You’d been talking to this dude over text off and on for over a month or two after matching on a shitty app that you only used when you sought out instant gratification. Truthfully, you didn’t think anything would come of it, offhandedly throwing the invite out like a bone for a dog– and he actually pulled up. He was cute enough. Tall and dressed well. For tonight, he would suffice. Chanhee nudges you conspiratorially as the space between you and your date shrinks. You wave him off with a self-assured smile, murmuring that you’ll catch him inside before hitting the man across you with one of your winning glances.

“Hey.” 

There’s a seductive lilt in your voice while you stretch your arms out to welcome him with a hug. Your nostrils fill with the heavy scent of whatever cheap cologne he drenched himself in, causing you to smirk and let out a flirtatious giggle. You always found it so cute when you could tell a guy was pulling out all the stops to impress you.

“You look stunning.” You hear him compliment you in a low mumble as you pull away from the embrace, and your thank you is coated in sugary, sweet dalliance. 

His eyes shamelessly travel up and down your figure as if he’s appreciating a Greek sculpture. Allowing him to check you out a little more, you shift your weight to one leg and rest a hand on your hip patiently.

“Whenever you finish, I have people I’d love to introduce you to.” Your banter is cheeky, contrasting your calm and placid facial expression as if he had little effect on you. Which, in all honesty, he didn’t. 

-

Sangyeon’s take on a restaurant is unique. The second you step inside, it’s like you’re inside a bubble of luxury with a mix of whimsy. The low hum of chatter surrounding you dissipates as your eyes flit to the ceiling first, scanning across the large, elaborate, bright white neon sign hoisted above the patrons instead of traditional hospitality lighting. The characters pull you forward as you read the saying, craning your neck in order to catch the entire cliche food-related quote.

“Eat great food with even greater friends, huh?” Chanhee sidled up to you, popping back into your view, and you beamed back at him in response. “We should probably follow his instructions then, hm?” you reply through a giggle. 

The man beside you looks around awkwardly, and your friend flashes you a knowing look with an astute smirk to match. “Hi, I’m Chanhee.” He says, stretching his arm out to the new guy who seems too absorbed in the lighting design overhead to pay him any mind. The two of you communicate wordlessly while Chanhee smoothly plays off being ignored by your date. A beat later, he announces that he needs to steal you away for a moment, and the man is left to stand alone in a room filled with people he doesn’t know.

You’re get brought to a far corner of the restaurant where glass panels with neon signs slotted between them separate the line of booths from one another. The specific sign behind Chanhee’s head is a kitschy illustration of a cat eating a bowl of noodles, and the cat’s ears perfectly align with his head. 

“Sangyeon made this place very Instagrammable,” you observe with approval while scoping the restaurant out from this new angle.

Chanhee hums at your remark, looking around before his eyes fall back on you.

“Juyeon’s here.” 

His words come out very frank, but you know he’s gearing up for a lecture. You meet his gaze, lips curling upward into a crooked smirk before you respond. “Oh yeah?” 

“Oh yeah?” He mimics your voice perfectly. “Now you’re playing me like I’m on your roster.” He replies dryly with a short-lived chuckle.

“I mean, yeah. It makes sense that he’d be here— 

He snips your sentence before you can bullshit further, eyes cutting towards the man you brought with you. “So why’d you bring some random ass guy as your date? Everyone knows about you and Juyeon. What the fuck?” 

“There really is nothing to know. We aren’t anything aside from two people who’ve slept together on occasion— 

Chanhee steams on, trampling over your words with a side-eyed glance. “And will continue to.”

You shrug, tongue darting out to wet your top lip. “Perhaps.” You smirk, and so does Chanhee.

“Probably tonight,” he counters, punctuating his message with a gesture towards Juyeon. It looked like he was coming your way, but his path curved, and you both watched him disappear toward the bar. You shrug, unbothered.

“Or tomorrow night.” You comment, meeting Chanhee’s gaze with pure mischief sparkling in your pretty eyes.

His smile twists to mirror your cheeky grin. The two of you dissolve into a fit of laughter, Chanhee slapping the table in his signature added effect. “Ooou, you really are a cold-blooded slut. Love that for you.”

“Learned from you,” you toss back with a giggle. “More importantly, though, we all came here to celebrate Sangyeon. It’s not every day that your friend opens a restaurant and hosts an exclusive dining experience with all your closest friends—

“And some random ass man.” Chanhee reminds you. He wouldn't be himself if he weren’t on your case.

You smile sweetly at your best friend. “You’re annoying. I can behave. Juyeon can behave. It’ll be fine.”

-

Your date sits beside you as you wait for your drink, droning on about his plans for the upcoming work week while you occasionally hum along in response. You couldn’t remember when you’d asked for this many details about his career path, but here he was, showering you with tech industry terms and company name drops. You were starting to wonder when someone proclaimed so intelligent would catch on to your lazy responses.

“Yeah, wow. That’s crazy. You’re so cool,” you say, giving off an extra bubbly vibe as you continue to stroke his ego. 

A pretty cocktail gets slid your way finally, and you gingerly take a sip while you allow your date’s boring words to assault your ears. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Juyeon pass by, looking like a blur of sex appeal, but your eyes remain on your date. Even as he sits down on the free barstool beside you— even as the urge to check Juyeon out surges through your body… you listen to the random-ass tech man beside you.

“Can I get two beers?” You hear Juyeon ask, and his voice sounds so velvety smooth in your ears, but you don’t react, keeping your composure while nodding to your date.

“Mm, wow, that’s so interesting.” You say, eyes going wide as you bob your head. “I think it’s so cool that you have a job like that,” you add, throwing out another compliment as you alternate between replies.

“I mean— no, I don’t know anything about the field, but still, lots of people, letters, and numbers seem to be involved. It definitely sounds like a job. I also have a cool job whenever you want to hear about it.” You passive-aggressively state, taking another sip from your cocktail. This cocktail was giving you a better experience than your date and most likely tasted better, too.

You overhear Hyunjae and Juyeon talking, ears going supersonic as you pick their familiar voices out over the buzz of conversations encompassing the bar.

“What about her?”

