ji

tonight was just a movie night. you and heeseung chilling in his apartment, watching a movie in his comfy couch, his arm around you as you both ate popcorn.

you were just laying your head on his shoulder, satisfied. you heard your phone buzz, on the left of the couch. sighing, you move to check the message.

"who is it, baby?" heeseung asks calmly, eyes still on the movie.

you turn your phone off. "just yunjin texting me about some guy she-"

you stop on your tracks when your eyes look down.

'playboy' with the logo beside it, peaking out of his sweatpants. new boxers, definitely. holy fucking shit.

heeseung frowned. "doll?" he looked at you, frowning even more when he saw your eyes stuck down somewhere. he looked down, about to ask if it was some kind of bug.

"hee... when did you buy these?" you ask lowly. slowly. your fingers ran on top of the edge gently.

he frowned even more before he realized you were talking about the boxers. "oh, I think last week. I read somewhere they were more comfortable, and they really are, so-"

you shut him up as you kissed him, going to his lap. the kiss was desperate, one of your hands still on his hip and the other on his neck now.

heeseung was caught off-guard, placing his hands on your hips as he kissed you back. "doll- doll, what-" you didn't let him speak, sucking on his tongue, getting a moan off him.

you pulled back to kiss down his neck, rubbing your hips against his. "d-doll... fuck- why are you so horny?" he asked, breathless as you marked his neck.

you left a hickey and pulled back to look at him. "these fucking boxers. gosh, you look so damn hot." you kissed him again, making him groan.

you could feel him getting hard as you kept rubbing. you pulled back from the kiss to pull his shirt off him, which he did without a second thought. you saw the edge of his boxers and almost moaned. fuck, he looked amazing.

you started to kiss on his collarbone, still moving your hips against his. he groaned again. "goddamn it- oh, baby... when did you get so freaky?" he smirked down at you.

you looked up. "the moment I saw you with these boxers." you kneeled down between his legs. oh, that was a sight he could never get tired of.

you slowly pulled his sweatpants down, only the boxers on him now. he was hard, a wet spot on the material where his tip is. you palmed him slowly, making a weak groan get out of him. "oh, doll... gosh-"

you just pulled his hard dick out of the boxers, not bothering to take them off yet. you fisted his dick slowly, letting the precum run through your hand, getting a low groan from heeseung. you licked his cock after, going from the base to the tip, teasing him. he only moaned, hands gripping the couch. "come on baby- just please, suck me already..." he muttered.

you smirked before shoving it all inside your mouth at once, the tip hitting your throat, making your vision blur. heeseung moaned, head leaning back against the couch, eyes closing.

his hand grabbed your hair as your head went up and down, mouth sucking his cock just the way he liked it. heeseung was in heaven, groaning at the feeling, your mouth driving him crazy.

you took it off your mouth to lick the tip and go back down, the sounds wet and nasty. he was loving it.

when heeseung tightened his grip on your hair, you knew he was close. you kept sucking him, spit and precum running down your chin. but just as he was about to get close, you pulled out, catching your breath.

he immediately opened his eyes to look down at you, his cock hard and red. "b-baby, I was about to-"

you smirked, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. "you will cum inside me when I ride you, understood?" you asked as you got up. heeseung immediately went silent, your tone making him almost explode just there.

you made it torturous, taking your shirt off first, slowly. the image of your boobs, just there, in front of him, it made heeseung want to just pull you down and suck on them. but he stayed put.

you slowly took your shorts after, your black panties covering the pussy he wanted oh so bad to see. it had enough sheerness for him to see, but not enough for him to *see*.

you chuckled before taking the panties off and sitting on his lap. "you look hungry." you teased.

he gripped your hips before running his hands up and down your thighs. "starving for you, mama. please... I need to cum." he looked up at you, those shiny eyes you couldn't say 'no' to.

you smirked. "since you asked nicely..." you positioned yourself before lowering down on him. heeseung moaned, grip tightening on your hips as he bottomed out inside you. you leaned your head back, moaning.

he felt you start to move your hips back and forth, making him lose his mind. he took your left boob on his mouth, sucking on it, bitting, kissing, licking. you held onto his hair, going up and down on his cock now.

"hee- fuck, oh my-" his big cock inside you felt so good.

he chuckled against your boob. "feel good, babydoll? yeah, bounce on that dick. it's yours baby." he said before sucking on your nipple. his hands went to your ass, squeezing as he helped your movements on his lap.

you knew he was close, the way he was thrusting up into you, his small groans. it took barely 5 minutes before he held your hips still, cumming deep into your pussy, moaning against your shoulder.

you barely registered the orgasm before he threw you on the couch, stomach up. he was breathing heavily, slightly sweaty, looking frustrated.

"you thought you could refuse me like that and not get out absolutely wrecked?" he asked lowly, taking his sweatpants off together with his playboy boxers, eyes burning with lust and danger.

he suddenly had an idea and took his boxers back up from the floor, eyes dark. "you like my boxers, huh? be a good girl and open that mouth for me." he commanded lowly. you opened your mouth without a single thought before he shoved his boxers into your mouth.

he climbed over you, settling between his legs before shoving his dick inside you again. you moaned, the sound muffled by his boxers. his pace already started fast, making you roll your eyes back to your head, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders. his grip on your hips was tight as he pounded into you, moaning as well.

heeseung leaned down, taking your right boob into his mouth, sucking hard on the nipple before swirling his tongue around it. you moaned louder around the boxers on your mouth, clenching around him. he chuckled against your tit and took his hand down between your legs, pressing his thumb to your clit and rubbing fast. you rolled your eyes in pure pleasure, mind going a little blurry. it all felt so good with him.

it barely registered before you came around him, moaning loud around the boxers, thighs shaking. heeseung moaned, satisfied, thumb leaving your clit so he could take hold of your hip again.

a few thrusts later, he came inside you again, both of you moaning. he took the boxers off your mouth, making you breath heavily. "is my babydoll okay?"

you nodded, breathless. "yeah..." you let out, staring up at him.

he smirked. "you really like my new boxers, huh?" he leaned down to press a kiss to your shoulder. you nodded a bit.

hesseung chuckled lowly against your skin. "good. wanna make sure I fuck you so hard tonight they'll be all you remember." he said and flipped you over, making you lay on your stomach, shoving his dick inside you again.

taglist: @sxno0 @ikeumiu @arelyvn @pussiifairy @supahintohoon @foreveronez @shinaerie @nishiirkz @supahintohoon @hyyhwriter (idk who else to tag guys I'm sorry im kinda sleep deprived lol)

then yerin came along and gave all of it a name. she was his childhood friend whom according to him, was one of the most important people in his life. 

she was not loud about it. that almost made it worse. she smiled sweetly when you were around, spoke to you like you were someone she was trying to tolerate, and acted like her closeness with heeseung was too natural to question. she knew old jokes you had never heard before. she touched his arm when she laughed. she called him when she needed something and he picked up even when he had ignored your messages for hours.

the first time you told him it made you uncomfortable, he did not even look guilty.

he laughed.

“yerin? seriously?”

you remembered staring at him from across the table, your fingers tightening around your glass. “why is that funny?”

“because it’s yerin,” he said, like her name alone should have explained everything. “she’s harmless.”

“she’s not harmless if she keeps crossing boundaries.”

“she doesn’t know she’s crossing boundaries.”

“then you should.”

that had made him lean back, his expression already shifting into that familiar irritation, the one that made you feel like you had walked into a conversation you were not allowed to win.

“you make everything sound worse than it is,” he said.

and maybe that should have been enough. maybe that should have been the moment you believed what he was showing you. but love had a terrible way of making you patient with things that were slowly destroying you, and heeseung had always been good at giving you just enough softness after the damage.

a hand on your waist after a fight. a kiss to your temple when you stopped talking. a quiet “you know i love you, right?” only after he had made you feel impossible to love.

so you stayed.

until that friday.

you were supposed to meet him after work, you’ve been looking forward to this date night for weeks. nothing dramatic, just dinner at the place you both used to like, the kind of plan that had once felt effortless between you. you had even left work on time, ignoring the pile of things still waiting on your desk because you wanted, stupidly, to believe that maybe the two of you could have one normal night.

then you saw his story.

a dimly lit bar. four drinks on the table. yerin’s hand half in the frame, her bracelet unmistakable and judging by the angle, she was way too close to him. the other two drinks probably belonged to sunghoon and his girlfriend.

the caption was simple.

finally needed this.

you stood in the lobby of your office with your bag on your shoulder and your phone in your hand, staring at the picture until the brightness of the screen began to hurt your eyes.

he had not cancelled.

he had not texted.

he had simply gone somewhere else and expected you to find out quietly.

“y/n?”

jay’s voice came from behind you, pulling you back into the room before you could sink too far into your own head.

you turned slightly. he was standing near the lift, one hand in his pocket, his laptop bag hanging from his shoulder. he looked like he had been about to leave, but something in your face had stopped him.

“you okay?” he asked.

the question was simple, but not careless. jay never asked things like he was trying to collect information. he asked like he was giving you somewhere to put down whatever you were holding.

you locked your phone quickly. “yeah. i’m fine.”

his eyes dropped briefly to your hand, then back to your face. he did not push.

“you heading off?”

you nodded. “supposed to.”

“supposed to?”

you tried to smile, but it barely formed. “plans changed, i guess.”

jay watched you for a moment. not too long. not in a way that made you feel exposed. just enough to make you feel seen, which was somehow worse and better at the same time.

then his phone buzzed. he glanced at it, typed something quickly, and looked back at you.

“i was going to grab dinner nearby,” he said. “you can come if you don’t feel like going home yet.”

you blinked. “jay.”

“what?”

“that sounds like pity.”

“it’s not pity,” he said easily. “it’s food.”

for some reason, that almost made you laugh.

almost.

“i don’t want to talk about it,” you said.

“then don’t.”

“you’re not going to ask?”

“if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

the simplicity of it made your throat tighten. heeseung would have asked until your answer became something he could use. jay just stood there, calm and steady, offering company without trying to make himself necessary.

so you went.

dinner with jay was not exciting, and maybe that was exactly why it helped. he talked about normal things. work. a client who kept sending emails with no subject line. the office printer that had jammed three times in one day and somehow made everyone act like they were in a survival documentary. he made you smile without trying too hard, and when silence came, he let it sit between you like it had every right to be there.

jay took a sip of water, then nudged the small plate of fries closer to you.

“you’ve eaten three bites.”

“i’m not hungry.”

“you said that before ordering pasta.”

you glance up at jay, unimpressed. “i was optimistic.”

“be optimistic with fries,” he replies, nudging the plate slightly closer to you like it’s a perfectly reasonable solution.

this time, you do laugh—small, tired, but real enough that it catches you off guard. it lingers just a second longer than you expect, and when you look up, you catch the way jay’s expression softens before he looks away, like he didn’t mean to react to it at all.

somewhere between that and the next conversation, the fries turn into an actual meal. you don’t really remember deciding to order more, just that the table slowly fills—pasta, drinks, eventually dessert—and neither of you rush to leave.

the conversation stretches easily, drifting from work stories to small, random things that don’t matter but somehow feel grounding. a client that made no sense. a mistake someone in the office is still pretending didn’t happen. useless facts that neither of you needed to know but shared anyway.

jay talks just enough. you talk more than you realise.

and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t feel like you’re being interrupted, corrected, or dismissed halfway through a sentence.

time slips.

quietly.

unnoticed.

until you glance at your phone.

your eyes widen.

“oh my god, it's like 1.30am?”

“oh shit you’re right,” he says, standing as you do. “i’ll send you home.”

you hesitate for a second. “you don’t have to.”

“i know, but i don’t mind. ”

that’s all he says.

and somehow that makes it easier to accept.

“…okay.”

the drive is quieter than dinner, but not awkward. the kind of quiet that settles naturally after too much conversation, both of you still a little caught in the after-effect of it.

by the time he pulls into your apartment, the night has gone still, the parking lot dim and mostly empty.

“thanks,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt. “for… dinner.”

jay nods once. “anytime.”

you step out, closing the door gently behind you, the cool air hitting your skin as you walk toward the entrance.

and then you see him.

heeseung.

he’s just outside the lobby, leaning slightly against the wall like he’s been there a while, but the second he spots you, he pushes himself upright. his movements aren’t steady—just enough of a stagger to make it obvious he’s been drinking.

your steps slow.

his eyes move past you briefly—toward jay’s car still idling behind—and something in his expression shifts immediately.

sharp. ugly.

“...babe?” he mutters as he straightens from where he’d been leaning near the lobby entrance, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s been waiting long enough to work himself into a mood. the second his eyes land on you, the irritation is immediate, sharp enough to cut through whatever quiet the night had left.

you don’t respond right away. you already know the tone, the direction, the way this is going to unfold if you let it.

he closes the distance anyway, stopping just close enough to make it uncomfortable, his gaze dragging over you slowly before flicking past your shoulder toward jay’s car still idling nearby.

“why are you out this late?” he asks, voice rough, edged with something meaner than concern. “and who the hell is that?”

you tighten your grip on your bag, keeping your tone even. “he’s my co-worker.”

he lets out a short laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “you’re out with a male co-worker at two in the morning,” he repeats, louder now, stressing every word like he wants someone else to hear it. “do you hear yourself?”

you glance briefly toward the entrance, already aware of how sound carries this late, then back at him. “lower your voice.”

“don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps immediately, stepping closer. “answer the question properly.”

“i just did.”

“no, you didn’t,” he shoots back. “because ‘co-worker’ doesn’t explain why you’re out like this.”

“like what?” you ask, quieter now, trying to keep this from turning into something worse.

“like you don’t care,” he says, gesturing at you, frustrated. “like you think this is normal.”

you take a slow breath. “we can talk about this upstairs.”

“no,” he says instantly. “we’re talking about it now.”

“this isn’t the place.”

“oh, now you care about that?” he scoffs. “you didn’t care about that when you were out—”

“i said we can talk upstairs,” you repeat, firmer this time.

he stares at you for a second, jaw tight, like he’s deciding whether to push it further here or drag it somewhere more contained.

before he can answer, a car door closes behind you.

jay.

you don’t turn fully, but you feel it—the shift, the way heeseung’s attention sharpens again.

“everything okay?” jay asks, voice calm, measured.

you step in immediately, cutting it off before it can become something else. “yeah, it’s fine.”

heeseung turns his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at jay, irritation flaring all over again. “who asked you?” he says, tone sharp.

jay doesn’t move closer, doesn’t step into it, just stands where he is. “i asked her.”

“i wasn’t talking to you,” heeseung shoots back.

“and i wasn’t talking to you either,” jay replies evenly. “i was talking to her.”

you feel the tension spike immediately and step in before it can tip over.

“jay, it’s fine,” you say again, more firmly now. “i’ve got it.”

there’s a brief pause. jay looks at you, like he’s checking if you actually mean that, then nods once.

“alright.”

he doesn’t leave immediately, but he doesn’t interfere either.

you turn back to heeseung. “let’s go upstairs.”

he exhales sharply through his nose, clearly not satisfied, but after a second he turns toward the lift, pressing the button harder than necessary.

the ride up is silent. not calm. not neutral. just tight.

you stand on one side, him on the other, the reflection in the mirror catching the way his jaw keeps flexing, the way he’s replaying it already, building it into something worse.

the moment the doors open, he steps out first.

you follow.

the walk to the apartment is short, but it feels longer with the way the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid and everything waiting to be said the second the door closes.

you unlock it, step inside, and barely get the door shut before he turns on you.

“what the hell was that?” he demands.

you drop your bag onto the chair, forcing your voice to stay level. “we went to dinner. that’s it.”

“at two in the morning.”

“it ran late.”

“stop saying that like it explains anything,” he snaps. “you don’t just ‘run late’ with some guy.”

“he’s my co-worker.”

“i heard you the first time,” he says sharply. “that doesn’t make it better.”

“well i wouldn’t have had dinner with him if you remembered we were supposed to go out on a date today,” you hissed. “but i guess yerin and your friends are much more important.” you feel your patience thinning, but you keep your tone controlled. 

“oh my god those are my friends and like you said, it’s not like i ditched you to go on a date, i just forgot and went out with my friends,” he scoffs, running a hand through his hair again. “here we go y/n. you’re twisting things again.”

“i’m not twisting anything.”

“you always do,” he says, talking over you. “you take something small and turn it into a problem.”

the apartment feels too small for the noise between you, the air thick and unmoving, like even the walls are holding their breath.

“it wasn’t small to me.”

your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through everything, steady in a way that makes him pause for half a second before his expression hardens again.

“that’s because you overthink everything,” he snaps, pacing once before turning back to you, already worked up again. “you take something normal and twist it until it turns into a problem, and then you expect me to—what—apologise for nothing?”

“it’s not nothing if it affects me.”

“it shouldn’t affect you this much,” he fires back immediately, not even letting the words settle. “that’s the prob—”

“i want to break up.”

the words drop into the room like something solid, heavy enough to silence everything else.

for a second, all you hear is the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant noise of the city filtering through the windows.

“excuse me?”

he doesn’t sound confused.

he sounds offended.

“you heard me the first time,” you say, your voice sharper now, the control in it cracking just enough to show through. “so get the fuck out of my house right now.”

something in his face shifts.

not softer.

not calmer.

worse.

“what the fuck did you just say to me?”

his voice is louder now, bouncing off the walls, echoing through the dim apartment like it has nowhere else to go. he turns fully toward you, eyes burning, chest rising and falling too fast, like the anger has been building long before this moment and finally found somewhere to land.

“you think you can just dump me and then run off with that asshole?” he roars, the words coming out rough and jagged. “is this what this is? you go out for one night and suddenly you’ve got the confidence to pull this shit?”

you don’t step back.

even when he closes the distance between you in two quick strides, even when the heat of him is right there, overwhelming, even when his hand shoots out and clamps around your arm hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“answer me,” he demands, his grip tightening, fingers digging in like he’s trying to force something out of you. “you think you can just walk away and make me look like a fucking idiot?”

and for the first time since the fight started—

you realise this isn’t just anger anymore.

it’s control, slipping.

“just shut up, heeseung. i’m sick and tired of you pinning everything on me!” you snap, your voice cracking through the apartment, louder than you meant it to be, louder than anything you’ve said to him in a long time. “you’re the one who disappeared, you’re the one who forgot you even had a girlfriend, and you’ve never—never—treated me with any respect the entire time we’ve been together!”

the words hang there, sharp and ugly, cutting through the stale air.

you shove at his chest, needing space, needing him away from you, but he doesn’t move. not even a step. it’s like pushing against something immovable, something that refuses to give.

your heart is pounding now, too fast, too loud, adrenaline flooding your system in a way that makes everything feel too close, too intense, your anger mixing with that sick, familiar pull he always has on you.

his expression shifts. not softer.

worse.

he grabs you.

not gently.

his hand clamps around your arm and yanks you back toward him, the force of it knocking the breath out of you for a second, his grip iron-tight, unrelenting.

“respect?” he echoes, his voice dropping into something darker, something that makes your stomach twist. there’s a smile tugging at his mouth, but it’s wrong, sharp at the edges, like he’s enjoying this. “oh, baby… but you love it when i disrespect you, don’t you?”

you freeze for half a second.

“you love it when i’m mean to you,” he continues, his voice low, taunting, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath against your skin. a quiet, almost amused laugh slips out of him. “don’t act like you don’t.”

something in you snaps.

“don’t,” you say, your voice shaking now—not weak, but furious, disgusted. “don’t do that.”

he tilts his head, like he’s studying you, like this is interesting to him.

“oh my god,” you breathe out, trying to pull your arm free, your chest tightening with something that feels dangerously close to panic and rage at the same time. “heeseung, i’ve had enough of you.”

your voice steadies on the last part, even as your pulse races.

“get. out.”

the words land harder this time.

he towers over you. “you're mine, you hear me? no one else gets to look at you like that." his free hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to meet his glare. "say it. say you're fucking mine."

"fuck you, heeseung! you don't own me!" the words explode out, but your body betrays you, heat pooling low as his possessiveness ignites something feral.

he shoves you back against the wall, the impact jarring. his mouth crashes onto yours, teeth clashing in a brutal kiss that tastes like whiskey and anger. you bite his lip hard, drawing blood, and he growls, retaliating by slapping your thigh sharply through your skirt.

"that's right, fight me," he snarls, ripping your top open, buttons scattering across the floor. his hands maul your breasts, pinching nipples until you gasp in pain-laced pleasure. "you love this shit baby. you always come crawling back."

"shut up!" you claw at his shirt, tearing it off him, nails raking red lines down his chest. he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back, exposing your throat. his teeth sink in, sucking a mark that'll last for days.

"who's marking you up baby? me. always me." he grinds his hard cock against your thigh, the bulge straining his jeans. "no one else gets this pussy."

you slap his face, the crack echoing, but he just laughs darkly, spinning you around and pinning your front to the wall. his hand hikes up your skirt, fingers shoving your panties aside to plunge two digits into your soaked pussy.

"so fucking wet for me already," he mocks, pumping roughly, thumb grinding your clit. "lying bitch. you want this cock punishing you."

"asshole," you spit, but your hips buck back, chasing the burn. he pulls his fingers out, smearing your juices across your ass before unzipping. his thick cock springs free, slapping against your skin.

he doesn't warn—thrusts in balls-deep in one savage stroke, stretching your pussy wide. you cry out, the mix of pain and fullness making stars burst behind your eyes. heeseung grips your hips bruisingly, pounding into you with punishing force, the wall shaking.

"take it. take every fucking inch," he grunts, one hand wrapping around your throat from behind, squeezing just enough to make you dizzy. "you're not leaving me. ever. i'd burn the world down first."

your hands scrabble at the wall, moans tearing from your throat as he rails you, cock dragging over that spot inside that makes you shatter. "i hate you," you gasp, but it comes out wrecked, needy.

"no, you don't baby, you fucking love me." he pulls out suddenly, spinning you again, lifting you like you weigh nothing and slamming you down onto his cock as he drops onto the couch. you straddle him, but he controls the pace, bouncing you hard, his hands slapping your ass red.

"ride me, slut. show me how much you need this dick." his eyes lock on yours, wild and obsessive. sweat slicks your bodies, the room filled with wet slaps and your shared curses.

you grind down, circling your hips, clit rubbing his pelvis. he reaches up, choking you lightly again, pulling you into another vicious kiss. tongues battle as he thrusts up brutally, hitting your cervix.

"cum on my cock baby girl," he demands, fingers digging into your ass, spreading you. "milk me dry. prove you're mine."

the orgasm rips through you, pussy clenching vise-tight around him, gushing as you scream his name. he doesn't stop, fucking you through it, overstimulating until tears stream down your face.

"that's it, baby," he croons suddenly, voice shifting to that honeyed tone he uses to reel you in. his thrusts slow but deepen, one hand stroking your back almost tenderly. "fuck, you're perfect. i can't lose you. i love you so much it hurts."

the lovebomb hits like a drug, melting your resistance even as you know it's poison. you kiss him desperately, riding faster. he groans, hips snapping up.

"gonna fill this pussy up. breed you so you can't ever leave, making you a fucking mommy, you want that don't you baby?." with a roar, he buries deep, cock pulsing as hot cum floods you, spilling out around him.

you collapse onto his chest, both panting. he holds you tight, lips brushing your ear. "don't ever scare me like that again. you're my everything. i'll do better, i swear. just stay."

you nod weakly, knowing it'll cycle again, but trapped in his web. his arms lock around you possessively, cock still twitching inside as he murmurs sweet lies into your hair.

You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.

The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.

You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.

You’re terrified of it.

Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.

Which brings you back to the letter.

The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.

In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.

“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.

A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.

His name is Jungwon.

Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.

That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.

You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.

Now you just have to find him.

—————

The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”

The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”

The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.

The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.

“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.

“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.

“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.

The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.

You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.

The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.

You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?

Yes. Yes, you do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.

You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.

“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”

You finally look up.

And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.

The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.

The room has gone completely, utterly silent.

You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.

And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”

This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.

“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”

You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.

But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.

“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.

You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-

“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.

“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”

This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.

But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.

But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”

What.

“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.

“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”

Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.

Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Okay?! Okay?!

“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”

You nod mutely.

“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.

You confessed to the wrong person.

You confessed to the wrong person.

And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.

Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.

“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.

But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.

She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then she said okay anyway.

“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.

“Interesting how?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.

He’s never received anything like it before.

And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.

“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”

He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”

He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.

—————

The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.

You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.

“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

“I’m okay with starting slow.”

“You’re cute.”

You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.

By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.

But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.

Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?

You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis

Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?

You: it’s in process

Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-

Your phone buzzes again.

Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen

You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland

Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding

You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.

The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.

Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.

You’re going to have to ask for help.

This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.

You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”

The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”

The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.

“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”

The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.

You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.

The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.

No Heeseung.

You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.

You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:

“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”

You look up.

Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.

He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”

He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.

“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”

“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”

Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.

“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”

Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.

“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”

“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”

He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”

Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.

“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.

“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.

“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.

“There you are.”

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.

Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”

Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”

This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.

“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.

“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”

Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.

“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.

“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.

Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.

You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.

“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”

“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”

“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.

You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”

“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”

You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.

“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.

“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”

You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.

You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.

Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.

You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.

The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.

“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”

“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.

“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”

You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”

“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”

She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.

“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”

You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”

Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”

“Exactly!”

“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”

“Yunjin, please focus.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”

“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”

You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”

“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”

“I don’t have a stamp collection.”

“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”

You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.

And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.

“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”

You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”

Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”

You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”

Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.

And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.

—————

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.

That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.

You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.

"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"

Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.

But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.

"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.

Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.

"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"

He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.

"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."

"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"

Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."

"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"

Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.

This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.

"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"

You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."

Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"

"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."

"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"

What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.

You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.

Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.

"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.

"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"

And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.

You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.

Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"

You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.

Silence.

The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"

His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.

"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."

"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"

"It's a lifestyle choice."

He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.

"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.

"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."

Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"

"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."

"I held a door open."

"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.

"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."

"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."

"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."

"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.

Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."

"Is that… good or bad?"

"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.

You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.

And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.

Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"

And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.

You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.

"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"

You stop.

You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.

This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.

You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.

Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."

You blink.

"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."

"You… main ADC?"

"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."

You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.

"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."

"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.

Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"

"I was very passionate about the subject."

"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."

He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.

"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"

"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."

Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.

"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."

Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."

He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:

"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."

And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.

You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.

You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.

You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.

You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.

You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.

But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.

—————

The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.

Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.

Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.

"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"

Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.

"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."

"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."

"That's brutal."

"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."

You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.

"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."

Your heart stops.

Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.

"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."

You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.

The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.

You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.

Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.

He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.

"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.

Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."

Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."

You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.

"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Just come here. Lean forward a little."

Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.

His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says.

You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.

Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."

Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.

"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.

"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at."

The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.

"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.

"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."

"Of course you do."

The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.

By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.

Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.

You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.

"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.

You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-

You stop wriggling.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.

The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.

Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-

—————

You are in the PC room again.

But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.

Heeseung.

He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."

"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.

He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.

"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"

Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.

"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is…it's…

It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."

And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-

He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.

"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.

The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.

His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."

His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.

His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.

Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.

And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.

When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.

"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."

You wake up.

You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"

But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-

You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.

"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."

Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.

This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.

You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.

But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.

The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.

The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.

The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.

You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.

"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."

But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.

You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.

You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.

The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.

You refuse to let it mean anything.

(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)

—————

The dream haunts you for three days.

Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-

You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."

Yunjin is no help whatsoever.

"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"

"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"

"And Heeseung is…?"

"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"

Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."

"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."

"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"

You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.

But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.

Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.

Theoretically.

You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.

"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"

Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.

That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.

You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.

"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"

The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.

Heeseung turns.

Your eyes meet.

Time stops.

There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.

A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.

You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"

"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."

"You don't wear contacts."

"I might! You don't know my life!"

"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."

You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.

Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."

The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?

"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."

"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."

"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."

"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."

"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.

Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."

Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.

And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.

"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."

"Is that a yes?"

"…Yes."

You step down onto the road and the heat hits you like a physical thing.

Chicago in September is crisp. Leaves turning, wind off the lake, the smell of the city sharpening into something almost bearable. You have lived your whole life in that particular kind of autumn and you are standing here now in what should by all rights be the tail end of summer and the ground is baking. The sky is enormous. There are no buildings tall enough to interrupt it, nothing to cut the blue into manageable pieces, and for a moment you just stand there with your suitcase at your feet and your hat in your hand and feel very, very small.

“You the new schoolteacher?” You turn. A young man — can’t be more than nineteen — is leaning against the side of the bus stop with his arms crossed and his dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got a look on his face that isn’t quite a smile but is clearly thinking about becoming one.

“That obvious?” you say.

“You’ve got a suitcase and a look on your face like you’re trying to figure out if you made a terrible mistake.” He pushes off the wall and picks up your larger bag before you can protest. “Riki. I work out at Sunrise Ranch but I’m in town most days. Mr. Lee sent me to check if you’d arrived.”

You blink. “Someone was expecting me?”

“Mrs. Calloway at the boarding house would’ve had your room ready since Tuesday,” he says, already walking. “Small town. News travels.”

You pick up your smaller case and follow him. Mrs. Calloway. The name lands somewhere behind your sternum and sits there, inert. Just a name. A common enough name. You are done flinching at common names. “I’m Y/N,” you say.

“I know,” Riki says, not unkindly. “Everyone does.”

—

Main Street — the only street, really, though two dirt roads branch off it like afterthoughts — is quiet in the way that feels inhabited rather than empty. A woman sweeps her front step and nods at you. Two men outside the hardware store pause their conversation to watch you pass with open, unapologetic curiosity. A little girl with two braids chases a dog around the side of the church and neither of them pays you any attention at all, which you find oddly comforting.

The diner is called Park’s and it has a specials board in the window that reads Tuesday: Peach Pie in chalk letters, and through the glass you can see red vinyl booths and a long counter with spinning stools and a man behind it who catches your eye through the window and raises a coffee pot in greeting like he’s been expecting you too. “That’s Jay,” Riki says, following your gaze. “He’ll want to talk your ear off. I’d give yourself a day before you go in or you’ll never get unpacked.”

“Is everyone here this—” you search for the word.

“Friendly?” Riki offers.

“I was going to say informed.”

He considers this. “Yeah,” he says. “Both.”

The boarding house sits at the end of the main street where the road widens slightly, a two-storey white clapboard building with a porch and a wind chime and flower boxes in the windows. It is, you think, the most aggressively quaint thing you have ever seen in your life. You grew up in an apartment on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like other people’s cooking and city rain and you are trying very hard not to let your face say anything impolite about wind chimes.

Mrs. Della, the landlady — not a Calloway, you exhale quietly — is a broad warm woman in her sixties with silver hair and flour on her apron who opens the door before you knock and says “There she is” like you’re something she ordered and is pleased to find arrived undamaged. “Come in, come in, you must be half dead from that bus.” She takes your smaller case clean out of your hand. “Riki, you staying for supper?”

“Can’t,” he says, setting your larger bag inside the door. He looks at you briefly, something almost like reassurance in it. “You’ll be alright here,” he says, which is a strange thing to say and which you believe immediately, and then he’s back down the porch steps and heading up the road with his hands in his pockets.

“Good boy,” Mrs. Della says, watching him go. “Lee Heeseung took him in two years back, gives him work and a roof. That man would give you the shirt off his back.” She says it the way people say things that are simply true, established fact, no elaboration required, and ushers you inside before you can ask who Lee Heeseung is.

Your room is small and clean and has a window that looks out over the back garden and a field beyond it and then nothing but flat land and sky all the way to the horizon. The bed has a quilt on it in yellow and white. There is a writing desk and a lamp and a hook on the back of the door.

You sit on the edge of the bed and let the quiet settle around you. In Chicago there is always noise — traffic and neighbours and the radiator banging in winter and the el train every twelve minutes rattling the windows. You have slept to that noise your whole life. This quiet is a different texture entirely. Crickets, somewhere. Wind moving through something dry. The distant low sound of what might be cattle.

