thena.

You’re sat on a stool, elbows on the counter, whole body vibrating with rage and the kind of exhaustion that makes you want to start biting people. “So then,” you say, voice hoarse, hands flying as you talk, “he fucking says all that shit and of course it pissed the fuck out of me. Like who the fuck does he think he is?”

Taehyun doesn’t even look up. He just keeps polishing. “Mm.”

“And he’s stood there with his posh little coat and his posh little mouth,” you continue, spiralling, “and he’s calling me a scammer as if I don’t already know that. As if I wake up and go, hmm, today I’ll make money out of being a shitty person, what a vibe.”

“Mm,” Taehyun repeats, wiping the rim hard enough you’re surprised it doesn’t crack.

“And then,” you say, leaning in, lowering your voice, “he starts with the morality speech. Like he’s some fucking patron saint of heartbreak, like he hasn’t blackmailed me into stalking someone.”

Taehyun finally glances up, deadpan. “You did scam him first.”

“Shut up,” you snap, pointing at him. “Don’t join him. I’ll set this bar on fire.”

He blinks slowly, completely unbothered. “You can’t afford arson.”

“I can’t afford anything,” you fire back. “That’s literally the fucking point.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. He reaches under the counter and slides a drink toward you—one of his low-alcohol you’re annoying but I still want you alive cocktails. It’s pink, sweet and smells of fake fruit and coping.

“You’re cut off after that,” he says.

“I’m not drunk,” you argue automatically, then take a sip and soften a fraction. “This is basically juice.”

“It’s juice with consequences,” he replies.

You drink regardless, because your nervous system is currently held together by sugar and spite.

Taehyun goes back to wiping. You watch his hands for a second—the familiar rhythm, the way he moves like he’s done this shift a million times and still hates it every time. You’ve known him long enough to hear his moods in the way the rag scrapes glass.

“So what,” you say, voice quieter now, “I’m just meant to take it? I’m meant to stand there and let him look at me like I’m scum?”

Taehyun shrugs, eyes on the bar top. “Maybe he’s just angry.”

“He’s angry,” you echo, incredulous. “He’s angry at me. Like I held him at gunpoint and made him crawl under a table with grapes.”

Taehyun snorts. “You kind of did.”

“You’re not helping,” you warn.

Taehyun holds up both hands in mock surrender, then goes back to wiping. He listens without interrupting. It’s annoying, actually. You prefer him loud—loud Taehyun is easy to fight. Quiet Taehyun means he’s thinking—thinking Taehyun is the worst version of Taehyun.

You keep talking anyway. You’re too wound up to stop.

You tell him about the walk home. The fight. The way Soobin’s face looked when you finally snapped. The way your own voice went shaky, betrayed you, turned honest. The way you cried, which makes you feel physically ill to admit out loud.

“—and then I just fucking left,” you finish, staring into your drink. “I didn’t even let him respond. I just walked off and—” Your throat tightens. You clear it. “And I hate him.”

Taehyun’s rag pauses for half a second. He puts the glass down with too much care. He doesn’t say anything immediately. He just leans his hip against the counter and studies you with that face.

His thinking face. The one that makes you want to throw a spoon at him.

“What?” you say, defensive already, shoulders tensing. “What the fuck is that look?”

Taehyun sets the rag down. He plants one hand on the counter and leans over slightly, gaze fixed on you like he’s about to diagnose you with something incurable. “Do you like him?” he asks.

You choke.

A full, violent sputter that sends your drink launching out of your mouth in an arc of betrayal—straight onto Taehyun’s face. It’s instant, cinematic and disgusting.

Taehyun closes his eyes.

You stare at him, horrified.

The drink drips slowly down his cheek. He inhales through his nose. Exhales. Very calm. Very controlled. Then he reaches for a towel without saying a word and starts wiping his face with the defeated precision of a man who has made terrible choices in friendship. “You are,” he says, voice dangerously even, “fucking revolting.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, half laughing, half dying. “You asked me if I like him.”

Taehyun keeps wiping. “I asked a question. You answered with assault.”

“You’re actually insane,” you say, coughing again. “Why would you even assume that?”

He shrugs, still drying his jaw. “It’s not like you to get this invested.”

“I’m invested because he’s a problem,” you snap. “He’s a rich, upright problem with eyelashes and a God complex.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “Eyelashes.”

“Shut up.”

He ignores you, obviously. “Also,” he adds, voice too casual, “this whole thing feels—familiar.”

You narrow your eyes. “Huh?”

Taehyun’s gaze holds yours, steady. “Maybe it’s bringing up old memories of Mr Han.”

Your blood goes cold so fast it’s almost funny. Almost. “What the fuck did you just say?” you ask, voice dropping.

Taehyun doesn’t flinch. He just watches you, like he knows he’s poked something sharp and he’s doing it anyway. “I’m saying you have a tendency to chase after people who aren’t even looking at you.”

The rage that surges up is instant and irrational and bright. “Why are you bringing that fucker up?” you spit. “Why are you dragging that name into my night like it’s a fun little pub game?”

Taehyun’s jaw tightens. “Because you’re doing the thing.”

“I’m not doing the thing,” you snap.

“You are,” he says, deadpan. “You get hooked on people who make you feel small. You try to earn them. You turn it into a project.”

Your fingers curl around your glass. The urge to hurl it at him is strong. The fact it’s mostly juice is the only thing stopping you—you refuse to waste sugar.

“So now I’m a case study,” you say, voice sharp. “I’m a fucking psychology assignment. Great. Put me in your notes.”

Taehyun sighs, long-suffering. “I’m not trying to piss you off.”

“Well you’re succeeding,” you say, standing abruptly. The stool scrapes loud against the floor. “You know what, Taehyun? You’re so fucking annoying.”

He lifts his brows. “You’re welcome.”

“I don’t want to see you for a good few days,” you tell him, grabbing your bag, “or it’s on sight.”

Taehyun scoffs. “On sight? What are you going to do, hex me?”

“I’ll throw a drink at you again,” you threaten.

He points at his face. “You already did that. Twice this month.”

“Then I’ll do it with something sticky,” you fire back. “I’ll do it with syrup. I’ll do it with regret.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches, trying not to smile. He fails. “Go home.”

“Gladly,” you snap, slinging your coat on. “Enjoy your morals. I hope they pay your rent.”

He watches you storm toward the door, then calls after you, quieter, “Text me when you’re home.”

You flip him off without turning around.

Outside, the cold air hits you straight in the face. It sobers you a bit. Not enough to be calm—just enough to feel everything properly. Your walk home is fast and furious, hands shoved in your pockets, brain replaying Taehyun’s stupid words over and over.

Do you like him?

As if you’d ever like someone who makes you feel poor just by standing there. As if you’d ever like someone who can look at you and think he’s better.

As if you’d ever—

You shove the thoughts away and climb the stairs to your flat, keys rattling in your hand. Your hallway smells faintly of damp and someone’s curry. Your studio is dark and quiet when you step in. Mangy doesn’t even come to greet you. He’s probably asleep somewhere warm, dreaming about a life where he has a different owner.

You dump your bag, kick your shoes off, and stand in your kitchen for a minute staring at nothing.

Your chest still feels tight. Your head still feels hot. You know you shouldn’t.

You do it anyway.

You roll yourself a spliff with the tired efficiency of someone who’s done this too many times for it to be cool anymore. The paper sticks slightly because your fingers are cold. You lick it, seal it, light it, and take a drag.

The smoke hits your lungs and your shoulders loosen an inch. The room softens around the edges. Your anger goes from a sharp blade to a heavy weight.

You sit on the edge of your bed, exhale, and stare at the cracks in the ceiling. “I fucking hate everyone,” you mutter to nobody.

Mangy makes a sound from somewhere that could be a yawn or judgement. Hard to tell with him.

You take another drag.

Then the doorbell rings. Your body stiffens automatically.

