Savie’s

there’s only a motel room with yellow curtains and a heater that clicks every few minutes without producing much warmth. there’s a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside your elbow. there’s your paperback folded open across your knees, the pages crowded with underlined sentences and cramped notes in the margins because you can’t seem to read anything without arguing with it a little. there’s dean, standing beside the door with his jacket already on, staring at you as though you have personally offended him by occupying the only chair.

“you know books are supposed to be relaxing, right?” he asks.

you keep your eyes down on the page. “i am relaxed.”

“you wrote three paragraphs beside one sentence.”

“i’m taking notes.”

dean takes a drink from his coffee and glances across the room at sam, who’s sitting at the tiny table beneath the window with his laptop open and several printed maps spread around him. “she’s doing homework for fun again.”

sam doesn’t look up immediately. the corner of his mouth moves first, a quiet little smile he almost manages to hide behind the screen. “leave her alone.”

“i’m not bothering her—i’m concerned. there’s a difference.”

“you tried to take the book away from me ten minutes ago,” you remind him.

“because we have a job.”

“and because you wanted the chair.”

“well, two things can be true.”

you close the book around the receipt you’re using as a bookmark and stand, smoothing your palms over your jeans. dean immediately drops into the chair with the satisfied sigh of a man who has survived a significant hardship. you roll your eyes at him, gathering your hair over one shoulder while you lean closer to the maps. it's long enough now that the ends catch beneath the strap of your camera whenever you forget to move them, dark brown that turns almost black in the motel room’s poor lighting except where your grown-out highlights soften it near the ends. your bangs have reached the awkward stage where they refuse to behave properly, no matter how many times you push them away from your face.

sam reaches across the table without thinking and gently frees one strand caught against the chain of your necklace.

it’s such a small thing. barely anything at all. his fingers don’t even touch your skin, only the moss-green aquamarine pendant you wear every day and the loose piece of hair tangled around it. still, your body notices. horribly. instantly.

“sorry,” he murmurs.

“no, it’s okay.”

his eyes lift to yours for a second, warm and a little uncertain, before he lets the strand fall against your shoulder. 

you’ve been in love with sam winchester long enough to recognize the exact shape of your own bad decisions. most of them are tall, soft-spoken, and currently wearing a faded brown hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

you look down at the map before your face can betray you. “so,” you say, forcing your attention toward the red circles sam has drawn around three separate areas of woodland. “we’re sure it’s a werewolf?”

“pretty sure,” sam says. his voice settles into that calmer register he slips into when he’s explaining something, patient without making you feel inexperienced. “three victims within six weeks. same general area, all killed overnight. the police reports blame an animal attack, but the injuries are too consistent. severe trauma to the chest, hearts missing.”

“romantic,” dean grumbles.

you glance toward him. “you eat while we talk about autopsy reports.”

“i contain multitudes.”

“it’s called diabetes and cholesterol. get it checked.”

dean gives you a flat look over the rim of his coffee cup. sam ducks his head, but not quickly enough to hide his laugh.

that sound still catches you off guard sometimes. not because it’s rare exactly, although it’s rarer than it should be. but because you remember how guarded sam was when you first met him. you remember the distance he kept between himself and the rest of the world, even while he’s polite, even while he’s kind. grief sat heavily on him in those first few weeks. guilt did too. you didn’t understand all of it at the time, and you knew better than to pry open wounds he was trying to carry quietly. you only made coffee when he had been staring at the laptop too long. you brought extra food when dean forgot that his brother doesn’t survive exclusively on gas-station snacks and spite. you listened when sam offered pieces of himself in careful increments.

somewhere along the way, you become part of the rhythm.

you’re not born into hunting. there’s no family journal waiting in a locked box beneath your childhood bed, no parent teaching you how to draw a devil’s trap before you know long division. before sam and dean, the most dangerous thing you regularly did was stand on your tiptoes to reach the top shelf in your kitchen rather than finding a chair. 

then a spirit followed you home from an abandoned hotel, and sam and dean saved your life, and the world became much larger and stranger than it had any right to be.

you’re supposed to go back to normal afterward.

you tried. for almost two weeks when dean answered the phone at two in the morning and heard you say, “hypothetically, how much salt is too much salt to pour across a doorway?”

you’ve been with them ever since.

“the most recent victim worked at a summer camp,” sam continues, tapping the map. “josh miller. twenty-four. his body hasn’t been found, but his truck was abandoned near the service road.”

“which means he might not be a victim,” you say.

sam nods. “he could’ve been bitten during the first attack.”

“and now he’s hiding somewhere familiar,” dean adds. “isolated property, plenty of places to disappear until sundown. simple enough.”

simple enough. you should know better than to trust those words.

the camp looks harmless in daylight.

the main building sits beyond a cracked wooden sign painted with cheerful yellow letters, surrounded by bare trees and damp earth. a row of cabins stretches toward the edge of the woods, their windows dark, their doors locked. there are faded murals along the dining-hall wall. your camera rests against your chest as you walk, tapping softly against your pendant with every step.

dean notices you taking a picture of the sign.

“seriously?”

“what?”

“you making a scrapbook?”

“yes, dean. i’m going to title this page ‘possible werewolf murder camp.’ i’ll add glitter later.”

“make sure you get my good side.”

“that would require extensive editing.”

he points at you without looking back. “your attitude is getting worse.”

“you’re a bad influence.”

“you’re welcome.”

ahead of you, sam checks the lock on the main building and glances over his shoulder. his hair is falling into his eyes again, slightly too long even by his standards, and the mild exasperation on his face does absolutely nothing to disguise his affection.

“both of you,” he says quietly. “focus.”

“i am focused,” dean says. “i’m focused on how mean she’s gotten since we picked her up.”

you follow them onto the wooden steps. “you begged me to stay after the poltergeist case because i was the only one who remembered to bring a first-aid kit.”

“begged is a strong word.”

“you called me from a gas station and said sam was bleeding on the upholstery.”

“he was!”

sam opens the door after a few seconds with the lock pick, shaking his head. “i’m right here.”

your shoes squeak faintly against the linoleum as you step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. there are chairs stacked upside down on tables and boxes of craft supplies tucked beneath the serving counter. a bulletin board displays photographs from the previous summer: sunburnt teenagers in matching shirts, children grinning with missing front teeth, counselors posing beside a canoe. 

“audry,” dean calls without turning around. “stay where we can see you.”

it shouldn’t bother you. it’s sensible. you’re newer than they are, and dean has a point even when he packages it inside that gruff older-brother tone he’s started using whenever you stray more than ten feet away from him in a dangerous place. 

something in your chest tightens anyway. “i know.” 

sam pauses in the office doorway and looks back at you. the glance lasts only a moment, but he reads you too easily. “you’re doing fine.”

you lower the camera slightly. “i didn’t say anything.”

“you didn’t have to.”

dean appears from behind the counter with a silver knife in his hand. “nobody thinks you’re doing a bad job, short stack.”

you narrow your eyes. “i’m going to let the werewolf eat you.”

“see? attitude problem.” his voice is teasing, but he waits until you roll your eyes before turning away again. 

he knows too. neither of them ever says it directly, this quiet understanding that your fear is rarely about the monster in front of you. it’s about being useful enough to earn your place beside them. capable enough that no one has to regret trusting you. easy enough to keep around.

you look down at your camera, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the screen. your nails are painted a glossy dark green this week, although the polish on your index finger is chipped from forcing open a stubborn ammunition box yesterday. “i just don’t want to be the reason something goes wrong.”

for one second, sam looks as though he wants to say more. something larger than the moment has room for. instead, he reaches out and briefly squeezes your shoulder. “you’re not,” he says. “you won’t be.”

dean straightens near the kitchen door. “found blood.”

the conversation closes around those two words.

you move toward him. the stain is old enough to have darkened against the linoleum, smeared in a broken trail leading toward the back exit. sam crouches to inspect it while dean tests the door.

“lock’s busted,” dean says.

“something left in a hurry,” sam murmurs.

you take a picture of the blood, then another of the damaged frame. the flash briefly fills the room. 

for a second, you see something reflected in the narrow glass panel beside the door. a shape. too tall. too close. “sam—”

the door slams inward hard enough to send dean stumbling back. the creature hits him first, a blur of torn clothing and bared teeth, driving him into the counter with enough force to scatter metal trays across the floor. sam’s already moving. he shoves you behind him with one arm, raises the gun in the other, and fires.

the silver bullet catches the werewolf high in the shoulder.

it howls, twisting toward him.

“dean!” sam shouts.

dean recovers before the creature can lunge again. he drives the silver knife upward beneath its ribs and holds on through the violent jerk of its body, his jaw clenched. his other hand braced against its chest. the werewolf shudders. then it collapses heavily against him.

for several seconds, the only sounds in the room are dean’s breathing and the faint metallic rattle of a serving tray still spinning against the floor.

“everyone good?” dean asks.

sam turns immediately. “audrynne?”

“i’m fine.”

your heart is hammering, but you are standing. nothing hurts. you lower the camera carefully, fighting the tremor in your fingers as dean eases the body onto the floor.

“josh miller,” he says after checking the dead man’s face. “guess we found our missing maintenance guy.”

sam keeps his attention on you for another second. “you sure you’re okay?”

you nod. “yeah.”

you want to feel relieved. you almost do. then you look at the camera screen. the photograph you took before the attack is blurred from your sudden movement, washed pale by the flash. dean is visible near the door. sam is partly caught in the edge of the frame. behind them, reflected faintly in the narrow strip of glass, there are two distorted shapes.

your stomach drops. “guys—”

sam hears it in your voice. he turns before you can explain.

the second werewolf comes through the kitchen window. glass explodes across the linoleum. sam reaches for you, but you’re already moving on instinct, shoving both hands hard against his chest as the creature lunges. he stumbles sideways. claws slice through the air where his throat had been.

then pain tears across your ribs. it’s so immediate that your body can’t make sense of it at first. there’s only the impact, sharp and brutal, lifting you partially off your feet before you hit the floor. your camera skids beneath one of the tables. the aquamarine pendant snaps against your collarbone.

somebody shouts your name.

the werewolf is above you for less than a second. its breath is hot and foul against your cheek, its teeth stained red, but then sam fires. once. twice. silver bullets drive it backward. it crashes through the broken window and disappears into the trees outside.

sam drops beside you. “hey—hey, look at me.”

you blink up at him. his face won’t stay clear. the ceiling shifts strangely behind his head. “i’m okay,” the words come out thin and uneven.

sam looks down at your side, and something in his expression changes. not panic. sam is too practiced at turning fear into action while there’s still something he can do. he pulls off his overshirt and presses it firmly against the wound. pain flares so hard that your vision blurs white.

you make a sound you do not mean to make.

“i know,” he says immediately. “i know. i’m sorry.”

dean’s beside him now, blood streaked across his cheek from a shallow cut near his hairline. he looks at your side and swears under his breath.

outside, something crashes through the undergrowth. the second werewolf is running. dean looks toward the broken window, then back at you. every part of him resists leaving. you see it happen in real time: the calculation, the fury, the sick understanding that if the creature gets far enough into the woods, it’ll disappear until the next body turns up.

sam sees it too. “go.”

dean’s eyes snap toward him. “sam—”

“i’ve got her. go.”

“she needs—”

“dean.” sam’s voice is low and firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. one hand presses against your side. the other cradles the back of your head, keeping you still against his knee. “kill it before we lose it. i’ve got her.”

dean looks at you.

you attempt a smile because you know him. because he’s going to hate himself for leaving even when staying would be the wrong choice. “go.” 

his jaw tightens. then he grabs the gun, checks the remaining ammunition, and runs through the broken door.

sam shifts carefully, sliding one arm beneath your shoulders. “we’re getting you out of here.”

“sam—”

“don’t talk yet.”

he lifts you into his arms.

you’re small enough that he manages it easily, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, but every step sends a deep tearing ache through your side. you grab the front of his shirt, trying not to cry out. blood has already soaked through the fabric he’s holding against you. it’s warm against your skin, spreading too quickly beneath his hand.

outside, the air is cold and damp. sam lowers himself onto the wooden steps rather than risk carrying you across the uneven ground toward the car alone. he pulls you against his chest, adjusts the pressure on the wound, and looks toward the trees as though he can will dean to return faster.

“stay with me,” he says.

“i’m here.”

“keep looking at me.”

you try.

his face’s turned pale. there’s blood on his hands and along the cuff of his sweatshirt, caught in the lines of his knuckles. your blood. you want to tell him you’re sorry for that. you want to tell him you didn’t mean to make a routine hunt difficult. you should’ve noticed the reflection sooner. you should’ve moved faster. you should’ve listened more carefully instead of letting yourself get distracted by the familiar warmth of his hand on your shoulder.

the thoughts arrive in a frantic, useless rush. “i messed up,” you whisper.

sam’s expression hardens. “no.”

“i should’ve seen it.”

“you did see it.”

“too late.”

“audrynne, stop.” his voice softens almost immediately, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “you saved my life.”

you swallow. the motion hurts for reasons that don’t make sense. “sam—”

“you pushed me out of the way.” his hand tightens behind your shoulder. “so no—you don’t get to do that right now. you don’t get to lie here and convince yourself this happened because you failed some test nobody that didn’t exist.”

the steps beneath you are cold. the woods beyond his shoulder shift in and out of focus. you can hear sam breathing, too fast despite the calmness he’s trying to force into his voice.

you rest your head against his chest. it feels good there.

that’s the strange part. the pain is frightening, and the blood is worse, and somewhere in the distance you hear a gunshot echo between the trees. still, beneath all of it, there is sam. his heartbeat is loud against your ear. his arm holds you close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through both of your clothes. he keeps saying your name quietly, as though each repetition might anchor you inside your own body.

you’ve spent so much time being afraid of being left alone that you almost laugh at the unfairness of it. because you’re not alone. not now. not here.

“it’s perfect,” you murmur.

sam goes still. “what?”

your eyes are heavy. you let them close for one second, then force them open again because he asked you to keep looking at him. “i’m in the arms of my first love.”

his face changes. the fear he’s been holding back present, finally breaking through the careful control. “audrynne.”

“the first person i’ve ever loved,” you continue, the words slipping out softer than you intend. “the person i’ll always love.”

“no.” sam shakes his head immediately. “don’t say it that way.” 

his voice cracks, and he looks angry about it, angry at himself, angry at the blood staining his hands, angry at the entire world for requiring this moment from either of you. 

“you’re not saying goodbye to me. do you hear me?”

“i just wanted you to know.”

“you can tell me later.”

“sam—”

“later,” he repeats. his eyes shine, but he refuses to look away. “when you’re okay. when dean gets back. when we’re in another disgusting motel room and you’re complaining about the coffee and leaving your books everywhere. you can tell me then.”

your mouth trembles into something that almost becomes a smile. “you hate my books?”

“i don’t hate your books.”

“dean says they’re everywhere.”

“dean leaves socks on the floor. he doesn’t get an opinion.”

a laugh catches painfully in your ribs.

sam bends his head closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “stay with me.”

you want to. there’re so many things you want all at once. you want to see the relief on dean’s face when he returns and realizes you’re still breathing. you want to finish the book waiting on the motel nightstand. you want to repaint your chipped nail. you want to tell sam that you’ve loved him quietly through every late-night research session, every cup of coffee, every careful moment when his shoulder brushes yours in the impala and neither of you moves away. but mostly, you want to hear what he might say when he’s not terrified.

“i need more time,” sam says, and the words are so raw that they hurt worse than your side. “okay? i need more time with you. you don’t get to say always as if we’re out of it.”

the woods tilt behind him. you try to answer. you’re not sure whether any sound comes out.

the last thing you feel is sam pulling you closer, one bloodstained hand cupping the side of your face while he says your name again and again.

when you wake, the first thing you notice is the heater.

it clicks once. twice. then rattles with the sort of mechanical resentment only found in cheap motels across the continental united states.

the second thing you notice is pain.

it waits beneath the surface for a moment while your body gathers itself, then settles into a deep ache along your ribs. your mouth’s dry, and your limbs feel impossibly heavy, but you’re warm beneath several blankets. clean bandages wrap your side beneath an oversized shirt you recognize as dean’s.

the room is dim. the curtains are closed. the bedside lamp casts a soft yellow circle across the nightstand, illuminating a bottle of water, painkillers, gauze, and your aquamarine pendant laid carefully beside them. the chain is broken. someone has cleaned the stone until its cloudy green surface catches the light again.

your camera rests safely on the table across the room.

sam is on the floor beside the bed. for a second, you only look at him. he’s sitting with his back against the mattress, one arm folded beneath his head where it rests near your hand. at some point, exhaustion must have dragged him under without permission. his hair is mussed from sleep. there’s a dark smudge beneath one eye and a faint streak of dried blood near his wrist that he missed while washing his hands.

you move your fingers carefully. they brush his hair. sam wakes instantly.

his head lifts so fast that he nearly knocks against the edge of the mattress. his eyes find yours, unfocused for half a second, then suddenly clear.

the relief on his face is immediate.

it’s not subtle or guarded or shaped into something easier to survive. it moves through him so openly that you feel your chest tighten around it. he exhales your name and reaches for your hand, holding it between both of his as though he needs the solid proof of you.

“hey,” you whisper.

“hey.” his voice is rough with sleep. “how do you feel?”

“a little terrible.”

sam laughs once, quietly, and closes his eyes for a second. when he opens them again, they are bright. “yeah. that makes sense.”

“where’s dean?”

“getting food. and more bandages. and coffee.” sam rubs his thumb gently across your knuckles. “he killed the other werewolf. got back fast enough to help me get you here.”

you look down toward your side.

“the cut looked worse than it was once we cleaned it,” he adds immediately, reading your worry. “it missed anything major. you lost blood, and you’re going to be sore for a while, but you’re okay. dean stitched it. he said if you start running a fever or the pain gets worse, we’re taking you to a hospital whether you argue with him or not.”

you smile weakly, then notice the folded piece of motel stationery beside the water bottle. the handwriting across it is large and slanted.

don’t do anything stupid while i’m gone!!!

you pick it up with your free hand. “sweet.”

“he was worried.”

“you were worried.”

sam looks down at your joined hands.

quiet stretches between you, gentle but uncertain. memory returns in fragments: the steps outside the camp, his hand pressed against your side, your cheek against his chest. the terrible honesty that slips loose when you think there won’t be time to regret it. heat rises slowly into your face.

“sam,” you say.

“you don’t have to talk about it right now.”

“i think i do.”

his fingers tighten around yours.

you glance toward the broken necklace on the nightstand because looking directly at him feels suddenly impossible. “i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

“for saying all of that while actively bleeding on you.”

a surprised laugh escapes him. it sounds exhausted and fond and a little painful. “you don’t have to apologize for that.”

“i probably could’ve chosen a better moment.”

“maybe.”

you finally look at him. “i meant it.”

the room stills around the words. sam doesn’t answer immediately. he takes his time with anything that matters. he doesn’t reach for the easiest version of the truth. he turns it over first, careful with the edges.

“i know,” he says.

your stomach twists. before the fear can grow teeth, he lifts your hand and presses his mouth gently against your knuckles.

“i meant it too,” he continues. “what i said.”

you watch him quietly.

“i need more time with you.” his gaze moves across your face, hesitant in a way that feels startling after seeing him so certain during the hunt. “not because i’m afraid you’re going to disappear. not only because of that.”

your breath catches.

sam swallows. “i’ve been trying not to want anything i can lose.”

the honesty of it lands softly and hurts anyway.

you know enough about sam’s life to understand what he means. you know the shape of the grief he carries even when he refuses to name it. jess. his mother. the dreams that wake him some nights and leave him staring toward the motel ceiling until morning. loving him has never made you feel entitled to an answer he’s not ready to give, but you understand now that the distance between you has not been empty.

he’s been afraid of crossing it too.

“that’s not really working for me anymore,” he admits.

a smile tugs weakly at your mouth. “because i almost died?”

his expression tightens. “i hated hearing you say goodbye.”

“i wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“you did.”

“i’m sorry.”

sam lowers his gaze. “i should’ve told you before you had to scare the hell out of me.”

you squeeze his hand. “you can tell me now.”

“i love you,” he says softly.

you feel your eyes burn. “i love you too.”

he smiles then, small and almost disbelieving. you’ve seen sam smile hundreds of times by now: reluctant smiles, tired smiles, brief flashes of amusement when dean says something ridiculous. this one feels different.

his eyes drop toward your mouth, then lift again. “can i kiss you?”

you nod.

sam rises carefully from the floor, moving slowly enough that the mattress barely dips when he sits beside you. one hand comes to rest near your shoulder, the other lifts toward your face and pauses for half a second before his fingertips brush your cheek.

the kiss is soft. softer than you expect after everything. his mouth touches yours with careful warmth, restrained by the bandages beneath your shirt and the knowledge that even breathing too deeply hurts. he doesn’t rush it. he kisses you once, then again when you lean toward him, his thumb tracing gently near your jaw.

your hand catches in the front of his shirt. you’ve imagined this too many times. in diner booths while dean flirts with waitresses to get free pie. in the impala with rain running down the windows. in motel rooms where sam sits beside you on the bed and reads your notes in the margins of whatever book you leave behind. none of those imagined kisses feel anything like this one.

this is quieter. better. real enough to frighten you a little.

when sam draws back, he doesn’t move far. his forehead rests carefully against yours, his breath warm near your mouth.

some part of him is still back on the camp steps, holding pressure against a wound and asking you not to leave. you can see it in the way his eyes search your face whenever you shift, checking for pain before you have the chance to hide it.

“sam,” you say gently. “i’m here.”

he nods. it takes him a second to believe you. then he leans forward and presses his mouth against your forehead, holding it there while your fingers close around his wrist. 

the broken necklace still waits on the nightstand. your camera rests on the table, scratched but intact. dean’s note sits beside the water bottle in his messy handwriting, a small piece of proof that there will be teasing when he returns and coffee that tastes burned and an argument about whether you’re allowed to walk unassisted to the bathroom. ordinary things. the kind you almost lost before you realize how badly you want them.

sam shifts carefully onto the mattress beside you when you make room, still holding your hand between both of his. he doesn’t let go when the heater starts rattling again. he doesn’t let go when your eyes grow heavy. and this time, when you drift back toward sleep, you know exactly there’s still more time.

“Dean.” You nudged his arm with yours. “Leave him alone.”

Dean looked at you. “You're taking his side?”

“I'm taking the side of the guy who actually read a book once in his life.” Sam smirked. Dean shot you an affronted look.

“Wow.”

“I'm just saying.”

“You wound me.” You laughed as the three of you headed toward the house.

Sam unlocked the front door. Inside, the place felt abandoned. Too quiet.

You split up, checking the downstairs rooms while Dean and Sam moved further into the house.

The living room was empty.

Dining room too.

Then you heard something, a metallic rattling sound. You immediately headed toward it.

Someone sat on the floor beside the cabinets, handcuffed to one of the drawer handles. You crouched beside her.

“Hey, hey, it's okay.” Sam and Dean appeared a second later. “We're here to help.”

The girl looked relieved once she realized nobody was going to hurt her, the words started spilling out all at once.

Her stepmother had beaten her, locked her in the kitchen, handcuffed her to the drawers, and forced her to clean while the rest of the family went out.

Definitely Cinderella.

While Sam worked on the handcuffs, movement caught your attention.

A little girl appeared on the other side of the hallway, half of her body was visible. She didn't seem to have anything to do with it, but it made sense when you remembered one of the victims mentioned a little girl before.

“Dean,” you called. He was already moving, you watched them disappear through the hallway. Meanwhile, you called 911 while Sam freed the girl and made sure she was okay.

When the police arrived and the victim was being looked after by paramedics, the three of you regrouped outside.

Dean tossed something into the air and caught it. A shiny red apple.

“The kid left this.”

You exchanged a look with Sam. “Snow White,” he nodded.

“So what? We look for a…”

“A girl in a deep sleep,” you completed.

“Of course,” Dean said. You couldn't help smiling at his tone. May not be the easiest task but at least you knew what you were looking for.

“We should start with hospitals,” Sam said and the three of you headed back toward the Impala.

You had barely made it halfway across the street when a wave of dizziness hit without warning. The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet for a second, forcing you to slow down.

Dean noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

You blinked hard. “Yeah. Just... tired,” you admitted quietly. “Head hurts.” Dean’s brows pulled together.

“You should’ve said something.”

“It literally just started.” He still didn't look convinced, not even a little persuaded by your explanation. You reached the Impala and leaned against the door. “Would you mind dropping me at the motel first?”

He exchanged a look with Sam. “We're heading to the hospital anyway.”

“I think I just need sleep.” He hesitated. You could see him weighing the options in his head, so you reached out and touched his hand. “Dean,” you said softly. “Really. I'm okay.”

The second your fingers brushed his, his hand turned instinctively, fitting against yours perfectly like it had done a hundred times before.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You knew that tone. It wasn't agreement. It was Dean deciding to worry about it later.

His hand lingered around yours for a second longer before he finally let go.

“…Call me if anything feels weird.”

Sam snorts from the door.

“A little late for that warning, don't you think?” Dean shot him a look but didn't argue.

You squeezed his hand once. “I'll be here when you get back.”

Dean leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Better be.”

Then he and Sam were gone.

The motel felt strangely empty after that.

You tried distracting yourself for a while. Flipped through channels. Sat on the edge of the bed. Eventually, you stretched out on top of the covers, hoping sleep might take care of the headache.

It didn't.

The headache hadn't gotten any better. If anything, the longer you lay there, the worse it felt. Not painful enough to alarm you, just enough to keep you from relaxing.

You closed your eyes, hoping a few minutes of rest would help, when a faint sound drifted through the silence.

Your eyes snapped toward the door.

Nothing.

Just the television and the hum of the motel's air conditioner. You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it when the sound came again.

It wasn't loud enough to make out. Not a voice, not exactly. Still, something about it settled deep in your chest, tugging at you with quiet persistence.

Without really deciding to, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood.

The movement felt natural, automatic. One moment you were in bed, the next you were reaching for the door.

The cold night air greeted you outside, but it did little to clear your thoughts. Across the road, beyond a chain-link fence and a row of storage units, stood an old warehouse you'd barely noticed earlier that day.

Now it was impossible to look anywhere else.

You crossed the empty lot without hesitation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning whispered that this was a bad idea. That you should turn around. Call Dean. Go back to the motel.

Instead, you kept walking.

The warehouse door stood slightly open, swaying gently in the wind. You pushed it wider and stepped inside. Moonlight spilled through broken windows, illuminating dust-covered machinery and forgotten crates. At first, nothing seemed unusual.

Then you saw it.

A spinning wheel sat alone in the center of the room.

Your stomach dropped.

Every instinct screamed at you to leave. To run. To do anything except take another step forward, but you did.

“No...” you whispered.

The word sounded weak, swallowed by the darkness around you.

That was the worst part. You could still think. Still understand exactly what was happening. Somewhere between leaving the motel and walking through that door, you'd lost control of everything except your own awareness.

The spinning wheel waited silently beneath the moonlight.

Waiting for you.

Your hand lifted despite every effort to stop it. Your arm trembled as you fought against the movement, and for a brief second, you thought you might actually win.

Then your fingertip brushed the spindle.

A sharp sting shot through your hand and the room vanished.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Dean knew something was wrong before Sam even finished parking the Impala.

The hospital had given them answers, just not the ones they needed. They knew who was behind the attacks now. They knew why people were ending up trapped inside twisted fairy tales. What they didn't know was how to stop it.

None of that mattered the second your call went to voicemail.

“She’s not answering.” Dean was already trying again as he crossed the motel parking lot.

Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened.

“She said she'd stay here. She's probably asleep.” Sam didn't answer right away. By the time he stepped into the room, Dean was already inside.

The television was still playing quietly in the corner. The blankets were tangled on the bed like you'd only gotten up a few minutes ago.

But you were gone. You wouldn't just leave. Not after the conversation they'd had before he left.

“The door was open, Sam.” His eyes swept across the room, searching for anything out of place. Your bag was still there. So was your jacket.

Enough to tell him you'd walked out in a hurry. Or hadn't had much choice.

Dean was moving out of the room before the thought had even finished forming.

Outside, his gaze traveled across the empty lot until it landed on the warehouse across the road.

The same warehouse they'd driven past earlier.

The same warehouse sitting there now like it had been waiting all along.

“Sam.” That was all he said. Sam followed his gaze and immediately understood.

They ran.

The metal door slammed against the wall when Dean shoved it open. For a second, everything seemed frozen.

Dust hung in the air, illuminated by moonlight spilling through the broken windows.

The spinning wheel standing in the center of the room, and you, lying motionless beside it.

Dean crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey, come on.”

Nothing.

His hands shook as he reached for your pulse. The relief nearly knocked the breath out of him when he found it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Wake up.”

Behind him, Sam had gone completely silent. Dean looked over his shoulder, his brother was staring at the spinning wheel.

"What?" Sam swallowed but didn't answer. A knot immediately formed in Dean's stomach. “Sam?”

“Sleeping Beauty.” Dean frowned.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“In the original Grimm story, the princess pricks her finger on a spindle and falls asleep.” Dean glanced at you. Then looked back at Sam.

“How do we wake her?” Sam hesitated. Which was answer enough. “Sam.”

“We can’t. She’s sleeping for a hundred years.” The words seemed to echo through the warehouse. Dean just stared at him.

“A hundred years?”

“Dean, listen—”

“No.”

“Dean—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Fix it.”

“We don't even know if—”

“FIX IT, SAM.” Silence settled between them. After a moment, Sam nodded.

"We need to get back to the hospital."Dean didn't answer. He simply slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully into his arms.

Like letting go wasn't an option.

Hours had passed.

Sam had gone to talk to the doctor after putting together a theory, leaving Dean alone with you.

The hospital room had grown darker as the afternoon slipped into evening. Nurses came and went, the muted television murmured from the corner, and at some point Dean had stopped paying attention to any of it.

You hadn’t moved once.

And Dean hated it.

Sitting beside your bed, he rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at you again, as if maybe this time something would be different.

It never was.

The worst part was how normal you looked.

No pain. No fear. No sign that anything was wrong.

Just asleep.

Dean's fingers tightened around yours.

“Y'know,” he muttered after a while, staring at the floor, “I'm starting to think fairy tales suck.”

The joke landed exactly as well as expected.

Silence.

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before fading again. His gaze drifted back to you. “I should've stayed.” Guilt sat ugly in his chest. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

Then Dean exhaled slowly and leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. Another against your hair. And finally, a lingering kiss against your lips.

Not magical. Just Dean.

When he pulled back, something shifted. A tiny movement. So small he almost thought he'd imagined it.

Dean froze.

“Sweetheart?” Your brows furrowed slightly before your eyes slowly opened.

Dean laughed out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to breaking. You blinked up at him slowly.

“...Dean?”

“Yeah.” He immediately leaned closer. “Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here.”

“What happened?” Dean let out a short laugh.

“You know what? Better if you don’t ask.” Before you could ask anything else, the door opened. Sam walked in carrying a folder under one arm. He took one look at you sitting awake in bed and stopped cold.

“Sammy,” Dean said proudly, pointing at you. “Awake.”

“I can see that.” He smiled.

You looked between them. “Now can you tell me what happened?” Sam pulled a chair closer.

“The doctor finally let his daughter go.” Your confusion must have shown immediately because he continued. “The girl who's been in a coma all these years? She was the one causing all of this. The fairy tales, the curses... everything.”

You slowly remembered pieces of the case.

“The doctor?” Sam nodded.

“He couldn't let her go. Not after everything that happened. But once he finally did...” He gestured toward you. “The curse ended.”

“That's rough,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly.

The silence lasted all of three seconds before Dean ruined it.

“So, Sleeping Beauty, huh?” He teased, you groaned immediately.

“Shut up. I would've preferred the Disney version.”

“The Disney version?” Dean asked.

“Way more romantic.” You explained.

“More romantic? I literally kissed you and you woke up.”

“You did?” He looked at you offended. You were unconscious back then, so you really had no clue.

“I did.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, fighting a smile, “that's not actually why she woke up.” Dean pointed at him without even looking.

“Nobody asked.”

“In the story, the curse ends because enough time passes.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Okay, and the hundred years are up?”

“Dean—”

“Looks like all that fairy tale knowledge finally failed you, Sammy.” Sam sighed. You laughed, and for the first time since he'd found you lying beside that spinning wheel, Dean felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen.

Without thinking, he reached for your hand again.

This time when your fingers curled around his, he didn't let go.

The next few days were... weird.

Not bad.

Just different.

Dean didn't let you out of his sight. At all.

At first, you thought he was being subtle about it. Then you woke up one morning to find him already awake, sitting in the chair across from the bed with a lore book open in his lap. He was supposedly reading, but his eyes kept drifting over the top of the pages.

"...Dean." He didn't even blink.

"What?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I'm not."

"You literally are." Dean shrugged.

"Could be dead asleep for a hundred years right now. Think I earned staring privileges." You just stared at him.

From the other bed, Sam snorted loudly into his coffee.

"Oh my God." Dean tossed a balled-up napkin at him without looking.

"Shut up."

But it kept happening.

Dean hovering. Constantly.

A hand at your back whenever you walked somewhere. Asking if you were tired. Checking if you felt dizzy. Reaching out to touch your arm for no reason at all, like he needed proof you were actually there.

A few days later, you were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table with a book in your hands when Dean came through the door carrying groceries.

The second he spotted you, something in his shoulders relaxed.

It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you did.

Dean caught you watching him and immediately frowned.

"...What?"

Your expression softened. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Checking if I'm alive." Dean scoffed.

"That's exactly how I’d say it."

From the couch, Sam spoke without even looking up from his book. "But it’s true."

Dean pointed at him.