“I’m good.” You hear Juyeon reply, and curiosity rises within your chest.

“You’re lying to yourself. When are you going to move on? All these people, and you're hung up on a chick that came with some wet blanket as her date. You’re going out sad. It’s hard to watch.”

Hyunjae’s words have your lips curling into a haughty smile that your date weirdly copies. “What?” He asks, and you blink in confusion. He boldly leans into you, whispering in your ear, and your senses get bombarded with his cologne. “You wanna get out of here?” 

You can barely contain your disgust as you speak. The taste of his pungent fragrance lingers on your tongue as your tone goes sweeter and lighter to compensate for the way he’s just cemented, giving you the ick. “You know, I think I’d really like to stay for dinner. If you need to leave, though, don’t let me stop you.” He visually tenses and relaxes before your eyes. “You’re right. We should at least stay for dinner. This is your friend’s big night, right? I’ll find us some seats next to uh…

“Chanhee.” You disinterestedly finish for him, shifting on your barstool. “I’ll bring a round of drinks. Catch you in a bit.” Your attention is turned away from him before his presence leaves your personal space as the bartender saunters over to take your order. 

Alone, you take a moment to look around the bar. Keeping with the theme, there's a neon sign on display behind the two bartenders. Pendant lights are scattered along the seating area, creating small, intimate sanctuaries every two barstools. You look up at the pendant between Juyeon and yourself before your eyes settle on his form. He looks as good as always, hair framing his forehead, and when he looks at you, your breath is stolen. Hyunjae must have walked off, and you won’t let your opportunity go to waste.

“You look nice.” You try to charm, sending a glowing smile his way.

“Don’t start.” He shuts you down, sounding curt.

“What? I’m just being nice. What happened to polite formalities?” Your glossy lips poke out into an exaggerated pout, and Juyeon rolls his eyes as if he’s troubled to even look at your face.

“That’s the thing, though. It starts with you being nice to me; then I have to be nice to you. Next thing I know, you’re cumming on my fingers in the backseat of my car. That’s our formality.” He holds your gaze, daring you to devise a counterpoint, but you don’t.

You shrug, lips spreading into an audacious smirk. “Sounds rather polite to me.” He gives you a look that lets you know you're running on thin ice, and you fold. “Don’t be mad at me, Ju.”

Juyeon downs the last few swigs of his beer before setting the brown glass bottle down on the counter and getting up. “What's there to be mad about? ‘s not like we’re together. Enjoy your night.”

-

The air surrounding the lengthy dining table buzzed with palpable energy as everyone sat together, waiting for the dinner to commence. Sangyeon makes a toast accompanied by a heartfelt speech from the head of the table, addressing his family and friends with gratitude. Juyeon half listens, raising his glass on cue when he sees your hand raise out of the corner of his eye. He puts the flute glass back down while casually sneaking another look. He’s putting more mental energy into not glancing your way than he’d like to let on, and still, he’s unsuccessful. It’s just that seeing you flanked by your date and Chanhee— the way you lean into your friend who whispers into your ear with a smirk splayed on his lips, the look your date gives you as you eagerly chat him up, your hand teasingly pushing the man’s chest while you laugh at something he’s said, the coy glance Chanhee gives you before you pick up your phone to continue some exclusive, silent conversation— pisses him off. The minor details compound on top of each other until envy grips his throat tight, and his lips slump into a frown for a hot second before Hyunjae pokes him in his ribs.

“Dude. Stop fucking looking.”

He opens his mouth to lie, to say he wasn’t looking at you, but there’s nothing to gain by lying to the older. His eyes rip away from your form while he picks up the glass of champagne in front of him. He downs the bubbly drink in one go, signaling for a server to bring him another when he’s placed the glass on the table.

“Chill out, hyung. Drinking and jealousy never mix well,” Eric warns, eyes round in concern as he places his hand on his friend’s shoulder, but Juyeon brushes his words off along with his hand while another drink gets placed before him.

“Leave it, Eric. This is y/n, we’re talking about. He’s a lost cause. We’d all be.” Sunwoo chimes in, and Hyunjae’s scoff is heard loud and clear. “I wouldn’t. Diversify your investments, and you don’t catch feelings.”

Sunwoo leans forward against the table, craning his neck to make eye contact with Hyunjae. “Investments? Are we talking about the stock market or women? You sound worse than y/n. Maybe you two belong to—

The glare Juyeon shoots the younger wires his mouth shut. Hyunjae shakes his head in amusement, directing his gaze to the lady in question before turning his regard back to his friend group, intent on clarifying his statement. “All I’m saying is, if you invest all of your time into one person, then no shit— you’re going to catch feelings. Look at Juyeon. All those late nights and early mornings add up. Now he’s hung up over someone that won’t commit because she’s too busy diversifying.” There’s a huge, boyish grin etched into his features as he drags out every syllable of his last word.

Eric nods as if he’s listening to a message from a prophet while Juyeon sighs in faux exasperation. “How’s the saying go? The bitchless, leading the bitchless?” he jokingly quizzes through a chuckle, reaching for his glass once more.

“Hey, Juyeon. Where’s your girl right now?” Hyunjae challenges him back, and their entire side of the table erupts into laughter.

- 

There’s not much talking once the dinner starts, just the occasional praise for each new dish that graces everyone’s table setting. Aside from the murmurs and whispers, the sound that remains constant is the scraping and clatter of silverware against ceramic. A good dish could silence a room– that was the beauty of excellent food, and Sangyeon’s menu was no exception. You were too busy eating to chat, communicating through pointing at your plate, and humming in satisfaction as delightful flavors and spices lovingly embraced your tastebuds. The dish that you’re currently sharing with Chanhee was beginning to look sparse. Both of you kept picking up piece after piece of an appetizer you are confident will become a main attraction for future patrons. You notice that your date’s plate is already bare, causing you to pick up the small tasting menu that rests by your champagne flute with intrigue.

Scanning the embossed cardstock briefly, you hum in anticipation. “Guys, there’s so much more to come.” You note, trading the menu for your drink and taking a sip of the sparkling beverage. As you relax into your chair, your eyes casually gloss over Juyeon’s empty seat at the table. You must have been too engrossed in your food to notice him get up. Your head swivels towards the bar, and he’s not there either. Playing it off, you let your gaze fall to your phone and pull it into your grasp.