For half a second, your brain goes, Taehyun. Apology. Guilt. That stupid face. Him turning up and pretending he’s not worried. You stand and pad down the hall, annoyance already loading in your chest. You yank the door open.

Instead, there he is.

Choi Soobin.

Hair neat. Coat on. Face too pretty for your shitty hallway. Eyes fixed on you with a look that’s not polite, not soft, not hesitant.

It’s something darker.

Your mouth goes dry. You’re holding a half-smoked spliff between your fingers. Your hoodie is creased. Your eyes probably look glassy. You smell of weed and cheap perfume and stress.

Soobin’s gaze drops to the spliff. Then to your face. Then back to the spliff.

He inhales slowly, like he’s trying to stay calm.

You stare at him, voice wrecked and furious and stunned all at once. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Choi Soobin isn’t the sort of person who turns up at someone’s flat uninvited (he is). 

He knocks, waits and leaves if nobody answers. He keeps his voice level. He doesn’t do drama or confrontations. He definitely isn’t the type to show up at the doorstep of the girl who scammed him with a virgin ghost and then screamed her trauma at him on a pavement.

And yet.

His guilt has been chewing him alive since the afternoon. It sat on his chest and followed him to his bedroom. It’s been there while he ate a sad dinner he didn’t taste. It’s been there while he replayed your face when you cried—angry, humiliated, trying to stand tall while your body betrayed you.

He told himself you deserved it. He told himself you were cruel. He told himself you were a fraud and frauds don’t get feelings. Then he remembered the way your voice cracked when you said rent. The way your hands shook when you said tuition. The way you stormed away and didn’t even let him fix it.

Now he’s here with his stomach in his throat, standing outside your door, rehearsing an apology that keeps sounding pathetic in his head.

He knocks. Once. Twice.

The door swings open hard enough that his pulse jumps, and the first thing that hits him is the smell.

It’s not incense or candle wax. Not your usual mystic studio shit.

It’s weed—strong, thick, clinging to the air and his nose immediately rejects it. His face screws up before he can stop it.

Then he sees you.

You look wrecked. Like you’ve been hit by life and coping badly. Your eyes are bloodshot. Pupils wide. Lips dry. Cheeks flushed. Hoodie creased. You’re holding something between your fingers, smoke curling up from it.

You blink at him slowly, as if he’s a concept you’re trying to understand. “What the fuck are you doing here?” you ask, voice sluggish, the words dragging.

Soobin’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He didn’t rehearse this version of you. He rehearsed angry you, sharp you—not… stoned you.

His eyebrows pull together. His voice comes out too blunt. “Are you high?”

Your eyes sharpen a fraction, offence waking up. “How is that any of your fucking business?”

“It’s—” He stops and adjusts. He tries to sound calm. “It’s my business when you’re—l-like this.”

You snort. It’s not friendly. “When I’m like this? Listen to you.”

Soobin swallows, hands curling at his sides. He forces them open again. He came here to apologise. He did not come here to get bullied in a hallway while you’re high off your mind. He clears his throat. “I came to—”

“To what?” you cut in. “Lecture me?”

“No.” He shakes his head once. “I came to apologise.”

Your eyes narrow. “For what?”

Soobin’s chest tightens. The list is long. “For what I said. For calling you—” He pauses. He hates the word. It tastes ugly. “For calling you disgusting.”

“I don’t remember you calling me disgusting,” you say, voice flat.

“I didn’t say the word,” he admits. “I—”

“You implied it,” you finish for him, stepping back half a pace. The movement is unsteady. You catch yourself on the doorframe. “Congratulations. Great apology.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “You know what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” you repeat, and your tone turns cold under the haze. “Fuck off.”

You try to shut the door.

Soobin reacts on instinct. His foot shoots forward and blocks it. The door bumps against his boot. The sound is loud in the hallway and he immediately regrets it.

Your eyes snap up. “Did you just stop me from shutting my own door?”

Soobin’s pulse spikes. He takes his foot back half an inch, then realises that means the door will slam and he’ll lose this chance, and his guilt claws up again. “I’m not here to fight,” he says quickly.

“You’re literally fighting my door,” you snap.

Soobin presses his palm against the edge of it, careful, keeping it open without shoving. “Please. Just—two minutes.”

Your stare drags over him. You look tired in the way people look when they’ve had a bad day and decided to make it worse. “Two minutes,” you echo. “You’re brave today.”

“I’m not brave,” he mutters. Then he adds, quieter, “I just feel bad.”

Your mouth twitches, almost amused, then it flattens again. “That’s a you problem.”

Soobin exhales through his nose and steps inside, since his foot is already in the door and his dignity is already in pieces. He closes it behind him gently, then immediately regrets being here when the smell hits harder in the cramped hallway.

It’s everywhere. It’s in the walls. It’s in your hoodie. It’s in the air itself.

He scrunches his nose again, involuntary. “It stinks.”

You stare. “You’re in my flat.”

Soobin’s eyes flick around. Shoes by the door. Recycling piled. Your dead plant still dead. Your studio curtain hanging crooked in the hall. He follows you as you turn and walk toward the back room, not trusting you to not fall over. He hates that thought. He hates that he’s thinking it. He also can’t stop.

He tries again, voice softer. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up,” you say, stepping into the studio. You reach for the rolling tray on your table with calm efficiency, as if you’re making tea.

Soobin falters in the doorway.

You’re rolling another spliff. You do it with practiced hands. Grinder. Paper. Filter. Sprinkle. Tap. Lick. Seal. Light.

Soobin’s brain stalls. He’s seen weed before. He’s heard jokes. He’s been near mates who smoked at parties. He’s never watched someone do it in their own home with the casual confidence of a person brushing their teeth.

His voice cracks. “You’re making another one?”

You don’t even look up. “Yeah.”

Soobin stands there, stiff, trying to decide what to do with his hands. He puts them in his pockets, takes them out, puts them back. He feels twelve. “Do you do this often?” he says.

You glance up at him, unimpressed. “Do you always ask stupid questions?”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t—”

“Oh my God,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, voice rising before he can stop it. “You’re— y-you’re doing drugs.”

You snort. “And you’re doing moral panic in my living room.”

“It’s not moral panic,” he says, then he hears himself and hates it. “It’s concern.”

You take a drag, hold it, then blow smoke out slowly toward the ceiling. “Concern. Cute.”

Soobin’s eyes widen at the smoke. “You’re going to set something on fire.”

“What, the curtain?” you say. “Good. It’s held up with safety pins and lies.”

Soobin stares, helpless. “This is insane.”

You tilt your head, eyes heavy, mouth twitching. “You came to a scammer’s flat to apologise and found out I’m an actual person. Cry about it.”

Soobin’s face heats. He hates that you’re making him feel stupid again. He hates that you’re high and still sharper than him.

You watch his expression and smile, slow and mean. “What? Want one?”

Soobin’s face recoils on instinct. “No.”

You laugh. It comes out louder than you probably mean it to. “You look offended.”

“I am offended,” he snaps, then immediately goes stiff, shocked at his own tone. He forces his voice down. “I don’t smoke.”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes dragging over him. “I can tell.”

Soobin’s teeth grind. He reaches for patience. He can’t find it. His chest is still tight with guilt and anger and something else he doesn’t want to name.

You lift the spliff again, offering it, eyebrows raised.

Soobin stares at it. Stares at you. Stares at it again. “No,” he repeats, too loud.

You laugh again, the sound rough and delighted. “You’re so boring.”

Soobin’s temper slips. “I am not boring.”

Soobin stands there, breathing too fast—watching you inhale, watching you exhale, watching you act like everything is fine. He hates it. He hates that you’re laughing when he’s been spiraling all evening. He hates that his apology is stuck in his throat, waiting for you to stop being a menace for two seconds.

Then he sees the way your hand shakes slightly as you bring the spliff to your mouth. It’s small. It’s not dramatic. It’s enough.