"Nobody asked you." Sam grinned.

"You almost went full Disney prince in that hospital, man." Dean looked genuinely horrified.

"Do not call me that."

"You said it yourself. You kissed her and she woke up." A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Dean's head immediately turned toward you and there it was again.

That tiny shift in his expression.

Like hearing you laugh settled something inside him.

Sam noticed it too. Which meant Dean was completely doomed.

The teasing faded after that, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Dean set the groceries on the counter while Bobby disappeared somewhere deeper into the house, muttering about beer.

Then Dean spoke again.

"You scared me." The words came out quieter than expected.

You looked up.

Dean wasn't joking this time.

"I mean it." His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. "When Sam said you'd be asleep forever..."

The sentence died there. You knew Dean well enough to hear the rest anyway.

The fear.

The helplessness.

The thought of losing someone and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Dean looked away for a second, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I hated that."

Something in your chest ached.

Dean usually hid behind jokes when things got too real. If he was saying this out loud, it meant he'd been carrying it around ever since.

You stood from the table and crossed the kitchen. Dean's eyes followed you automatically. They always did.

When you stopped in front of him, your hands slid into the front of his jacket, lightly gripping the fabric.

"You know," you said softly, "hovering isn't actually preventing supernatural attacks." Dean hummed. "Counterpoint: maybe it is." That earned a smile.

Then, more quietly, you added, "I'm okay."

Dean looked at you for a long moment. Like he was trying very hard to believe it.

Finally, his hand lifted and brushed gently along your cheek before settling at the back of your neck.

"I know." But even as he said it, he tugged you a little closer. Instinctively. And you let him.

Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead.

From the couch, Sam immediately made a disgusted noise. "Okay. That's enough."

Without taking his eyes off you, Dean flipped him off. You laughed against Dean's shoulder.

For a moment, Dean closed his eyes. Just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of you standing there.

The steady rise and fall of your breathing. The simple fact that you were alive.

Still here.

And for now, that was enough.

Dean had been unbearably clingy all day.

Not that you minded.

At some point, while Bobby and Sam were out getting supplies, Dean had somehow ended up stretched across the couch with you trapped between him and the cushions, one arm around your waist while he half-watched some old western on TV.

His fingers absentmindedly played with the ends of your hair. Every few minutes, he pressed a kiss somewhere random, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn't help himself.

You finally laughed softly after the fourth forehead kiss in ten minutes.

"What?" Dean looked down at you innocently.

"What what?"

"You're being weirdly affectionate today." Dean scoffed.

"Weirdly? Rude."

You smiled, shaking your head. "Sorry, sorry."

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously before leaning down to steal another kiss anyway. You laughed against his lips this time.

"You know," you said once he finally pulled back a little, "Sam was right."

Dean groaned instantly. "Those are words nobody should ever say."

You ignored him completely.

"You kind of are my Prince Charming."

"Sweetheart, I'm way hotter than Prince Charming." You rolled your eyes. Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You seen me? C'mon."

You laughed, fingers idly playing with the collar of his flannel.

"Well... Prince Phillip was really handsome."

Dean froze.

"...Excuse me?" You nodded seriously.

"He was always my crush when I was little." Dean stared at you in disbelief.

"Cartoon prince?"

"He had the sword, Dean."

"I have guns."

"That's true."

"And a car."

"Also true."

"And better hair." You pretended to think about it. Dean immediately grabbed your jaw, turning your face toward him. "Wrong answer. Try again."

By now, you were grinning. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're hotter."

"Maybe?"

"Don't push it." Dean squinted at you before lightly biting your cheek in retaliation.

"Dean!"

"That's what you get." You were still laughing when he kissed you again, slower this time. His hand slid up your side, settling comfortably at your waist while his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your sweater.

When he pulled back, you were still smiling at him.

Dean tried very hard to look unaffected.

"...You liked that." He immediately looked away.

"Liked what?"

"The Prince Charming thing."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Nope." You watched him for another second, amused. Dean suddenly seemed very interested in whatever was happening on the television, which told you everything.

Your expression softened. "You know," you murmured quietly, "I don't actually care about the prince part."

That got his attention.

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"If I got to choose..." Your thumb traced softly over the little crease near his mouth. "I'd still pick you." His breath caught.

Tiny.

Barely noticeable.

But you saw it anyway. God, you always saw right through him.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Even over Prince Phillip."

"Good choice." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. "I really like having you here."

The honesty in his voice almost hurt.

Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed three quick kisses against his lips. Dean smiled helplessly into the last one.

"See?" you whispered against his mouth. "Definitely my prince." He rolled his eyes, but the faint blush creeping into his ears ruined the effect.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The TV droned quietly in the background while Dean's arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against your side. Neither of you were really paying attention to the movie anymore.

"You went somewhere."

You blinked. "Hm?"

Dean tilted his head slightly, studying your face.

"That look." His thumb brushed lightly against your hip. You looked down at the fabric of his flannel between your fingers.

"...I just wish this could stay like this." The words were quiet, but Dean felt them anyway. Because he knew exactly what you meant.

Not the couch.

Not the teasing.

Not the kisses.

Him.

His hand stilled for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, thumb brushing gently against your side again.

"Hey..." You shook your head quickly.

"No, it's okay." But your voice already sounded thinner. "I just..." You exhaled shakily. "I hate that every good moment turns into me remembering..." You couldn't finish it.

You didn't need to.

Dean's chest tightened painfully.

Less than a year.

He hated that you had to carry that around now. Hated that every happy moment came with a countdown neither of you could ignore.

His hand slid up slowly, fingers curling gently beneath your chin until you looked at him. Your eyes were already glossy.

Dean swore it wrecked him every single time.

"Don't do this to yourself." You laughed softly, but it broke in the middle.

"How do I not?" Dean didn't have an answer. Because honestly, he didn't know either.

So instead, he brushed his thumb beneath your eye, careful and gentle, like touching something fragile. "I'm here right now," he said quietly.

You nodded. "I know."

But the sadness remained. Dean could still see it.

So he leaned down and kissed you softly. Not trying to distract you. Not trying to fix it. Just reminding you he was here.

You kissed him back immediately, almost desperately, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you pulled him closer.

Dean paused for a second when he realized what you were doing. Trying to stop thinking. Trying to drown it all out before it settled in your chest again. His heart ached at that, but he didn't call attention to it or make you explain.

He simply slid a hand into your hair and kissed you back slowly, carefully, giving you something else to hold onto for a little while.

When you finally pulled apart, you kept your forehead resting against his, eyes closed and breathing uneven.

"C'mere." Dean pressed one last kiss near the corner of your mouth before pulling you fully into his lap.

You went willingly, arms wrapping around his neck. He held you there for a moment, content just to have you close.

"You know what I think?" You hummed quietly. "I think we should go get dinner before Sammy eats everything." A tiny smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Dean noticed immediately and looked absurdly pleased about it.

"There she is." You shook your head.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Change the subject when things get sad." Dean thought about it for a second.

"...Yeah."

You finally opened your eyes and looked at him properly again.

For once, there wasn't a joke ready on his tongue.

"I can't fix this one, sweetheart." The words were quiet. Honest. "I can't." You swallowed hard. Dean's hand settled against your cheek. "But I can get you pancakes at midnight." A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Dean smiled immediately. "And pie," he added. "Very important."

You leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time.

"I love you," you whispered against his lips. Dean's expression softened instantly.

"Love you too." Then, because he physically couldn't leave a serious moment alone for too long. "Now c'mon, princess. Your prince is starving."

You groaned. "You ruined it."

Dean grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood and pulled you up with him.

"Yeah," he said, lacing his fingers through yours. "But you're still smiling."

JUNHUI ALWAYS SAYS YOU'RE A GOOD WIFE, BUT YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT. Junhui excuses a lot of your behavior though, because he is a good husband. He is everything a good husband ought to be - hard working, intelligent, kind, strong, and doting. Better even, is that he's not exactly a traditional husband, which might make the neighbors think he isn't a very good one. He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't chastise you when you keep unexplainably strange hours and business travels, and he doesn't get mad at you.

Ever.

You know you're not a good wife. You're a decent cook and you cook meals as often as you can. You always send holiday cards to his coworkers. You make sure to pack him lunches. You kiss him when he goes to work. You sit through tutoring sessions with him, letting him think he's teaching you Mandarin. You show up for all of the neighbors party's on his arm, and you leave him to his hobbies without pestering him to clean up the house or do chores.

But you're a liar and good wives don't lie to their husbands.

Outside, the city that never sleeps is wide awake. The cab rattles up Fifth Avenue, the horn blaring as a Model T Ford roars past, the chrome reflecting under the glow of the streetlamps. Overhead, the skyline is filled with shadowy outlines of the buildings, the Woolworth Building tallest among them, watching over the city. Your eyes snag on a billboard for Lucky Strikes, bright and bold against the night sky.

Glancing at the slim watch on your wrist, you realize you're late again. Your business meeting had run long, and though Junhui thinks you were off in Brooklyn selling medical equipment, it's a far cry from your real job spent tangled in coded messages and back-alley assassinations for Clockwork.

Your agency demands perfection. Your husband does not, thank the Lord. He had agreed to meet you at the Harringtons' holiday party in their Upper East Side townhouse - probably because he expected you to be late - and he was probably fending off back-handed compliments and inquiries about where is your slippery wife?

Junhui wouldn't mind. He never did.

That was because he was the perfect husband. Your perfect husband that you lived with in your perfect home, a graceful brownstone on East 77th Street. It was a late-Victorian building made of warm brown sandstone, flanked by wrought-iron gates and a manicured front stoop. It was the perfect home inside and out, with parquet floors and walls paneled in dark walnut and decorated with the perfect art.

It was a perfect home for a perfect couple. You'd chosen it together three years ago, shortly after your wedding when Junhui's investments in radio stocks and automobile companies began paying well. He traveled nearly as often as you did - Chicago, China, Paris, London - but the house waited in its perfect little shadow.

Pretending to be perfect was a requirement. Junui didn't have to play the part, though. You did.

The taxi pulls up to the curb and you pay the driver with a crisp bill. The air has a chill bite to it when you step out, the faint scent of coal smoke drifting from nearby chimneys. Your heels click on the pavement as you hurry up the steps, the fur stole around your shoulders scratching against the silk of your dress as you go.

You briefly touch the necklace at your throat to ensure it's there - a gift from your husband when he had visited his parents in Shenzhen. You'd changed in a hurry at an agency safe house downtown, but you made sure to look every bit the part of a dutiful wife to a successful financier, including wearing the beautiful and often thoughtful gifts he showered you in.

As you reach the door, it opens. You startle when you see Junhui smiling at you, as though he had been waiting by the window for your arrival to time welcoming you just right. Which he had been. You'd seen his familiar silhouette on the second floor, but you hadn't expected him to beat you.

"There you are," he says softly, smiling.

He's dressed in a tailored black dinner jacket that pulls tight across his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with a wing collar underneath. The silk bow knotted at his throat is knotted with precision, but you reach up to tweak it anyway, just because you can.

Junhui's hair is slicked back, the lamps in the hallway turning his skin gold. Your heart skips a little as he escorts you inside, a strand of dark hair escaping his slick back to brush endearingly over his brows. You can't help but stare a little at his face - handsome and expressive, and a large part of the reason you'd noticed him at a gala five years ago.

A little flare of possessiveness goes through you. You wonder if he has any idea how all the wives of his friends wish they were married to him instead, the handsome and mysterious businessman from overseas.

As always, he doesn't ask where you've been. He never does. Instead, he reaches for your hand and leans forward, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. "You look stunning, tiānshǐ. The Harringtons will be envious. Mrs. Harrington was asking about you - said she missed your deviled eggs at the bridge club."

You force a smile, the guilt twisting like a knife. "I'm sorry I'm late. The client in Brooklyn was particular."

He waves it off, helping you out of your stole before hanging it in the hall closet. "No need to say sorry, my love. I finished up early at the office today. Seungcheol was in a mood about the margin calls, but nothing a good lunch at Delmonico's couldn't smooth over."

Your heart squeezes when he chuckles and shuts the closet door. If your husband had any idea how often your business dealings brushed against the very financial world he navigated, he'd be dizzy and confused for days.

Junhui is intelligent, which makes your role as his wife more challenging than most people of your profession were willing to take on. He dissected market trends, turning modest inheritances through calculated risks in utilities and aviation stocks. He's the kind of husband who notices things but doesn't say anything, and you love him for it.

You shouldn't love him. You do anyway.

It's hard not to. He's unwaveringly kind, always tipping waiters generously, remembering birthdays for neighbors and secretaries, volunteering on the weekends to tutor kids in English and Mandarin alike. And doting - flowers delivered just because, notes tucked into your pockets, evenings spent rousing you from the couch to move you to bed.

And he is stuck with you for a wife. He calls you a good wife, but good wives don't lie. Spies do, though.

The Harringtons' part waits, full of jazz and bootleg champagne. Another evening of playing the perfect couple. Another evening of secrets.

Inside the Harringtons' home glows bright against the December night. The air is thick with the scent of pine from the massive Christmas tree in the corner, cigar smoke, and sweet perfume. A jazz trio plays in the corner of the parlor where Junhui escorts you, his hand steady and warm at the small of your back.

The moment you step into the room, heads turn. Not dramatically, but you feel every eye flicker to you - you're trained to know that kind of thing - every gaze appraising.

"There she is!" Charles Harrington’s voice booms from across the room. "The elusive Mrs. Wen at last. We were beginning to think you'd been kidnapped!"

The small circle around him chuckles quietly. You smile but he has no idea that you have been kidnapped. Thrice, in fact, when you were younger and less experienced with the agency. Once recently on purpose as part of an interrogation.

"What a ridiculous notion, Charles," you laugh back, approaching with Junhui. "Only delayed by a very stubborn client. I'm afraid Brooklyn doesn't keep the same hours as Manhattan."

"Brooklyn," Caroline Harrington scoffs. She glides toward her husband in a gown of silver lamé that catches the light. "You're so terribly modern, darling. Most of us wouldn't be caught dead on that side of the bridge at night."

Junhui laughs that low, easy sound of his, dispelling tension before it can gather. "She's braver than most."

You think your husband would make a good spy. He works the room without even trying, nodding here and shaking hands there, dipping to compliment women appropriately and warmly. People like him because he makes them feel seen without ever making them feel studied, which is important in crowds like this.

You accept a teacup from a passing tray and sniff lightly. It's bootleg gin with a twist of lemon and when you take a sip, you wince. It's not very good gin, but with the laws around alcohol, who really can get good gin? You sip while Junhui drifts toward a knot of brokers near the fireplace,

Caroline tucks her arm through yours, steering you toward the buffet. "Come, let me show you what everyone's been raving about. The oysters came in this morning straight from the Sound. By the way, your deviled eggs were the talk at bridge club last week - which you missed. You'll have to give me the recipe."

"It's nothing special. Just a little paprika and too much mustard."

"Nonsense." Caroline flutters her fingers at you. They're covered in rings, a mix of antique and new. "Everything you touch turns gold, it seems. Junhui is a lucky man. And so patient, too! Most husbands would be positively feral if their wives were running around Brooklyn."

You feel the comment for what it is - a gentle probe. You're used to the women trying to ferret out your secrets, all of them more eager than the last to unwrap the mystery that is Junhui's wife. You meet her smile like you always do, unwavering as you sip your gin.

"He's very understanding," you reply. "I'm the lucky one."

She hums, agreeing but not liking your dodging of her question. She won't press until she's had more cocktails, at least. Caroline is not the boldest woman in the circle of people you tentatively call friends, but after a few drinks, she'll be demanding answers you won't give.

Across the room, Junhui catches your gaze. He tilts his head slightly, a silent question - are you alright? You nod once and he gives you a small, private smile. You smile back, heart still racing a little.

Stupid, traitorous heart.

The music shifts and turns the energy in the room, couples dancing. One of Junhui's friends - Chan, as you recall his name - offers you a dance. Junhui winks at you and you sigh, letting the younger man pull you into a dance.

You don't like dancing, but the muscle memory kicks in. Clockwork had you trained in all manner of skills, including dancing. It was a useful skill when you were at galas and parties, using it to move about the room as another form of surveillance.

You can't help but do it now, scanning the room over Chan's shoulder to take everything in. There's a banker who had been too friendly with a certain German attaché last month, a woman who touches her pearl choker like a nervous tick, a man in the corner who hasn't smiled a single time because his wife is giggling with a group of finance men, and there's Junhui, watching you watch the room.

When the song ends, your partner bows to you and you thank him for the dance, drifting toward your husband as he turns to you with another cup of gin. You step close to him and he leans down, breath fanning your ear as he murmurs, "Why is it you always look ready to start a coup?"

"It was only a small one."

He smiles and kisses your temple. "And this is why I don't play bridge with you."

"You don't know how to play bridge, Jun."

"I'd learn for you."

There he goes again. You don't know what to do with him. This song and dance is both familiar and strange. You'd married Junhui because you could and because it was allowed within your line of work. Marriages made people of your skill set seem normal. Harmless. And Junhui had been vetted and cleared, as normal as they could get.

You hadn't intended to marry him because you liked him, but you certainly did. Which is why you felt rotten guilt every time you thought too much about it, how he had no idea that his wife had an entire double life eliminating people that a secret agency deemed too dangerous to continue living.

Because that's mostly what Clockwork was about. World advancement and keeping humanity in a forward propulsion was Clockwork's main goal, which meant that the agency had its fingers in all manner of realms: political, financial, corporation, social, casual, cultural, environmental. There is no shortage of influences across the globe that your agency doesn't have, and you are only one of its thousands of agents.

You sip your gin, letting the burn ground you. The party swirls on, louder and looser now. Someone has opened the French doors to the terrace and cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of snow and distant coal smoke. A few brave souls venture into the cold to smoke, the acrid smell of cigarettes drifting in with their laughter.

Junhui eventually sets his cup on a side table, turning to face you with a soft grin.

"What?" You ask, laughing as he pries the cup from your hand to set it down.

"Dance with me?"

It's not really a question but you nod anyway as he takes your hand to draw you into the slow sway of the next song. His palm is warm at your waist, his other hand cradling yours, fingers rough. You always thought it was strange that he had such rough hands for a financier. You ignore it, resting your cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the bay rum and the faint trace of cigar smoke.

"You're quiet tonight," he notes softly, switching to his native tongue. You smile. It feels like you get a part of him no one else does. "Are you alright?"

"Long day."

It was. You'd killed a man today, but you can't tell him that. So you settle for this, swaying against him with the steady beat of his heart pumping underneath your cheek. He doesn't push you - he never does.

You look up at him - really look. The soft glow of the chandelier turns his eyes warm and dark, the single escaped strand of hair still brushing his brow. For a single, reckless second, you want to tell him everything. You want to tell him how you'd been recruited right after you turned eighteen to an agency more secret and elusive than the CIA. You want to tell him sometimes your weeks on trips are spent overseas hunting people down. Extracting information. That even when you're halfway around the world, you hope your gentle husband is reading a book in his study.

You don't tell him. You can't.

Resting your head against his chest again, you think how nice it is to have the perfect husband and how sad it is that he has a rotten wife.

-

The clock strikes midnight as Junhui stands in the alley behind the speakeasy on Mulberry Street, a siren wailing in the distance. The air smells like the rotted garbage coming from the flowing bins and the metallic tang of the rusted fire escapes above him.

His gloved hands are steady, keeping his hands dry from the warm blood that flows from the neck of the man in his clutches. The Clockwork agent gurgles, wet and desperate before he sags forward. Junhui lets him crumple against the cold brick wall, blood spattering as he goes. The body hits the ground soundlessly - no noise, just how Junhui prefers it.

Silence is Protocol's highest priority, and tonight, he is very much that.

He wipes the blade methodically on the man's coat, noting that it's a nice make from Paris. He only knows fashion because you like fashion, and he thinks that maybe the next time he's in Paris he should grab one himself. You'd like that, he's sure.

Junhui tucks the weapon back into the hidden sheath at his ankle and stands. His pulse is even and his breathing is controlled despite the adrenaline rushing in his veins. He scans the hallway, but the only witness to the murder is a stray cat prowling near the dumpster with luminous eyes.

As usual, it was too easy. Clockwork operatives are often arrogant, too reliant on their skills and their agency's aura of inevitability. They always were. Junhui stares down at the man with a flicker of irritation. The self-righteous architects at Clockwork think they're better than everyone, molding the future and the world to their vision of engineered perfection.

Sighing, Junhui straightens his tight, the silk smooth under his fingers. You'd bought him this tie for Christmas a few weeks ago. He makes sure to wear it often and to make sure you see that he's wearing it. He likes when you buy him things, even though he certainly deserves nothing for you. You're the perfect wife buying her seemingly perfect husband gifts, but if you had half the idea of the rot inside of him, you might not spoil him so much.

He steps out into the alley, merging into the foot traffic on Mulberry, the chill January wind whipping at his overcoat. Horns blare from taxis on Canal Street and the faint sizzle of chestnuts from a vendor's cart reaches him as he walks, hands shoved in his pockets to keep the cold out.

The walk to the subway is brisk. Businessmen stagger from speakeasies, ties askew, breath fogging in the cold. Junhui pauses to buy a newspaper from a newsboy, tucking it under his arm as he goes. Blending in is as important as possible. No one knows there's blood on his gloves and a murder weapon hidden at his ankle.

Protocol had trained him well. They'd recruited him early at university as an economics theory major, his mind and intelligence surgical - exactly the type of agents they like. His background in martial arts through his childhood proved lethal as well, making him the perfect blend of already dangerous and easy to teach.

He'd risen quickly, specializing in clean hits that required little glamour or grandeur. Being unnoticed was his preference, and he was good at it.

Except when it came to you. You had noticed him at that art gala five years ago, wandering over to him and asking him what he thought of the art. He'd recited something rote from his flashcards he had looked at in case someone had asked him his thoughts, but he hadn't expected to need them. You surprised him like that all the time, and he surprised himself by wanting to see more of you after that night.

Surprised himself even more when he asked you to marry him.

Junhui's life isn't exactly fit for marriage, but it works. You're busy as a medical supplies seller, traveling around the boroughs and often other cities. It's a strange job for a woman to have, but he doesn't care. It keeps you happy and out of the house when he's gone, which is really all that matters.

He boards the uptown train, finding a seat in a half-empty car that rocks northward as it takes off. The lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows on the faces around him. He takes it all in with a single sweep, a habit that he will never let go. No one here pays attention to him - there's a pair of young lovers murmuring in the corner and a single hotel worker asleep, his head against the window.

Junhui leans back against the vibrating window, the cold glass pressing through his coat to his shoulder. There's no one here who can give him any trouble, so he shuts his eyes for a bit and lets his mind wander back to you.

You're probably asleep by now, curled under the heavy quilt in the brownstone you share together. The image brings a faint smile to his face. You're a good wife, despite the whispers from the neighbors about your erratic schedule and why you have a job at all. Women don't need jobs.

But your job makes you happy, and Junhui is in the business of keeping you happy.

On more than one occasion Charles Harrington has told Junhui he should be asking more questions about a woman who travels around Brooklyn at night. Junhui doesn't ask questions, though. He never does. You don't ask questions about why a financier needs to come home after midnight from meeting with a private client, so shouldn't he return the favor?

Sometimes he wonders if you have affairs. He can't help it. He wouldn't blame you if you did. You say and do all the right things - and yet Junhui isn't around nearly as much as he should be. Plus, you're not very intimate. Junhui's guilt doesn't let himself touch you often, too afraid to kiss you the way he wants and breathe you in like he desires, knowing that it's the ultimate betrayal to do so while lying to you.

Husbands shouldn't be liars.

But no, Junhui dismisses the idea of you stepping out on him. It's not in your character. You're loyal and steadfast, and you like to pack notes in his lunches. You send holiday cards to his invented coworkers, let him delve into hobbies without a word of complaint, even if it's piano sessions that stretch into the night. You never complain about the lack of intimacy, never push for more.

You're just you. Perfect.

The train jolts to a stop at 77th Street, the doors opening with a hiss. He exits into the quieter residential part of the city, the wind carrying the promise of snow and the gas lamps lighting the way. Your home waits at the end of the block, the windows dark save for a single gold glow of the hall lamp you always leave on for him.

He smiles. It's a small thing, but it tugs at his heartstrings as he ascends the stairs. Coming home to you is far too easy when his marriage to you is mostly supposed to be a cover up. It makes him look normal in a world full of couples - that's what he told Protocol, anyway. It wasn't out of some silly attempt to make a normal life or anything beyond that except… he does like you.

Inside the house is dark. His shoes click on the parquet floors and he can smell lavender that you'd probably been burning again. He hands his overcoat in the closet and shuts it as silently as he can before he moves upstairs like a shadow.

The bedroom door is ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling through. He pushes it open gently and sees you asleep on your side, one arm draped over his empty pillow, the quilt pulled to your chin against the winter chill. You look ethereal, your lips parted faintly, the tiniest snore leaving you.

Fondness surges through him. He has no idea how he ended up with someone like you, how he, with hands forever marked with violence, ended up with someone as kind and patient as you are. He creeps over to you and gives you a brief kiss on the brow, unable to help himself. It rouses you from sleep immediately but he hushes you.

"Y'okay?" You mumble.

"I'm fine, I'm sorry I'm home late. I'm going to shower."

"Okay."

He smiles at you. "Go to sleep, my love."

"Mhmm."

You thud back against the pillow and he smiles before heading over to the adjoining bathroom. He waits to turn on the light until he has the door shut behind him, unwilling to wake you again. He avoids looking in the mirror - he knows what he'll see: young, handsome, incredibly manicured. The perfect man who seems unassuming. It's all an act, the sins hidden beneath the curated surface.

Junhui strips methodically: jacket over the hamper, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the faint scar from a botched hit a few years ago. Thankfully it had happened before you, and he was able to use the excuse of surgery when you asked about the scar.

Steam billows when he turns the shower on as hot as he can get it. He feels like it's important to burn away the sin of the kill when he comes home to you, too afraid to get into bed like you'll smell the blood on his skin or sense the darkness in his shadow.

As he lathers soap, he thinks about the Clockwork agent briefly - the surprise in his face, the bubbling sound he'd made when the knife went in. Another life ended, another contract closed.

Protocol owns him. They have since they recruited him. Junhui never expected it to matter, but as the lies pile up, he feels worse and worse about it. You're as safe as can be with him, but sometimes he wonders if it would be a better life to give you over to someone who can be there for you more often.

When the shower is over, the silence is deafening. He rushes to pull his pajamas on, itching to be in the bed that smells like you and near your warmth. He exits the bathroom, letting his eyes adjust to the dark bedroom, smiling when he sees you're still sleeping.

He gets into the bed and you murmur incoherently in your sleep, shifting closer to him. He wraps an arm around you without thinking and your warmth seeps into him, chasing the alley's chill away.

For a fleeting moment, he lets himself forget the blade and the alley, pretends the kill didn't happen. Here in this bed with you, he's just Mr. Wen and you're Mrs. Wen. He's your husband, the financier, nothing shady, nothing nefarious.

It won't last long. Tomorrow morning he has to find an excuse to tell you he has to leave for Paris in two days. The assignment had come before he'd even completed his hit tonight, a terse telegram in one of the many safe houses assigned to him.

CONTRACTOR JW0610. 01.29.1922. 10:00:00. DISTANCE REQUIRED. 48.8530°N, 2.3499°E. CHERCHEZ LA FLUER.

Two days to prepare for a hit isn't much, but he's used to it. It isn't a lot to go off of either, which meant it is a high profile hit. They hadn't even given him a name or affiliation, and he isn't sure what look for the flower meant. Junhui is smart though, and he has a feeling he'll know what it means when he sees it.

Tomorrow, he'll tell you over breakfast. Apologies, love. It's off to Paris. You'll nod and kiss him easily and pack his lunch without question. The cycle will repeat.

Junhui closes his eyes and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You sigh and melt into him, and for now, it's enough. But tomorrow, the lies resume like clockwork.

He smirks at the joke before finally giving into sleep.

-

Junhui perches on the narrow roof of a building overlooking the Île de la Cité, directly across from the Notre-Dame. The sacred dome of the church looms over him like a giant while the Seine slithers below, its twin towers clawing at the sky.

The wind coming off the river is sharper than he expected, the damp chill of water and the faint rot of algae wafting to him. Below, Rue du Cloître is a churning river of people. Parisians in heavy coats hurry past the cathedral's facade while tourists cluster together and snap photos with box cameras.

It's hard to hear anything up here with the wind, but the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the shrill honk of a black car trying to navigate the narrow bridge echoes to him as he finishes his set up, adrenaline pumping already.

He's set up on the flat roof of an old ecclesiastical residence, the kind of old and rotted place no one looks at. He wishes he had an overcoat, the thin shirt doing very little to keep him warm. Warm is a luxury he can't afford today, dressed in grey to blend in with his surroundings with a compression scarf pulled up to cover his lower face.

A rifle rests steady on its bipod, a sleek prototype from Protocol with a silencer and a modified Berthier with a German-made telescopic sight that lets him count the threads in a jacket on his victim if he needs to. It's obscene in its precision, and it required him several forged and real documents to get it through security and onto the private plane he took to get here.

Junhui watches below, shivering in the early morning. He's been here since first light, watching the cathedral steps, the parvis, the bridge. The crowd thickens as the morning wears on, and he watches a priest in a black cassock moving with purpose toward the side door.

No flower though. He's not sure what exactly it means, other than he'll know when he sees it. Not even the women here are dressed in floral, but the fleur de lis is everywhere. Somehow, he thinks that's not what the message meant, though. So he waits, mind straying errantly to you on occasion.

He'd felt his usual stab of guilt when he told you he was going to Paris. You'd simply smiled and told him to bring you back something pretty. The perfect wife, letting him disappear like always. He doesn't deserve you. He thinks he never has.

Sighing, he moves the scope, strafing right and then left. A flash of gold flints in the sun, small but unmistakable. He thinks nothing of it first, adjusting the scope to fix the focus. He's got the scope on a woman's throat, the delicate chain of her necklace glinting in the light. The lotus pendant on the thin chain shifts as she walks and Junhui's blood turns cold.

The pendant looks exactly like the one he'd purchased you in Shenzhen. For my wife, he'd told the jeweler, smiling because you remind him of a lotus - pure and resilient. He adjusts the scope again, heart pounding as he zooms out.

And sees you.

His stomach drops. The rifle trembles for the first time in years and he readjusts, hoping his proximity to the church lends him a miracle as he prays that it's a trick of the light, that a stranger is wearing the same necklace. But the profile sharpens and he sees the line of your jaw, the way you tilt your head, the small scar on your chin you'd told him was from a childhood fall.

You're here. In Paris. At the exact coordinates that Protocol had given him, at the exact time. With a flower he gave you.

You stop in the middle of the parvis, suddenly still. The crowd flows around you like water around a rock, a vendor bumping into your shoulder. You don't react, though. Your head turns, sweeping the crowd like you sense danger. Junhui's heart is hammering, his hands shaking as he watches you through the scope until you suddenly lift your eyes, sweeping the rooftops.

Your gaze lands impossibly on his position. He knows you can't see him - there's no way. He's three stories up with the sun at his back, and his in shadow. But he recognizes the look on your face, a predator suddenly aware there is something bigger and scarier than them hunting. Your shoulders go stiff and he tracks the way your hand twitches toward your coat pocket.

Panic slams into him. Not you. Not the woman who kisses him goodnight, who leaves notes in his lunch, who makes the brownstone feel like home instead of a safe house. The rifle is suddenly too heavy in his hands. How can you be the target? And why are you here? Only a single answer makes sense, and he cannot even think the words, lest they come true.

Suddenly, you bolt. It makes Junhui lurch, jerking the scope to track your movements but you immediately blend into the crowd. He curses and tears the rifle away, shaking as he breaks the weapon down and shoves the pieces into its satchel with frantic speed.

Gravel scrapes under his boots as he bolts for the stairwell, heart hammering. The stairs are dark and narrow but he takes two at a time, bursting onto the street level and startling a flock of doves. The crowd is thick, bodies pressing close. He weaves through them, shouldering the satchel as he scans for you.

Terror grips him. What if you disappear? What if Protocol has a backup for you? What if you're here to kill him?

He cuts through a narrow passage off Rue du Cloître. He spots you up ahead, your coat flashing as you turn into a shadowed courtyard entry. He accelerates, boots splashing in shallow puddles, his hand slipping into his pocket for the concealed gun on instinct.

He steps into the courtyard mouth just as you whirl, a gun in hand pointed directly at him. His heart squeezes painfully, both of you freezing. A thousand emotions flit across your face in that second, the gun trembling in your hand as you stare at him, open mouthed. You look as terrified as he feels.

"Junhui?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, voice cracking.

A patch of sun hits you between roofs. You don't squint in the light, trained to stare at him. The light catches on your necklace, the lotus looking right back at him. Find the flower. He sure has, he just hadn't expected it to be his wife.

"Hi, love."

- You circle the parvis of Notre-Dame slowly, the cobblestones uneven beneath your low heels. The cathedral looms above, its twin towers dark against the pale sky. Gargoyles leer down at you, watching you as though they know what you're here to do. Perhaps they do. You're not particularly religious, but the marvel of Notre-Dame inspires a healthy respect for religion as you eye the stone facades.

The air is sharp with the smell of the Seine, the damp stone and river mud serving as a faint undercurrent to the coal smoke from barges sliding past on the water. Tourists cluster together near the main facade, collars turned up against the wind. You duck your head as you walk, your necklace swinging with every step.

Clockwork's instructions had been simple, delivered through the encrypted telegram in your hotel room: enter the cathedral, eliminate the woman in the blue coat near the altar, no witnesses, vanish.