You were tactful in your approach– smoother and far less evident than Juyeon was about keeping tabs on you. You’d caught him staring at you a few times, but it’s not like you could call him out. Blowing his cover would indirectly force your hand; you were looking at him just as much as he was you.

“I’ll be right back,” you announce to no one in particular, pushing your chair back to search for a restroom.

The corridor where the restrooms reside is long and wide. You wander through the expanse of the hall slowly, eyes catching on the extravagant amount of decor mounted to the walls. If Sangyeon used an interior designer, this was the space where they decided to let go of their inhibitions. The deep navy blue paint color on the walls could only be seen in glimpses, peeking out around the array of mirrors and wall art that embellished the spacious aisle. Surprisingly enough, this area didn’t harbor a single neon sign. 

You pause, looking at yourself in one of the many mirrors on the gallery wall. This particular mirror has a reflective chrome frame in an organic shape that reminds you of some of the inspo pictures you’d seen on your Pinterest feed. After messing with your hair, you reapply gloss to your lips and queue up your phone to take a picture for your story. 

After snapping a few shots, you swipe through the pictures, making sure the aesthetic aligns with what you usually post. With a sultry pout on your lips, you lift your arm above your head to take another picture from a different angle— this one for your close friends. You’re so busy fiddling with the positioning (intent on using a mirror behind you to make it look like there’s an infinite number of your clones in the picture) that you overlook your small audience of one until after you’ve updated your stories.

There’s a hint of a smirk playing along Juyeon’s lips as he makes a show of pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Hot,” he comments, eyes downcast while he swipes his finger across his phone’s screen. Your phone vibrates in your hand, and when you see the notification, you snort. “Wow. Fire emoji. Way to stand out amongst the crowd, Ju,” you praise, tonality laced with sarcasm. 

Coming over and standing in front of Juyeon, you tilt your head back to meet his gaze. There’s a twinkle of longing in his eyes that you don’t fail to notice, and you pounce on it. Taking another step closer, you feel that comforting sheen of warmth caress your skin as you infiltrate his personal space. You’re close enough to kiss him— a tippy toe’s length away from erasing the gap that hangs between your lips. “Wanna come over tonight?” 

“No.” He was being short with you again. Yet his following action contradicts the rejection he’s just doled out to you. His large hands feel you up, one smoothing over your skirt while the other grazes the exposed skin of your midriff. His fingers lazily dance along your skin and plucks at the chain circling your waist. “Please?” You ask, melting further into his grasp and the familiar comfort Juyeon’s hands provide. He shrugs, relinquishing you from his hold, and you watch him simmer with his thoughts. 

There’s a rising commotion coming from the front of the restaurant, indicating what you can only assume is the next course coming out. Juyeon takes a step away from you, looking down the hallway briefly before redirecting his attention your way. “Seems like you’re already booked, and I’m not in the mood to share tonight.”

You sigh, ready to move past the matter. “I’m not going to sleep with him, Juyeon… there’s no second date for this guy.”

“Okay.” Juyeon pats your shoulder, movements stiff like he’d just finished speaking with an acquaintance he’d awkwardly run into at the grocery store. 

You’re unable to discern the message behind the impassive facial expression he regards you with. The pang of an emotion that you’re not accustomed to pierces through your chest as you watch him walk away without sparing you a second glance. Surrounded by the wall of mirrors and trendy art pieces, you start to question your decision-making skills. For a moment, you stand there wondering if you’ve taken things too far…

-

It feels like Juyeon is punishing you for the next few days, but the further you get away from the dinner party, the more you wonder if he’s ghosting you.

The pang that you felt that night doesn’t go away. As a week goes by, you become certain that this is what your body is going to feel like from now on— walking around with the ache of guilt in your chest. There’s also a weight of uneasiness that settles into your stomach that no amount of delusional positivity could subdue. The weight gets nearly unbearable when you reflect on how categorically wrong you are. 

You text Juyeon twice, asking to talk, and you reply to his stories a few times before it becomes glaringly obvious that he’s ignoring you. 

Your message thread with him slips further down in your phone as more days blur past. Your interactions hit their peak with Juyeon’s occasional reaction to a picture you post— none of them are shots of yourself. Somehow, your brain blows this observation out of proportion, and you find a new sublevel to wallow in.

At the three-week mark, you begin to picture a life where Juyeon really doesn’t forgive you—one where he never responds to your texts nor answers video calls—forever fated to orbit each other cautiously at every mutual group hangout. A life where you don’t get to flirt with him at parties or climb into the backseat of his car at the end of the night. The agony of becoming an outsider to your connection with him until you’re seen as nothing more than a stranger, a friend of a friend. Then, eventually, you’ll wake up to a reality where you don’t know anything about him at all.

Chanhee’s diagnosis and solution to the matter is that “you’re lovesick and in need of dick.” For once in your friendship, you don’t try to argue against his take, but his phrasing leaves a lot to be desired. 

Most of your idle time is spent thinking about Juyeon. You were debating with yourself over whether you should text him or not. Wondering what he’s up to and then checking his or his friend’s stories, looking for clues. Reflecting on just how deep your feelings are for him and how badly you’ve fucked up by being a noncommital little shit.

Currently standing in your kitchen, you watch a pot of water begin to simmer on your stovetop. Your chin rests in your hands while you count the tiny bubbles forming at the bottom of the pot, trying to keep your mind off of him. It’s not an easy feat, not when your kitchen is indirectly filled to the brim with memories of Juyeon. 

When you first moved into your own apartment, you had a solid determination to teach yourself to cook, more so out of financial necessity. Takeout was beginning to look more like a luxury you couldn’t afford than an expense you could consistently maintain. This kitchen is where the lines between Juyeon and yourself began to blur. Though you haven’t done it in a while, there was a time when you’d video chat with him every time you’d attempt to cook dinner. In hindsight, maybe you should have been calling Sangyeon, but at the start of your friendship— before it had been unanimously determined that Juyeon was the worst cook of the group, he’d keep you company. You’d call him, and he’d give you moral support and amateur-level cooking advice. 

