. “I will.”

“No,” you shake your head, firmer this time. “Come home soon.”

When Seungcheol comes back to you on Monday, you’re already waiting. 

You stand near the arrivals exit, arms crossed, watching the steady stream of passengers trickle out. You spot him before he sees you—hood up, suitcase rolling behind him, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And then his gaze lifts, finds yours, and stops.

Surprise flickers across his face followed by something softer, closer to relief. He lets out a quiet laugh as he stops in front of you.

“You look exhausted,” you say, voice calm, but your fingers twitch where they rest against your arm.

His lips tilt, but you can see it now—the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he murmurs.

You shrug, glancing away for a second. “Didn’t think you’d tell me you like me over the phone.”

He laughs, softer this time. The duffel slips from his shoulder, forgotten, as he takes half a step closer. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you, close enough that you feel the weight of his gaze settle over you.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You scoff. “You wish.” But your voice lacks bite, and he sees the way you shift from one foot to the other, like you’re holding yourself back.

So he doesn’t.

Seungcheol reaches for you, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him. And before you can react, before you can even breathe, he kisses you.

It’s not cautious. Not nervous. Not testing the waters. It’s sure, like he’s known this is where he’s meant to be all along.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie, exhaling against his lips like you’ve been waiting for this too. Like all the late-night calls, the moments of hesitation, the unspoken truths were leading to this.

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stumbles, and for once, you don’t pretend to fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper.

He laughs, soft and warm, before kissing you again.

Seungcheol remembers the countless races that you’ve flown in for, without him even asking. The paddock is still buzzing when he finally steps into his motorhome, his race suit unzipped to his waist, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. The adrenaline from qualifying still lingers in his veins, a familiar and electrifying hum of energy that usually takes hours to fade.

He breathes in deeply, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. P3. Not bad. Not what he wanted, but not bad. Tomorrow would be the real fight.

But when he finally looks around, Seungcheol’s eyes land on you before anything else.

You’re sat on the small couch in the corner of his motorhome, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through something on your phone. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the red standing out starkly against your skin. Your hair is tied up loosely, like you’d done it without much thought, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the table in front of you.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks, momentarily stunned. He calls out your name, making you perk up as you notice him.

“You flew in?” he asks, still slightly breathless.

Your lips curl up, “Yes, as you can see.”

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right in front of you. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Cheol.” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head playfully. “You’re supposed to like it.”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course I do.”

You grin, setting your phone down. “P3’s not bad.”

Seungcheol hums, rubbing a hand over his nape as he exhales. “Not bad. Could’ve been better.”

“It’s always ‘could’ve been better’ with you,” you tease, nudging his knee lightly with your foot. “You’re still starting from the second row. That’s a win in my books.”

He glances at you again, still not entirely believing that you’re actually here.

“How long have you been here?”

“Landed this afternoon and came straight to the track.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow slightly. “And you’ve just been… waiting here?”

You shrug. “I wanted to see you.”

Something about the way you say it, so simple and matter-of-fact, makes his throat dry up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward, reaching for your wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently before tugging you up onto your feet. You let him pull you in without resistance, your hands naturally finding their place against his sides.

And then he hugs you.

It’s steady and comforting—the kind of embrace that feels less like holding on and more like coming home. His arms wrap around you with quiet certainty, like this is where you’ve always belonged. He feels the way your body relaxes against his, the tension melting away, and it makes him hug you a little tighter. You breathe out softly, the sound barely audible.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

Your arms tighten around him. “I know. Me too.”

Seungcheol thinks he remembers when it all started to go wrong too.

He remembers staring at the screen, waiting.

The call rings once, twice, three times before it cuts to voicemail. Again.

He sighs before locking his phone. It’s past 2 AM where you are, but he’d hoped—just maybe—you’d still be awake. It’s been getting really hard to deal with the timezones, especially with all the new tracks on the calendar and more added races. He hasn’t been home in over two months.

His eyes droop with exhaustion as he types out a quick message. Call me when you wake up. Miss you.

You don’t get to reply until the next day.

By then, he’s already on track, already somewhere else.

Seungcheol remembers that the first thing he does after winning is look for you.

His team is cheering, his engineers clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. But none of it matters until he sees you.

But he doesn’t.

His phone buzzes in his race suit pocket. He pulls it out, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline. A message from you.

I don’t know when you’ll see this but can’t make it today Cheol. I’m so sorry. I love you.Congrats on the win!!!

He exhales slowly, staring at the words.

You’d told him just last week that things were piling up at work. That you were barely getting enough sleep, that you’d skipped lunch twice because there was too much to do.

He’d told you to take care of yourself, his voice soft but firm. And you had laughed it off. But now, reading your message, the unease settles back in.

He wants to call. Wants to hear your voice, wants to check if you’ve eaten, if you’re resting like you should be. But there are cameras on him and a team waiting to celebrate.

So instead, he just types out a reply.

Love you too. Get some rest, yeah?

Then, he puts his phone away, and forces himself to smile.

Seungcheol remembers the last time he came back home before it all ended. March of 2024. You’re in his arms, holding on tighter than usual, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“You’ll be back soon, right?” Your voice is quiet against his chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair. “Two weeks.”

You nod, sighing against his shoulder. “Okay.”

He should’ve kissed you longer. Should’ve told you he’d make it work, somehow. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time.

Because two weeks turns into a month. A month turns into two and in the way that things go—

Seungcheol remembers the day you broke up with him too. He doubts he’ll ever forget it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His race suit is gone, replaced by a plain t-shirt and joggers, but he still looks tired. Not from the race but from everything else.

You stand near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights outside. You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting in silence, but it feels like forever. Like neither of you wants to be the first to say it.

But eventually, you do.

“Cheol, I don’t think this is working.”

Seungcheol inhales sharply, looking down at his hands. He nods once, slow, like he’s known this was coming but still hoped it wouldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes your chest feel heavier.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I love you so much.”

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

But the lack of love had never been the problem. Maybe the distance would’ve been easier if it were.

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there…” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

You should say no. Should shake your head and leave before you change your mind. But your breath hitches, your body betraying you before your mind can catch up.

Because even now, even after everything you don’t want to leave. Maybe you never have.

And maybe Seungcheol sees it, or maybe he’s just desperate, but then he says, so quietly, his voice cracking.