Bone-deep anxiety has clung to you since you docked in La Havre. Junhui had mentioned his business trip was in Paris as well, though you know he's off doing finance deals or something in the Bourse. He's somewhere buried in tickers and ledges and here you are walking toward a holy place to will a stranger.

Still, the feeling won't leave you.

The anxiety gets worse, turning to a sharp prickle at the back of your neck, the same instinct that has saved you in back alleys and safe houses over the years. It's the instinct that tells you someone is watching you.

You pause near a vendor cart selling postcards of the rose window, pretending to browse. Your eyes sweep the crowd, but there's no one obvious or lingering too long. You move again, circling as the wind picks up, carrying the scent of chestnuts.

The prickle sharpens.

You stop in the middle of the parvis, the crowd flowing around you. A vendor bumps into your shoulder and murmurs a quick apology in French, but you don't listen to him. You tilt your head, eyes lifting slowly as you scan the rooftops across the way. There's a bunch of old ecclesiastical buildings, their grey roofs slick with frost and chimneys.

Sunlight catches something - metal bright and brief. Your heart lurches when you realize it's the unmistakable flash of a rifle scope glinting from a high vantage point.

A gunman. Your stomach drops. Clockwork hadn't mentioned backup, which means this is opposition. Protocol, most likely. Their agents have been trying to kill you for years, but the paid thugs aren't nearly as refined as they think they are.

Without thinking twice, you bolt.

You weave through the tourists, shoulder clipping a man, apologies lost in your flight. The parvis gives way to a narrow street and you fash down it, your breath coming out in short gasps as you run, coat flapping. You hear nothing but your own pulse as you turn right and then left, ducking under an archway and past shuttered shops with faded signs.

What you need is a dead end, somewhere to wait and eliminate whoever follows. The gun in your pocket is loaded with two shots - enough to get the job done.

The alley narrows further, the walls high and mossy, sunlight barely reaching you. You spot a courtyard up ahead, a small and forgotten space behind an old residence, the iron gate half opened with ivy crawling over it. Perfect. You slip inside, drawing your gun and turning, ready.

Footsteps echo, fast and deliberate. You ready yourself, widening your stance as a shadow appears at the gate and -

Your husband stands there in a gray shirt, compression scarf pulled down around his neck, pistol in hand but low. His hair is mused from the wind, strands falling in his eyes that widen when they see you - shock, followed immediately by something raw and pain.

You freeze.

"Junhui?" The word comes out cracked, a million thoughts racing through your mind.

He doesn't move closer, gun still raised. "Hi, love."

The courtyard feels too small, the walls pressing in. The damp air is thick in your throat, and the lotus necklace burns against your skin like a brand. You stare at him - your husband - the man who kisses your forehead, who plays piano in the parlor, who never asks where you've been. Here. In Paris. With a rifle bag on his shoulder.

The pieces crash together.

"You were on the roof." Your voice was shaking. "That was you."

He nods. "Assignment."

The word turns your stomach to acid. Assignment. Not finance, not stocks. Assignment.

"Protocol?"

He swallows, gun lowering a little as he nods. "Clockwork?"

Understanding hits you like a physical blow. His agency has hated yours and vice versa for years. Clockwork's vision of controlled progress doesn't quite match with Protocol's military pragmatism, and somehow despite both agencies vetting, the two of you have married enemies.

Or have you? Has he known all along? You're not sure, but the horror on his face is either well practiced or genuine. You don't lower the gun just in case, despite the fact that he sags, defeated.

"You're here to kill me," you tell him. It isn't a question.

"I didn't know it was you. Until I saw the necklace. The flower." You don't move. "I'm not going to kill you."

"How do I know that?"

"I guess you don't." He puts his gun in his coat pocket and holds both of his hands up, a white flag. "Kill me if you wish."

His words hit like a slap. You recoil physically, your arm dropping as you lower the weapon. He seems a little relieved, but you're horror stricken. Kill him? You don't think you could, even if your life was on the line. Which it is, the two of you facing each other, breath misting the air.

"What about you?" He asks, drawing you from your whirlwind thoughts. "Why are you here?"

"Assigned to some woman. I obviously didn't complete it." You tuck your gun away carefully, eyeing him carefully. "I saw the flash on your scope."

He frowns. "The sun was behind me." You lift a shoulder. You're unsure what reflected off his scope, but perhaps it had been divine intervention after all. "We have to get moving. They're expecting confirmation. If we don't, they'll send someone else."

"We?"

He nods, checking a watch. "You're my wife."

"I'm… I'm Clockwork. You're Protocol."

He lowers his wrist and looks at you - really looks at you. You study him, your heart hammering, a dull ache in your chest blooming. He's still Junhui - at least he looks like it. He's your husband with warm brown eyes, who speaks softly and loves to kiss you on the forehead, who is patient and kind and steady.

And apparently he's a contract killer. But he didn't kill you. You hope it means something.

"You're my wife," he says again, softer this time.

Junhui extends his hand, slow and careful. He's wearing gloves but you take a few tentative steps toward him, placing your hand in his. His fingers close around yours, and even through the leather, they're warm. You step closer and he pulls you through the gate and into the alley, keeping you close.

"We're going to need to run," he murmurs looking down at you. "Just trust me enough to get us somewhere. Then we can talk. Can you do that?"

You think about it. Your training is telling you to kill him and run, to save yourself. But every instinct you have that is not the rained spy is looking at him - the man you married, the man who has rubbed your back when you were sick and warmed your hands in his pocket - is looking at you with nothing but honesty.

It's stupid. You know it is. Protocol isn't known for their spies as much as they are for their hitmen - Junhui would have been taught to blend in and run, but they're not an intelligence agency the way Clockwork is. They aren't taught to manipulate to the degree you are.

So you nod. You see the relief pass on his face as he tugs you gently, both of you breaking out into a run.

The city presses in, the narrow passageways smelling like damp stone and yesterday's rain. Your breath syncs with his, footsteps matching, the panic there but shared now. Not once does he let go of your hand, tugging you out of the way of a passing bike and into the safety of his arms for a brief moment.

Junhui leads you to a small doorway behind a boulangerie, the scent of fresh bread wafting out. He pulls out a compact telegraph key from his pocket, and for a second you think he's going to notify Protocol he has you in his hands. Your heart starts to slam in your ribcage, realizing that the love you have for him - that you're not supposed to - has been your undoing. Still, you don't reach for your weapon, unwilling to kill him even if-

He catches your panic. "I'm telling them you're dead," he notes, voice dry.

"Oh."

You do the same, tapping out a coded message to your operatives at Clockwork. It'll only buy you hours - maybe a single day. You're not sure.

"We need to get out of Paris," he says. "Home will be dangerous, but if we're going to survive we need to go there first." You hate that you agree. "Le Bourget? Private flight?"

"Yes."

Junhui hails a taxi near the river, the water dark and choppy under the bridges as an afternoon storm rolls in. You sit close to Junhui as the driver navigates the city, but not touching, the space between you heavy. Your mind spins - the brownstone waiting back home, its walnut panels, the piano - a life of mutual lies catching like tinder and burning down around you.

-

Le Bourget airfield is bustling with activity in the afternoon gloom, hangars looming like metal beasts under the gray sky. The smell of fuel hangs heavy in the air and the hum of propellers whirring buzzes in your ears as you cross the wet tarmac.

Junhui's hand hovers at your elbow as you walk, not quite touching. You feel the loss of his touch acutely, a small ache at the sudden distance between you. You don't know where you stand now, the man you've known for the last five years suddenly a complete stranger.

Somehow, you feel it only serves you right.

Junhui leads you to a waiting plane, the engines warming with a low rumble that vibrates through you. The plane is small, the cabin cramped with leather seats worn from use, the air inside tinged with tobacco. You climb aboard, settling into a seat by the window, rain streaking the glass like tears. Junhui sits across from you, the space between your knees too close in the small plane, knocking awkwardly.

Tension threads your shoulders as the plane readies for takeoff. You feel exposed and out of control - it was Junhui who arranged the flight, assuring you that he could do it discreetly and safely. Still, there was no guarantee there were Clockwork or Protocol agents already working on knocking your plane out of the sky and into the Atlantic.

The thought unsettles you as the plane taxis and takes off, your ears popping as the city falls away below Paris, a patchwork of stone and river. You watch it shrink, the Eiffel Tower a distant spike on the horizon.

Your mind whirls like the propellers, skipping between the flash of his scope and your agencies turning you against the other. But mostly your thoughts are on the man across the way from you. Your husband. The man you thought was perfect, who called you tiānshǐ and kissed your forehead. The man who is Protocol, a killer like you, but from the opposite side.

You weren't supposed to, but you'd fallen for him along the way. You wonder now if that was on purpose, if he had lured you into his arms to act as a shield of normalcy. Your intention had been to seem normal and married, but you'd fallen for the way he smiled at your broken Mandarin, the way he kept the notes in his lunches, the quiet evenings where he'd play piano.

But now? Doubt creeps in, cold and insidious. Was any of it real for him?

The plane levels out, the rumble steady now. You turn from the window and look at him. He's watching you already, expression unreadable.

"How'd you charter this without Protocol?" You ask. "Sounds difficult."

He hesitates, then nods. "Someone in Interpol owed me a favor. From a job a few years back. Clean flight, no records."

Interpol. It shouldn't surprise you - he's Protocol after all, with connections in shadows you never imagined. It's another small layer peeled back, revealing the man you didn't realize was your husband all this time.

The cabin is silent for a long moment, just the hum of the plane and the rain on the fuselage. Finally alone, the questions he seems to be holding bubble to the surface.

"Can we talk?" He switches languages, watching you dubiously.

"Of course we can. You first."

His lip twitches. "So you do speak it fluently." You flush, caught. "You learned way too fast. I'm a good teacher but your accent was always good."

"I speak seven languages."

"I speak eight."

"Show off."

He leans back, the smile fading as he looks you up and down. "It started in college," he tells you. "I did study economics at Columbia. I was good at it. Money was tight with my family in Shenzhen and me in school. Protocol approached my senior year and said I had potential. Offered training, pay, and a way to send money home." He pauses, fingers drumming. "Martial arts from childhood helped. I specialized in going unnoticed."

You listen, heart aching. The man he describes is the one you married - intelligent, steady. But now this one is darker. Something else.

"And me?" You ask. "At the gala?

"I was there for a job," he admits. "You approached me and asked about the art and I recited flashcards but… I didn't anticipate you. You were smart and funny, and I liked you. After I checked that you were safe - which was wrong, I should add - the agency realized marrying you made me look normal. Protocol approved."

The words land like a punch even though you saw it coming. Cover. Normal. Not love. Not the way you'd fallen for him, piece by piece. You'd thought maybe it was real - that despite your lies, he loved you. But for him, it was a necessity. Fondness? Sure. But you were a tool to appear harmless.

It serves you right, you suppose, but sadness swells. You've been in love with him for years - or were, before this. The man who called you angel, who never pressed for intimacy despite your guilt keeping you from touching him most nights. And here you are expecting him to love you when he did the very thing you were supposed to do.

He's succeeded where you have failed.

It breaks something in you and you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly needing it like armor. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.

"Your turn," he urges.

You swallow, nodding as you start, your throat tight. "Clockwork recruited me when I turned eighteen. Right after high school. Saw potential in my test scores or whatever. Trained me in everything - codes, killing, covers." You pause and look at the wedding ring on your hand. "The gala was a surveillance job. You stood out - handsome, different. I approached on impulse, which was rare for me. Didn't intend to keep seeing you until I did, and Clockwork thought a husband would help me blend in."

He nods, absorbing it. The plane dips slightly, turbulence rattling the cabin. You grip the armrest, mind still spinning. Three years of marriage, built on agency approvals. Lies on lies. And now, exposed.

Neither of you speak for a while. You watch out the window at the clouds, the grey Atlantic stretching below. Your stomach is in knots, the truth between you doing nothing to seal the gap. It only pushes you further apart.

Finally, Junhui breaks the silence. "I don't want to kill you."

"I don't want to kill you either."

"The agencies won't stop. We're loose ends now."

You nod, the reality settling like lead. They'll hunt. Aggressively. No mercy for traitors.

"I fear we're at a deadlock."

He nods. "We have to escape their reach."

"How?"

The urge to reach for him is strong. You don't, though. Not now that you know it's not the same, that this isn't the same for him as it is for you.

"Collect what we need. Cash, papers. Then go our separate ways. Safer that way and harder to track."

The words slice through you. Separate ways. It breaks your heart, a sharp, quiet pain that steals your breath. You'd imagined - stupidly, perhaps - a life together, even now. Running away as one. But he's right. And perhaps it's better for him to be fond and not in love so it makes this easier, to be at a deadlock in which no progress can be made.

"Agreed," you nod.

He looks at you, something unreadable in his eyes, but you turn to the window, watching the clouds. You reserve the part of you that wants to beg him to stay, knowing you don't deserve it and he doesn't want to.

The flight drags, hours of tension and unspoken words. You land in New York under cover of night, sleet slashing the tarmac. When you step out of the plane and he hails a cab, you know nothing will ever be the same.

-

The plane touches down with a jolt. Junhui looks at you but you're staring out of the window, face turned away. The cabin feels too small, air thick with the tension of unspoken words and the faint scent of fuel seeping in from outside.

Junhui stands first, offering a hand to help you up. You stand up on your own, movements reserved, eyes not quite meeting his. It makes his heart squeeze, knowing now that everything was a lie.

He'd fallen in love with you slowly and unintentionally. He'd thought maybe it was mutual - always felt guilty for it - but now? Doubt poisons everything. You're Clockwork - were Clockwork. The marriage was a cover. He was convenient. Safe. Normal.

The sadness twists in him like a blade, even though he was supposed to be doing the same thing to you. But for him it had turned real. Foolish, really. But he's glad there's enough fondness in you to let him live, to part ways.

He'd suggested separate ways not because he wanted it, but to save what little pride he had left. If you didn't love him, better to let you go without begging. Without admitting how much that it hurt.

The pilot nods as you exit, no questions, just like Junhui had paid for. Outside, the sleet stings Junhui's face, wind whipping through his coat as you both rush through customs and back out into the wind to hail a cab. The driver is an older man that complains about the weather, but he takes the cash as you both slide into the back.

Despite the small space in the back of the car, there's a chasm between you. He wants to bridge it - wish he could. He wants to reach for your hand and pull you close, to tell you that it was real for him. That he had been lying, but not really. Not all the time. But he doesn't. You're reserved now, words sparse, gazed fixed outside of the window.

The silence stretches, broken only by the slosh of tires on wet roads and the driver's occasional cough. Junhui's mind races, replaying every moment over the last five years with you - the gala where you'd approached him, your smile bright and charming. The proposal he'd made because he couldn't imagine life without you. He night's he'd held back from you, guilt over his lies making him afraid to take more than you offered.

He'd thought you were content, that what you'd had was enough. But it was all a facade for you. Cover. The word echoes, bitter. He loves you - fiercely, achingly - but it was never real for you. And he doesn't blame you one bit. He cannot hold you to trial for a crime he was also committing.

Sadness swells, a silent grief that makes his chest tight. He will miss you more than you know. It's the right call, despite the fact it makes him want to fall to his knees.

The brownstone appears like a ghost in the sleet. He helps you out of the cab and you let him this time, though you step away from him the moment you're outside. The stoop creaks under you both as you hurry inside, the key turning into the lock with a familiar click.

You head upstairs without a word, movements quick. Junhui follows, heart heavy, watching you rush into the bedroom to start packing. He stands in the doorway for a moment, the reality hitting him. This was his home, a perfect life that he'd clung to, even if it was built on lies. Now it's ending and you're eager to go.

He moves to his side of the closet, packing his own things - cash from a hidden safe, false papers tucked into a book spine, weapons from certain shoes. His fingers linger on the tie you'd given him for Christmas, silk smooth, a reminder of you. He keeps it, wanting to hold on even when you're gone.

In the middle of folding one of his shirts, something prickles at the back of his neck. It's the same instinct he's had before ducking before being shot at. The house is too quiet, the sleet outside rhythmic. He glances up, drawn to the window where your back is turned as you pack, the curtain half-drawn. A red dot appears on your bag, small and steady.

His blood turns cold.

"Get down!" He yells, lunging across the room.

You startle, but he tackles you to the floor just as the window shatters, glass exploding inward. Bullets spray through the bedroom, thudding into the walls, splintering wood. Junhui's body covers yours, shards of glass raining down on you both. Pain blooms in his shoulder - glass or a bullet graze, he doesn't know - but adrenaline surges.

"They know," he gasps, rolling off of you. He pulls a pistol from the nightstand.

You nod, gun drawn as you both turn. Another spray of bullets rips through, punching holes in the wallpaper, the chandelier downstairs crashing. The house shakes with the assault, sleet cutting in through the broken windows, cold and stinging.

Junhui crawls to the edge of the bed and looks over to see shadows moving outside. There are three figures in black downstairs advancing on the stoop, rifles up. He fires twice through the window, the suppressed pops lost in the chaos.

"Back stairs," You tell him, already moving.

A bullet whines past your head, embedding in the walnut paneling. Junhui's heart lurches but you don't flinch as you return fire, turning into a woman he doesn't know at all. He follows, shoulder burning still, pistol steady as he shoots at a figure bursting through the front door below. The man jerks and falls, but more come in, footsteps thundering.

The back stairs are narrow and dark, the air thick with fust. You descend first, sweeping the landing as you clear it while Junhui covers you, exchanging fire. A shadow appears at the bottom but you fire once, the man crumpling. Junhui is suddenly thankful that you're trained and lethal.

The kitchen explodes into view. Bullets shatter the window over the sink as Junhui grabs a knife from the block, hurling it at an assailant charging through the door. The blade hits the man in the throat, blood spraying in a crimson fan as he falls. You snatch a revolver from a hidden drawer - Junhui realizes it's his - and fire at another in the hall.

"How did you know that was there?" He asked, stupefied.

"I thought you were just trying to protect the house," you admit. "I assumed you didn't know how to use it. It was sweet."

He doesn't have time to be offended as the kitchen erupts into chaos, men pouring in through the door from the garage. They're dressed in tactical gear like the rest, faces masked, rifles swinging to take aim.

You're too close for guns. Junhui shoves you around the island cojunter top as the first gunman shoots at you, the bullet pinging off the fridge. You squeeze the trigger of the revolver as you duck, feeling the click of the rotating chamber as you unload the full round into the first man, his vest catching them before you catch him in the throat, red spraying.

Chamber empty, you grab the cast iron skillet off the stove as another man charges Junhui. Your husband doesn't hesitate, ducking under the barrel of the rifle as twisting as he drives his elbow up into the assailant's ribs. You hear bones crack but Junhui doesn't stop, slipping behind the man and kicking out with a foot directly in his back, sending him forward.

The third man comes for you, dropping his rifle in the closed space to grab your arm. You swing the skillet hard, catching him across the temple. He goes stumbling, blood trickling from a gash. He recovers quickly, tackling you against the cabinets.

Pain flares in your back as things shatter, the drawers rattling behind you. You knee him in the groin, buying a second to scramble for a knife from the butchers block. His hand snaps out, iron clad on your wrist as he tries to keep you from the weapon. You snarl and throw your head forward, pain exploding behind your eyes as you use your head to crunch his nose.

Across the room, Junhui has turned into a weapon. His strikes are blindly fast, driving his palm up into his opponents nose before bring the knife down across the chest, the arms, the neck. He drops down and spins, sweeping the man's feet from under him as he goes down in a wet gurgle, vanishing on the other side of the island.

The man grappling you pins you to the counter and you scream, reaching for the knife, fingers slipping as his grip locks around your throat, squeezing tighter than anything you've ever felt. Panic flickers in your chest, air cutting off, vision spotting. You stomp on his instep and elbow him hard in the gut but he ignores it, dragging you across the counter and toward the garage door.

Then he's gone, thrown to the side as Junhui yanks him, chest heaving with rage. The violence in his face is raw as you choke down gasps of air, mouth wet with spit as you suck in breaths.

"Do not," Junhui growls, slinking forward. "Touch my fucking wife."

He collides with your attacker, sending them both into the wall. Plaster cracks under their weight as Junhui lands a series of strikes to the mans face, middle, ribs. The man gasps and Junhui grabs his head in both hands and twists violently, a loud crack echoing before the man goes limp to the floor.

Panting, Junhui turns to you, his shoulder wound seeping through his shirt, glass shards glittering in his hair. His eyes scan you frantically, rage morphing into panic. He storms over to you, cupping your face gently, turning your head side to side. "Are you hurt?"

"No," you rasp, voice hoarse from the choking. "Thank you."

He lingers a moment longer, something flaring in his face before he nods, hands dropping reluctantly. "Let's go."

You both plunge into the garage and you bolt for the motorcycle that Junhui never uses. It's a sleek, black Indian Scout. You'd never asked to ride it and he never really bothered with it, only using it on the summer nights when you were out of town. He assumed you didn't like motorcycles, but now you don't hesitate.

"Come on."

"Are you serious?"

"Get on," you demand, moving toward it.

You reach the bike first, swinging a leg over the seat without pause. The engine is cold, but the key is in the ignition. You twist it, thumb the starter, and the bike roars to life.

"You can ride?" He asks, as you kick the stand up and rev the throttle. "Since when?"

"Since I was twenty, get on."

Junhui swings on behind you, arms coming around your waist automatically. His grip is tight and he feels your hammering heart as he presses his chest to your back. You drop the clutch and twist the throttle, the scout lunging forward.

The acceleration is brutal, the front wheel lifting a bit before you muscle it down. He lets out a startled breath against your neck as you peel out onto the street, the bike fishtailing. You learn into it and the bike straightens, rocketing down the block as gunfire pops behind you.

Sleet and wind sting his eyes. Neither of you are dressed for this but he clings to you as you flick the bike through the street, taking the first corner harder, nearly laying it down. He lets out a shriek and a curse as you straighten out, gunning it.

"Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?"

"Clockwork," you yell. "Some of us learned more than guns!"

He laughs, the sound vibrating through him. He doesn't know what to think as the wind screams in his ears, biking roaring under him.

You weave through the late night traffic on Fifth, dodging Model T's and taxes, the bike's headlight cutting a white blade through the sleet. He turns to see a sedan following you and he curses. You steal the breath from his lungs again when you cut left onto a side street, narrow and barely wide enough. You downshift and fishtail as you come out of the side street and onto the road, swerving around a car.

Junui's arms flex around you, one hand sliding up to brace against your shoulder. "You're insane!"

You don't respond, but the admiration sings in his veins, nearly warm enough to fight off the bitter cold as you drive through back roads. He gives you directions as you drive, the two of you shivering as you lose your pursuers, cutting through the city.

His hands stay firm on you. He feels you shiver and he pulls you tighter, trying to keep you warm. At least, that's what he tells himself. He knows he's doing it to keep you a little longer, anchoring himself to you like he can keep you. He wonders if you feel the same fracture he does.

He wonders if it matters.

Dawn is grey and cold when you finally slow, the Scout's engine ticking as it cools. You're both shivering as you kill the engine and pull up in front of a farmhouse with a sagging porch and oaks surrounding it.

Junhui slides off first, offering a hand. You take it, shivering and shaking. You look up at the house, tears frozen on your face, lips swollen with cold. "What is this place?"

"Friend of mine. Not Protocol. From college. He's in Milan."

Minghao's place is cold as you step in. Junhui bolts for the fireplace, knowing it's dire to get it going. You stand in the threshold of the living room, trembling and freezing as he manages to get the dry wood lit. He turns and gestures you over. You come wordlessly, nearly collapsing as the orange flames lick over the logs.

Both of you hold your hands to the fire, trembling. It almost hurts to feel heat again, both of you shivering in silence as the fire roars to life. Slowly, you both sit, unwilling to move from the flames.

"We're safe," Junhui murmurs, tired, switching languages on instinct. "We rest first. Then plan."

You nod, slowly getting up to move to a chair, the distance between you vast.

-

You step out of the shower, steam curling around you. You dry off quickly and change into pajamas Junhui has given you - they're not exactly your size, but they work. Everything in this house belongs to Minghao who hadn't been preparing for you to stay, but Junhui swears he won't mind anyway.

Reentering the bedroom, you stop short. Junhui is standing in front of the small dresser mirror, shirtless. He's turned around, trying to look at the injury on his shoulder, the lamplight carving shadows across the muscles of his back, the narrow taper of his waist. He prods at the graze, wincing as he looks at it.

He sees you reflected and straightens, hand dropping. "Sorry, it's the only mirror in the house."

"Let me help," you say, setting your things down and rushing to him.

He nods as you riffle through the bathroom for medical supplies. Minghao thankfully has a simple one and you make Junhui sit on the edge of the bed as you wet cotton with antiseptic. He smells clean like the shower he took immediately before you, his skin warm as you near him, heart hammering.

Suddenly, it feels too intimate. You shake off the feeling - he's your husband. So you kneel on the bed, mattress dipping under your weight. Up close, the graze looks a little worse thank you though, jagged and angry. You feel a pang in your chest. He didn't complain once during the ride, didn't mention the pain. Just held on to you on the bike, arms tight around your waist.

Carefully, you start to dab at the wound. He doesn't hiss or make a sound, but his muscles twitch under your fingers. He turns his head to watch you, dark eyes intense. You swallow, feeling the tension crackle to life as you watch. You're close enough that you can feel his breath on your face, your fingers nimble and careful as you clean the cut.

"When did you get this?" You ask, voice quiet.

"The glass."

You realize what he means. A piece of jagged must have caught him while he was shielding you - protecting you - from the spray of glass and bullets that moment he saw the sniper before you did. It makes you feel guilty immediately. How stupid of you to turn your back to the window, even for a moment. You're lucky he was there - lucky he still cares.

The heat of him radiates toward you and you fight a shiver as he watches, eyes half-lidded. You could count every single one of his lashes this close, but instead you put down the pink-tinged cotton and exchange it for a needle and thread.

"It's not deep," you murmur. "But I think it needs stitches."

Carefully, you pierce the skin and pull the thread through. He doesn't react. Instead, he says, "You're pretty good at this. How many times have you done it?"

"Oh? Are we exchanging work stories?"

His mouth curves. "Indulge me."

It makes your stomach flip when he says it. You pause as you think about all of the times you've stitched someone or yourself. It feels weird to think of a story to tell him, the barriers between you suddenly gone.

"I've done it a lot," you admit. "Sometimes on myself, but mostly on other people. One time in Vienna a partner I was working with was shot in the leg during an extraction. I had to stitch him up in an awful basement with almost no light. He lived but Joshua literally never forgave me for the scar."

"Well Joshua should mind his tongue when speaking to you."

Your mouth twitches as you pull another stitch through. "What about you?"

"Botched hit in Berlin. The one on my chest."

You pause, narrowing your eyes. "You told me you got that in surgery."

"I'm a bit of a liar, love."

Your heart races from the nearness of him, his knee brushing your arm as you shift to tie off another stitch. You've been this close before, but never like this, vulnerable and exposed, everything tripped away.

"I had to patch myself for the first time in Shanghai," you continue. "It was in an opium den. Could barely figure out where the hell I was from the contact high."

"I've been there." You give him a look. "Protocol sends me to a lot of places, angel."

The nickname makes your heart trip over itself. He's called you that since the early days of your relationship when you were pretending not to speak Mandarin and letting him teach you, the warmth and fondness for him just as strong as it is now, despite the lies.

"I'm sure you had lots of pretty girls to stitch you up." You don't know why you say it, but it's out before you can stop it.

"None as pretty as you."

You don't know how to respond, your fingers shaking. You tie the last stitch, snipping the thread, your hand lingering for a second too long, craving the warmth. He's quiet, watching you with an expression that you can't read.

"There," you whisper. "Done."

He flexes the shoulder, looking away from you to the injury. You use the break in tension to shift away from him, sucking in air, wishing you felt cooler than you did.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

You stand, suddenly too aware of the charged tension. "I'm going to start dinner."

Junhui nods, but his eyes follow you as you head out the door, clicking the bedroom shut behind you.

In the hall, you lean against the door, heart pounding. The closeness - the heat of his skin, the shared stories - it's too much. You love him, but you know that your marriage wasn't built on love. It was built on deceit and versions of yourself you never really let the other have, and now you don't know what to do with it.

The kitchen is sparse, but the cupboards are filled with canned goods and a variety of spices. You light the stove, flames flickering to life as you rummage for potatoes, onions, and spices. Stew is the only answer for dinner tonight, and you're thankful there's at least chicken stock in the pantry.

Your hands move automatically, chopping, stirring, but your mind is on him. The graze, his quiet admission of jobs, the way he let you help without protest. Footsteps creak and you flinch, turning with the knife raised. It's Junhui, shirt on and hands up.

"Sorry," he notes and you drop the knife, sighing. He watches you for a moment before walking toward you. "Let me help."

You nod, handing him the knife for the onions. He stands too close, his arm brushing yours as he chops. The space is small, the stove's heat warming the room as you work together. It feels normal, almost, the two of you working in perfect tandem that you've built over the years. You stir the pot, making room for him as he leans for salt, arm brushing yours.

Junhui is different now - quieter, more intense - but he's still him. His mouth curves when his eyes flicker to you, something fond and understanding. It makes you nervous, the desire and sadness gnawing at you. You itch to touch him but you're unsure you can.

When the food is done, you eat at the small table, stew steaming in bowls. The fire crackling from the living room is the only sound as you both eat quickly, avoiding his gaze that keeps finding your face from across the table.

After, you clear the plates, doing anything to put space between you, thoughts spinning and full of him. You don't know what happens now - where to go or how to leave him. You watch him as he grabs blankets from the hall closet, intending to sleep on the couch - away from you, away from everything you've built.

You feel the fracture in your heart widen, the separation between you looming and wider than ever. The question falls from your lips before you can think twice, unable to stop yourself from asking any longer.

"Did you ever love me?" The words hang there, Junhui freezing. "Or was it just a cover all the time? I assume the latter, since we were fond but never very intimate, I guess. But I just - did you ever?"

Junhui freezes, the folded blanket clutched in his hands. The firelight paints him in flickering orange and gold, catching the way his composure cracks. He sets the blanket down slowly, moving toward you as he shakes his head."

"I loved you from the start," he murmurs. "Before I even married you. Marrying you was convenient, but I fell in love with you at that stupid gala. You asked me about that painting and I panicked and recited an entire catalogue of notes memorized the night before and you laughed - not at me, in delight. Like you found something unexpected and wonderful. And I remember thinking that I was the worst thing that could happen to you."

He laughs once, a small, broken sound as your heart hammers in your chest, breaths coming fast.

"You made it worse by being you," he admits, softening as he takes another step toward you. "You did small things for me, made my life perfect in ways that mattered. You never asked anything of me, you just… were there for me. I thought if I stayed gentle, if I stayed careful, if I never asked too many questions, maybe you’d never realize what kind of monster was sleeping beside you. I thought the guilt would be less if I never took more than you offered. So I kissed your forehead and pretended that was enough.”

Junui's palm is warm when he cups your face and turns you to look up at him. His thumb swipes across your cheek and you realize you're crying. His face is pained as he looks down at you, freehand snaking around your waist to pull you chest to chest with him, warm. His heart beats in time with yours as he looks down at you, gaze searching.

"It was never enough," he admits. "I love you so much it makes me sick with it. Every time you came home late I wanted to pull you into my arms and ask where you’d been. Every time you smiled at me across a crowded room at one of those awful parties I wanted to drag you into a coat closet and kiss you until neither of us could breathe. I didn’t. Because I thought it would make me evil to take what I wanted and lie to you at the same time."

You hiccup a sob. "I thought you didn't want me. You said you wanted to go our separate ways on the plane."

"I suggested it because I thought it was what you wanted. Because I thought letting you go was the kindest thing I could do for the woman I love."

"You absolute idiot!" Junhui blinks as you hug him, pressing your face to his chest. He laughs, a little confused as you squeeze him. "I took the forehead kisses and the gentle hands and the soft words and tried to convince myself it was enough, because I thought that was all you wanted from me and all I thought I deserved!”

"Really?"

"Yes, you oaf! I was so guilty for lying to you that I accepted what love you offered and felt grateful for it. Asked no questions. Thought I was awful."

He laughs squeezing you tighter, arms warm and secure and home. The arms of your husband, the Junhui you've always known.

You pull away from him a little, looking up at him. "When you said separate ways on that plane, I thought my heart was going to cave in. I agreed because I thought that’s what you needed. Because I thought you didn’t love me the way I loved you. And I was going to let you go. I was going to let you walk away because I thought it was the kindest thing I could do for the man I love.”

He cradles your face again, eyes dark as he looks down at you. Tears cling to your lashes and you sniff unceremoniously. He smiles, fond - in love - fingers pressed to your cheeks.

"What do you want, tiānshǐ?"

You reach up slowly, fingers trembling as you brush the hair from his face, his eyes shining.

"I want my husband," you tell him, heart racing. "All of him. The man who tutors neighborhood kids on weekends. The man who remembers birthdays and tips too generously. And the man who comes home with blood on his hands. The man who shielded me from bullets tonight. The man who’s been carrying the same guilt I have for years.”

For a single heartbeat, the world narrows to just the space between you. Then he moves, pulling you in - not gently or careful like you're used to - but desperate, with half a decade of starvation. He kisses you like he's starved, his mouth warm and wet and tasting of the salt from your tears.

You kiss him back, fisting his shirt in your hands, the years of things you've held back crashing through you - guilt, longing, terror, the stupid, vicious love you have for him. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and pulls you in closer, desperate for you.

When you finally break apart, his mouth doesn't go far, his lips ghosting across yours as he murmurs, "Wǒ de Tiānshǐ."