His anger shifts and his guilt sharpens. His mouth opens. “I didn’t come here to—”

You cut him off. “If you say I’m worried about you I’m going to throw something at your head.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “Why do you make everything difficult?”

You stare at him. “Why do you make everything moral?”

Silence stretches.

Soobin’s eyes drop to the spliff again. His brain says no. His upbringing says no. His whole identity says no.

His body says something else. It says: do something reckless for once. Stop being the boy who behaves his way through pain. Stop standing here judging someone whose life is harder than yours.

His hand moves before he can stop it. He snatches the spliff from your fingers.

You blink, stunned. “Excuse me?”

Soobin lifts it to his mouth—furious at himself, furious at you, furious at the world. He takes a long drag.

It’s followed by immediate regret.

The smoke hits his throat and his lungs revolt. His chest spasms. He coughs hard, then harder, then bends forward—coughing until his eyes water and his face goes red.

You stare for half a second. Then you start laughing with your whole body—shoulders shaking, hand over your mouth, eyes crinkling as if you’ve just witnessed the funniest thing on earth.

Soobin coughs again, tears in his eyes. “Shut up.”

You gasp. “Oh my God.”

He coughs. “Stop.”

You laugh harder. “You did that so confidently.”

Soobin straightens, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s disgusting.”

You tilt your head. “And yet you did it.”

He glares at you, throat burning. “I don’t know what came over me.”

You grin. “Your ego.”

He opens his mouth to argue, coughs again instead, then glares harder.

You hold your hand out. “Give it back.”

Soobin looks at the spliff, then at you. His cheeks are still red. His eyes are watery. His hair has fallen out of place. He looks human.

It makes you laugh again. Quieter now, warmer.

He hates that too. He thrusts the spliff back at you. “Teach me.”

You blink. “What?”

“Teach me,” he repeats, jaw tight. “How to do it without—d-dying.”

You stare at him, genuinely stunned. “Why?”

Soobin’s voice drops, rough with irritation and something else. “Because I’ve had a horrible day, and I don’t want to feel anything for five minutes.”

You watch him for a beat. His posture is still stiff. His mouth is still tight. He’s still trying to be in control. He’s also standing in your studio asking a scammer to teach him how to smoke. That’s a new low.

You smile, slow. “So the good boy is going off the rails.”

“I’m not a good boy,” he snaps.

You hold out the spliff again. “Sit down, then.”

He hesitates, then lowers himself to the floor awkwardly, long legs folding badly. He looks offended by the concept of sitting on the floor, then he remembers where he is and shuts up.

You sit opposite him. Cross-legged and comfortable. Your home. Your mess.

Soobin’s gaze flicks around. He looks lost for a second, then he drags his focus back to the task in front of him, since tasks are easier than feelings.

You hold the spliff between your fingers and demonstrate. “You drag it into your mouth first. You don’t inhale straight away.”

Soobin nods, watching your mouth too closely, then jerks his eyes away and stares at the floor like it’s done something interesting.

You continue, amused. “Then you inhale. Not through your mouth—through your lungs. If you suck it like a dick, you’ll die.”

Soobin’s ears go red. “Don’t say it like that.”

“You’re the one who wanted a lesson,” you reply.

He glares. You grin.

He takes the spliff and tries again, smaller drag this time, then inhales properly. He coughs once, controlled. Twice, less controlled. Then he forces himself to stop, blinking hard.

You watch him with mean satisfaction. “Better.”

He wipes his eyes again. “It’s still disgusting.”

“You’ll survive,” you say. “You survive everything with manners.”

Soobin’s mouth twitches. He takes another drag, then exhales slowly. Less coughing this time. His shoulders drop a fraction. He looks at you, surprised. “That’s… actually—”

“Yeah,” you cut in. “Shut up. You’re welcome.”

Soobin huffs a laugh, small and reluctant, then freezes as if laughter might break a rule.

You take the spliff back and smoke too, passing it between you, the room filling with haze and quiet. Five minutes later, you’re both sat on the floor, backs against the sofa, passing the smoke back and forth in a rhythm that feels wrong and easy at the same time.

Soobin’s voice is quieter now, slower. “This is illegal.”

“You’re the one who crawled under tables for grapes,” you remind him. “Your moral compass is already broken.”

He blinks at that, then a laugh slips out. He tries to swallow it. It escapes anyway.

You look at him. “There. That’s you being fun.”

He glares, but it’s lazy now. “Don’t get used to it.”

You rummage under the sofa cushion and pull out a small tin.

Soobin’s eyes narrow. “What’s that?”

You pop it open. Gummies. “Edibles.”

Soobin stares. “Absolutely not.”

You raise a brow. “You just smoked.”

“That was an accident,” he insists.

You tilt your head. “You snatched it out of my hand.”

He opens his mouth, realises there’s no defence, and shuts it again.

You hold a gummy up between your fingers. “This will help you stop being on your high horse.”

Soobin’s eyes flick to it, then away. “I am not on a high horse.”

You snort. “You’re on a high horse with a clean shirt.”

He glares. “No.”

You hold the gummy closer. “One.”

Soobin hesitates, jaw tight, then he takes it with two fingers, still looking offended. He puts it in his mouth and chews, slow and suspicious, as if he expects it to poison him.

You watch, pleased. “Good boy.”

Soobin’s eyes widen. “Don’t.”

You grin. “Too late.”

And for the first time since he walked into your flat, the tension in his shoulders drops properly, not from manners or restraint, but from surrender. He looks at you, eyes heavy, voice quieter. “Teach me how to not think.”

You blink.

Then you laugh, soft and real. “Wrong person, sweetheart.”

Soobin’s mouth twitches at the word, then he looks away quickly, ears red again.

Choi Soobin is so high the room feels tilted.

The ceiling above him is doing a slow, lazy spin. The fairy lights in your studio blink in and out of existence as if they’re trying to Morse-code him an apology. Even the incense smoke looks smug, curling up in perfect little spirals like it’s showing off.

He blinks. The spin continues. He blinks harder. The spin continues, but now it’s funny. A laugh punches out of him—loud, startled, almost offended by how good it feels. He clamps his hand over his mouth.

You turn your head on the floor and look at him, eyes heavy, pupils blown wide, lips parted around your own laugh. You look… softer like this—like your body’s too tired to keep performing armour.

“What?” you slur, already grinning, prepared to bully him for anything.

Soobin tries to speak. His tongue feels made of wool. “The—” he wheezes, “the ceiling is—m-moving.”

You stare up too. Then you start laughing again, like it’s the best joke anyone’s ever told. “It’s not the ceiling, you dickhead,” you say, sounding delighted. “It’s your brain. Your brain is lagging.”

“I don’t—” Soobin squeezes his eyes shut. “My brain doesn’t lag.”

You snort. “Babe, your brain is buffering in 4K.”

He opens his eyes again and the world does another slow swirl. He laughs harder, helpless. “Stop saying things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like babe,” he says too quickly, then realises what he’s admitted and goes rigid. “I mean—don’t call me things.”

You grin, you’ve just been handed a new weapon. “Aww. He’s shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Soobin says, automatically, because that’s what he always says when people accuse him of anything.

You lift your head an inch, eyes glittering. “You literally went red when I said dick earlier.”

“That was—” he starts, then the memory of you saying if you suck it like a dick you’ll die hits him again and he chokes on another laugh. “That was different.”

“Everything is different to you,” you mumble, flopping back down. “You’re like a—a Victorian orphan who got adopted by a bank.”

Soobin gasps. “That’s not even—”

You point a finger at him without opening your eyes. “Don’t argue. You know it’s true.”

His mouth opens to defend himself and a sound fills the room instead—music. Queen. Bohemian Rhapsody.

He hears the opening as if it’s coming from inside his ribs. The piano makes his stomach feel warm. The vocals slide into the air and suddenly it’s like the universe has decided to score your little criminal night with drama and flair.

He turns his head slowly. “You put music on.”

You nod, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Needed vibes.”