“Stay.”

It’s one word. Small. Fragile. But it’s a plea that sends your heart leaping for one last time before it falls flat again.

You should walk away. You know that. But your feet won’t move. And when Seungcheol shifts slightly, when he finally reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, you don’t pull away.

“Just tonight,” you whisper, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Just tonight.”

So you stay.

You let him pull you toward the bed, let him press his forehead against yours, let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the quiet safety of him.

Seungcheol tries to memorise you in the last few hours that he gets. He doesn’t know if you’re pretending to be asleep or if you actually are, but he needs to remember the way you feel in his arms, the way your body curls against his like it’s instinct, like it’s habit. He presses his palm against the small of your back, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, trying to sync his with yours. His fingers brush lightly over your shoulder, tracing absent patterns into your skin, committing the warmth of you to memory.

Your hair spills across the pillow, a few strands tickling his chin, and he doesn’t dare to move them away. He doesn’t want to disturb anything, doesn’t want to break the illusion that this is just another night. That when morning comes, you’ll still be here.

Seungcheol knows that in a few hours, he’ll wake up, and you won’t be here. That he’ll turn over in bed, reach for you out of habit, and find nothing but empty space.

Now, Seungcheol sits at the desk in his room. The house is quiet—too quiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket that you don’t want on you. He thinks about knocking on your door. Thinks about standing outside your house like an idiot, waiting for you to let him in. Thinks about calling you, but what would he even say?

I love you. I never stopped. I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Instead, he breathes in, slow and deep, massaging his temple like he can will away the headache that is forming. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight.

The next day, when Jihoon calls you, asking if you’ll come with him to your old school, you have half the mind to refuse. You’re still exhausted, maybe not ready to face people yet. But Jihoon doesn’t usually ask for favours and maybe a little contradictingly, you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now. 

So you say yes.

The sun’s begun to shine a little brighter these days, so when you walk out, locking your door behind you, the cold doesn’t bite too hard. 

Jihoon’s car is already parked by the curb, Seungkwan in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you approach, breaking into a grin.

“Well, look who decided to be social.”

You roll your eyes, pulling open the door and slipping into the back seat. “Jihoon made it sound urgent.”

Jihoon, hands on the wheel, scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to come. You could’ve said no.”

You hum, settling into your seat. “Could’ve.”

But Jihoon doesn’t start the car. Instead, he just drums his fingers against the wheel, glancing at Seungkwan, who is still scrolling through his phone like they’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You frown. “Hello? Can we go?”

Seungkwan barely looks up. “Do you want to leave Cheol here then?”

Your stomach dips before you can stop it. “What?” You shift forwards in your seat, grabbing onto Jihoon’s headrest. “You didn’t say he was coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jihoon asks, a little perplexed.

“Did he not say anything to you?”

The boys go quiet for a good three seconds before Seungkwan turns in his seat to face you.

“Don’t lie. Did you two fight? Come on, you’re not kids anymore!” He nags, an exasperated look on his face, “What did you fight over, hmm? Him rattling around all the washed utensils? Did he spoil that stupid book you’ve been reading? Or was it—” Before Seungkwan can continue, the door on your left opens, making all three of you look that way. 

Seungcheol slides into the seat next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. He huffs, brushing his hair back before glancing around—first at Jihoon, then at Seungkwan, and finally at you.

And then he pauses.

Just for a second, his eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you would be here. His lips part as if to say something, but then he presses them together, looking away slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little careful.

“Morning,” Seungkwan and Jihoon reply in unison.

You hesitate for a split second, but you don’t want Seungkwan and Jihoon to start poking their noses in right now, so you mumble out a small greeting too.

Jihoon exhales, twisting the key in the ignition. “Alright. Now we can go.”

The drive isn’t long, but the silence stretching between you and Seungcheol affects the two sitting up front and you know it too. Seungkwan—usually never quiet during car rides—sits a little slumped, eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Jihoon doesn’t talk much anyways, but this early in the morning, he usually has a complaint about not picking up coffee that doesn’t come out either.

You don’t know if Seungcheol looks at you through the ten minute drive. You’re too on-edge, too awkward to even turn in his way. 

When Jihoon finally pulls up to the school, parking in the visitor’s lot, Seungkwan stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, children. Let’s go relive our glory days.”

“Glory days?” Jihoon snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean the years you spent crying over exams and losing bets?”

Seungkwan whines in response as he gets out of the car. Jihoon sighs, shaking his head before continuing.

“I’m going to be in 11C. Think it’ll take maybe an hour? Ya’ll go do whatever, I guess.”

Jihoon leaves without much more to say, disappearing down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand. You watch him go, resisting the urge to call him back when you realize that leaves only three of you.

You turn to Seungkwan with a silent plea, hoping he’d pick up on it. He does. But he just doesn’t care.

“I think I’ll go look for Ms. Kang,” he announces, stretching his arms out. “Haven’t seen her in ages. She always liked me the best.”

“She liked you because you were a teacher’s pet,” you point out.

Seungkwan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was charming.”

You shoot him a look, unimpressed, but he only grins before waving over his shoulder. You don’t have time to reply before he’s gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, painfully aware of the fact that there’s only one person left beside you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The school is quieter than you remember, the halls emptier now that classes are in session. Sunlight filters in through the old glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors, on the familiar blue doors, on Seungcheol as he sighs softly beside you.

You steal a glance at him. He looks at home here, in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You nod, fingers unconsciously picking at your nails. “Me neither.”

He hums, before taking a slow step forward. “Guess we might as well look around.”

And then he’s walking ahead, and you find yourself following without a word.

The school’s gym is exactly how you remember it—high ceilings with fluorescent lights that cast a slightly harsh glow, the faint scent of sweat and polished wood lingering in the air. The basketball court is lined with scuff marks from years of games, sneakers squeaking against the surface. The walls are still adorned with the same faded banners, boasting school mottos in bold, challenging letters. The chatter and yells of students already in there make you feel sixteen again.

You watch as Seungcheol quietly makes his way to the top of the bleachers, away from all the noise. For a moment, you stand still. You don’t know what this means. But you can’t just stand here near the entrance like some weirdo, so you walk up the stairs too, before sitting down at a respectable distance from him. When you do, Seungcheol glances over at you.