"Lǎo xiàng hǎo."

He stares down at you, snorting, unbelieving. "We really need to talk about how you pretended not to speak Mandarin."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, but right now I have other things on my mind."

You raise your brows, heart skipping a beat. "Like what?"

His lips curve into a slow, predatory smile, one you rarely see. It's possessive and hungry, your stomach knotting as he knocks his nose against yours. "Making love to my wife."

The words hang in the air, sending a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he scoops you in one fluid motion, his arms strong and sure beneath you. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your hands clutching his shoulders as he carries you toward the bedroom.

He moves effortlessly, body honed from years of training, muscles shifting under your touch. He kicks the door open with his foot, the wood creaking in protest, as he enters and throws you on the bed. You laugh, the breath escaping your lungs as he smiles at you while pressing you backward into the mattress, leaning over you.

Junhui shrugs his shirt off in a swift pull, revealing the scars you now know the stories to - the stitches on his shoulder fresh and delicate. There's no pain on his face now, just unrestrained hunger as he presses his waist to yours, leaning to kiss you again.

"You have no idea how often I've wanted this," he murmurs. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch toward him. "To claim you all the time. Often."

You reach for him, sliding your fingers through his hair as he kisses you again, teeth clashing. His weight on you is comforting, the mattress dipping under you both. He braces one knee between your thighs, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawn and down your throat. He nips the skin there, soothing the sting with his tongue. It makes you whimper and he groans in response, the flat of his tongue sweeping up your neck.

"Jun," you whisper, shivering.

He pulls away just enough to strip away your top, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you bare. "So beautiful," he growls. "My wife. Mine."

Junhui's hands roam, calloused palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch into the touch, heat pooling low in your belly as he lowers his head to catch a nipple in his mouth. The sensation makes you writhe, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you. You gasp, hips bucking instinctively, making him chuckle.

"Patience, my love," he teases.

His free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your pajama bottoms and panties, tugging them off in one rough motion. The cool air hits your exposed skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire inside of you. He tosses them aside, gaze fixed between your legs where you're wet and aching for him.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Have you been waiting for this too? Waiting for me to take you apart like you deserve?"

"Yes." His fingers trace the inside of your thigh, teasing higher but not quite touching where you need him most. "God, yes."

He hums in approval, shifting down the bed until he's kneeling between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing your knees apart. You feel exposed, breaths coming in quicker as he looks up at you, pupils blown and fucked out when he hasn't even touched you.

"I want to taste you first," he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to your knee. He kisses your inner thigh, your muscles twitching. "Want to make you come on my tongue. Can, I love? Will you let your husband devour you?"

"Please," you laugh, breathless and desperate. "Please, Jun."

He doesn't need more than that. His hands grip your thighs, holding them open as he leans in, his tongue flattening against you in one long, slow lick from entrance to clit. The sensation scrambles your brain, his tongue hot and wet. Your back arches off the bed as you suck in a harsh breath, his mouth closing against you as he groans. The vibration goes through you, making you squirm. He holds you harder, tongue diving in deeper before circling your clit lazily.

"Shit," you gasp, the curse leaving your lips before you can stop it.

Junhui laughs as you twist your fingers in the sheet, his mouth lethal against you. He switches between broad strokes and pointed pressure, sucking your clit into his mouth gently before releasing it with a pop that makes your toes curl. You feel the way you melt in his mouth, arousal and spit dripping from your cunt to the curve of your ass. He chases it, tongue hungry and greedy and you let out a broken sound.

He's relentless, possessive in a way he has never been with you all this time, tongue fucking you in shallow thrusts that have you grinding against him. One of his hands leaves your thighs, drifting to slide two fingers into your heat, curling upward to press against your front wall. Stars burst behind your eyes, one of your hands going to his head, fingers twisting in his hair.

"So tight," he murmurs, words muffled against you. "So perfect."

He suctions his mouth on your clit, sucking in time with the thrust of his fingers. Pleasure curls in your stomach and you feel yourself teetering on the edge, squirming in his hold.

"I'm - shit I'm gonna-"

"Come for me," he pants. "Let me taste you."

His fingers thrust harder, tongue circling your clit until you shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you, body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as you ride it out. He doesn't stop, licking you through it, drawing out over sound until you're shaking and oversensitive. Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening with your release, grinning.

"You taste like heaven," he rasps, leaning up to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself in his mouth. You moan into it, nails dragging down his back.

Junhui's fingers drift back between your legs, pressing in again. You whine and he hushes you with a kiss, stretching your cunt around three of his fingers, thrusts gentle.

"You can take it," he whispers. "Want you ready for me, yeah? You can do it, my love."

You nod as he pumps them slowly at first, scissoring to open you up. It feels so good, the edges of your vision blurring while his thumb circles your swollen clit in lazy strokes. The overstimulation borders on pain, but it melts into pleasure, your body singing.

"You've been holding back too, hm?" He asks. "All those nights I could have had you like this writhing for me."

"Yes," you pant. "Wanted you so badly but didn't know how."

Cur curls his fingers again, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. Sweat beads on your skin and it feels like your heart is going to pound out of your chest, slamming in your ribcage as you arch, head pressing backward into the mattress.

Junhui attaches his mouth to your throat, sucking the tender spot underneath your ear as he works you toward another orgasm. The slide of his chest against yours, the way he groans - it all makes you come again, squeezes his fingers hard as you flood his hand, making him curse.

"That's it," he praises. "Just like that, love."

He withdraws his fingers with a wet slide, bringing them up to this mouth, sucking them clean with a hum of satisfaction. You look at him, dazed as he grins and kisses your forehead. You press your hands to his shoulders, anchoring your knees to his hips and he only has a second of warning with your grin as you roll, flipping him under you.

Junhui looks up at you with stars in his eyes as you lean up on your knees, panting. His hands automatically go to your hips, squeezing as you catch your breath, looking down at him. His mouth is swollen and covered in spit and slick but you don't care - he's the most beautiful creature you've ever seen.

With shaking hands, you help him out of his pants, only making room so he can kick them down before you have him pinned under you again, letting you grind against his leaking cock. He groans and you grin, watching as his eyes squeeze shut as you tease him, the heat of your cunt nearly unbearable.

You reach between you, grabbing his hard cock, pumping a little before you line him up at your entrance, the thick head pressed tight against you. He hisses, watching as you sink down slowly, taking him inch by thick inch. It's a lot and you feel the air punch from your lungs until you're ass it flush to his thighs, stretched so tight you can barely breath.

"Fuck," he bites out. "You are fucking perfect. I love you."

You grin. "I love you, even though you were going to leave me."

"I'm an idiot."

"Yes," you agree, gasping as you start to move. "You are."

It's slow at first, your hips rolling in languid circles. The friction feels so good, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. His hands roam, squeezing your ass, thumbs digging into your hipbones to urge you a little faster.

"That's it," he rasps. "Use me."

Emboldened, you pick up the pace, bouncing now. Every thrust feels like it knocks the sense out of you, sweat slicking down your body as you try to catch your breath, thighs trembling. His hips thrust up to meet you, driving deeper, and you lean forward, nails raking down his chest.

"Mine," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your back to hold you to him. "No more holding back." You whimper and he thrusts up harder, gasping. "You're going to come on my cock, aren't you?"

You nod, unable to find the words, the angle letting him hit that spot inside of you that renders you useless. He takes over, banding you to his chest as he thrusts up hard and fast. It's too much, making you clench around him as you come with a scream, body sliding against his.

In one smooth motion, he rolls you, pressing you into the mattress. He's buried deep till, the weight of him pressing into you makes you delirious. He uses a hand to pin yours above your head, his hips grinding into yours, public bone pressing your clit as you whimper his name.

"One more," he begs, his thrusts turning deeper and slower. You nod as his free hand slides between you, gently circling your clit. "One more for me, love. My perfect fucking wife."

The overstimulation is torture, your body on fire, every nerve singing as he pulls you toward another high. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, hands squirming in his grasp as he pins you.

"That's it," he whispers, pace faltering as he starts to fall apart.

You come together, vision whiting out as you squeeze around him. He lets out a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside of you as he twitches. You can barely breathe, both of you tangled together, hearts pounding in sync.

He presses gentle kisses to your shoulder, murmuring in Mandarin, all the things he's always wanted to say - everything you needed to hear. You hold him close, never wanting to let go, uncaring that you were never the perfect wife and he was never the perfect husband. You're perfect for each other, two congruent pieces of a puzzle.

"I love you," he says again, voice rough. "From the moment I meant you."

"I love you," you whisper. "Before I even approached you."

-

The sun hangs low over the Aegean, painting the whitewashed walls of the stone house in gold. Naxos is beautiful this time of year, the sun painting the small kitchen with cracked blue tiles in the perfect light.

It's a simple thing - two bedrooms with a terrace overlooking olive groves that slope down to the sea. Junhui stands on the terrace now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, nursing a cup of coffee from the beans you'd found in Chora. You watch him from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, still wearing the faded linen dress you'd thrown on after your morning swim.

He glances over his shoulder and catches you staring. A smile curves his mouth, the same one he used to give you at flashy New York City parties.

"What are you staring at?" He asks.

"My very beautiful husband." You step closer, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, cheek pressed to the warm plane between his shoulder blades. "You know the ladies in Chora love you?"

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "Do the ladies in Chora know I am desperately in love with my wife? And also that she could kill them without a second thought if she got jealous?"

Junhui turns in your arms, careful not to spill the coffee on you as he sets it down on the railing. He cups your face with both of his hands, warm from the mug. The callouses on his hands are the same calllouses you've always known, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.

"I'm retired," you tell him, squeezing him tighter. "No more killing for me." You pause. "Unless they keep staring at you, then perhaps."

He kisses you, tasting like salt and coffee.

KIM MINGYU — 김민규

XU MINGHAO — 徐明浩

BOO SEUNGKWAN — 부승관

CHWE HANSOL — 최한솔

LEE CHAN — 이찬

seokmin : his smile widened once he saw you approaching him. unfortunately for seungkwan and vernon, now they have to see him clinging onto you like he never met you for months. it's fine, really, who cares if other people are giving you the stares? you're more than happy to be hugged by him—oh, oh my god, you're falling over—well... now you're on the floor....

mingyu : this man is smiling the moment he saw you. he knows what he wants, and he's not going to wait any longer. before you could even approach him, he'd be the one to walk up to you instead—albeit a little clumsily due to his drunk state. but so what? he doesn't mind—as long as he gets to kiss you like there's no tomorrow.

minghao : you couldn't hold your laugh and teasing when you finally met him. you would hold your phone up, shoving it in his face while pointing at the typos he made while he texted you. he'd just squint his eyes while saying, i'm already dizzy and you're showing me a screen? safe to say, he would never hear the end of it.

seungkwan : this man is whining, complaining, and pouncing on you the moment he walked through your door. it's a little endearing (???) how he tried to sound sexy, only to accidentally burp in your face the next second. both of you immediately covered your face—him from embarrassment, and you from trying not to laugh—really, boo seungkwan's life is full of comedy.

vernon : he was all chill when you picked him up. in fact, he was a little too chill—that when you talked to him and noticed him not responding—you turned around and saw that he already fell asleep by leaning onto the wall. you'd have to shake him awake a few times before his eyes widened in shock. he asked you where you are, and you facepalmed, saying that you haven't even walked out the door yet.

chan : it's not much of a surprise to you, really. that when you walked through the door, the room was filled with teasing from the older members. and the only guy who didn't make a sound the whole time was him—tucked in a corner, away from everyone. it was cute how his ears seemed to turn even redder the moment you walked closer to him.

The set was simple, it made everything else stand out more, a clean space with soft lighting that rested gently over them without being harsh, and in the middle of it Luna and Jeonghan sat across from each other dressed in white, the color making them look even softer against the background, like they had been placed there on purpose to contrast yet match at the same time.

They were both holding small cards in their hands, their fingers lightly gripping the edges as if they already knew what was coming but were still curious about how it would unfold. They both smiled at the camera at the same time, not rehearsed, just natural.

Luna leaned forward just slightly as she spoke first, her voice calm but bright. “Hi, GQ. I'm Luna.”

Jeonghan followed right after, his tone just as steady, his eyes still lingering on her for a second longer before shifting forward. “I'm Jeonghan.”

“And today we'll be taking the Couples Quiz.” Luna finished, her voice carried a small hint of amusement, like she already knew how this would go, and when she finished she turned her head toward him, catching him already looking at her, his gaze steady and unreadable but familiar in a way that made her lips curl just a little more.

“Who's going first?” Luna asked.

Jeonghan did not answer with words, he simply lifted his arm and stretched it out toward her, his hand forming a loose fist.

Luna let out a small breath of laughter before mirroring him, her arm extending forward until their hands hovered close, the space between them filled with something light and playful.

They both lifted their hands up and down in rhythm, the movement small but in sync.

“Rock, Papers, Scissors... shoot,” Luna muttered softly.

Their hands snapped into place at the same time, and when the shapes settled it was her scissors against his paper, a clean win, and Luna’s smile widened just a little as she pulled her hand back.

“Okay. I'll go first.”

She said it like she expected to, like she had already prepared herself for this moment, and she began flipping through the cards in her hand, her eyes scanning the questions briefly before she paused and looked back up at him, her expression shifting into something teasing.

“Ready? You'll have to get all of these right or I'll be very upset.”

Jeonghan leaned back into his seat, his posture relaxing as if the warning did nothing to shake him, and he gave a small nod, a quiet hum leaving him that carried confidence more than anything else, like he had already accepted the challenge without thinking twice.

Luna watched him for a second before she let out a soft giggle, her fingers adjusting the card before she read the first question aloud. “What was I wearing when you first saw me?” She lifted her gaze again immediately, her finger pointing at him to make sure he understood exactly what she meant. “When you first saw me. Not when you first spoke to me.”

Jeonghan nodded once, his expression barely changing as he answered without hesitation. “You were wearing a black shirt and black jeans, and you had red Converses on. You were wearing a black zip up sweater over it.” He paused just slightly, like he was looking at the memory again instead of just recalling it.

“You wore black a lot when we were trainees. That was one of the reasons you stood out to everyone.” His eyes shifted to her then, softer. “But you stood out to me because you were really pretty.”

For a moment Luna did not say anything, her smile already there but her cheeks slowly turning red as she nodded, her gaze dropping briefly before she looked back up.

“That's right, I had an emo phase.” She said it lightly, brushing it off even if the reaction lingered on her face, and she quickly moved on, flipping to the next card as if to hide it.

“What is something about me that people get completely wrong?”

Jeonghan answered just as easily, his tone calm. “It used to bother you how people thought you were rude because of how you look.”

Luna nodded immediately, not even letting him finish fully. “I have a resting bitch face.”

There was no hesitation in the way she said it, and Jeonghan let out a small breath of amusement before continuing, his voice steady. “People tend to have that as their first impression of you, that you're rude or a snob, but you're not.”

Luna watched him for a second before nodding again. “Correct.” She said before glancing down at her cards, her energy picking up again as she flipped to the next one. “Next question! What is my go-to order when I'm hungry and don't want to think of what to order?”

Jeonghan tilted his head slightly, thinking for a second, not because he did not know but because he was choosing how to answer.

“Go to order? It depends on your mood…” He started slowly. “You normally go for something spicy. If you're feeling something Korean it's Jjamppong. If you're feeling Western it's pizza.”

Luna’s smile returned immediately, a little more playful this time. “What kind of pizza?” She asked it like a test, like she already knew he would get it right but wanted to see him say it anyway.

“Pepperoni pizza with stuffed crust.”

“That's correct.” Luna chuckled, clearly pleased.

Jeonghan turned his head toward the camera slightly, shifting just enough to include the viewers. “She dislikes pizza crusts and won’t eat them unless it’s stuffed.”

Luna nodded right away, her expression serious for a second as if defending herself. “I don’t like plain crust, it’s too dry, so if it’s stuffed I’ll eat it.”

She then glanced back at her card, her fingers tapping lightly against it before she read the next question “What is something I do when I'm shy or flustered? She lifted her gaze again, watching him closely. “You have to be very specific.”

Jeonghan’s lips curved slightly, like he already knew exactly what she was referring to, and he leaned forward just a bit this time as he answered. “You tuck your hair behind your ear even if it’s already tucked, your voice gets quieter without you noticing, and you blink a lot as if you’re trying to hide in your eyelids.”

Luna blinked at him, her lips parting just slightly before she let out a small laugh, her hand instinctively moving up to her hair before she caught herself halfway.

“I didn’t even know about the blinking thing…” Luna raised her eyebrow at him.

Jeonghan nodded. “You blink a lot when you’re flustered.”

Luna shook her head lightly, still smiling, and moved on. “You got all those right, I guess.” She flipped the card. “What is my most used phrase or reaction when I'm annoyed?”

Before she could even look up properly, Jeonghan was already reacting, his face shifting as he mimicked her, his eyes rolling slightly before he spoke in a tone that was clearly hers. “Yoon Jeonghan!”

Luna immediately turned toward the camera, laughing under her breath, her shoulders shaking just a little. “That's my most used reaction when I'm annoyed because he annoys me the most.”

Jeonghan muttered quietly under his breath, just loud enough to be heard. “It's because I like hearing you say my name like that.”

Luna let out another laugh at that, her eyes briefly closing as she shook her head. Her gaze back went to the cards in her hand, her fingers sliding one forward as her smile settled into something more focused, though the softness from before still lingered in the way her lips curved, and without looking up right away she read the next question.

“What did I want to be when I was younger?”

She finally lifted her eyes to him, watching him carefully, and Jeonghan did not take long to answer, his voice steady like he had gone over this before in his head without realizing it.

“You first wanted to be a prima ballerina. Then you wanted to be a psychologist at some point before you wanted to be an idol.”

Luna’s expression shifted almost immediately, her smile widening just a little as she nodded. “Correct!”

Jeonghan leaned back just slightly, his gaze still on her as he added without hesitation. “You achieved the first two dreams in some shape or form.”

For a brief second Luna did not speak, her smile softening as her eyes dropped for a moment before she nodded again, slower this time. “I did.”

There was a small pause, not uncomfortable, just enough for the weight of that to sit, before Jeonghan spoke again, his voice just as calm but softer.

“You're amazing.”

Luna looked back up at him, the compliment landing without surprise.

“Thank you.” She said, shifting in her seat slightly, as if brushing off the moment before it could linger too long, her fingers already moving to the next card.

“Next question… What is my biggest pet peeve?”

Jeonghan leaned forward this time, his elbows coming closer to his knees as he looked at her, his lips already curving with a hint of mischief. “How much time to we have?” He teased, and Luna immediately let out a laugh, shaking her head as if she already knew what was coming.

He did not stop there, his tone turning into something more animated as he went on. “You have a few, but your biggest pet peeve is when someone doesn't close the door after opening it.”

The moment he said it Luna physically reacted, her shoulders lifting slightly as she cringed, her expression tightening before she straightened up in her seat almost instinctively, like she had been waiting for an excuse to say this out loud.

“It doesn’t make sense to me when people open a door, enter, and leave it wide open as if they have a long tail trailing behind them.” She paused only to breathe before continuing, her brows pulling together. “It’s not hard to shut the door afterwards. It’s so annoying. I don’t know why, but it genuinely gets me heated.”

As she spoke Jeonghan slowly turned his head toward the camera, nodding once, his expression calm but knowing, like he had seen this exact reaction too many times before.

“You also hate people who are rude, people who lack common sense, people who walk slow, people who chew loudly… you hate being woken up by turning the lights on. You also hate when someone goes 'Tch'." He shifted slightly before continuing, adding more with the same ease.

Luna was already nodding before he even finished, her lips pressing together in agreement, and from behind the camera a voice from the producer cut in. “Why do you hate when people go 'Tch'?”

Luna turned toward the direction of the voice, her expression thoughtful for a second before she answered. “I don’t know why, but usually people make that sound when they are worrying about something or frustrated about something.” She tilted her head slightly as she continued, trying to explain it clearly. “And I feel like it’s annoying because it’s like they’re making it known they’re annoyed but won’t say anything… they just want you to know they’re annoyed. Does that make sense?”

Jeonghan let out a small chuckle under his breath, shaking his head slightly as he looked at her. “You're so passionate.”

Luna let out a quiet breath of laughter, nodding like she was aware of it herself. “I know.” She answered before quickly moving on, flipping the card again.

“Anyway, next question. What is my ideal day off?”

Jeonghan did not even need a second for that one. “Staying at home doing nothing.”

“Yup. I don't get to do that often, so whenever I can I just rot in bed.” Luna elaborated with a nod, and without lingering she moved to the next question, her eyes lighting up just a little as she read it.

“Next question... ooh this one is good—What is my favorite nickname from you?”

Jeonghan paused this time, actually thinking, his eyes drifting for a second as if sorting through options.

“You call me a lot of nicknames.” Luna said, watching him closely.

Jeonghan hummed before answering, “My moon.”

Luna’s smile returned immediately, softer this time, and she nodded. “That is my favorite, but it has to be a complete answer.”

Jeonghan let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, my pretty moon.”

Luna giggled, she turned her head toward the camera for a second, giving a quick wink before looking back down at her cards.

“Ooh, this one is... okay,” She said before reading the next question out loud, her tone shifting just slightly. “When did I realize that I liked you more than a friend?”

Jeonghan snickered almost immediately, not even pretending to think. “That's a trick question because you always liked me more than a friend.”

Luna tried to keep her composure but it showed, the way her lips pressed together as she held back a laugh, her cheeks warming as she avoided looking at him, her eyes dropping down to the next card instead.

“You're one to talk.” She muttered under her breath, and Jeonghan only shrugged in response, a small smirk settling on his lips as he watched her.

“Moving on...” Luna said quickly, clearing her throat slightly as she continued. “What is something I always steal from you?”

“My clothes.” Jeonghan answered right away.

“You have to be specific.”

“Hoodies,” He said. “Specifically the oversized yellow hoodie.”

“That's right. It's technically mine at this point.” Luna said, lifting her chin slightly as if claiming it fully.

“What's mine is yours. It doesn't matter.” Jeonghan did not look away from her as he responded.

Luna held his gaze for just a second before she looked back down at her cards again. “How many tattoos do I have?” She asked. “Bonus points if you can name what they all are.”

Jeonghan straightened up in his seat this time, his eyes scanning over her instinctively as if the answer was written there, and he let out a quiet breath.

“Give me second...”

Luna nodded, watching him as he went quiet, his gaze moving carefully all over her body as he counted on his fingers one by one, his focus clear.

“You have seven.” He started, then continued without rushing. “The number ‘17’ on the side of your right wrist, a crescent moon on the left side of your wrist, a small letter ‘J’ inside your left ring finger, a bow at the back of your right hand, the word 'eventually' in between your right middle finger, one on your right side by your ribcage that says 'lady of the moon' and one on the back of your neck that says 'lovebug'."

Luna broke into a smile before she even spoke, her hands coming together in a small clap. “Correct.” She said, her tone bright as she nodded at him. “That was really good.” She added, clearly impressed.

Jeonghan leaned back again, satisfied but not surprised.

Luna flipped to the next card without wasting time. “What is something I do when I'm jealous?”

Jeonghan let out a small chuckle at that, his head tilting slightly. “You rarely get jealous.”

“That's true. But what do I do when I am?” Luna pressed, watching him carefully.

“You either ignore me completely or don't leave my side. There's no in between.” He answered confidently.

Before Luna could respond the producer’s voice came in again from behind the camera. “What situation do you ignore him versus not leaving his side?”

“It depends.” Luna and Jeonghan said in unison, their voices overlapping perfectly.

Luna let out a soft laugh right after, shaking her head slightly as the moment settled between them. She then lifted the next card, her fingers lightly tapping against the edge as she glanced down for a brief second before looking back up at him, her expression already hinting that she expected him to get this right without effort.

“What irrational fear do I have?” She asked, “This is really easy.”

There was a small lift of her brow, almost challenging, but the softness in her eyes gave her away, he knows this, he always does.

Jeonghan nodded immediately, not even needing a second to think as he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow against his knee while counting off in a calm and steady tone.

“You’re scared of spiders,” he began, his voice even as if he were reciting something he had gone over many times before, “you’re claustrophobic, you hate throwing up, you’re scared of the dark because in extension you are scared of going blind,” he continued, his lips pressing together briefly as he recalled the rest, “and you’re scared of the deep sea.” He finished without hesitation, his gaze fixed on her as if confirming each one as he said it.

Luna nodded along as he spoke, her lips curling into a small smile that grew wider with each correct answer before she let out a quiet hum of agreement. “Other than those things, I’m scared of nothing else irrational,” she said.

She shifted slightly in her seat, the card in her hand flipping to the next one as her eyes skimmed over it before she read it aloud. “What movies or shows do I enjoy watching?” Luna asked Jeonghan as she watched him expectantly.

Jeonghan let out a soft breath, tilting his head as if organizing his thoughts before answering. “You watch a lot of animated shows and movies,” he started, his tone thoughtful but confident, “you prefer comedy over dramas, and you have a weird obsession with documentaries, especially crime documentaries.” He finished, glancing at her with a faint smile as if already knowing he had it right.

Luna smiled at that, her shoulders relaxing as she nodded. “I love a good documentary,” she said, her voice soft with a hint of fondness.

“She was sobbing over an animal documentary a few weeks ago,” Jeonghan said to the camera, his tone calm but carrying a quiet amusement as he turned his head slightly.

“I was,” Luna admitted without hesitation, her lips pressing together briefly before she let out a small breath of a laugh, “they’re unnecessarily sad.”

Without lingering too long, she moved on, flipping to the next card with practiced ease. “What kind of pets did I have growing up?”

Jeonghan answered just as quickly. “You used to have a lot of childhood pets, but you didn’t have anything with fur because your mom is allergic,” he said before continuing without pause, “you had two goldfishes, two angelfishes, two janitor fishes, two turtles, and two hermit crabs.”

Luna’s face lit up at that, her smile widening as she leaned back slightly. “I’m so happy you remember,” she said.

“Of course,” Jeonghan hummed softly, his lips curving into a small smile as he looked at her.

Luna tilted her head slightly, a playful glint in her eyes as she added, “I’ll give you bonus points if you can tell me why I had two of each.”

“It’s because you didn’t want them to get lonely,” Jeonghan said with a small smirk, his answer coming easily before he turned his head toward the camera, his expression softening into something more amused, “Isn’t she so cute?”

Luna let out a quiet laugh at that, shaking her head slightly as she looked down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “You’re such a smooth talker,” she said, her tone teasing but not denying it.

She moved on quickly after that, her fingers tightening slightly around the last card as she glanced down at it. “This is the last question,” Luna said, her voice carrying a small hint of anticipation, “Out of all the gifts you have given me, what’s my favorite one?”

Jeonghan paused this time, his brows drawing together slightly as he thought, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back up to her. “It’s either Bugs or that ring on your finger,” he said after a few seconds, his tone measured but sure.

Luna nodded almost immediately, her smile softening as she looked at him. “Those are my two favorites,” she confirmed, her voice quieter this time.

There was a brief moment where she simply looked at him, her expression filled with something warm before she let out a small laugh, shaking her head lightly. “You got all of the questions correct,” Luna said, her voice carrying a mix of surprise and admiration.

Jeonghan nodded once, leaning back slightly as a small, confident smile settled on his face. “Of course I got a perfect score,” he said, his tone playful but assured, “I’m just that good.” His eyes flickered toward her, the corner of his lips lifting a little more. “You have to get a perfect score as well now.”

He reached for his cards then, picking them up with ease as Luna straightened in her seat, her posture shifting into something more focused as she prepared herself. There was a small spark of determination in her eyes as she looked at him, ready.

“Bet,” Luna said, her voice certain, as she waited for the first question.

“Okay, first question...” Jeonghan said, scanning through his cards before continuing, “What is something I do when I want your attention?”

Luna did not even take a second to think, her answer coming out immediately as if it had been waiting. “Be extra annoying.” She said it so plainly that it made the crew behind the camera let out a quiet laugh, her tone carrying a certainty that came from experience.

Jeonghan’s lips curved into a slow smirk, his head tilting slightly as he leaned forward just a little, clearly enjoying this. “In what way?” Jeonghan smirked, asking her to elaborate, his eyes fixed on her as if he already knew what she was about to say and wanted to hear it anyway.

Luna exhaled softly through her nose, already amused as she glanced at the camera before looking back at him.

“Remember the door closing thing I mentioned earlier?” Luna looked at the camera, her brows lifting slightly as if pulling them into the moment, “That. He leaves the door open knowing it will get my attention.” Her voice held a mix of disbelief and familiarity, like it was something she had accepted long ago.

Jeonghan let out a quiet chuckle at that, his shoulders lifting slightly as he nodded, not even trying to deny it. There was something satisfied in the way he reacted, like he took pride in how well he annoyed her.

He moved on smoothly, his eyes dropping back to the card as he read the next one. “When and where was our first kiss?” he asked, his tone casual but his gaze flickering up to her with quiet interest.

Luna’s reaction was immediate, her expression shifting as a faint blush crept up her cheeks, her lips parting slightly before she let out a small breath of a laugh. “I wasn't expecting that question.” She said it softly, almost to herself, her fingers tightening slightly around her own cards as she tried to gather her thoughts.

Jeonghan raised a brow at her, watching her closely. “You don't remember?” he asked, his tone light but carrying a hint of teasing that only made her more aware of his attention.

“I do...” Luna said, her voice quieter now as she shook her head slightly as if clearing it, “It was in your car on the drive home from Wonwoo's birthday six years ago.” Her voice steadied as she spoke, her eyes lifting to meet his again.

Jeonghan’s expression softened at that, a small smile forming on his lips as he watched her. “You remember everything, don't you?” he teased gently, his tone low and amused.

“Yes! Next question!” Luna waved him off quickly, her hand making a small dismissive motion as she avoided holding his gaze for too long, already knowing the look he was giving her.

There was a quiet glint in Jeonghan’s eyes as he watched her for a moment longer before moving on, flipping to the next card. “What was the first thing I ever said to you when we first met?” He asked.

Luna’s expression softened instantly, her smile turning fond as the memory settled in her mind.

“You introduced yourself to me, asked me my name, welcomed me, and then told me if I needed anything that I could tell you.” She answered with a smile, her voice carrying a warmth that lingered in the air. “You kept me company the entire time, making me laugh because you said I looked like I needed a laugh.”

Jeonghan watched her as she spoke, something softer settling in his expression before he nodded. “Correct. Good job.”

“Next question… Oh—Who is my celebrity crush?” There was already a smirk on his face as he asked it, his eyes narrowing slightly in amusement.

Luna let out a small breath of a laugh, her lips curving as she tilted her head. “If it's not me then I don't want to hear the correct answer.” Luna joked, her tone light but her eyes watching him carefully.

“That's too bad because it's actually—” Jeonghan started teasing, his voice stretching the words just enough to make her react.

Before he could finish, Luna leaned forward and playfully poked him with the pointy end of her shoe, her expression warning but amused as he broke into laughter.

“I'm joking.” He said quickly, his laughter soft but genuine.

“I know... you're obsessed with me.” Luna said nonchalantly, her tone steady as if it were a simple fact.

Jeonghan’s smile deepened at that, his eyes lingering on her. “You get a point for that.” He said, winking at her before shifting his attention back to the cards.

“Next question...” he continued, his voice smooth as he read, “Where did we go on our first date?”

“The zoo.” Luna answered immediately, her lips curving as she leaned back slightly. “Because you said if I got bored, at least the animals would be entertaining enough to save the date.” She added, her tone carrying a hint of teasing as she looked at him.

Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “That was a good reason.” He said, his voice light.

“It was a very you reason.” Luna replied, her eyes narrowing slightly in amusement.

“It worked, didn’t it?” he shot back, his brows lifting.

“It did.” Luna admitted, her smile softening as she looked at him.

Jeonghan nodded once, satisfied. “Another point for you.” he said before moving on without missing a beat. “What was I wearing when we first met? These are easy questions.”

Luna smiled back, her answer immediate. “A neon green shirt with your name written on it, the shirt they made the trainees wear.”

“Correct!” Jeonghan said, his tone bright with approval as he flipped to the next card, “What's my routine before I go to sleep?”

“Nowadays? Or before you started your service?” Luna asked, her brows pulling together slightly as she needed the clarification.

“Nowadays.” Jeonghan answered simply.

Luna straightened in her seat slightly, her expression focused as she answered, “Once you get home from work you immediately shower, then you eat dinner if you feel like it which is most of the time, then you lay in bed scrolling on your phone or we watch a movie we’ll never finish, then you brush your teeth, and go to bed and sleep.” Her voice was steady, each step coming naturally as she listed them out.

Jeonghan tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “You're missing one step.” He said it casually, but there was something in his tone that made it clear he had been waiting to say it.

Luna frowned slightly, her brows furrowing as she replayed her answer in her head. “No I didn't.” She said, her voice firm as she looked at him.

“You did.” Jeonghan smirked at her, clearly enjoying this.

“I didn't. What did I miss?” she asked, leaning forward slightly now, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Jeonghan’s smile turned more smug as he answered, “Before I go to sleep, I kiss you first. You missed the most important step.”

Luna let out a small laugh in disbelief, her head tilting back slightly before she rolled her eyes playfully, her lips still curved as she turned her head toward the camera. “He is doing too much because he knows this interview is relationship centered.” She said it with a mix of amusement and mild exasperation, her tone giving him away completely.

Jeonghan chuckled softly at her reaction, clearly pleased with himself. “You'll get a point for that anyway because I'm generous.” he said as he leaned back slightly.

“I get a point because I was right!” Luna retorted immediately, her voice quick as she looked at him, not letting him have the last word.