You think about the apartment you gave up. The life you gave up — or that was given up on — and the way the story circulated, the whispers at the school where you’d taught for three years, the way your mother had said maybe if you’d been less difficult, Y/N, as though your own broken engagement was a character flaw you’d displayed in public. You’d applied for twenty-seven jobs in towns you’d never heard of. Castillo Creek, Texas was the one that wrote back.

You lie back on the yellow quilt and look at the ceiling and think: New soil. See what grows.

In the morning Mrs. Della makes you eggs and biscuits and coffee so strong it makes your eyes water and tells you that the schoolhouse is two blocks north, that school starts Monday which gives you four days to settle, that the previous teacher Miss Hargrove retired to be closer to her sister in San Antonio and left her lesson plans in the desk drawer, and that if you need anything at all you are to ask and not to be proud about it. “We don’t stand on ceremony here,” she says, refilling your cup. “You’ll find people are plain. They say what they mean.”

“That’s refreshing,” you say, and mean it more than she knows.

“You’ll fit in fine,” she says, in the same tone Riki used last night, that same easy certainty, and you don’t know yet whether Castillo Creek is simply a town full of optimists or whether they can see something in you that you can’t currently see in yourself.

After breakfast you walk the street. Slowly, no destination, just learning the shape of the place. The hardware store is run by a man named Gus who shakes your hand and calls you ma’am and means it respectfully. The general store has everything from canned peaches to horse liniment arranged with cheerful illogic on its shelves. The church noticeboard has a harvest dance announced for the first week of October, hand-lettered on card. A tabby cat sleeps on the post office step and does not move when you step over it.

You end up at Park’s because you are not made of stone and the peach pie in the window has been watching you since yesterday. The bell above the door chimes when you push it open. The diner smells like coffee and something frying and woodsmoke and the particular warm smell of a place that has been feeding people for a long time. Three of the booths are occupied — two older men playing cards over the remains of breakfast, a young woman nursing a baby and reading a magazine, a teenager staring out the window like he’s being paid for it.

The man behind the counter looks up and grins like you’ve just won something. “There she is,” he says, which is apparently how everyone in this town greets you. He’s handsome in an easy, untroubled way — dark eyes, an apron over his shirt, the kind of smile that has probably never caused him a day’s trouble because it is entirely, disarmingly genuine. “Jay Park. Welcome to Castillo Creek, and more importantly, welcome to my diner. Sit anywhere. Coffee?”

“Please,” you say, sliding onto a counter stool. “Y/N.”

“I know.” He’s already pouring. “The whole town knows. Don’t let that spook you — it’s not menacing, we’re just starved for news.” He sets the cup in front of you. “You surviving Mrs. Della’s biscuits?”

“They’re extraordinary.”

“Don’t tell her I said this but mine are better.” He leans on the counter. “How are you finding it so far?”

“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours.”

“First impressions.”

You wrap your hands around the coffee cup. Outside the window the main street sits quiet in the morning sun, dust turning gold where the light hits it, a man on horseback moving slow at the far end of the road, hat low against the glare. “It’s very quiet,” you say.

“City girl.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“The accent gives you away a little,” he says, not unkindly. “Chicago?”

“Born and raised.”

He nods like this explains something. “You’ll either love it here or you’ll be back on the bus in a month. There’s not usually an in-between.” He tilts his head, studying you with the frank, comfortable curiosity of a man who talks to everyone and has learned to read them quickly. “My money’s on love it.”

“Why?”

“You ordered coffee before you ordered pie,” he says. “Practical. And you’re still here instead of back at the boarding house wondering what you’ve done. Means you’re the kind of person who walks toward things.”

You look at him for a moment. “You do this with everyone?”

“Do what?”

“Make them feel like you’ve known them for years.”

Jay grins, unabashed. “Only the interesting ones.” He reaches under the counter and produces a plate with a slice of peach pie on it, sets it in front of you without asking. “On the house. Welcome to town.”

You eat the pie. It is, genuinely, one of the best things you’ve ever tasted, which you tell him, and he looks so pleased about it that you find yourself smiling for what feels like the first time in a long time — the real kind, not the composed kind you’ve been wearing since spring.

You are still there an hour later when the bell above the door chimes and a man walks in. You notice the hat first. Worn tan leather, shaped by years and weather, pushed back just enough to see his face.

Then the face — and it is, unfairly, a lot of face: dark eyes, jaw that belongs in a painting, and a smile that appears when he spots Jay like the sun deciding to come out from behind something. He is tall and lean in the way of men who work with their bodies, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled and boots with actual dust on them, and he moves through the diner like a man who is completely comfortable taking up space, not arrogantly, just — naturally. Like the room fits him.

Half the diner looks up when he walks in. You notice this and then notice that he doesn’t seem to notice it. “Heeseung,” Jay says. “You’re late.”

“Riki let one of the mares out this morning,” the man says, dropping onto the stool two down from you. “Had to get her back in before she ate the garden.” His voice has the particular warm drawl of a man who has lived in Texas his whole life, the vowels long and unhurried. He glances over — and for just a moment, before the smile arrives, you see him register you. A quick, frank, unguarded look. Then the smile.

It is, you think distantly, a remarkably good smile. “You must be the new schoolteacher,” he says.

“So I’ve been told,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh and extends a hand across the empty stool between you. “Lee Heeseung. I run Sunrise Ranch, out east of town.” A pause, then, easy as breathing: “Welcome to Castillo Creek, darlin’.”

The darlin’ lands warmly, casually, the way he probably says it to everyone. You shake his hand. His grip is firm and his palm is calloused and he lets go at exactly the right moment. “Y/N,” you say.

“Pretty name,” he says, and turns back to Jay to ask about the lunch special, and that is that.

You finish your pie. You say goodbye to Jay, who tells you to come back tomorrow, and nod to Heeseung, who tips his hat slightly without looking up from his coffee, and you push out into the dry Texas morning with the bell chiming behind you and the sky enormous overhead. You think: new soil.

You walk back toward the boarding house and do not think about the smile. (You try.)

—

The schoolhouse is a single rectangular building painted white, sitting back from the road behind a low wooden fence with a gate that sticks. There is a bell above the door on a rope, a covered porch with two steps, and six windows along each side that let in long rectangles of morning light. Inside: four rows of desks, a blackboard, a bookshelf with a sadly depleted top shelf, a globe with a crack running through the Pacific, a teacher’s desk at the front with a chair that wobbles on its left leg, and the lesson plans Miss Hargrove left in the drawer, written in such small precise handwriting that you have to hold them close to the lamp to read them.

You spend the weekend getting acquainted with it. You rearrange the desks slightly — four rows feels regimented for fourteen children ranging from five to eleven — into a looser configuration that won’t make the little ones feel like they’re waiting to be sentenced. You find chalk in the wrong drawer and a box of coloured pencils in the right one. You fix the gate with a piece of wire you find coiled on the porch. You read Miss Hargrove’s lesson plans and her notes on each child, written in the margins in that same small hand: Clara D. — very bright, reads above her level. Tommy H. — struggles with numbers but never says so. Eli L. — clever, restless, tests limits. Handle firmly but don’t let him know you’re doing it.

You read that last one twice. Eli L.

You’d heard the name once already, briefly, the way you hear a lot of names in a town like this — someone mentioning someone else in passing, the social web of a small place where everyone is connected to everyone by approximately two degrees. Riki worked at Sunrise Ranch. Sunrise Ranch belonged to Lee Heeseung. Lee Heeseung had a son. Clever, restless, tests limits.

You put the lesson plans back in the drawer, look at the rearranged desks.

Monday morning arrives with the particular clarity of a sky that has not clouded in weeks. You are at the schoolhouse by seven-thirty. You write your name on the board — Miss Y/N — and you stand at the front and look at the empty desks and do something you haven’t let yourself do since you stepped off that bus: you feel, briefly and privately, afraid. Not of the children, not of the job — you have been a teacher for three years and you are good at it, this you know — but of the starting over. Of the standing in a room and introducing yourself to people who don’t know you yet and hoping that this time, in this place, what they learn about you is something you’ve chosen.

You take a breath. You put your composed face on. You go stand on the porch to watch them arrive.

They come in ones and twos, mostly walked by mothers who linger at the gate with polite curiosity to get a look at you, a few by fathers, one or two on their own who are clearly old enough to have decided they don’t need walking. The little ones are solemn and wide-eyed. The older ones are watchful. They file onto the porch and past you with varying degrees of shyness, and you smile at each of them and say good morning, and most of them say it back.

The boy who doesn’t say it back arrives at eight on the dot, alone. He is small for seven — wiry and dark-haired with his father’s eyes and a gap where one of his front teeth used to be — and he walks through the gate with his lunch pail swinging and his chin up with the specific energy of a child who has decided in advance that he is not going to be impressed. He stops at the foot of the porch steps and looks up at you.

You look down at him. “Good morning,” you say.

He considers you. His gaze is frank and assessing in a way that reminds you immediately, disconcertingly, of his father. “You talk funny,” he says.

Behind him, two of the other children go very still in that particular way children do when someone has said the thing everyone was thinking. “I do,” you agree pleasantly. “Good morning.”

He blinks — he was expecting something else, you can tell — and then, almost against his will: “Morning.” He goes inside. You allow yourself precisely one second of satisfaction and then follow him in.

Their names, as you learn them through the morning: Clara, Tommy, Ruth, Beau, Ida, Jesse, Mae, Henry, Grace, Daniel, Lottie, Patrick, Susie, and Eli. Fourteen children, five to eleven, in one room with one teacher, which is simply the way of it in a town this size and which you knew going in and which presents itself as exactly the specific beautiful chaos you anticipated.

The little ones need different work from the older ones, the older ones need to be trusted enough not to resent the time you spend with the younger, and the whole arrangement requires a kind of orchestrated independence that takes most new teachers a month to establish.

You have it running by lunch. This is not arrogance. It is three years of practice and the lesson plans of Miss Hargrove, who clearly knew what she was doing, and the children themselves, who are — beneath the shyness and the staring — genuinely good. Clara reads to the two youngest while you work arithmetic with the middle group. Tommy, who struggles with numbers and has clearly been told by someone who loves him to hide it, relaxes visibly when you kneel beside his desk and show him the same problem three different ways without making it a thing. Grace, who is eleven and takes her seniority seriously, helps you hand out the coloured pencils for the afternoon drawing exercise with the gravity of someone performing a civic duty.

Eli sits in the second row and does exactly enough work to be technically compliant and spends the rest of the time studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s deciding whether to bother solving. He is not disruptive. He does not cause trouble, exactly. He just — watches. And occasionally says something, not quite under his breath, that makes the children near him stifle laughter, and when you look at him he is already looking at the ceiling or his pencil or the middle distance, expression perfectly innocent.

At half past two he raises his hand for the first time. You are, cautiously, relieved. “Yes, Eli?”

“How come you don’t say cahn’t like us?” he says. “You say can’t like it’s short.” The room goes quiet with interest.

“Because I grew up in Chicago,” you say. “People talk differently there.”

“Why?”

“That’s a good question. Different places develop different ways of speaking over time depending on who settled there and where they came from originally. It’s called a dialect.”

He turns this over. “So you’re not talking wrong, you’re just talking different.”

“That’s exactly right.”

He seems to file this away somewhere. He looks at his desk, then back up at you. “My dad says Chicago’s real big.”

“It is.”

“Did you like it?”

There is nothing loaded in the question — he is seven, he is simply curious — but the room is listening and you have a composed face for exactly this and you use it. “I did,” you say. “But I like it here too. Different things to like.” You hold his gaze for just a moment. “Good question, Eli.” He ducks his head in a way that might, if you’re reading it right, be pleased.

You let them out at three o’clock. They pour off the porch like water and scatter in every direction — some toward the main street, some down the side road, a few collected by waiting parents at the gate. You stand on the porch and watch them go with the pleasant exhausted satisfaction of a good first day, the kind where you know the shape of things now even if the details are still forming.

The last child through the gate is Eli, lunch pail swinging again, cap pushed back on his head. He pauses at the gate and turns back. “Miss?” he calls.

“Yes?”

He looks at you for a moment, that assessing look. Then: “You fixed the gate.”

“It was sticking,” you say. He nods, apparently satisfied with this. And then he’s gone, off down the road at a trot, and you lean against the porch post and look at the empty yard and the long afternoon light making everything gold and think that clever, restless, tests limits is right but that the note should have also said watching everything, deciding what to do with it.

Jay brings you pie. Not in the diner — he appears at the boarding house at half past five with a covered plate and the energy of a man who has been wanting to ask you about your day since approximately eight that morning. Mrs. Della lets him in with the equanimity of someone accustomed to Jay Park appearing with baked goods and sets an extra cup on the table. “Well?” he says, sitting down across from you with the plate between you, which you note he has not uncovered, clearly operating on the pie as leverage.

“Well,” you say.

“First day.” He tilts his head. “Good? Bad? You still here, which is promising.”

“Good,” you say honestly. “They’re good kids.”

“They are.” He uncovers the plate — cherry, this time. “Any trouble?”

You think of dark eyes and a gap-toothed grin and you talk funny. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Jay smiles, something knowing in it. “Eli Lee give you a hard time?”

“He was perfectly behaved.”

“That’s almost worse, honestly.” He leans back in his chair. “He’s a good kid. He just — tests people. Wants to know if you’re going to stay.” He says it lightly but you hear something underneath it, something careful. “His last teacher, Miss Hargrove, he adored her by the end. Took him a month.”

“I’ve got time,” you say.

Jay looks at you the way he did that first morning at the counter, that frank easy assessment. “You know Heeseung came into the diner after you left Friday,” he says, with the absolute casualness of a man deploying information he has been sitting on for days.

You cut into the pie. “Did he.”

“Asked how you seemed. Whether you looked settled.” Jay’s expression is the picture of innocence. “Just being neighbourly.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Mm.” Jay drinks his coffee. “He doesn’t usually ask.”

You eat your cherry pie and look at Jay Park over your fork and decide that you like him enormously and that he is also going to be an absolute menace and that these two things are entirely compatible. “Thank you for the pie,” you say.

Jay grins. “Anytime, darlin’.”

The word lands differently in his mouth — friendly, careless, the way you’d expect. The way it probably sounds from everyone. You eat your pie and don’t think about the way it sounded Friday morning on a counter stool two seats down from you, unhurried and warm, like the man saying it had all the time in the world.

Wednesday afternoon you are erasing the board after the children have gone when you hear the gate. You turn, chalk dust on your hands, and Heeseung Lee is coming through it.

He has his hat in his hand this time — held at his side, the gesture you will come to learn is his version of courtesy, the small deliberate thing he does when he’s on someone else’s ground. He is in his work clothes, boots dusty, shirt with the sleeves rolled like the first time you saw him, and he is looking at the schoolhouse with a particular quiet expression that you can’t read yet. “Mr. Lee,” you say from the porch.

He looks up. “Miss Y/N.” The smile comes easy and unhurried, the same one from the diner, and you are annoyed to find that it works just as well the second time. “Hope I’m not disturbing.”

“Not at all.” You dust the chalk from your hands on your apron. “Is something wrong?”

“No, ma’am.” He reaches the foot of the steps and stops there, which you note — he doesn’t come up onto the porch uninvited, just stands at the bottom with his hat in his hand. “Eli mentioned you fixed the gate.”

You blink. “It was sticking.”

“I know. I kept meaning to get to it.” He looks at the gate briefly and back at you. “Just wanted to thank you. And to say — he told me about the dialect conversation.”

“Oh?”

“He came home and used the word dialect four times at supper.” Something warm moves through his expression. “He hasn’t stopped asking questions about Chicago.”

You lean against the porch post. “He’s very bright.”

“I know,” Heeseung says, quietly, the way parents say things about their children when they’re proud and trying not to make a production of it. “He can be a handful.”

“He’s been fine,” you say, and mean it. “He’s testing me. I don’t mind being tested.”

Heeseung looks at you for a moment — that same brief, unguarded register you caught in the diner, there and then gone. “Miss Hargrove said the same thing about him.” A pause. “She was right, and so are you.” He puts his hat back on, settling it with the ease of long habit. “I won’t keep you. Just — thank you. For the gate and for the patience.”

“It’s my job,” you say.

“The gate wasn’t,” he says simply, and tips his hat, and walks back through it — and you notice, as he goes, that he lifts the handle the right way so it doesn’t stick on him. He knew how it worked. He just hadn’t gotten to it.

You stand on the porch for a moment after he’s gone, chalk dust still on your apron, the afternoon light going gold and long across the schoolyard. Alright, you think. But it’s a different alright than the one on the bus.

—

You learn the rhythms of Castillo Creek the way you learn anything new — by paying attention. Monday through Friday the main street wakes slowly, the diner first, Jay’s lights on before six and the smell of coffee reaching the boarding house if the wind is right. The general store opens at seven, the hardware store at eight. The church bell rings at nine for no reason anyone can explain except that it always has.

Afternoons are quiet in the way that heat makes things quiet, everyone retreating into shade, and then around four the street comes back to life — horses at the post, trucks pulling in, the sound of voices carrying in the dry air. Evenings on the boarding house porch: crickets, the occasional distant sound of music from the diner where Jay sometimes puts a record on after hours, the sky going colours you don’t have names for yet.

Weekends the ranch hands come into town. This is when you first understand that Sunrise Ranch is not a small operation. Saturday morning and there are three trucks parked outside the general store and Jay’s counter is full and the voices are different — louder, easier, the particular looseness of men at the end of a working week. You are becoming a recognisable figure on the main street now, two weeks in, and people nod or wave or say morning, Miss Y/N with the comfortable familiarity of a town that has decided you belong, or is at least willing to extend the provisional assumption.

Riki finds you at the general store on the second Saturday, reaching for a tin on a high shelf. “Here,” he says, getting it down for you without ceremony.

“Thank you.” You put it in your basket. “How’s the mare?”

He blinks, then remembers. “Back in her paddock. She does it once a month like clockwork.” He falls into step beside you toward the counter, hands in his pockets. “How’s Eli?”

“Getting there,” you say.

Riki’s mouth twitches. “He told me you knew what a dialect was.”

“He told his father the same thing four times at supper, apparently.”

“Five times,” Riki says. “I was there. Mr. Lee made him use it in a sentence correctly before he could have dessert.” Something soft moves through his expression — fond and private, the look of someone describing a home. “He does that. Makes it a game so Eli doesn’t know he’s being taught.”

You look at him. “You live at the ranch?”

“Have done for two years.” He picks up a paper bag of something from the counter and adds it to your basket without asking, then pays for it along with his own things before you can protest. “Mr. Lee offered me the room off the stable when I first got here. Said I could work it off.” A pause. “I haven’t worked it off yet. I don’t think he’s keeping count.”

You think of the gate. Of a man standing at the foot of porch steps with his hat in his hand, not coming up unless invited. “He seems like a good man,” you say, carefully.

Riki looks at you with the frank, uncomplicated assessment of a nineteen-year-old who has not yet learned to be oblique. “He’s the best man I know,” he says simply. And then the door opens and two of the other ranch hands come in and Riki’s face shifts back into something easier and the conversation moves on, but you carry that best man I know out of the store with you and into the bright Saturday morning and find that you believe it without quite knowing why.

The invitation comes through Eli. It is a Thursday, three weeks into term, and Eli has — incrementally, perceptibly, in the way of a child who makes decisions slowly and then commits to them entirely — decided that you are acceptable. This has manifested in: asking you approximately forty questions about Chicago over the course of various lunchtimes, showing you a drawing he did of his horse with the air of someone bestowing an honour, correcting Tommy’s arithmetic before you can get there and then looking at you to see if you’ll mind, and most recently appointing himself the unofficial distributor of coloured pencils, a role Grace has had to be diplomatically persuaded to share.

On Thursday he stays behind after the others have gone.

You are at your desk reviewing the week’s work when you become aware that he is still in his seat, lunch pail on the desk in front of him, regarding you with his father’s eyes and an expression of elaborate casualness. “Yes, Eli?” you say, without looking up.

A pause. “My dad says you should come see the ranch.”

You look up. He is studying his lunch pail. “He said if you wanted. He said don’t make it a thing.” He glances up at you briefly. “I’m supposed to say it like it’s my idea.”

You press your lips together very firmly. “Whose idea was it?”

Eli considers the ethics of this for a moment. “Both,” he decides. “I said you’d like the horses and he said he’d been meaning to ask.” He picks up his lunch pail. “Saturday morning. Riki said he’d make sure the good horses are out.”

You look at this seven-year-old boy with his gap-toothed earnestness and his father’s dark eyes and the absolute transparency of a child who is not yet old enough to be a convincing liar and feel something in your chest do something inconvenient. “Saturday morning,” you say.

Eli nods, satisfied, and slides off his chair. At the door he pauses. “Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Dad said wear boots if you have them.” A beat. “Do you have boots?”

“I’ll manage,” you say. He looks doubtful but lets it go.

You do not have boots.

Mrs. Della solves this problem on Friday evening by producing a pair from somewhere in the back of a wardrobe that fit you well enough and have clearly belonged to several people before you, worn in and comfortable in the way of things that have been used properly. She does not make a fuss about it. She sets them by your door and says “for your visit to the ranch” with the serenity of a woman who knew this was coming before you did, which you are beginning to understand is simply Mrs. Della’s relationship with information.

Saturday morning is cooler than usual, a thin cloud cover cutting the worst of the heat, and you walk the road east of town with Mrs. Della’s boots on your feet and the particular feeling of a person going somewhere they haven’t decided how to feel about yet.

Sunrise Ranch announces itself before you reach it. The land opens up, the scrub giving way to fenced pasture, horses moving slow in the morning light — four, five, you count seven in the near paddock — and then the gate with Sunrise in iron letters across the top, and beyond it a long low ranch house in weathered timber, a stable block, a water tower, a barn with its doors open, and the general cheerful disorder of a working property.

Eli appears from nowhere, running. “You came,” he says, like this was uncertain, and then immediately: “You have boots.” He looks at them. “They’re okay.”

“Thank you,” you say gravely.

“Come see Maple.” He is already walking, assuming you’ll follow, which you do. “Maple’s mine. Dad got her for me last year. She’s brown.” He says this last detail with enormous authority, as though colour is the primary criterion for horse quality.

“Is she,” you say.

“She’s the best one.” He pushes open the stable door. “Don’t tell Riki’s horse.”

The stable smells of hay and horses and something warm and animal that is not unpleasant, and the light comes through the high windows in long dusty bars, and Maple is indeed brown and does indeed regard you with the large patient eyes of a creature who has learned that humans are mostly harmless if you wait them out. Eli shows her off with the proprietorial pride of a small boy who has been trusted with something real, and you let him lead you through every detail — her feeding schedule, her preferred brushing side, the way she does something with her ears when she’s happy — and listen properly, because he is telling you something important about himself by telling you about the horse. “She’s beautiful,” you say, and mean it.

Eli glows. “Yeah,” he agrees. He strokes her nose. “Dad taught me to ride on her. Well — on her and Scout. Scout’s too big for me yet but I can get on him if someone helps.”

“Who’s Scout?”

“Mine,” says a voice behind you. You turn. Heeseung is in the stable doorway, hat on, a coffee cup in one hand, backlit by the morning in a way that is doing no one any favours. He looks at you with that easy unhurried expression and then at Eli. “You showing her around properly?”

“I was getting to the rest,” Eli says, with dignity.

“Sure you were.” Heeseung’s gaze moves back to you. “Morning. Glad you came.” He says it simply, no particular weight on it, and holds out the second coffee cup that you hadn’t noticed he was holding. “Mrs. Della said you take it black.”

You take the cup. “She told you that?”

“Jay told me. Mrs. Della told Jay.” He lifts a shoulder. “Small town.”

You drink the coffee. It is good — strong and dark and made by someone who takes it seriously. “Thank you.”

“Thank Eli,” he says. “It was mostly his idea.”

“He told me,” you say.

Heeseung looks at his son with an expression of fond resignation. “Did he.” Eli, sensing this conversation is edging toward accountability, has become very interested in Maple’s left ear.

He shows you the ranch himself, Eli orbiting ahead and behind like a satellite, Riki appearing occasionally from whatever task he’s been given and nodding at you with the quiet approval of someone whose opinion you hadn’t realised you were seeking.

Heeseung walks beside you with his coffee and talks about the land with the ease of a man who has known it his whole life — the pasture his father planted, the fence line he extended six years ago, the water table, the horses by name and temperament, the rhythm of the seasons out here where seasons are more about rain than temperature. He is not performing. That is the thing you notice, watching him from the corner of your eye as he points out the far ridge where the light hits different at sunset. He is simply telling you, the way people talk about things they love when they’re comfortable enough to let it show. “How long has your family been here?” you ask.

“Three generations,” he says. “My grandfather broke the land. My father ran it until—” a brief pause, easy enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention “—until I was ready to.” He looks out at the pasture. “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“I used to think that about Chicago,” you say, before you mean to.

He glances at you. “What changed?”

The morning light is warm on the fence rail where you’ve stopped. The horses move slow in the paddock. Eli is attempting to convince Riki to let him ride something he’s probably not supposed to, and Riki is maintaining a very patient no. “Things do,” you say. “Change.”

It is not an answer and you both know it. But Heeseung doesn’t push — just nods once, slow, and looks back out at the pasture, and the silence that follows is the comfortable kind. The kind you don’t feel obligated to fill.

“Scout,” he says, after a moment. You follow his gaze. A large grey horse has appeared at the paddock fence — appeared is the right word, horses move quietly for their size, you’re learning — and is regarding you with the same patient assessment as Maple, though with more authority behind it.

“He’s enormous,” you say.

“He’s a gentleman,” Heeseung says. “Come here.” You follow him to the fence. Scout watches you approach with ears forward. Heeseung holds out his hand and the horse drops his nose into it with the ease of long familiarity, a small exhale of breath like a greeting. “Give him your hand,” Heeseung says. “Palm up.”

You do. Scout sniffs your palm, his breath warm and grass-scented, and then shifts his nose slightly to nudge at your wrist, which makes you laugh — actually laugh, surprised out of it, the unguarded kind. Heeseung is watching you when you look up. He looks away just a moment too late, back to Scout, and settles his hand on the horse’s neck. “He likes you,” he says.

“Or he wants something.”

“Same thing, with horses.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He rubs Scout’s neck once and steps back from the fence. “You ride?”

“No.”

“You want to?”

You look at Scout. Scout looks at you. He is very large and very calm and the morning is soft and there is coffee going warm in your hand and no one in this field knows anything about you except that you fixed a gate and knew the word dialect and took your coffee black. “Yes,” you say.

He doesn’t put you on Scout — that comes later, he says, and something in the later is easy and assuming in a way that you notice and don’t examine — but on a smaller bay mare named Honey who is, in Eli’s expert opinion, basically a chair, she’s so calm, which Heeseung overrules diplomatically.

He helps you up with one hand steadying the stirrup and one hand briefly at your waist — functional, impersonal, the practiced efficiency of someone who has helped people onto horses many times — and then steps back and talks you through it. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip with your knees. Breathe.

You walk Honey around the paddock twice with Heeseung at her head and Eli on the fence calling encouragement that is mostly suggestions about how you’re holding the reins wrong. By the third pass Heeseung drops back and lets you go alone, and there is a specific feeling in that — in him deciding you’re ready, stepping back, watching from the fence with his arms resting on the top rail and his hat low — that you don’t have a name for but that sits somewhere behind your sternum and stays there. “You’re a natural,” he calls.

“She’s a chair,” you call back, and hear him laugh from across the paddock, a real one, the kind that alters the whole shape of his face.

Eli says “I said that” with great indignation.

You stay until noon. It isn’t planned. It is the accumulation of small things: Eli deciding you needed to see the barn cat’s new kittens, the kittens being an objectively compelling argument for staying, Riki appearing with a plate of something Mrs. Lee — Heeseung’s housekeeper, an iron-haired woman named Bea who has been with the ranch for twenty years — had left covered on the kitchen table. You all eat on the porch in the late morning sun, Eli wedged between you and Heeseung with a kitten in his lap that he has named Chicago with the satisfied look of someone cementing an inside joke.

It is — easy. Unreasonably easy for a woman who has spent two months being careful about everything.

Heeseung sits with his ankle crossed over his knee and doesn’t push any conversations and doesn’t fill silences that don’t need filling and listens when you talk in the particular way that makes you feel actually heard rather than waited out. Once, when Eli says something that makes you laugh, he catches it — the laugh — in that peripheral way, not staring, just noticing, and then looks deliberately at something else. You notice him noticing. You look at something else too.

He walks you back to the gate at noon. Eli has been redirected to afternoon chores with the selective enthusiasm of a child who has negotiated the terms. Riki raises a hand from the stable door. The horses stand easy in the afternoon quiet.

At the gate Heeseung stops and holds it open — it swings cleanly, well-oiled, this one — and tips his hat. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Eli’s been talking about this since Thursday.”

“Only since Thursday?” you say.

He smiles. God, that smile. “Since Tuesday,” he admits. “I told him to wait.”

You step through the gate and turn. He’s on the other side of it, hat tipped forward, the morning light going warm gold over the ranch behind him. Scout visible in the paddock beyond, Maple beside him. “Thank you for the coffee,” you say. “And the riding lesson.”

“Anytime,” he says. And then, easy as breathing, the way he always does it, like it costs him nothing: “You’re welcome here, darlin’. Any time you want.”

You walk the road back to town with the borrowed boots and the feeling of a morning that opened up something you hadn’t known was closed. Behind you the gate swings shut, clean on its hinge. New soil, you think. See what grows.

—

October arrives like an exhale. The heat doesn’t break exactly — you’re learning it doesn’t really break here, not the way it does in Chicago where summer ends with a week of storms and then suddenly you need a coat — but it softens. The mornings are cooler now, the light coming in at a different angle, and the scrub on the edge of town goes colours you weren’t expecting: amber and rust and a dry pale gold that isn’t quite like anything you’ve seen before. Mrs. Della puts a second quilt on your bed. The church noticeboard updates the harvest dance announcement with a date: Saturday, October 12th. All welcome. Bring a dish.

You have been in Castillo Creek six weeks. You know, now, which floorboard in the schoolhouse creaks and how to avoid it during silent reading so you don’t startle the little ones. You know that Tommy is left-handed and was made to switch and that this is why his numbers come out backwards sometimes, and you have quietly, without making it a thing, begun letting him work with his left hand and watching his shoulders drop two inches with relief. You know that Clara will read anything you put in front of her and that the shelf of books in the schoolhouse is genuinely inadequate and that you have written to the county school board about this and received in response a letter of such elaborate non-commitment that you have started a separate fund from your own salary, small but growing. You know that Eli Lee will behave perfectly for four days and then on the fifth do something just left of the line — not malicious, never malicious, just testing — and that the correct response is to look at him steadily and say his name once, and he will subside, and on day six he will be angelic in a way that is clearly an apology.

You know that Jay’s cherry pie is better than his peach, that Riki takes his coffee with enough sugar to make your teeth hurt, that Bea at the ranch makes the best biscuits in Texas and would probably agree with you about this if you said so, that the tabby cat on the post office step is named Gerald and will accept exactly one ear scratch before moving to bite you. You know that Heeseung Lee tips his hat to every woman on the main street and that it means something different when he does it to you, and you have not examined this too closely because you are being careful and new soil takes time and you are not here to start anything. You are just noticing. That’s all.

Eli asks you about your family on a Tuesday. It is lunchtime, the other children spread across the yard in the October sun, and Eli has taken to eating his lunch on the porch steps near where you stand with your coffee. This started without announcement — one day he was in the yard, the next he was on the steps — and you have not remarked on it because remarking on it would make him self-conscious about having done something soft. “Do you miss Chicago?” he asks, through a mouthful of whatever Bea has packed him.

“Sometimes,” you say. It’s true. You miss the lake. The particular smell of the city in November. The diner near your old apartment that made pierogi on Thursdays.

“What do you miss?”

“The lake,” you say. “Lake Michigan. It’s enormous — like an inland sea. You can stand at the edge and not see the other side.”

Eli processes this. “We have the creek,” he offers.

“I know. I like the creek.”