Your breath catches at the way you can still see the seventeen-year-old Seungcheol in him. The way he leans back slightly, palms on his knees, eyes trained on the court in thoughtfulness. You remember when Seungcheol told you he’d found a seat in Formula 2. 

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look around. The two of you were probably sitting only a few seats to the left when he broke the news. The memory comes back to you so clearly, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface. You can almost hear the way his voice had wavered just slightly when he said it out loud for the first time, the way your heart had lurched in your chest. 

You remember the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sports uniform. It had been the last step before the dream he’d spent his entire life chasing. And when the realization had fully settled in, you had grinned, throwing yourself at him in excitement.

Now, thirteen years later, you turn back to the Seungcheol in front of you. All the mistakes, all the dreams, all the unfinished businesses lay in the space between you two.

You shift behind, your fingers pressing against the cool concrete of the bleachers.

Seungcheol had always wanted this. This life, this dream, the career he chased relentlessly since you were kids. He was the boy who never stopped moving forward, never once looked back—not because he didn’t care, but because the only way to reach the top was to keep climbing.

And yet, here he is, sitting beside you in a school gym, watching a bunch of kids play basketball like he has nowhere else to be.

The thought unsettles you.

You want to ask. Want to say, And what now, Seungcheol? Where do you go from here?

But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, leaning back into the seat like it’ll smooth over the tension from last night’s argument.

Seungcheol drums his fingers against his knee, his gaze steady on the court below. “Feels smaller now,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

You hum, glancing around the gym. “Well, you were always made for bigger things.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a reminder of everything that’s already happened, but maybe it is. Maybe it always will be. Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away, just breathes out slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I got an offer from Aston Martin,” He says, finally looking up at you. “For 2027. I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You can’t do anything but nod, slowly. It’s not relief, not exactly. Because you know him. You know how much he loves this, how racing is such a big part of him. And if there’s one thing about Seungcheol, it’s that he doesn’t just walk away from the things he loves that easily.

When you don’t say anything, he turns away before muttering, “Do you ever think about how it would’ve been if I never left? If I never started racing in the first place?”

You pause, taken aback. “No.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small, bitter smile on his lips when he glances at you, “No? Really?”

“No,” You assert again, “Because you were always going to leave. You were made for something bigger than all this—this mediocrity and this small-town life. This was never going to be enough for you and I’ve always known that, Cheol. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol looks like he wants to retort, but you continue speaking.

“And I never wanted it to be enough for you. Racing, that adrenaline, that feeling of winning—that is your sun, Seungcheol. You will forever revolve around it.  I can’t take that away from you and I have never wanted to.” You emphasize, looking into his eyes and hoping, pleading that he understands what you mean, “But I can’t leave with you either. I can’t live my life on flights and airports just to be with you, Seungcheol. My work, my life is equally as important to me. I have always, always loved you, but I can’t live like that.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, his voice coming out with an edge of desperation when he speaks. “I never wanted you to do any of that. I never wanted you to give up anything for me.”

“How else was it supposed to work, Cheol?” You let out softly, “It wasn’t like you were in a position where you could just get up and come on a whim either.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see the way his figure slumps slightly. You hate all the exhaustion that you’ve been feeling around each other lately. What are you even doing this for? You force yourself to think about what you want from this, from him.

Even though you don’t dare to admit it, you know. It’s always been the same answer. You want him. And it’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. You’re the one who decided that it wasn’t going to work.

But what if it had? 

The thought lingers in your head. But there’s no point in thinking about that now. Even if Seungcheol still loves you, even if you decide to try again, what reassurance do the two of you have that it won’t end in the same way? 

You don’t even think about Seungcheol rejecting Aston’s offer. You know that it’s only him trying to convince himself. He will agree to it and you want him to. But what will it mean for the two of you?

—

Seungcheol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he unlocks his phone to listen to a different playlist. His sleeves are rolled up, hands slightly dusty, and the room smells like old cardboard boxes.

He’d only planned to put away the clothes piled up on the chair in the corner of his room, but one thing leads to another and now he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, with his closet half-emptied out. The floor is littered with old clothes, forgotten magazines and other things that he once thought he might need again.

Seungcheol grunts as he gets up, his numb legs making him stumble a little as he walks over to the last drawer in his closet. Just clean out this one and we’ll be done, he thinks, sliding it open and reaching in.

There’s a bunch of ticket stubs from concerts, two used passports, filled to the brim with stamps, worn because of years of constant travelling, and a bunch of receipts and paper clippings that Seungcheol should probably throw away. There’s one of his first career wins, some from his championships and some from his debut. He smiles with slight fondness before letting them drop onto the trash pile on the floor. Noticing one more, he tries to pull it out from the depths of the drawer only to realize that there’s something on top of it.

Seungcheol shoves his hand in further, but when his fingers touch the box, he freezes.

He knows what it is before he even pulls it out. He knows because he never threw it away. Never even considered it. Just stuffed it into the back of the drawer and left it there, like hiding it could make it mean any less.

His hand tightens around the edges of the box as he slowly walks back to the edge of his bed. The velvet is slightly worn now, its shine being dimmed by time and neglect, but it still feels just as heavy as it did the first time he held it. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but Seungcheol flips it open anyways.

The ring is exactly how he left it. Silver, simple, but deliberate. Something he picked out after months of indecision, after staring at a dozen options and thinking, No, not that one. Not yet. Until he found this—the one he could picture on your hand, the one that felt right.

Seungcheol runs his thumb over the navy blue, velvet lining.

It’s been over a year since he’d meant to give it to you. He had meant to ask. He’d meant for so many things to happen that never did.

Seungcheol had a plan. A future. A moment he thought would belong to you two for the rest of your lives. Now, he just sits, staring at something that never got the chance to be what it was supposed to be. 

He closes the box shut quickly, setting it onto his bed and shaking his head like it’ll push away the image of your hand with the ring on.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at it, caught between regret and mourning before his gaze finally shifts to the notebook on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements as he gets up from his bed with the box in hand and walks over to the desk. He keeps it, right next to his laptop, before grabbing the first pen he sees.

Hey. So.

I should’ve said this a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.

And I don’t know if it makes any difference now, if any of this still matters and if you’ll even finish reading this letter. Maybe you’ll see my handwriting on this, sigh and put it away. Wouldn’t be surprised if you threw it away, either.But if you’re still here and reading this, then I need you to know something.