Jeonghan did not waste any time as he lifted the next card, his fingers sliding it forward with ease as his eyes scanned the question before he read it aloud. “What's my zodiac sign?”

“Libra.” Luna answered without hesitation. She did not even pause before adding, a small smile forming on her lips as she tilted her head slightly, “That's easy... what's my zodiac sign?”

Jeonghan’s lips curved immediately, his eyes glinting with mischief as he answered without missing a beat. “Intj.”

Luna’s reaction was instant as she reached over and smacked his arm, her brows pulling together in disbelief while her lips parted in protest. “Ya! That's correct and wrong at the same time.” she said, her tone caught between amused and mildly offended.

Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh, clearly pleased with himself before answering properly this time, his voice softer as he looked at her. “You're an Aquarius, baby.”

“Mm hmm.” she said, nodding as she settled back slightly, accepting the answer with a small satisfied hum.

He flipped to the next card, his fingers tapping lightly against it before reading, “What's something that you weren't expecting to love about me?”

Luna let out a soft chuckle at that, her eyes briefly dropping before lifting again as she answered, her voice carrying a quiet honesty. “That you’re annoying.” She said it plainly, but there was warmth in the way she spoke. “Normally that would obviously annoy me with other people,” she continued, her lips curving into a small smile as she looked at him, “but it’s one of the traits I love the most about you.”

Jeonghan watched her as she spoke, his expression softening just slightly before shifting into something more playful again. “So you’re saying I’m special?” he asked.

“You’re saying that, not me.” Luna replied immediately, though the smile on her face betrayed her words.

Jeonghan tilted his head slightly, studying her for a brief moment before nodding as if accepting her answer anyway. “Sure, sure. I’ll take that.”

He moved on, flipping the card with practiced ease as he read the next question. “What are your nicknames for me? You also have a lot.”

“Jeonghannie, Hannie, Han, Jeongie, and Angel Boy.” Luna answered confidently, her voice steady as she listed them off without missing one.

Jeonghan’s lips curled into another smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at her. “Don't forget...” he said, lifting the cards up to cover his mouth from the camera as he mouthed something to her.

Luna frowned slightly, her brows knitting together as she leaned forward, trying to catch what he was saying. “Huh?” she said, her voice filled with confusion.

Jeonghan mouthed something again.

She squinted slightly, trying to read his lips again, still not getting it. “What?”

Without warning, Jeonghan hooked his foot around the leg of her chair and pulled her closer, the movement smooth as it caught her off guard.

Luna’s eyes widened in surprise as she was pulled toward him, her body shifting forward before he leaned in and whispered something quietly into her ear.

Her eyes went even wider before she pulled back and smacked him, her hand landing against his arm as he threw his head back and laughed, the sound full and unrestrained.

“You're so annoying. Read the next question.” she told him, her voice trying to sound firm but the slight shake of her head and the lingering smile on her lips gave her away.

Jeonghan gathered himself, clearing his throat lightly as he looked back down at the cards, though the grin had not fully left his face. “What's my favorite Lego set I built?” he read.

Luna’s expression brightened instantly, her eyes lighting up as she let out a small gasp. “You really enjoyed the Ferrari set,” she said, her voice animated as she leaned forward slightly, “and the Bowser one we built together.”

Jeonghan nodded at that, his expression softening again. “The cars are my favorite ones,” he said, his tone calm as he confirmed it, “but yeah, the recent one we built... Bowser is my new favorite.”

Luna nodded, her smile lingering as she turned her head toward the camera. “We both have a Lego addiction,” she said.

“What’s your favorite set you’ve built?” the producer asked from behind the camera.

Luna turned back slightly, her expression thoughtful for a moment before answering. “Hannie bought me the Hogwarts Castle that had like six-thousand something pieces. We spent three whole days building it together.” Her voice softened slightly at the memory, her eyes flickering toward him.

Jeonghan watched her as she spoke, his gaze steady and fond, the corner of his lips lifting just slightly.

Luna continued, her hands moving slightly as she spoke, more animated now. “It’s the biggest Lego set we have,” she said, her tone filled with a quiet pride, “and it was one of the reasons we bought a bigger house.” She let out a small laugh at that, shaking her head slightly. “Now we have an entire separate room filled with just our Legos.”

Jeonghan let out a soft laugh, nodding in agreement. “It got out of control.”

“You encourage it.” Luna shot back immediately, her brows lifting as she looked at him.

“That goes both ways. I encourage you, you encourage me.” he replied just as quickly.

“We’re bad for each other.” she said, teasing.

“Absolutely terrible.” Jeonghan winked at her, playing along.

He moved on to read the next question, “What is something I cannot leave the house without?”

“Phone, wallet, earphones... and your emotional support item.” She answered with confidence, her eyes flickering toward him as if waiting for his reaction.

Jeonghan’s face immediately broke into a grin, his head dipping in a small nod as he looked at her. “Correct!” he said as he flipped to the next card between his fingers. “This is another easy one. What is my favorite season of the year?”

Luna let out a soft breath of a laugh, her shoulders relaxing as she answered, “That's easy! We like the opposite sides of the season. I like spring and you like autumn.”

Jeonghan smiled at that as he nodded. “That's right. Good job.” His voice softened slightly as he said it, his gaze lingering on her for a second longer than needed.

Luna turned her head toward the camera then, her lips curving into a small smile as she added, “Basically we like it when it's not too hot and not too cold.”

Jeonghan let out a quiet chuckle at that, shaking his head slightly before looking back down at the cards, already moving on. “What were we doing when I proposed to you? Bonus points if you remember where it was.”

The moment the question left his lips, Luna’s expression shifted, her eyes dropping for a brief second as a faint blush crept up her cheeks, her fingers tightening slightly around her own cards. She took a small breath before answering, her voice softer now. “We were skipping rocks on the lake at a park in Berlin.”

Jeonghan looked at her with a small smile, his eyes soft as he nodded. “That’s correct.” His voice carried a quiet satisfaction, but there was something gentler underneath it. “You even got the bonus.” He added, his tone teasing lightly.

Luna let out a small laugh, shaking her head slightly as she looked at him. “Of course I did.”

There was a quiet confidence in her voice, but her cheeks were still faintly flushed.

Jeonghan glanced back down at the cards, though there was a hint of mischief returning to his expression as he asked her another question. “Is it true that you passed out when I proposed to you?”

Luna’s head snapped up at that, her eyes immediately narrowing as she caught the look on his face, disbelief written all over hers before it turned into a laugh. “That's not a question! Don't lie!” she said, her voice quick as she reached out instinctively to grab his cards, her hand brushing against his as he pulled them slightly out of reach, laughing.

“I didn't pass out...” Luna pointed at the camera as she clarified, her brows lifting as if addressing the viewers directly while Jeonghan continued chuckling beside her. “Almost, but I didn't.” she added, her tone firm but still laced with amusement.

There was a brief pause before the producer’s voice came from behind the camera, clear and amused. “You both got perfect scores.”

Luna’s eyes widened slightly before she turned toward Jeonghan, a bright smile breaking across her face as she lifted both her hands toward him. He mirrored her instantly, and they met in the middle with a double high five, both hands connecting at once with a soft clap.

“Good job.” Jeonghan said, his voice warm as he looked at her, his smile lingering.

“You too.” Luna replied.

“Can we end it with a kiss?” the producer asked, his tone teasing.

Luna and Jeonghan both turned to look at each other at the same time, a brief moment of shared understanding passing between them before Jeonghan reached out, his hand coming up to cup the side of her neck gently. He leaned in without hesitation and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.

Luna smiled at that instantly, her eyes crinkling slightly as she let out a small breath of a laugh.

“On the lips.” the producer teased, chuckling from behind the camera.

Luna shook her head lightly, still smiling as she glanced toward the camera. “He knows better not to kiss me when I have lipstick on.” she said, her tone amused.

Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh beside her, nodding in agreement. “She'll tear my head off if I ruin her lipstick.” he said, his voice light as Luna lifted her hand and gave a small wave toward the camera.

The moment lingered for just a second longer before it naturally faded, the two of them still smiling as the scene came to an end.

comments...

@/caratwonwoo • 17 hours ago ╰ SURPRISE DROP??? HELLO??? I OPENED YOUTUBE HALF ASLEEP AND GOT HIT WITH JEONGNA COUPLES QUIZ I AM NOT OKAY 😭😭 this is their FIRST OFFICIAL INTERVIEW AS A COUPLE and they just sat there in white looking like a wedding photoshoot like what do you MEAN?!

@/hanieloveclub • 17 hours ago ╰ when she said “When do I realized I liked you more than a friend?” and he just looked at her like that… and said ““That's a trick question because you always liked me more than a friend.” i’m actually unwell.

@/seokminsmiles • 16 hours ago ╰ the way he listed EVERYTHING she was wearing the first time he saw her down to the red converses??? sir that is not memory that is DEVOTION 😫 we’re not even a minute in!

@/cheolsversion • 15 hours ago ╰ “Yoon Jeonghan!” PLEASEEE the way he mimicked her and then admitted he likes hearing her say his name like that… i need to lie down

@/junhuicat • 14 hours ago ╰ 05:37 JIYEON’S RANT ABOUT THE DOOR NOT BEING CLOSED AND HIM NODDING AT THE CAMERA LIKE “see” IM CRYING they are literally married behavior already 😭

@/minghaosart • 13 hours ago ╰ not him casually saying she achieved all her dreams and calling her amazing and she just softly goes “I did.” like ??? THE INTIMACY ???

@/vernonfilmz • 10 hours ago ╰ 09:30 WHEN HE SAID HE KISSES HER BEFORE SLEEP AND SHE MISSED THAT STEP… the way she rolled her eyes but smiled?? yeah they’re SICK for this 🫠

@/hoshihoranghae • 10 hours ago ╰ “What's mine is yours. It doesn't matter.” JESUS FUCK YOON JEONGHAN WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!?!

@/dkenergy • 8 hours ago ╰ “My moon… my pretty moon.” i’m done. pack it up. nobody talk to me ever again. he really looked at her like she hung the damn sky.

@/baebylunalover • 7 hours ago ╰ i don’t know who needs to hear this but LUNA IS SO PRETTY IT’S ILLEGAL. the way Jeonghan kept staring at her like she’s the only person in the room… chemistry is felt THROUGH THE SCREEN! i swear i felt like i was intruding on a date! This interview is TOO intimate 😭

@/jeonghanshalo • 6 hours ago ╰ i blinked and suddenly they’re talking about their FIRST KISS IN HIS CAR??? on the drive home??? six years ago??? after Wonwoo’s birthday??? oh they’ve been insane for each other for a long time.

@/mingyusbiceps • 6 hours ago ╰ 00:30 the way she said “Ready? You’ll have to get all of these right or I’ll be very upset.” and he just leaned back like he already KNOWS everything… yeah that man studied her like a textbook

@/nanayaluna • 5 hours ago ╰ YOON JEONGHAN PULLING LUNA’S CHAIR WITH HIS FOOT TO WHISPER IN HER EAR!!! LORD HAVE MERCY 🥵🥵🥵

@/wooahae • 5 hours ago ╰ Jeonghan: “You wore black a lot when we were trainees. That was one of the reasons you stood out to everyone. But you stood out to me because you were really pretty.” HELLOOOO?!!!

@/hoshishamster • 4 hours ago ╰ HER FACE WHEN HE GOT THE TATTOOS RIGHT??? ALL OF THEM??? even the tiny ones??? i’m actually screaming Jeonghan is a human Bae Jiyeon Encyclopedia 😝

@/dinosfuture • 3 hours ago ╰ 10:35 “What did I miss?” “I kiss you before I sleep.” HELLO??? SIR??? THIS IS A PUBLIC PLATFORM

@/scoupsleadernim • 2 hours ago ╰ i love how she kept trying to move on when he got smug like she KNOWS he’s about to say something that’ll embarrass her 😭 their dynamic is everything to me! I miss them soo much 🩷

@/caratdeul • 1 hour ago ╰ the way they both said “It depends.” at the same time about Jiyeon’s jealousy… yeah they’ve had that conversation before LMAO

@/hanieangelcore • 1 hour ago ╰ 11:50 when he mouthed something and pulled her chair closer??? and she smacked him after??? WHAT DID HE SAY I NEED ANSWERS!!!

@/moonlightbaeby • 30 minutes ago ╰ the lego room reveal??? SIX THOUSAND PIECE HOGWARTS SET??? they really built a whole life together brick by brick i’m crying

@/ot14forever • 52 minutes ago ╰ the way they both got perfect scores like of course they did… they’ve been orbiting each other for YEARS this was light work for them 😭

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: ̗̀➛ requests are always open ♡ - selఌ

KIM MINGYU — 김민규

XU MINGHAO — 徐明浩

BOO SEUNGKWAN — 부승관

CHWE HANSOL — 최한솔

LEE CHAN — 이찬

seokmin : his smile widened once he saw you approaching him. unfortunately for seungkwan and vernon, now they have to see him clinging onto you like he never met you for months. it's fine, really, who cares if other people are giving you the stares? you're more than happy to be hugged by him—oh, oh my god, you're falling over—well... now you're on the floor....

mingyu : this man is smiling the moment he saw you. he knows what he wants, and he's not going to wait any longer. before you could even approach him, he'd be the one to walk up to you instead—albeit a little clumsily due to his drunk state. but so what? he doesn't mind—as long as he gets to kiss you like there's no tomorrow.

minghao : you couldn't hold your laugh and teasing when you finally met him. you would hold your phone up, shoving it in his face while pointing at the typos he made while he texted you. he'd just squint his eyes while saying, i'm already dizzy and you're showing me a screen? safe to say, he would never hear the end of it.

seungkwan : this man is whining, complaining, and pouncing on you the moment he walked through your door. it's a little endearing (???) how he tried to sound sexy, only to accidentally burp in your face the next second. both of you immediately covered your face—him from embarrassment, and you from trying not to laugh—really, boo seungkwan's life is full of comedy.

vernon : he was all chill when you picked him up. in fact, he was a little too chill—that when you talked to him and noticed him not responding—you turned around and saw that he already fell asleep by leaning onto the wall. you'd have to shake him awake a few times before his eyes widened in shock. he asked you where you are, and you facepalmed, saying that you haven't even walked out the door yet.

chan : it's not much of a surprise to you, really. that when you walked through the door, the room was filled with teasing from the older members. and the only guy who didn't make a sound the whole time was him—tucked in a corner, away from everyone. it was cute how his ears seemed to turn even redder the moment you walked closer to him.

Joshua- He would also be a brat tamer, but like in a softer version, kind of like Jeonghan in his subtle approach to it.

For example, when you visited him while he was on tour, you were planning on seeing the city that day, but suddenly staff came to him, and asked him to do a vlog with the guys instead.

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart." He gives you an apologetic smile as you all pile out of the company SUV, and onto the beach. Then Hoshi turns on the camera, and Joshua snaps into fan service mode as you stand off to the side watching.

This becomes the pattern all day long. At every stop you all make, you're getting a little pouty and sulky as the hours pass, and quite honestly? Near the end of the day, you're over it.

Joshua of course notices the attitude in your stance, and tugs you subtly into the tinted backseat of the SUV while you're at the park. "Let's straighten out this attitude, Sweetheart." He says as he adjusts you over his lap.

Minutes later, you both emerge from the car, you with a newly adjusted attitude and a slightly sore ass, and Joshua with a smirk, and a bit of a red and aching palm.

Jun- Jun would also be a softer version of a brat tamer.

Since he's gone for long periods of time filming, he of course would bring you with him whenever he had to go abroad for it. Neither of you wanted to deal with that separation.

When you're on set with him, you're usually pretty patient, and actually really enjoy watching him work, but today, you're feeling especially restless.

Every time he gets a small break, and checks in, you ask when the day will be wrapped up. And each time you ask, your pitch gets a little more whiny, and Jun notices, even if you don't think he does.

When filming for the day wraps up, you're both in the car on the way back to the hotel when you speak up. "I seriously thought today would never end." Your tone is completely bratty at this point, and Jun has had enough by now.

He reaches over and squeezes your knee, his voice low and raspy in your ear "Baobei, if you don't change your attitude and apologize for your tone today, I'll have to get creative." His words are met with an eye roll from you and a sarcastic "sorry."

And all Jun does is smirk at that, because a few minutes later in your hotel room he's got you on your knees choking on his cock.

"See, I told you I'd get creative to get those pretty lips to apologize correctly," he huffs out roughly, looking down at you.

Hoshi- Would be a brat tamer, and he would definitely be the kind of boyfriend that would purposely push buttons to get you to be a little extra bratty just so he could get you back to being nice again.

Maybe one night he's staying extra late to work on some choreography, and he did tell you he'd be a little later than normal, but it's been three hours past the end time now, and you're getting impatient and hungry.

The music is vibrating the walls of the practice room as you open the door, and a very sweaty and breathless Soonyoung is sitting on the floor drinking water. "Hey Jagiya, I'm just finishing up, give me like two more hours and we can get dinner."

He's joking of course, and he gives you a playful smile that promptly drops as he sees your crossed arms and frown. "Don't 'Hey Jagiya' me." Your voice has a whiny and slightly mocking pitch to it that pulls Hoshi to his feet, his eyes sharp and dark.

Soonyoung's steps guide you backwards until your back hits the wall, while he puts his hands on either side of your shoulders, his breath hot on your neck as his voice lowers, vibrating down to your core. "Don't make me find a better use for that pretty little mouth of yours, Jagiya."

Wonwoo- 1000% a brat tamer, and he is not afraid to remind you about it either at home or in public. Although it sometimes feels like his favorite places to remind you who is in charge are in public.

Like the night he takes you to the local arcade for your usual date night, and he's not letting you win the games like he normally does. You start to get a little on the grumpy side, and your answers start to become clipped and shortened to one word.

"Bathroom." You say with crossed arms, before you sulk off, unaware that Wonwoo was right on your heels. He follows you in, locking the door behind the two of you, and gives you a single eyebrow raise.

"We're going to fix this little attitude of yours." He states it while lifting you onto the counter before you can protest. He's quick to pushing up your skirt, pulling down your panties, and kissing up your thighs until his lips meet your pussy. He licks a long stripe that leaves you shaking immediately.

Four orgasms later, Wonwoo helps you off the counter, with a gleam in his eye. "Now, lets go play nicely, okay?" You nod your head and walk out of the bathroom on jello legs, and he follows behind adjusting his glasses and wiping off his lips with a smirk.

Woozi- Jihoon is definitely a brat tamer, but it takes a lot to get him there. Like he will let you get away with a lot before he finally decides to act on anything.

The late night you come visit him while he's working in the studio is the tipping point, this time, apparently. It's not like you've never hung out there while he's worked before, but this time you were extra fidgety, and being a little more distracting than normal.

"What's that button do? What about that switch?" You ask, reaching across the soundboard while Woozi was focused on his laptop. Not looking, he reaches over, and holds your wrist.

"Baby, don't touch. I've told you a million times, okay? Behave. I'm almost done." He looks at you now, over the rim of his glasses, and you straighten up immediately, tucking your hands away in your lap.

The good behavior only lasts for so long before you push the chair back, and start spinning around, humming songs until Woozi sighs heavily and turns around grabbing the chair, stopping the spinning. "Baby." His voice is dangerously low now, "Are you bored? Do I need to tire you out so I can finish work?"

That's how you ended up bent over the soundboard nearly drooling, and Jihoon is pulling a second orgasm out of you within 10 minutes as he murmurs something about finally getting work done after this.

DK- Okay, so I actually think DK would fall into a switch category where he could be a brat but also a brat tamer.

Because imagine if there's a time where the two of you are on vacation, and it's to an all inclusive resort, the kind that you get to do all the activities and packages through them.

Well, the activity that DK booked was swimming with the sea turtles on the second day of the trip, and that morning you guys got a message that the activity had to be cancelled and you'd been re-booked for a "surfing experience" instead.

Throughout the morning, and into breakfast, DK was extra crabby about losing his activity. "I just really wanted to swim with the turtles is all." He halfheartedly pushes a pancake around on his plate while his lips pull into a frown.

"Keyomie, it'll be fun. We'll still be in the ocean and in the sun. Most importantly, we'll be spending time together." You say trying to coax him into a better mood before you two have to head to the beach.

Of course, once you guys make it there, and actually get started surfing - DK starts to have an amazing time. He's laughing, and catching right onto the lessons like a natural.

You, however, are not having fun at all. It's as if the roles have reversed, you're now sulking, and sitting on your board kicking the water until DK paddles next to you.

"Honey, cheer up? Why don't you go relax on the beach, and watch, and then tonight I'll make sure to treat you to something extra fun." He finishes his sentence with a promising wink that ignites a heat right to your core.

Mingyu- Like S.Coups, Mingyu would also be a pouty little brat when something doesn't go his way.

Like the day you two decided to go shopping, he was excited at the opportunity to spoil you a little bit, willing to buy you anything you wanted or possibly even looked at, if you'd let him.

So imagine his surprise at the first store, when you two are up at the counter to pay for your things, he's reaching for his wallet and suddenly, he hears the "DING" of the card reader.

Mingyu looks over at you, as your tapping your phone to pay instead, his mouth gaping. "Yah! Let me pay at the next one." He insists as you two leave the store, you shrug him off and continue shopping.

This pattern repeats through the whole shopping center. You are absolutely ruining his plans to spoil you today and he is a big pouty mess by lunchtime.

"What's wrong?" You nudge his foot under the table, and he gives you the saddest puppy eyed look before responding.

"I just really wanted to spoil you today, and you keep ruining it by paying for everything." He huffs jutting out his bottom lip.

"Okay, how about this, I'll let you buy me one thing, and then I'll spoil you too." You smirk mischievously offering your compromise.

Of course Mingyu eagerly takes the offer, and that's how an hour later he's now focused on your new diamond necklace nestled between your gorgeous tits that bounce as you ride him in the back seat of the car.

At the end of the day everyone got spoiled a little bit.

Minghao- Minghao is a little tricky, but I think he would be kind of a silent brat when he brings you around the chaos of the 12 other guys.

Usually at home you're pretty laid back and relaxed around him. So, he expects the same introverted behavior around them, he thinks maybe you'll come out of your shell a little bit, but he figures you'll stick next to him most of the night.

What he did not expect was that you would go fully extroverted on him, and completely immerse yourself in the chaos.

You laughed loudly at all of DK's jokes, you fed into Hoshi's tiger agenda, and even go toe to toe rage baiting Seungkwan for a little while, making everyone in the room erupt in laughter.

Don't get Hao wrong, he loved watching you get along with his friends, it's just that he didn't like that you weren't immediately in his vicinity. He wanted you getting along with his friends, but also love up on him too.

When there's finally a lull in the madness, Minghao approaches you. "My Love, are you having fun? Can you come back and sit with me?" He asks while lacing his hand into yours to get your full attention. You only need to glance briefly at Hao to see the slightly woeful look on his face.

"Oh, are you jealous?" You tease him at first, but when you see that his frown only grows, you drop it. "Of course I will, lets go." You reply leading him to the couch, where he stays stuck to you for the remainder of the evening, and you make sure you pay extra attention to him with a knowing grin.

Seungkwan- Is a brat, but he tries so hard not to be. Especially around you, because he loves you so dearly.

For instance, you try to be the extra sweet doting partner, bringing home a bag of skincare products with a grand plan of you two staying in for the night and having a mini spa evening together.

"Oh, what are these?" Seungkwan asks peeking into the bag on the counter while you gather snacks. He tries very hard to hide the grimace on his face as he reads the labels on the products.

"I thought we could have a night in, like a mini spa." You reply with a hopeful tone.

Luckily for Seungkwan, you're preoccupied pulling out the snacks and drinks from the fridge while you explain, otherwise you'd see the absolute horror on his face as he continues going through the bag. "Yeah? That sounds like fun, Baby." He grabs the bag and follows you into the living room, where you start unpacking everything, and handing Seungkwan his face mask. "Hopefully, this won't make me break out." He mumbles under his breath with a sigh as he sticks the Hello Kitty sheet mask onto his face.

"What was that?" You ask as you smooth your own mask on with a calmed sigh, your head is thrown back against the pillows on the couch.

"Hmm? Nothing..I said I hope this clears my breakouts. I love you, Baby." Seungkwan says quickly, settling in his own spot next to you as he quiets his own thoughts.

He would do anything for you, always for you.

Vernon- Vernon is a brat tamer, but he also shows it in subtle or nonchalant ways, because that's just Vernon.

For instance, the time you asked him to teach you how to play guitar is a good example. By the time he caved and agreed, you had resorted to begging to be taught by him, and he finally gave in.

Vernon told you to come by his practice space in the evening, after he was finished with work, and you show up completely eager and even picked out your favorite song that you want to learn too.

All of that crumbles away about an hour later, when you still haven't been able to pick up the finger positions for basic chords. Vernon is still totally patient, and encouraging, but also slightly too relaxed for your liking in this moment. "No, not like that. Here try again," he repeats, and adjusts your fingers again.

He gives you another encouraging smile, and you groan loudly in frustration. "I hate this song now. Maybe if you taught me better, I would be learning it faster." You grumble, adjusting your grip on the neck of the guitar as Vernon raises a surprised eyebrow at your sharp words.

All forms of nonchalance fall away as he leans in close, his breath warm against your neck. His voice is low and rough in your ear. "Oh, I can definitely teach you something if you don't fix that attitude, Brat."

And just like that, you sit up, trying a little harder to learn as the promise still lingers between you two the rest of the evening.

Dino- Chan is a brat, but it's only because he gets passionate about things.

When you asked him to teach you the Internet's most recent viral dance trend, he was so excited to get to share something he was passionate about with you.

Dino has always longed to teach you some dances, or even a little group choreography, but you've always turned him down. Usually claiming two left feet usually, but that's until tonight.

When you meet him in the practice room, he's practically bouncing out of shoes with excitement, and he jumps right into showing you the first steps. A few attempts in, and you're doubled over laughing watching yourself wiggle around in the mirror in front of you two, totally not taking this as seriously as Chan is at all.

"C'mon, Babe, please actually try this time." He shows you the moves again, slower this time, breaking them down with counts in an attempt to get you to grasp it. As he counts you off for your next attempt, you barely get three steps in before you trip, and fall down giggling at the mishap. You swipe you hair from your face, and look up at Dino, finally noticing his sulking face.

"Channie, what's wrong? Did I mess up too much?" You stand, and move towards him, tugging his arms out from being crossed over his chest.

"No, it's that you're not really trying. You're acting like this is just a joke, and not a special moment for us to share." He explains with the widest and saddest boba eyes he's ever given you.

You nod in realization. "Okay, I'll actually try this time. Promise." You move back to your spot, and he counts you in again, but this time, you actually hit a few of the moves, leaving Chan with a bigger smile than when the night started.

He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.

Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”

“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”

Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.

“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”

“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”

Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”

Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”

Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.

And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.

Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”

“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.

Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”

Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.

“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”

Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.

Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”

Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.

Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.

Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.

Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.

Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.

Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.

On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.

But still. No podium. Not yet.

He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.

Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.

Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.

Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13. 

Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately. 

Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”

Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”

Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”

“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”

That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”

Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”

“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”

“Maybe buy it dinner first.” 

They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”

Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”

“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense. 

But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption. 

Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.

“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”

Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.

Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.

Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.

He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.

Your name.

It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing. 

The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.

Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”

And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.

Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.

The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. 

Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps. 

Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.

He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.

Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.

Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.

The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio. 

There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”

He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.

“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”

“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”

He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.

He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.

The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”

He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”

It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish. 

The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.

The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”

Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”

“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”

“…Thanks, gu—my what?”

The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.” 

He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.

Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.

Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.

But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.

Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.

“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”

He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”

A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)

Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”

“What about it?” 

“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”

Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”

Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.

It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.

His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.

Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.

The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.

Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum. 

But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.

Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.

Partner. As in…? 

He doesn’t even know you.

He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.

Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”

Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.

The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.

God, Mingyu thinks, unfair. 

Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.

“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”

You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”

Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”

PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”

Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”

“And you’re certain?” PR presses.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”

“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”

PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.

The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.

He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.

What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”

James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”

“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”

The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. 

Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.

There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. 

The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.

Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.

Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at. 

Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.

The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.

The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.” 

Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.

Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.

A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.

He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.

“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.

“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”

Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”

“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”

The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.

Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.

By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.

Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.

Until the morning of qualifying, that is.

Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.

Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.

He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.

Deletes.

Types again. Wow!!!

Deletes harder.

What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.

With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—

He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.

He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.

But his thumb betrays him a second time.

Sent.

A beat.

Delivered changes to Seen. 

Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.

Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.

Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.

|   yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though. 

Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply. 

|   min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you. 

There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears. 

|   yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.

He grins despite himself, typing fast.

|   min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.

|   yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨

Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.

|   min6yu_k: Guilty

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.

This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.

|   yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything 

|   yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’

Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:

|   min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.

Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.

|   yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u

|   min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍

The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:

|   yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock 

|   yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀

The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.

He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.

Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.

“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.

Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”

“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”

He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”

“Negative, keep pushing.”

He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.

The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”

His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”

Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”

There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.

Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.

The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.

Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.

Of course. Of course.

You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”

Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.

“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”

Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”

You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.

Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.

Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.

By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.

He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again. 

Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.

Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.

Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile. 

Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.

Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.

The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.

“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”

“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”

“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.

The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.

Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.

Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.

Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?

But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished. 

Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.

Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.

It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.

He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.

In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.

He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.

The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.

“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.

“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”

“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.

Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”

“Am not.”

Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”

Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.

On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.

For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you. 

No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.

Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”

Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”

Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.

By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”

Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”

“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.

“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”

“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.

“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.

The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.

One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.

“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”

Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”

You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.

The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.

Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.

You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer  before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”

You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”

Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”

“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”

The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?

You sigh, breaking the stalemate. 

“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”

That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”

The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.

He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.

But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.

Mingyu pretends not to care. 

He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.

Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder. 

Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.

Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.

Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.

Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”

Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”

Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”

For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.

Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”

“Too?” Joshua finally glances over, eyebrows raised. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”

Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”

Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.

Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.

He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”

The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.

You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.

“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”

Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”

“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”

You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.

“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”

Mingyu stares. 

You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.

“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”

“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”

Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”

Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.

That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.

Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.

A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.

The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.

Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.

He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.

A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck. 

Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.

For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”

Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.

“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “

Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”

The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.

And then it rains.

Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”

“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”

His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.

The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”

Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”

The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.

“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”

The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out. 

He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”

Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.

When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.

The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.

“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”

Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.” 

He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.

By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.

The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.

When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”

And then he sees.

It’s you.

You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.

His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”

You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.

Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”

Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?” 

He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy. 

You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”

He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”

That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’

He  stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”

“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”

“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”

You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”

He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”

“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”

“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”

The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.

For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all. 

Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.

“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”

You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”

Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.

Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.

You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”

You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.

“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.

For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.

It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?

The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.

He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.

“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”

There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.

Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4. 

The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.

Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”

The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.

He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”

The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his. 

His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.

It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.

Your story.

It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.

Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.

Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵

Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.

The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.

Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)

They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.

Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”

“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.

“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”

Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.

Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”

Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.

He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other. 

The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.

Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.

He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.

Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.

The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”

“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”

You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”

“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”

Your brows lift. “What happened?”

Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”

You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”

“You’re doing it very poorly.”

“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”

He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”

“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.

Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.

“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”

You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”

“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”

You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.

He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”

“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.

Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”

You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.

At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.

Like an actual couple.

The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.

It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:

|   min6yu_k: Hey

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive. 

|   min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore

|   min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺

It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise. 

Except three dots appear. Then a reply.

|   yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :) 

Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer. 

At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.

When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption: 

|   min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.

You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering. 

|   yourusername: sardinia? how original

|   yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️

He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager. 

Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.

And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.

But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.

This is where it gets him: 

Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.

|   yourusername: help me pick? 

It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.

Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.

By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.

Your reply comes minutes later. 

|   yourusername: perfect

|   yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️

Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too? 

That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.

But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has? 

He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance. 

Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.

Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.

|   yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well

|   yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮‍💨 is that stupid?) 

His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.

“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.

Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days. 

|   min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????

|   min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then 

|   min6yu_k: Because I miss you too 

The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.

He calls anyway.

The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”

“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”

“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”

There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.

Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”

He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”

You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”

Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”

Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself. 

The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.

Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.

He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.

Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.

“Uh,” he starts, already regretting it, “you look… very… event appropriate.”

A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.

You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”

That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”

You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”

Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.

Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.

He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”

You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”

The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.

He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.

He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.

He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”

“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”

“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”

You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”

“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”

You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”

“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”

“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”

The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.

At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.

You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”

Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.

You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say. 

He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching. 

The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.

Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.

Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.

There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.

“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”

Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.

And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.

No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.

Just open track.

Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”

“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”

P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015. 

Now it’s him. Now it’s real.

The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams. 

“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”

Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”

He keeps driving.

For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race. 

Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.

“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.

“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”

Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.

But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”

He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.

And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.

The world resumes its natural order.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.

He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.

When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”

Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.

Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.

And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.

You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”

As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.

Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”

You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.

“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”

Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.

Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

“You have to break up with her.”

That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.

Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”

“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”

“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”

“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”

Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.

Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”

His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”

Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.

The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.

He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.

“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”

Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”

The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up. 

You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.

He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.

You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”

You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.

It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.

He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.

It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”

“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”

“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”

“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”

“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”

Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”

He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.

Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.

Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.

The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”

“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.

You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”

For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”

“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”

Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”

You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”

That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.

He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.

So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”

The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.

Your brows knit. “No?”

Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.

“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”

You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse. 

“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”

The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.

Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”

It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—

“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”

Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”

You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”

He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”

Oh.

Oh. 

His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”

Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.

His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.

You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.

When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”

Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.

Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him. 

He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.

Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.” 

The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.

They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.

But then—then—he sees you.

You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.

“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”

Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”

Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.

He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.

You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.

“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”

You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”

Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.

“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”

“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”

Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack. 

Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday. 

For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.

The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.” 

His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.

He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise. 

The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no. 

James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed. 

Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.

And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. 

He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.