He nods, satisfied that the comparison comes out even. Then: “Do you have family there?”

“My parents,” you say. “A brother.”

“Do they visit?”

You think of your mother’s voice on the telephone — the one call you’ve made since arriving, standing in the general store with the receiver pressed to your ear, your mother saying when are you coming home in the tone that meant you’ve made your point now. “Not yet,” you say.

Eli swings his feet against the step. “My grandma visits sometimes. Dad’s mom. She lives in Austin.” He picks at his lunch. “I don’t have a mom,” he says, with the casual directness of a child who has been saying this long enough that it no longer feels like a wound, just a fact. “She went away.”

Your chest does something careful and quiet. “I know,” you say, gently. “I’m sorry.”

“Dad says she got sick,” Eli says. “But I think—” he stops. Looks at the yard. Starts again: “I think that’s not the whole story. But he doesn’t want me to be sad so he says it that way.” He looks up at you with those dark perceptive eyes. “Do you think that’s bad? To say a not-whole story?”

You look at this seven-year-old boy who is so much older than seven in the specific ways that loss makes children old, and you think about not-whole stories and composed faces and she wanted a simpler life and how many versions of the truth are actually just the parts you can bear to carry in public.

“I think,” you say carefully, “that sometimes people tell not-whole stories because they’re trying to protect someone they love. And I think when you’re older you’ll understand the rest, and your dad will tell it to you when you’re ready.” You meet his eyes. “Does that make sense?”

Eli thinks about it seriously, which is the only way he thinks about things. “Yeah,” he says. Then: “You’re smart.”

“Thank you.”

“Dad thinks so too.” He says it with absolute offhand innocence and takes a large bite of his sandwich and looks at the yard, and you look at the middle distance and drink your coffee and say nothing at all.

The thing about a small town is that the architecture of people’s lives is visible in a way it never is in a city. In Chicago you could live next door to someone for three years and know nothing about them. Here the walls are thin by design — not maliciously, just the natural result of everyone’s business being conducted in the same four blocks, the same diner, the same church on Sundays, the same post office queue. You learn things about people without trying. You learn them through Jay, who is a font of town history delivered in the register of casual conversation, and through Mrs. Della, whose knowledge of Castillo Creek extends back forty years and who shares it in the same tone she uses to describe the weather — matter of fact, no particular drama.

This is how you learn that Heeseung Lee has been running the ranch alone since he was twenty-six. That his father died the year before Eli was born, and his mother moved to Austin to be near her sister, and Heeseung stayed because someone had to and because the land was in him the way some things get into people.

That Clara — his wife, Eli’s mother — left when Eli was two. Jay tells you this on a Wednesday evening when you’ve stayed past closing, helping him wipe down the counter because you were in the middle of a conversation and neither of you wanted to stop it, and he says it quietly, without the gossipy relish he sometimes deploys for lesser information. He says it like he’s trusting you with something.

“She wasn’t unhappy,” Jay says, wiping the same spot twice. “Or — she was, but not because of him. She was a person who needed more than this place could give her and she stayed too long trying to want what she had and then she left.” He sets down the cloth. “Eli was two. Heeseung — he didn’t fall apart. That’s the thing about him. He just. Kept going.” He looks at the counter. “He hasn’t let anyone close since. Not like that.”

You are quiet for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

Jay looks at you with his frank dark eyes and the expression of a man who has thought carefully about what he’s going to say. “Because you’re going to be around for a while,” he says. “And I think you should know who he is. The real shape of him.” A pause. “And because he asked about you again today.”

“Jay—”

“He asked if you seemed settled,” Jay says. “Same question as before. He asks it like it’s nothing.” He picks the cloth back up. “Heeseung doesn’t ask about people, is the thing. He notices them. He listens. But he doesn’t ask.” He looks at you. “He’s asking about you.”

You go home to the boarding house and sit at your writing desk for a long time without writing anything.

—

The week before the harvest dance, Eli presents you with a drawing.

This is not unprecedented — he has given you two previous drawings, one of Maple and one of what you eventually identified as the schoolhouse, rendered in the bold confident lines of a child who draws from feeling rather than observation. This one he places on your desk at the end of Friday with the elaborate casualness he deploys for things that matter to him.

You wait until the room is empty before you look at it. It is two figures. One small, one tall. The small one has a gap in its teeth rendered in careful pencil. The tall one has long hair and is wearing — you look closer — a dress with a collar, which is clearly you. They are standing in front of something you take a moment to identify as the paddock fence, and between them, taking up most of the page, is a horse. Brown. Maple, you think, though the horse has been given an expression of benevolent authority that transcends species.

At the bottom, in the large uneven letters of a child still mastering the relationship between thought and handwriting: MISS YN AND ELI. FRIENDS.

You sit with that for a long moment. Then you take a piece of tape and put it on the wall beside the blackboard, where you can see it from your desk, and you go home for the weekend with something warm sitting in your chest that you don’t try to name.

Saturday, the day before the harvest dance, you are in Jay’s diner mid-morning when Heeseung comes in. This is not unusual. He comes in most Saturday mornings, sometimes with Riki, sometimes alone, and you have in six weeks arrived at a kind of comfortable parallel presence with him — you are often there, he is often there, you talk easily when you talk and don’t force it when you don’t, and Jay watches the whole thing with the serene satisfaction of a man who has predicted an outcome and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Today he comes in alone and sits at the counter and orders coffee and then turns to you with his hat on the stool beside him and says: “You going to the dance tomorrow?”

“Mrs. Della seems to think I’m obligated,” you say.

The corner of his mouth. “She’s not wrong. First harvest dance as a Castillo Creek resident is non-negotiable.” He turns his coffee cup in his hands. “It’s good. They do it right.”

“Do you go every year?”

“Every year.” He pauses. “I usually take Eli for the first part. He passes out around nine and I bring him home and come back.”

“Who looks after him?”

“Bea stays late.” He glances at you sidelong. “She has opinions about the dance. Mostly that someone should be dancing and it might as well be me.”

You smile. “Sound advice.”

“Mm.” He is quiet for a moment in the comfortable way he does quiet. Then: “Would you want to — go over together? You and me and Eli. He’d like that.”

The way he says it: simple, direct, no particular performance of casualness but no weight on it either. Just an offer, made plainly. You look at him. He is looking at his coffee cup with the expression of a man who has said the thing and is now waiting without making it a big deal either way. “Yes,” you say. “I’d like that.”

He nods, once, and drinks his coffee, and Jay behind the counter turns to do something at the back shelf that absolutely does not require his attention, and the diner is warm and smells of coffee and something frying and outside the Texas October is going gold in the morning light.

That afternoon you go back to the boarding house and sit on the edge of the bed and look at the window.

Outside: the field, the flat land, the sky. You think about Richard. You do this less than you used to — the thinking about Richard — which is itself a kind of measurement of how much has shifted in six weeks. He is still there, the way a bruise is there: faded but present when you press on it, the particular combination of shame and anger that comes from having your own story told about you rather than by you. The thing he did was not dramatic. That is almost the worst of it. He simply — ended the engagement, and then explained it in a way that made people look at you, and you could not stay in a city where everyone was deciding what version of you to believe.

You think about what Jay said: He asks about you. You think about Eli’s drawing on the wall beside the blackboard. You think about a gate that swings clean on its hinge, and a man who knew how it worked all along.

You are being careful. You are allowed to be careful. A woman who has had her story taken from her is allowed to be careful about who she gives it back to. But you are also — and this is newer, tentative, growing in the way things grow in new soil when they finally get enough light — you are also here. Present, in this room, in this town, in this life that is beginning to feel less like a retreat and more like an arrival.

You look at the field and the sky until the light goes gold and then rose and then the soft dark blue of a Texas evening. Tomorrow there is a dance. Heeseung Lee is going to take you and his son and bring you home after, and this is a simple thing, a neighbourly thing, a Castillo Creek thing where everything means less than it would mean somewhere else.

Or it means exactly as much as it means, and you’re just going to have to find out.

Eli arrives at the boarding house at six o’clock exactly.

You hear him before you see him — the gate, then footsteps on the porch, then a knock that has clearly been practiced for being the right amount of grown-up. You come downstairs to find Mrs. Della already at the door with the expression of a woman who has been waiting for this moment since approximately Tuesday.

Eli is in a white shirt with the collar buttoned and his hair combed flat in a way that will not survive the evening. He is holding his hat in both hands the way his father holds his, you notice — at his side, turned slightly. He looks up at you and his face does something he can’t quite control, a brightness that he immediately tamps down into dignity. “Dad’s outside,” he says.

“You look very smart,” you tell him.

He stands slightly taller. “Bea made me tuck in,” he says, in the tone of a man who has suffered and endured. Behind you Mrs. Della makes a sound that is definitely not a laugh.

You have worn the blue dress. You own three dresses suitable for an evening out and the blue one has a collar and buttons down the front and a skirt that moves when you walk and it is the one that makes you feel most like yourself, which is the only criterion that matters tonight. You have your hair down, which you don’t do at school, and Mrs. Della’s good earrings which she pressed on you with the firmness of a woman who will not be argued with about earrings.

You step out onto the porch. Heeseung is at the foot of the steps. He is in a dark shirt, clean boots, his hat. He looks up when you come out and there is a moment — brief, unguarded — where his expression does something he doesn’t quite catch before the easy steadiness comes back. His eyes move over you once, quickly, and then he looks at Eli.

“Hat,” he says. Eli puts his hat on. “Good.” Heeseung looks back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Miss Y/N,” he says. “You look real nice.”

“Thank you,” you say. “So do you.”

He makes a small sound, not quite dismissive, like a man who doesn’t know what to do with a compliment offered plainly and has decided not to examine it. He offers his arm — an old-fashioned gesture, natural on him — and you take it, and Eli immediately takes your other hand with the confidence of someone who has decided this is simply how the arrangement works, and the three of you walk down the road toward the lights and the music already drifting from the community hall at the end of the street.

The harvest dance is, as advertised, done right. The community hall is a low timber building you’ve walked past without knowing what it was, and tonight it is strung with lanterns and smells of sawdust and food and the particular excitement of a town that doesn’t get many occasions. Tables along the walls hold enough food to feed Castillo Creek twice over — Mrs. Della has contributed a peach cobbler, which you carried over earlier, and it is already half gone. A four-piece band is set up at the far end: fiddle, guitar, upright bass, a woman on piano who plays with her whole body. The dancing has already started, couples moving on the cleared floor, children weaving between adult legs at the edges.

The town turns to look when you walk in. Not unpleasantly — it is the small-town version of a head-turn, curious and warm, the collective noting of Heeseung Lee with the new schoolteacher that you can feel passing through the room like a current. Several women note it with expressions ranging from warmly approving to something more carefully neutral, which tells you what Jay has already told you about the general feeling toward the man beside you.

Heeseung appears to notice none of it. He steers you toward Jay, who is leaning against the far wall with a plate of food and the expression of a man who has been looking forward to tonight for reasons that are entirely about watching other people. “Well,” Jay says, looking between you with magnificent restraint, “don’t you both clean up nice.”

“Food’s good,” Heeseung says, ignoring this.

“I made the cornbread.”

“I know. I already had some.” He looks at Eli, who has been scanning the room with the efficient tactical assessment of a child locating friends. “Stay where I can see you.”

Eli is already gone. Heeseung watches him go with the particular expression of a parent who knows better than to fight it and has positioned himself where he can see the whole room.

The evening unfolds the way good evenings do: without agenda, in the accumulation of small moments. You eat. Jay introduces you to people you haven’t met, which turns out to be fewer than you expected — you know more of Castillo Creek than you realised, the six weeks of main street mornings and school gate conversations having done their quiet work. Mr. and Mrs. Holt from the farm to the north, who have a daughter in your class — Ruth, the one who does everything left-handed and ambidextrously, a fact you have been admiring for weeks. Old Pete from the hardware store, who shakes your hand and says “you fixed the school gate” with the respect of a man who rates practical competence above most other virtues. The minister’s wife, who is warm and enormous and has clearly decided you are good people and broadcasts this to the room through sheer force of conviction.

Heeseung stays near you without being beside you constantly — he moves through the room the way you’ve noticed he does, at ease everywhere, known to everyone, the smile given genuinely and the name remembered for everyone he talks to. Women approach him with the practised ease of long familiarity and he is warm and kind to all of them and doesn’t linger with any of them and drifts back in your direction after each one with the reliability of water finding level. Jay watches this and eats his cornbread and says nothing, which from Jay is extremely loud.

Eli reappears at intervals to report on things of importance: that Tommy has had four pieces of pie, that someone’s dog has got in and is under the far table, that the fiddle player has a hole in his boot which Eli finds compelling for reasons he can’t fully articulate. Each time he appears he is slightly more dishevelled — the collar loosened by degree, the hair no longer remotely flat, a smear of something on his cuff that you choose not to investigate.

The ninth time he appears he is pulling someone by the hand. “Miss Y/N,” he says, with great ceremony, “this is my friend Cody. Cody, this is my teacher. She’s from Chicago and she knows what a dialect is.”

Cody, who is approximately Eli’s age and has the look of a child who has eaten too much pie, nods with solemnity. “What’s a dialect?” he asks you. You explain it, briefly, and both boys listen with their heads slightly tilted, and Heeseung beside you makes a sound very low in his chest that is a laugh he has decided not to have.

The boys disappear again. You look up at Heeseung. He is already looking somewhere else, but his mouth is still doing the almost-laugh. “He’s been telling people that for weeks,” he says. “The dialect thing.”

“I know,” you say. “Grace told me he explained it to the minister’s wife.” The laugh escapes this time, quiet and genuine, and the shape it makes of his face is something you file away without meaning to.

The band shifts tempo around eight. The faster songs have been running for most of the evening — the kind of music that makes your feet move without asking — and now the fiddle drops into something slower, longer, the bass underneath it steady and low. Couples move differently on the floor. The children at the edges drift toward the food tables.

You are by the lantern at the far wall when Heeseung appears beside you. “Dance with me,” he says.

Not would you like to or may I have this — just dance with me, quiet and direct, the way he says most things, like an offer that trusts you to say no if you want to. You look at him. The lantern light is warm on his face, the hat casting a slight shadow, and he is watching you with the patient steadiness that is simply how he is — unhurried, undemanding, there. “Alright,” you say.

He takes your hand and leads you to the floor and puts his other hand at your waist, and you are aware of the warm weight of it through the blue dress, and you put your hand on his shoulder and you dance.

He is good at it. Not showy — he doesn’t have the look of a man who thinks about whether he’s good at things — but easy and sure, the same way he moves through everything. He leads without being heavy about it, and after the first few measures you stop thinking and just follow, and the music goes slow and the lanterns are warm and the whole room is soft at the edges. “You’re surprised I can dance,” he says.

“A little,” you admit.

“My mother’s doing.” Something fond in it. “She said a man who can’t dance is a man who doesn’t know how to listen.” He tilts his head slightly. “She’s right about most things.”

“She sounds formidable.”

“She’d like you.” He says it simply, without apparent awareness of what it implies, and you think: he means it exactly as plainly as he said it, which is somehow more significant than if he’d been trying.

You dance without talking for a while. The fiddle goes somewhere low and sweet. Around you other couples turn slowly, and across the room you can see Jay watching with the expression of a man witnessing the inevitable and finding it satisfying. “Can I ask you something?” Heeseung says.

“Yes.”

“Why Castillo Creek?” He looks at you — not the look he uses on everyone, the warm social look, but something quieter and more direct, the look you’ve caught a few times when he doesn’t know you’re watching. “Of all the places.”

“It was the furthest,” you say. You’ve given this answer before, half-answer that it is, and you feel him register the incompleteness of it.

He doesn’t push. He nods once, slow. “Were you running from something?” he asks. Gently. No judgment in it, just the question, open-handed.

The music turns. You consider him — the steadiness of him, the patience, the careful way he holds you on the dance floor like something he doesn’t want to break but also doesn’t want to handle too gingerly. “Yes,” you say. First time you’ve said it plainly.

He absorbs this. “You don’t have to tell me what,” he says.

“I know.”

“But if you ever want to—” he stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere. Said so simply, with no particular weight on it, just a fact, and yet it lands in you somewhere deep and quiet and stays there like something settling.

“Thank you,” you say. He nods. You dance.

Eli falls asleep in a chair at half past eight. Not gracefully — he is mid-sentence, apparently, Cody reports, about something to do with the dog, and then he simply isn’t anymore. He is curled in the chair with his hat over his face in a pose of complete unconscious dignity, and Heeseung looks at him for a moment with an expression that is purely and simply love, uncomplicated by anything else. “I’ll take him home,” he says.

“Of course.” You help him get the boy upright — Eli stirs briefly, says something about the dog, and goes back under — and Heeseung lifts him with the ease of long practice, the boy’s head dropping onto his shoulder.

“Come back,” Jay says, appearing from nowhere.

“Give me twenty minutes,” Heeseung says. He looks at you over Eli’s sleeping head. “Will you—” a pause, something careful in it. “Will you still be here?”

“Yes,” you say. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he nods, and carries his son home through the warm October night, and you go back to Jay and the music and the lanterns and the feeling of a hand at your waist that you can still feel even though it’s gone.

“Well,” says Jay.

“Don’t,” you say. He puts his hands up, peaceable, and hands you a glass of lemonade. But he is smiling.

Heeseung is back in eighteen minutes. You are talking to Mrs. Holt when you see him come through the door, hat resettled, and he finds you in the room immediately — doesn’t scan for you, just finds you, the way you find a light when you walk into a dark room. He comes over and Mrs. Holt makes a gracious excuse and leaves, and he stands beside you and accepts the glass of lemonade you’ve been holding for him without either of you remarking on why you knew to have it.

The band starts something slow again. Heeseung looks at you. You look at him. “Again?” he says.

“Again,” you say.

This time when he puts his hand at your waist you don’t catalogue it, don’t file it, don’t hold it at a careful distance to examine later. You just — let it be what it is, warm and steady and real, his hand and your shoulder and the fiddle going slow and the lanterns burning low, and if the space between you is slightly less than it was the first time then neither of you mentions it.

You dance until the band stops for a break and then you get food and eat it on the hall steps in the cool October night and talk — easily, unhurriedly — about nothing much and everything, the ranch and the classroom and things you’ve read and things you’ve seen, the way a conversation goes when two people discover they have more to say to each other than they anticipated.

At some point you become aware that the music has started again inside and neither of you has moved to go back in. At some point after that you become aware that your shoulders are nearly touching on the step and neither of you has moved apart.

The night is clear, stars enormous in that Texas sky that has too much room in it, the music muffled through the wall, and Heeseung is talking about the ranch in winter and you are listening and also listening to the warm unhurried sound of his voice and the night is soft and something is very quietly happening, the way things happen in new soil: without announcement, without drama, just the steady irresistible work of growing.

He walks you home at eleven. The street is quiet, the dance still going distantly, the air cool and smelling of dust and something dry and sweet. He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets and you walk with your arms crossed against the chill and at the boarding house gate you stop. He is looking at you.

The porch light is on — Mrs. Della — and in it his face is all warm shadow and that particular steadiness, and you are aware that this is a moment, the kind that has a before and after, and that you are both standing in it. “I had a good night,” you say.

“Me too,” he says. Quiet. Sincere. A pause. The street is empty. The stars are doing what they do.

He reaches out — slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity — and tucks a strand of hair back from your face, his fingers barely grazing your cheek, and it is such a small thing, so careful, and it takes your breath in a way that no grand gesture ever has. He drops his hand. “Goodnight, darlin’,” he says. Soft. Just yours.

“Goodnight,” you say. He tips his hat and walks back down the street and you watch him go and then you go inside and you sit on the edge of your bed in the dark and you press your fingers to your cheek where his hand was.

Outside the stars are enormous. New soil, you think. Something’s growing.

—

Nothing is said. This is the thing about Heeseung Lee — he does not press. He does not arrive at the schoolhouse the next morning with declarations or at Jay’s diner with meaningful looks or at the boarding house gate with anything that requires you to respond to it formally. He simply — continues. Being present in the way he is always present, warm and steady and unhurried, and the only difference after the harvest dance is a slight calibration in the frequency with which he finds reasons to be near you, and the way the darlin’ sounds when it’s only the two of you, lower and more deliberate, like a word that has been renegotiated.

You continue also. Teaching, reading, eating Jay’s pie, watching the season turn. But you are aware of him now in a way that has moved past noticing into something more like — waiting. Not anxiously. Just the particular heightened attention of a person who has begun to understand that something is being built, slowly, with care, and who has decided to trust the pace of it.

Eli notices. Of course Eli notices. He is seven and perceptive and he has his father’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything directly — he is too clever for direct — but the quality of his watching changes. He begins positioning himself as a reason for the two of you to be in the same place. Dad, can Miss Y/N come see the new foal. Miss, Dad says you should have Bea’s recipe for the cornbread. The transparent architecture of a child conducting an operation he believes to be covert, and which you and Heeseung have both silently agreed to treat as such because he is seven and it is working and no one is going to be the one to make him stop.

The new foal is three weeks old when Eli invites you to see it, and it has not yet decided what its legs are for. Eli brings you to the ranch on the second Saturday of October — I asked Dad and he said yes and also that it was fine if you were busy but you’re not busy, right? — and the foal is in the small paddock nearest the stable, bewilderingly long-limbed, a dark bay that will probably lighten as she grows. She looks at you when you approach the fence with the expression of a creature that has been in the world twenty-one days and has not yet accumulated the patience to find humans interesting. “She doesn’t have a name yet,” Eli says. “Dad said I could name her.”

“What are you thinking?”

He has clearly been thinking about it for days and has not decided, which is unusual for him — he is not generally a boy who holds back opinions. He leans on the fence rail and watches the foal with unusual gravity. “It has to be right,” he says.

“It does,” you agree. Heeseung is on the other side of Eli, his arms resting on the fence, watching the foal with the particular quiet warmth he reserves for the ranch and for his son. He glances over Eli’s head at you and something passes between you — amusement, tenderness, the shared appreciation of a child being serious about something — and it is so easy, so natural, that for a moment you don’t know what to do with how easy it is.

“What about Chicago?” Eli says. Casually. You look at him. He is studying the foal. “The horse you name,” Heeseung adds. “The barn cat?”

“The barn cat’s name is Chicago,” you tell Heeseung.

“I know,” he says. He is looking at the foal. His mouth is doing the thing. “He named it the day you came to the ranch.”

Eli has achieved maximum innocence, his face a study in disinterest.

“I think Chicago is a good name,” you say. The foal, as if in response, takes three uncertain steps and sits down abruptly.

Eli looks at his father. His father looks at you. You look at the foal, sitting in the dirt with its legs at improbable angles and its ears pricked forward as if this was entirely the plan. You all three start laughing at the same moment.

Riki makes coffee. This has become a thing — the coffee on the porch, the late morning sun, the ranch quiet around you. You have been to Sunrise Ranch four times now and each time it has arranged itself into the same comfortable shape: Eli showing you something, Heeseung nearby, Riki appearing and disappearing like a benevolent ghost, Bea’s food involved at some point, the afternoon light eventually demanding that you walk back to town.

Today Riki sits on the porch steps with his cup and looks out at the paddock where Chicago the foal is attempting, again, to organise her legs. “She’s going to be good,” he says, about the foal. “Look at the shoulder on her.”

“You know horses?” you ask.

“Mr. Lee taught me.” He says it simply, the way he says most things about Heeseung, with that uncomplicated weight of someone describing a fact that is also a debt he’s decided he’s glad to owe. “When I first came here I didn’t know anything about any of this. I just needed work.” He drinks his coffee. “He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He said: here’s the work, here’s the room, the rest we’ll figure out. And then he just — showed me things. Every day. How to work the land, how to read a horse, how to fix what breaks.” A pause. “He does that. Shows rather than tells.”

You think of the riding lesson. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip. Breathe. And then stepping back and watching from the fence to see what you’d do on your own. “Yes,” you say. “He does.”

Riki glances at you with his dark eyes and the particular directness of someone who is not quite nineteen yet and hasn’t learned to be oblique about what he observes. “He’s happy,” he says. “More than usual. I thought you should know.”

You look at your coffee cup. The morning is warm and still.

“Thank you, Riki,” you say. He nods and goes back to watching the foal, and the matter is settled, and you sit on the porch of Sunrise Ranch in the October sun and feel the particular quiet terror of something you want very much beginning to feel possible.

—

The almost-kiss happens on a Wednesday. It is not planned. It is not even exactly an almost-kiss, which is perhaps the most honest thing about it — it is more a moment in which a kiss becomes a possibility that both of you become aware of simultaneously, and the awareness itself is so charged that it amounts to nearly the same thing.

You have stayed late at the schoolhouse marking reading assessments, the kind of work that requires the particular quiet of an empty room, and you are still there at five when you hear the gate and look up to see Heeseung coming through it with something in his hand. He stops at the foot of the steps. “Bea sent this.” He holds up a cloth-wrapped parcel. “She made too much.”

Bea, you have come to understand, always makes too much. This is not accidental. “Tell her thank you,” you say.

“You tell her. She likes you more than she likes me.” He comes up the steps — this is newer, the coming up the steps, the crossing of the porch — and you open the door and he follows you inside because the light is going and neither of you suggests he leave.

He sets the parcel on your desk and looks at the wall beside the blackboard. Eli’s drawing. He looks at it for a long moment without saying anything. “He gave it to me on a Friday,” you say. “I put it up that evening.”

Heeseung is quiet. In the low afternoon light his profile is — you don’t look directly. You tidy the papers on your desk. But you are aware of him in the specific physical way you have been aware of him since the harvest dance, a warmth that doesn’t require proximity to function, that exists simply because he is in the room. “He doesn’t give drawings to people,” Heeseung says, finally.

“I know.”

“He gave one to Jay once.” A pause. “Jay cried.”

“Did he?” You let out an amused breath.

“He’ll tell you he didn’t.” He turns from the wall and the small distance of the schoolroom is between you, both of you standing in the last of the afternoon light through the windows, the assessment papers on the desk and Bea’s parcel beside them and the drawing on the wall. “You’ve been good for him,” he says. “For Eli.”

“He’s been good for me,” you say. Heeseung looks at you. The directness of it, steady and warm and something beneath it that is no longer entirely hidden from you — something careful and wanting and very, very controlled.

He takes a step. Just one. The room is small and one step is a significant renegotiation of the space between you, and you are aware of your own stillness, the way you are not moving away, the way you are — you realise — leaning, fractionally, toward him.

His hand comes up. The same gesture as the gate night — slow, deliberate, no ambiguity about the intention — and his fingers brush your jaw, not your cheek this time but your jaw, tilting your face up very slightly. He looks at you. You look at him. The moment is right there, the exact shape of it, and you can feel his breath and the warmth of his hand and the whole quiet room holding itself still— the gate.

You both hear it. A second later: footsteps on the porch, and Eli’s voice, Dad? Riki said you came here, and the door opens.

Heeseung’s hand drops. He steps back — not hastily, not guilty, just back — and turns toward the door as Eli comes through it with his schoolbag still on his shoulder from wherever he’s been, looking between the two of you with eyes that miss nothing.

“Bea sent food,” Heeseung says.

Eli looks at the parcel. Looks at you. Looks at his father. He is seven years old and he has the perceptive assessment of someone three times that age and you watch him put something together behind his eyes and decide, with great and deliberate charity, not to say it. “Okay,” he says. He drops his bag. “Can I have some?”

—

November comes in quietly. The cold arrives properly now, the mornings sharp, the light later. You have a proper coat from the general store — Castillo Creek wool, practically indestructible, Mrs. Della’s recommendation — and your own boots now, bought from the hardware store with the heel worn to fit your foot. You are, you realise one morning walking to the schoolhouse in the frost, no longer performing belonging. You just — belong. In the small ordinary way of someone who knows which floorboards creak and which gate sticks and which order to say good morning to the main street in. This is a thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

The children change too — they are yours now, fully, in the way a class becomes yours when they’ve stopped watching you to see if you’ll stay and started simply assuming you will. Tommy does his arithmetic left-handed and his numbers come out clean. Clara has read everything on the bookshelf and you’ve started lending her your own. The new books arrived last week from the county — three boxes, more than you expected, apparently the board received two letters — and the morning you unpacked them Eli said did you write two letters? and you said the second one was more strongly worded and he looked at you with pure satisfaction and said good.

Grace organises the shelf. Eli helps whether or not he’s asked. The little ones treat the new books with the reverence of sacred objects, which is the correct response.

The second time it almost happens is on your porch. Heeseung walks you home from the diner on a Friday — you’ve fallen into this, the Friday evenings at Jay’s that end with him walking you the two blocks home — and at the gate he stops, as he always does, and you turn, as you always do.

But tonight is different. Maybe it’s the cold, the way it makes the air sharp and close. Maybe it’s the week that’s been — Eli had a difficult day on Tuesday, something about a boy from another farm saying something about his mother, and he’d been quiet for three days until this evening when he’d appeared at Jay’s with Heeseung and been loud enough to make up for it, and you’d watched Heeseung watch his son come back to himself and felt something in your chest pull tight with feeling.

Maybe it’s just that you’re tired of the careful distance and your body is making decisions your head hasn’t approved.

You are at the gate and he is looking at you and the cold is making your breath visible between you and you say, before you’ve decided to: “You could come in.” He goes still. “For coffee,” you say. “Mrs. Della makes it before bed. She won’t mind.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The street is empty and dark and cold and the porch light is on and he is — you watch him weigh something, watch the careful consideration of a man who has learned the cost of moving without thinking, and you wait, and you don’t take it back.

“Not tonight,” he says. Quietly. Not as a rejection — the quality of it is entirely different from rejection, warm and regretful and something else, something that sounds almost like not yet. His eyes hold yours. “But—” he stops.

“But?” you say.

His hand finds yours, briefly, in the cold — not holding, just his fingers over yours for a moment, warm against the chill, a contact so small it might be nothing and is absolutely not nothing. “Soon,” he says.

You look at your hands. His fingers over yours. “Okay,” you say.

He squeezes once and lets go and steps back. Tips his hat. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

“Goodnight.” You go inside. You stand in the hallway for a moment with your hand held against your chest. Soon, you think.

Outside, his footsteps on the road, going home.

Tuesday in the third week of November, after school, after everyone has gone, the room is empty and the light low and you are at your desk and Heeseung has come — ostensibly to fix the wobbling chair leg, he appeared with a tool and a particular determined expression — and has fixed it and straightened up and you are still at the desk and the room is quiet and the space between you is approximately nothing.

He looks at you. You look at him. You say: “Heeseung.” Just his name. No question in it, no instruction, just the sound of it in the empty room, and something in him — the careful controlled something — gives way.

He crosses the room and his hands find your face and he kisses you.

Gently. Almost unbearably gently for a man who has been waiting this long — his mouth soft on yours, one hand curved around your jaw and one in your hair, the kiss slow and thorough and so tender that you feel it behind your eyes. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, like he’s been thinking about exactly this and is in no hurry now that he’s here.

You make a sound, quiet and involuntary, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair — controlled, so controlled — and then he pulls back just enough to look at you, your face between his hands, his forehead almost touching yours. “Been wanting to do that,” he says, low, “since the diner.”

“The first morning?” you say. Your voice is not entirely steady.

“The first morning,” he confirms.

You pull him back down. This kiss is different — less tender, more certain, the both of you having established the territory now and moving through it with more confidence. His hands stay in your hair and at your jaw and you have one hand in his shirt and one on his arm and the chair leg is fixed and the school room is empty and the afternoon is going dark outside the windows.

Eventually — reluctantly — you separate. He rests his forehead against yours. His breathing is not entirely steady either, which you find deeply satisfying. His thumb moves along your jaw, once. “Eli’s at the ranch,” he says.

“I know.”

“Riki’s with him.”

“I know.” He pulls back enough to look at you properly. The expression on his face is something you haven’t seen before — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but with something warmer beneath it, something that has stopped being controlled.