There were times when the recipes were easy, and you’d spend time casually chatting with him about whatever came to your mind. Often, especially in the beginning stages, he watched you without judgment as you demanded pots of water to boil faster or whined about how badly you wanted to abort the mission to pick up fast food. Where Chanhee would surely enable you, Juyeon would gently push you forward. Thinking about it now, a rush of butterflies settles into your stomach, and a small smile turns your lips upwards at the corners.

Maybe you should call him.

The pot before you finally reaches a rolling boil as your mind drifts to the first time you made a meal good enough to share. It was the one time when Juyeon had been busy and couldn’t hold your hand through the process. 

That evening was unexpected in a lot of ways. When you called him a second time on a whim, you didn’t think he’d answer. You didn’t intend to extend an invitation to him when you’d got him on the phone, excited to brag about your culinary accomplishment. You didn't expect him to accept your offer to come over and eat dinner with you. Nor did you anticipate said meal would get abandoned, lying perfectly plated and cold on your small dining table as the night developed in a way that neither of you could resist.

Your gaze cuts to the kitchen floor, and you shiver as the memory plays vividly. It’s as if you can feel Juyeon all over you again, and your body floods with warmth. Your grip on the wooden spoon in your hand grows tighter until your palm hurts. A few breaths later, the spoon clatters onto your countertop as you ditch it in favor of your phone, and your fingers seem to move on their own…

When you see yourself on the screen, your eyes widen in shock while you straighten the collar of the oversized sleep shirt you're wearing. Next, you frantically tame as many strands of your hair as you can— but Juyeon gives you no time at all. His face comes into view, and your arm freezes mid-air. If you had an ornate declaration to recite, it’s gone.

“Mm?”

Hearing his voice prompts you to blink slowly, eyelashes fluttering as your mind hard resets and your arm lowers. Juyeon stays quiet, shifting on his bed until his head rests in his palm. He watches you for some time before his eyebrows raise, fueled by impatience and curiosity.

Your voice edges on the side of pleading as you finally speak. “Can you come over?”

Juyeon hasn't seen this side of you before. His face relaxes into a smirk. “Why?” You turn off the stove and shuffle over to your sofa, tucking your foot under your butt as you mull over what the answer is to his question. “I— I want to talk to you about something.” His facial expression goes impassive again as he replies. “Okay. You have me now. I’m not coming over just to hear you say sorry.” 

Usually, you’d have some flirty comeback, but as you look at Juyeon through the screen, the ache in your chest gets replaced with a deep yearning. It’s silent for a few beats as you swelter in the intensity of your emotions. 

He refuses to budge, waiting for you with his lips pursed to conceal the smug look shaping his features. With a sigh, you concede. “Please? I am so sorry, Juyeon. What I did was rude as fuck. I want to apologize to you and much more. I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’ve realized some… things, and I’d like to talk to you about these realizations.” His eyes soften around the edges, and his lips rise into a sweet smile before his demeanor recomposes. If you blinked, you’d have missed the emotions that showed through in his gaze. “Why me? Isn’t that what Chanhee is for?” 

This time, you chuckle, mimicking the endeared look he sends you through the screen. “Don’t make me do it over the phone, please? I’ll make it worth your while.” You hold your pinky up, “I promise.”

“Oh, yeah?” Juyeon asks, tone falling lower as he sits upright. You nod, and he disappears from your view for a moment or two, leaving you to stare at his ceiling fan. “Are you still gonna look like that when I get there?” His question catches you by surprise, nose scrunching in confusion. “I mean… yeah? I already showered.” He pops back into view with his bright smile filling nearly half of your phone’s screen. “Good. Be there in twenty.” 

The call ends, and you look down at your clothes. Your shirt was actually one of Juyeon’s that he’d left behind ages ago. The fuzzy Hello Kitty shorts and the matching socks make you cringe, but you decide not to change. Nothing screams ‘I want to be in a committed relationship with you’ like childish pajamas.

Your motivation to cook is gone, swapped out for anticipation of Juyeon’s arrival. You make a weak attempt at straightening up your apartment to make the wait easier, aimlessly walking through your living room to pick up stray blankets and tote bags. Lighting a candle, you head back into the kitchen to put away the remnants of good intentions that linger on your countertop. Lukewarm water gets poured down the kitchen sink, and the stainless steel pot and wooden spoon get washed and put away. You pull out two glasses and fill them with water before leaning against the counter and taking a few sips. 

Gears start to turn in your head, funneling your array of feelings into words and then sentences. Before long, you fully grasp what you’d like to tell Juyeon. You’ll start with another apology and then confidently segue into the rest. No games, no stalling— no vague responses, just honesty and transparency.

A knock at your door rouses the butterflies nestled in your stomach, and you practically skip towards the sound. When you see Juyeon standing in your doorway, a smile stretches along your lips. He’s dressed cozy in what seems to be fleece, plaid pajama bottoms, and a faded black tee that you’re sure never sees the light of day. His hair is as messy as yours. “Hey,” he says through a smile that causes you to break eye contact, a simper curving your lips. He did wonders to your heart, effortlessly claiming the organ without warning. 

“Hey, there’s drinks on the coffee table,” you lamely reply as he crosses the threshold, closing your front door. Gentle hands cradle your face the moment you turn around, pulling you into a kiss. His lips found yours before you could properly reach the living room, the kiss turning heated instantaneously. 

Once you start, it's hard not to fall under the love spell Juyeon’s lips cast. A contented sigh leaves you, and his tongue slips into your mouth at the opportunity. His hands pull away from your face to hold your waist, pulling your body flush to his as your arms loop around his neck. You allow yourself a few more moments, rolling your tongue against his. Sharing impassioned kisses. Every part of you missed him; it gets displayed in the way you go pliant in his hold. Finally, you're crowded by the signature scent of him. It’s his familiar warmth that blooms against your skin. His lips that meld perfectly with yours… So you savor making out with him like this after what feels like so long.

The trance you’d been put under breaks when you pull back to catch a breath. Juyeon barely gives you a second, fed by his own voracity, as he chases after your lips once more. You dodge, leaning back to look at him. “Wait— I wanted to talk. You’re distracting me.”