He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.

Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl. 

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.

He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.

And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.

Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.

He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.

He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya. 

Eight laps. 

Six. 

His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”

Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in. 

The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his. 

Four laps. 

He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady. 

Three laps. Two. 

Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.

Final lap. 

The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight. 

The checkered flag waves.

Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.

The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.

Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”

Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.

That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you. 

THE ROOM IS THICK WITH SMOKE JUST LIKE IT ALWAYS IS, a heady cigar haze blanketing the entire cafe-turned-speakeasy better known as Club Maestro. Long, languid, melancholic notes sung by the beautiful jazz singer onstage rise into the air and fold right into the clouds, and between that and the smuggled liquor in your system, you feel a little dizzy.

“She's the berries, ain't she?” Evelyn asks before she brings her cigarette holder to her lips and inhales, the tip of her cigarette burning a bright orange as she does. You follow her gaze to the singer and nod.

“She is,” you agree. “Voice of an angel.”

You've only snuck away with your best friend to visit Club Maestro a handful of times—whenever your husband wandered off for poker night with his friends—but you're sure you recognize the performer from one of your past visits. The loneliness and longing in her voice sounds too familiar for this to be your first time hearing it.

After a few minutes of silent appreciation, Evelyn's low whistle cuts through the music. You look over at her to find the gloved hand holding her cigarette holder covering her lips in pleasant surprise. You frown.

“What?”

She doesn’t bother using any words, instead nodding behind you and puckering her lips pointedly. You look over your shoulder, doing your best to pretend you’re casually scanning the room. At first, you don’t see him. There are too many bodies, too much smoke, the lights are too dim, and you're too tipsy. But even so, as soon as he breaks through the crowd and makes it to the bar, you know immediately who Evelyn is referring to.

The man stands casually once he's at the bar, talking to Mingyu, the co-owner of the speakeasy, like they're good friends. You take the opportunity to enjoy the stranger’s profile while he's turned away from you, openly and unashamedly admiring him. His smooth, supple skin, tanned from whatever must keep him in the sun. The dark hair he dares to leave long and unstyled, a stark contrast to all the slicked back dos around him. His plump lips, looking so pink and soft and… bitten—in the slightest of pouts. He’s exactly what your husband would call a miscreant. You think the only truly fitting word is bewitching. 

He must feel the weight of your stare because his eyes stray away from Mingyu's and go straight to you, like he knew exactly where he felt the prying gaze coming from. There's something about his eyes—imploring and insistent—that make you feel stripped bare. You look away quickly, turning around in your seat to find a delighted Evelyn.

“Go over there.”

You look at your best friend incredulously. “What?”

She smirks and kicks your shin lightly under the table. “You heard me! Go over there! Introduce yourself. Get the guy to slide you some giggle water. Flirt a bit!”

“Ev, I’m married,” you say, dumbfounded. 

The reminder drains all the joy out of her face and voice, and you immediately regret bringing your husband up. Doing so always has this sort of effect on her. 

“God, don't remind me,” she groans, taking an especially long drag of her cigarette. She blows the smoke out the side of her mouth, frowning as she stares down at the table. 

Her red lips twist to the side into an uncertain and hesitant pucker, and she flicks her perfectly waved hair out of her face, habits you recognize when she's contemplating whether or not she should say something. You watch her, your own thoughts wandering to the fact that she can wear lipstick so bright—that she can wear makeup at all without her husband calling her an unrefined woman. You would never be allowed to wear makeup for fun. You would never be allowed to cut your hair the way Evelyn and so many other women have. Short, sharp, cute. A statement against the traditional household. According to your husband anyway.

“He's not here, we're on the other side of the city, and it's not like you're taking the Sheik straight to bed!” she finally says, the words tumbling out of her mouth like they've been kept inside it for too long. “You're just going to say hi!”

“I'm not going to say anything,” you insist. You're the mayor's wife. It doesn't matter where in New York City you go; you'll never actually be away from him. It's enough to be sick with paranoia that he'll one day find out about these escapades to Club Maestro. You don't need to add flirtations with a stranger to the list of things to worry over. “I'm married.”

“Please stop saying that,” Evelyn begs dramatically, rolling her eyes as she taps her cigarette against the ash tray on the table.

“What?” you ask, huffing a short laugh. “That I'm mar—”

“Yes!” your best friend nods fast as she cuts you off. “That bluenose you call your husband doesn't have an ounce of respect for you! Why should you give him any back?”

You try not to sigh heavily. While the state of your marriage isn't something you explicitly discuss, it's also not a secret you keep from her. Everyone who's ever meant something to you has already faded to the edges of your life, giving up on contacting you over the years because of your busy schedule or your conflicting stages of life. Or maybe it was just a product of your sheer inability to get anyone you care about to care back. But not Evelyn. 

Evelyn persisted through ignored phone calls and disregarded letters and missed dates and days you would leave her knocking on your front door for what felt like hours because you couldn’t bear to face her. She didn't let any amount of stonewalling or insistence from your husband that she leave you alone deter her. Evelyn, it turned out, is the only friend you've ever really needed. 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I… I don’t intend to be mean.”

You try to smile. “No, you don’t need to be sorry. It's just complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” she says, nodding. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder. “A simple hello to a stranger would be a lot less complicated.”

You level her with a flat look. “Ev.”

She says your name right back before she sets her cigarette down on the ashtray, leaving it to burn out. She leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, intertwining her fingers before she cradles her chin on top of them. She looks at you like she hasn't properly seen you in years. 

You only see her once a month. You acknowledge that she probably hasn't properly seen you in years—since before your wedding. Between the music, the bootleg alcohol, and the furious gossiping you two engage in, there isn't much room to really look at each other. Really see each other. Not that you particularly want to. You're afraid all you'll see when you look at Evelyn is a wife who chose much more wisely than you did.

You wonder what she sees as she looks at you now. 

“It doesn't have to mean anything,” she says softly. “I was just joking. You don't need to flirt or get the man to slide you some giggle water or even say anything beyond ‘hi.’” She sighs, her eyes running away from yours and focusing on her quickly diminishing cigarette. “I just want to see you do something for you.”

“I do things for me,” you defend yourself weakly. “I come here with you, don't I?”

“And even that is really for me,” she points out, rolling her eyes before glaring at you. She isn't wrong. You stand to lose a lot coming to Club Maestro when your husband is a staunch prohibitionist, but it’s the most you can do to nurture your friendship. You're lucky it suffices for Evelyn. “When was the last time you did something for you?”

Her question comes out in a tone so exhausted, it threatens to sober the entire joint right up. And it's the reason you find yourself wordlessly gesturing to your face—a silent question for your best friend. Do I look okay?

You suppose the least you can do to chip away at the debt you owe her for staying around is say hello then scurry on back, insisting you did exactly as she asked when she inevitably throws a tantrum about it. Those bright red lips slowly curve up into a wide grin, and she nods.

“You're perfect. The real bee's knees.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway, thanking her quietly.

“Here goes,” you sigh, shrugging as you stand.

The bar the stranger and Mingyu are at isn't far from your table, but between the wall of drunk, pushy bodies and the dimmed lights, it still takes a great deal of time and effort to get over there. By the time you do, you grab the first spot available like a child grabbing the wall of a pool in their struggle to keep from drowning.

You huff a curse under your breath as you pull yourself closer, staking your claim on your small piece of real estate at the bar. When you're sure no one is going to shove you out of your space, you straighten your hair and dress once more, looking over your shoulder at Evelyn, who is silently and excitedly clapping. You suppress a smile as you turn back to the bar.

You didn't quite make it to the stranger, but you're only one couple away and you’re grateful for the chance to muster up the courage to make your way down. Ever the attentive bartender, Mingyu steps away from his friend almost immediately, fixing his charming, lopsided smile on you.

“Why hello, Miss Lady,” he says, using the nickname he’s given you.

It used to be Miss Mayor when he—horrifyingly—recognized you during your first visit. Then it became Miss First Lady, and now just Miss Lady—each nickname replacing the other every time you, Evelyn, or even his wife, Jihyo, scolded him for calling attention to you. You aren’t exactly worried about the person engaged in criminal activity dropping a dime on you. You think Miss Lady is conspicuous enough and after enough time, it's grown on you. 

“What can I get for you and Miss Evie?”

“Um, just me,” you say, smiling nervously. He doesn't question it, though, his easygoing grin staying put as he nods. 

Honestly, you hadn't thought far enough to actually have an order in mind. You just thought you'd waltz right up, say your quick and panicked hello, and march right back to Evelyn. Your excitement withers a little as you realize how out of practice you are.

Your husband courted you when you were young—naive enough to still believe everyone had good intentions, and inexperienced enough to blindly crave a passionate romance like the ones you saw come out of Hollywood. You never even got a chance to see what else was out there. Who else was out there. Saying you're out of practice might not even be accurate if you were never practicing to begin with.

“Miss Lady?” Mingyu calls, laughing a bit as he narrows his eyes at you playfully. “Where is that little head of yours off to, hm?”

You apologize, body jostling a little as people push past. “Sorry, just… zoning out. Been a long day,” you say. It's not inaccurate. Every day feels like a long day.

“Well, then let's get some moonshine in you and make it an even longer night!” he says, smirking mischievously.

You can never keep a smile off your face around Mingyu, and you understand well why Jihyo glows the way she does even with all the hardships she and her husband seem to have—hardships that force them into avenues that could end in a prison sentence. 

It feels impossible sometimes, looking at her and Evelyn and seeing lives you maybe could've had if you hadn't shacked up with the first swell that paid you any attention. The glamour drew you in, and now, even if your best friend seems to think you're the bee's knees, the last thing you feel is glamorous.

“I'll take a Bee's Knees, please,” you tell him.

Mingyu pounds the surface of the bar with his fist before shooting you a quick finger gun and winking. “Comin’ right up.”

“Thank you,” you say so softly, you’re not sure he even hears as he steps away to make your drink. You sigh after a few moments and steal a glance to your right to look at Mingyu’s friend. You’re startled to find the couple between you is gone, and without anyone in the way, he’s leaning most of his weight against the bar, brazenly staring at you. “Um—” you clear your throat nervously. 

His lips quirk up into the smallest of smiles. He nods at you. “Sweet drink.”

The stranger's voice is soft and deeper than you imagined it would be—almost a low rumble and barely audible over the sounds of Club Maestro. Still, you hear him like he's speaking right into your ear. He stands to his full height and slowly saunters forward, his hand dragging along the counter as he keeps his body angled toward you and takes the spot the couple left.

Every word you've ever known suddenly vacates the premises of your brain. From the table you were seated at with Evelyn, he was a handsome man—the most handsome man in the room as far as you were concerned. But up close, he’s breathtaking. You're not sure you've ever seen someone as striking, with his deep brown eyes, even deeper dimples puncturing each cheek, and a look on his face that tells you he's trying his best to be guarded but is miserably failing.

Because the only word you can use to describe the look in his eyes is intrigued. He rolls his lips between his teeth like he's trying to subdue a smile, and your muscles relax the longer you stare. He doesn't rush you to respond, seeming perfectly happy with just enjoying the moment. You immediately know that your plans of a fleeting “hello” have been dashed, and you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything but excited about it.

“My best friend told me I look like the bee's knees,” you finally say. “Felt fitting to order it.”

“I'm afraid she was severely understating her compliment,” he argues.

“Is that so?” you ask, rolling your lips between your teeth to suppress your own smile now. That just makes him grin freely, his dimples inviting you closer. You feel your knees wobble. You clutch the edge of the counter.

“Very much so,” he insists, nodding. “I'd say it's clear you're the most beautiful woman in this gin mill—probably in all of New York City.” 

You feel your cheeks immediately warm and you can't help the smile that takes over your lips. Something about his expression softens, his eyes turning to melted chocolate as they sweep your face for something.

“And unsurprisingly… a beautiful smile to match,” he tells you quietly. He watches you so carefully, like you might disappear under his very gaze if he does it in any other manner. Like he sees right through your attempts to be a normal person in here.

“Does that work with all the dolls you chat up?” you ask, your voice not as confident as you wish it would be. You can hear just how shaken you are, but if he notices it, he doesn't say.

He shakes his head. “Wouldn't know. I've only tried it on one pretty lady.” He smiles at you expectantly, and his dimples immediately become your favorite thing about his face. He tilts his head in question and asks, “Well? Is it working?”

“No,” you lie. He grins wider. “It isn't.”

“Eh, I’m a patient man,” he says nonchalantly, shrugging even though you know he knows it's working. “Got nothin’ but time.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what to even say to that because you weren't expecting such a forward conversation. In only a handful of sentences, this man has managed to make you feel desired for the first time in years.

“One Bee's Knees for Miss Lady!” Mingyu's voice booms before your brain can even begin to form words. 

The man reappears before you and slides the cocktail across the grain—a pale yellow drink with a lemon rind hooked on the rim, dangling off it in a perfect spiral. It's almost too pretty to drink, but you need something to fix the sudden dryness in your mouth and throat. You immediately take two healthy gulps large enough that both men raise their eyebrows at you.

“Thirsty,” you whisper, clearing your throat and trying not to wince at the way the liquor burns, even with all the honey and lemon. You quickly slide Mingyu a few bills—money you've quietly saved—and when he counts it and cocks an eyebrow at you, you jab a thumb over your shoulder in the general direction of Evelyn. “For the night's tab.”

He continues to stare.

“And then some,” you mutter over the lip of your drink.

“Thank you!” he says cheerily before tucking it into his apron.

“Thank you.” You take a tiny sip this time. “Amazing as always.”

“You can thank this guy,” Mingyu informs you, nodding at his friend next to you. You turn back to the stranger to find his eyes haven't left you, though he has a more easygoing energy about him with the speakeasy's owner here. “This is our supplier.”

It's funny hearing it so casually admitted in the safety of Mingyu's bar. When you hear about bootleggers and rum runners in the light of day, it's either whispered with scandal or muttered with a level of derision and disgust you don't think matches the crime. But in here, you can remember a time when your parents shared a bottle of wine at dinner on the rare occasion they didn't have to work. In here, you can almost reach out and touch a time in your life where you didn't have to hear about how alcohol—and not the failings of men—were ruining the country.

The man doesn't seem concerned with how you'll receive this information, and why would he be? You're a patron at a juice joint with a cocktail in front of you. His smile turns into a lopsided smirk now and he shakes his head. “I get Mingyu bathtub gin. He's the one who makes it edible.”

You cough at the idea of bathtub gin in your mouth and the men laugh. You should've known it was a joke; the liquor here certainly didn't taste low quality.

“He's being modest,” Mingyu says, rolling his eyes. “Seungcheol is the best rum runner around. Liquid gold, truly. Gotta fight all the other joints in town for his attention.”

A warm sensation spreads across your body and you're sure it's just the alcohol hitting your stomach, but it pairs well with finally knowing this man's name. You tilt your head at him and smile. 

“Seungcheol,” you repeat, testing how the syllables feel in your mouth. They taste sweeter than the honey sticking to your tongue. His mouth opens in a silent “ah” as he nods once and gives you a charming smile that lights the feeling in your stomach on fire. 

“Choi Seungcheol,” he confirms. 

He extends his hand toward you and gives you a look you can't quite decipher. It almost feels like a challenge. You stare down at it, large and halfway to you in line with the counter. You can see callouses along the top of his palm from where you are, and you picture him carrying heavy boxes of liquor into Club Maestro every night. You wonder how the callouses would feel compared to your husband's smooth palm—free of any blemishes that would suggest having ever worked hard in his life.

Your muscles tense at the thought of him.

It's just a handshake. It's what people in society do when they meet each other for the first time. Your husband shakes hands with dozens of people a week. Maybe even hundreds. This is one hand, one introduction—just a brief, customary greeting between strangers before they part again forever. Somewhere deep down, you're aware it shouldn't scare you like this; you know that feeling this way isn't normal.

But you've suffered a lot worse for a lot less. You know the consequences of a fleeting glance you didn't even notice you gave or a man looking at you a little too long—a man you never even noticed yourself. Even when all you did was avert your eyes to the ground and exist out in the world, there were consequences simply for drawing attention.

The idea of what could happen to you if you slide your hand into Seungcheol's makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand. The gravitational pull convinces you to do it anyway. His fingers close around your hand firmly but gently, and he simply holds you there, not even bothering to uphold the guise of shaking it. 

You stare down at your hands joined together, your left ringer finger glaringly empty like it always is in Club Maestro, your wedding ring tucked away in your nightstand to avoid any further speculation should someone think they recognize you. You like the way your hand looks like this. Plain, empty.

You state your name for him—the name you had before it became just another thing your husband took from you. You don't know why you do it, and it doesn't help the fear ravaging inside you, but you give him your maiden name. 

Seungcheol repeats it, same as you did, and he must like it because his lips press closed into a delicate smile, like he's trying to keep the taste of your name inside his mouth. 

“That’s a lovely name,” he says, making your heart violently lurch.

Aside from Evelyn, no one knows it—your maiden name. Everyone who does has already been methodically and meticulously cut out of your life. Now, someone knows you again, and that alone feels like an entire well full of hope you can bathe in—that there's a version of you in another living human being's mind that isn't tangled up with your husband. On top of that, he thinks your name is lovely. And after all these years, you'd forgotten to think that too.

“Thank you,” you say through the knot in your throat. 

You're not sure when, but at some point, Mingyu wordlessly slipped away to help his other patrons, leaving you to figure out what to say to Seungcheol next, an increasingly hard task given how captivated you are by his eyes.

You settle on: “Um, you don't want a drink?”

He shakes his head. “I don't drink on the job.”

“Oh… you're working right now?” 

“Mhm,” he nods, looking toward the back of the bar past Mingyu. Two men you think you might have seen before are bringing out new bottles of liquor from another room. “Just made a delivery. I have a few more.”

“Well, don't let me keep you,” you say almost too quickly. You're getting a little too lost in how exciting and nerve-wracking it feels to talk to Seungcheol, and you're not sure that you can step away from him unless he does it first.

He scoffs out a laugh like it's the most ridiculous notion. “I'd let you keep me for as long as you wanted. New York will survive without their precious alcohol for a night. Besides, that's what those two idiots are for.” He jerks his head at the two men. “Joshua and Vernon can handle things if you decide you're generous enough to keep me here a bit.”

You feel your cheeks warm. It shouldn't feel romantic—a criminal putting off his crimes just to spend some time with you. It does anyway.

“Why do you only visit once a month?” he asks suddenly.

The question takes you by surprise. “You've seen me before?”

“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “‘Course I have.” To his credit, he seems to think his next words over this time, but in the end, he says what he's thinking anyway. “Hard not to. I come here almost every night to oversee deliveries or take inventory. I always catch myself looking for the beauty in the blue dress.”

You look down at yourself, surprised that the dress you wear every single time you visit Club Maestro was memorable enough for him to take note of. It's the only colorful garment in your entire wardrobe—a relic from your old life that you were able to stow away in the back of your closet, safe from your husband's prying eyes—and it’s plain and outdated and unflattering compared to the fashion the speakeasy sees. You love it anyway. 

“More often than not… you aren't here,” he finishes, pulling your gaze back to him. “Not a big drinker?”

“No,” you admit, laughing a little because your cocktail is ironically almost finished from the sheer nervousness of being in Seungcheol's presence. “But I suppose I'm a bit of a homebody too. My friend and I—” you nod in her direction. “We do this as our girls’ night out.”

“And will your friend be mad that I've interrupted your one girls’ night out this month?” he asks, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“Please,” you shake your head and scoff. “She's thrilled.” Your eyes widen a little at the answer, which feels like an admission that the two of you discussed him. You blame your cocktail. “Um, I mean—”

“Well then count me as grateful to her,” he says, smiling widely. “I've been too intimidated to approach you.”

“Approach me,” you repeat dumbly.

He hums. “I thought about all the ways I'd try and get you to give a nobody like me the time of day.”

You playfully glare at him but all he does is shrug and laugh. You sigh. “Well? Tell me about these grand plans of yours.”

He acquiesces easily, like vulnerability and rejection don't scare him at all. “Maybe I'd ask Mingyu what your order was and bring you and your friend some giggle water. Ask you to dance. Maybe I'd pretend to trip by your table and embarrass myself horribly and win your pity long enough to learn your name.”

You snort at that one. “Wow, a man willing to wound his own pride for me.”

He shrugs. “Don't give me too much credit,” he says, chuckling. “After all, it still took you getting to the bar for me to finally say hi.”

“I still commend you on your effort,” you tell him honestly. “How long have you been…” You gesture at the wall of liquor behind the bar.

He grins. “Breaking the law?” You nod, blushing a little. The mayor of New York City enforces prohibition laws with an iron fist, and his wife is currently lost in conversation with a rum runner. “Since it went into effect. I was already working at a small liquor distributor, so when we got shut down, I just took what I knew and ran with it.”

“And what did you know?” you ask.

“I knew all of our overseas connections, for one,” he lists. “I knew that they stood to lose a lot of business with prohibition, and were therefore willing to turn a blind eye to a lot.” He nods down at your drink. “And I know what tastes good and what tastes like shit.” 

You grin at his cursing. It’s impolite to talk like that in front of a lady, but there’s something refreshing about hearing it in public. There’s something respectable about a man doing that out in the open rather than behind closed doors, pretending like he never said a horrible thing in his life anywhere else. 

You take a sip of your drink and you nod. “Very tasty. Not-at-all bathtub gin.”

He laughs. “No, definitely not bathtub gin. Though… I do know how to bootleg liquor too.”

“‘Course you do,” you say against the lip of your glass, rolling your eyes and enjoying the feeling of pretending you know anything at all about this stranger. His smile is bright.

“Why do you say that?”

“Something tells me you're nothing if not resourceful.” 

“Guess you gotta be in these times, huh?”

You can't help the sigh you heave then. “Right.”

“Tell me about that,” he says like he just caught you saying something you shouldn't have. You look at him with confusion. “That sigh,” he clarifies. “What's got a pretty woman like you sighing like that? Tell me.”

“I can't,” you say regretfully. Not without shattering this illusion you know you're both under—the one where you're single and available to fall in love. 

“Okay,” he responds easily, not pressing the matter. “Then just tell me anything.”

It’s this request that finally reminds you who you are and who you’re expected to be—mostly, it reminds you who you can’t be. And you can’t be someone who tells Seungcheol anything real about yourself. You can’t be the woman he meets at a bar and sweeps off her feet and whisks her away, even if by some miracle that's what he wants to do. And you doubt he does.

You’re probably just someone he thought would be fun to pass a few hours with. You have a good thing at home. You have a roof over your head, food on the table, and the kind of security a lot of women vie for. 

“I should get back to Evelyn,” you say quietly. “Um. Girls’ night and all. I'll see you around, Seungcheol.”

You don't wait for his response. You don't even look up at him. You leave your drink on the counter and turn away, making your way back to your best friend, and you ask that she leave the topic alone for the rest of the night. Mercifully, she does.

That first conversation with Seungcheol seems to break a dam for him because he has no qualms about approaching you after that night. It starts with catching your eye across the bar and winking at you, smirking when your face gets hot. It grows to coming over with both of your regular drink orders—knowledge lent to him by Mingyu—and chatting your best friend up like he knows the way to your heart is her approval (and if the way her bright and infectious smile puts you at ease is any sign, it probably is). It even escalates to pretending to trip next to your table and using it as an excuse to say hello, then staying and making the two of you laugh for hours—so long that his employees have enough time to leave, make the rest of their deliveries, and return to kick back and relax.

He tells you stories about his eccentric clients and tales of deliveries gone wrong. He tells you about Joshua and Vernon, and the insane things they get up to while on the job. He has you laughing and gasping and shrieking and asking endless questions all night with his company, and it isn't until several months after that first night that you finally realize every single interaction has been his attempt to chip away at your resolve. 

“‘Scuse me,” Evelyn says, sighing and standing up. “Need to go to the ladies' room.”

“I'll come with,” you tell her, moving to stand up. You're startled back into your seat when she throws a glare at you.

“No need,” she practically barks before giving you a sickly sweet smile once more. “I'm a big girl. I'll be back with another round. The usual?” 

You shake your head, gesturing to your glass still half-full. Seungcheol follows your lead even though his drink has been long gone.

Evelyn shrugs. “Suit yourselves. Be back.”

“Subtlety really is her strong suit," Seungcheol comments, smiling down at his empty glass as he tilts it back and forth, the ice in it sliding around lazily.

You hum your agreement, shaking your head as you watch her retreating figure. “Conniving.”

“Wow, being left alone with me really that bad?” he asks, faking a wound to his chest as he brings a hand over his heart.

“No! No, it's not that! I'm just—I think—”

“So you do enjoy my attention,” he swings completely to the other end of the spectrum, that easy smirk finding his mouth again. 

“I…” You can’t say yes but you also find yourself incapable of lying. You very much enjoy Seungcheol’s attention.

Visit after visit, he never fails to find you, work to break down the walls you’ve built up in the time since you last came, and make you smile all night, your cheeks hurting by the time you’re home, resting your head against your pillow. Hurting so much, that you find yourself terrified of these foreign feelings and you spend the next month trying to steel yourself to face him again, just for him to break through as easily as he always does.

He’s also ingratiated himself with your best friend with master precision—so much so, he’s all she can ever talk about now.

Seungcheol is so sweet on you.

That man is carrying a torch for you.

How can you resist a man so kind?

Questions like that—questions Evelyn often asks—make you coil in on yourself in shame. You know she’s really asking why you’ve instead settled for a man so unkind when men like Seungcheol exist. What she's really doing is encouraging you to step out on your husband. 

The rum runner snorts at your loss for words. “Have I proven myself yet?”

“Proven yourself…?” you repeat, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Have I proven to you that I'm not just another drugstore cowboy using lines on you?” he asks, eyes never leaving you. “You got any plans to stop runnin’ soon?” 

“Running…” you repeat again.

“That's what you're doing, isn't it?” he asks, setting his glass down and tucking both hands into the pockets of his pants. He nods at you. “This whole thing you got going on—being cold to me for the first hour I'm here, ultimately being unable to resist my insanely captivating charm—” You roll your eyes. “—and raising my hopes just to put me back at square one the next time I see you… you're runnin’.”

“I'm not running,” you say confidently. Because you should be running, and this is not what it should look like. Running properly would be never returning to Club Maestro and giving your husband no reason to suspect you've been doing anything he considers unsavory of a lady.

“Then what are you doing?” he asks, eyes studying you carefully. They sweep across every bit of your face slowly, but like always, there isn't a trace of irritation on his face. It's been months of this, and he's still every bit as patient as he's always been. 

“It's just…” you shrug. “It's complicated. I'm not in a… place in my life where I can do…” you gesture at him and the space between the two of you, “whatever this is.”

He grins. “So you agree, there is something here.”

You groan, and let your head fall into your hands briefly before pushing your hair away from your face exasperatedly. “You're exhausting.”

“Hey, you tell me to stop, and I'm out of your hair,” he says, pouting a little. “I'm persistent but I know what ‘no’ means.”

You stare at the table, begging yourself to just tell him to stop. It would make your life so much easier—a lot less scarier and riddled with anxiety. But it would also take one of the already few joys you experience in life. Now that you've experienced Seungcheol's attention, you're selfish enough to want to keep it, even if you know you shouldn't.

“I like you, Y/N,” he says, his mouth smiling softly around your name. He makes it sound so beautiful. “I think I've proven that ‘complicated’ doesn't scare me. So be complicated. I don't know anything about you.”

You don't know much about him either, but he's right; he knows absolutely nothing about you other than your name. 

“If complicated is all I get to know about you, I'm fine with that. It's something. And I'll take anything you give me.”

You exhale slowly, feeling your resolve breaking. It took a lot of strength to ignore a man as handsome and charismatic as Seungcheol. You're realizing now it's impossible to outright reject his affections. You don't even want to. If it were up to you, you'd give him anything he asked for.

But it's exactly that kind of thinking that landed you in your marriage. 

“I can't give you much. Anything at all, actually…” you say, hearing the regret in your voice loud and clear. 

"You've already given me your time,” he points out. “A seat at your table. The privilege of being one of the dolls on girls’ night.” You smile against your will. “Give me one more thing. No matter how small. I'll find a way to make it last me years.” 

Your face gets hot at the words, and if you weren't already sitting, you know they would've knocked you clean off your feet.

You blow out a breath. “Like what?”

He smiles widely at the question, taking it as a step forward. “Like… a dance.”

“A dance?” you ask like dancing at a club with a live band and a dance floor is the most ludicrous idea you've ever heard.

He smiles like it endears him. “Mhm,” he hums easily. He nods at the dance floor, which is packed with couples swaying to the singer's voice. “Do you know how to?”

You nod. “I do…”

“Then, do you want to dance?” he asks again, patience not-at-all waning. 

It's a point of no return, you think. You say yes to this dance, and you say yes to him holding you. You holding him. You say yes to prolonged periods of doing nothing aside from staring at each other. You say yes to wanting this.

You're fully aware you're about to cross lines that could break bones. Your body stiffens a little at the thought, but one glance around and it's clear no one is paying either of you attention.

“Okay,” you whisper. He hears you loud and clear, though, standing and offering you his hand. You stare at it, just like you did the first time you contemplated shaking his hand, and he gives you that same look—a challenge.

You slip your hand into his, your other quickly grabbing your drink for courage, and he gently pulls you to your feet. He quietly leads you to the dance floor until you're somewhere you've never been in at Club Maestro: the thick of it.

Seungcheol leads your free hand to his shoulder, your other cradling your cocktail against your chest like a lifeline. He rests his hands at a respectful height on your waist, and he nods at you.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

It's such a simple question, but it almost knocks you off your feet. You used to find assertiveness attractive. You used to think being led and having decisions made for you was romantic. Is this okay would've had a younger version of you rolling your eyes and teasing Seungcheol for being a pushover. Today, at the age you are now, you think it's the kindest question he can ask you.

You smile and nod. “It's perfect.”

He returns your smile and wordlessly begins to move, your bodies swaying to the music, and although your paranoia continues to gnaw at you, you feel safe. With a wall of bodies around you, and Seungcheol's kind eyes and light hands, you feel safe. 

“You're very nice,” you say, feeling silly as you do. It's such a juvenile compliment, but you think it's the best one you can give. Nice is all you really want these days. 

Seungcheol doesn't seem to think it’s juvenile, though, because he smiles warmly. “I think you're very nice too.”

You purse your lips into a flat smile and nod once, tucking away another opinion of you Seungcheol has that your husband would probably never agree with. 

“You'd think I told you you were insufferable the way you look right now,” he tells you, laughing a little. You join him, shaking your head.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “Guess I'm just not used to… this.”

“If ‘nice’ has you flustered, I better not get started on all the things I think about you.”

You nod quickly. “Yeah, best not.” He laughs louder at that, and you smile, enjoying the way you can feel the sound under your fingertips. “You're so forthright about your thoughts and feelings. It's a little intimidating.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he says, honest as always. “I got tired of being anything other than uncomfortably honest after a while, though. Life feels too short to spend it keeping up appearances.”

You bite your lip, feeling ashamed for the truth you're omitting every time you see him. “Right.” 

All you do with your life is keep up appearances. At fundraisers, galas, rallies, all the things a mayor's wife is meant to make an appearance at. You go and you smile and you wave and you pretend to be a happy, loving wife when you don't know the last time you felt happy outside of Club Maestro was. Even then, you'd be in denial to pretend like part of that isn't because of the man whose arms you're swaying in right now.

“Tell me anything,” he says gently, fingers curling against your waist ever so slightly. 

It's the same request he had the very first night you met—the one that sent you scurrying away. His efforts to wear your walls down must have worked because you feel like you've long missed the chance to run away from him.

So instead, you take a sip of your drink and you tell him about the version of you he's already received parts of—the you who still has the maiden name he knows you by. You tell him you're an only child of two parents who were never home because even with both of them working, there was always just enough food to feed the three of you. You tell him you started working under the table yourself cleaning homes before you graduated high school. 

You tell him that even with all the struggle, you still had a happy childhood. Your parents were embarrassingly and loudly in love, and where money fell short, you were showered in adoration. You were always lucky enough to find yourself in good company, making friends easily and often. You don't tell him about the single unlucky time you misjudged what you thought was the best company you were ever going to get.

“And now?” he asks, a soft smile on his mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“You've told me all about you in the past tense. Who are you now?” Another simple question that makes you lose cognitive function.

“I'm… here,” you say simply. “I'm here… with Choi Seungcheol…” His smile widens. “And I feel… happy. I don't care to know who I am beyond that right now.”

He nods. “I'll take it.”

“Your turn. Who are you?”

He laughs, shoulders shaking under you. “Loaded question.”

“Oh, so you do see how hard it was to answer,” you point out jokingly. It takes you by surprise—the joke. You don't unwind long enough to do a lot of it at all. He laughs louder, nodding.

“Yes, I see the spot I put you in,” he admits and apologizes. He bites his lip once his laughter fades, and he stares at a spot above your head while he thinks of what to tell you. You think you can see the same hesitation and fear you felt.

“Courage?” you ask quietly, tilting your glass toward him. “I hear they get the best liquor in all of New York here.”

He looks down and smiles at the cocktail between your bodies, both amused and touched by the offer. He accepts, one hand slipping off your waist to take your drink. 

“I got it,” you say quickly, shaking your head as you bring the glass to his face. 

The surprise is plain on Seungcheol's face, but he schools his expression quickly, letting his hand find your waist again, this time a little lower than before. He nods his consent and you press the glass to the pink of his lips gently, tilting until you watch the yellow disappear into his mouth. Your eyes fall to where his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. You discreetly press your thighs together.

He nods when he's had enough and you take the drink back, taking a sip of your own, eyes unable to leave his as you do. His gaze flicks down to your mouth for only a second, but it's enough to lift the corners of it. 