He listens for a second, then a laugh bubbles up again, ridiculous and bright. “Why is it—why does it fit?”

You grin without looking at him. “Because your life is a tragedy and mine’s a comedy and somehow we’re both in the same episode.”

That shouldn’t make sense. It makes perfect sense.

Soobin laughs again, and you laugh because he’s laughing, and then he’s laughing harder because you’re laughing. Suddenly you’re both stuck in this loop where neither of you can breathe properly and the room is spinning and the song is building, personally invested in your downfall.

“I—” Soobin wheezes, clutching his stomach. “This is—”

“Don’t,” you gasp. “Don’t say deep shit.”

“I wasn’t going to say deep shit,” he says, offended. “I was going to say this is—stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” you shoot back, and you sound so fond that his brain stutters.

He goes quiet for half a second, like the weed has turned his mouth off and his heart on. The ceiling keeps swirling. The song keeps climbing. The fairy lights keep flickering, probably laughing too.

He shifts slightly and his shoulder bumps yours. It’s tiny. Barely anything.

It feels like a lot.

He stays very still after, as if movement might ruin the moment or make it worse. His body is too aware of yours. Heat, pressure, the fact that you’re right there and he can smell your shampoo under the smoke and it’s doing something stupid to his chest.

You sigh, long and heavy, and the laugh in you drains out into quiet.

Soobin thinks, Oh.

This is where feelings happen. He hates feelings. Feelings are messy. Feelings make you do things like crawl under tables and eat grapes.

You stare up at the ceiling for a while and the music fills the gaps between your breaths. Soobin lies there trying to feel normal, trying to pretend his brain isn’t wrapped in cotton.

Your voice comes out softer than before. “You know what’s fucked?”

He turns his head toward you. “What?”

You blink slowly. “You’re the first person apart from Taehyun who’s sat in my flat and didn’t look at me like I’m—I’m—dirt.”

Soobin’s stomach dips. “That’s not—” he starts.

You cut in, eyes still on the ceiling. “Don’t—don’t do the pity thing. I can smell pity. It stinks worse than weed.”

Soobin scrunches his nose on instinct, then realises you’ve insulted your own weed and him at the same time and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He settles for honesty, which is rare for him when he’s panicking. “I didn’t think you were dirt,” he says quietly. “I thought you were… terrifying.”

You laugh under your breath. “Good.”

Then your voice shifts again—less joking, more… raw. The weed has loosened the knot that holds your throat shut. “It’s just me and my grandma,” you say.

Soobin’s brain tries to picture it. You, who swears like it’s punctuation. You, who can look someone in the eye and lie with a smile. You, who acts like you don’t need anybody.

“It’s always been just us,” you add, and your tone is casual, but Soobin can hear the weight under it. Like you’ve said this sentence a thousand times to yourself so you don’t fall apart.

He stays quiet. He’s good at quiet when he wants to be. He’s been trained in it.

You take a breath. “My mum died when I was little,” you say, and it lands like a stone.

Soobin’s chest tightens. “Oh.”

You keep going, as if stopping would make it worse. “My dad remarried.”

Soobin waits. His fingers curl into the carpet. He can feel the rough fibres under his nails, grounding him.

You blink, slow, like you’re watching a memory on the inside of your eyelids. “I used to think he’d come back,” you say, voice flatter now. “Like—like properly come back.”

Soobin swallows. He doesn’t know what to do with this. He’s never had to hope for a parent’s love. It’s always just been there, annoying and overbearing and inevitable. 

Your voice continues, and the more you talk, the more his guilt sharpens.

“In high school,” you say, “I ran away from home.”

Soobin’s head snaps toward you. “You ran away?”

You nod slightly. “Yeah. Proper ran away. Like—packed a bag, thought I was in some coming-of-age film, got a train and everything.”

Soobin tries to imagine you—teenage you—small and angry and brave enough to leave. He can’t. He can only imagine the version of you he knows now. The one who bites instead of begs.

“Why?” he asks, and the word comes out small.

“Because I found his address,” you say. “I thought if I showed up, he’d have to—see me. He’d have to remember I existed.”

Soobin’s throat tightens.

You keep staring at the ceiling, but your voice gets quieter, like you’re shrinking inside the memory. “I stood outside his door,” you say. “And I remember being so sure. Like—so sure he’d open it and go, oh my God. Like he’d pull me in. Like I’d be… his kid.”

Soobin’s eyes sting. He doesn’t know why. Weed, maybe. Or guilt.

You swallow. “He opened the door.”

Soobin holds his breath, waiting for the part where it gets better.

It doesn’t.

“He looked at me like I was a stranger,” you say, and there’s no drama in your voice, just a bluntness that hurts worse than crying. “Like he’d never seen me before in his life.”

Soobin’s chest twists, hard. He wants to interrupt. He wants to say, No, surely not. He doesn’t, because you’re still talking and if he interrupts, you might stop—and he knows stopping is sometimes worse than finishing.

You let out a laugh that doesn’t sound like laughter at all. “He had kids. Three little girls.”

Soobin’s stomach drops.

You blink again, slower. “They were behind him. Clinging to his legs. Calling him Dad.”

Soobin stares at the ceiling, but it’s blurred now. The swirl has slowed into a sick wobble. He feels like he’s falling.

You continue, voice still steady, like you’re recounting someone else’s life. “One of them asked who I was.”

Soobin’s hands curl into fists.

You say the next part like you’ve said it so many times in your head it’s become a line of script. “He went, No one. Just a delivery.”

Soobin’s breath leaves him in a harsh exhale. The room goes very quiet around the song, like even Freddie Mercury is stunned.

You swallow again. “And I don’t know how to describe that pain,” you whisper, and it’s the first time your voice actually cracks. “Like—w-watching him choose them. Watching him love them. Like love is something he had and just—d-didn’t spend on me.”

Soobin’s eyes burn. A tear slips out without permission. Then another. He doesn’t even realise until it reaches his temple and soaks into his hair.

He hates crying. He never cries. Crying is messy. Crying is weakness.

He’s crying anyway.

You sniff once, then keep going, stubborn. “I remember being on the train back,” you say, “and sobbing the whole way. Ugly crying and all. People staring. I didn’t care.”

Soobin can picture it too clearly—your face pressed against cold glass, the city lights blurring past, you trying to hold yourself together and failing.

“And then I got home,” you say, “and I walked into my grandma’s kitchen and I acted normal. I acted like nothing happened.”

Soobin wipes his face quickly with the sleeve of his hoodie, mortified at himself. He turns his head away from you so you don’t see.

“I didn’t tell her,” you say. “Because I didn’t want to break her heart. She’d raised me. She’d already carried enough.”

Soobin’s chest aches.

You take another breath. “After that, I decided both my parents were dead,” you say, blunt. “Mentally. Emotionally. Like—done.”

Soobin’s throat tightens again.

“And I changed my surname,” you add. “I took my grandma’s. Because if he can pretend I’m no one, then fine. I’ll be no one. Just not his.”

Soobin’s tears keep coming, quiet and humiliating, slipping down his face while he lies on your floor high off his mind with Queen playing in the background.

He thinks about everything he said to you. Scammer. Troubled. Deranged. Like you did this because it’s fun. Like you woke up one day and went, I’d love to be a fraud and make money out of heartbreak.

He thinks about the way you stormed away earlier, tears on your cheeks like you hated yourself for having them.

His chest feels tight and hot and wrong. Like someone has put a hand inside it and squeezed.

He doesn’t know what reassurance you give to that kind of pain. What do you even say? Sorry your dad is a monster? Sorry life is unfair? He can’t fix it. He can’t buy a solution. He can’t even offer a decent sentence without it sounding hollow.

So he does the only thing he can do. He apologises. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough, and it shocks him how real it sounds. “I’m—I’m so s-sorry.”

You go quiet for a beat. Then you sit up too fast, like you can’t tolerate the weight—like vulnerability makes your skin itch. You wipe your face aggressively with the heel of your hand, then force a laugh. “Don’t,” you say. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be sincere,” you mutter, sniffing. “It’s fucking weird.”