I found the ring today. While cleaning my closet, I found it buried under old ticket stubs and some rubbish paper, stuffed into the back of my closet, untouched for over a year. I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I never got rid of it. 

I had this entire plan to ask you once the season was over, during the winter break in 2024. I thought about it for months. Where I’d do it, what I’d say, whether you’d laugh at me for being so nervous. I had imagined a hundred different versions of it in my head—sometimes in a place that meant something to us, sometimes when you least expected it, sometimes in the middle of some ordinary moment, because you always made the ordinary feel like more. But well, by the time we reached December, we weren’t the same anymore.

I’m sorry if hearing this makes you uncomfortable, but when I found it today, it still felt like it belonged to you.

It’s strange, the things you think you’ve moved past, the things you tell yourself you’ve let go of. You move forward, you keep busy, you fill your days with schedules and noise and people who don’t look at you the way you used to. You convince yourself that you’re okay. That it’s just life. That this is how things were meant to be.

And then you find something like this—something small, something tangible, something that holds the weight of everything you never said—and it knocks the air out of you.

I used to think that no matter how many flights I had to take, no matter how many nights we spent apart, no matter how much we had to bend to fit into each other’s lives, we would make it. That as long as we loved each other, we could find a way.

But you knew better, didn’t you?

You always saw things more clearly than I did. You knew that love alone wasn’t going to be enough to hold us together, not when I kept asking you to meet me in the middle without realizing my middle was always shifting. Not when I couldn’t give you the things you needed and I swear—it was not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to.

I should have told you that I never let you go without a fight because I wanted to. I walked away because I thought it was the only way we’d both get what we deserved. You always told me I never knew how to slow down. I used to laugh it off, but maybe you were right. Maybe I only realized it too late.

You deserved someone who could put you first. Someone who wouldn’t spend half the year in different countries, someone who didn’t come home exhausted and drained, someone who wasn’t constantly pushing you to adjust to his life without knowing how to meet you halfway.

And I don’t even know what I deserved. But I know what I wanted. I know what I still want.

You.

It’s always been you.

And I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for me to say this now, after all this time, after we tried and tried and still fell apart anyway. But the truth is, I never stopped trying. Even when I convinced myself I had. Even when I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. So forgive me for being selfish.

I think about you more than I should. I think about you when I land in a city I know you’d love, when I hear a song that reminds me of you, when I open my phone and my first instinct is still to tell you something before I remember I can’t.

So here’s what I need you to know—what I should have told you then, what I should have promised you when I still had the chance.I won’t ask you to adjust to me anymore. I won’t ask you to bend, to compromise, to give up parts of your life just to fit into mine. I won’t expect you to be the one making all the sacrifices, the one who has to keep up with the way my life moves. If we try again—if you let me have this chance—I promise I will learn how to meet you where you are.

And if you’ve reached here, but still don’t think this is worth it, I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t ask you for something you don’t want to give. But if there’s still a part of you that trusts me, that thinks this could work, then tell me. I won’t ask for anything more than that. Because I don’t want to let this slip away without knowing if there’s still something left to hold on to.

I can’t promise that things will be perfect, that we won’t have to figure things out as we go. But I can promise that I’ll try. That I won’t let the things that pulled us apart be the same things that keep us from trying again. I don’t know where this leaves us. But if there’s something still left here, I want to figure it out with you.

Lastly, I did not write this letter because I was too scared or not sincere enough to say this to your face. I wrote it because I needed to get it right, because if I tried to say all of this out loud, I don’t know if it would come out the way I wanted it to. Maybe I’d fumble my words, maybe I’d get caught up in everything I’m feeling and forget half of what I need to say. But this is everything, exactly as I mean it.

I’m sorry, I love you.

Seungcheol.

You read the letter once, twice, thrice, sitting down on the floor of your room. 

The first time, it doesn’t fully sink in. The second time, your eyes catch on certain words—the ring, I never stopped trying, I love you. By the third, you realize your fingers are gripping the pages too tightly, creasing the paper in places you shouldn’t.

You inhale, slow and shaky.

You should have expected this—you don’t know why, but you should have. Seungcheol was never the kind of person to leave things half-finished. He always had something to say, always had one more thing left in him, and now, even after everything, even after all this time, he’s still here. Still reaching for you in the only way he knows how.

The truth is—you believe him.

You believe that every word on this page is real, that he isn’t saying this just to pull you back into something fleeting. You believe that when he says he’ll meet you where you are, he means it. That when he asks if there’s still something left to hold on to, he’s not asking out of desperation—he’s asking because he’s ready to try.

And you trust him. 

The thought doesn’t surprise you much. You always have. Even when things fell apart, even when you told yourself it was better this way, even when you tried to move forward without looking back.

But now?

Now, he’s standing at the other end of the bridge, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re the only one crossing it.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fold the letter along its creases. You stare at it for a little longer as if the words might change. As if you haven’t already memorized them.

But nothing changes. And deep down, you know—you don’t need to read it again. You already have your answer.

You inhale sharply, then push yourself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. Your head feels heavy, maybe from the lack of sleep, or from the toll this has been taking on you. But as you grab your keys from the kitchen counter downstairs, you realize you feel lighter than you have in a very, very long time. You’re sick of being uncertain, of hesitating.

So you open the door, step outside, and let yourself believe.

—

Seungcheol hears the knock, quiet but firm.

It’s late—too late for visitors. Still, he moves.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s you and for a moment, he’s surprised that you’re already here.

You stand there, breathing a little hard, arms wrapped around yourself like you only just realized how cold it is. No jacket, no hoodie, nothing but the clothes you must’ve been wearing at home. Like you didn’t even think before coming here.

And in your hand, his letter.

Neither of you speak.

Your fingers press into the paper, grip just tight enough to crumple it. The porch light flickers slightly, your eyes flitting to it quickly, before they settle back on him.

Seungcheol holds his breath and steps aside wordlessy to let you in.

You step inside without a word, the warmth of his house settling over you the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It should be a relief after the bite of the cold, but it isn’t—it barely registers.

Because Seungcheol is right there.

Close enough that you can hear his breathing, see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just watches you, gaze flickering from your face to the letter still clutched in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The silence isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve had silences like this before, the kind that stretched between phone calls, between airports, between too many things left unsaid. But this one is different. This one is hopeful—you can sense it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the letter before you finally hold it out to him.