He shrugs and wets his kiss bitten lips before speaking. “So talk.” With that, he leans back in to kiss your neck, and you bite back a whimper. Trying to steel yourself, you take in a sharp inhale and promptly exhale. All the while, you feel Juyeon’s hands move, roving over your curves. “I’m sorry, Juyeon. I’ll never do that to you again.” It takes everything to keep your voice even, eyes falling closed as he glides his lips across your throat. “I know.” He comments, breath fanning over your skin, and you squirm where you stand. 

“I…” you trail off as heat travels up your torso and goosebumps race up your skin. 

Juyeon halts his movements, fingertips pressing indents into your ribs. “And?” He urges with a murmur, walking you backward towards your living room. You look up, meeting his gaze right as the back of your thighs touch the arm of your sofa. “I like you way too much to jeopardize what we have. I just want to be with you.” You declare your statement with confidence and a rapidly thudding heart.

“Uh-huh.” He leans in, smirking into another kiss that you reluctantly avoid.

“Juyeon! Ar-aren’t you going to respond to what I’m saying? Do you feel the same way?” You needed to know if Juyeon was hearing you. Needed to see if he wanted the same thing out of this as you. He chuckles, pulling his arm out from underneath your shirt to cup your face in his hand. There’s nothing but pure amusement radiating from the smile he graces you with. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up. Seems like you did, right?”

“Oh. Y-yeah.” You reply, relieved. This time, when he dips his head low, you relax, letting your body handle the rest. 

Juyeon’s hands are everywhere. Running along your inner thigh. Caressing your torso. Dipping beneath your elastic waistband. Your lips trace his jawline before you feel your shorts and panties yanked down. Cool air hits your bare skin, and a shiver ripples through your spine. You’re placed on top of the sofa’s armrest as he captures your lips again, tongue opening your mouth to him hotly. The kiss is galvanizing, making your legs fall open on their own volition. His hand promptly makes its home between your thighs, teasing you with a barely-there touch. You whine against his lips, stomach fluttering in anticipation of his wandering hand. 

Juyeon pulls away from your mouth, looking at you with a lust-lidded gaze and a lazy smile. “What do you want right now?” voice dulcet while he asks, beginning to toy with the wetness that clings to your pussy. Your eyes trail down to his lower half, greedily tracing the outline of his dick. “Y-you,” the answer comes out of you quickly, tone rife with need. 

Strings of your arousal keep you connected to the sofa and his large fingers. For a short moment, all you hear is your soft breathing and the salacious sounds of him playing with your pussy. The look Juyeon regards you with is one of intrigue and mirth. “Show me what you mean,” he offers, starting to rub your clit slowly with featherlight pressure. You playfully roll your eyes. Angling your hips, his hand stays motionless while you work for the friction that you so desperately crave. After a few half-hearted grinds, you realize he won’t make things easier for you. 

The smirk Juyeon wears incites the brattiness that you reserve for moments like this. You look at him with pleading eyes, opening your mouth to complain, but damp fingers keep you silent. Your tongue swirls around the digits, and a satisfied hum dissolves within the small space between your bodies. “You want these, don’t you?” He asks, watching you taste yourself in earnest. You respond by spreading your legs wider, tilting your hips up in hopes that he won’t tease you even though you more than deserve it. Pulling his fingers away, he returns his hand to its former place with a sick grin curving his lips. “Words, baby. You gotta communicate.” He prompts through a soft murmur while his hand hovers over where you want him most. 

Turning your head away from him, you pout as you try to hold on to your last few shreds of dignity. You mutter the words out quickly with an attitude, and Juyeon shakes his head in disappointment, grabbing your face with his free hand for added measure. “Look at me, baby. Ask nicely. You can do it.” He orders, fingers grazing through the tacky wetness that continues to pool towards your center.

“Yes, Juyeon. I missed you. Wanna cum on your fingers first. Please?” You plead, feeling your pride and dignity slip through your grasp and into his hands. 

Slipping his arm around your waist, Juyeon presses a kiss to your lips. “You missed me?” He teases, pressing into you finally. “Is this what you thought about, hm? Realized you love my hands too much to lose me?” You let out a moan before shaking your head no in response. “Words.” He reminds you, sliding his fingers in and out of you slowly. “N-no. I– I thought about…” your train of thought derailed as Juyeon’s fingers arched and brushed against a spot you had neglected for nearly three weeks.

“Uh-uh. You thought about what?” He pries, not letting you off the hook as his hand moves against you. “How you never shut up,” you answer sarcastically, face contorting from the sparks of pleasure that play with your nerve endings. 

“You’re lucky I like you,” he tosses back, forgoing punishing you to steal a kiss off your lips. 

Your pussy is snug around the digits, juices collecting in Juyeon’s palm as he continues his ministrations. Eyes falling shut, a throaty moan passes your chest. You bring your hand up, grabbing a fistful of his shirt while you relish the delicious push and pull of his slender fingers. Your hips roll into his hand, meeting his thrusts as your muscles tense up. 

Nobody else knew your body as well as he did. Juyeon’s movements are instinctual and precise, catching the cluster of nerves within you easily. He adds a third finger, and your head lolls forward. You can barely get his name out, the noun blending into a moan when it reaches the tip of your tongue. Before you can brace yourself for it, you’re cumming. It rips through you, right down to the ends of your nerves. You cry into his chest as the orgasm swallows you whole and strips you bare. Your grip on his shirt loosens, and your arms fall slack by your sides. His hold on you tightens, keeping you stable as he strokes your high along with the steady drag of his fingers.

Once you’ve had enough, you close your legs around his arm. You smile, caught in a daze, as you gradually return to your senses and regain strength in your limbs. “Happy?” He jokes with a cocky smile, and you nod in response. Sliding off the sofa, you lace your fingers through his as he leads toward your bedroom. With a last-minute thought, you reach out, swiping a glass of water off the coffee table just in case.

As you place the glass down on your nightstand, Juyeon pulls his clothes off and goes over to your bed. Your pussy throbs at the sight of him, cock hanging hard between his muscular thighs. 