Soobin sits up too, clumsy, limbs heavy. He looks at you properly now—your eyes wet, your face flushed, your mouth twisting, trying to bite back the ache.

You point at his face, squinting. “Are you crying?”

Soobin freezes. His hand goes to his cheek, it comes away damp. He stares at his fingers feeling betrayed. “No,” he says immediately, because lying is contagious apparently.

You stare. Then you start laughing again, breathy. “Oh my God. The good boy is crying in the scammer’s flat. That’s so fucking—”

“Stop,” Soobin says, and he means it. He doesn’t want you to joke it away. He doesn’t want you to swallow it and pretend it didn’t happen.

You blink at him, caught off guard.

Soobin’s chest aches again. He doesn’t think, he just moves. He leans forward and wraps his arms around you.

You go rigid instantly. He feels it—your shoulders locking, your breath catching, your hands hovering like you don’t know where to put them.

Soobin holds still, gentle. Not forcing—just… there.

For a second, it feels ridiculous.

Two people high off their minds. Queen still playing. Your fairy lights flickering. Weed smoke hanging in the air. Him, the polite boy who doesn’t swear. You, the girl who swears like breathing. Hugging on a floor as if that can undo years of not being chosen.

Soobin doesn’t even know why he does it. He just knows he can’t leave you sitting with that story inside you.

You stay stiff for one heartbeat longer.

Then, slowly, you melt.

Your shoulders drop. Your head tips forward. Your arms come up and wrap around him, tight enough that he feels it in his ribs.

Soobin closes his eyes.

He feels your breath against his neck. He feels your hands gripping his hoodie, anchoring yourself. He feels the weight of you trusting him for the smallest second, and it hits him like a punch.

He thinks, hazy and helpless, I was so cruel to her. He thinks, even hazier, I don’t want to be.

You sniff, muffled against his shoulder. “This is cringe,” you mumble.

Soobin lets out a shaky laugh into your hair. “You’re cringe.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but you don’t move away.

He holds you anyway. Because he can’t undo the past. He can’t fix your father. He can’t un-say what he said this afternoon.

But he can do this.

He can hold you for a second in a room that smells of weed and bad decisions and let you both pretend—just for a second—that being held means being chosen.

Sunlight hits your face and you immediately decide the sun is a cunt.

You squint one eye open, groan, try to roll over—and nothing happens. Your body doesn’t move. Your spine doesn’t cooperate. Your shoulder catches on the carpet. Something heavy is across you, warm and solid, pinning you down.

You blink harder.

You’re on your living room floor. Your cheek is stuck to the carpet. Your mouth tastes of smoke and stale crisps and poor choices. Your back feels like it’s been folded in half and left there overnight. Your head throbs. Your eyelids feel glued together.

And Choi Soobin is basically wrapped around you.

His arm is slung over your waist. His leg is hooked over yours. His face is tucked near your shoulder. He’s breathing slow, dead-asleep, peaceful in a way you hate. His hair is a mess. His clean shirt is creased. His whole good boy presentation has been dragged through the floor and left to die.

For fuck’s sake.

You lie there for a second, very still, letting your brain load the night back in.

The weed. The music. The laughing. The talking. The fact you actually told him things you’ve never told anyone without turning it into a joke. Soobin sitting there listening, eyes wet, not even trying to fix it, just—being there. The hug that felt wrong at first, then felt too right, then felt dangerous in the way kindness always feels when you’re not used to it.

Your eyes sting. You blink fast, annoyed at yourself. “Not today,” you whisper to your own face.

You try to slide out from under him.

You manage one centimetre before his arm tightens automatically, dragging you back in. He makes a quiet sound in his sleep, a little grumble, then settles heavier against you. His hand presses flat to your stomach like he’s claiming territory.

You freeze, offended. “Excuse you.”

He doesn’t answer—he’s asleep. He’s also apparently decided you’re a weighted blanket.

You nudge his cheek with two fingers. “Soobin.”

Nothing.

You push his shoulder gently. “Choi Soobin.”

Nothing.

You push harder. He shifts, mumbles something you can’t understand, then resettles even closer, his thigh sliding against yours.

And that’s when you feel it. A hard press against your leg.

You go completely still. Your whole body heats up in one cruel rush, straight from face to ears to the back of your neck. Your heart stutters. Your stomach drops. Your brain starts yelling in capital letters.

You do not have the emotional stability for this at nine in the morning on a living room floor with carpet burn on your cheek.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking slowly—as if blinking will change the situation. It doesn’t.

You try to shift again, carefully—hoping you can escape without acknowledging it, without touching it, without causing any movement that might make it worse. Your knee slides a fraction.

The pressure follows.

Soobin makes another sleepy sound and pulls you closer—the absolute audacity of it. His face presses into your shoulder. His arm tightens. His hips nudge forward once in his sleep, a mindless adjustment.

Your soul tries to evacuate through your scalp. “Okay,” you whisper to yourself, voice thin. “Okay. Right. Great. Brilliant. Amazing. This is what I needed.” You poke his cheek harder. “Soobin.”

He doesn’t wake.

You slap his shoulder lightly. “Choi Soobin.”

He murmurs something, unintelligible, then—worse—his arm tightens again, actively preventing your escape.

Your eyes widen. “No.” You press your palm to his forehead and push firmly. “Wake up.”

He grunts, annoyed, still asleep, and shifts his hips again. It’s enough to make your whole face burn hotter.

You shove at his shoulder with more force. “Choi Soobin. Wake the fuck up.”

That does it.

His eyes shoot open, immediate panic in them, as if he’s been yanked out of a nightmare. He stares at you for half a second—frozen, disoriented, pupils blown, hair everywhere.

Then his gaze drops.

His whole body goes rigid. He makes a noise that is half choke, half prayer. “Oh my God.”

He scrambles backward so fast he nearly trips over his own legs. He pushes himself upright, face turning red in real time, hands hovering awkwardly as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. He looks down at himself again, then back at you, then down again—horror deepening.

He doesn’t apologise or speak. He just sits there on the carpet looking like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

You stare at him, breathless, still half pinned under embarrassment, and the first thing that comes out of your mouth is pure disbelief. “The fucking audacity,” you say.

Soobin’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “I was asleep.”

“And who was grinding on me?” you shoot back. “Your ghost?”

His face goes even redder. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”

“You did,” you cut in. “Your body did. Your body was doing a whole separate storyline.”

Soobin squeezes his eyes shut and slaps both hands against his face, palms covering his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

You sit up slowly, spine cracking, wince, then glare at him through your own humiliation. “Don’t apologise to me. Apologise to my nervous system. It has filed a complaint.”

Soobin peeks at you through his fingers, mortified. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” you snap, then soften a fraction despite yourself, annoyed at your own softness. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he whispers.

“It is fine,” you repeat, louder, since he’s clearly committed to making it weird. “We’re adults. People wake up with—things. It’s biology. It happens. We pretend it never happened. End of.”

Soobin’s ears are bright red. His eyes are fixed on the carpet now, as if making eye contact might summon lightning. He nods once, rigid.

You point toward the hall without looking away. “Bathroom’s there. Sort yourself out. Then leave my flat with your dignity in whatever pieces it still exists in.”

Soobin stands up too quickly, wobbles, catches himself, then walks to the bathroom with the posture of a man attending his own funeral.

The door shuts.

You sit there on the floor for a beat—heart still hammering, face still on fire, brain still replaying the last thirty seconds with the cruelty of a teenager editing a cringe compilation. When you can’t hear him anymore, you clamp your hands over your face and press your forehead to your knees.

A muffled scream tries to come out. You swallow it. You whisper into your palms, furious and mortified, “What the fuck is going on?”

Mangy jumps down from the windowsill, walks over, sniffs you once, then sits with his back to you. Even your cat is disgusted.