You look at him. This man who fixes things slowly and holds gates open and walks beside you without filling every silence and has been waiting, you realise, as carefully as you have — the both of you circling something real at a respectful distance because you both know the cost of getting it wrong. “Not here,” you say. “Not yet.”

He nods immediately, no argument, no pressure. “No.” He straightens. His hand drops from your jaw to your shoulder, rests there for a moment. “Soon.”

“Soon,” you agree.

He kisses you once more — brief, deliberate, a punctuation — and steps back and picks up his tool from the floor. At the door he pauses with his hand on the frame. “Fixed the chair,” he says.

“Thank you,” you say.

The corner of his mouth. He puts his hat on. He goes. You sit in the fixed chair in the empty schoolroom with your fingers at your lips and the particular feeling of someone standing at the very edge of something they’ve been walking toward for a long time.

Outside: Castillo Creek, going dark, going cold, going quiet. Inside: something beginning.

—

You don’t see him come in — you’re at the schoolhouse, mid-morning, working fractions with the older children while the little ones do their letters — but the town sees him, which amounts to the same thing. A black car, which is the first thing, because nobody in Castillo Creek drives a black car, everyone drives trucks with dust on them, and a black car with city plates sitting outside the boarding house is the kind of thing that travels the length of the main street in approximately four minutes.

Jay tells you at lunch. He appears at the schoolhouse gate during the midday break with his hands in his apron pockets and the expression of a man who has information he doesn’t want to deliver but will, because not delivering it would be worse. “Someone checked into Mrs. Della’s this morning,” he says.

You are eating a sandwich on the porch steps. “Who?”

“Man from Chicago.” He watches your face. “Name of Calloway.”

The sandwich stops being something you’re interested in. Jay sees it — the thing that happens to your face, the quick controlled shutting-down of it, the composed face coming up like a shutter. He sees it and his expression does something careful and angry on your behalf. “Richard,” you say. Not a question.

“Mrs. Della said he asked for you by name.” Jay’s voice is even, but only just. “Said he was an old friend.”

You set the sandwich down on the step beside you. In the yard the children are playing — Eli is attempting to teach Cody something that involves a great deal of running, unclear objective, self-invented rules — and the sound of them is bright and ordinary and very far away from the thing that is happening in your chest. “How long is he staying?” you say.

“Didn’t say.” Jay pauses. “You don’t have to see him. I mean it. You don’t have to do a single thing.”

“I know, Jay.” You look at the yard. Eli has apparently won whatever the game was and is explaining this to Cody with both hands. “Thank you for telling me.”

Jay looks at you for a long moment with the expression of a man who wants to say more and knows you well enough to know not to. “I’ll be at the diner,” he says. “All night if you need.” He goes. You sit on the steps and watch the children play and breathe.

You see Richard in town at four o’clock. You don’t plan it — or rather you plan to not plan it, to go home the back way and avoid the main street, but you have never been a person who runs from things indefinitely, which is different from a person who retreats to regroup, which is what Castillo Creek was supposed to be, and the distinction matters to you.

So you walk the main street at four. He is outside the general store. Six months since you’ve seen him and he looks exactly the same, which is the particular cruelty of certain kinds of men — Richard Calloway at thirty has the same easy handsomeness he had at twenty-five, the good jaw and the good clothes and the way of standing that broadcasts money without appearing to try. He is talking to Mr. Gus from the hardware store with the particular charm he deploys on strangers, warm and attentive, and Mr. Gus, who is a perfectly reasonable man, appears to be finding him perfectly reasonable.

Richard sees you at the same moment you see him. “Y/N,” he says. He says it the way he’s always said your name — with a kind of ownership, like the name is his to use, like he coined it. Six months ago that sound did something to you. Now it does something different: a cold clarity, like being fully awake.

“Richard,” you say. Mr. Gus, sensing something, makes a gracious excuse and goes inside.

Richard crosses the distance between you with that easy unhurried gait. He is looking at you the way he always looked at you — the assessing look, cataloguing, deciding what he’s working with. He looks at your coat, your boots, the dust on them. “You look well,” he says.

“What are you doing here?”

No preamble. His expression flickers — he expected something else, you can tell, some version of the composed uncertainty he knew how to work with — and then recalibrates. “I wanted to see you.” He tilts his head. “I’ve been worried. Your mother has been worried.”

“My mother knows where I am.”

“She knows where you are.” He glances around — the main street, the hardware store, the distant sound of the diner — with an expression that is almost too carefully neutral. “She’s less certain about why.”

“I am,” you say. “Certain about why.”

Something moves through his expression. Not hurt — Richard doesn’t do hurt, exactly, he does the performance of it — but something more like recalculation. He has come here with a script and you are not following it and he is deciding which page to go to next. “Can we talk?” he says. “Properly. Not — here.”

“Not today,” you say.

“Y/N—”

“I need to get home,” you say. “I have work to do.” You walk past him. You feel his gaze on your back the whole length of the street and you keep your spine straight and your pace even and you do not look back, and you turn the corner to the boarding house and you stand in the hallway for thirty seconds with your hand flat against the wall.

Then you go upstairs and sit at your desk and write lesson plans for the following week with the particular furious focus of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly why.

He stays.

This is what you didn’t account for — or what you knew, somewhere, and didn’t want to know: that Richard Calloway does not come somewhere and leave without getting what he came for, because Richard Calloway has not, in thirty years of life, not gotten a thing he came for. He is patient in the manner of a man who has never had to be truly patient, which is a different thing from Heeseung’s patience — Heeseung’s patience is the patience of someone who understands that good things take the time they take. Richard’s patience is the patience of someone who is simply waiting for the situation to arrange itself correctly.

He is in the diner on Friday morning when you come in. He has clearly been there a while — Jay’s expression when you walk in tells you everything, the tight professional smile of a man maintaining composure in his own establishment — and Richard stands when he sees you with the automatic courtesy of old money and gestures at the booth across from him like you’ve just arrived somewhere he owns.

You sit at the counter instead. Jay puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes to the back. Richard slides onto the stool beside you. “Your friend doesn’t like me,” he says pleasantly.

“Jay doesn’t know you,” you say. “He’s good at people.”

A flicker. “I see you haven’t lost your—” he pauses, finds the word “—sharpness.”

“I’ve been busy,” you say. “Teaching.”

“Yes.” He turns his cup in his hands. This is a gesture you know — he does it when he’s choosing his approach, the hand movement while he thinks. “You’re a good teacher, Y/N. You were always good at it. You could be doing it in Chicago. Somewhere with—” he doesn’t finish it but you hear it: resources, standing, people like us.

“I like it here,” you say.

“You’ve been here two months.”

“Ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks,” he says. “In a town with four hundred people.” He looks at you sidelong. “Is this really what you want? Or is it just — the furthest you could get?”

The question lands because he knows you well enough to know it might. You drink your coffee.

“Both,” you say. “And then it became what I wanted.”

He is quiet for a moment. Then, lower, the charm dialed back, something more direct underneath: “I made a mistake.” You look at him. “The way I handled things,” he says. “The way I — let people talk.” He meets your eyes. “I should have been clearer. About what happened.”

“What did happen, Richard?” you say. “Tell me your version.”

Something careful moves through his face. “We weren’t right for each other. I should have said that, instead of—”

“Instead of implying that I was unstable,” you say pleasantly. “Instead of telling your mother that I had become erratic, which she told her friends, which—” you stop. The composed face. “You know what was said. You know what it cost me.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I want to make it right.”

“By coming here,” you say. “To this town with four hundred people where I have managed, without your help, to make a life.”

He looks at you. His jaw is set slightly. “Come home,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking. Come home and we can—”

“No,” you say. Quietly. No drama. Just no, the way you should have been saying it for the two years you spent trying to become something that would satisfy him.

You finish your coffee. You put the money on the counter. You stand. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit,” you say. “The peach pie is very good.” You walk out. Behind you the bell chimes.

You don’t tell Heeseung. This is the thing you’ll come back to later — not telling him. It’s not deception, exactly, or you tell yourself it isn’t. It is the particular guarded instinct of a woman who has had her story taken from her once and is not ready yet to hand it to someone else to hold, even someone she trusts, even someone whose hands are the careful kind.

But Castillo Creek is four hundred people and a black city car parked on the main street and Richard Calloway has his father’s charm and the town is talking.

Jay doesn’t tell him either — you don’t have to ask, Jay simply knows — but Jay also cannot control what a town talks about, and towns talk.

You are outside the schoolhouse at half past four, gate latched behind you, walking toward the main street, and Richard is there.

He has been doing this — appearing at the edges of your day, not enough to be a confrontation, enough to be a reminder. Outside the general store, at the end of the street when you’re walking from the diner, once at the boarding house gate, though he didn’t approach that time, just stood at the end of the road as you went in.

Today he is at the corner near the schoolhouse and when you come through the gate he falls into step beside you. “I need you to stop,” you say.

“I just want to talk.”

“We’ve talked.”

“Y/N.” He takes your arm. Not hard — he’s never hard, that’s not how he operates, Richard operates through persistence and charm and the slow rewriting of reality until you can’t find the original — his hand on your arm, a familiar gesture from a thousand ordinary moments, the gesture of someone who knows where your arm is.

“Let go,” you say.

He does. Immediately, palms up, the gesture of a reasonable man. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Richard.” Quietly. Firmly. “Go home.”

You step around him and walk. You don’t see Heeseung at the end of the street. But he sees you.

He doesn’t come to the diner on Friday. This is the first Friday in all the weeks you’ve been here that he doesn’t come. Jay notices — of course Jay notices, Jay notices everything — and he watches the door and watches you and keeps your cup full and doesn’t say anything, which from Jay means he is thinking very carefully about what not to say. You notice the absence like a change in weather. A front coming in.

He doesn’t come on Saturday either. Eli is in town — you see him outside the general store with Riki, who gives you a look you can’t fully interpret, something complicated — and Eli waves but doesn’t run over, which is so unlike him that something cold and certain settles in your stomach. You go to Jay. “What does he think he saw?” you say.

Jay is wiping the counter. He wipes it for a while. “Man from the city with his hand on your arm,” he says finally. “Outside the schoolhouse.”

“Richard grabbed my arm. I told him to let go. He did.”

“I know that.”

“Heeseung doesn’t.”

Jay sets down the cloth. He looks at you with the expression of a man who cares about two people who are being stupid at each other and has to navigate this carefully. “He didn’t ask me,” he says. “Which tells you something. If he thought it was nothing he would’ve asked.” You look at the counter. “He’s not angry,” Jay says. “He’s just — he’s gone back inside himself. The way he does.” He pauses. “You know about Clara.”

“I know she left.”

“He watched her talk to someone for a week before she told him she was going. He came home one day and she was packed.” Jay says it plainly, not for drama, just because you need to know the shape of what’s happening. “He doesn’t — he doesn’t do this consciously. It’s just where he goes. When it looks like someone’s about to leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you say.

“I know.”

“He doesn’t know why Richard is here.”

“No.”

You are quiet for a moment. The diner is warm around you, the smell of coffee and the distant sound of the radio, and outside the window the main street is grey and cold under the November sky. “I should have told him,” you say.

“Yes,” Jay says, not unkindly. “You should have.”

—

Riki appears at the boarding house in the early morning of Sunday with his hands in his pockets and the look of someone who has decided to do something and is committed to seeing it through. You sit on the porch together in the cold and he looks at the street. “He’s not eating properly,” Riki says.

“Riki—”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I’m saying it because you should know what’s happening over there.” He looks at his hands. “He got up at four this morning and went out to the fence line and I don’t know when he came back.” He pauses. “Eli asked him why you hadn’t visited and he said you were probably busy. Eli didn’t believe him. He’s seven and he didn’t believe him.” You close your eyes briefly. “The man from the city,” Riki says. “Who is he?”

“My ex-fiancé,” you say. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What Heeseung saw—” you stop. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

Riki is quiet for a moment. “He won’t ask,” he says. “He’ll just—” he does a gesture, a closing-in, both hands coming together. “He’ll just decide it’s already over and start making peace with it. He does it fast. He had a lot of practice.”

The cold is sharp on the porch and the street is empty and you think about a man up at four in the morning walking a fence line alone. “I’m going to the ranch,” you say.

Riki stands. “Good,” he says. Simply. And goes back down the porch steps and up the road, and you watch him go and then you go inside and put your coat on.

The ranch is quiet in the Sunday morning. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you come through the gate — you know his shape at this distance now, the particular way he stands, the hat — and he turns when he hears you and goes very still. You walk toward him. The cold air is clean and the horses move slow in the paddock and the sky is white and enormous.

You stop at the fence beside him. He looks at you — that careful, closed look, the inside-self look that Jay described, and underneath it something that is trying very hard to be nothing and isn’t.

“His name is Richard Calloway,” you say. “He was my fiancé. He ended our engagement and made sure the story that circulated made me look like the problem. I came here because I needed to be somewhere no one knew that story.” You look at the paddock. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What you saw — he took my arm. I told him to let go. He did. And then I walked away.” Heeseung is very quiet beside you.

“I should have told you he was here,” you say. “I know that. I was—” you stop. Find the honest word. “I was holding it. My own story. I’ve had it taken from me before and I wasn’t ready to hand it to someone else yet, even someone I—” you stop again.

The paddock. The white sky. Chicago the foal, visible at the far end, picking her way through the grass. “Even someone I trust,” you finish.

A long silence. “He’s gone?” Heeseung says. His voice is careful. Controlled.

“He left yesterday morning,” you say. “Mrs. Della told me.”

Another silence. You can hear him breathing beside you, and the sound of it — the slight unevenness of it — tells you more than anything he’s said. “I thought—” he starts. Stops. Jaw tight. Starts again: “When I saw him with his hand on your arm I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” you say, gently. “I know why you thought it.”

He looks at you then. The inside face, still there, but cracking slightly at the edges. “I don’t do this well,” he says. “The—” he stops. “I’m not good at trusting that people—” another stop. He takes his hat off and turns it in his hands, looking at the brim. “I had six years of practice at being fine on my own and I got good at it.”

“I know,” you say.

“And then you came here,” he says. Quietly. “And Eli drew you on his wall.” Your chest does the thing it does. “And I started—” he stops again. The hat in his hands. “Getting bad at being fine on my own.”

You reach out and put your hand over his on the fence rail. Just your hand over his, the way he did at the boarding house gate in the cold, that same small warm contact. He looks at your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “I fixed the gate. I’m staying.”

Something in him — the closed, careful, six-years-practiced something — gives. Not all at once, not dramatically. Just a breath, long and slow, and his hand turning under yours so his fingers can close around it. “Okay,” he says.

You stand at the fence in the cold white morning with his hand around yours and the horses moving slow in the paddock and the whole quiet ranch around you.

“I have to tell you something else,” you say.

“Alright.”

“I’ve been in love with you since approximately the harvest dance,” you say. “Possibly since the coffee in the stable. I’m not sure of the exact date.”

Heeseung is quiet for one moment. Then he makes a sound — low and startled and something that becomes a laugh, helpless, the kind that alters his whole face — and he pulls you toward him, one hand at the back of your head, and presses his mouth to your hair, your temple, and holds you there against the paddock fence in the November cold. “The coffee in the stable,” he says, into your hair.

“You’d already made two cups,” you say. “You knew I was coming.”

He laughs again, quieter. His arm is around you and his chin is on your head and across the paddock Chicago the foal is watching you both with enormous disinterested eyes. “Since the diner,” he says. “The first morning.”

“I know,” you say.

“You know?”

“You looked at me before you smiled,” you say. “Just for a second. Before the smile came. That’s when I knew.”

He pulls back enough to look at you. His expression — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but warm all the way through now, nothing held back. “Lord,” he says softly. “You see everything.”

“I’m a teacher,” you say. “It’s the job.”

He kisses you. Right there at the paddock fence in the cold, his hand in your hair and yours in his coat, and it is nothing like the gentle kiss in the schoolroom — it is certain and warm and long and he kisses you like a man who has been holding something carefully for a very long time and has finally been told he can put it down.

When you separate, eventually, you are both slightly breathless. “Darlin’,” he says, low, the word doing what it does when it’s just yours.

“Yes?” you say.

“Come inside,” he says. “Bea made enough breakfast for six people and Eli is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you.”

You laugh. You take his hand. You go inside and Eli does, in fact, lose his mind. Not loudly — he is not a loud child, not in the way of tantrums or theatrics — but in the specific Eli way, which is a brightness that takes over his whole face before he can manage it, and then the immediate, instinctive suppression of it into dignity, and then the dignity failing completely because he is seven and some things are too good to be dignified about.

He is at the kitchen table with Bea when you come through the door behind Heeseung, still holding his hand, which Eli clocks immediately with the particular alertness of a child who has been waiting for exactly this data point. His eyes go to your joined hands. Then to your face. Then to his father’s face. Then back to your hands.

Bea, who misses nothing and reacts to nothing, sets a plate on the table. “Sit down,” she says. “Food’s hot.” Eli sits down. He is vibrating slightly.

You sit across from him. Heeseung sits beside you, easy, his knee against yours under the table. Bea puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes back to the stove. Eli looks at you. “Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says. Carefully. Then, unable to help it: “Are you staying for breakfast?”

“If that’s alright.”

“It’s alright,” he says, very quickly. He picks up his fork. He puts it down. He looks at his father with the expression of a child requiring confirmation of something he doesn’t want to ask directly. Heeseung looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he says.

Eli picks up his fork again. He eats a bite of egg with enormous composure. Then: “I told Cody you’d probably end up friends.”

“Did you,” Heeseung says.

“I said probably.” He cuts a piece of biscuit with careful precision. “Cody said maybe.” He looks at you. “I was right.”

“You usually are,” you say.

This pleases him so deeply that he has to look at his plate to manage it. Bea, at the stove, makes a sound that is not quite a laugh but contains one.

Breakfast at Sunrise Ranch on a Sunday morning. This is what it is: the kitchen warm from the stove, the windows fogged slightly at the corners, Bea moving with the unhurried authority of someone who has run this kitchen for twenty years and will run it twenty more. Eli eating and talking and eating and talking, a stream of school information directed primarily at you — Tommy can do multiplication now and Clara finished the new books already, both of them and Grace thinks she should be in charge of the globe but the globe has a crack in it so it seems unfair — and Heeseung beside you, knee against yours, drinking his coffee and listening to his son with that expression, the open unguarded one, the love-without-complication one.

Once, while Eli is telling you about the globe, Heeseung’s hand finds yours under the table. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. He is looking at Eli. His thumb moves once across your knuckles and stays. You look at Eli and listen about the globe.

After breakfast Eli disappears outside — Riki materialises to take him to the stable, the easy choreography of a household that has its rhythms — and Bea goes to do something elsewhere in the house with pointed discretion, and you are alone in the kitchen with Heeseung and the remains of breakfast and the Sunday morning quiet.

He refills your coffee. He sits back down, closer this time, turned toward you slightly, his arm along the back of your chair. “Tell me about him,” he says. “If you want. Richard.”

You look at your cup. “I don’t want to spend the morning on Richard.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I want to understand what he did. What you were carrying when you came here.” His voice is even. “Not for any reason except I want to know what it cost you. Because I think it cost you a lot and I don’t think many people asked.”

You look at him. The steadiness of him, and underneath it now, openly, the warmth. You tell him. Not everything — there is no everything yet, some things need more time and more trust before they become speakable — but the shape of it: the engagement, the ending of it, the way the story moved through their social world with Richard’s fingerprints invisible on it, the school where you’d taught finding reasons to see you differently, your mother’s voice on the phone saying maybe if you’d been less. The twenty-seven job applications. Castillo Creek writing back.

Heeseung listens the way he always listens — completely, without filling the pauses, without deciding what your story means before you’ve finished telling it.

When you’re done he is quiet for a moment. “He came here thinking you’d go back,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And you—”

“I was never going back.” You look at him. “I think I knew that before he arrived. I think Castillo Creek stopped being a retreat and started being — this — weeks ago. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”

Heeseung nods, slow. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the same careful deliberateness he always uses — the gesture that gives you time to move away, that assumes nothing — and leaves his hand curved at your jaw. “He doesn’t get to have this,” he says. Quietly. “What happened to you back there. He doesn’t get to have the last word on it.”

“He doesn’t,” you agree.

“You fixed a gate,” Heeseung says. “You wrote two letters to the school board. You put a drawing on your wall.” His thumb at your jaw, the lightest movement. “You’re not someone who needed rescuing.”

“No,” you say. “I’m not.”

“Good,” he says. And kisses you, soft and brief, like a conclusion.

—

The weeks that follow are the best of your life.

You will think this later and it will surprise you — not the fact of it but the simplicity of it, that best can be made of such ordinary material. Morning coffee. The schoolhouse. Eli’s questions at lunch. Jay’s diner on Friday evenings. The ranch on Saturdays, your boots by the stable door, your coffee cup with the small chip in the handle that has become yours without anyone saying so.

Heeseung walks you home from the diner on Fridays and comes in now — Mrs. Della receives him with the satisfaction of someone whose predictions are being validated in real time — and they drink coffee at the kitchen table, all three of them, and talk until late, and then he walks back to the ranch and you watch him from the porch.

He kisses you in ordinary places: at the boarding house gate, in Jay’s diner when Jay has turned to the back shelf, at the paddock fence with one arm over the rail and one around you. He kisses you like someone who is very aware of what he has and intends to be careful with it. Tender, deliberate, thorough. You are, you think, going to have to do something about the thorough.

It happens on a Saturday in early December. Eli is in town with Riki — a deliberate arrangement, you’ll think later, with the particular transparency of a child who is also operating a long game — and Bea has gone to her sister’s for the weekend, and the ranch is quiet and cold and yours.

You come over in the morning with the box of marking you’d told yourself you’d do at the kitchen table, which is true, and which you do, for approximately forty minutes while Heeseung works at the desk in the adjoining room doing ranch accounts. The domestic ordinariness of it — the scratch of his pen, the occasional sound of a horse outside, the winter light — is the kind of thing you want to press into memory and keep.

Then the pen stops. You hear his chair. His footsteps. He appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the frame and looks at you. “You’re not working,” you say, without looking up.

“I finished,” he says.

“I haven’t.”

“How much is left?”

You look at the stack. “Some.”

“Y/N.” You look up. He is in the doorway with his arms crossed and that expression — the warm one, the open one, the one that has nothing controlled about it — and the morning light behind him and the whole quiet ranch around you.

“Come here,” he says. You put your pen down. You go.

He kisses you in the hallway, backed against the wall with one hand braced beside your head and one at your waist, and it is immediately different from all the careful public kisses — there is nothing held back in it, nothing managing itself, just his mouth on yours and the warmth of him and the knowledge that there is no gate, no Eli, no diner bell, nowhere either of you needs to be.

You pull him closer by the front of his shirt. He makes a sound low in his chest — something between a groan and an exhale, the sound of a man whose patience has run its full course — and his hand moves from your waist to your hip and presses there, firm and deliberate. “Heeseung,” you say, against his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Like he knows.

“Bedroom,” you say. He pulls back enough to look at you — checking, the way he always checks, that you mean what you say — and you look back at him clearly, no ambiguity, and he makes that sound again and takes your hand and takes you there.

His bedroom is the ranch made interior: worn timber, a quilt in faded colours, the window looking out over the paddock. Clean and spare and entirely his. It smells like him — something warm and outdoor and specific, the smell you’ve catalogued without meaning to over months of being near him.

You sit on the edge of the bed and he stands in front of you and you reach up and take his hat off and set it on the nightstand. He looks down at you with that open expression, the warmth all the way through. “You’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he says.

“Since the diner,” you say. “The first morning.”

He laughs, surprised out of it, and cups your face in both hands and tilts it up and kisses you — but then he slows, and the kiss goes gentle again, the unbearable gentleness, and you feel it in your throat. “I want to take my time,” he says, against your mouth. Low. Deliberate. “That alright?”

You think about six months of composure and careful distances and soon and not yet. “Yes,” you say. “But you should know I’m not going to be patient about it.”

The corner of his mouth, close to yours. “That a fact.”

“Fair warning.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft place below your ear, taking his time as advertised and apparently fully at peace with the consequences of this, and you grip his shirt and close your eyes and let him.

He undresses you slowly.Each button on the front of your dress — his fingers finding each one, unhurried, like he has nowhere to be in the world except here — and watching his face while he does it: the focus, the deliberateness, the slight tension in his jaw that tells you the patience is real but not effortless. “You’re staring,” you say.

“Yes,” he agrees, without apology. When the dress is off he looks at you in the winter light from the window and the expression on his face — unhidden, unmanaged — does something to you more immediately than any touch. “Lord,” he says, soft. Same word as the paddock. Different weight.

“Your turn,” you say, and reach for his shirt buttons. He lets you. He watches you work through them with the stillness of a man exercising enormous self-control, and when you push the shirt off his shoulders you let your hands sit on his chest for a moment — warm skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms — and look up at him.

“Hi,” you say. Something breaks open in his face. He pulls you up and against him and holds you there, skin to skin, his arms around you and his face in your hair, and you feel him breathe.

“Hi,” he says. Into your hair. Low and wrecked and yours.

He keeps his word about taking his time. He lays you back and moves over you and learns you slowly — his mouth at your throat, your collarbone, lower, taking inventory with the thoroughness of a man who intends to know exactly what he’s doing and is not embarrassed about the methodology. He finds the places that make you make sounds and stays there, patient, deliberate, until you are gripping the quilt. “Heeseung—”

“Mm,” he says. Not a response. A sound of someone occupied.

“I said I wouldn’t be patient—”

“I heard you.” He looks up at you from where he is, and the look on his face — dark-eyed, certain, that half-smile with intent behind it — dismantles you completely. “I’m getting there, darlin’.”

The darlin’. In that voice, in this room, low and deliberate. Just yours. “You are going to be the death of me,” you say.

“Not the plan,” he says, and goes back to what he was doing.

When his fingers find you you are already slick and wanting, six months of tension and patience and soon and careful distances arriving at this, and the sound you make is entirely involuntary. He stills. “Okay?” he says.

“Yes,” you say. “Please.”

He watches your face while he works — that focused look, reading you the way he reads everything, paying attention — and his fingers are skilled and patient and exactly right, and you are aware of him watching you come apart under his hands and aware that you don’t mind, that the composed face is nowhere and you don’t miss it. “That’s it,” he says, low, when your hips lift toward him. “There you go.” The voice. The drawl. The absolute certainty of him.

You come with his name in your mouth and his hand at your hip steadying you and his eyes on your face the whole time, and he works you through it with the same thoroughness he brought to everything else, and when you’re done he presses his mouth to your temple and stays there. “Good?” he says.

“Don’t be smug,” you say.

He laughs. “Not smug.”

“You’re a little smug.”

“Maybe a little.” He pulls back to look at you, and the smugness is there, yes, but underneath it something so warm and open that it cancels the smugness out entirely. “You’re beautiful,” he says. Simply. The way he says things that are just true. You reach up and pull him down. You have him on his back.

This is where you reclaim the pace — you swing your leg over and sit up and look down at him and watch his face do something entirely new, an expression you haven’t seen before: surprise, quickly followed by want, and underneath both of them something that is trying to be collected and isn’t. “Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says. His hands find your hips. He is, you note with satisfaction, not as composed as he was.

You move — slowly, deliberately — and watch his jaw set and his hands tighten on your hips and his head press back into the pillow. There is a specific pleasure in this that has nothing to do with the physical, or not only — the pleasure of watching Lee Heeseung, who is patient and steady and controlled, lose every one of those things because of you. “Lord,” he says, choked.

“Mm,” you say. His own syllable, returned.

“Y/N—”

“I heard you,” you say. “I’m getting there.”

He makes a sound that is half a groan and half a laugh and his grip on your hips tightens and his hips roll up to meet you and the laugh is gone, replaced by something lower and more urgent. “You’re—” he starts.

“I know,” you say.

“No, I mean you’re—” he stops again, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking up at you with the expression of a man whose vocabulary has been significantly reduced. “God, darlin’—”

His hand leaves your hip and finds your hair and pulls you down and kisses you deep and then his arms wrap around you and he rolls you over and you go, laughing, and then the laughing stops because he is looking at you with that expression still, wrecked and warm, and moves and you stop thinking about anything at all.

Afterward the ranch is quiet around you. You are in the faded quilt and his arm is around you and your head is on his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, slower now, and outside the paddock the horses move in the winter afternoon. His hand is in your hair, a slow absent movement. “That wasn’t what I expected,” he says.

“What did you expect?”

A pause. “Not that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

You prop yourself up to look at him. He is looking at the ceiling with an expression of serene disbelief. “You look like a man who’s had a revelation,” you say.

“Something like that.” He looks at you, and the expression shifts into the warm open one, the real one. “You’re something else,” he says.

“Is that a complaint?”

“No,” he says. Definitively. “Not even close.”

You lie back down. His arm comes back around you. “Eli’s back at four,” you say.

“I know.”

“I should probably be at the kitchen table with my marking.”

“Probably,” he agrees, and makes no move to change the current arrangement. You lie in the quiet ranch afternoon and listen to his heartbeat and the horses and the winter silence and feel — you take inventory carefully, the way you do when something feels too good to trust yet — feel, genuinely and completely, right. In this room, in this town, in this life that was built from the furthest-job-offer and a broken gate and a man who made two cups of coffee because he knew you were coming.

“Heeseung,” you say. “I’m staying,” you say. “I know I said it at the fence. I’m saying it again.”

His arm tightens. Just once. “I know,” he says.

“I want you to know it,” you say. “Really know it. Not — hope it. Know it.”

A silence. His heartbeat steady under your ear. “I know it,” he says. Quietly. And then: “I’m not going anywhere either.”

I’m not going anywhere. First time he said it, at the harvest dance, it was an offer. Now it is something else — an answer, a matching of weight, the both of you putting the same thing down on the same table and deciding to trust it.

Outside: the paddock, the winter sky, Chicago the foal grown enough now to move with some authority, her dark coat catching the low December light.

Inside: the quilt, the heartbeat, the quiet. New soil, you think, for the last time that way. Because it isn’t new anymore. It’s just — yours. The roots are in. The thing has grown.

You stay exactly where you are until three forty-five, and then you get up and go back to your marking, and when Eli comes home at four and finds you at the kitchen table with your papers and his father making coffee at the stove he looks between you both with the assessment of a child who has gotten what he wanted and finds the result satisfactory.

He sits down across from you and opens his schoolbag. “I have reading,” he announces.

“Do it, then,” his father says.

Eli opens his book. You mark your papers. Heeseung brings coffee and goes back to the stove. The kitchen is warm and smells like dinner starting and outside the winter light is going gold over Sunrise Ranch. Eli reads three pages and then looks up. “Miss?” he says.

“Mm?”

“Are you staying for dinner?”

You look at Heeseung. He is at the stove and not looking at you but the back of his neck says everything. “If that’s alright,” you say.

Eli looks back at his book with an expression of profound satisfaction. “It’s alright,” he says.

—

December in Castillo Creek is cold and clear and strung with the particular quiet of a place that doesn’t make much noise about the holidays but means them deeply. The church puts candles in its windows. The general store gets a pine wreath on the door. Jay hangs lights along the diner’s front awning — coloured glass, old, the kind that have been on the same string for fifteen years and still work because Jay is meticulous about the things that matter to him. Mrs. Della bakes for a week straight and distributes the results to the whole street, appearing at doors with tins and brooking no argument.

The schoolhouse gets a paper chain. This is Eli’s doing — he arrives one Monday in the first week of December with a paper bag of coloured strips and announces to the class that they are making a paper chain, his tone suggesting this is non-negotiable, which it is. Grace organises the distribution of strips by colour. Tommy figures out the interlinking system and explains it to the little ones with unexpected patience. Eli and Clara argue about whether it should go across the windows or along the beams and settle on both, and by Friday afternoon the schoolhouse has been transformed by fourteen pairs of hands into something festive and faintly chaotic and entirely theirs.

You stand at the back of the room on Friday and look at it. Two months, you think. Ten weeks. The number Eli’s father said and you corrected, that first confrontation with Richard outside the general store that feels like it happened to someone in a different chapter of a different book.