“I read it,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing as he glances at the paper, then back at you.

He doesn’t ask what you think or demand an answer. He just waits. It’s something new, this patience of his, and it makes your heart twist in your chest. Your fingers finally let the letter slip from your grasp, setting it down beside you without looking away from him.

"You meant all of it?" Your voice is quieter than you expect, calmer than you feel.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I meant all of it.”

You nod, shifting slightly on your feet. The warmth of his house is pressing into your skin now, but it’s not the heat from the room that’s making your heart spike—it’s him. It always has been. It’s the way he’s looking at you, careful but so open, like he’s letting you see everything without saying a single word.

And the truth is, you already know.

You’ve always known.

The realization settles over you, sinks its teeth into your skin, and for once, you let it.

You step forward, closing the space between the two of you, hesitating only for a split second before reaching for him, locking your hands behind his back. It’s instinct more than anything else, something your body remembers even if your heart has spent so long pretending to forget.

Seungcheol stiffens—you can feel it. But before you can pull away, his arms come up to encircle your waist, warm and familiar. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for the tension to slip from your body, for his hand to smooth over the curve of your back, for the ache in your chest to settle into something more subdued. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

And then, slowly, carefully, you pull back just enough to look at him.

His arms stay where they are, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

His gaze flickers down, just briefly, before finding yours again.

You lean in first, but Seungcheol’s quick to meet you down, half-way.

He reacts immediately, like he’d been waiting for this—for you. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he kisses you back, like he’s trying to make up for every second he lost.

His fingers slide up to cup your face, tilting your head just right, pulling you closer. You let him, let yourself get lost in it, in him, in the way he still kisses you like he knows you, like he’s never forgotten what you like, what makes you sigh against his lips, what makes you grip onto him just a little tighter.

And then, slowly, the urgency fades.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, your fingers relax where they’ve been fisted in his shirt, and for a moment, all you can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing mixing in the space between you.

When you finally pull back, it isn’t all at once. Your lips part, but your foreheads stay pressed together, noses barely grazing. Seungcheol exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Your fingers loosen where they’d been clutching his shirt, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand finds yours. You let his fingers slip and tighten between yours, a small, relieved sigh leaving your lips.

Eventually, Seungcheol leans back slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He exhales, then nods toward the couch. “C’mere.”

You glance at it before looking at him again. He probably sees a sliver of hesitation, but it’s not because you don’t want to. Rather because it feels surreal, too easy after everything. But then his fingers squeeze yours, just barely, and it’s enough.

So you go.

You settle beside him, not pressed together, not too far apart—just close enough. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like it’s second nature. It is, you suppose. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into old habits after trying so long to ignore and forget them.

“You’re freezing,” Seungcheol murmurs after a beat, squeezing your hand lightly.

You hum, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I kind of didn’t think too much after I read the letter and just, well, came.”

Your gaze flickers to the coffee table, where a motorsport magazine sits at the top of a messy stack. The cover is creased, the pages slightly bent from being flipped through too often.

“You’ve been keeping up?” you ask.

Seungcheol follows your gaze before sighing, almost guiltily. “I tried not to.” He pauses before slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t really work.”

You know how it feels. You never stopped watching his races either, even when you tried so hard to convince yourself that it was possible.

“Have you decided yet?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t take it.” Seungcheol says it with a sense of fake surety. He may believe it now. 

But sometimes you know him better than he knows himself. You know that Seungcheol has always had that fire in him. The burn to win, to be bigger, better. That ambition that you once respected, still do, but the same one that’s torn the two of you apart. The worst thing is that it is not something that can be dampened out. You can see it in his eyes, even now. His body is on a break, but you know that Aston offer has been running in his mind. Once you get addicted to that adrenaline, to that feeling of being the fastest person in the world, you can’t ever let it go. And Seungcheol isn’t anywhere close to being done. You know it.

And it hurts. Just a little, because you know he is about to leave again. Even before he’s made his decision, you know. But you have always loved Seungcheol and racing has been a part of his life almost as long as you have. You cannot take that away from him. You won’t. He belongs there, on track, in a car, fighting for his dreams and proving his worth.

You can only hope that he belongs here too, beside you on his couch, fingers running through your hair as he hums an old song under his breath.

But it’s about time you take that leap of faith again, and something tells you that you won’t fall down and scrape your knees this time.

The first time Seungkwan notices that something’s off, it’s on the late night coffee run that he drags the two of you to. 

Initially, he’d only meant to call you since you’re the only one who’d even come. So it surprises him to see Seungcheol behind you when you open your front door. Seungkwan doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just here to give you something, or help you with something. Maybe there was a bug in your room and you yelled for him to come over and kill it. You do that sometimes. 

What other logical explanation would you have for him to be in your house past 10?

So thus, Mister Muscle ends up coming with you two, too.

In the convenience store, the cashier barely raises his head to look up at you guys, the glass door swinging shut behind you. Seungkwan heads straight for the coffee dispenser, mind running through all the tasks that he needs to complete before this week ends. File that report, write an email regarding missing documents from the 5th floor. Ask for an increase in vacation days. He needs to fix that printer tomorrow morning.

He notices you and Seungcheol move in sync without a word, making your way to the refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t follow immediately, and only watches for a few seconds as you pick out different drinks.

The store’s window seats are empty, so you slide into one, Seungkwan and Seungcheol taking the spots beside you. The glass reflects the neon signs outside, a soft glow spilling onto the counter in front of you.

Seungkwan tears open a protein bar, already mid-rant about something, while you set your drink down with a quiet thud, a mildly disgusted expression on your face.

Without a word, you reach for Seungcheol’s bottle instead.

You take it from his hand, twist the cap, and drink.

Seungcheol doesn’t react. Like it’s nothing, he just picks up your iced tea and takes a sip, barely glancing your way.

Seungkwan stops mid-chew.

Since when did you two start getting along so well? 

As the two of you look at him, expecting him to continue his rant, he convinces himself that it’s for the better anyway. At least some things are coming back to normal.

The second time, Seungkwan’s too sleepy to care at first.

He breathes out as he steps outside, barely awake, iced coffee in his hands but not doing much yet. His morning routine is automatic—walk out, wave to you, go to work. No thinking required.