Soobin tells himself the plan is fool-proof.

He has to tell himself that, because the alternative is admitting he’s about to walk up to Choi Yeonjun in broad daylight and weaponise spiritual nonsense with you—you, the girl who scammed him, the girl he blackmailed, the girl whose leg he accidentally violated in his sleep.

If the plan is stupid, then he’s stupid. And he has already had enough of that for one lifetime.

He repeats it like a prayer as the two of you cut across campus together. Fool-proof. Solid. No room for chaos. No room for you freelancing in ways that get him arrested or publicly humiliated or both.

Then you open your mouth to complain about something—your shoe rubbing your heel, the wind, the smell of cigarette smoke, the state of men as a species—and fuck lands in the middle of your sentence with the ease of breathing.

Soobin’s jaw tightens on reflex. He glances at you. “Remember the plan.”

You glance back, dead-eyed. “Remember to unclench your ass.”

He hates you. He also can’t stop the corner of his mouth twitching, which pisses him off nearly as much as Yeonjun’s face does.

You’re walking beside him like you’ve done this a hundred times—hands shoved in your hoodie pockets, eyes scanning casually, posture loose in a way that makes you look like you don’t care. Soobin knows you care. You’re just good at pretending you don’t. He has spent his whole life being good at pretending he does.

He keeps his gaze ahead, focused.

The smoking spot is exactly where it always is—a grim little patch of pavement behind a building where students pretend they’re not addicted to something. Yeonjun is there, of course. Leaning against the wall like it exists for him. Cigarette between his fingers. Surrounded by his usual orbit of friends, laughter loud enough to be heard across the quad.

Of course he’s surrounded—the man probably can’t even piss alone.

Soobin thinks about backing out for half a second—then he remembers your living room, your cheap carpet, the door slam, your face when you cried, the way his own guilt has been chewing through him.

He can’t back out. Not now. Not when he’s this far in. Not when you’ve been dragged into this mess and he’s the one holding the leash.

You get closer and Yeonjun clocks you—Soobin first, then you. His face changes in that slow, irritating way it always does, the smirk appearing before he’s even spoken. It’s the kind of smile that makes Soobin want to throw his degree at someone. Repeatedly.

“Yo,” Yeonjun calls out, loud and casual, like they’re mates. “Soobin, my man.”

Soobin would rather eat glass. He still steps up and bumps shoulders with Yeonjun, acting like this is normal—like he isn’t imagining ten different ways to commit murder and hide the body. Yeonjun’s shoulder is solid, warm, too familiar for a man Soobin hates.

Yeonjun leans back, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes flicking over Soobin’s face with a fake concern he does so well. “You alright?”

Soobin hears your voice in his head immediately—Don’t apologise. Don’t be polite. Stop acting like you’re asking permission to exist. He forces his jaw to loosen. “I’m good,” he says, and it comes out steadier than he expects.

Yeonjun’s brows lift a fraction. “You sure?”

Soobin nods once. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun’s gaze shifts to you, slow and assessing. “You good?” he asks, like he’s casually checking on a mate’s girlfriend, which is insane, since Soobin does not have a girlfriend.

Soobin has a scammer he’s currently forcing into partnership.

You don’t look away. You meet Yeonjun’s eyes with full confidence and absolutely no fear. It makes Soobin’s chest tighten in a way he refuses to examine.

Soobin remembers he’s meant to speak first. He looks Yeonjun dead in the face and says, “We’re good, but are you good?"

Yeonjun blinks.

Soobin feels a surge of satisfaction. It’s small and petty and he takes it anyway.

“What?” Yeonjun asks, laugh creeping in. “Why wouldn’t I be good?”

Soobin gestures toward you with a stiff hand, since apparently he’s introducing you as if you’re a normal girlfriend and not a woman who once told him virgin ghosts eat grapes off the floor. “My girlfriend here,” he says, voice too formal, “is a shaman with high spiritual energy.”

Yeonjun’s expression stalls.

Behind him, one of his mates snickers. Another mutters something under his breath that Soobin is certain is disgusting. Yeonjun doesn’t even turn. He just lifts his chin a fraction, like shut up, I’m dealing with this.

Yeonjun glances at Soobin, then at you, then back at Soobin again. His mouth twitches. “A shaman.”

Soobin keeps his face neutral. He nods once. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun takes the cigarette out of his mouth slowly. Smoke leaves him in a lazy exhale. His eyes narrow a fraction. “Since when?”

Soobin almost says since I got dumped and lost my mind. Instead he says, “Recently.”

Yeonjun turns fully to you now. “Alright then,” he says, amused, voice dripping with disbelief. “Go on. Shaman. What’s wrong with me?”

Soobin’s heart kicks. This is it. This is the moment.

You shift your weight, glance at Soobin once, then step closer to Yeonjun with the confidence of a woman who lies professionally. You don’t hesitate, or blush, or falter. You look Yeonjun up and down as if you can read his soul through his coat.

Soobin has seen you do that scan before. It worked on him. He remembers how easily he believed you—how he listened, how he nodded, how he let you turn his desperation into a business transaction.

You click your tongue once.

Yeonjun’s smile falters slightly. “What?”

You tilt your head. “How long have you been feeling tired?”

Yeonjun blinks again. “Tired?”

“Soobin,” one of Yeonjun’s mates calls, laughing, “your girlfriend is chatting shit.”

Soobin’s ears go hot, but he keeps his face straight. He’s committed now. He’s in public—he cannot collapse politely in front of Yeonjun’s friends.

You ignore them completely, eyes still on Yeonjun. “Don’t lie,” you say. “You’ve been feeling tired.”

Yeonjun scoffs. “Everyone’s tired.”

“Not like this,” you reply, voice calm and deadly serious.

Soobin watches Yeonjun’s posture shift, just a fraction.

The smirk stays on his mouth. His eyes sharpen. The man is still arrogant, still playing it off, but something in him has wavered—like you’ve said a word too close to a private fear. “What are you on about?” Yeonjun asks, slower.

You step in closer, lowering your voice, and Soobin feels his own nerves spike at how well you can control a conversation. “Your energy is weak,” you say. “There’s something latched.”

Yeonjun’s mates laugh louder at that. 

Yeonjun glances over his shoulder at them, annoyed now. “Shut up,” he mutters—then he looks back at you. “Latched?”

You nod once. “A virgin ghost.”

Soobin’s stomach flips. It’s ridiculous hearing it out loud again—it’s even more ridiculous watching it land.

Yeonjun’s face freezes for half a second. He tries to laugh and it comes out wrong—too sharp, too forced. “A virgin ghost?”

You tilt your head, as if you’re disappointed. “You’ve been ignoring the signs.”

“What signs?” Yeonjun asks, voice sharper now, impatience slipping in.

Soobin watches him carefully. Yeonjun’s friends are still laughing. Yeonjun is pretending he’s above it, but his eyes keep flicking between you and Soobin now—checking if this is a prank, checking if this is real, checking if he’s about to be made into a joke.

Soobin can’t believe he used to be this easy to rattle.

You keep going, unbothered. “Mood swings,” you say. “Restlessness. Trouble sleeping. Irritation.”

Yeonjun’s brows knit. “That’s just being alive.”

“No,” you say, flat. “That’s being followed.”

Soobin watches Yeonjun’s smirk fade into something else. His throat works. He shifts the cigarette between his fingers, then taps ash too hard. His mates are still giggling, but it’s quieter now—even they’ve clocked the shift.

Yeonjun looks back at Soobin, a hint of accusation in his eyes. “Is this serious?”

Soobin’s instinct is to flinch, to apologise, to soften it. He doesn’t. He nods once, firm. “Yeah.”

Something about that—Soobin’s calm, his refusal to joke—seems to hit Yeonjun harder than your words. Yeonjun looks at you again. “So what,” he says slowly, “you’re saying I’ve got a ghost on me?”

You nod. “Yes.”

Yeonjun’s jaw tightens. “Why would I?”