You have been here three months now. You look at the paper chain and the drawings on the wall — Eli’s has been joined by two others, unsolicited offerings left on your desk on separate Mondays, one from Lottie of what appears to be you and a horse, one from Tommy of the schoolhouse with everyone standing outside it, their names printed carefully above their heads — and something in your chest is so full it has nowhere to go. You put your coat on and lock up and walk home in the cold.

Heeseung takes you riding properly for the first time on a Saturday in the second week of December. Scout this time — not Honey, not the chair — and you get on him in the yard with Heeseung holding the bridle and talking you through it, that same teaching voice, patient and specific and trusting you to get there. Scout is large and entirely calm and turns out to have a gait so smooth it borders on considerate.

“Told you he was a gentleman,” Heeseung says, walking beside you for the first few minutes.

“You can let go,” you say.

“I know.” He does. Steps back. Watches. You ride Scout to the end of the paddock and back, and then around the perimeter, and somewhere in the second circuit you stop thinking about what your hands are doing and just ride, and the feeling of it — the size of the animal beneath you, the cold air, the ranch open around you in the winter morning — is the kind of feeling you didn’t know you were missing until it arrived.

Heeseung is at the fence when you come back, arms resting on the rail, watching you with that expression he gets when he’s pleased about something and not performing it. “Well?” he says.

“He’s better than Honey,” you say.

“Don’t let Honey hear that.”

You dismount — not elegantly, but functionally, which is an improvement — and Scout drops his nose to Heeseung’s shoulder in greeting and Heeseung rubs his neck without looking away from you. “There’s a place I want to show you,” he says. “If you’re up for a longer ride.”

“How long?”

“Hour out. Hour back.” He tilts his head. “Worth it.”

You look at Scout. Scout looks at you with patient equine agreement. “Alright,” you say.

He takes you east, past the fence line, up into the low hills where the land changes from flat scrub to something rougher and more interesting, the winter grass pale gold, the sky enormous and white-edged. They ride side by side where the terrain allows and single file where it doesn’t, Heeseung ahead on the narrow parts, and he doesn’t talk much on the way, just rides, and you learn something about him in the riding — the ease of it, how completely at home he is moving through this land, how he and Scout communicate in small adjustments with no visible negotiation.

The place he wants to show you is at the top of the second hill. It is, simply, a view: the whole of the valley below, Castillo Creek visible as a cluster of shapes in the distance, the ranch a paler geometry of buildings and fence lines to the west, and beyond everything the flat enormous Texas horizon going all the way to where the sky meets the earth. You sit on Scout at the top of the hill and look at it. “Oh,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

The winter light is doing something particular to the valley — low and golden and very clear, the kind of light that makes everything look more itself than usual. You can see the creek, barely, a dark thread through the scrub. You can see, or imagine you can see, the white corner of the schoolhouse.

“My father used to bring me here,” Heeseung says. Beside you now, Scout and his horse standing easy. “When I was Eli’s age. Said if you ever got confused about what mattered you could come up here and look at it.”

“Does it work?”

“Every time.” He looks at the valley. “I came here a lot after Clara left. Trying to—” a pause “—get the proportion of things right.”

You look at him. He is looking at the valley with that quiet expression, the one that belongs to this land and this ranch and the private life he’s lived in them. “Did it help?” you say.

“Eventually.” He glances at you. “Took a while.”

You look back at the valley. Castillo Creek in the winter light. The white edge of the sky. “I want to bring Eli here,” you say. “When he’s old enough to—” you stop, aware suddenly of what you’ve just said — the assumption in it, the future in it, the easy taking-for-granted of a thing that is still, technically, new.

But Heeseung isn’t looking at the valley anymore. He is looking at you. “He’d like that,” he says. Simply. No performance of casualness, no careful management. Just the statement, meaning everything it means.

You look at him. He looks at you. The horses stand easy in the winter wind. “I love you,” you say. First time, on a hilltop in December with the whole valley below you, because it is true and it has been true for long enough that not saying it has become its own kind of dishonesty.

Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches across the space between the horses and finds your hand and holds it, his thumb moving across your knuckles in the way it does. “I love you,” he says. “Been a while since I said that to anyone.” He looks at your joined hands. “Feels different this time.”

“Different how?”

He considers this with the seriousness he brings to things that matter. “Steadier,” he says. “Like saying something I already knew instead of something I was hoping would be true.”

You look at the valley and his hand around yours and the winter sky and the whole quiet particular life you have landed in, with its paper chains and borrowed boots and gap-toothed boy and a man who makes two cups of coffee because he knows you’re coming. “Steadier,” you agree.

Christmas at the ranch. This is not planned either — or it is planned by everyone except you, you discover, Mrs. Della and Bea and Jay all operating in quiet coordination, the whole thing arriving complete and inevitable on Christmas morning when Heeseung appears at the boarding house at ten with Eli and Riki and the truck and says “come to the ranch” in the same simple offering voice he uses for everything. Mrs. Della has already sent the cobbler ahead.

The day is the kitchen and the table extended to fit everyone — Jay materialises at noon with cornbread and the particular satisfaction of a man in his preferred social configuration — and Eli opening things with the focused efficiency of a child who has been patient about this for weeks, and Riki eating more than anyone else and not being asked about it, and Bea’s food, and the fire in the front room where you end up in the afternoon, the cold coming down outside and the ranch warm and close around you all.

Eli falls asleep in the armchair at four, his new book open on his chest. Jay catches your eye across the room and very deliberately does not look at Heeseung beside you on the sofa, which is Jay at his most ostentatious.

Riki carries Eli to bed with the long-practiced ease of someone who has done it before. Bea goes home to her sister. Jay stays for dinner and then takes himself off with the timing of a man who knows exactly when he’s no longer needed, and then it is just you and Heeseung in the front room with the fire going low.

He has his arm around you. Your feet are tucked up on the sofa. Outside the ranch is quiet and cold and dark. “Good day,” he says.

“Very good day,” you say.

He presses his mouth to your hair. “Stay,” he says. “Tonight. Eli’s asleep. You can take the—”

“Yes,” you say.

A pause. “I was going to say the spare—”

“I know what you were going to say,” you say. “Yes.” His arm tightens. He laughs, low and warm, into your hair. You don’t take the spare room.

—

January comes cold and clear. The new year settles over Castillo Creek with the quiet confidence of a place that has seen many of them and expects to see many more. The schoolhouse reopens the second week of January and the children arrive back with the particular energy of people who have been inside for two weeks and have run out of patience with it. Eli is approximately three inches taller, which you mention, and he tells you seriously that Bea measured him on the door frame and he grew one inch and you are not to exaggerate.

Tommy’s numbers are clean and confident now, left-handed from the start, and you watch him work through a column of addition with the ease of someone who has finally been given the right tool for the job, and feel the specific satisfaction of a teacher who has solved the right problem.

Clara has started writing stories. She brings you the first one on a Thursday in a folded piece of paper, her best handwriting, three pages, a story about a girl who goes on a journey and comes back changed. She stands by your desk while you read it and doesn’t pretend not to care about your response, which you respect enormously. It is good — genuinely good, the instinct for story already there, the voice already hers. “This is wonderful,” you tell her.

“Really?” she says, in the voice of a child who already knows but needs to hear it.

“Really.” You set it on the desk. “Have you shown your parents?”

“Not yet.” She folds the paper back up carefully. “I wanted to know if it was good first.”

“It’s good,” you say. “Show them. And write me another one.” Clara goes back to her seat with her story in her hand and the particular glow of a person who has been given something real to carry.

On the last Friday in January, Jay closes the diner early. He does this without explanation, just turns the sign and pours three glasses of something that is not coffee and sets them on the counter, and looks at you and Heeseung on opposite stools and says: “I want to make a toast.”

“Jay,” Heeseung says.

“I’m serious. I’ve been waiting for the right moment and I’ve decided this is it.” He picks up his glass. “To the new schoolteacher. Who fixed the gate,” Jay says, overriding you. “And stayed when she didn’t have to. And who—” he stops, and something moves through his expression that is not the easy social warmth but something deeper and more real “—who is good for this town. And for the specific people in it who needed good things to happen to them.”

He looks at Heeseung when he says the last part. Heeseung is looking at the counter. The back of his neck does the thing. “To Castillo Creek,” Jay says. “And to people who stay.”

You pick up your glass. Heeseung picks up his. “To Castillo Creek,” you say.

Jay grins. You all three drink. “Right,” Jay says, setting his glass down with a decisive click. “Now. Heeseung. Are you going to ask her or are you going to make me wait another six months.”

The diner goes very quiet. Heeseung looks at Jay with the expression of a man who is going to have a word with his best friend at a later date. Jay looks back with the expression of a man who has no regrets. “Ask me what?” you say.

Heeseung turns to you. He is — you watch the careful management dissolve, replaced by something undefended, the real face he’s been showing you more and more since December, since the hilltop, since steadier. He looks at you for a moment and then he does something you haven’t seen him do: he reaches into his shirt pocket. “I was going to do this differently,” he says.

“Jay ruined it?”

“Jay ruined it,” he agrees, without looking at Jay, who has the good grace to say nothing.

What’s in his pocket is not a ring box — not the velvet-and-presentation kind. It is a ring wrapped in a piece of cloth, unwrapped in his palm: gold, simple, a small band with a detail you can’t quite see yet. His mother’s, you’ll learn later. The one his grandmother brought from her own mother and passed down and which his mother pressed into his hand the Christmas before last and said when it’s right, you’ll know. He holds it in his palm and looks at you. “I know this is fast,” he says.

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s been since the diner.”

The corner of his mouth. “Since the diner,” he says. “I’ve been—” he stops. Tries again. “I don’t have a speech. I thought I’d have one by now but I don’t.” He looks at the ring in his hand. “I know what kind of person you are. I’ve watched you for four months and I know.” He looks up at you. “You fixed things that weren’t yours to fix. You stayed when it would have been easier to go. You put a drawing on your wall.” He closes his hand briefly around the ring, then opens it again. “My son thinks the sun rises and sets with you, which is—” his voice does something “—which is not a small thing. Coming from him.”

You are doing everything in your power to hold your face together and succeeding imperfectly. “I love you,” he says. “And I would very much like you to stay. Not just in the town. Here. At the ranch.” He holds the ring out toward you, steadily, his hand not moving. “With us.”

The diner. The coloured lights along the awning. Jay, very carefully, looking at the ceiling. You look at Heeseung Lee with his mother’s ring in his palm and his whole face open and waiting and none of the patience effortless anymore, all of it visible, the hope and the care and the barely-controlled terror of a man asking for the thing he wants most. “Yes,” you say.

Jay makes a sound. Heeseung lets out a breath that has been held since approximately November.

He puts the ring on your finger — it fits, which is either luck or fate or Bea, who you will later determine took one of your gloves to a jeweller in the next town, bless her — and then he holds your hand and looks at it and then at you, and the expression on his face is something you will carry for the rest of your life: unguarded and certain and entirely, quietly, happy. “Finally,” says Jay, with enormous feeling.

“I’m going to fire you,” Heeseung says.

“You don’t employ me.”

“I’m going to stop eating here.”

“You were here yesterday and you’re here now.” You are laughing, you realise. Both of you are laughing, your hand in both of his, and Jay is pouring more of the not-coffee and the diner lights are warm and outside Castillo Creek is cold and dark and going about its business.

Eli knows before you tell him. You don’t know how — this is simply a thing about Eli, that he knows things — but when you and Heeseung sit down with him on Saturday morning at the kitchen table with the specific parental gravity of people who have something to say, he looks at you both and then at your hand and then back at you and says: “Are you going to live here now?”

“If you’re alright with it,” you say.

He looks at his cereal. He stirs it. He does this for long enough that something uncertain stirs in you, the awareness that this is a seven-year-old boy whose mother left and whose life is about to change and who is allowed to have feelings about that. “Eli,” Heeseung says, gently. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”

Eli looks up. His face is doing several things. “I just,” he starts. Stops. “I named the foal Chicago,” he says. “Before. I named it before because—” he stops again. Stirs his cereal. “I wanted you to stay from the beginning,” he says, quickly, like getting a thing out before he can change his mind. “I knew you were good before Dad did. I told Riki.”

“What did Riki say?” you ask.

“He said he knew too.” Eli looks at you. “Are you going to be my—” he stops at the word, turns it over, decides something. “Are you going to be my mom?”

The kitchen is very quiet. You look at this boy — gap-toothed, dark-eyed, too perceptive for his own good, who named a foal after a city to make you feel at home, who put FRIENDS at the bottom of a drawing in careful uneven letters — and your composed face is absolutely nowhere to be found. “I would very much like to,” you say. “If you want that.”

Eli looks at his cereal for a moment. Then he gets down from his chair and comes around the table and climbs into your lap, which he has never done before, and sits there with the specific decision of a child who has made up his mind. “Okay,” he says. You put your arms around him.

Across the table Heeseung has his hand over his mouth and is looking at the ceiling, which is the composed face losing, and you have never loved him more than right now. Eli, from your lap: “Can I still call you Miss at school?”

“You have to call me Miss at school,” you say.

“Good,” he says. “’Cause Cody would be weird about it.”

Riki takes the news with characteristic economy. He looks at your hand. He looks at Heeseung. He looks at you. He nods once, slowly, like a man confirming a long-held suspicion. “I told Eli in October,” he says. “That you were going to stay.”

“You told me in October,” you say. “That he was happy. More than usual.”

Riki looks between you both. “Yeah,” he says. He picks up his coffee and goes back toward the stable. Then, over his shoulder, not quite casually enough: “About time.”

February. The foal is four months old and has decided what her legs are for and uses them constantly, her dark coat catching the winter light where it falls across the paddock. Eli visits her every day before and after school and maintains a detailed running report on her progress that he delivers at the dinner table with the authority of someone who considers herself the foremost expert on Chicago specifically.

Your things have migrated slowly from the boarding house to the ranch over the course of January, the natural movement of a life toward where it belongs — books first, then the rest, Mrs. Della receiving each removal with the particular warm satisfaction of a woman who considers herself personally responsible for the outcome and is not incorrect.

Your coat is on the hook by the ranch door. Your coffee cup — chipped handle, yours — is in the cupboard. Your books are on the shelf in the front room, mixed in with Heeseung’s without ceremony, which is the most domestically intimate thing you’ve ever done and which undoes you slightly every time you look at it.

The drawing is still on the schoolhouse wall. It will stay there. You’ve decided this. Miss Y/N and Eli. Friends. Let every child who comes through that room see it — the evidence that teachers are people who belong somewhere, that belonging is a thing that can be built, that a drawing on a wall can be the most important document in a room full of books.

The last Friday in February, you and Heeseung are at Jay’s after closing. This is the usual arrangement — Jay with his counter, you on the stools, the diner warm and the street dark outside. But tonight Jay has put a record on, something slow, and the coloured lights along the awning are on outside, and it is, you think, the same scene as nearly five months ago except that nothing is the same at all. “Dance with me,” Heeseung says. The same words as the harvest dance. The same quiet directness. You get off the stool.

He takes your hand and you dance in Jay’s empty diner to the slow record, your hand on his shoulder and his at your waist and the ring on your finger catching the light when you turn. Jay watches from behind the counter with the expression of a man who has everything he wanted from this situation and finds it entirely satisfactory. “First dance,” you say. “You said your mother taught you.”

“She did.”

“I want to meet her.”

His hand at your waist, warm and firm. “She’s coming in March,” he says. “She’s been asking since October.”

“October,” you say.

“Eli told her about the dialect conversation.” His mouth at your temple. “She said anyone who could get Eli to use the word dialect correctly in a sentence was worth meeting.”

“High bar,” you say.

“For her, yes.” He pulls back slightly to look at you. The expression — open, warm, steady all the way down. “She’s going to love you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says. Simply. “She knows people. Runs in the family.”

You think of a seven-year-old boy naming a foal Chicago in October. Knowing before anyone else. “Apparently it does,” you say. He smiles — the real one, the full one, the one that you catalogued on a diner stool on your first morning in Castillo Creek and have been cataloguing ever since, the one that is different when it’s just yours — and turns you slowly on the diner floor.

Outside: Castillo Creek, cold and clear, the stars doing their enormous Texas thing. The main street quiet, the church dark, the boarding house where you no longer live, the schoolhouse with its paper chain long since taken down and its drawing still on the wall. Inside: the music, the lights, the man, the ring, the dancing. New soil, you think, for the very last time and immediately think: no. Not new anymore. Just home.

—

Spring comes to Castillo Creek the way it comes to places that have earned it. Not dramatically — no single morning where you wake and everything is different — but incrementally, the way the best things happen: a degree warmer each week, the scrub going from pale gold to something greener at the edges, the creek running higher with the snowmelt from somewhere distant and northern. The horses grow restless in the way of animals that can smell a season changing. Chicago the foal gallops the length of the paddock every morning for no reason except that the air tastes different and her legs are finally, fully hers.

The schoolhouse gets its windows opened for the first time since October. This is a significant event. The children treat it as such, orienting their desks subtly toward the new rectangles of warm air, their attention drifting pleasurably to the sounds coming in — birdsong, wind, the distant sound of someone on the main street calling to someone else. You allow this. Spring arriving through classroom windows is an education of its own kind.

Eli sits at his desk on the first warm Friday and tilts his face toward the window with his eyes closed and the expression of a person receiving something they’ve been waiting for. “Eli,” you say.

“I’m thinking,” he says, without opening his eyes. You carry on.

Margaret Lee arrives on a Tuesday in the second week of March. She is not what you expected, which means you had built an expectation without realising it — some composite of your own mother and the idea of a woman who raised Heeseung, formidable and warm. Margaret Lee is both of these things and also neither of them, which is the way of people who exceed the categories you’ve prepared.

She is small. This is the first surprise — Heeseung is tall and she is small, barely to his shoulder, which he accommodates with the automatic ease of someone who has been bending toward her his whole life. She has grey-streaked hair and her son’s dark eyes and the particular posture of a woman who has decided exactly who she is and arranged herself accordingly. She steps down from the bus and looks at the main street of Castillo Creek and then at you, standing beside her son at the bus stop, and her face does something quick and assessing and then opens entirely. “There she is,” she says.

Heeseung looks at you. You look at Heeseung. “I feel like people keep saying that to me,” you say.

Margaret Lee laughs — genuine and sudden, the same quality of laugh as her son’s, the kind that alters the whole face — and takes both your hands in hers. “Lee Heeseung has been talking about you since October,” she says, without preamble. “He didn’t know he was doing it. He thought he was just giving me news from the town.” She pats your hands and releases them and looks at her son. “He mentioned you in every single letter.”

“Mama,” Heeseung says.

“The schoolteacher fixed the gate,” she says, in a perfect impression of neutrality. “‘The schoolteacher came to see the ranch. The schoolteacher can ride.’” She picks up her bag. “Every letter, Lee. Every one.”

“I’m aware,” he says.

“He thought I didn’t notice,” she tells you.

“I’m standing right here,” he says.

“I know, baby.” She pats his arm and walks toward the truck. You fall into step beside her and catch, from the corner of your eye, Heeseung’s expression — the exasperated tender helpless expression of a man who loves his mother and is entirely at her mercy and has made his peace with both of these facts. You like her immediately and completely.

She stays two weeks and in those two weeks she does the following: reorganises the kitchen at the ranch in a way that Bea approves of and Heeseung adapts to without complaint, teaches Eli three card games of increasing moral dubiousness, tells you four stories about Heeseung’s childhood that he would prefer you not to have, sits with you on the porch every morning with coffee and talks to you the way women talk when they’ve decided to trust each other — plainly, without ornament.

On the fourth morning she says: “Tell me about before.” You look at the paddock. Chicago the foal. The pale spring sky. “Before Castillo Creek,” she says. “If you want. You don’t have to.”

You think about before. The specific weight of it, which has changed — not lighter exactly, but different, the weight distributed differently now, held up by more points of contact so no single place takes all of it. You tell her.

She listens the way her son listens — completely, without deciding what it means before you’re done. When you finish she is quiet for a moment. “My husband left me once,” she says. “Heeseung’s father. We were young, we had a fight about something I can’t even remember now, and he left and I thought — that was that.” She looks at the paddock. “He came back in three days. But those three days I understood something I didn’t know before. That some people leave to see if you’ll chase them. And some people leave because they’re gone.” She looks at you. “The man you described sounds like the second kind.”

“He is,” you say.

“Good,” she says. “Those ones you let go.” She drinks her coffee. “My son is the staying kind. In case you didn’t know.”

“I know,” you say.

She looks at your ring. “My mother wore that for fifty-three years,” she says. “She said the secret was that you had to choose each other every day. Not just at the beginning.” She looks up at you. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you say. Without hesitation.

She nods. She looks at the paddock. “Good,” she says again. And that is that, and you drink your coffee together in the spring morning, and when Heeseung appears in the doorway looking for his mother she looks at him with the expression of a woman who has conducted her own assessment and is satisfied with the results, and he looks between you both with the wariness of a man who knows he has been discussed and decides not to ask.

The last week of March brings something you didn’t anticipate: a letter from the county school board. You open it at your desk on a Thursday afternoon while the children are doing their reading, and it takes you two passes through it to understand what it says, and then you put it down flat on the desk and look at the middle distance.

“Miss?” Eli, from the second row. The class has the particular sharpening of attention that occurs when a teacher does something unexpected.

“Keep reading,” you say. You pick up the letter and read it a third time.

A school is being built. A larger one, two rooms, in the next town along — not Castillo Creek, but a town of similar size twenty miles east. The county board is expanding provision across the region. They need a head teacher for the new school. They have, they write, been impressed by the correspondence and the results from Castillo Creek. They are writing to offer the position to you. You fold the letter.

You teach the afternoon out. You fix a disagreement between Patrick and Beau about a coloured pencil. You listen to the little ones read and hear in Grace’s oral assessment that her comprehension has jumped significantly since January and make a note to tell her parents. You let them out at three and stand on the porch and watch them go.

Then you go home to the ranch. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you arrive. He turns when he hears the gate and reads something in your face immediately — not worry, just attention, the way he attends to you when something is different. “What happened?”

You hand him the letter. He reads it. His face is careful while he reads, the deliberate neutrality of a man withholding response until he understands what he’s responding to. He folds it when he’s done and holds it and looks at the paddock. “Twenty miles,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Head teacher.”

“Yes.”

He turns the folded letter in his hands. He looks at the horizon, the flat Texas line, and then at you. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” you say honestly. “I only just read it.”

He nods. He unfolds the letter and folds it again the other way, a thinking gesture. “It’s a good offer,” he says.

“I know.”

“The children here—” he starts.

“Would have a new teacher,” you say. “Someone good. Someone who needs a start.”

Like you needed a start. Neither of you says it but it’s there. “Twenty miles is a commute,” he says. “Not impossible.”

“No.”

He looks at you steadily. “Whatever you want to do,” he says. “I mean that.”

“I know you do.” You take the letter back, fold it into your pocket. “I need to think.”

He nods. He turns back to the paddock and after a moment his arm comes around you, easy and present, and you stand at the fence together while Chicago runs the length of the paddock for the joy of running and the spring evening comes down gold over Sunrise Ranch.

You think for three days. You think about the schoolhouse and the paper chain and Tommy’s clean left-handed numbers and Clara’s stories and Eli’s drawing on the wall. You think about fourteen children who have become yours in the particular way children become yours when you’ve solved them, when you know which problems are the real ones underneath the presenting ones, when you know who reads above their level and who is covering for a difficulty and who is going to do something surprising one day.

You think about what it would mean to build something from the beginning. Two rooms. New intake. The particular freedom and weight of being the person who sets the tone before there is a tone. You think about twenty miles and a commute and a husband with a ranch and a son who is eight in May. You think about what you came here to do and whether you’ve done it and what comes next.

On the third evening you tell Heeseung. “I’m going to turn it down,” you say.

He is at the kitchen table. He looks up. “Because of us?” he says, carefully.

“No,” you say. “Because of me.” You sit down across from him. “I came here to start over. And I have. And this—” you gesture, vaguely, at the kitchen, the ranch, the everything “—this is what I was starting over toward, even when I didn’t know it. I’m not done here. Castillo Creek isn’t done.” You look at him. “Clara is going to be a writer. I’m not done with Clara.”

Heeseung looks at you for a long moment. “You’re sure?” he says.

“I’m sure.”

He nods. Something in him settles — not the relief of a man who was afraid you’d go, because he’s past that, but the quieter thing, the satisfaction of a man watching someone he loves make a choice that is fully hers. “Write them a good letter,” he says.

“I will,” you say. “Strongly worded.” The corner of his mouth.

You write the letter on Saturday morning at the kitchen table, Eli doing his homework across from you with the focused efficiency of a child who has been told that homework-before-fun is a rule and has decided to take it seriously, Heeseung somewhere on the ranch, the spring morning coming through the window.

You thank them. You decline clearly. You recommend, in the final paragraph, that they consider expanding the library provision at existing schools before building new ones, and include three specific data points about reading outcomes, because some habits are simply who you are now. You seal the envelope. Eli looks up. “Done?”

“Done,” you say.

“What was it?”

“A job offer,” you say. “A bigger school.”

He looks at you. “Are you going?”

“No.”

He looks back at his homework. He does another line of arithmetic. Then, without looking up: “Good,” he says, in the tone of a person confirming the correct outcome. You put the letter in your pocket and drink your coffee and watch the spring morning come through the window, and outside Chicago the foal runs the paddock in the new warm air, her legs entirely hers, her name written on the sky.

May brings Eli’s birthday. He is eight. This is a serious number, he has informed you, because eight is when you can help with the real work on the ranch, not just the small stuff, and Heeseung has responded to this with the expression of a man who knows his son and has been quietly preparing for this specific negotiation for some time.

Riki gets up at dawn to decorate the stable on the day — this is Riki’s doing entirely, streamers in the ranch colours, a sign that says 8 in letters that are clearly Riki’s work and not a calligrapher’s but are heartfelt — and Eli discovers it at six-thirty when he goes to check on Chicago and comes back into the kitchen with the expression of a person who has been given something real.

Jay brings cake. Margaret, who has come back for the occasion — this is not a small thing, the coming back, and you watch Heeseung receive his mother at the bus stop with the quiet particular gratitude of an adult child who is still his mother’s, will always be — Margaret brings a present wrapped in brown paper and a ribbon, which Eli opens with the concentrated focus of someone who intends to remember the opening.

Inside: a pocket watch, old and gold, with an inscription on the back. Eli reads it. His lips move. He looks at his grandmother. “What does it say?” you ask him, gently.

He holds it out to you. You take it and read the back: Go steady. Go kind. Go far.

“It was your grandfather’s,” Margaret says. “And his father’s before that.”

Eli takes it back. He holds it in both palms and looks at it for a long moment with that Eli expression, the one where he is processing something bigger than seven-going-on-eight years of life have quite prepared him for. Then he closes his hands around it and looks at his grandmother and says: “Thank you.” No gap-toothed performance. No dignity management. Just the real thing, plain and clear.

Margaret cups his face in one hand. “You’re welcome, baby,” she says. Heeseung, beside you, takes your hand.

After the cake and the streamers and the stable and Riki being beaten at three card games by an eight-year-old, after Margaret and Jay have gone and Riki has taken himself off to give the evening its shape, you are at the paddock fence with Heeseung in the last of the May light.

Eli is with Chicago. He has had his horse for a year now and the relationship has settled into its permanent form: mutual trust, complete understanding, the particular bond between a child and an animal that is its own language. He is telling her something, pressed to her neck, and she is standing completely still with her ears forward in the way that means she is listening. “He’s going to be extraordinary,” you say.

Heeseung looks at his son. “He already is,” he says. He says it simply, no performance of it, just the fact. You lean into him. His arm comes around you.

The May evening is warm and going golden, the long Texas light doing what it does to the land, making everything more itself, more vivid, more worth looking at. The ranch in the evening — the fence lines, the water tower, the barn with its doors open, the horses in the paddock, Chicago standing still for an eight-year-old boy who is telling her his secrets. “Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

“For the coffee,” you say. “That first morning. For making two cups.”

He looks at you. The smile — the full one, the real one, the one that is different when it’s just yours, that has been yours since a diner stool in September. “You noticed that,” he says.

“First morning,” you say. “I noticed everything first morning.”

He shakes his head slightly, the almost-laugh. His arm tightens around you. “Jay cried when I told him,” he says. “About the coffee.”

“Jay cried about Eli’s drawing.”

“Jay cries about a lot of things,” Heeseung says, affectionately.

“He does,” you agree. “It’s one of his best qualities.”

Eli has turned from Chicago now and is watching you both from across the paddock with the expression of a child conducting a quiet and ongoing assessment of the results of his work. He catches you looking and raises one hand in a small wave. You raise your hand back. He turns back to Chicago. Heeseung presses his mouth to your temple. Stays there. “Darlin’,” he says.

“Mm.”

“Come inside,” he says. “Bea left dinner.” You stay exactly one more minute — the warm arm around you, the evening light, the boy and the horse, the whole quiet extraordinary ordinary life of it — and then you go inside together, through the gate that swings clean on its hinge, into the ranch that smells like dinner and woodsmoke and home.

Behind you the sun goes down over Castillo Creek in all the colours you don’t have names for yet.

You’re staying. You’ll learn them.

This is home.

The emergency room had seen chaos before, but tonight felt heavier.

It started with sirens, loud and insistent, even through the thick hospital walls, and a nurse rushing in with wide eyes and a shaking tablet.

“Two criticals inbound, Formula one accident. One with full-body burns and head trauma, the other with a compound leg fracture and suspected internal bleeding.”

You didn’t look up until the gurneys were rolled in. The automatic doors swung open with a hiss, letting in two stretchers, wheeled fast.

The first man on the left stretcher wasn’t moving, blood was matting the dark fringe of his hair, and his face was pale under the running crimson.

His racing suit, at least, what remained of it, was slit down the middle already, soaked through.

The other one was conscious, barely. He was moaning low, his gloved hand clutching at his stomach.

His helmet was off, but there were burn marks curling along the side of his jaw, climbing his neck like vines. His left eye was bloodshot, and blood was crusting near his temple.

Someone called names, the trauma doctor barking orders, nurses scattering.

"Male, in his twenties, suspected third-degree burns, signs of cranial impact, get a scan, now!”

You walked beside them, flipping through the patient file as quickly as it populated.

Blood type, height, weight, nothing else yet. No names. Just codenames and a tag: F1 INCIDENT – NIGHT PRACTICE RUN.

The burn patient was rushed straight into the burn unit. The younger one too, the boy, he looked like a boy, no older than nineteen, with a mess of internal damage. You heard the word “rupture.” Someone else said “splintered bone.”

The moment the doors shut behind the burning team, you exhaled and leaned against the wall.

“Oh my God.” One of the nurses beside you whispered. “That’s Lee Heeseung and Nishimura Riki… holy shit.”

You blinked. “Who?”

The girl stared at you like you had three heads. “Heeseung? He’s like… a living legend in F1. He won Monaco last year blind in one eye… you seriously don’t know?”

You shrugged. “Not really my thing.”

She shook her head. “Well, it’l be now.”

And in fact, two hours later, you were re-assigned.

“Y/N, you’ll be in the burning unit monitoring, in a private suite.” The charge nurse handed you a clipboard. “VIP patient.”

You glanced down at the name, written in capital letters: LEE HEESEUNG

The report was horrifying, with skin grafts that started on both arms and his left shoulder, smoke inhalation damage that would be treated by manually removing it with a tube in the lung.

Followed by a nasty concussion with swelling that had the neurosurgeon double-checking his pupils every ten minutes, and last but not least a multiple rib fractures from the crash impact.

He’d been put in a medically induced coma for the first few hours, and the sedation wouldn’t wear off until sometime tomorrow. You’d be there to monitor vitals, manage the IV, prep for re-evaluation.

His room was on the east wing, he kind of suite reserved for politicians or royalty.

You slipped inside quietly. Heeseung looked worse now that everything was cleaned up.

The bandages made it more real, he gauze that circled half his head, the IVs in both arms, the oxygen line.