But today, when he looks up toward your driveway, Seungcheol is there.

Seungkwan blinks, rubbing his eyes like maybe he’s still dreaming. But no, you’re definitely there, your metal water bottle in hand, listening to Seungcheol say something with that too-casual, too-familiar ease.

Seungkwan slows his steps.

You shift your bag higher up your shoulder. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly. 

Maybe Seungkwan’s still sleepy and bleary eyed, because for a second he swears he sees Seungcheol lean down to you. He also thinks you don’t move away either.

What was that?

And then it’s gone.

By the time Seungkwan gets close enough, you’re stepping back, tucking your keys into your pocket, like nothing just happened.

Seungcheol shakes his head, stretches his arms overhead like he’s just waking up, and steps away from the car when you finally notice him.

Seungkwan thinks you wave a little over-enthusiastically at 8 in the morning. Maybe you just slept well.

The third time, it’s at Jihoon’s house, just a casual hangout. The man had been isolating himself in his studio all week, and Seungkwan had thought that it was about time he came out of his hibernation.

Seungkwan sits cross-legged on the floor, next to the coffee table, searching for movies to play tonight. But when he looks up at you, his eyes narrow in on the way you and Seungcheol sit, way too close to each other when there’s so much space around you two.

It’s not even the way your legs bump every few minutes, or the quiet conversations you have that seem just a little too easy for two people who supposedly haven’t been together in a year.

Seungkwan finally begins to understand when he catches Seungcheol reaching for your hand. It’s so casual and normal that he doesn’t even think anything of it at first. It’s only when you glance up at him, after he fixes the bracelet on your hand that’s about to fall off, that he realizes.

It’s not a surprised glance, not a startled reaction, just a look that lingers. Like this isn’t the first time, like it won’t be the last.

And then, you smile.

It’s small, just barely there, but undeniably fond. Soft around the edges in a way that doesn’t belong to people still figuring things out.

And Seungcheol smiles back.

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly before he forces himself to tear his gaze away, feeling like he’s intruded on something very personal to them. He turns to look at Jihoon beside him, who only shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“You knew?” Seungkwan asks, incredulously.

Jihoon doesn’t even look at him. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. Maybe you’re just a little dense.”

Seungkwan glares at him before turning his attention to you.

“Are you two back together again?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes out instantly, almost nonchalantly too. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just the simple truth, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Seungkwan blinks.

Jihoon huffs out a quiet laugh beside him, shaking his head like he saw this coming from a mile away.

He’s spent weeks piecing things together—watching, observing, feeling like he’s uncovering the fact that you two are starting to act lovey-dovey again—only to find out that you two have actually been back together this whole damn time?

He sighs sharply, rolling his eyes at the couple before turning to Jihoon again.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me.” Seungkwan swats his shoulder, “Pay up.”

Jihoon only sighs loudly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a neatly folded bill before wordlessly handing it over.

Seungkwan snatches it and shoves it into his own pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, voice smug.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

Seungkwan hums, crossing his arms pettily before leaning back into the sofa. “We bet on how long it would take you two to get back together.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bet on us?”

“Of course we did,” Jihoon mutters.

Seungcheol tilts his head, amused. “How long did you say?”

“Three months,” Jihoon answers.

Seungkwan scoffs, smug. “I said two.”

You fold your arms. “Wow. Love the faith you guys had in us.”

Jihoon shrugs. “You’re both kind of predictable.”

—

The house is quiet, the kitchen warm with the scent of food as you move around it together. It’s late, but neither of you are in a hurry.

Seungcheol stands behind you, arms locked at your waist. His breath on your neck makes you squirm a little, a small laugh leaving your lips. You twist in his grip, just enough to face him, and suddenly, you’re close.

Too close—the kind where your noses brush, soft and fleeting, as he tilts his head slightly.

Your breath catches for half a second, but Seungcheol just smiles, his arms pulling you in a little more. “What?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, nudging your nose against his in retaliation. “Can you just let me grab the plates in peace?”

He laughs—a warm, hearty sound—his forehead pressing lightly against yours. “I don’t really think you mind.”

Your fingers find their way around his neck before you even think about it, elbows resting lightly against his shoulders. Seungcheol hums and for a second, you think he’s about to kiss you when—

The front door unlocks.

Your stomach drops. Seungcheol’s arms fall away instantly, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you take a hurried step back.

“Oh.”

Your mom stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand, her brows lifting slightly as she takes in the sight of you both.

“Oh,” you echo, your voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Your dad steps in behind her, glancing up just in time to see the two of you standing too close, looking entirely too guilty. He blinks, his gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol, expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nods. “Huh.”

Seungcheol clears his throat, visibly struggling for words, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck while the other hangs uselessly at his side.

You, on the other hand, want the earth to swallow you whole.

“Welcome back!” you blurt out, voice strained. “You’re early!”

Your mom eyes you suspiciously before turning to Seungcheol. “Yes, well, we caught an early flight. Didn’t realize you’d be here too, sweetheart.”

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t completely crumble under pressure. He musters up a sheepish smile. “Just—uh—helping out.”

Your mom’s expression softens almost immediately, her eyes flickering between the two of you before she exhales, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, setting her suitcase down. “It’s good to see you both like this again.”

Your breath catches slightly, throat tightening at the gentle relief in her voice. Beside you, Seungcheol shifts, his shoulders relaxing,

Your father doesn’t say much. He only claps Seungcheol on the shoulder as he moves past you two with the suitcases. But as he walks ahead, his voice drifts back to you, muttering under his breath.

“Who was it that said two months? Was it Jihoon or Seungkwan? Gotta pay them now, damn it…”

Seungcheol freezes. You blink.

What?

Your mom sighs, following after him like this is a normal conversation. “You can just be happy for them, you know.”

“I am happy,” your dad grumbles. “I just thought I had more time before I had to hand over the money. Those silly boys roped me into their bet.”

Seungcheol presses his lips together, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Why has everyone been betting on us?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up as you turn to your father.

“Because it’s only ever been a matter of time when it comes to you two,” He sighs, shaking his head at the two of you as he disappears into his room.

You gape at his exiting figure, before dragging a palm over your face. “This is fucking insane.”

Seungcheol almost snorts, stepping away when you try to swat him.