You stare at him for a beat. “Men like you attract them.”

Soobin nearly chokes. Yeonjun’s mates lose it again, laughter bursting out, one of them actually bends over like he’s about to collapse.

Yeonjun whips his head toward them. “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, sharp enough that they do shut up, or at least try.

Soobin’s eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect that. He didn’t expect Yeonjun to be the one to crack first.

Yeonjun turns back to you, annoyed, but the annoyance has a brittle edge now. “Alright,” he says, clipped. “Fine. If I’m haunted, what do I do?”

Soobin’s pulse spikes. He wants to look at you—he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on Yeonjun, because he can’t afford to look away now.

You glance down at Yeonjun’s cigarette. “Put that out.”

Yeonjun blinks. “Why?”

“It feeds her,” you say.

Yeonjun stares at you. His cigarette hovers in the air. His pride fights it. His mates are watching. Soobin watches too, breath held.

Yeonjun looks back at his mates, who are now smirking with that no way he’s actually going to— energy. Then, with exaggerated annoyance, Yeonjun flicks the cigarette to the ground and stamps it out.

Soobin feels a sick little thrill. The man actually listened.

You nod once, satisfied. “Good.”

Yeonjun’s voice drops. “So what now?”

This is the part Soobin rehearsed in his head. This is the part where Yeonjun agrees to see you privately. This is the part where the plan stops being a fantasy and becomes real.

You glance at Soobin, then back at Yeonjun. “You need a consultation,” you say. “Proper one. Private.”

Yeonjun’s brows lift. “Private?”

“Private,” you confirm. “No mates, no noise. No distractions.”

“So you can tell me I’m haunted with more detail?” Yeonjun says, trying to joke again. His laugh comes out thin.

Soobin jumps in before the opening closes. “It’s free,” he says, and immediately feels ridiculous advocating for a scam again. He forces it anyway. “She doesn’t charge my friends.”

Yeonjun’s gaze flicks to Soobin’s face. “Friends?”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. “Yeah.”

You add smoothly, “I can’t let my boyfriend’s friend walk around with a virgin ghost latched onto him.”

The word boyfriend hits Soobin in the ribs. It should annoy him. It should feel wrong. It should make him recoil. Instead it slides under his skin quietly, settling there, uncomfortable and warm, like a lie he’s heard so many times it’s started to sound like a truth.

Yeonjun’s brows lift. He looks between you and Soobin again, entertained—but not suspicious. It’s the same look he gives to everything, this is insane, but I’m enjoying it. “Your boyfriend,” Yeonjun repeats, like he’s tasting it.

Soobin holds his face neutral with pure effort.

Yeonjun smirks wider, then jerks his chin at Soobin. “My man’s pulling,” he says to absolutely no one in particular, like it’s a factual observation. Then, to you, “Alright. Fine. Private consultation. When?”

Soobin’s heart stutters.

You answer, calm. “Tomorrow.”

Yeonjun tilts his head. “Where?”

Soobin hears himself say it before he fully decides. “Her studio.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “A little shaman room?”

You glare at him. “Don’t insult my place.”

Yeonjun holds up his hands, smiling. “Alright, alright. I’ll come. Don’t curse me.”

You nod once. “Good.”

Yeonjun glances at his mates behind him, who are now staring at him with delighted disbelief. “If you lot tell anyone about this,” he says, voice low, “I’ll actually end you.”

They laugh again, but it’s nervous this time—because they can tell he’s half-joking and half-not.

Yeonjun turns back to you and Soobin and gives you a slow grin. “See you tomorrow then.” He takes a step back, then pauses like he can’t help himself. His eyes drag over you once more—assessing, amused, a little wary now. “And, uh—shaman?”

“Yes,” you say, flat.

He points vaguely at you like you’re a hazard sign. “You’re fucking scary.”

You don’t blink. “I know.”

Yeonjun’s grin flashes. “Good. Keep it up.”

Then he walks back to his group, still smirking, still trying to act like this is just banter—but Soobin watches him and sees the way he keeps touching the back of his neck like he’s suddenly aware of his own skin. The way his confidence has a crack in it now. The way he actually believed your bullshit.

Soobin stands there for a beat after Yeonjun leaves, adrenaline buzzing in his blood. He can’t believe it worked. He can’t believe Yeonjun agreed. He can’t believe you pulled that off with a straight face.

You turn to Soobin, eyes bright with your own vicious satisfaction. “He’s going to be shitting himself all night.”

Soobin’s mouth twitches despite himself. He tries to fight it. He fails.

You nudge his shoulder as you start walking. “Come on then, boyfriend. Tomorrow’s your big day.”

Soobin’s ears go hot. He follows you anyway.

It’s finally D-day, and your studio looks exactly how a bad decision feels.

You’ve done the bare minimum to make the place seem intentionally mystical instead of accidentally tragic. The curtain still sags over the washing machine. The fairy lights still flicker when the fridge breathes. The incense is doing that thing where it tries to cover the smell of old smoke and cheap carpet and only succeeds in making it smell of old smoke and cheap carpet with lavender.

Your folding table’s been dragged to the centre. One leg is still shorter than the others, so it wobbles whenever you put emotional weight on it. The rice bowl sits there, smug as ever. Salt in a little dish next to it. Notebook open to a page of nonsense symbols and a doodle of Mangy flipping someone off.

Speaking of Mangy—he’s on the windowsill with his ass pointed at you, body curled into a loaf of judgement. He looks at Soobin once, blinks slowly, then looks away again as if he’s filed him under pathetic, but not my problem.

Soobin, unfortunately, is your problem. He’s under the table, again.

You’re not even surprised anymore. Your brain has accepted this as your life—you, sitting on a chair you can’t afford to replace, while a clean, upright, morally superior man curls himself under your furniture and calls it strategy.

He insisted. Obviously. “I need to be in the room,” he said.

“You can’t be in the room,” you said.

“I need to hear his tone,” he insisted.

“You’ll breathe too loud and give yourself away,” you replied.

He stared at you like you were the unreasonable one. “I won’t.”

So this is the compromise: he’s under the table, hidden by a sheet you’ve draped over it—one of your old bedsheets, patterned with faded moons and stars, the kind you bought when you were sixteen and thought you were mysterious instead of skint. You told him it looked ritualistic. He believed you. He always believes you when you say something with enough confidence.

Under it, he’s whispering through his teeth, furious and anxious and full of moral outrage he can’t afford. “This is ridiculous,” he hisses.

“This is your plan,” you whisper back, louder than you mean to. You immediately lower your voice, glaring at the cloth. “Also, shut up. Your voice carries. Your privilege carries. Your whole—presence carries.”

“You said I couldn’t be in the room,” he snaps.

“I said you couldn’t be in the room visibly,” you correct. “There’s a difference. You’re basically furniture right now. Expensive furniture, probably. With a dad who’d sue me.”

He shifts under there and the table bumps your knee. The leg wobbles. Soobin swears—quietly, but it’s still a swear, and it’s so unnatural coming from him that you nearly laugh.

“Did you just say—”

“No,” he cuts in. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“God,” you mutter. “Soobin’s teaching you things already, Mangy. Look. He’s a bad influence.”

Mangy doesn’t even turn his head. He just flicks his tail once, bored of everyone’s bullshit.

You squat by the edge of the sheet and whisper, “If you move the table, I’m telling Yeonjun I sensed a liar under my furniture.”

From underneath, Soobin hisses, “I’m not moving.”

The table creaks anyway.

You glare at the sheet. “That was you.”

“It was the table,” Soobin whispers back, offended.

“The table is innocent,” you reply. “You’re the one who’s seven foot and folded into a pretzel.”

“I’m not seven foot,” he mutters.

“You’re close enough,” you say. “Focus. Is your phone recording?”

A pause. Then, tiny and panicked: “I don’t know.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Choi Soobin.”

“I pressed it,” he says quickly. “I think.”