You adjusted the chart at the foot of his bed, but there was a whisper of movement behind you that distracted you.

The man that stepped in wasn’t that tall, with tousled hair and hoodie slung half-off his shoulder. There was dried blood on his jeans.

“Are you the nurse assigned to Heeseung?”

You nodded. “Just got here, are you family? Visiting hours are over.”

“I’m the— uh, manager. My name’s Sim Jake.” He extended his hand, but it trembled, so he dropped it. “Sorry, I— fuck, I can’t think. Is he stable?”

You nodded slowly. “He made it through all the check ups without surgery. He’s sedated, but stable. We’ll have to monitor him for the next 24 hours very closely, especially with the head injury.”

Jake exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. “And Riki?” he asked quietly.

“From what I heard, he’s still in surgery.”

He pressed his palms together, his eyes were red-rimmed, like he’d been crying or lacked sleeping “They said it was gonna be a regular night, y’know? pre-race laps. Heeseung didn’t even wanna go.”

You stayed quiet. You’d seen people talk to cope, and you learned how to let them.

Jake stared at the bed, at Heeseung’s unconscious body, and then sat down heavily in the corner chair.

“There was a malfunction,” he said slowly. “In Riki’s brakes, his car didn’t slow down on the fourth turn. It’s a corner he usually takes at normal speed, but he went full throttle tonight, he really wanted to impress everyone.” he swallowed, “he didn’t know. Couldn’t have, there was no control. He was headed straight for the barricade, and spectators were there… families with kids.”

You frowned slightly, brows pulling.

“Heeseung… he saw it. He was in front Riki but he saw what was about to happen, he heard it from the communications radio,” he sighed “so he— he pulled out of line, he s werved into his path.”

Jake’s voice cracked. “He used his own car to stop Riki’s, took the hit full-on, it exploded on fire on impact.”

Your throat felt tight. You glanced at Heeseung again, this time a little different.

“He sacrificed himself,” Jake said, hands fisting in his lap. “To stop Riki from plowing into the stands.”

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how anyone could choose that kind of pain on purpose.

“He’s gonna live, right?” Jake asked, suddenly boyish. Less like a manager and more like a friend.

You nodded slowly, gaze still on the man lying in the bed. “We’ll do everything we can.”

🏁.

He slipped in and out of consciousness through the long stretch of the night, a haze of morphine clouding over his expression every time he stirred.

Most of it was just moaning, incoherent words under his breath, sometimes Riki’s name.

other times it was just soft whimpers, sharp exhales that caught against his bandaged ribs.

Once, around 3:40 AM, he jolted awake with a short cry and tried to move. His hands jerked upward instinctively, maybe to protect himself… maybe reaching for a steering wheel.

You had to catch his wrist gently and murmur softly until he settled again. “It’s okay,” you whispered, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You’re safe, you’re not in the car anymore.”

His eyes fluttered beneath bruised lids, and for a second, he stared right through you.

His lips parted, dry and cracked. You held a straw to them and helped him sip water, watched him wince even from that tiny effort, and then he was gone again.

Back into the warmth of sedation, head rolling softly to one side. Morphine dripped slow into his IV. You monitored the levels and checked the rate. You replaced the saline bag when it was almost empty and you didn’t leave the room even when your shift technically ended.

By morning, you were back at your post before the sun had even fully risen.

You weren’t due for another hour, but you couldn't stay home knowing he might wake again confused, aching and… alone.

But when you entered the room, he was already awake. Well, barely, but it was something.

The soft hum of the monitor greeted you first. His vitals were holding steady, but the real sign was the way his eyes, still a bit unfocused, and a little raw, tracked you as you stepped in.

You set your clipboard down quietly and met his gaze. “Hey,” you said softly.

He blinked slowly, then frowned. “Fuck,” he rasped, “I’m not dead?”

His voice was hoarse, painful to hear, but you managed a small smile. “Not yet, sorry.”

A weak huff pushed from his chest, maybe a laugh, or maybe a cough, you couldn’t tell. He shifted, then immediately grimaced, body locking stiff.

“It’ll hurt,” you warned, reaching out to adjust his pillow. “Your ribs are still healing.”

“No shit,” he groaned, swallowing hard. “Why… why can’t I feel my neck? and my chest and arms feel—“ another cough “numb.”

You hesitate, then walked to the bedside. His eyes were clearer now, but clouded with the edge of something worse than fear. The dread of what he didn’t know yet.

“You have third-degree burns on your neck and parts of your chest and arms. The reason you can’t feel them is… because the nerves are gone.” You tried to explain it as easily as possible.

His eyes flicked downward toward his shoulder, then to the heavy gauze wrapping his forearm. He didn’t move, just stared. “Am I—” His voice caught. “How bad does it look?”

You exhaled. “Bad,” you said honestly. “But they did a clean graft. You’ll get function back, most likely. The nerve endings yes… maybe not sensation in some areas. But it’s early, the burn team will know more after the swelling goes down.”

He closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenching.

Silence stretched. Then, his throat worked, voice more broken than before. “Riki?”

You nodded slowly, folding your arms. “He’s alive, though still unconscious. He had internal bleeding, and a compound fracture in his left leg. He’s in post-op recovery now, but he’s stable.”

His entire face tightened, like the weight of it had finally dropped onto his chest. His fingers clenched weakly around the edge of the sheet, and he looked away, toward the window where the morning light was just beginning to creep in through the blinds.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Good. He— he’s just a kid.”

You sat down in the chair beside him, scribbled a note on the chart, and glanced over.

“He’s lucky,” you said softly. “that you were there.”

He didn’t answer.

You knew Jake was still outside. He’d arrived early again, eyes red, pacing the hallway like a ghost. You’d seen him hovering through the glass window earlier, glancing in, debating whether or not to come in.

Now, as Heeseung winced and shifted slightly, you knew he wouldn’t want to deal with him yet.

“You’ve got someone outside,” you said after a pause. “Jake, right? Your manager.”

Heeseung closed his eyes.

“I don’t have the energy for him right now,” he muttered. “He’s just gonna yell.”

“Then he can wait.” you stood, heading toward the door. “You need rest, not a lecture.”

You stepped out quietly and met Jake’s eyes. He stood up instantly. “Is he awake? Can I—?”

“He’s not in the mood to talk,” you said, keeping your voice low but firm. “He’s in pain, and he’s processing. Maybe come back tomorrow?”

Jake’s face fell, but he nodded, rubbing his hand over his mouth, murmured something that resembled a ‘thank you’ before stepping away.

When you returned to the room, Heeseung was still awake, eyes half-closed, the tension in his shoulders loosened by a fraction. “You want me to turn the lights down a bit?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “My eyes hurt.”

You moved to the wall, dimmed them until the room was cast in soft amber.

And when you returned to your seat, he glanced over, lips cracked, voice barely above a whisper. “…What’s your name?”

“Y/N.” you replied “I’ll be your nurse for the time you stay here.”

He blinked. “You’re the one who was here last night.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “You tried to punch me when I held your hand.”

His brows creased. “Did I?”

“You missed.” You shrugged and a ghost of a smile touched his mouth, the first one real enough to settle.

🏁.

When you pushed the door open after your lunch break, it was with the quiet intent of checking Heeseung’s vitals, maybe adjusting his IV line again.

You expected him to still be in pain, perhaps trying to sleep it off. You did not expect what you found.

Three nurses, all hovering around his bed like moths to a dying flame.

One was adjusting his blanket even though it was already neatly draped, another was holding a spoon of soup like it was some kind of sacred ritual, and the last one— oh, she was massaging lotion onto the one patch of unburned skin on his hand with a focus that was frankly excessive.

Heeseung looked… tired. Not just physically, but emotionally drained, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the attention.

His eyes met yours almost instantly as you stepped in, and something like relief washed over his features.

You didn’t smile. “Out,” you just said, sharp but calm.

All three of them froze, as if you’d pulled the fire alarm. One nurse looked like she might argue, but you raised your brow just slightly, and she faltered.

“But we were just—”

“I’m sure you were,” you cut her off smoothly. “He’s under recovery care, not an autograph booth.”

The room grew ten degrees colder.

They scurried out with muttered apologies, not meeting your gaze. One of them left behind the bowl of half-stirred soup and a chocolate pudding cup on the tray.

Heeseung watched you settle the tray on the adjustable table and pull it close to him.

“So,” you said, lifting the spoon from the bowl, “how many fangirls have snuck in while I was gone?”

He grimaced slightly. “Only them, I tjink… one kept calling me ‘hero.’ I tried to play dead but they didn’t leave.”

You smirked faintly, scooping up a small portion of the lukewarm soup “Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to fake injuries for attention?”

He gave a weak chuckle. “Pretty sure I didn’t have to fake anything.”

You lifted the spoon to his lips, watching as he took the soup carefully, his lips parting just slightly, eyes grimacing a little at the taste. His neck muscles twitched, probably from strain, and he exhaled hard after swallowing.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Is that soup or dishwater?”

“Hospital cuisine,” you said solemnly. “Five-star micheline.”

He took another spoonful, slowly, wincing just from the movement of his jaw.

He still looked rough, his color wasn’t good, skin pale and slightly ashy from the burn meds. His arms were stiff at his sides, bandaged still, and you could tell the hunger was there, but the effort… not so much.

You opened the pudding cup next, gave it a little stir with the plastic spoon. He looked at it like it was the most edible thing he’d seen in weeks.

“Oh thank god,” he said. “I’ve never been so excited for fake chocolate in my life.”

“Open up,” you said, and he did, the sweetness seeming to go down easier than the soup. He sighed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“I thought I’d feel better today,” he murmured. “But I still feel like shit.”

“You’re not even forty-eight hours post the accident yet,” you reminded him. “Your body’s still trying to decide if it wants to forgive you.”

He shifted then, just a little, then a little more. “Careful—”

“I wanna sit up more,” he mumbled, already pressing one arm against the bed, trying to push himself.

You leaned in, firm but calm. “Heeseung, stop.”

“I can’t just lie here—”

“You literally must.”

His eyes flashed with stubbornness, but then he grimaced hard, pain tightening his mouth.

You reached out instinctively, palm flat on his shoulder, not the burned one, holding him still.

“Don’t be stupid,” you said quietly. “Your ribs are still cracked, you won’t win against gravity.”

His jaw clenched. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

He looked away, toward the window. The light outside was gentler now, filtered through the clouds.

His face was drawn, and you could see it in the way he held himself, he wasn’t just sore, he was frustrated

The kind of man who didn’t like stillness. Who probably measured his self-worth by his speed.

“You’re scheduled to remove some of the smoke still in your lungs,” you told him, “It will not be pleasant.”

“Great,” he said sarcastically, “On a scale from one to ten?”

You thought about if for a minute, “I’ve never done it, but I will not lie that I think it will be a solid eight.”

You adjusted the pillow behind his back carefully, angling the bed up a little more for him. He didn’t resist this time, just watched your hands.

“You’re not useless just because you’re healing,” you said, mentioning the previous conversation. “You saved someone. That’s not something your body gets over in a day.”

Heeseung was quiet for a long moment, the sound of the heart monitoring a steady pulse beside you.

“…he’s still not awake, right?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Still out, but stable.”

He didn’t respond to that. Just stared out at the window again, jaw working.

You finished cleaning up the tray, wiping the corner of his mouth where a little pudding had smeared.

Your fingers brushed along his chin lightly, and for a second, his eyes dropped to your hand.

When you pulled back, he exhaled slowly.

“Thanks,” he said, voice lower now.

You didn’t smile, but your voice was soft. “Stop trying to get up, and I’ll bring you something that actually tastes like food tomorrow.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering, then gave a small nod.

“No fangirls,” you added, pointing an accusing finger towards him.

He smiled, just barely. “Only you then?”

You rolled your eyes and stood.

“Don’t push it.”

🏁.

Days blurred together like a long breath you couldn’t quite finish taking.

Outside, the world carried on, traffic, sunrises, clouds rolling over the hospital’s concrete edges, but inside that room, things moved slower.

Jake came every day now, just after lunch, always bringing a different set of sports magazines or articles printed off from the web.

Heeseung barely read them, but he listened when Jake talked about regular things, probably as not to overwhelm him with the fact that races continued wven as he laid on a hospital bed.

A video someone posted of Riki doing stupid tricks in a go-kart. They didn’t say much about the boy himself, not with him still in the ICU, but you could feel the tension crackle in Jake every time he left, like walking out of that room meant abandoning someone else who couldn’t speak for himself yet.

You didn’t press him, and yoou didn’t ask questions.

You were too busy with your own routine.

You came into Heeseung’s room just before the evening shift change.

The light outside had gone pale blue, casting long shadows across the tile floor.

You rolled in a small cart with the supplies, like bandages, ointments, saline and gauze. He was already sitting up a little, watching you.

His face still bore the bruises of the accident, but the swelling had gone down, and his eyes tracked your every movement now, sharp and clear.

“You get a new uniform?” he asked, voice less raspy than before but still colored with something teasing.

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s the same one you bled on two days ago. We just wash them sometimes.”

“Hot,” he murmured, then hissed softly as he tried to adjust his shoulder.

“Don't be cute,” you muttered. “It’s wound cleaning day.”

You started with his head. The bandage there had to be changed slowly, carefully, because the skin underneath was still raw and sensitive.

You gloved up, peeled back the old gauze from his temple, then gently dabbed at the edges of the injury with a saline-soaked pad.

He winced, but didn’t complain. Not like he had the first time. “You’re quieter than usual,” he said.

“You want me to make small talk while I pull the rest of your scabbed flesh off?” You raised a brow at him. He let out a breathy laugh and closed his eyes. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind the distraction.”

You wrapped the fresh bandage around his head, secure but loose enough not to give him a headache.

Then you moved to his chest. He shifted again, the sheets falling to his lap as you pulled the gown down and exposed the burns that still ran like brutal red streaks from just below his collarbone down to the edge of his ribs, spreading across his right shoulder and part of his upper arm. Some had darkened and some peeled.

But all of it looked painful.

You dipped a gloved finger into the ointment and began carefully applying it over the healing areas.

You didn’t flinch at the way the flesh had hardened in some parts, blistered in others. You’d seen worse.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said through his teeth. “Feels like acid.”

“It’s just medicine.”

“I know, but I like being dramatic.”

You gave a short laugh, smoothing the ointment into the side of his neck, then placed new gauze over it, pressing down gently to secure it.

“I don’t know how you do this every day,” he said after a while “I mean, taking care of people like this…. like me. It can’t be the easiest job.”

You shrugged, taping down the last piece. “I’ve had harder patients.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. There was this guy once who thought flirting through third-degree burns was charming.” you teased.

He chuckled, and you moved to his arms next, slowly peeling back the old dressings.

His skin twitched under the fresh air, his fingers curling instinctively. You worked in silence for a while, glancing up only when you noticed him watching you.

“What?” you asked.

He tilted his head a little. “Nothing, you just never talk about yourself.”

You finished smoothing a patch of ointment along his bicep before answering. “There’s not much to say.”

“Bullshit. You’re in here every day, making sure I don’t die of infection or morphine withdrawal. You clean me, feed me, fight off the occasional fangirl. You’ve gotta have more going on than this.”

You paused. Then looked up at him… you didn’t really have an entertaining life outside the hospital, so you opted for something safe. “I’m also assigned to another patient.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, wrapping his arm now. “A kid about nine years old. He came in with a collapsed lung.”

Heeseung stilled slightly. “Accident?”

“No.” you gulped. “His father beat the shit out of him.”

Something in his face twisted then, slow and ugly. You continued softly. “He’s doing better now. Still needs the oxygen support, but he’s laughing again. Oh, and he loves dinosaurs.”

Heeseung’s voice was low. “Do people like that guy, his father, just get to walk around free?”

“It’s… complicated.” You said, your hands working focused. “He’s on the loose, police are searching for him.”

“Fuck.” He exhaled sharply, then looked away. “I thought I had it bad.”

You finished dressing the last of his wounds, peeling off your gloves with a soft snap and tossing them into the bin.

“You did,” you said quietly. “Pain doesn’t need to compete.”

He looked at you again then, for a long time. You weren’t sure what was in his eyes exactly. Respect, maybe sadness. Something softer, too.

“Thanks,” he said.

You gave him a faint smile, then reached for the blanket again, pulling it over his legs gently. “Don’t move too much tonight.”

“No promises.” Heeseung shrugged.

“I’ll sedate you if I have to.” you threatened.

He smirked. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done to me.”

You rolled your eyes, gathered your supplies, and started toward the door. Before you stepped out, you glanced back.

He was still looking at you. Not like a patient looking at a nurse.

Like a man trying to understand someone he suddenly realized he didn’t know at all.

🏁.

Riki woke up the following week.

The update came in quietly, just after sunrise, passed from the ICU nurse on duty to your floor with that same hushed relief you’d felt pressing at the back of your ribs since the accident.

He was conscious, but weak. He was. fading in and out of sleep, but breathing on his own, and whispering broken sentences when someone leaned in close enough to hear.

You didn’t rush to tell Heeseung.

You waited until you finished your morning rounds, changed his bandages, fed him half of his usual breakfast. He didn’t complain today. Not once, and that alone told you his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t until you were refilling his IV fluids that you finally told him.

“Riki’s awake,” you said simply, not looking up as you slid the fresh saline bag onto the pole.

The stillness in the room shifted sharply.

Heeseung’s voice was instant, a little breathless. “When?”

“This morning.” You turned to him. “He’s in the trauma unit now. They transferred him just after stabilizing.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. His hands flexed slightly at his sides. “Can I see him?”

You hesitated. “You’re not exactly in any shape to—”

“I can sit,” he cut in quickly. “If I sit in a wheelchair, I can do it. I swear I won’t move. Just— five minutes. Please.”.

He was still so pale. The bruising around his eye had darkened into a dull ochre. The bandages on his neck peeked out from under his gown. His arm was trembling just from lifting the glass of water earlier.

He wasn’t ready. But you also knew he’d never feel ready, and something told you he wouldn’t rest until he saw Riki for himself.

You sighed, pulling your gloves off. “Alright, but you don’t lift a finger. You move wrong and I’ll have you sedated for real this time.”

He smiled weakly. “God, that’s hot.”

You shot him a flat look. “Try me.”

You brought the chair around slowly. He watched every motion as you locked the brakes, looped the IV pole onto the hooks, and adjusted the footrest to keep his legs steady. Then came the hard part.

“Okay,” you said gently, moving to his side. “You’re gonna need to lean forward on three. I’ll brace your back. Use your left arm if you can. The right’s still healing.”

He nodded once, already concentrating “One… two.. three.”

He grunted as he moved, your arm slipping under his to guide his weight forward. It took everything in him not to scream, you could tell.

His ribs were like cracked glass, one wrong shift and he’d shatter. But he bit it back, his jaw clenched, and let you ease him into the wheelchair slowly.

Once he was seated, you adjusted his gown to keep the bandages covered, re-checked the IV tube to make sure it wasn’t pulled, and only when everything was steady did you release a breath.

“You good?” you asked.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.. fuck. I feel like a grandpa.”

The trauma unit wasn’t far, but you still took it slow. Every bump in the linoleum seemed to jolt through his bones.

You moved carefully, guiding the chair down the hallway, keeping your hand on the bar, and checking on him every few seconds. He didn’t talk, he just stared straight ahead.

When you reached Riki’s room, you paused at the door. “You sure?” you asked.

Heeseung nodded quietly and so you opened the door slowly.

The lights were dimmed inside, soft beeping of monitors the only sound.

Riki was lying still, propped slightly against the incline of the bed. His skin was a mess of bruises, purple and green splotches painting across his arms and cheek. A heavy cast swallowed most of his left leg, raised and elevated on a cushion.

There were faint stitches near his collarbone, and you saw the tremble of his chest with every breath.

But his eyes were open and conscious, staring at the white ceiling.

When he saw Heeseung, something in his expression cracked. His mouth moved first, like he wasn’t sure what to say. “Heeseung…”

Heeseung tried to lean forward but flinched instantly. You stepped in and pressed lightly on his shoulder.

“Careful,” you murmured.

“I thought you were dead,” Riki said, voice hoarse and small.

Heeseung swallowed, eyes shining faintly. “So did I.”

Riki blinked rapidly. “They said you— why the fuck did you stop in front of me like that? That’s not…” He trailed off, voice thick. “That’s not how this is supposed to go.”

Heeseung stared at him for a long moment. “You were headed for the barricade.”

“You should’ve just let me crash.” Riki snapped.

Heeseung’s voice was low, steady. “No, i really shouldn’t have.”

The silence between them settled like a weight. You didn’t speak, nor did you move. You saw how Heeseung’s hands gripped the armrests, how Riki tried to blink away the water in his eyes.

“You look like shit,” Riki finally said, a faint smile twitching at his lips.

Heeseung gave a tired breath of a laugh. “Yeah. So do you.”

You looked between the two of them. “I’ll give you a few minutes… just don’t make him laugh too hard. His ribs won’t survive it.”

🏁.

Two more weeks passed, and the days started blending again, though in a different rhythm now.

Rehab was slower, less frantic than the ER, but harder in other ways.

You watched Heeseung try to curl his fingers around a towel for ten full minutes one morning, sweat beading along his brow while the physical therapist kept encouraging him softly, and he just clenched his jaw and tried again and again, even when the pain clawed up from his shoulder into his teeth.

The nerves in his right arm were slow to wake. Some hadn’t at all.

But he worked through it, every day. There were setbacks and ghost pains and frustration.

A dozen nights when he asked you to help him sleep with medications because the sensation of nothing in his arm felt worse than agony.

You tried your best to support him, to give him the strength he was missing.

He could get a game of cards with you each time he managed to complete an exercise, and though he struggled to hold the cards in hands, he looked forward to it.

He always did, but one day you didn’t arrive at the time you usually did.

You always checked in after the rehab sessions. Always adjusted the pillows, changed his IV port, sometimes brought him sickeningly sweet tea even though it wasn’t officially allowed.

That afternoon, he returned from physical therapy looking exhausted and stiff, arm strapped carefully in the sling again.

You would be waiting for him, and even if he felt tired, he was excited to tell you about his progress.

But when he got in there were no cards and no you.

He was half-dozing when the door finally opened, with but the footsteps weren’t yours. The nurse on duty came in to check his meds, and as she adjusted his meds she told him you were coming but were just running late.

She went away, and when the door opened again some time later, it was you.

You came in fast, too fast and your steps uneven. Your scrubs were wrinkled, your hair pulled back hastily.

You didn’t even glance at him, just went straight to the counter and dropped your bag like your hands didn’t know what to do with anything.

“Hey,” he said, quietly.

“Hey.” You replied hurriedly.

He tried to push himself up further in bed, and that simple movement sent a spasm through his ribs. He hissed but kept watching you.

Your hands were shaking as you reached for the gloves. You put them on hastily and put some morphine drops in his IV line.

Or tried to, because the needle kept missing. You tried again and again.

“Hey.” He murmured, brows furrowing. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” you gulped, voice shaky, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

But he didn’t buy your lie, so he said more firmly, “Y/N.”

You stopped moving and dropped your hands on the medicine counter. “I lost him.”

The words came out too sharp and too sudden. You hadn’t meant to say them like that. You hadn’t even known what you meant to say until they tore out of your mouth.

He blinked slowly. trying to piece the words together. “The kid?”

You turned slowly toward him, your eyes wide and glassy, and you laughed, a short and broken sound. It caught in your throat. You clutched the edge of the t counter like it could hold you up.

“I— I did everything. Everything I was supposed to. He was smiling yesterday… and… and he even asked me to draw dinosaurs on his oxygen mask. I told him I would after he ate his dinner.”

He didn’t speak, he let you rant, because he knew you needed not to be strong for once. You needed a shoulder to cry on.

You stepped forward, then dropped to your knees before you even realized it. The medical equipment fell from your hands.

“He started coughing and he didn’t stop,” you whispered, voice already breaking. “His lung… it filled with blood. He couldn’t breathe and we couldn’t intubate fast enough. He choked in front of us. In front of me.”

Your hands pressed to your face. “I tried… I tried so fucking hard—”

Your sobs ripped out of you, loud and uncontained, ugly sobs that rocked your body. Heeseung reached out before his body could protest. “Come here.”

“No,” you gasped. “I can’t— I’m not supposed to—”

“Come here.” He repeated firmly.

You crawled toward the bed on your knees, hands shaking too much to reach for anything.

He managed to lower his good arm toward you, fingers trembling as they brushed against your shoulder.

You pressed your face to the side of the bed, arms folded awkwardly under you, and sobbed into the blanket.

He winced, but he kept his hand there on your back. His thumb moved in slow, unsteady circles, his voice hoarse as he whispered, “You did everything you could.”

“I didn’t save him.” You snapped.

“Sometimes… sometimes you can’t.” He tried to reason. “I promised I’d come see him tomorrow.” You whispered brokenly.

Heeseung’s breath hitched, and he closed his eyes like he could carry the weight of that grief for you.

“I keep seeing his face,” you whispered. “He looked so scared.”

“I know that feeling,” he murmured. “I know, I see the fire every night.”

Your fingers curled into the blanket. He moved his hand and brushed your hair back behind your ear. The gentlest touch he could manage.

“You made him forget the horrors he went through,” he said softly. “You were there. That matters more than anything.”

You couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t even pretend to be the composed nurse anymore.

You weren’t her right now. You were just you, kneeling on the floor beside a patient who had become more than just a chart.

You stayed there, head buried into the side of the bed, tears soaking through the sheet, while Heeseung lay still, chest tight, body too raw to offer more than the steady, quiet presence you’d once given him.

Eventually, your sobs softened, worn out. Like the grief had burned through you fast and left only ash behind.

He spoke again, voice slow. “You can sit up here, if you want.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want you to move.” Even in your pain, uou cared more for him.

“I won’t.” He shifted his hand slightly, inviting. “Just stay beside me..”

So you did, because you weren’t really in the right state of mind to list all the reasons why you shouldn’t.

You climbed onto the edge of the bed slowly, not to disturb the tubes or bandages, and leaned gently against the side of his body. His good arm curled around your back.

Just for a moment you let yourself be held.

🏁.

It was quiet between you for a long while. His hand was warm where it rested on your back, too warm for someone who’d spent the last few weeks surrounded by machines and medications and cold gauze.

You were still curled into the side of the bed, your cheek resting just beside the edge of his chest, body limp from the sobbing.

“Hey.” He finally spoke.

You shifted, barely lifting your head. “Mh?.”

He angled his neck enough to glance down at you. “Wheel me downstairs.”

You blinked slowly. “Downstairs where?”

“The cafeteria.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him properly. His face was worn, but his expression was serious.

You stared hard. “You’re not allowed down there yet.”

He shrugged with one shoulder. “Neither was I allowed to have Jake’s candy bars, but I’ve had three Twix and two mini bags of Doritos this week, and I haven’t died.”

Your brows lifted. “You’ve been cheating on your meal plan?” He gave a faint smirk. “Religiously.”

“You sighed, pressing your fingers to your eyes. The last thing you wanted to do right now was escort a stubborn F1 driver out of his room for snacks like he hadn’t nearly burned alive three weeks ago.

But the truth was, your chest still hurt. The grief still sat in your bones, but it was quieter now, and something in his voice had shifted.

“Fine,” you muttered, standing. “But you’re wearing your sling, and your hospital bracelet stays visible. If anyone asks, you’re on a medically supervised movement.”

“Lord,” he murmured. “You make rule-breaking sound so sexy.”

You rolled your eyes, but the ache in your chest had already started to soften.

You helped him into the chair again, slower this time, letting him lean into you more than usual.

His body was getting stronger, but not by much, and even the act of standing made him wince. You adjusted his IV pole and tucked the light blue blanket across his lap before wheeling him carefully out into the corridor.

The hallway was mostly quiet as night shift had already begun. The elevators pinged with soft dings while you descended.

“Did you bring me down here to flirt with the volunteers again?” you asked as the doors opened on the ground floor.

“No,” he said. “They don’t make eye contact anymore. I think you scared them off.”

You snorted. “Good.”

The café was dimly lit, the kind that looked like it was trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t inside a hospital.

You wheeled him to a table tucked in the corner, far from the noise of people or the murmur of the vending machines.

You walked up to the bar and ordered what he’d asked for, a hot chocolate with no whipped cream, and a bottle of water. The cashier rang it up, and just as you reached for your hospital-issued card, a hand beat you to it.

Heeseung had wheeled towards you, alone, and handed over a credit card without a word.

You looked at him sharply. “What the fuck are you—”

“I wanted to.” Ahe said quickly, “And I used the good arm.” He waved it for good measure.

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m on shift. I can’t let patients pay for—”

“I’m a grown man in a wheelchair, who needs your help standing while peeing, I think you deserve this.”

You stared at him for a second longer, but he didn’t waver. So you let it go, you took the tray with the drinks, careful not to spill the hot chocolate, and returned to the table.

When you set it down in front of him, he reached out for the bottle of water. He pushed the hot chocolate toward you.

You blinked, then frowned in confusion. “This is yours.”

“I ordered it for you.” He explained as if it was the most obvious thing.

Your hands hovered for a second. “You asked for it.”

“And then I gave it away.” He met your eyes, gaze soft but unwavering. “You’ve had a shit day, well, week. I figured chocolate was a safer bet than tequila.”

You slowly sat down, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. It steamed against your skin, thick and sweet-smelling.

“You still shouldn’t be paying for me,” you muttered.

“I crashed a million-dollar car. You think I’m worried about six bucks?”

You shook your head, trying to hide the way your lip tugged up just slightly.

He leaned back a little in the chair, the bottle of water resting between his thighs. “You’re allowed to sit here,” he said, voice quiet. “Not just as my nurse but just as you.”

You stared down at the cup. “I don’t think I know how to be just me anymore.”

“You do,” he said softly. “You just haven’t had time to remember.”

You took a slow sip and the warmth bled into your chest. “I think I hate hospitals,” you whispered.

He tilted his head, watching you carefully. “So do I.”

You wheeled him back before the nurse on dinner rounds made it to his floor.

Heeseung didn’t say much on the way up, he just kept his eyes ahead, arm still nestled in the sling, the blanket pooling loosely around his waist.

You stopped the wheelchair in front of his room, and opened the door wide enough for the chair to slip in.

He shifted a little as you rolled him in, wincing when the chair hit a bump in the threshold. “Careful,” he murmured.

“Sorry,” you replied quickly, helping him ease into a comfortable position beside his bed before turning off the wheelchair brakes.

You were efficient again, going through motions you’d done a hundred times, but your fingers still trembled slightly when they brushed his wrist, adjusting the IV.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For taking care of me.”

You turned toward him. “It’s literally my job

“It’s more than that,” he said. “You didn’t have to sit with me. You didn’t have to cry where I could see you.”

You swallowed, eyes briefly dropping to his blanket. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m not very professional.”

“You’re too pretty to cry,” he said simply.

You rolled your eyes, stepping toward the cabinet to grab a clean set of saline wipes, trying to cover how your heart stuttered at the way he’d said it— like a fact, not a compliment.

“Don’t start,” you warned. “I’m not starting,” he said. “I’m just saying.”

You turned back to him, arms crossed, and leaned against the cabinet. “Alright, fine. How are you feeling? Really.”

He blinked at you, then tilted his head slightly, making a face. “Sore.”

“Where?” You asked.

He shifted, jaw tightening as he angled his neck. “My neck mostly. Probably the burn. It feels like it’s pulling when I sleep.”

“That’s because you keep turning your head instead of using the pillow support,” you said, walking toward him again.

You reached gently toward his collarbone, pulling back the loose hospital shirt to peek at the gauze that covered the worst of the scarring.

“You should kiss it better,” he said then, voice suddenly low.

You stopped, frozen in place. Your hand froze an inch from his skin, and his eyes flicked to your face, watching you for a reaction, but not pushing.

His lips tugged up, a faint, boyish grin pulling the corner of his mouth.

You stared at him, chest tight, then sighed through your nose and leaned in, fast, before you could think better of it, and pressed a quick kiss to the edge of his cheekbone.