Seungcheol is stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone at an angle. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, skimming through something on your laptop, barely paying attention to anything beyond the soft hum of the heater and the occasional click of your keyboard.

It isn’t until the familiar sound of engines fills the quiet that you glance up.

His phone screen reflects off his face, but from this angle, you can’t see what he’s watching.

“Has testing begun?” You question, standing up to walk over to him.

Seungcheol grunts a little as he pushes himself up to make space for you, holding his phone out so that you can see too. He nods as you sit beside him, leaning into you as his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

You watch him, a little carefully. Seungcheol’s brows are furrowed in concentration and his eyes flick across, analyzing, checking. His fingers tighten around his phone slightly, his jaw set in focus. Every so often, his thumb taps idly against the side of the device, a habit he’s never really shaken. His eyes flicker across the screen, sharp and intent, following the cars as if he’s trying to place himself back in the cockpit.

You hum softly, resting your chin against your knee. “You’re still keeping up with everything?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, finally leaning back against the couch. “Not really,” he says, but the way he doesn’t look at you makes it feel like a lie.

You don’t push, just let the moment pass as another driver’s onboard appears on screen.

“That car looks good,” he mutters, nodding toward one of them on screen. “Stable through the high-speed corners, barely any correction on exit.”

You blink, glancing at the timing bar. “Williams?”

He scoffs. “Yeah. But you can’t trust anything yet.”

“Sandbagging?” you guess.

“Mhm.” Seungcheol nods. “The bigger teams always run heavy in testing, low power mode. You won’t know their real pace until the first race.”

You glance back at the screen, watching as another car rolls into frame—this time, a deep green, with a small rake of aero sensors still attached to the side.

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “What do you think about them?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He watches for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable, before he breathes in deeply.

“You never know,” he murmurs. “It’s just testing.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Neither do you.

Instead, you think of the meeting you had yesterday, the offer sitting in your inbox—marked as important.

—

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol outside at 8 A.M. when you close your front door behind you and make your way to the driveway to go to work.

But there he is—standing by his driveway, shaking out his damp hair, dressed in a hoodie unzipped over a sweat-soaked shirt. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gym shoes still on, like he just got back.

Your fingers pause over your keys. It’s early. Not too early for you, but early enough that he shouldn’t be up unless he had somewhere to be.

Seungcheol spots you almost immediately. His face shifts into something easy, something warm, as he steps closer.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the cold air.

You glance at him. “You’ve been out?”

He hums, nodding as he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Gym.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “At this hour?”

Seungcheol grins, leaning in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips before you can say anything else. But when he pulls back, you’re still looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“How long have you been up?”

He sighs like he already knows what’s coming, before tilting his head slightly. “Four?”

Your stare sharpens. “Seungcheol.”

He laughs, stepping back slightly, like he knows he’s caught. “What? I couldn’t sleep.”

You cross your arms, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, fingers tapping absently against his duffel bag. He doesn’t look tired, but he doesn’t look at ease either. His body is still holding onto that restlessness that he hasn’t figured out how to shake.

“You’re working out a lot,” you say finally, voice careful.

Seungcheol shrugs. “It’s just habit.”

You watch the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his shoulders tense.

And maybe you shouldn’t say it—at least, not yet. But the words slip out anyway.

“You aren’t used to not prepping hard around this time, are you?”

For the first time, his expression falters just slightly.

It’s quick—so quick that if you weren’t watching him this closely, you might have missed it. But it’s there. That brief flicker of something in his eyes, something unsure, something lost.

He exhales, looking away for half a second. “Yeah.”

You nod, watching him straighten up.

“But not this year,” you murmur.

Seungcheol tries brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Nope.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, you tilt your head. “And you’re okay with that?”

He doesn’t reply right away. It gives you the answer you needed. 

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you pipe up again, “Do you have any plans today?”

He laughs a little at that, “Yep. Busy schedule. I need to rot in bed, get out of my room, roam around the kitchen and go back in again until my girlfriend decides to come back home.”

You smile softly, before stepping closer, reaching up to fix a stray strand of hair sticking to his forehead. He stills for half a second before leaning into the touch, eyes flickering down to yours.

“I’ll see you when I get back, Cheol. I have something to talk to you about.” You admit as you step back.

He nods slowly, before motioning for you to get into your car. “Sure, I’ll see you then. Have fun at work!”

You shake your head as you shut the car door, putting on a sour expression. It makes him laugh, so you guess that’s half the mission accomplished for today.

—

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed when Seungcheol walks in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, watching you with a smile.

“You never knock,” you mutter without looking up.

“You never lock your door,” he counters, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head as he settles onto the bed beside you. He stretches his legs out, arms propped behind him, fingers tapping lightly against your blankets. He’s comfortable, always is when he’s here, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to speak first.

Seungcheol tilts his head. “You look like you’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together before sighing. “Maybe.”

He hums. “Want to tell me what’s up, or should I start guessing?”

You hesitate, picking absently at a loose thread on your sleeve. No point in dragging it out.

“I got a job offer,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s in the UK.”

Seungcheol doesn’t react right away. His fingers still against the bed, but there’s no visible surprise—just a slow, careful inhale as he absorbs it.

“That’s big,” he says after a moment. His voice is steady, even. “A good one?”

You nod again. “Better position, bigger projects.”

He watches you for a second longer. “And?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “And… I don’t know.”

Seungcheol adjusts his position so he’s facing you fully now. “You don’t know what?”

“If I should take it,” you admit.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”

You hesitate, the words catching somewhere in your throat. Because it’s not that simple, is it?

Seungcheol must notice because he doesn’t say anything right away—just waits, gaze unwavering.

“It’s not just moving—it’s starting over. A new city, a new routine. Everything changes.” You pause. “Including us.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for you to catch.

Instead, he exhales, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

You blink at him. “You’re not going to tell me I’m overthinking?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, you are overthinking, but it’s a big decision. You should take your time.”

You purse your lips. “And what if I don’t know what the right choice is?”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “Then you think about what scares you more—taking it, or not taking it.”

His words sink in slowly.

You chew on your lip. “What if both scare me?”

He smiles, just slightly. “Then you take the one that moves you forward.”

For a moment, you just look at him.

“You always make things sound so easy.”

Seungcheol sighs, lips quirking. “That’s because it is.”