Is this who you are? Not a woman who cheats on her husband so publicly because you're forgetting that bit the longer you sway here with Seungcheol. But a woman who flirts? So openly and freely? A woman who forgets herself and what's expected of her long enough to joke and laugh and tell someone she hardly knows about how she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night to her parents dancing in the living room after a long day of work—a lot like this—while their favorite record played on their dingy, secondhand player? Is this who you are? Because you were tied down by your husband before you would've ever known.

“I was raised by a single father,” Seungcheol starts, licking his lips free of whatever honey and lemon remains. “Similar to yours, he worked like a dog. He died when I was 15.”

You close your eyes briefly and nod, your free hand instinctively dropping to his chest to rub it in what you hope is a comforting motion. It must be because his hand comes up to close over yours, squeezing gently as he holds it over his heart. You try not to stumble or stare at your joined hands, forcing your gaze back up to him. You can tell he doesn’t realize what he did because he's looking past you like he's somewhere far away.

“I was old enough by a lot of men's standards to start working, so I did. Left school, worked the factory line until I worked my way up into contracts. Luckily enough, Mingyu kept in touch from school, and we've been inseparable since. At least until he met my cousin.”

“Who's your cousin?” you ask. He gives you a light glare before looking around with an annoyed expression on his face. You choke on nothing. “Jihyo?! Jihyo is your cousin?!” 

He sighs, nodding. “Yes. Her mother is my dad's sister. They live across the country, and Jihyo showed up on my doorstep one day, demanding I house her. Something about finding herself.” 

He rolls his eyes and you laugh, choosing to be delighted by the information rather than focus on the fact that he was still left to fend for himself at 15 despite having family.

“She and Mingyu did invent ‘inseparable,’” you giggle. Jihyo likes to pretend Mingyu forced her into this life of crime they have, but everyone knows that woman can't be forced to do anything she doesn't want to. If not for its lucrative business, she did it because she's helplessly in love with Kim Mingyu.

“They sure did,” he says, feigning irritation, but after a moment, he smiles. “They're perfect for each other. Even if I hated the idea and punched Mingyu when I first found out.”

You flinch. “You punched him?” you squeak. 

He nods, smiling at the memory, unaware of the alarms going off in your head. “Mhm, I found them petting heavy on my own couch like they were opening up a zoo.” Your lips twitch in an attempt to keep from laughing. “And I punched him. Pulled my punch, though, and all he did was laugh at me.”

You bite your lip and nod, letting the information sit with you. It doesn't matter anyway. Seungcheol, whether or not he had a propensity for losing his temper, would go on with his life, and you would go on with yours, unaffected by his inclination to punch friends.

“Then…” he shrugs, looking around the room. “Prohibition happened, and we all had to adapt. So now, I'm here.” His eyes come back to you and life fills them once more. “I'm here, and I'm also happy.”

You hum. “Good.”

He realizes now that he’s holding your hand against his chest, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers, smiling softly when he sees it’s real. His other hand takes more real estate on your waist, arm snaking around you and bringing you closer to him so that his body flush and warm against yours. Your dress suddenly feels too thin on you, and you think if he concentrates hard enough, he’ll be able to tell just how badly you want to let him take it off you.

“I feel like it’s my responsibility to let you know Evelyn got back to the table five minutes ago and has been staring at us like we’re her divorced parents getting back together,” Seungcheol informs you. You snort, not bothering to turn around to glance at her; you know she’s doing exactly that. 

“Again, subtle,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Should we rejoin—”

“Nah,” he says quickly. “She said it herself. She’s a big girl.”

You nod, biting a smile down. She did say that. So you choose to ignore your best friend staring holes into your back and enjoy this moment with Club Maestro’s rum runner. For once, you try your best to follow Evelyn’s wishes and do something for yourself, and right now, there’s nothing more you want to do than sway your body with Choi Seungcheol’s while he looks at you like you’re the only woman in the room. 

And you do that for exactly two more songs before your time together is cut off by three loud bangs upstairs. The musicians stumble on their beat and you flinch against your dance partner, your glass slipping out of your hand and tumbling to the floor, soaking the front of both your dress and Seungcheol's shirt on the way down.

“Shit!” you gasp. “I'm sorry!” 

You don't even get a chance to start wiping at his chest because the bouncer bursts through the door of the cellar and shouts one word at the top of his lungs, the sound cutting through the music and the quiet murmur of conversations easily. 

“RAID!”

The chaos that ensues is immediate, the crowd erupting into shouts of fear and confusion. The dance floor becomes an uncontrollable wave of patrons desperately trying to find an exit that doesn't involve coming face-to-face with an officer.

The first thought that crosses your mind is that anyone in a uniform will immediately recognize the mayor's wife. The second is Evelyn. You turn toward the table you were at to see if you can catch a glimpse of her, but it's already abandoned, the chairs you were in all  haphazardly thrown to the ground. Before you can start scanning the room for her, you're shoved hard, taking what you think is an elbow to the ribs.

Your pained shout is drowned out as you're ripped out of Seungcheol's grasp by several people trying to push past, and before you know it, you're being carried away, caught in the riptide of panic. It doesn't take long before you lose your footing and you're thrown to your knees. You scramble to get up but take a foot to the side as someone trips over you. You recover just to get a foot on your hand. And suddenly, you're curled up into a ball, hands protecting your neck and head as you're battered by the stomping of panicked people who don't even realize you're there. You squeeze your eyes shut the way you always do when something hurts.

If you die here, you don't think it's the worst way to go. Realistically, your chances of dying bloodied and bruised were always high. Doing so at the hands of strangers who didn't know they were doing it somehow seems better than any other way.

“Come on! Up, up!” 

You hear his voice before you can register you've been yanked upright. When you open your eyes, you're met with Seungcheol's chest. He has an arm around you, holding you tightly to his body as his other makes sure to keep everyone else away from the both of you.

“Evelyn!” you shout in his ear.

“I saw her leave!” he shouts back, pushing through the unforgiving crowd as he tries to make his way to the stage. “Went through the bar exit!”

Your relief is overwhelming, the tension in your shoulders releasing as you let Seungcheol haul you to an exit. The trek is a blur, and you only process you've been successfully led out when the cold night air bites at your face. Seungcheol doesn't release you though, instead taking your hand in his as he pulls you away from the building.

“What about Mingyu and Jihyo?!” you shriek.

“They know what to do!” he assures you, pulling you into a run as he navigates the streets, full of patrons running every which way as cops begin to descend. You lift a hand to your face to hide it as you follow Seungcheol.

He safely leads you into an alley where what you assume is Seungcheol's Ford is parked. He opens the door for you, situating you in your seat before he quickly shuts it and makes his way to the driver's side.

The engine roars to life and he peels away from Club Maestro, refusing to let up on the accelerator until he's several blocks away. When the night outside the car is quiet enough that all you can hear is your labored breathing, Seungcheol slows to a stop in the parking lot of a diner. Before you can ask him a stupid question like “what now,” he's out of the car and opening your door. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, brows furrowed as his eyes scan your body for injuries. Of all the things you thought he would ask or say, that wasn't one of them.

When he doesn't find anything, he gently takes your hands in his and guides you to lift your arms. You wince at the tender spot on your ribs, and the pain is familiar enough that you know you're going to have a nasty bruise to hide for weeks. His eyes dart up to your face in alarm, and when he registers the pain on it, his face contorts in anger.

“I'm sorry,” you breathe, trying to tamp down your expression of pain. 

“What are you sorry for?” he asks sharply. You try not to flinch but fail. He takes pause, watching you carefully as confusion takes the place of anger. He lowers your arms but keeps your hands in his hold, his thumb rubbing your skin in soothing sweeps back and forth. “How bad is it? Should I take you to the h—”

“No!” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I'm fine, I promise. Just a little sore. I'm okay.” He says your name like he's known you for years and can tell you're lying. “I'm not going to the hospital. I'm going home.”

You slide out of the car, ignoring the perplexed look on Seungcheol's face. “I'll take you home.”

“No, it's okay.” You try to sound nonchalant but even you can hear the slight tremble in your voice. There is no way Seungcheol is taking you within a mile of your home tonight lest you want the both of you dead. “You should check on Min—”

“I told you, they're fine. We have a plan for things like this,” Seungcheol says, his concern growing more and more palpable by the second. You feel like you could choke on it. “Please let me take you home. I'll even drop you a block away if you don't want a stranger seeing where you live.”

Your heart breaks at how sweet he's being. Still, you shake your head. “No, it's not that. It's… I just have to go, okay? I have to find Evelyn and—”

“Then we'll find her together!” he insists, showing you even more of his stubborn side than before. “I won’t sleep tonight—or maybe ever again—if I let you wander off into the night with an injury after a raid.”

“That's a bit dramatic.” He glares at you and you groan. You step toward him and take one of his hands in both of yours. It's warm and grounding and you try to take note of every curve and callous, knowing this will be the last time you get to have this. “I promise you, I'm fine and I will get home in one piece. I wish I could explain, but… I just can't, okay? Please get home safe, and please take care of Mingyu and Jihyo.”

You move to step away—where, you have no idea. Probably into the diner to try and get the smell of alcohol off your dress before calling a taxi service to get you home. But Seungcheol doesn't let you go, his hand clinging onto yours. You turn back and are struck by the forlorn expression on his face. He still has that look about him—the one that makes it feel like he's trying to be guarded but failing miserably. It makes all the fight leave your body, and you feel your arms go limp as you stand there staring at each other.

One gentle pull has you up against his chest.

“Why does it feel like you're planning on never seeing me again?” he asks quietly, like if he asks any louder it's a curse that will come alive. You open and close your mouth a few times, but nothing comes out. “Tell me it's not. Tell me it's not the last time and that I'll see you after this. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever. Even if you need the cover of night and Club Maestro to do it. I'll go wherever and whenever you need us to be.” You're astounded at how easily he reads you. At how unafraid he is to be honest. “I'll say goodbye tonight… but only if you tell me I'll see you again.”

You lift his hand to your face and press your lips to each of his knuckles, struggling to keep from crying as you steel yourself to lie. You smile against his skin and nod. 

“You'll see me again, Seungcheol,” you say, voice surprisingly steady. “Maybe tomorrow. For lunch, out in the light of day, away from the club. Okay?”

He smiles but it doesn't reach those beautiful eyes and he nods once. You think he knows you're lying because he doesn't ask for your phone number and he doesn't offer you his. He just pulls you into his chest and hugs you tightly against him. You feel his lips against your temple before he pulls away. 

“You better get home in one piece,” he says in a threatening voice that doesn't instill the fear of god in you. Instead, it makes your stomach warm again.

You nod. “You too. I'll see you.”

“Soon, okay?” he asks, voice still hopeful. 

You agree and walk away and into the diner. When you look out the window one more time before entering the restroom, you find him standing right where you left him, watching you. You lift a hand half-heartedly. He doesn't return the wave, simply smiling.

When you come back out of the restroom, your dress soaked and wrinkled from your shoddy wash job, the Ford is gone, and so is the man of your dreams.

When you were only 19 and freshly hitched, your husband had only one other married friend, and his wife was named Rosie. You saw the couple often and even spent time with Rosie by yourself, shopping together, having tea, and confiding in one another. In fact, you're sure you're the only person who knew just how sad Rosie could get—whole days where she couldn't get out of bed, couldn't speak, couldn't be a human being, let alone a wife. 

You weren't sure what to make of it, but you did your best to be there for her, making meals and delivering them, providing distractions in the form of gossip, or just sitting in silence if that's what she needed.

Then, one day, she just… disappeared. Your husband said she went crazy—“hysteria,” he and his friend called it. Like it was some kind of contagious disease. They told you she was sent away for help, and it wasn't until you relayed this to Evelyn that you understood it meant being committed in a mental asylum. 

You're sure it was very helpful for Rosie to be sent away on her own and for her husband to be remarried within the year, but good wives didn't make observations like that. Good wives accepted new wives with open arms and used them as reminders of how replaceable they were. 

You still don't know what became of Rosie. You suppose you could've found out but you didn't. Maybe you knew all this time what it meant, and maybe you knew all this time that it could happen to you, so you kept your head down and you tried not to be sad or unmotivated or “lazy” or “difficult” or “emotional” or any of the other words used to describe Rosie.

But you still went to Club Maestro and you still let Seungcheol into your life because you didn't think that what happened to Rosie could be more than just a horribly misguided attempt at rehabilitation—that it could be leveled against you as an actual punishment. 

You hadn't even been able to say a single syllable before he had his hands on you the night you got home with your dress still smelling like liquor and honey.

“Did you think I wouldn't find out immediately when the fuzz spotted my wife at the biggest raid in the city?”

“You thought you were slick, sneaking around with a thug behind your husband's back?”

“Did you let him fuck you in the bathroom like the fucking whore you are?”

Your screams went ignored by your own staff and neighbors for hours, and by the end of it, you were locked in a room, left in a pile on the floor with nothing but a single threat: “You shape up now, or you're getting committed. And I'll find myself a wife who understands her blessings.”

You're not sure how long it's been since then—how long it's been since you lied to Choi Seungcheol's face and promised you'd see him again. It doesn't really even matter because already, you feel like you’ve lost something you’ll never have back. You spent several months resisting his charms and trying to convince yourself that you didn't want him, and for what? A body so black and blue, you haven't been able to rise out of bed without help. 

If anything, your husband's wrath should've made you regret ever seeing Seungcheol—ever going to the speakeasy at all. Instead, it had you wishing you'd done something that maybe would've actually warranted the reaction you got. 

Nothing you ever do could've deserved that. You think it's Evelyn's voice you hear dismissing your thoughts.

But didn't you deserve it? You knew going to a juice joint as the mayor's wife was a bad choice. You knew letting the rum runner flirt with you so openly was dangerous. You knew dancing in his arms the way you were was inappropriate. You knew what would happen. Maybe you did deserve a bit of punishment—not because of what you did but because you stupidly did it anyway, knowing what it would cost you.

You spend more time unconscious than not, and when you are awake, you don’t bother to open your eyes or do anything other than beg any god that's listening to be put back to sleep. The time goes by with brief glimpses of staff helping you, darkness engulfing your room, sunlight taking its turn, and helplessly crying when your body refuses to sleep anymore than it already has.

You don't think you've known pain quite like this, and still, somehow all you can think about is Seungcheol and his dimples. The thought of him on the dance floor—all yours for that brief moment—is the only thing that helps you forget how broken you feel.

There are two soft knocks on the door, and you groan from under your covers, not quite able to muster up the energy or the pain tolerance to open your mouth and speak. 

You hear a key slide into the lock and the door opens with a soft creak when your visitor—probably the kitchenmaid with another weak attempt to get you to eat—doesn’t get a proper response. The only people with the key are the housekeeper and your husband, the latter of which deemed it appropriate to lock you in this room despite the fact that you couldn't sit up on your own, let alone walk to the door and leave the house.

Your visitor steps in quietly, closing the door behind them softly and turning the lock once more. 

In the silence, you think you fall asleep again, but you feel a hand rest against your shoulder and realize it's only been seconds. The touch is so featherlight, but you shudder at the sensation anyway, whether out of pain or fear, you’re not sure because you don’t even know where your pain comes from anymore.

Someone whispers your name and it sounds awfully like Evelyn. You don’t think you’ve heard her voice in quite some time. You know you meant to call her the morning after the raid, but of course, you couldn’t. You don’t even know how long ago that morning was. It could have been yesterday. It could have been a year ago. All you know is you miss the sound of it. 

“Ev…?” you croak under your covers, unable to shrug them off. “Can’t…” It takes everything in you to speak, but your voice miraculously squeezes through the ring of bruises around your throat, coming out dry and raspy. “Can’t… go to… Club M…” you don’t bother finishing your sentence. 

You’re too tired to go, and you’re 100% sure you’ll die in this very bed at this point. What a silly thought for Evelyn to even have at all—to come here and ask you to go out. 

“We’re not going to Maestro,” she says with an urgency you don’t think makes sense. “Come on, get up.”

“No.” Then, a thought comes to you. “How…s—how’s S’ngcheol…”

The covers slip off and you hear a soft gasp. Her voice is watery the next time you hear it. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Cheol…?” Why would she kill him?

“What?” she doesn’t wait for you to brace yourself for the pain and respond. “You have to get up. Please! We don’t have a large window,” she speaks.

Evelyn makes sounds that have you thinking she’s rummaging through your things—clothes and toiletries your husband had thrown at your body in a rage before locking the door on you. You don’t know how many hours it had been until he finally allowed the housekeeper in to clean you up and get you into bed. 

“He left for a fundraiser on the other side of the city,” she explains. “Come on, babe, you have to get up.” When you don’t respond to anything she’s saying, she abandons whatever she’s doing to come back to your side. “I'm going to help you up, okay? It's going to hurt a whole lot, but I promise you'll be safe after.”

Safe.

The word gets you to open your eyes for the first time in… you're not even quite sure. It's dark, your best friend backlit by the moonlight streaming in through the open window behind her. Your eyes still feel swollen, but you find you're able to open them much more than you could the last time you did.

It takes you too long to try to produce words to express your confusion because Evelyn apologizes preemptively before slipping an arm under you and lifting you into a sitting position. You gasp as your pain increases tenfold, your ribs and your stomach screaming in protest as Evelyn forces you to stay up. A foreign sound escapes your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut once more, willing the pain to go away. It doesn’t listen. 

Evelyn grasps your hand in hers, letting you grip it as hard as you need to without complaining. 

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, supporting your weight as you lean heavily into her. “I’ve got you. We’ve all got you, and we’re getting you out of here, okay? You never have to come back. All I need you to do is try, and I promise I’ll do the rest.”

“What… what….”

“Come on, babe,” she whispers, moving your legs gently and slowly until they’re hanging off the edge of your bed. 

“He’ll…” you wince as you swallow, your throat distracting you from the rest of your body. “He’ll kill you.”

Evelyn scoffs. “I have Kim Mingyu and Choi Seungcheol and my fucking husband, and you think he can kill me?” she barks out a laugh as she starts to loosen her grip on you, testing to see if you can hold yourself up. She finds the answer is no and curses. 

“Where is he,” you gasp. 

“At a fundraiser,” she repeats. “He left a few minutes ago, and—”

“Not him,” you say, shaking your head. You open your eyes when you think you can stomach the pain and find Evelyn crouched down in front of you, hands on your shoulders as she holds you upright. Her eyes soften with understanding and you’re thankful you don’t need to explain. 

“He’s here,” she says quietly, smiling at you with tears in her eyes. “He’s here, Y/N. And so are Mingyu and Jihyo. They’re outside ready to bump off your piece of shit husband if he comes back early. Even Jun is helping,” she tells you, voice sweetening around her husband’s name. “He’s at the fundraiser with him and when he sees him leaving, he’ll call your house, let the phone ring once, and hang up as a warning. I’ll explain, but only once you’re out of here, okay?”

Tears slip from your eyes and hers spill over too. She shakes her head. 

“I’m so sorry I left you here with him all these years,” she says, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. But I’m here and I’m getting you out, okay?” She pauses this time, allowing you the near minute it takes to speak through your tears and the ache in your throat. 

“Okay.”

In the end, you never hear the phone ring. Partly because you fall back asleep as Evelyn leaves you to pack your things—and you stay asleep—but mostly, because by the time that lone phone ring echoes off the walls, you’re long gone from the prison you’ve been calling home for years. 

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IT'S BEEN TWO WEEKS. The longest two weeks of Seungcheol’s life.

He wasn't a fool. On some level, he knew that you were lying. Your unshed tears and the regret and sadness in your eyes made it clear your goodbye was meant to last longer than a single night. And still, he let you go. 

What should he have done? Refuse to let you out of his car? Force you to let him take you home? All he had were options that would've scared the life right out of you if almost being trampled to death hadn't already. He thought he was doing the right thing, but he can't shake the feeling that it was the biggest mistake of his life. 

The first time Seungcheol saw you in Club Maestro was almost a year ago at this point. You were in that blue dress of yours, except you had white gloves that came all the way up to just the bottom of your sleeve. You wore them on and off, and he could never guess why some nights were glove nights and others weren't—mostly because it seemed like your pattern never followed the weather either. 

You were seated at what would become you and your friend's usual table, specially reserved for you by Jihyo, who took an immediate liking to both of you. Your friend seemed to be doing her best to engage you in conversation, but you seemed almost… Honestly, the best word Seungcheol can use to describe it is catatonic.

There were dark circles under your eyes, your lips seemed permanently downturned, and you spent the entire night either nervously looking around or staring at the table in front of you. Then, it was time for Seungcheol to make a delivery at another juice joint, so he left.

The next time he saw you, you had more life in you. Your skin glowed, you were smiling a bit more, and you were actually talking to your friend. You had nights like that—where you acted a little more carefree. But he noticed you never let go all the way. No matter how much you smiled, it never reached your eyes. No matter how hard you laughed, there was an edge to it. And no matter how you tried to blend into the crowd and take up as little space as possible, you were still the most beautiful woman in the city to Seungcheol.

And when he saw you smile for the first time—really, truly smile—the night he properly met you, he felt life split into two. The time before you and the time after you. 

He didn't realize the time after you would look like this, though. If it had been up to him, it would look like taking you on dates, having your hand tucked into his elbow everywhere you went so everyone knew you were his girl, buying you a record player alongside the record your parents used to dance to. Maybe being the parents dancing in the living room in the middle of the night someday.

Instead, it's been two weeks and no one has heard from you or seen you—not that there are many people he can turn to—and he has no way to reach you. He thought he was doing the right thing by not pushing. And now he has no idea if you're okay because he was too chicken to ask for your phone number.

Now he has no idea if he'll ever see you again.

“Uh, boss,” Vernon's voice cuts through the silence and he clears his throat. Seungcheol looks up at him. “Are you ready?”

He looks down pointedly at his hand resting on the steering wheel, as their boat floats in the middle of the ocean, bobbing and not a single mile closer to getting back to shore since Seungcheol took the wheel. He knows how this must look.

Every day, they rise before the sun, take the boat 14 miles out to meet a foreign vessel outside of U.S. waters carrying all kinds of liquor, pack as many barrels of it as they can onto his boat, and transfer everything back to shore. They've done it for years now, and they've become so good at it, they can do it with their eyes closed.

Seungcheol stalling at the wheel like this is not part of their routine.

“Should probably head back before the patrols come around,” Vernon says, looking around for the telltale lights that signal the Coast Guard approaching. At 3 a.m., there's nothing but inky blackness.

But he taught his crew well; never linger around after a pick-up. So he nods and forces himself to focus on the job at hand, doing his best to push you to the back of his mind so he can get this batch of liquor back and ready for dropoff.

He succeeds, getting the liquor smuggled onto the shore and safely into the warehouse, where Joshua is ready to receive it and start logging where every last bottle is going while Vernon runs QC to make sure everything looks good. 

After that, his success is short-lived. As soon as he leaves Joshua and Vernon and the rest of the crew to their jobs, his mind is on you again. Club Maestro hasn't reopened yet after the raid, and he knows you're not frequenting any of the other speakeasies in his territory. So where have you been? While his life continues on as normal as possible after a raid like Maestro's, what have you been doing? 

Everything he knows about you is something you shared about a past version of yourself, as if you were recalling someone you don’t even remember anymore. You told him you liked to read often and that you passed the time between shifts cleaning people’s homes as a teenager by reading a book called The Awakening by a Kate something. You told him you carried the book everywhere, reading and rereading it and keeping it concealed because your parents had warned you that others would think ill of you for reading something so “immoral.”

He laughed. “What was it about?”

He enjoyed the way your cheeks turned a deeper pink than they already were, swaying in his arms. “Hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“You’re pushy, you know that?” you laughed. He smiled, fingers curling against your waist. He wanted to hold you so much closer than this. He wanted you to tangle your limbs with his and just the thought of it made him feel drunk. “It’s about a woman who wakes up.”

He nodded. “Mmm, The Awakening. Literally.”

You grinned. “Mhm,” you hummed right back. 

“That’s all you’re going to give me? Are you really going to make me go out and read?” he asked, knowing full well he would do it just to get whatever tiny piece of you he could get his hands on. 

“Reading is a wonderful pastime, Seungcheol,” you said but acquiesced anyway: “It’s about a woman who is trying to understand her place in the world. I think that’s pretty straightforward.”

“And you? Have you found your place in the world since then?”

“I’m not sure.” He counted that as a positive. It gave him hope that maybe that place could still be somewhere near him. 

Is that what you’ve been doing? As Seungcheol carries on like nothing has happened—like his life doesn’t feel like it’s come to a jarring halt—are you reading The Awakening for the millionth time? Or does that memory belong to a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore? 

This is what his life has looked like for the last two weeks: struggle to get through his morning tide work, distract himself with menial tasks at the warehouse, then spend the day running his cover business and resting before doing nighttime deliveries—all while torturing himself with thoughts of you. He tortures himself and replays every little thing you’ve ever told him, whether by accident or because you were feeling generous, and he tries to piece together what your day could possibly be looking like. And then he feels like he’s lost something so inexplicably precious to him, it knocks him breathless.

The routine stays uninterrupted for the most part, until he arrives at the office that serves as the front for his rum-running—a trucking and cartage company—and finds Evelyn seated on the first step, a silk scarf wrapped around her head and big sunglasses covering her eyes. She's dressed in pajamas with a large trench coat haphazardly thrown on, and despite the relief he briefly feels that your best friend is alive, everything about her sets alarms off in Seungcheol's head.

“Evelyn?” Her head snaps up like he accidentally just woke her. She jolts up onto her feet, not bothering to straighten out her appearance as she does nothing short of dive at him. 

“Seungcheol!” she gasps, sounding relieved as she wraps her hands around his forearms. “Oh thank god.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “I need your help.”

“What is it?” he asks, his heart dropping. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

Evelyn opens and closes her mouth several times before shaking her head and shrugging. “I… I don't know. But I don't think she is.”

“How could you keep something like this a secret from me?” Seungcheol asks, his voice booming beyond his control as he throws the door to Jihyo’s cafe—their daytime business—open. 

He glances at the single customer seated at the window, and without having to say a word, they scurry out of the establishment. He locks the door behind them and turns back to his cousin, who’s standing behind the counter with wide eyes.

“And what the hell do you think you’re doing coming into my cafe like that?” she asks, scoffing as she throws a rag over her shoulder. “Runnin’ off my customers, acting like—”

“I know, Jihyo,” he cuts her off, throwing himself into a seat across the counter from her. She frowns at him, very clearly taking pause at his mood. “I know she’s married and I know who she’s married to and I know you let me bumble around like a fool after a married woman.” Each instance of the word married sends Seungcheol reeling even further. 

“Oh” is all his cousin has to say. 

“Yeah, oh.”

“Seungcheol… it’s…” Jihyo sighs as he glares at her. “It’s complicated.” There’s that word again. Complicated. “And it wasn’t my secret to share.”

He knows that. Logically, he knows that no one who knew—not Jihyo, not Mingyu, not Evelyn—could have told him this information until you were ready to share it with him, if you were ever going to be ready to share it with him. If he thinks about the last time he saw you, he knows you were never going to be. And he knows that his anger is misplaced; he’s not angry at Jihyo or anyone else. He’s not even angry with you. 

He doesn’t care that you’re married. If he were a better man or less stuck on you, he might care. He might walk away and call it dodging a bullet. But he’s not a better man and he’s as stuck on you as he’s going to get. He doesn’t care that someone beat him to you because if he can still take you, you were never any other man’s to begin with. He’s not angry at you for that. 

He’s angry with himself for letting you go that night. He knew. Something inside Seungcheol knew he was making a mistake, and he still let you out of his car and into the night by yourself. He still let you go home to face that monster on your own, and now, even your best friend has no idea if you’re alive. 

“I know that,” he sighs, defeated. “I know. I’m sorry.” Jihyo’s eyebrows rise at the apology. “Evelyn stopped by the office—said her husband works for the DA and helped track me down. You don’t think he’ll use that information to come get me, do you?”

Jihyo scoffs and shakes her head. “Nah, she used to bring that Sheik around before she replaced him with Lady. He’s the Real McCoy—bit of a cake-eater, but he’s good people. Even gave us a tip or two when the fuzz would be in the area.”

That’s all Seungcheol needs to hear. He runs a hand down his face in exhaustion and sighs. “Ev hasn’t heard from Y/N since the night of the raid.”

“I hear that’s common…” Jihyo says like she’s testing the waters to see exactly how much Seungcheol knows. 

“She always found a way to call her back within a few days,” he says. “It was easier with her because their husbands run in the same circles. Not a peep in two weeks.”

Jihyo hums, offering nothing else. Seungcheol can see the panic that seeps into her eyes, though, confirming her attempt to hold your secrets in case Evelyn didn’t give him the full picture. His cousin is nothing if not loyal.

“I know the sanctimonious bastard is a wife-beater, Jihyo,” he tells her bluntly. His next words make his stomach turn violently. “Ev’s afraid she’s dead.”

Her inhale is sharp. Her walls come down and she leans over the counter. “What?” she hisses. “What do you mean dead?” He glares at her, silently begging her not to make him repeat it. “Okay,” she says, understanding. The wheels in her head visibly turn. “Okay, okay, okay. Um, where is Evie right now?”

“Went back home. Said her husband was seeing the mayor today and might have something to report to her,” he mumbles, uninterested in Evelyn and her cake-eating husband. 

Since she left his office, Seungcheol has been struggling to refrain from marching right up to the mayor’s house and shooting him square in the face. Not that he even knows where you live. He groans, letting his face fall into his hands. This is what he gets for being so nonchalant about current events. He should have recognized you. He should have known who you were. He should know where the mayor resides. Most of all, he should’ve known to keep you from leaving his car. 

He thinks he should've seen the signs—your on-and-off usage of those gloves, the way you fidgeted any time someone mentioned Evelyn's husband or prohibition or the mayor himself, the way you closed yourself off at the sheer suggestion of violence. But he didn't, and he doesn't think he'll ever forgive himself for it.

“Okay,” Jihyo says again, her eyes not fully focusing on anything as she thinks about what they need to do next. It’s something he appreciates about his cousin; he doesn’t need to tell her what he needs. She just helps, and he’s thankful for it because he doesn’t know how to tell her he desperately needs you to be alive. “Kim Mingyu!” she bellows suddenly, startling Seungcheol in his seat. He rolls his eyes when he hears the man stomping up the stairs from the cellar immediately. 

“I didn’t do anything!” he shouts as he climbs the stairs. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t me! I have been in the cellar, slaving away and cleaning all day! There’s no—oh. Hey.” He appears at the door behind Jihyo, dumbfounded when he sees Seungcheol seated at the counter with no customers in the cafe. He looks over to the door to find it locked and frowns. “What’s going on?”

Jihyo turns and asks, “Do you still know that kid? Came to the juice joint almost every night at one point? The one who kept getting fired from—”

“The housekeeping agencies,” he finishes. “Yeah. If you’re thinking about hiring him, I’m telling you now, there’s a reason they keep firing him. He’s all charisma, no work ethic. Complete waste of—”

“You think he’d know who his replacement at the mayor’s house was?”

Mingyu stops dead in his tracks and glances at Seungcheol again. He nods slowly. “Yeah. I reckon he would… why…?”

Jihyo waves an impatient hand at him. “Seungcheol knows everything. No need to be clammed up.”

“What?! You kn—”

“Yes, I do. Thanks for telling me, by the way,” he hisses at the man. “Some best friend you are.”

“Aw man, come on—”

“Kim Mingyu,” Jihyo says, commanding his attention immediately. “This is important. Go find the kid—”

“His name is Chan, baby.”

“Go find him!” she shrieks, losing her patience. “And get him to tell you who replaced him and see if he knows how we can get in touch with them. Okay?”

“Okay, yeah,” he agrees easily. “But what’s going on?”

Seungcheol slumps in his seat, his forehead meeting the coolness of the counter. He thinks he’ll lose himself in his rage if he needs to explain what’s going on. Evelyn explained it in very few words. He “has a temper.” He’s “difficult at home.” He’s “not a gentle man.” Seungcheol thinks if he needs to repeat even a handful of any of those words, he’ll find himself in jail before he can find you.

“We’re going to rob the mayor,” Jihyo sighs, walking over to the door and flipping the sign to closed. “That’s what’s going on.”

It takes Mingyu a measly hour to get the name of the current kitchenmaid and another hour for this Chan kid to get him a phone number and address. By the time night falls, his cousin and best friend have a promise from Chan’s replacement to meet them at their cafe after her shift ends at midnight, and by the time the sun rises, Seungcheol has thought up about a thousand different ways he can murder your husband. 

Rum-running isn’t gang-related. At least Seungcheol’s isn’t. Sure, he has a crew that he keeps armed at all times, but that’s to keep his workers—all of them brothers at this point—safe in case the fuzz messes with them. And sure, he has a territory of speakeasies he’s the exclusive supplier for, and sure, that has resulted in some skirmishes with other rum-running groups. But he doesn’t engage in nonsensical violence, he doesn’t threaten anyone, doesn’t terrorize whole neighborhoods, doesn’t go out of his way to seek power or fight with the police. In fact, several speakeasies run on credit to him, and does he ever come around waving a gun in people’s faces and demanding they pay? No. He just goes about his day, trusting he’ll be paid, and he always is. 

He built his businesses—real and fake alike—from the ground up, and in the process, created a family he’d do anything to protect. That’s all. Nothing gang-related. Seungcheol has his corner of New York, and that’s good enough for him. He’s never thought of committing any other crimes that didn’t involve getting the people in this city drunk. And up until tonight, he’s definitely never thought of himself as someone who would want to kidnap, mutilate, and murder anyone. 

There’s a first for everything. 