Just enough to feel the warmth of his skin under your lips, to let the tension between you shift into something that made your stomach twist.

His smile widened, the surprise obvious on his face.

“Hey,” he whispered, gaze following you as you straightened and stepped back. “That was nice.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.” You said, holding a threatening finger to his face.

He laughed, low and hoarse. “Too late.”

You grabbed your clipboard, pretending to check his chart so you wouldn’t have to look at him while your face still felt warm.

“I should go,” you muttered, already walking toward the door. “Dinner shift’s starting on the east wing.”

“Wait—”

But you were already pulling the door open, glancing back at him just long enough to catch the way he looked at you now.

You didn’t say anything else. You just stepped out, your heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could hear it, and let the door shut behind you with a soft click.

🏁.

By the third day of your ten-hour shift stretch, you could recognize the tone of the call button chime before the light even blinked above the door.

It was always Lee Heeseung’s, allways at the most inopportune moments— just when you had your gloves snapped on to help with someone else’s chart, or when you were halfway through prepping a new IV bag.

And by now, you didn’t even need to guess what he’d say.

“My pillow fell again.”

“My water’s too warm.”

“I finished the tissue box. I sneezed once and now it’s gone.”

“I think my skin feels itchy, but like, only a little. Is that bad?”

“Do you know where the remote is?”

Six times that day, and it wasn’t even five p.m.

So this time, you walked in before the chime finished echoing down the hall, your hands on your hips, the door swinging shut behind you with a firm thud.

“Okay,” you said, standing just inside the threshold, your brows raised. “I know you’re bored, and I know hospital life isn’t exactly thrilling, but unless you’ve developed a new infection or spontaneously combusted again, I really don’t want to hear another call button chime from this room today.”

Heeseung looked up from the bed, blinking at you with the most unapologetically fake innocent expression you’d ever seen.

“You don’t have to scold me like that,” he said, lifting a hand with mock pain. “It hurts my feelings.”

“It hurts my back,” you snapped, “to walk this hallway six times because you suddenly forgot where your mouth is after wiping it.”

He cracked a smile then, slow and crooked. “That one wasn’t urgent, I just missed you.”

You blinked at him, deadpan.

“I’m serious,” he added quickly. “I’m not trying to be annoying. I mean, I am. But not… only.”

You slowly stepped closer to the bed, your arms crossing over your chest. “Heeseung.”

He lifted both hands in surrender, careful not to stretch his burned arm. “Alright. alright, I’ll stop. I’ll be good.”

You narrowed your eyes. You knew he felt alone, F1 season continued, Jake had meetings with his whole department since both his drivers were out and he was afraid he’d be replaced.

You knew, but it didn’t mean he had to drive you insane too. No pun intended.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I know I’m being a pain in the ass, that you’re tired, and I know it’s not fair to ask for attention when there are patients who actually need you.”

That startled you a little. His voice was sincere now, not playful.

The kind of honest that didn’t come easy to men like him, the men used to winning races and smiling through sponsors’ press conferences and interviews. But he looked small now, even as he sat upright in the bed, chest tight in the bandages you changed every morning.

“I’m just—” he exhaled, his fingers twitching over the blanket. “I’m scared to leave. That’s the truth.”

You frowned, stepping to his bedside without thinking. “Why would you be scared of leaving a hospital?”

“Because I look like this.” He motioned vaguely to his body, to the sling, the burn that peeked from beneath the hem of his collar. “Because I haven’t seen a mirror in weeks, and I know I’ve looked better. Because my hair’s gross and I’ve lost weight and I smell like antiseptic, and I’ve been stuck in this bed thinking that I’ll never feel like myself again.”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t done. “And because I finally got the courage to want something for myself. And that something is you.”

The words landed hard. You felt your arms drop slightly, hands now loose by your sides, the air between you suddenly tighter than before. You blinked your eyes, unsure if you were seeing or hearing his words right.

Heeseung looked up at you again, slower this time, less sure of himself than you’d ever seen him.

“I know you don’t owe me anything. You’ve been taking care of me because it’s your duty, and I’ve probably pushed boundaries I shouldn’t. But…” He swallowed, breath shallow. “I wanted to tell you now. Before I get discharged, because the second I’m out of here, I’m gonna be back in recovery, back in press cycles, and everyone’s going to ask about the crash and Riki and the damn brakes, and I’m not going to get to just sit with you… or make you laugh, ormake you roll your eyes like that.”

You stared at him, speechless, as if your body had finally shut down.

“I just needed you to know,” he said finally. “When I’m back on my feet and when I look like me again… I’m going to ask you out, properly. If you’ll let me.”

Your heart was pounding, because somewhere deep down, maybe you’d known. Known from the moment he reached for the hot chocolate and slid it across the table. Known from the way he watched you like you were the only anchor he had left.

You didn’t know what to say, not yet. Your mouth felt dry and your chest felt tight, but your feet stepped closer anyway, drawn like a magnet.

You didn’t kiss him this time. You didn’t touch him either. You just looked down at him, eyes skimming his face, the new pink of his healing skin, the glint of defiance still in his expression.

“You still can’t press the call button,” you said quietly.

His smile broke again, wider this time. Like sunlight on rained down pavement.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Then I guess I’ll just have to wait for you.”

🏁.

You didn’t see Heeseung for almost three weeks.

He still came to the hospital, that much you knew, rehabilitation was mandatory, even for someone as stubborn as Ferrari’s golden boy.

He was scheduled twice a week for physical therapy, and he visited Riki when he could, sometimes staying an hour or more in the kid’s room.

But your shifts never overlapped. It was strange, how easily someone could vanish into the same building you worked in, the same halls you’d memorized with your eyes closed.

You didn’t try to ask around. You didn’t dig through records or prod the therapists in the staff lounge.

You didn’t let it show on your face that every time the elevator dinged on your floor, your eyes flicked up before you could stop yourself.

He was healing at home now. Taking care of his own burns, which had scabbed and scarred over with that red-purple finish that made your heart twist the last time you saw them.

You imagined him moving stiffly through some fancy condo, with his water always cold, pillows never out of reach, tissues unused because there was no one around to pass them.

However, you saw Riki often. He was in less pain now, and more alert to his surroundings.

Still sour most days, snappy and restless from staying still for so long, but there was a spark there, something sharp behind his eyes when he talked about rehab. He wanted to walk, he wanted to drive again. Even if it was far off for the time being.

“Heeseung comes in all weird,” Riki muttered one afternoon while you adjusted the IV tubing above his bed. “Like, in baseball caps and hoodies. As if people won’t recognize him if he covers half his face and walks with that stupid gait.”

“Maybe he’s trying not to get mobbed,” you murmured, flicking the drip line with your nail. “He had fans even in the hospital.”

“He just doesn’t want people to look at him,” Riki said, a little quieter. “Not until his skin looks normal.”

You didn’t answer that. You just gave him a sip of water and changed the subject, but it stayed with you.

That night, for the first time, you opened Instagram and typed Ferrari into the search bar.

The page was easy to find. It was verified, with the bold logo, all red and gold and glory.

You scrolled past the highlight reels, the merchandise links, the footage of pit crews moving like insects in reverse. You skimmed captions about sponsors, about prep for the next season, about hopeful outlooks. And then you found his name.

Lee Heeseung, back in training. Slowly regaining strength in his right arm, working with team specialists twice a week. Determined to be ready for next season’s opener.

There was a photo. Blurry, and taken from behind. Heeseung bent forward, sweat soaking through a dark training tee, fingers curled over a steering simulator.

His profile was partly visible, bandage still over the side of his neck, his jaw clenched, dark hair longer than it had been in the hospital.

He looked thin and tired. But he looked alive.

You stared at the photo for longer than you should have. Then, against your better judgment, you hit the follow button.

You didn’t expect it to change anything. You didn’t expect him to see it, even, his feed was full of likes and mentions from fans all over the world, probably flooded every minute.

But something about it made you feel closer. Like you’d walked into a corner of his life no one had given you permission to touch.

Like you were choosing to see him now, not as your patient, not as a body in bandages, but as someone aching to be more than that.

You still didn’t see him in ‘real life’, but you started noticing the gap he left in your day.

The way your shift felt a little quieter without his voice drifting out of his VIP room.

How your eyes scanned the hallway out of habit, expecting his lanky frame to come sauntering around the corner with a sarcastic comment ready. How the call button in his old room remained untouched, almost dusty with disuse.

You didn’t let yourself think about it too much. You had other patients. You had other wounds to clean, other charts to fill.

You had boys younger than Riki who didn’t know what comfort felt like, who cried into your sleeves when no one else was looking.

But late at night, when you walked home in silence, something in you still flickered with that unfinished sentence. With that look in his eyes the last time you left his room.

🏁.

Saturdays weren’t yours to work, but the fire from three nights ago had overflowed the ER.

Nurses had been calling out, supplies were low, and patients kept pouring in with second-degree burns and smoke in their lungs, soot in their hair and soot in their blood.

You hadn’t had lunch. You barely remembered what you’d eaten for breakfast.

Your scrubs were wrinkled, your badge strap sticky with someone’s dried medication, your shoes creaked wet from a mop bucket you stepped in by accident. All you wanted was to go home, shower, and sleep for fourteen uninterrupted hours.

So when you stepped out the side exit, your usual escape route to avoid the busier front doors, and found a sleek, glimmering black car parked right in the middle of the access road, you groaned out loud.

“The hell…” you muttered under your breath, narrowing your eyes.

You looked around first, no security in sight and no staff nearby.

The car was expensive, way too shiny to belong to a low waged doctor, but the way it was angled made your jaw clench.

Right in the path of emergency lanes. If an ambulance pulled in, it would have to slow down, stop before it hit it and possibly lose a life.

You stepped toward the driver’s side window without hesitation, rapping your knuckles against the glass firmly.

You didn’t expect it to roll down that fast. And you definitely didn’t expect him.

Heeseung turned toward you slowly, lips twitching up into the smallest smile, his eyes scanning you like you were a familiar song playing again for the first time in weeks.

He had a hat on, but he pulled it off the second he saw your face. His skin had lost the swollen, raw shine, there were still scars on his jawline and neck, but they were faded now, pinked and healing.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

You just blinked, hands mid-air, paused knock on the window. “What— what are you doing here?” you asked.

“I was waiting for you,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Your shift ended half an hour ago.”

“I stayed behind because the trauma and burning bay was still full.” You explained, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, I heard about the fire.” His brows dipped a little. “I figured you wouldn’t leave on time.”

You glanced at the car again, then back at him “You’re parked in the middle of the road.”

He shrugged, leaning his elbow against the wheel, lazy and composed and so infuriatingly calm. “You always said I was reckless.”

“That’s not— Heeseung, you can’t park here. What if an ambulance came in?” You nagged.

“Then I would’ve moved.” His smile widened slightly. “I saw you coming out. You were holding your bag like it was about to break.”

You looked down at your satchel, at the way it was sagging from your shoulder, the straps barely stitched. You hadn’t realized he was watching.

“You look exhausted,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you or get in the way. I just… I wanted to talk to you.”

You hesitated, swallowing hard. “You could’ve texted.”

“I don’t have your number.” You paused again, jaw tightening. The handsome fucker was right.

He read the hesitation in your expression because his voice softened when he added, “It’s not anything heavy. I just wanted to see you…. talk. If that’s okay.”

“I should go home,” you said, but your voice didn’t sound as sure as it should have.

“I know,” he replied, tone level. “I’m not trying to trap you. I just… thought maybe you’d want to come for a short drive.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he must’ve seen it in your face, that flicker, that tiny weakening you always had with him, because he leaned across the passenger seat and pushed the door open.

The smell of his cologne wafted out faintly, clean and unfamiliar. Not the antiseptic you used to associate with him, but something warmer.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “And I’ll drive slow.”

You stood there another heartbeat before sighing heavily and slipping in, dropping your bag between your feet. “You can’t park like that again.” you grumbled, pulling your seatbelt on.

“I won’t,” he said, already shifting the gear. “Unless it gets me your attention.”

The car was too smooth, barely a hum beneath your thighs as he pulled onto the road.

He didn’t take the highway. Instead, he drifted toward the north side of the city, where the buildings thinned and the roads turned narrow and winding.

You didn’t say anything for a while, and the radio was off, creating a not so awkward silence.

The windows cracked just enough for the wind to kiss your temples. Heeseung kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. His fingers tapped to a rhythm only he heard.

You finally asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” he smirked.

The hill was quiet. Just far enough from town that the lights behind you blurred into a string of distant sparks, like stars upside down.

He pulled up to the edge, beside a lookout you vaguely recognized from photos, some popular spot kids used to park and drink or kiss in late at night.

But now it was just the two of you, and the sun was melting behind the skyline, leaving streaks of orange and dusty violet stretching across the horizon.

He killed the engine as you sat still, unsure. He turned to you. “You’ve been following the Ferrari page.”

You flushed before you could stop it, your eyes darting to the glovebox. “You noticed?”

“You think I wouldn’t?” he asked, tilting his head. “Your username has your badge number and Jake asked me if it was you when he saw the notification. He’s the one who runs the profile.”

You cringed. “I misclicked.”

“I like it that you follow it.” He took a breath, shifting to face you slightly. “I wasn’t lying that day. I know I was half gross with hair oily and calling for tissues every five minutes. But I meant what I said.”

You chewed your bottom lip, hands clasped together on your lap.

“I’ve thought about you every damn day,” he said, voice low. “Every burn I cleaned, every stretch I did to move my arm again… it was all with your voice in my head, lecturing me, cussing under your breath, or humming while you changed my dressings.

He chucked softly, “I’m not trying to romanticize what you did— it was your job, I know that. But you were the only part of that room that didn’t feel like pain.”

Your throat tightened. The silence around you pressed against your chest.

“So,” he said, after a moment. “Now that I’m here, and I don’t look like a half-melted wax figure, I’m going to ask again.”

He leaned in a little, not enough to touch you. Just enough to make the air shiver between your knees.

“Would you go out with me?”

You looked at him, really looked at the scars that would never fully fade, at the honesty stretched across his face. At the way his fingers curled and uncurled on his thigh, nervous.

Not Heeseung-the-racer. Not Heeseung-the-patient. Just the man who held you when you broke down and offered you hot chocolate to cheer you up.

“…You’re still kind of a pain in the ass,” you whispered.

He grinned, soft and warm and so stupidly pretty. “I’m hoping you like that about me.”

You rolled your eyes and looked away. But your voice cracked into something almost smiling as you said, “Okay.”

His inhale was slow, asif he didn’t believe you yet.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed to hear it again.

You turned back to him and nodded. “Yeah.”

🏁.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen so naturallyx, but the nights at his place started slipping into your week like a warm spring breeze.

He picked you up after long shifts when you didn’t feel like taking the bus, and you’d slip into his fancy car still in your scrubs, smelling faintly of antiseptic and latex gloves, too tired to talk.

And he never asked you to. He just opened the passenger door, let you rest your head against the window, and drove home in silence, music turned low and hand reaching across the console to hold yours.

His mansion, because there was no way around calling it that, wasn’t what you expected.

You thought it’d be filled with trophies and screaming red logos, but it was just neat and quiet.

His bedroom was painted in soft shades of gray and navy, his kitchen smelled like coffee beans and a hint of vanilla, and the couch was so wide you’d often curl up in the corner with a blanket and not move for hours.

You didn’t have the energy for fancy dates or being out in public. You certainly didn’t want to be photographed, you didn’t ant some journalist writing a two-paragraph caption about how Heeseung’s latest girl was just some tired nurse with eyebags and oversized jackets.

And Heeseung never made you feel small for it. Whatever he chose for his life you didn’t have to force yourself to be a part of.

Most nights were spent curled on the sofa, a Netflix movie you barely registered playing in the background.

You would start the evening upright, knees tucked in, a warm drink in your hands, and end it slouched sideways, your cheek against his shoulder, breath even and shallow as sleep claimed you halfway through the plot.

He’d carry you, sometimes. Tuck you in and kiss your forehead lightly. Other nights, you made it to bed on your own, and he would join you an hour later, warm and silent, pressing himself carefully to your back, still stiff because of his healing skin.

He had noticed your pills early on. The first time, you thought you’d been slick about it, hiding them behind your hand as you opened the bottle near the sink.

But he leaned over and asked, “You okay?”

You nodded, embarrassed, trying to swallow them quickly. “Just for digestion, y’know? My stomach gets weird after long shifts. I don’t always… well, can’t always eat right after I see something.”

His expression softened like you’d pressed a hand over his chest. He didn’t say anything right away, he just took the glass from your hand, poured you another, and passed it back silently.

“You don’t have to explain it,” he said quietly. “I get it.”

You weren’t sure he could get it. He didn’t have to hold broken children or stitch the soft skin of dying women, and he didn’t have to stand still while a monitor flatlined.

But he had burned for someone else. He’d jumped in front of a car going too fast to stop, taken the brunt of it, let himself be crushed and concussed to save a boy who wasn’t ready to die.

So maybe he did understand.

When you came over one Saturday morning, he was more animated than usual.

He was wearing a dark sweater and cargo pants, with hair half-damp from a shower, and his bandage finally gone from his wrist, his body almost healed.

He still couldn’t grip with his right hand properly. He said the nerves were healing slowly, but he’d been trying.

“C’mere,” he grinned, reaching for your bag to drop it by the entrance. “I want to show you something.”

You blinked at him, one eyebrow rising. “Show me what?”

“Just come.” He tugged at your hand and pulled you toward the garage.

You hadn’t really stepped inside the main garage before. The house had two: one for his daily cars, and the other for, well, whatever this was. The second he flipped the lights on, you saw it.

His car. That car.

The one that had been twisted into fire and pain months ago. The one you’d seen on the news, reduced to smoldering steel.

Now it sat before you, with a brand new frame, the same number, and the same paint job, the shine of it almost surreal under the ceiling lights.

“You got it back,” you murmured.

“I got her back, my Scarlet.” he said, voice soft with affection. “It’s not exactly the same frame, and we’ve upgraded a few things. But… yeah. She’s mine again.”

You walked slowly around it, trailing your fingers just barely along the side. “And you’ll drive again.”

“As soon as they let me.”

“And your hand?” He held it up, flexing it in the air. “Still annoying as hell. But I’ve been cooperating with the exercises.”

You smiled, turning to him. “That’s a first.”

He grinned, full of boyish pride. Then he nodded toward the other side of the garage. “There’s someone else I want you to meet officially.”

You followed him without question.

Jake was waiting near the workbench, hands shoved in his pockets, his hair tied back with a cap. He looked better than the last time you’d seen him in a panic outside the hospital room, pacing the hall and begging for updates.

“Jake,” Heeseung said, his voice low but proud, “this is Y/N.”

Jake smiled and extended his hand. “You’re the nurse who yelled at the three others for pampering him with pudding.”

You laughed as you shook it. “They were fangirling and he was still high on morphine. Someone had to keep his ego in check.”

Heeseung groaned behind you. “You’re never going to let that go.”

“Not a chance.”

Jake grinned even wider. “I like her.”

“She’s not just my nurse anymore,” Heeseung said quietly, and when you glanced back at him, he was looking straight at you. “She’s my girl now.”

The words shouldn’t have knocked the air out of your chest the way they did. You weren’t sixteen anymore, you’d had men call you worse and sweeter things in the heat of a moment, but this— this was soft and real.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just smiled, nodded a thank you to Jake, and let Heeseung lead you upstairs again, through the back hallway.

When the door to the garage closed behind you and the silence settled again, you reached for him before he could say anything else.

you pressed your hands to his cheeks gently, careful of the last faint scar that still lingered along the side of his jaw, and kissed him.

He stilled at first, stunned. Then he leaned in, warm and steady, one hand sliding to your hip, the other brushing the back of your neck.

It was the kind of kiss that made time pause. With no rush, no fire behind your teeth. Just slow, deep breaths and the rhythm of his lips against yours, like he’d been waiting too long to ask again.

When you pulled away, you stayed close, your forehead resting against his.

“You are a wonderful person, Lee Heeseung.” You breathed out.

“You make me better.” He murmured.

You sigh at the thought, blaming the pounding in your skull on last night’s cocktails with your girl friends and the tiny hairs still sticking to your damp shirt from a morning shower. You’re not ready for polite family small talk, questions about your job or relationship—or the endless commentary about how “you should really be settling down.”

You pull over your parents’ street, already noticing a whole luggage outside the house.

“Seems like she’s here.” You mutter to yourself, as you got out the car, quickly looking at the mirror to make yourself presentable, and totally not hangover.

Grabbing your bag, you try to summon your most convincing “I’m totally together” expression. If your mom’s friend was anything like she described, this was going to be a lot of chatter, a lot of smiles, and probably a few pointed questions about your love life that you weren’t ready to answer.

You knock on the door. “I’m home!” you annouce, and almost immediately, you hear your mom’s footsteps scampering over to open it. You chuckle at her cuteness—always so excited to see you, even when you barely had your life together.

“Finally!” she exclaimes, practically dragging you inside. “You’re just in time—she’s already here!”

You groan inwardly, bracing yourself for endless small talk and awkward introductions, but couldn’t help smiling at your mom’s enthusiasm.

When you came inside the house, in the living room, a middle-aged lady—seemingly the same age as your mom—sits on the couch, her posture polite but relaxed. She looks around with a warm smile that could make anyone feel immediately welcome, though your hungover brain mostly registered her as an interruption to your carefully curated morning recovery.

“She must be Mrs. Lee,” you say, glancing at your mom, who was practically glowing with excitement. You couldn’t help but grin despite yourself—your mom always had a way of lighting up a room, and apparently, it was contagious.

“Oh, my, she had grown up to be such a fine young lady!” Mrs. Lee greets with a smile, hugging you warmly.

You return the hug with a polite squeeze, your head still pounding from last night and your brain screaming too early for this kind of energy. “Thank you,” you mutter, secretly hoping your slightly messy hair and damp shirt weren’t too obvious.

“I’ve been telling her so much about you!” your mom chimes in, practically beaming. “All good things, of course.”

You smile faintly, wondering exactly how much she had told her friend about your chaotic, fun-filled nights out with friends—and mentally prepare yourself for a gentle roasting session disguised as small talk.

But Mrs. Lee just look at you softly, a motherly smile plastered on her face, as if she could see right through all the bravado you were trying to put on. It was the kind of smile that made you feel both warm and a little… exposed.

“What about your boy, Lee?” Your mom asks and Mrs. Lee claps her hands as if remembering a completely important detail.

“Right, right!” She laughs. “I told him to buy us some fruits at the supermarket! We can’t stay here and come empty-handed.” She smiles, in which your mom joking hits her arm. “What a hassle! But, thank you anyway,”

Mrs. Lee looks over to you. “I feel like you and my son could be such good friends too!” She grins, in which you awkwardly smile.

Great.

Another one of your mom’s friends trying to set you up with their good-for-nothing sons.

“Honey, help her get her luggage inside!” Your mom says, walking to the kitchen, already arms in arms with Mrs. Lee. You nod before walking towards the entrance.

That’s when you heard a car pull up outside.

The sound of tires against the pavement cut through the room, followed by the soft thud of a door closing. Your mom glanced toward the window almost instinctively, her face lighting up even more than before.

“Oh, perfect timing,” you can hear Mrs. Lee’s voice from inside. “That must be Heeseung!”

You decide to pay no mind to it, as you walked over to carry her luggage.

“Shit, what does she pack in here?”

“Clothes enough for two weeks.” A voice answers your little mutter to yourself.

A familiar one—deep, oh so soft, and far too recognizable—making your breath hitch as you stand straight.

“Do you feel good? Am I making you feel good?”

“Let go for me, baby.”

Your mind suddenly betrayed you, replaying the words spoken in that same voice two months ago—back when you’d been careless, impulsive, and not so smart.

Heat rushed to your face as the memory collided with this current moment. You turn to look and there he was, still wearing the soft eyes you had been so enchanted by that night.

Evan. Evan Lee. At least that’s what he introduced himself as.

The same eyes that had studied you under dim hotel lights now widened, just barely, before masking it with something polite and unreadable.

Mrs. Lee came out before you could even say anything, her voice bright and proud as she introduced you. You barely registered the words, too focused on the way he straightened beside her.

He nodded, polite and distant, the kind of courtesy reserved for strangers. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, without a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Then he smiled—easy, effortless—before turning to follow his mom into the house. He picked up her luggage, handling it with practiced care as he walked past you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne.

He didn’t even glance back.

So he didn’t remember.

You had both been drunk that night, after all.

…

Dinner is already laid out by the time everyone gathers around the dining table a few hours later. The familiar smell of your mom’s cooking fills the room—warm, comforting, painfully normal for a moment that feels anything but.

You take a seat near the edge of the table, choosing distance over comfort. Across from you, Heeseung pulls out his chair and sits down smoothly, posture relaxed, expression polite. To anyone else, he’s just a guest—your mom’s friend’s son, well-mannered and quiet.

To you, he’s the man whose voice still lingers in the back of your mind—whose hands had memorized you in the dark, whose lips had left impressions you were foolish enough to think time would erase.

Conversation flows easily between your mom and Mrs. Lee, laughter spilling over shared memories from high school, old teachers, stories you’ve heard a hundred times before. You nod at the right moments, pushing food around your plate, forcing yourself to eat despite the tight knot in your stomach.

“So, Heeseung,” your mom says brightly, turning to him, “Are you okay with the spare room? Her brother hasn’t been home since his marriage, and she doesn’t want to give her childhood room for guests,” Your mom turns to you and snickers.

“That’s because I visit you and dad all the time, I still need a room here.” You groan softly, while Mrs. Lee laughs.

“Yes, ma’am. The room is just nice. Very well-kept.” Heeseung smiles at her.

“Well, that’s good,” she continues. “By the way, you two are around the same age. You should show him around a bit, don’t you think? This isn’t a city he always comes by.”

Your grip tightens around your utensils.

Before you can answer, Heeseung looks up—briefly, carefully—meeting your eyes for the first time since earlier. There’s no recognition on his face. No spark. Just polite interest.

“If she’s free,” he says simply.

If you’re free.

You force a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The lie settles between you, heavy and unspoken.

Under the table, his foot shifts slightly—close enough to make your breath hitch, close enough to make you wonder if it’s accidental. He still doesn’t look at you. Still doesn’t acknowledge the past.

But your body remembers a different name.

And for the first time since he walked past you without a second glance, you realize something unsettling.

Heeseung might not remember you.

But Evan would have.

After dinner, the house settles into silence faster than you expect.

Laughter fades. Doors close softly. The hallway light dims until only a thin strip glows beneath bedroom doors. You lie awake longer than you should, staring at the ceiling you’ve known your whole life, listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of another presence in the house.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just an old insignificant memory overstaying its welcome.

Eventually, thirst wins.

You slip out of bed, careful not to let the floorboards creak, padding your way toward the kitchen. The house smells faintly of detergent and leftover dinner, comforting in a way that almost makes you forget why your chest feels tight.

Almost.

The kitchen light is already on.

You freeze in the doorway.

Heeseung stands by the counter, sleeves rolled up, a glass of water in his hand. His hair is slightly tousled now, stripped of the careful neatness he wore earlier. He looks… different. More real. More like the man you left sleeping behind hotel curtains two months ago.

He looks up when he hears you.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

“You didn’t,” you reply, voice steadier than you feel. “I just—couldn’t sleep.”

He nods, accepting that without question. No tension. No recognition. Or maybe too much control to show either.

You grab a glass from the cupboard, deliberately choosing the one farthest from him. The tap runs. Too loud in the silence. You focus on the sound, on anything but the awareness of him standing only a few feet away.

“Your mom’s cooking was really good,” he says after a moment. “She didn’t exaggerate.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “She always does that.”

A pause.

Then, softer, almost absent-minded: “You mentioned earlier you don’t live here?”

“Not anymore,” you answer. “I moved to my own apartment a year ago.”

“Oh,” he says.

The word hangs between you.

You take a sip of water, finally glancing at him. He isn’t looking at you—his attention fixed on the counter, jaw relaxed, expression unreadable. If he remembers, he gives nothing away. If he doesn’t, then this ease is genuine.

You hate that you can’t tell which one hurts more.

“Well,” you murmur, setting the glass down. “Good night.”

He looks up then, meeting your eyes fully for the first time since dinner.

“Good night,” he says.

Still nothing. No crack in his voice. No hesitation. Just calm, polite distance.

You walk past him toward the hallway, careful not to brush his arm, careful not to slow your steps. Behind you, you hear him turn off the light.

In the darkness of your room, you lie awake again—heart louder now, thoughts sharper.

You were the one who left that morning.

You were the one who chose silence.

And yet somehow, standing in your parent’s kitchen, it feels like he’s the one holding all the control.

…

Morning comes too soon.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, thin and pale, landing across your face like an accusation. For a moment, you forget where you are—until the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen reminds you that you’re back in your parents’ house. And that you aren’t alone.

You sit up slowly, rubbing at your temples. The night had offered no answers. Just silence, politeness, and the unbearable calm of not knowing.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, your mom is already bustling around, apron tied, hair pulled back. Mrs. Lee sits at the table, sipping tea, looking far too refreshed for someone who traveled across the country.

“Morning,” your mom chirps when she sees you. “Perfect timing.”

You hum in response, reaching for a glass of water.

“Could you help Mrs. Yang walk her dog later?” she continues casually. “You remember—next door. You used to do it all the time when you lived here. Besides, litte Jungwon is in Uni now, so no one is there to help her.”

You pause.

“Maeum? Yeah,” you say. “I can do that.”

Mrs. Lee’s face lights up. “Walking outside right now would be so refreshing,” she says warmly. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turns toward the hallway. “Heeseung!”

Your stomach tightens at the sound of his name.

He appears a moment later, sleeves rolled up again, hair still slightly damp like he’s just washed his face. He looks… awake. Calm. Completely unaffected. “Hm?”

“You should go with her,” Mrs. Lee says easily. “It’ll be good for you to get some fresh air after traveling.”

Heeseung blinks once, then nods. “Sure.”

Sure.

Your mom smiles, clearly pleased. “Perfect! Two birds with one stone.” You force a smile of your own, even as your pulse starts to pick up. “Yeah. No problem.”

Heeseung glances at you—not searching, not curious. Just attentive.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

As you step outside together a few minutes later, the morning air feels too crisp, too quiet. The street looks the same as it always has. Familiar. Safe.

And yet, walking side by side with him, you’re painfully aware of the space between you—and how little it would take to close it.

You’re the one who left. It’s a one-night stand.

You remind yourself of that as you head toward the neighbor’s gate.

So why does it feel like this walk might be the first step toward something you can’t walk away from again.

Heeseung kneels slightly as Maeum charges toward him, tail wagging like it could knock him over.

“He’s… lively,” he says, keeping his voice casual as Maeum circles him, sniffing, then jumping up in excitement. A low chuckle escapes him, and you feel your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah, Maeum’s a handful,” you reply, gripping the leash before he decides to chase a squirrel or something worse. “But he’s harmless… mostly.”

Heeseung brushes a hand along Maeum’s back. “Mostly is good.”

Maeum barks happily, spinning between the two of you. There’s a brief moment where the dog seems to notice the tension radiating off both of you, but of course, he can’t name it.

“Shall we get going?” you ask, starting toward the sidewalk.

Heeseung falls into step beside you, careful not to crowd, careful not to overstep. Close enough to notice the little things: the way you tense when Maeum yanks, the faint crease in your brow, the subtle sway of your hair in the morning sun.

The street is quiet. Early birds call from the trees. Leaves rustle under your shoes. Maeum dashes ahead, then back, sniffing everything in sight.

“So…” you begin, trying to sound casual, “long drive yesterday?”

He shrugs. “Enough to make me remember why I prefer flights.”

You laugh softly. “Fair enough. It is kind of chaos on the road here sometimes.”

Silence falls for a few steps, filled only with Maeum’s padding and your own heartbeat.

Then Maeum stops abruptly, sniffing at a patch of grass right between you and Heeseung. The leash jerks. You stumble forward slightly, and his hand reaches out before you can think, steadying you.