You grab the phone from under the sheet, check the screen, then shove it back. “It’s recording. Congratulations. Your descent into madness is now documented.”

“Stop,” he whispers.

“You stop,” you whisper back. 

You stand up, smooth your hoodie down, then remember you’re wearing joggers and your concept of professionalism is mostly theatre. You take a breath and put on your calm-scary face, the one that makes people pay you instead of asking for refunds.

Your doorbell rings. You walk to the door and open it.

Choi Yeonjun stands there in a leather jacket, hair a mess in an infuriating deliberate way, hands in his pockets, mouth curved into a smirk he’s forcing.

He looks unsettled. That’s satisfying.

His gaze flicks past you into your hallway—clocks the dead plant, the shoe rack, the curtain hiding the washing machine, the overall vibe of broke girl doing crimes. His smirk falters for half a beat.

You brighten your smile. “Come in, shoes off.”

He kicks them off messily and doesn’t line them up—unlike Soobin, he doesn’t care. His shoes land wherever they want. He follows you into the studio and his eyes focus on the table—on the sheet. His brows knit. “What’s that?”

You step in front of it immediately, body blocking, smile fixed. “Spiritual barrier.”

Yeonjun stares at you. “That is a bedsheet.”

“It’s a barrier,” you repeat, dead serious.

He holds your gaze for a beat, then nods slowly, as if deciding not to argue with the crazy woman who might curse his dick. “Right.”

“Sit,” you say, pointing at the cushion.

He sits opposite you, posture loose, legs open, elbows on his knees. He looks comfortable in your space in a way that pisses you off on principle.

You sit down, open your notebook, and pretend you’re about to write something sacred instead of doodles of Mangy. “Do you want anything to drink?” you ask, sweetly.

He shifts, throat working. “Water’s fine.”

You pour him water in your only clean glass—which is technically a mug, and set it down in front of him.

Yeonjun takes one sip, then puts it down with care. 

You tap your pen against your notebook. “Tell me what you’ve been feeling.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Tired.”

“Mood swings?” you add, calm.

He blinks. “I wouldn’t call it—”

“Restlessness?” you continue, not letting him talk.

He exhales. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Irritation?” you say.

Yeonjun’s jaw tightens. “Everyone’s irritated.”

“Not like you,” you reply, leaning in slightly. “Not this specific.”

Yeonjun’s fingers tap once against his knee, then stop. He’s listening. He’s trying to pretend he isn’t.

Under the sheet, the table is still. Soobin is doing his one useful skill—shutting the fuck up.

You press on. “Has anything changed in your relationship?”

Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “What relationship?”

You stare at him. “Don’t insult me. The relationship you’re in.”

His mouth tightens. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “No.”

“Are you happy?” you ask.

“Yes,” he replies immediately.

“Do you love her?” you say, watching him closely.

Yeonjun’s answer comes out fast again. “Yes.”

It lands clean. No hesitation or smirk or performance.

Your stomach dips—not because you care. Because it’s inconvenient. You keep going anyway, voice steady. “Do you talk to other girls?”

“No.”

“Do you meet other girls?”

“No.”

“Do you flirt with other girls?”

Yeonjun’s brows lift. “Are you asking if I’m cheating?”

“I’m asking if your energy is messy,” you reply.

His mouth twitches, humourless. “My energy is fine.”

You tap your pen. “Have you lied to her?”

Yeonjun goes quiet.

Under the sheet, something shifts. A tiny bump of wood against your shin. Soobin reacting. You pretend you didn’t feel it.

Yeonjun looks down at his hands for a moment, then back up. “Yes.”

Your pulse spikes. “About what?”

Yeonjun exhales through his nose. His voice drops. “I told her I was someone I’m not.”

You blink. “Someone—who?”

Yeonjun’s gaze flicks away, then back, irritated that he’s admitting anything to you at all. “Someone who knows what he’s doing and doesn’t mess things up.”

He leans back, hand rubbing his mouth. The smirk is gone now. He looks… real. He looks tired in a way you didn’t expect from someone with his reputation.

“I know what people say about me,” Yeonjun says, voice low. “I know what I look like. I know what it sounds like when I say I’m serious.” He pauses, jaw tight. “But I am serious with her.”

Under the sheet, the table goes still again, as if Soobin is holding his breath.

Yeonjun keeps talking, as if he can’t stop once he starts. “I’m not playing her or using her. I would never do anything behind her back. I don’t want anyone else.” He looks at you, eyes sharp. “If you’re here to tell me I’m a bad guy, save it. I’m not doing that to her.”

Your plan is collapsing in slow motion.

You try one last push, stubborn. “People think you’re a fuckboy.”

Yeonjun scoffs. “People think a lot of shit.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice firm. “I’m not cheating. I’ve done stupid things before. I’ve let people think I’m that guy before—but I’m not and I would shoot myself before doing anything like that to her.”

You stare at him.

The annoying part is that you believe him. Not because you want to, because he sounds like he means it. You don’t know what to do with that. You’re not built for sincerity in your little scam room. You’re built for panic and props and pretending.

So you do the only thing you can do when your script dies—you end it violently. You snap your notebook shut with a loud thwack. “Consultation complete.”

Yeonjun blinks. “What?”

You grab a fistful of rice and throw it at his chest.

It bounces off his coat and sticks there, instantly humiliating him. Yeonjun jolts, hands half-lifting. “What the fuck—”

“Cleansing,” you bark, grabbing the salt and flinging that too. “Don’t move.”

Yeonjun stares down at himself, then back at you, stunned. “You just—seasoned me.”

“It’s spiritual seasoning,” you reply. “Be quiet.”

Yeonjun opens his mouth, closes it, then swallows—eyes darting around the room as if he expects the rice to start crawling. Good. Fear does wonders.

You shove a cheap pendant into his palm. Bottle-cap adjacent. Saltwater blessed. Destiny in metal form. “Wear that,” you order.

Yeonjun looks down at it. “This is a bottle cap.”

“It’s a talisman,” you say, flat. “It’s treated.”

“Treated how?”

“Don’t ask questions you can’t afford,” you snap.

Yeonjun’s jaw tightens. He slips the pendant into his pocket anyway, fingers closing around it briefly, instinctive. He’s rattled. He believes you. That’s the only important thing right now.

“How long?” he asks, quieter.

“Until your energy stabilises,” you say.

“That’s not a time frame.”

“It’s spiritual,” you reply. “Now go.”

Yeonjun stands, brushing rice off his coat in quick swipes, then pauses at the door, eyes narrowing slightly at you.

“You’re intense,” he says.

“You were warned,” you reply.

Yeonjun huffs a laugh that dies halfway. “Yeah. Fair.”

He bends and grabs his shoes, and slips them on. At the threshold he points at you with two fingers in mock salute. Yeonjun doesn’t seem suspicious at all. He’s not hunting for lies. He’s too busy being haunted by his own fear.

“You’re good for Soobin,” Yeonjun adds, voice louder than he probably means it to be, “he seems different lately—good different.”

You hold his gaze. “I know.”

Yeonjun’s grin flashes, then he turns and walks out. You shut the door quickly, lock it, then stand there in your hallway staring at the wood as if it’s going to answer you.

Behind you, the table creaks. The sheet shifts. Soobin crawls out from under it slowly—face pale, hair messed, phone clutched in his hand. He doesn’t look at you straight away. He stares at his recording screen. Soobin looks up. His eyes are bright in a way you don’t like.

 “He—” Soobin starts, voice hoarse.

You already know.

“He loves her,” he finishes, and it sounds like a sentence he can’t swallow.

Your chest tightens. Your stomach drops. Your whole plan dies. Because Yeonjun was meant to be the villain.

And he isn’t.

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a/n: hii bbys little early surprise for you. sorry this took so long. pls remember that your comments, reblogs and asks fuel my fingers!! much love <3

target: you know the drill!! final part dropping at either 350 notes or 05/04. want faster updates? spam me in the comments, reblogs and asks.

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