Mingyu hadn’t wanted to go into the details the kitchenmaid provided them. Even without those details, everything he and Jihyo told Seungcheol and Evelyn was enough for all four of them to feel murderous.

He keeps her locked in a room only he and the housekeeper have the key to.

It’s pointless, though; she hasn’t been able to rise out of bed on her own since the night of the raid.

She’s not doing well, but he won’t let any of us bring her to the doctor. He won’t let us do anything other than feed her and bring her to the toilet.

She won’t eat or drink water. She doesn’t speak. She just… sleeps.

You were locked in that house, withering away, and for two weeks, Seungcheol had been trying to go on about his life. For two weeks, Seungcheol had stupidly wondered if you were reading or listening to your favorite records or out with Evelyn and your friends, and for two weeks, you were caged up and left alone to die like a dog. He feels like a fucking idiot. 

“You look like you’re going to murder someone,” Mingyu comments, leaning against Seungcheol’s Ford casually, like they aren’t outside the mayor’s house, waiting for a sign from Evelyn, who entered several minutes ago, to help get you out. 

“How can you watch someone go through that and not do anything?” Seungcheol mutters, glaring at the sprawling home before him, an understated display of old money if he’s ever seen one. Mingyu tilts his head at him. “How can you watch a man beat a woman—beat her—within an inch of her life and do nothing about it?” he asks, voice cracking around the knot in his throat. He squeezes his hand into a fist to keep from shaking. “How can you continue to cook and clean and do your job, knowing there’s someone dying in the next room?”

“Hey,” Mingyu says softly. “We don’t know that she’s—”

“She’s fucking dying, Mingyu.” His voice is trembling and it’s not a sound he’s used to. “She hasn’t been able to get out of bed in two fucking weeks. She’s been left to die, and no one in that godforsaken house is helping her.” 

His best friend stays silent, and he knows that Mingyu is thinking the same as he is; there’s no way either of them—or anyone else they know—would’ve let this happen to anyone in their vicinity. 

“Some people don't have the privilege of choosing,” he offers pathetically. “They probably thought they had no choice.”

“They had no choice,” he confirms. “The only option was to help her.” He shakes his head, sniffling as he gets increasingly upset. “They let him put his hands on her and they looked the other way. He tells them to keep her from the doctor and they obey. What is wrong with them?”

“They're scared. He's powerful.”

“He's an asinine halfwit.” Mingyu doesn't argue. “God,” he gasps, the knot in his throat growing larger and threatening to bring him to tears. “What would have happened if Jihyo hadn’t thought to get in touch with the kitchenmaid? Huh?” His breaths come out quick and labored, his chest heaving erratically as he thinks about it. “What would’ve happened if we just kept assuming she was fine?! What the fuck would have—”

“Hey,” Mingyu interrupts his spiral, one hand squeezing his shoulder and the other pressing against his chest, forcing his breathing to slow down. “I know. I know. We all know what would have happened, but we never have to think about that again, okay? Because Evelyn came and got you, and Jihyo got in touch with the kitchenmaid, and we’re here now.” He looks around pointedly. “We’re here and we’re getting her out. We never have to think about what would have happened if we weren’t because we are. Okay?”

He waits for Seungcheol to nod. He does, blinking rapidly to keep tears from slipping out of the corners of his eyes. He nods again. “Okay.”

“We all have parts to play,” he reminds him. Evelyn gets you. Mingyu and Seungcheol keep watch. Jihyo acts as their messenger. The housekeeper prepares the house for your absence. The kitchenmaid helps pack for you. Parts to play. “So you suck it up now and you play your part and we get her to safety. And when that’s done, you and I can have a big, old cry over a bottle of rum. But not until then. Alright?”

Seungcheol nods, taking a deep breath. “Okay,” he says again. “Okay. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. You are,” he affirms, releasing his hold on him when he’s sure he’s not going to start hyperventilating again. He leans back on the Ford once more.

After a few moments of silence, Mingyu side-eyes Seungcheol, a motion he notices in his peripherals.

“What,” he says, voice deadpan as his heart continues to calm down.

“I just haven’t ever seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“In love.”

If it were any other time, he’d laugh and play it off, too shy to admit something so vulnerable to anyone but you. But when he thinks of what you’ve been through in the last two weeks, he doesn’t have it in him to pretend he hasn’t stupidly allowed himself to fall for you over the months he’s spent trying to break down your walls. He didn’t know time with you had been so limited. He really believed it when he told you he had all the time in the world to wait. It turns out you didn’t.

“I feel like it’ll eat me alive sometimes,” he finally says after several beats of silence. 

Mingyu smiles. “Oh, it will. Just let it. The sooner you give in, the easier your life will be.”

“You don’t think it’s weird? That it’s only been a few—”

“Nah,” he waves a hand dismissively. “Given her circumstances, the club was the only way you could have courted Lady. Those few months were probably everything to her.” He pauses in thought and laughs. “Besides, I knew I loved your cousin the second I met her.”

“Ugh, okay, enough.” He fights the twitch of a smile on his lips. “You’re so henpecked, it’s disgusting.”

“Look around at where we are right now,” his best friend points out. “It runs in the family, cousin.” 

Seungcheol doesn’t dignify him with a response. He’s right; all he really has is a single dance. No dates, no proper courting. Just a dance. And still, he’s here, helping your best friend break you out of this hell hole with plans to bring you back to his home. His home, where you’ll be safe while you heal with women who love you and you can decide whatever it is you want to do with your life next. 

He meant it when he said he would take whatever you gave him and make it last for years. Just a dance, and it’s already more than enough. 

“What’s taking so long…” he mutters impatiently. 

“It’s only been 15 minutes,” Mingyu says, glancing at his watch. “The kitchenmaid said she and the housekeeper are preparing Lady’s things so Evelyn can bring them with her. They—”

“Shut up,” Seungcheol interjects, spotting movement near the front window of the house. All the lights are off, but he’s a master at this, having to scan a wall of black every morning to make sure the Coast Guard isn’t sneaking up on them during their trades. 

Sure enough, a few moments later, the front door opens and Evelyn’s head pops out. She motions to Jihyo, who’s stationed on the front porch, ready to yell into the house if either Mingyu or Seungcheol signal the mayor’s arrival to her. Your best friend whispers frantically at his cousin. He recognizes the signs of distress on her face, but he also knows her well enough to understand that she’s trying to mask it for Evelyn’s sake. 

“Stay here,” he says quickly, deciding he’s had enough waiting. “If you see sign of the mayor, grab Jihyo and just hightail it.”

“What? No, I’m not leaving you all here to—” He doesn’t wait for him to finish, running across the street to meet Evelyn at the front door. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, breathless not from the movement but from the worry of anything going awry. There’s no way he can leave you here no matter what happens tonight. It’s either you’re leaving with them or he’s staying and facing your husband. “What’s going on?”

Both women startle at his sudden appearance, annoyance coloring Jihyo’s face. “You were told to wait—”

“No, this is perfect,” Evelyn cuts in. “Seungcheol, I need you to—”

“No,” Jihyo says like she’s been insisting the answer to whatever she needs is no since Evelyn opened the front door. She would be wrong. Seungcheol doesn’t care what Evelyn needs; he’ll do it if it means getting you out of the house faster. “I don’t want my cousin seeing her like this. I can help!”

“He was always going to see her like this!” Evelyn hisses, throwing Jihyo an incredulous look. “She’s staying at his house!”

“Yeah, but we’re taking care of her!” she insists, gesturing between her and Evelyn. “He doesn’t need to see—”

“Oh, dry up, Jihyo,” Seungcheol mumbles, waving his hand and gesturing for Evelyn to step aside to let him in. “I’m a big boy. I promise I’ll be fine.” She glares at him, crossing her arms. He sighs. “Evelyn’s right. I was always going to see her. There’s no world where she’d be living under my roof and I didn’t have eyes on her.”

Jihyo’s resolve crumbles before his very eyes. “Just… let me know if you need something. And don’t tell me to dry up ever again.” He almost snorts at that.

He nods, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

“She fell asleep,” Evelyn explains as she steps aside to let Seungcheol into the mayor’s home. And it’s painfully clear whose home this is. 

Seungcheol knew from the sheer size that the house was opulent and grand in ways he could never comprehend—not quite the mansion he imagines your husband can afford but passed on in a failed attempt to be more relatable to his constituents. Nothing about this house is relatable. Not the ornate iron gates, not the carved lion statues flanking the steps leading up to the porch, and certainly not the grand foyer Evelyn lets him into. 

It’s dark, save for the faint glow of the light in the kitchen as two of your helping staff prepare something for you. He sees everything clearly anyway. There’s a massive crystal chandelier hanging over their heads, white veined marble flooring underneath their feet, and so much space surrounding them, he thinks his voice would echo if he could find it right now. 

“She unfortunately won’t wake up—don’t worry!” she interrupts herself when he gives her a look of alarm, “She’s just exhausted. I don’t think her body can handle being conscious for more than a few minutes at a time.” 

She says it almost casually, but Seungcheol can see plainly how hard she’s trying to keep it together. She leads him through the foyer and to a room on the first floor, toward the back of the house—a room he assumes is usually for the help. She rests a hand on the knob and turns to him before opening the door. 

“It’s… it’s bad,” she warns him, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s really bad. And I… I know how you feel about her. It’s horrible, and it’s going to scare you.” Seungcheol inhales deeply, trying to make room in his body for the courage he desperately needs. “Please, please, please just don’t lose it in there, okay?” she asks. “Don’t react, don’t try to wake her. Let’s just get her out and leave, okay?”

He nods. “I’m with you, Ev,” he reminds her. “We get her out and the rest can wait.”

She huffs a breath of relief and nods. She turns back toward the door and he can see her visibly steel herself to reenter the room. She opens the door, and hurries him in. She nods at the body on the bed—too small to be the woman he’s kept in his heart for the last year. You're laying on your side with your head closest to the door and your legs hanging off the edge of the bed, as if you were getting ready to stand and decided to take a nap instead. 

“Carry her out to the car,” Evelyn whispers as she gestures to the bags in the corner. “I’m going to take these, then check in with the housekeeper before we leave.”

Seungcheol nods and tries not to hesitate as he approaches the bed, crouching down. He takes a breath and wipes your hair away from your face, and when he sees you for the first time in two weeks, he can’t help the tears that immediately slide down his cheeks. He doesn’t recognize you. He doesn’t recognize you at all, and if it weren’t for the confirmation of several members of your staff, he would question whether they had the right house or person. 

Your skin is too dark—mostly purple, even black in some areas. Some of your muscles swell unnaturally. Your breaths are too shallow. Your lip is split wide open, the only thing keeping it from bleeding being dried blood itself. Your eyes are deeply bruised, your nose is bent at a painful angle, and when he sees the ring of bruises around your throat, he understands why Evelyn wanted him to keep his composure. He bites his lip to keep from either sobbing or throwing up, he isn't sure. 

He doesn't realize his hand is shaking as violently as it is until he lifts it to softly graze your cheek. Seungcheol can’t see your face anywhere he looks. But this person has your hair. And she has your hands—the same ones you held him with, and the same ones you held your drink up to his mouth with. And that’s enough to get him moving. 

He gently inspects your body, trying to find the best way to lift you without aggravating any of your injuries. When he has to accept there isn't one, he takes you into his arms, holding you for a moment before he lifts.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your temple even though he knows you’re not conscious. “This is going to hurt.”

And he’ll make sure it’s the last time a man ever causes you pain.

The agreement was that Evelyn would be at Seungcheol’s home every weekday, only retiring to her own home when Jihyo was ready to take over after a day at the cafe. Then, once Seungcheol returned from tide work, he’d relieve Jihyo around 6 a.m. and cover for both women until Evelyn came back at a prompt 9 a.m. On weekends, Jihyo would live out of his house full-time, taking care of you while Mingyu continued to prepare Club Maestro for reopening. 

That worked well for about a week before Seungcheol singlehandedly decided he needed to be home more often. Instead of covering for three hours a weekday, he left most of his rum-running responsibilities to Joshua and Vernon and his cover business to another crew member familiar with faking invoices, freeing him up to be home with you almost all day aside from tide work. 

Even then, Evelyn and Jihyo continued their shifts, resolute in seeing your care all the way through. 

She needs women, Seungcheol, Jihyo had told him. She needs women who will remind her she’s safe. He agreed, and it kept him at bay. Still, he kept his schedule free. When he wasn't out on the water with Vernon, he was home, trying not to bother whoever was currently taking care of you for constant updates, and somehow, hovering was easier than distracting himself with his job.

Seungcheol was addicted to your recovery. At first, he lingered outside the door to his second room—an office he and Mingyu quickly refashioned into a bedroom before they broke you out—because he was worried sick. Jihyo and Evelyn told him to stay away; they told him you could only stay awake for a handful of minutes at a time, and when you were conscious, you made it clear you didn’t want to see him. They told him that all you wanted was for him to know how thankful you were. It hurt Seungcheol at first, but he understood that if it were him, he wouldn’t want very many people to see him in the state you were in. In fact, he’d probably only let Mingyu see and help him.

So he only ever saw you when it was his turn to take care of you, and you were always asleep during his early morning shifts. But when he noticed your bruises beginning to lighten, the swelling subsiding, and your skin filling with life again, he was hooked. He told Joshua and Vernon not to expect him back outside of boat runs any time soon. He hurried the women into his home every day and made it clear he was at their beck and call, cooking for them, ordering his own crew to do personal errands for them, and making sure they were as comfortable as possible. The better they did their jobs, the faster you recovered, and he saw evidence of it every morning. 

After three weeks of proper recovery at Seungcheol’s, you were able to stay awake for an hour or two at a time. Your appetite made a return, and if you mentioned to either of your friends that you liked something he made, he cooked it until you all begged him to stop. And during his shifts, he could see glimpses of you again, without the injuries completely marring your features. 

Today, the cut on your lip is an almost completely healed scab, the swell of your broken nose (graciously reset by Jihyo since neither Seungcheol or Evelyn could stomach doing it) has gone almost completely down, and you’ve gained a good amount of weight—almost as much as you lost. You sleep on your back, something you’ve had to get used to since your arm is in a sling, and you look so peaceful and alive, Seungcheol could cry. He pulls your curtains closed before the sun can rise and bother you, and he settles into the armchair in the corner, pulling a blanket over himself. 

Tide work with Vernon this morning took longer than usual thanks to a patrol boat that came a little too close for comfort, and after a warm shower and his breakfast, Seungcheol feels more tired than usual. He reaches for his book, though, determined to stay awake during his shift in case you wake up. You never do when it's his turn to be in here—as if even your unconscious body knew he was present—but he’d be damned if he’s asleep the one time you do. 

He’s thankful for that stubborn attitude when not even 30 minutes later, he hears your voice for the first time in what feels like years. 

“There is no way you’re reading The Awakening right now, Choi Seungcheol.”

He flinches so hard, the book falls to his lap, effectively losing the page he had been reading and rereading for the last five minutes in confusion. He looks up to see you laying on the side with your healthy arm, curled into a small ball so that you’re facing him more fully at the foot of your bed. Your blankets are pulled up to your chin and you’re staring at him with a small, knowing smile. He thinks he should fall to his knees and thank you. For what, he has no idea. For being alive, probably.

“I, uh…” he stammers, blinking rapidly to ensure you aren’t a figment of his imagination. 

You giggle and it’s music to his ears. He finds himself smiling so widely, his cheeks hurt. He beams at you, his book and whatever non-response his brain had come up with long forgotten as the two of you stare at each other—a small luxury he never thought he’d be afforded ever again. At some point, your smile fades and you sigh, pulling the blankets around you tighter. 

“Thank you, Seungcheol,” you whisper, voice heavy with emotion. 

“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” you tell him, wiping at your face. “This is… this is everything to me, you have no idea.”

He scoots to the edge of the chair and nods at the foot of your bed. “Can I?” 

You snort. “It’s your bed. Your house.”

“As long as you’re here, it's yours too. And you can be here as long as you want,” he tells you. Forever even, is what he doesn’t add. “The bed, the room, the rest of the house are all yours. You’re allowed to tell me no, okay? You’re allowed to have your own space here.”

You stare at him blankly for a few moments before silently nodding. “Come over.”

He moves to the foot of your bed, careful to keep a good distance from you. He’s happy to be this near to you at all. This is all he’s dreamed of for the last several weeks, and now that you’re here, awake and talking to him, he has no idea what to say to you. But the tears in your eyes push him to talk anyway. 

He starts with “I'm sorry.”

You frown and shake your head, laughing at yourself when your tears continue to spill over. “You don't need to be.”

He wants to reach forward and wipe your tears away, but he hears Jihyo in his head. You need women. You need to feel safe, and although Seungcheol would never dream of hurting you, he recognizes that a man reaching over the bed to touch your face is probably the last thing you want right now.

“I am anyway,” he says. “I wish… I wish I never let you leave that night.” He massages his palm to keep his hands from trembling. “I felt like something was wrong and I wish I had just asked you.”

“Nothing you could’ve said or done would’ve kept me there,” you tell him honestly. “I was too scared.” You visibly hesitate to say something else, but in the end, you tell Seungcheol, “I still am. And if it weren’t for Evelyn and Mingyu and Jihyo… and you.” You inhale sharply and wince when something in your body—your ribs, he assumes—causes you pain. “I would’ve never found the courage to leave. 

“I needed friends. I needed friends and I needed help, and I didn’t know how to ask for it. Even if you had asked me what was wrong, I would’ve just lied.” You shake your head. “There was nothing you could’ve done. Everything you can do, you’re doing now. You didn’t need to get me, house me, help me heal. And you did anyway.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know how to explain to you that he did need to do everything he did and continues to do. From the moment Evelyn showed up on his doorstep, there was never any question that he would come for you if you needed him. He doesn’t know when it happened, but some time over the last few months, your happiness and well-being became intrinsic to his. It’s not something that needs to be thanked or acknowledged; he just needs you to be okay.

“To be frank,” you continue, “it’s already more than I deserve.”

Seungcheol frowns. “Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“Don’t say you don’t deserve to be healthy and happy and cared for and safe,” he says, trying to get a grip on his voice when he notices it rising. “You deserve all of that and more.”

You purse your lips and it’s clear you didn’t realize the weight of what you just said. Seungcheol, on the other hand, is beginning to realize the things your husband did to you that needs to be undone. Like convincing you you weren’t allowed to take up space or that you didn’t deserve it to begin with. Making you feel like you weren’t worth enough to have friends and people who care for you. You don’t need Seungcheol to help undo any of that for you; he knows you can do that by yourself, and you can do that with Evelyn and Jihyo. But if you let him, he’ll spend every waking moment helping you pluck any remnants of the mayor out of your life.

“But… I lied to you for so long,” you remind him. “I lied and I let you in anyway because I’m selfish,” you start to ramble, wiping at your face so roughly, Seungcheol grimaces. He makes slow movements as he comes closer on the bed to you, and when you don’t show any signs of fear, he gently removes your hand from your face, holding it in his loosely in case you want to take it back. You don’t. “I’m selfish and I wanted you even though I was already married, and I lied and cheated and—”

“Shhh,” Seungcheol rubs circles into your hand. “I’m not mad at you for any of that. You had every right to keep whatever you wanted from me. It was a matter of life or death for you. I don’t blame you for any of it, okay? Besides, none of that means you deserve anything that happened to you. Nothing you could ever do would’ve deserved what happened to you.” Your eyes flick up to meet his, and your breathing starts to slow. 

“I thought of you,” you say suddenly, tears flowing freely as you give up on wiping them away. Your grip on his hand tightens, and he tries to remember how it feels because he knows he’ll be thinking about it for months—the feeling of you, alive, and in his hold again. “I thought of you every day. Every moment I had to be awake, I thought of you.”

His heart stutters. It’s probably the most honest you’ve been with him.

“I thought I was going to die in that room, Seungcheol,” you confide in him. 

It breaks his heart into pieces—thinking of you alone, laying in your own blood waiting for death to come. He wipes his own tears away. He sees you here, healthier and on the mend, but the sheer thought of how close you were to no longer existing instills a fear in him he thinks will swallow him whole if he turns his back on it for even a moment. 

“I thought I was going to die, but every time I thought of you… and that dance floor and those goddamn dimples.”

He lets out a laugh of disbelief. “My dimples?”

You nod, smiling wider. “Every time I thought of you, I felt okay again.” He fights the urge to curl up into a ball and cry. The last thing you need is to console him. “I thought that… even if I died, there was someone out there who had the memory of who I really am with him. The person I am without…” You shrug and he knows you mean your piece of shit husband. “If I died, at least there was someone who really knew me, even for a moment. And I felt okay.”

“Well, please feel less okay about dying,” Seungcheol pleads, pressing the heel of the hand you aren’t holding to his eyes. “That’s no longer an option for you.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand and bringing it to your chest. He lets his other hand fall from his eyes and looks at you, holding his arm like it’s anchoring you. “I know. And I’m grateful for that. All of it. You, mostly.”

He shakes his head, feeling like your gratitude is misplaced. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t come looking. I—”

“Stop,” you scold him, your voice surprisingly strong. You give his hand a playful shake. “I never expected you to. I didn’t expect anyone to.” 

That’s almost worse, Seungcheol thinks. He wants you to live a life where you know you can depend on someone to come when you need them to. And when it is your time to go, he wants you to expect to be surrounded by loved ones. He doesn’t want you to think you deserve to die alone. 

“Well, you should expect it. Because I would have,” Seungcheol says resolutely. “I would have come. I hesitated to look for you because I wasn’t sure it was what you wanted. I wasn’t sure if it was another wall to break down or… you just didn’t want my attention. But I won’t hesitate ever again. No matter what you need, no matter where you are, if you need me, I’m there. I’ll always come for you. I promise.”

You smile and he knows you trust that he’s telling the truth. “I know. You showed up when it mattered the most. You did come for me. I know you always will. Thank you.”

“Thanks for not dying,” he says pathetically. He’s never felt more like a little boy in his entire life. 

You nod. “No problem. Any time.”

He laughs at that, shaking his head at the fact that your sense of humor is still intact after everything. After a few moments, you close your eyes, a soft smile still on your lips. Seungcheol moves to slip out of your grasp but you hold him tight. 

“I’m not sleeping,” you say. “Don’t go. I’m just enjoying the moment.”

“That… makes me really happy.”

“Hm? Why is that?”

“Enjoying the moment means you feel safe here. And you are. You’re safe here, Y/N,” he tells you. You open your eyes once more. “You’re never going to feel anything like that ever again. You never have to go back. And you’re not stuck in this room either,” he says, desperate to make that clear. “I want you to be comfortable to go wherever you want… even if it’s not in this house anymore.”

You grin. “Kicking me out already?”

“No!” he exclaims immediately, not caring that it’s just a joke. “Like I said, you can stay here as long as you need to. I want you to stay here as long as that’s what you want.” You can stay forever and make this your home and go to sleep every night knowing he’ll keep you safe. “I’m happy you’re here. I’m happy you’re awake. I’m happy we finally get to talk.”

You sigh regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, that wasn’t meant to—”

“No, I know,” you shake your head. “I… the thought of you seeing me the way I was—even though I know you probably already had… it made me feel sick.” He doesn’t say anything, letting you process your own feelings before speaking. “I spent so much time being one person with you at the club—being a version of me I miss and still want so badly to be. I didn’t want you to see any other version. I didn’t want you to see me broken.”

“Good thing I didn’t,” he says. “And I never will. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. No way in hell a bastard like him could ever break you.” You smile. “I’ll take whoever you give me, any day you give her to me. Whether that’s the version of you in the club or the version of you that reads The Awakening a thousand times or whoever else there is to meet. Whether you feel whole or barely pieced together. I’ll take it. Okay?”

You nod. “Okay.” 

You close your eyes again, your thumb caressing the skin of his hand as a reminder that you aren’t asleep and that you don’t want him to go. He smiles, taking in all of your features, thankful he can recognize you again. Thankful you’re alive.

“I like you too, Seungcheol.”

“Hm?” He raises his eyebrows, wondering if he accidentally said one of his thoughts aloud.

“That night, right before you asked me to dance,” you remind him. “You told me you liked me. I was too scared to say it back, so I’ll say it now.” You open your eyes and look right at him. “I like you too. And I unfortunately can’t give you more than that for the time being because… well…” You look at yourself meekly. “I have a lot of things to work on. And a lot of baggage to unpack. But I thought you should know.”

“I’m afraid my confession is a bit outdated,” he admits. “I don’t think ‘like’ is a strong enough word to express exactly what I feel about you anymore.”

You seem to remember how forward he is with his feelings about you and your cheeks turn that pretty pink that used to be dulled by the dim lighting in Club Maestro. Here, on the second floor of his home with the gloomy sunlight peeking through the curtains, he sees how much more beautiful you are in the light of day, and he feels so lucky he gets to see it.

“I don’t need or want anything other than for you to feel safe here,” he says. “You take your time working on whatever it is you think you need to work through, and know that Evelyn, Jihyo, Mingyu, and I are all here to help. Don’t think you need to rush through anything because none of this is to win you over and get in your good graces—I just want you to be okay. Don’t focus on anything else. I’ll continue holding a torch for you either way.” 

His honesty overwhelms even him. After the last few weeks you’ve had, he doesn’t feel like he has time to waste when it comes to making it clear just how much he feels for you. 

Your eyes widen and it’s clear you don’t know what to say. 

So instead of forcing you to find something to respond with, he smiles. “You hungry?”

“Um… yes, but enough with the seaweed soup, okay?” you say, laughing a little as you release his hand to sit up in bed, a feat that you couldn’t perform on your own just two weeks ago. You still hold your breath and wince as certain aches aggravate you, but you’re doing so much better. “I tell the girls I like something once and suddenly, it’s all I’m eating.”

He scoffs. “My mistake, cooking things the lady likes. Let me make you something abhorrent.” You roll your eyes as he stands. “Toast and jam?” You chuckle and nod. 

“Toast and jam is perfect.”

“Great. I’ll be back.” He returns to the chair, grabs the book he was reading, and rests it on your nightstand. “All yours. Couldn’t find your copy at your house.”

He heads to the door, making sure to leave it open, and he turns back to look at you one more time. You’re staring down at The Awakening, expression unreadable as you reach out and brush your fingertips against the cover. You smile. “Thanks.”

When he returns with your breakfast a few minutes later, he finds you asleep once more, the book having never been opened at all. Instead, you have it pressed against your heart, hands hugging it tightly to your body as you snore softly. 

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Then a choked laugh rings out from someone𑁋probably Seokmin𑁋and you can feel fire burst out of your ears and swallow you whole. Your body sinks into the couch as the moments pass, feeling as if a million different pairs of eyes were all staring at you, waiting for you to do something.

"Are you serious right now?" You somehow muster up a chance to shoot a daggered glare right at Soonyoung, who was staring at you back so innocently.

You should have expected this, should have known better than to agree to join your friends' ridiculous game of truth or dare. But now, here you were. And as if the whole situation wasn't embarrassing enough, your eyes instinctively drift to Jeonghan across the room.

He was doing everything but being interested in the game, sitting on the couch right next to Seungcheol𑁋your older brother𑁋with his feet up on the coffee table and his arms crossed, rolling his eyes jokingly at whatever Seungcheol was saying.

Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who caught your eyes years ago when your brother brought him home for the first time. Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who used to ruffle your hair in the hallways back in high school and tease you about bombing your math exams, not realising how those little interactions meant to you. Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who never seemed to notice how much you'd grown since then, how much more you wanted him now.

Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who had always been lurking in the corners of your heart, but never fully in your reach. And you've accepted that fate a long time ago.

A lump forms in your throat. You already know this is going to be a disaster, especially with your friends staring at you like hawks, but it's not like you can choose someone else.

No, your eyes just had to gravitate straight to Jeonghan. Your brother's best friend.

Taking a deep breath, you find your feet begin to move on their own, dragging you across the room to where Seungcheol and Jeonghan were sitting.

You notice how calm Jeonghan is, how effortlessly relaxed he looks simply minding his own business, and it only seems to make everything worse, because you're about to do something that might just haunt you for the rest of your life.

When you approach closer, you hear the whispers of your friends behind your back. Jeonghan glances up from his spot on the couch, his brow raising upon your presence.

"Um..." You croak out nervously. "Hi."

It's just a game, You remind yourself. Just a game.

Jeonghan looks at you quizzically for a moment, and then his lips curl into a faint smile. But you don't detect any amusement in his features, any hint he might tease you senseless𑁋just a warm, easygoing expression that almost makes you forget why you're standing here.

"What's up?" he simply asks, and it's enough for you to beg the world to crush you.

"I, uh..." You seriously want to slap yourself in the face right now. "I pick you."

His eyes widen slightly, and your stomach ties itself into a knot.

"Me?" he questions.

"Uh, yeah." You nod quickly, dipping your head down guiltily. "We're supposed to... stand under the, um... mistletoe?"

Jeonghan doesn't answer right away, just glancing between Seungcheol's suspicious eyes towards the two of you and the mistletoe that stands proudly above the doorway to the living room.

Then he just fucking smirks.

"Well then," He takes his feet off the coffee table and stands up. "Lead the way."

Seungcheol opens his mouth to say something, but you're already walking away before he could get a word out. Each step feels heavier than the last as you trudge towards the stupid mistletoe, with Jeonghan casually following behind you.

When you reach the spot beneath the mistletoe, you stand there awkwardly, unsure of where to go from there. Jeonghan stands right in front of you, way closer than you anticipated, and you have to fight the urge to meet his eyes.

"So..." You turn back towards your friends. "Game over, right?"

"Of course not!" Seungkwan chimes in, shaking his head. "You still have to kiss, duh."

You're this close to kicking every single one of your friends in the shin.

"I𑁋That was not part of the dare!" You protest, face reddening. "You can't just𑁋"

"No takesie backsies!" Seokmin exclaims, and you give him your friendliest death glare.

You want to die. Or at least crawl into a hole and never come out. That would be nice right now.

"Y/N," he calls out to you, so quietly only you can hear. "It's okay. It's just a stupid dare, right?"

All the words that ache to tumble out of you immediately disperse when you meet his soft eyes. The way he's gazing at you has your legs feeling like jelly, your heart running marathons, your nervous façade crumbling just slightly. You almost forget about how your entire situation is put on display for everyone to watch.

"I won't bite, you know," Jeonghan muses playfully, yet when he catches the worried look on your face, his smirk fades away. "Y/N? Look at me."

You hesitate for a moment, before torturously lifting your head to look up at him. He's so pretty, especially up close, so close you can't help but flicker down to his lips for a second𑁋

"We can just get this over with, yeah?" His eyes hold yours even as he inches closer. "It'll be quick."

It's just a kiss, You tell yourself. Just a kiss.

"Okay," You murmur, feeling your feet root into the floor. "Okay."

Then when he gives you that smile again, you suddenly can't move. Jeonghan places one hand on your shoulder, another one coming up to hover closer to your cheek, though his warmth still seeps within even when he isn't fully touching you.

"Don't worry." He leans in more, his breath ghosting against your skin, and your eyelids flutter to a close. "It's just me."

Your heart pounds so loudly you're sure he can hear it. You can't see his face, but you know he's just a breath away from your mouth.

However, you also don't see the way he pauses right before your quivering lips, how his gaze roams over your face like he's studying you. You hear a chuckle.

"Cute."

Then before you can fully process, the softest touch of his lips land right at the corner of your mouth. It's gentle, light, lingering a few beats longer than necessary, and it's somehow more intimate than a kiss on the lips.

And then like a snap, it's over. Jeonghan pulls away from you slowly, the warmth from his touch spreading through your body like a wildfire. The room erupts into an obnoxious round of applause. You only stand there like a lost child, because the world and your damn brother now all know that you're hopelessly in love with Yoon Jeonghan.

And the worst part? It wasn't just a kiss in front of everyone𑁋he made it feel real.

"I..." You clear your throat, pursing your lips together. "I need a drink."

You're quick to dash towards the kitchen, away from your friends and Jeonghan.

Stepping into the kitchen, the cool air calms your flushed skin. You lean against the counter and let out a groan, burying your face in your hands, willing the heat to leave your face.

"Y/N?"

Shit.

"You okay?"

"No." You give a half-hearted laugh. "because now everyone and my brother knows I have a crush on you."

Jeonghan stands right next to you by the counter, tilting his head to get a better view of your face as he smirks amusedly. You roll your eyes, unable to grasp how much he seems to enjoy seeing you flustered.

"Seriously?" You frown. "You think this is funny? You𑁋"

"I think it's cute," Jeonghan interrupts confidently. "You're cute, and I'd rather kiss you properly than have it be from a stupid dare."

Your jaw drops to the floor, your brain short-circuiting, and you stare at him like he's just told you the most absurd thing in the world. And in a way, it is.

"Don't mess with me, Yoon Jeonghan."

"I'm not," Jeonghan responds affirmatively. "but it's fun watching you squirm."

You groan helplessly. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." He grins, the smugness oozing off him, and it's so infectious that you also smile, because he's right𑁋you don't. "Your brother can kill me for all I care, but..."

Jeonghan steps up to you until there's barely any space left between you two, reaching out to push back a strand of hair behind your ear. This time, when his lips meet yours, it's not a dare; not rushed or pressured, nor a product of your ridiculous friends’ antics. Though brief, it's deliberate, soft, like he's been waiting for this moment as long as you have.

When he pulls back, he shoots you a wink. "...I'll make this worth it for you."

And just like that, Yoon Jeonghan has you completely, hopelessly, irrevocably smitten. You can't decide if you want to slap him or kiss him again.

Before you could remotely question what the hell you just got yourself into, Seungcheol's unmistakable voice booms from the living room.

"Y/N! Jeonghan! Get your asses out here right now!"

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