He watches you while you take your shirt off, running his tongue across his bottom lip. “C’mere,” he directs, giving you space to crawl in between his legs. You look him up and down, mouth watering as you settle down right in front of his cock. Wetting your lips, you press a kiss to his length. He rubs his head against the soft swell of your bottom lip before you open your mouth wider. “You know what to do.” He urges gently with eyes fixed on your lips. 

Your tongue runs over the bead of precum that pools at his tip. You tease him deliberately as you wet his length. Dragging your tongue over his hard cock repeatedly while you watch his face scrunch up and his eyes close. When Juyeon’s had enough, he pushes your head down, and you eagerly oblige. Your lips close around the crown of his cock as you slide down his shaft before pulling off with a lewd pop. His hips buck up, chasing after the wet heat of your mouth as he pushes your head down again. You hum around him, buzzing with satisfaction as you sink onto him again. 

A mix of spit and precum dribbles down your chin and hand as you work his dick. Tightening the softness of your mouth around him, your cheeks hollow, you pluck your first grunt out of Juyeon’s chest. Your eyes flit up, seeing his muscles go taut in anticipation as you glide down his length again. You keep your tongue flat against the underside of his cock with every bob of your head, and eventually, he gets noisy— just how you like him. 

Fingers dig into your hair as Juyeon lets out a particularly shaky exhale. You’re pulled off of him before you could start choking on his cock. “Juyeon, I’m busy,” you huff, lips slick and swollen as you meet his gaze. His face and neck flushed, sweat clings to his forehead, and your eyes sparkle in delight. “Oooh, were you about to cum?” You coo, toeing a dangerous line as you pump his hardness slowly. “You missed me sucking your dick?” You teasingly add just as he forcefully pulls you into his lap. 

“Shut up,” he murmurs, melding your lips together while you straddle his hips and reach into your nightstand for protection. 

Placing the condom into Juyeon’s hand, you direct your attention to his neck. The crinkling of foil reaches your ears as you move your lips down his throat and along his collarbones. You sprinkle sweet kisses across his tanned skin until you feel his hands wrap around your waist, and you get deftly flipped onto your back.

Juyeon cages you between his toned arms, dipping his head down to place a heated kiss on your lips. Your arms make their way around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he drags his tongue across your bottom lip. You get lost in the depths of his mouth once more, exchanging sloppy kisses between pants and moans. His teeth sink into your lip, and warmth floods through your body. He feels stiff and heavy against your center, and your hips tilt upward in need. He takes the hint. Sitting upright, his hands go to rest on your knees before he pushes your thighs farther apart. He gathers as much saliva as he can inside his mouth before his lips part, and you watch as it slowly lands on your cunt— not that you need it. With his cock in his hand, he runs his length along the sticky, wet mess between your legs. 

After what feels like a year's worth of teasing, Juyeon finally slips inside, and you moan at the fullness. “How do you need me, baby?” He asks, adjusting his hands to grip your thighs. You whimper, sinking your teeth into your lip while you stretch your legs into the air. “Harder,” you breathe out, looking up at him with pleading eyes. He lays into your request, moving his hips with precision. He fucks you slow but potent, hips banging into yours with every thrust. His hands wrap around your legs, using them as leverage as he shakes a cry out of your body. Your eyes flutter closed as desperate pleasure laps at your skin and sets your nerves on fire. You try to snake your hand down to your needy clit, but he catches your hand in his. Lacing his fingers through yours, he leans forward. Your arm gets pulled above your head as he hovers in front of your face. “Did your boyfriend say you could do that?” 

Your face scrunches up, “Is this how we slap a title on us? With you scrambling my insides?” His lips stretch into a smirk, “Kind of fitting, if you ask me.” You roll your eyes, but the smile that curves your lips tells your true feelings. “Faster,” you instruct, and your legs get pushed back until your knees nearly touch your cheeks.

Juyeon’s hair dances on the edge of your forehead as he picks up the pace. “Fuck,” you moan. The word is so elongated coming from your mouth that you never finish it. You choke on a whine as he drives cock deeper, bullying the sensitive spot within you. All you can do is melt further into your bedsheets. The coil nestled in your stomach gets wound tight, your muscles contract, and your chest dramatically rises and falls. You tighten around him spasmodically as ragged, uneven breaths mix in the tight space between you two. Trying to form words, your lips curve around his name, but the only sound that comes out of your mouth is a depraved whimper. His grip on your hand loosens and slides down your arm towards your hips.

Before you can conceptualize what’s happening, you get flipped onto your stomach, and there’s stinging heat spreading across your ass cheek. 

Juyeon smacks your ass again and again as moans flow out of you ceaselessly. He plunges back inside, throwing his full weight into his thrusts. His hand travels up your back and into your hair, curling his fingers around the strands and tugging hard. You gasp and pant, feeling every last breath inside of you being pulled cleanly out of your lungs. His firm chest meets your back as he tilts your head back, exposing your neck to him, and his lips attach to the bruised skin. Your fingers scramble for purchase, gripping the sheets tight as your greedy hole takes all that he offers you. You wanted him to move in. To quit his day job and dedicate his life to fucking you like this every single day. You needed to stay like this forever, pinned down with his cock tucked deep inside your pussy. A gargled version of his name passes your lips as you lazily meet his thrusts. “Oh, shit,” you rasp, tears pooling in your eyes while your senses are overloaded by his cock. 

You hang on the precipice of an orgasm, skin growing hot as moan after moan hiccups out of your throat. Juyeon’s voice registers in your ears. “This is all I thought about that night. Fucking. You. In front. Of that stupid. Fucking. Dude.” He admits through gritted teeth, punctuating each word with harsh pounding. “You belong to me.” He adds, and you whine, loving this newfound possessiveness. “I belong to you,” you brainlessly repeat, voice muffled by your sheets.

He pulls out, switching your positions until you sit in his lap. “Say that again,” Juyeon orders, pulling you down onto his cock as your thighs press against his. “I belong to you,” you chant through a moan. 

You let your hips roll, bouncing on his cock as you chase after another high. His hands map your curves, grabbing hold of your tits and pulling you close. His fingers dig into your supple skin, squeezing your breasts while he snaps his hips up. Your mouth opens up for him, fueled by your dire craving to cum. 