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth in your chest, the feeling of being sure and unsure at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, carefully, you say, “It’s funny, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“How things happen at the right time,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his. “Me getting this now. And you with the—” You cut yourself off, shrugging slightly.

“The what?” Seungcheol asks, casually. Too casually.

You sigh, slumping down onto the bed, beside him. “Come on, Cheol. Aston Martin. They're based there too. How long are you going to make them wait?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “This isn’t the same thing.”

“Is it not?” You hum, waiting, still patient.

“No. This is different. You got an actual offer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what did Aston give you? A suggestion?”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shuts his eyes close, breathing in deep. You know he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, but it hurts you to see him like this.

So you mutter, a little softer now, “How long are you going to pretend like you aren’t thinking about it?”

His gaze flicks to you at that, caught.

Seungcheol looks away. “It’s not about thinking about it. It’s about—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “It’s about if I even should.”

You’re not too surprised, but hearing it from him takes you aback for a second. Still, you don’t waver. “And what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, quietly.

“Then try and figure it out, Cheol.” You say, still looking at him.

Seungcheol keeps quiet for a long minute before he sighs, a little reluctant. “What if I come back and I’m not good enough anymore?”

You shift closer, reaching out ,your hand settling over his. “Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“You know what I think?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “What?”

You squeeze his hand. “I think if you didn’t believe you could still do it, you wouldn’t be struggling with this so much.”

Seungcheol’s breathing comes out slower this time.

“You’ve been restless, working out like you’re still in pre-season,” you continue. “You follow testing, you analyze race strategy even when you pretend you’re just watching for fun.” You pause. “You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you to go back. But the only person who can make that choice is you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows you’re right but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you add. “But I know you, Seungcheol. And you don’t walk away from things unless you know you’re done. And you know that you aren’t done with this. Are you?”

Finally, he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers curl into the blankets, and when he finally exhales, it’s slow. Careful.

“No,” he says quietly.

You nod, like you knew this answer was coming. Because you did.

His fingers tighten around yours.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I think I’ve always known.”

You smile, just slightly. “So what’s stopping you?”

Seungcheol exhales, but this time, he doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, thoughtful. His gaze flickers downward. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—more hesitant than before.

“…What about us?”

Your breath catches slightly, because you hadn’t expected him to ask that first.

He lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes searching. “If I do this,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be gone all the time again. I’ll be at the factory, traveling for races, testing. If I go back… I don’t want things to fall apart again.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Because he’s right.

If he does this, it’ll be different from before—but in some ways, it’ll be the same. He’ll be just as busy, maybe even more. And after everything you’ve been through, he’s scared that history will repeat itself.

You inhale slowly, squeezing his hand. “You’re thinking too far ahead,”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

You pause, then gently, “Then be realistic about this, too. I don’t think we’re the same people we were back then, Cheol.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“We already lost each other once,” you continue. “We know what it feels like. And I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

Seungcheol swallows. “No,” he says quietly. “We don’t.”

You nod, voice softer now. “Then we won’t.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he just presses his palms against his knees, staring at the floor like he’s letting it all settle in. Then, with a slow breath, he nods.

You watch as he reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before he glances at you, something steadier in his gaze now.

“I should probably stop putting this off.”

You nod, lips curling slightly. “Yeah.”

He exhales, tapping at the screen, and just before he brings the phone to his ear, he glances at you one last time.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1

February 25th, 2027

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL RETURNS TO FORMULA 1 WITH ASTON MARTIN—SET TO WORK WITH ADRIAN NEWEY.”

After months of speculation, four-time world champion Seungcheol Choi is officially returning to Formula 1 with Aston Martin, marking one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in the sport’s recent history.

The Korean driver, who departed with Ferrari and stepped away from F1 following the 2025 season, will be rejoining the grid just as Aston Martin embarks on a new era of technical leadership under Adrian Newey. With Newey’s expertise in car development and Choi’s proven track record, expectations are already high for the team’s future.

“I’m excited for this next chapter,” Choi said in a statement. “Aston Martin has shown incredible ambition, and with Adrian on board, I have no doubt that we can build something special.”

His return raises questions about the competitive landscape of F1 moving forward, with Aston Martin aiming to challenge the front-runners in 2027. With pre-season testing in Bahrain starting today, all eyes will be on Choi as he steps back into the cockpit for the first time in over a year.

The Bahraini air is dry as usual, the morning sun bright across the paddock as the first day of testing begins. The garages are alive with movement—engineers making final checks, mechanics making last minute changes, cameras capturing every detail.

And at the center of it all, Seungcheol stands in Aston Martin’s green.

The suit fits like it always has. The gloves slide on without hesitation. When he pulls the balaclava over his head, it feels like no time has passed at all.

But it has.

He knows it. Everyone here knows it.

He breathes slowly as he steps toward the AMR27, sleek under the artificial lights of the garage. 

Seokmin crouches beside him, grinning like he’s been waiting for this day just as much as Seungcheol has.

“Well,” Seokmin says, knocking on his helmet lightly. “You look good in green.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head. “Better than red?”

Seokmin hums, pretending to think about it. “The red was iconic. Give it some time.”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound being muffled by his helmet.

A familiar voice crackles through his earpiece.

“Alright, Cheol, let’s get you out there.”

Seungcheol glances at his steering wheel, a small smile pulling at his lips. He knew this was happening, but still—it feels surreal to hear his old Ferrari race engineer, still here, still speaking to him over the radio. Adjusting to a new team has been challenging, but this makes it a little bit easier.

And then, his gaze shifts past the mechanics, past the flashing screens, toward the edge of the garage to where you’re standing—arms crossed, standing just outside the blur of engineers, watching him like you always have.

This is right.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling just enough for him to catch it. It’s small, barely there, but he knows what it means.

Seungcheol lifts a gloved hand, throwing you a thumbs up. It makes you smile a little wider.

Seungcheol rolls the car out of the garage and into the end of the pit lane, engine idling as he waits for the session to go green.

To his left, the Red Bull pulls up.

Seungcheol glances over just as Haechan does the same. Two time world champion now. Let’s see if we can keep up.

Without hesitation, Haechan lifts a hand and gives him a small wave.

Simple and casual. A ‘Welcome back.’

The light flicks green.

Seungcheol exhales, nods once and pulls out onto the track.