His soft moans and gasps die on your tongue as you ride him, sliding up and down his length. You feel Juyeon’s hands travel down to your stomach. He holds you still, slamming into you with a devastatingly brutal pace, and your body starts to shut down. Your vision tunnels, and your sense of touch heightens. Sweat runs down your neck and chest in rivulets, and you shiver at the sensation. You feel every drag of his cock, stretching out your cunt and barreling towards your g-spot. Then you’re cumming, clenching around him hard while he ruts into you with rapidly disintegrating restraint, thrusts growing sloppy.

When you finally come down, Juyeon’s arm is looped around your waist, and you’re resting on his sweaty chest. “Are you going to make me leave now?” He asks, breathless, and you shoot him a bewildered glance. “Juyeon. After that? You deserve a key to my place,” you kid, with an airy laugh. 

“All jokes aside, no. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay with me forever.” And you mean every word. 

-

In the morning, you wake up to an empty bed, and your heart sinks into your heels. You blindly reach out for the glass of water left on your nightstand, but your hand touches the air. Sitting up, confused and viscerally heartbroken, you heave yourself out of bed and onto your feet. You drape your comforter around your naked body and pad out into the living room to grab yourself some water.

The sights before you quell your tender heart. “What are you doing?” You ask, eyeing Juyeon with a joyful smile. He’s wearing nothing but boxers, and it looks like he stole a pair of your socks, but you keep your reactions to these minor details close to your chest. “Making my girlfriend breakfast,” he says, keeping his eyes on the pan in front of him as he raises a glass of water for you to see.

You snort, but your heart squeezes behind your rib cage, “Since when can you cook?” You tease, coming around to lean against your counter and take the glass, eyes full of adoration as you stare at the man before you. 

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause. 

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path. 

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.” 

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there. 

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.” 

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour. 

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, love.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

 “Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?” 

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall. 

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze. 

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter. 

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds. 

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session. 

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete. 

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person. 

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe. 

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels. 

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you. 

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand. 

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system. 

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod. 

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?” 

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane. 

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

Now, two weeks later, you were still unsuccessfully looking through advertisements online. This is when you decided that you had enough and wanted to explore the city for a little while today. You got ready and left your apartment, just to see your neighbour standing at his front door beside yours. You looked at him and shyly smiled, which he returned, before he went back inside; a beautiful orange cat following his trail.

He was the only person who you had interacted with so far. During one of your first days, he had offered his help to carry your heavy things into your apartment. Gratefully you agreed and together you moved some stuff into your new home. When you were finished, you ordered takeout and paid for his part, since he was so nice to help you out. Even though there was a language barrier between the two of you, you both used a translation tool to keep your conversations going, well into the night.

You had not spoken to each other since, between a shy “hello” whenever you saw each other in the corridors. There was nothing to talk about, anyway, even though you were desperately waiting for him to approach you again. Minho had not only been very kind to you, but he was also very easy on the eyes. Truthfully, he was probably one of the most beautiful men you had ever laid your eyes on.

When you got outside, the first thing you did was take a deep breath. Being all alone in your room was not fun and you were out of food too, anyway. You walked past a few blocks to a convenience store, since it was too late to do real grocery shopping at this late hour of the day now. Just before you got to the store, you heard a noise coming from beside you. 

Confusedly, you looked around. That is when you saw a small animal moving under a plastic bag sitting at the side of the road. Slowly, you walked past the noise and took the plastic bag inside your hand. Below, there was a kitten. It was still very young and it looked sick and it made your heart hurt. This little guy could not have been older than eight weeks, if even, and it looked so miserable.

There was no one nearby who looked for the kitten. It had no collar, but maybe if you were lucky, the vet would find some more info on it. If only you were able to speak Korean and get help for the kitty, that is. Dejectedly, you were already trying to come up with some broken sentences in Korean that you could tell a vet, when he came into your mind. Minho. You remembered that he had at least one cat roaming around his house. You literally just saw one walking around his legs earlier. He would not mind helping you out, even with a language barrier, would he not? He did it once before and you were hoping that he would not mind you knocking on his door again. Selfishly, you felt giddy at the thought of speaking to him again. Yet, the kitten had to come first.

Carefully, to not startle it, you crouched down in front of it. Upon a closer look, you saw that the kitten was shaking and freezing. You breathed lowly and put a hand out to let it smell you first. It hissed.

“Okay, what do we do with you,” you mumbled and took your phone out. Upon a quick search online, you followed the suggestion and looked around again to look for the kitten's mother. She was, unfortunately, nowhere to be found. Biting your lip, you looked through more articles that did not involve immediately going to a vet, since it was well into the night already. Several sources said that the cat should stay outside, but it was freezing and hurt. Surely that would be considered a situation for you to bring them inside. Right?

You were a bit lost, but your wish to help the kitten out was stronger. Gently, you held your hand towards the cat again and this time, it sniffed you. Smiling slightly, you took your jacket off and put it around the kitty. It was still shaking, but now looking at you with curious eyes. You cooed quietly and wrapped it in your jacket before picking it up. 

Softly, you pressed it against your chest to keep it warm and looked at it. It seemed to be fine, except for a swollen eye. Maybe it had gotten into a fight or it was because of the cold. You were not too sure, but you were hoping that you would find a vet tomorrow to make sure the cat got home. First, you had to find Minho.

You walked all the way back home with the cat in your arms, making sure that you warmed it up on your way by pressing it against your chest. It even started to purr very quietly and it made your heart beat excitedly. The kitten was fine, you thought, maybe it was even happy that you took it home with you.

The first thing you heard when you got back to your floor was music. Loud music. The kitten in your arms started shaking again and you cooed quietly, trying to calm it down. Hurriedly, you went to Minho’s door and unfortunately, it was the source of the loud music. 

Sighing, you looked at the kitten in your arms, “I’m gonna be loud, okay? I just need to get this guy’s attention for you. I’m sorry, baby.”

You put the kitten a bit further under your arm to hide it from the noise, when you banged against the door.

“Minho! Open the door!” You yelled over the music. 

You waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

Sighing, you looked down at the kitten, who was now glaring at you.

“Hey, I know. I said that I’m sorry,” you defended yourself and gave it a quick pat on the head. It meowed in protest.

You exhaled and hammered against the door again.

“Can you open the fucking door, please?” You yelled louder this time.

And waited.

Just when you thought that no one had heard you, the door opened. Some guy was standing in front of it. He had bright red hair and matching eyes. He smiled widely when he saw you.

He slurred something in Korean and when you just stared at him, he shrugged and went back inside, trying to close the door again. You yelped and put your foot between the door and the frame.

“Minho?” You said, pointing at the nameplate beside the door.

The guy tilted his head, “Minho?”

You nodded excitedly, “Yes! Minho!”

The guy furrowed his eyebrows and looked at you for a second. He saw the kitten in your arms and shrugged, before he yelled something in Korean. This time, he yelled it over the music into the room. He looked at something before he stumbled back, leaving you alone in the doorway with a kitten in your arms.

Seconds later, Minho arrived. He looked a bit out of it, too, but smiled widely when he saw that it was you. He said something in Korean and smiled widely. When you looked at him with big eyes confusedly, his ears turned red.

“Hi,” he said and awkwardly scratched the back of his head, “You okay?”

You shook your head and showed him the kitten in your hands. His eyes went wide and he cooed at it. Carefully, he held his hand towards the cat’s face, just like you had done it before. Instead of hissing at him, the kitten just licked his finger and Minho smiled widely.

“Come,” he said to you and went back inside. Then, he yelled something and the music stopped. You went inside behind him and suddenly, seven pairs of eyes were on you. 

“Hi,” you said awkwardly and the guys who were mentally present greeted you back. Minho explained something to them and they all glanced at you, or rather the kitten in your arms. Then, they left one by one and Minho waved you over to his kitchen. You followed him and watched him prepare a towel bed for the kitten in your arms, before he ordered you to sit it down. When you did, he examined it fully with a slight frown. Suddenly, he got up and prepared a bit of food and something to drink for the kitten, before he asked you to tell him what happened, the translating tool turning into your best friend that night. 

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

About two weeks later, someone knocked on your door. That someone was your neighbour, Minho. The kitten in your lap purred excitedly, already getting up to greet his best friend at the door. You laughed and followed him.

He was right. Minho was standing in front of your door with some groceries in his hand. He handed them to you with a smile before he crouched down and cooed at the kitten. After going to the vet the next day after rescuing it, you found out that the little guy was, in fact, a stray cat. He had no chip, no tag, and nowhere to go. The vet had offered to put it into an animal shelter, but it hurt your heart to think of letting this little guy go ever again. So, you decided to keep him. And with him came Minho.

Minho had been a wonderful neighbour and friend. He helped you with your Korean, your groceries, and even with your little Kitten. It was so sweet to see him play with him, especially when his own cats followed Minho over to yours to play with your cat. You were like a little family and it made your heart beat a little bit faster.

After giving your kitten all the kisses it deserved, Minho stood up again and looked at you. His ears were red because he was nervous and his cheeks heated up at the same time. He looked at you and licked his lips.

Nervously, he asked, “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

“huh?” he cranes his neck to look at you, wincing as he moves, and through the dull orange hue of the candle sitting on your bedside table, you see his brows furrow, and his nose scrunch up.

he hit his head too hard, he must’ve.

“i’m serious, baby. you have one, two, three,” you start gently placing your finger over various spots on his back—stifling a laugh when you catch him staring at you, dumbfounded. “nine, ten, eleven.”

he tries to peer over his shoulder, but is quickly humbled by the persistent throb radiating from just above the waistband of his boxers.

“fuck,” he mutters, shoving his face back into his pillow with a groan. carefully, you run your fingers through his hair, and he turns his head to the side—peering up at you through tired eyes. “eleven?”

“eleven! and that’s just on your back,” you smile, and he knows you a little too well—he recognizes the glint of mischief behind your eyes too easily.

“the hell are you talking about?” he asks.

“look, you have one,” you pause and place your finger on his forearm, right next to a pigmented little circle—a beauty mark. “here, too.”

his gaze shifts back and forth between you and where you’re pointing, but he just can’t seem to connect his own dots.

“they’re places where your lover used to kiss you most often,” you explain as you lay down beside him. “you know, in all your past lives.”

oh, and because he has eleven on his back, he’s teetering on the edge of promiscuity? that has to be one of the single most ridiculous things he’s ever heard—and he spent three years at ua with kirishima and kaminari. but, it’s coming from you—so he finds it endearing all the same.

what a sweet way of seeing things, how very you.

“you made that up,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as sleep threatens to swallow him whole.

“did not,” you insist, “i mean, look at izuku.”

katsuki simply snorts in response before shuffling around—bearing the intense pain as he rolls onto his back and motions for you to snuggle into him, because it’d hurt more to not have you close.

at least, that’s what he’d say if he was a romantic—someone who’s beauty mark numbers are in the single digits.

“how many lovers do you think he’s had?” you hum, running a hand across katsuki’s chest in a soothing motion.

“none.”

“oh? two hundred you say?”

he sighs this time, muttering a shaddup under his breath as he allows his eyes to close once more. he’d like to leave it at that and drift off into dream world, but you follow up with a sentence that makes his heart flutter.

“don’t worry kats, none of them were me,” you laugh, like music to his ears—his favourite song. he can’t help the boyish grin that creeps onto his lips, and he thanks his lucky stars that you aren’t looking.

though your words make him wonder, if you were ever his in a past life—maybe you’ve always been his. yeah, he likes the sound of that, even if it is the single most ridiculous thought he’s ever had—it’s you, so he’ll think of it forever.

“good,” he says—feeling your weight shift a little, and when he opens his eyes, you’re there.

you’re close, inches away from his face, and you get even closer—pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, one that seemingly numbs him from the inside out, taking away his pain for that brief moment.

and as you both settle back down—snug in each other’s arms, he thinks he can finally fall victim to his drowsiness.

but you have one last burning question.

“baby, do i have permission to count izuku’s?”