Fingertips brush.

A fleeting touch—but it’s enough. Enough to spark memory, enough to make your stomach twist.

Heeseung doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say a word. He takes Maeum’s leash and keeps walking.

And that’s the worst part.

Because whether he remembers—or is pretending—you have no idea.

And it leaves the quiet hanging between you like a question that refuses to be answered.

Maeum slows near the corner, distracted by something only he seems to find interesting. You stop with him, shifting your weight as you wait.

Your fingers curl in on themselves without you noticing.

A slow fist.

Tight enough that your nails press into your palm.

Heeseung’s gaze drops.

Not immediately. Not obviously.

But it lingers just long enough.

“You do that often,” he says.

You look up. “Do what?”

He nods toward your hand. “That.”

You follow his eyes, startled, and force your fingers open. Faint crescent marks bloom red against your skin.

“Oh,” you say lightly. “I guess I clench my hand when I’m waiting.”

“Or when you’re holding back,” he replies, tone even. Too even.

The street feels quieter suddenly.

You laugh, trying to brush it off. “You’re very observant.” He doesn’t smile. Not quite.

“Hard not to notice,” he says.

And just like that—

Your mind betrays you.

Dim light. Your back against unfamiliar sheets.

His voice low, close, asking something you can’t quite remember the words to—only the way your hand had curled then too, nails biting into your palm as you nodded instead of answering.

You remember looking down afterward.

The half-moon marks.

The way he’d gently pried your fingers open, thumb brushing over the indents like he was committing them to memory.

The leash tugs.

You blink, pulled back into the morning air, the quiet street, Maeum wagging his tail impatiently.

Heeseung is already looking ahead again, expression unreadable.

“You good?” he asks, as if nothing had happened.

You nod, heart racing, and start walking again.

But your palm still tingles.

Both of you continue walking with Maeum tugging on his leash once in a while, before stopping infront of a convenient store near the park.

“I’ll buy us drinks, anything you like?” He asks. You look at him as you shake your head. “Anything’s fine.”

He nods, entering the store while you wait outside while Maeum settles at your feet. Through the glass, you watch him move with easy familiarity— scanning the shelves without hesitation.

He came out a few minutes later with two drinks in his hand. Americano for him, and another for you.

Green Grape Ade.

“Green Grape Ade?” His voice rings in the loud bar music, looking at you with precise judgement, while you mockingly glare at him.

“What’s wrong with it?” You ask, voice slightly loud trying to drown out the music at the bar. He smiles.

“You’re original.” He clinks his glass againts yours, the ice chiming softly over the music.

“I just prefer sour drinks. Especially from the convenient store.” You drink as your gaze turn to him. He’s already staring at you.

He hums. “That’s why your face so sour?” He teases in which you gasp, mock-offense.

He laughs, before shaking his head. “That was a lie. You might just be the sweetest girl I’ve ever met.”

The memory fades as quickly as it came.

You’re back outside the convenience store, the morning air cool against your skin. The bottle in your hand is cold, condensation slick against your fingers.

Heeseung is already walking ahead with Maeum, Americano in hand, posture relaxed like he hasn’t just reached into something you never gave him permission to keep.

You take a sip. It tastes exactly how you like it. How you were imagining it when you were admant on telling Heeseung or Evan it was your favourite at the bar.

And for the first time since you woke up that morning, you wonder if leaving first had really meant leaving anything behind at all.

You catch up to them, glancing at Heeseung. He has a questionable smug look on his face.

“What?” You ask. He shrugs before looking at you.

“I have a lot of things I remember about you.”

…

A few hours pass.

The afternoon drifts by slowly, measured in the ticking of the clock and the occasional sound of movement elsewhere in the house. You spend most of it in your room, half-lying on your bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone without really reading anything.

Every so often, you hear his voice. Muted through the walls. Calm. Easy. Laughing lightly at something your mom says.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

When hunger finally wins over avoidance, the sun is already dipping lower in the sky. The house smells faintly of reheated food, warm and familiar. You take a breath before leaving your room, practicing a neutral expression in the mirror.

The kitchen is quieter now. You’re just about to turn the corner toward the kitchen when you hear your mom speak.

“…She’s been a little off today,” she says, voice gentle. “Probably tired. Or avoiding something.”

You pause without meaning to. Heeseung answers after a beat. “She does that.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

Your mom chuckles softly. “Does what?”

“Pulls back,” he says, careful. “When she doesn’t know how to react yet.”

Silence. Then the faint clink of a spoon against a bowl. “You sound like you know her pretty well,” your mom says lightly.

Another pause. Short. Measured.

“I had an impression,” Heeseung replies. “A while ago.”

An impression.

Your fingers curl at your side.

“Huh,” your mom hums. “That’s funny. She actually does leaves impressions on people,”

There’s a smile in Heeseung’s voice when he answers. “Yeah. She does.”

Your mom moves on easily, talking about dinner, about how long Mrs. Lee plans to stay. The conversation drifts, harmless again.

But you don’t move because impressions aren’t made in passing. They’re made when someone sees you up close. When you let them.

You step back quietly, retreating before either of them can notice you there. Back in your room, you sit down slowly, heart still racing.

He didn’t say you’d met.

He didn’t say when.

But he didn’t say you were strangers either. And somehow, that middle ground feels far more dangerous.

A soft knock echoes through your room a few minutes later.

“Hey… you awake?” Heeseung’s voice—calm, controlled, but just close enough to make your heart stutter.

You freeze. Your chest tightens, your pulse spiking. Act normal. Just act like you weren’t eavesdropping.

You smooth your hair with a trembling hand, blink rapidly, and open the door. “Yeah… just woke up,” you say, voice a little too bright, trying to sound casual.

Heeseung steps into the doorway, just enough to glance around your room. His eyes flick over you—not accusatory, not teasing—just aware. The way he looks at you makes the air between you feel suddenly heavy, like it’s charged with electricity you both can’t ignore.

“Your mom’s calling,” he says softly. “Everything’s ready.”

You nod quickly, gripping the doorframe as if it can anchor you. “I’m… not that hungry,” you murmur.

Heeseung tilts his head, that faint, knowing curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Uh-huh,” he replies, voice smooth, steady, and sharp enough to cut through your attempts at calm.

You step aside, but your foot catches on the edge of the rug. You curse under your breath, forcing a laugh. Too loud. Too sharp.

He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to. The silence itself feels deliberate, heavy. The space between you is so tight that you feel him even when he doesn’t touch you.

“I’ll be eating downstairs,” he finally says, straightening, eyes lingering just long enough to make your stomach clench.

“Okay… see you there,” you say, breath uneven, heart hammering.

He nods once, easily, and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

The click echoes like a verdict.

You press your back against the door, sliding down slowly, hands trembling.

He knows I was listening.

He remembers… more than he should.

And he didn’t say a word.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist.

You straighten abruptly, forcing yourself to move. Down the stairs. To the dining room. To the table.

Every step is a battle between calm and the chaos churning under your skin.

Because you know tonight, nothing is going to feel casual. Not with him. Not after this.

The whole time during dinner, you caught him staring at you. Shamelessly at that, gave you a sheepish smile when you eye him suspiciously. He’d move his leg closer to yours, it’ll bump a few times, but he doesn’t pull away.

After dinner, you volunteer on doing the dishes. Your mom and Mrs. Lee’s voices fade into the living room, laughter and chatter blending together.

You take a steadying breath and move to the sink, rolling up your sleeves. Warm water runs over your hands, steam curling around your wrists. For a second, it almost feels normal. Almost.

Then you sense him before you hear him.

Heeseung steps beside you, quiet as a shadow. You tense instantly, shoulders stiff, fingers tightening around a plate.

“Need some help?” he asks softly, tilting his head. Not teasing, not accusing. Just calm, measured.

“I’ve got it,” you reply quickly, eyes trained on the suds, forcing the tone casual.

He doesn’t insist. He simply picks up a stray plate, moving closer than necessary, letting his hands brush yours ever so slightly as he rinses it. You flinch, heart hammering, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t linger. Just present.

The silence stretches, heavy, almost oppressive. Every splash of water, every clink of a dish, echoes too loudly.

You scrub a pan a little harder than needed, trying to focus on anything else—the warmth of the water, the smell of garlic, the mundane rhythm of washing—but his quiet presence keeps threading through every thought.

He moves another plate, sets it down. Your hands brush again.

You feel your pulse spike, your chest tightening. Every subtle movement, every glance he doesn’t make—it’s all charged, all deliberate.

The kitchen is small. Empty. Safe. Except it isn’t. Not with him here.

You swallow hard, scrubbing away your nerves as the quiet stretches on, aware that he notices everything, even the things you think he can’t.

And somehow, that makes it impossible to breathe normally.

The sponge squeaks softly as you scrub, the rhythm steady but your thoughts anything but. You’re just about to reach for another plate when he speaks again.

“You know,” Heeseung says, evenly, like he’s commenting on the weather, “you’re not very good at pretending.”

Your hand stills.

“…Pretending what?” you ask, eyes fixed on the sink.

“That you weren’t listening earlier.” He sets a plate onto the rack, movements unhurried. “In the hallway.”

Your chest tightens. You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

He cuts you off gently. “You were.” Not accusing. Just factual. “You always stop breathing when you do that, though your eyes give it away, that you’re pretending everything’s fine.”

That makes your fingers curl instinctively around the sponge.

You let out a short laugh, more defensive than amused. “You don’t know what I ‘always’ do.”

He glances at your hand, then back to the dish he’s drying. “I know because I’ve seen it before.”

You twist the dish towel in your hands, knuckles whitening. The quiet stretches too long, presses too hard against your ribs.

“Are we really doing this?” You snap, turning to look at him directly.

He raises his eyebrows, “Do what?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you, before sighing. “Implying things happened, without really saying it?”

He watches you for a second, expression unreadable—not defensive, not amused. Just… attentive.

“I’m not implying,” he says evenly. “You are.”

That only makes your chest tighten.

You scoff, turning back to the sink and reaching for another plate you definitely don’t need to wash. “Right. Of course. Because I’m the one who keeps bringing up impressions and ‘remembering’ and—whatever this is.”

He lets out a quiet breath, more tired than annoyed. “I brought it up once.”

“And you’ve been hovering ever since,” you shoot back, voice sharp but not loud. “So tell me—are we pretending we don’t know each other, or are we circling around it until I crack?” The words hang between you.

He sets the towel down, slow, deliberate. “I’m not trying to crack you.”

“Then what do you want?” you ask, finally facing him again.

He meets your gaze, steady. No smile. No games. “I wanted to know if you leaving meant what I thought it did,” he says simply.

Your throat tightens. “And what did you think it meant, Evan?”

His breath hitches at the usage of his other name, “That you didn’t want to stay,” he replies. “Not just that morning. In general.”

You laugh softly, but it’s brittle. “It’s a one-night stand.”

He nods once. “It is, but I clearly told you before we fell asleep, that I’d prefer you staying.”

Silence settles again, thicker now. The kitchen light hums overhead. Somewhere in the living room, your mom and Mrs. Lee laugh at something on TV.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” you say finally, quieter. “I left because staying would’ve made it… complicated.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “And now?”

You hesitate. “Now it already is.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, then exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

Neither of you move back to the dishes, he wipes the last plate before walking out of the kitchen.

APRIL 2025

The room is dim, lit only by the city glow slipping through the curtains. Everything feels slower, warmer—like the night hasn’t quite caught up with you yet.

You’re tangled in the sheets, limbs heavy, head resting against the pillow. Your skin is still buzzing, your thoughts pleasantly loose around the edges. Somewhere nearby, Heeseung shifts, the mattress dipping slightly as he turns onto his side.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

You hum, half-laughing into the pillow. “I think so. Might need a minute to remember my name.”

He chuckles softly. “Fair.”

The pause lingers, easy and unforced. The city light paints soft lines across the ceiling, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

You’re the one who breaks it first.

“Evan,” you say, voice lazy, still warm with alcohol and comfort. “What do you actually do when you’re not… here?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, turning his head slightly toward you. “That’s a loaded question.”

You smile into the pillow. “I’m serious. You feel like someone with a very normal answer and a very complicated explanation.”

He considers that. “I work in the music industry. Producing. It sounds fancier than it is.”

“Everything sounds fancier at night,” you mumble. “Especially after drinks.”

“True,” he agrees. Then, after a beat, “What about you?”

You shrug, the sheets rustling. “Still figuring it out. I bounce around a lot, job-hunting.”

He smiles and run his hand on your hair, as if wanting to see your face clearly. “You’re tense, like there’s a lot going on here.” He softly taps on your temple.

You huff a quiet laugh, eyes fluttering shut at the gentle touch. “Is that your professional opinion?” you murmur. “Because I didn’t realize producers did mind-reading too.”

He chuckles, thumb brushing lightly through your hair, unhurried. “Not mind-reading. Just… paying attention.”

You turn your face toward him then, cheek sinking deeper into the pillow. “There’s always a lot going on,” you admit. “I just don’t like sitting still long enough to sort it out.”

“Why not?” he asks, not pushing—just curious.

You think about it for a moment, gaze drifting to the ceiling. “Because if I do, I might realize I’m not as put-together as I pretend to be.”

He hums softly, fingers still tracing slow, absent patterns. “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mumble. “You seem like you’ve got things… handled.”

He smiles faintly. “I’m good at looking like I do.”

You glance back at him. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “I just learned how to keep the chaos quiet.”

That earns a small smile from you. “Guess we’re not that different then.”

“Guess not,” he replies.

The room settles again, the air warm and slow. His hand stays in your hair, grounding, gentle—like he’s in no rush to let the moment slip away.

Neither of you says it, but the thought hangs there between you, soft and dangerous all at once:

This feels easy.

Too easy.

He pulls you closer, lips pressing on your temple as he sighs.

“I’d love it if you stay.”

And you felt your heart breaks a little when you doze off.

…

Three days.

Three days until he leaves.

And for the past two, he hasn’t said a word to you.

You can feel it in every glance across the kitchen, every step in the hall, every time the front door opens and closes. He’s there, moving around the house, calm and composed as ever, but the silence between you? It’s deafening.

You try to keep yourself busy—laundry, dishes, scrolling mindlessly through your phone—but the tension follows you everywhere. Even sitting in your room, pretending to read, you can hear him talking to your mom in the living room, laugh light and easy, and it makes your chest tighten.

Your mom insists on taking Mrs. Lee and Heeseung to the city’s famous park for a “little sightseeing and fresh air,” and somehow, you’re drafted along.

“Come on,” your mom says, practically bouncing. “You’ll enjoy it! The weather’s perfect, and it’s not a usual thing that we all went out together!”

So here you are, in Heeseung’s car with your moms at the back chatting mindlessly, pointing out shops, telling stories, laughing easily, while you sit in the passenger’s seat and him driving beside you.

He doesn’t say much, just drives with that calm, effortless composure that makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to name. Your mom and Mrs. Lee chatter nonstop behind you, oblivious to the tight coil of nerves in the seat beside him.

You glance at him occasionally, catching his profile in the sunlight, the way his hands rest lightly on the wheel, the faint line of concentration in his jaw. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but you can feel the awareness there, quiet, unspoken, like a weight pressing just enough to make you swallow hard.

“I hope you like walking,” your mom says suddenly from the back, as if reading your tension, “the park’s beautiful this time of year. Lots of trees, fountains—perfect for photos!”

“Yeah,” you murmur, keeping your voice neutral, though your chest is still tight.

Heeseung hums softly, not answering but shifting slightly in his seat, just enough that you notice.

The car slows, pulling into the park lot. Sunlight streams through the windshield, glinting off the pavement and the scattered autumn leaves. Your mom practically leaps out first, Mrs. Lee following close behind, both chattering excitedly.

You take a deep breath, adjusting your bag, and slide out of the car. Heeseung steps out after you, calm and measured, slipping into the rhythm of the park like he belongs there—yet you feel every step he takes, each one a quiet reminder that the past two days of silence haven’t lessened the tension between you.

As the group moves along the tree-lined path, your mom and Mrs. Lee wander ahead, comparing flowers and pointing out fountains. Heeseung falls in step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, walking slightly behind but close enough that you can feel the space between you shrinking.

“Nice day,” he says finally, casual.

“Yeah,” you reply, voice careful. “Not too crowded either.”

He hums softly, and you feel that subtle glance he throws your way—quick, unobtrusive, but enough to make your stomach twist again.

The silence between words is heavy, but not hostile. It’s loaded. Sharp. And as you continue along the winding paths of the park, you realize these three days—and these stolen moments in the quiet—might be harder than anything you expected.

You barely get a chance to say more to him before your mom is already digging through her bag.

“Phone—where’s my phone?” she mutters, then brightens. “Oh! There it is.”

Mrs. Lee laughs beside her. “You’re just as excited as ever.”

“Of course I am,” your mom says. “When do we ever get everyone together like this?”

Everyone.

You glance at Heeseung without meaning to. He’s still looking around, taking the place in quietly, like he’s memorizing it. First time here. First time seeing your city like this.

“Alright,” your mom says, raising her phone. “Group photo first.”

You shuffle closer, standing beside Mrs. Lee. Heeseung ends up at the edge, half a step apart from you, hands in his pockets.

“Wait, no,” your mom frowns. “Heeseung, come closer. You’re getting cut out.”

He obeys, stepping in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours—brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt through you anyway.

Click.

“Again,” Mrs. Lee says. “That one was blurry.”

You barely have time to reset before your mom adds, “Okay, now just you two.”

“What?” you and Heeseung say at the same time.

“It’s nice to have one of the younger generation,” your mom insists. “For memories.”

You exchange a quick glance with him—too quick to mean anything, too loaded to be nothing.

“Just stand there and act normal!” your mom says.

Easier said than done.

You stand side by side this time, not touching, but close enough that you’re aware of his presence—his warmth, the way he’s careful not to move too suddenly.

“Smile,” your mom sings.

You do. Heeseung offers something polite, restrained.

Click.

“That’s nice,” Mrs. Lee says warmly. “You both look good.”

You almost laugh at that.

As your mom reviews the photos, muttering happily to herself, you step back without thinking. Heeseung does the same.

You don’t make it five steps more into the park before your mom stops again.

“Wait—stand there,” she says, already lifting her phone. “The trees look really nice from this angle.”

Mrs. Lee nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, the lighting is beautiful.”

You exchange a look with Heeseung. Not a look—just a flicker. A silent here we go.

Click.

You start walking again. Ten steps this time.

“Oh!” your mom gasps. “The fountain—Heeseung, you’ll love this. You two, go stand near it.”

“We just took one,” you say weakly. “That was over there,” she replies, like it explains everything.

So you move again, standing side by side while people pass behind you. Heeseung keeps his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, expression neutral. You keep your arms crossed, suddenly very aware of where you’re standing.

Click. Click.

Mrs. Lee laughs. “You look very natural together.”

You almost choke on air.

The walk continues. The photos do too.

By the flower beds.

Near the bridge.

In front of the pond.

Each time, your mom adjusts angles, steps back, waves you closer, tells you to smile more, tilt your head, stand straighter.

“You don’t have to look so tense,” she tells you at one point.

You laugh, tight. “I’m fine.”

Heeseung glances at you then, quick and unreadable.

At some point, he murmurs quietly, just for you, “If we keep this up, we’ll have enough photos for a family album.”

You blink, surprised.

“…I’m sorry,” you mutter. “She gets like this.”

He hums. “I noticed.”

There’s no edge in his voice. No teasing. Just observation.

Another photo.

Your shoulder brushes his this time, accidental. Neither of you move away immediately.

Click.

“Perfect!” your mom says.

You step away first.

The walk goes on, but your nerves don’t settle. If anything, they tighten with every forced smile, every staged moment, every second you’re made to look like something you’re very much not.

And the worst part?

Heeseung never once complains.

He just keeps walking beside you—calm, composed—letting the photos pile up like quiet evidence of something neither of you is ready to name.

You make it halfway up the stone path before it happens.

“Wait—wait, *here*,” your mom says suddenly, already lifting her phone again. “This spot is perfect. The water, the rocks—very scenic.”

You glance down at where she’s pointing and feel a flicker of hesitation. The stones near the edge of the stream are uneven, damp from the spray of the fountain nearby. The drop isn’t dramatic, but it’s enough to make you cautious.

“I don’t think that’s—” you start.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Mrs. Lee says cheerfully. “Just be careful.”

Famous last words.

You step forward anyway, because of course you do. Because this is not the hill you’re dying on today.

Heeseung follows a step behind you, quiet as always.

“Stand just there,” your mom says, framing the shot. “Yes, yes—perfect.”

You shift your weight slightly to adjust your footing.

And then your shoe slips.

It happens fast—too fast for you to catch yourself. One second you’re steady, the next the ground tilts and your stomach drops, breath punching out of you as you instinctively reach for anything.

Strong hands grab your arm.

Another slides to your waist, firm and immediate, pulling you back before you can even gasp.

You stumble—not forward, not down—but straight into him.

Your back hits his chest, solid and warm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you upright. For half a second, you’re frozen there, heart racing, fingers clutching at his sleeve.

He’s close. Too close.

You can feel his breath near your ear, feel the tension in his hold, the way his body adjusts automatically to steady yours.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice low—meant only for you.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I—thanks.”

He doesn’t let go immediately.

Just long enough to make sure you’re steady.

Just long enough for the moment to stretch thin and dangerous.

“Careful,” he murmurs, almost instinctively.

Then—click.

“Oh my goodness!” your mom exclaims. “That was scary! But—oh, wait. Hold on.”

You stiffen.

“That one looked nice,” Mrs. Lee says, peering at the phone. “Very… natural.”

You finally step away, cheeks burning, suddenly very aware of how his hands had been on you, how easily he’d caught you, how familiar it felt in a way that made your chest ache.

Heeseung straightens too, composure snapping back into place like nothing happened. Hands back in his pockets. Expression calm.

But when you dare glance at him, his eyes linger on you just a second longer than necessary.

Your mom laughs. “See? Good thing he was there. You’d have fallen otherwise.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a laugh. “Good thing.”

The walk continues, the photos continue, but something has shifted.

Your heart doesn’t slow down.

And every time Heeseung walks just a little closer after that, you can’t tell if it’s accidental—

—or if he’s making sure you won’t fall again.

…

After dinner, you decide to hog the living room all by yourself, continue binge watching another C-drama you have postponed watching for the longest time.

It’s almost midnight, the moms had already wished you goodnight. You smile to yourself at the very well-earned time to yourself.

Or not?

Heeseung appears at the bottom, slightly disheveled, hair tousled like he’s just run a hand through it one too many times. He’s in simple grey sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt, the kind that clings just enough to show he didn’t bother thinking about how he looked.

His eyes are still half-lidded with sleep as they settle on the TV screen, expression calm.

He looks at you, before taking a seat.

“I watched this one.” He says softly. Voice hoarse with sleep.

“No spoilers, please.” You says, turning away to look at the TV. He laughs.

“Nothing to extreme, it’s a rom-com. Nothing can be a spoiler.” You clutch your heart, dramatically looking at him.

He shrugs. “What? It’s true. You know in the end they end up together.”

You sigh, leaning back. “Well, true that.” He lean back too, making your shoulders touch.

“Why did you wake up?” I look at him. “It’s barely midnight.”

“Can’t sleep. I mean, I kept waking up.” He replies, fingers tapping on his thigh. You nod, continue watching the romantic scenes on the TV.

“You enjoy stuffs like these?” He asks, not looking at you.

“Anything feel-good is enjoyable.”

“So the concept of romance, you like it?” He asks, carefully.

“Where are you going with this?” You look at him, eyes narrowing. He meets your gaze, his expression looking more earnest.

“Just wondering, if you’d like it in real life too.”

You scoff. “You and your nonstop bull—“

“Is it bullshit, really?” He asks, seriously this time. You felt your heart beating fast, you look away, just anywhere. Not sure where to look when he’s all up in your space like this.

“Evan.” You started,

“No, let me tell you this.” He straighten up, body now fully facing you, as he look directlt into your eyes.

“I’m sorry if I ever come up as pushy, talking about you with your mom, hinting at our past to her, making you feel things you don’t like, that wasn’t my intention.” He winces.

“I just…I just wanted to get to know you, really look at you. No dim lights of the bar, no dark night sky as we walk back to some hotel, and certainly no dark hotel room where I spent the whole night feeling good with the woman I knew nothing about.” He sighs.

“It’s just a one night stand, I get it.” He scoffs, “but what if I told you that I wanted more? That I regret waking up without your presence the next morning, how every sound you let out that night made me fantasize the sounds you’d make if it wasn’t casual?”

At this point, you were looking at him speechless. You’re not trusting your voice right now.

“Evan—“

“Heeseung.” He corrects. “Evan saw you first, but Heeseung fell for you.”

You fall silent again. Just staring at him like he didn’t just pour his heart out while you’re watching some corny C-drama.

“Say something. Anything.”

The TV continues playing, characters confessing under scripted rain.

But this?

This isn’t scripted.

And you’re not sure which feels scarier.

Your throat feels tight.

The drama’s background music swells dramatically, the male lead on screen confessing under artificial rain, but it feels distant—like white noise compared to the very real, very raw man sitting inches away from you.

You swallow.

“Heeseung…” you finally manage.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

“You’re leaving in three days.”

It’s not the response he expected—but it’s the only one that makes sense in your head.

His jaw tightens slightly. “I know.”

“So what is this?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “You confess, we… what? Start something? And then you’re on the road back home in another city?”

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his already messy hair. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“I think you’re being impulsive,” you snap, but there’s no heat behind it—just fear. “You’re here. It feels intense. Nostalgic. But when you go back—”

“It’s not nostalgia,” he says firmly.

The way he says it makes you pause.

“It wasn’t just that night,” he continues. “I’ve tried to brush it off. I’ve tried to tell myself it was just chemistry. But then I see you here. The way you argue. The way you laugh with your mom. The way you pretend you’re tougher than you are.”

You glare at him slightly. “I am tough.”

His lips twitch faintly. “I know.”

That softness again. It’s worse than teasing.

“I don’t expect you to promise me anything,” he says. “I just needed you to know that I’m not playing around.”

Your fingers tighten around the blanket.

“You don’t get to say all that and then expect me to just… be calm,” you whisper.

“I don’t want you calm,” he admits. “I want you honest.”

The word lands heavily.

Honest.

You look at him then—really look at him. There’s no arrogance. No flirtation. Just a quiet steadiness that makes your chest ache.

“You think this is easy for me?” you ask softly. “Seeing you in my house. At dinner. At the park. Acting like we didn’t—”

Your voice falters.

“Like we didn’t matter,” he finishes.

You nod.

Silence settles again, but it’s no longer suffocating. It’s fragile. Balanced on something sharp.

“I didn’t plan to fall for you,” he says quietly. “It just happened.”

Your heart pounds harder at that word.

Fall.

“You don’t even know me that well,” you argue weakly.

“Then let me,” he replies immediately.

That catches you off guard.

“Let me know you properly,” he says. “Not just the version from one night. Not just the version that pushes me away when things feel too real.”

Your breath hitches.

“You’re scared,” he says gently.

“Of course I am,” you admit, almost frustrated. “You’re leaving. I don’t do long distance. I don’t do uncertainty, I…certainly don’t just date from one good sex.”

“And I don’t do pretending I don’t care,” he counters.

The drama on the TV ends its confession scene with applause-worthy music. You grab the remote and mute it.

The silence now is entirely yours.

“What are you asking from me?” you whisper.

He leans a little closer—not touching, just closing the space enough that you feel his presence fully.

“A chance,” he says. “Not a guarantee. Just… don’t shut the door before we even try.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

Three days before he leaves.

Three days to either build something—or protect yourself from it.

You look at him, eyes searching, trying to find a reason to dismiss this as temporary emotion.

You don’t find one.

And that’s what terrifies you.

“Say something,” he murmurs again, softer now.

This time, you don’t look away. You stare at him for one long, overwhelming second.

Your heart is racing too fast. Your thoughts are colliding into each other. Three days. Confessions. “A chance.” It’s too much. Too sudden. Too real.

You stand up abruptly.

“I—I need time to think,” you say, words tumbling out before you can filter them.

Heeseung rises halfway from the couch instinctively. “Hey—”

But you’re already stepping back.

“I just… I can’t answer you right now,” you add quickly. “It’s a lot.”

His expression tightens, but he nods once. “Okay.”

You don’t wait for anything else.

You bolt down the hallway, heart pounding, shutting your bedroom door a little harder than necessary. You lean against it, breath uneven.

Why now?

Why three days before he leaves?

Why does it feel like if you answer wrong, you’ll lose something you didn’t even realize you were holding?

You slide down against the door and press your palms to your eyes. You needed time. You just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The next morning smells like butter and coffee.

You frown, your mom does not wake up early on weekends.

You shuffle out of your room, still half-asleep, hair messy, expecting silence. Instead, you hear the sound of a pan sizzling. You blink.

Heeseung is in the kitchen.

Sleeves slightly rolled, apron tied awkwardly around his waist (clearly borrowed), hair still soft and unruly from sleep—but this time he looks very awake.

Focused.

Your mom and Mrs. Lee are seated at the table, watching him like he’s some kind of five-star chef.

“He insisted,” your mom says the moment she sees you. “Said we should let him cook.”

He glances up at you.

Not smug, not teasing. Just steady.

“Morning,” he says.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

He turns back to the stove. “Scrambled eggs or sunny side up?”

You blink. “What?”

“For you,” he clarifies. “How do you like your eggs?”

Your mom gasps softly. “He even asked me what you usually eat.”

You shoot her a look.

He continues like this is completely normal. “I made toast too. And there’s fruit.”

You step closer to the counter, still confused. “Since when do you cook?”

“Since always,” he replies casually. “You just didn’t stay long enough to see.”

Your ears burn, looking over to your moms if they notice it, they don’t.

He plates the food carefully—neatly, intentionally—and sets it in front of you first before sitting down.

That alone makes your stomach flip.

He doesn’t bring up last night.

Doesn’t push.

Doesn’t corner you.

Instead, he talks to your mom about the park photos. Asks his about souvenirs to bring home. Clears plates without being asked.

Too proactive.

Suspiciously proactive.

When your mom mentions needing to run errands later, he immediately says, “I can drive.”

When Mrs. Lee talks about wanting to visit a bakery nearby, he says, “Let’s go after breakfast.”

You watch him the entire time.

He’s not performing.

He’s consistent.

Intentional.

When your mom leaves the table to grab something from her room, and Mrs. Lee follows, you’re briefly alone in the kitchen.

He stands by the sink, rinsing dishes.

“You don’t have to… do all this,” you say quietly. He doesn’t turn around immediately.

“I know,” he replies then glances at you over his shoulder.

“But I want to.” There’s no pressure in his voice, just effort.

You swallow.

“You said you needed time,” he continues calmly. “I’m giving it to you.” The water runs softly between you.

“But I’m not going to act like I didn’t say what I said.” Your pulse stutters.

“I meant it,” he adds. “So I’ll act like I meant it.”

You stare at him and he turns the tap off and dries his hands slowly.

“I’m leaving in three days,” he says. “I don’t want to waste them pretending.”

And somehow, that hits harder than the confession itself.

…

From the moment breakfast ends, he doesn’t leave your side. Not in a suffocating way. Not hovering. Just… present.

When your mom asks you to help bring laundry out to dry, he’s already reaching for the basket before you can. When you struggle with the stubborn sliding door, he steps in quietly, fixing it without making a show of it.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere,” you mutter at one point, adjusting the clothespins.

“I’m not following you,” he replies lightly. “I’m staying here temporarily too, remember?”

You glance at him. He looks almost amused—but there’s intention behind it.

Later, when you head to the small grocery store nearby because your mom forgot coriander, he walks beside you without even asking if he should come.

The afternoon sun is warm. The air smells like pavement and fried snacks from a stall down the street.

“So,” he says casually, hands in his pockets. “What did you want to be when you were younger?”

You blink. “What?”

“When you were eight. Ten. What was the dream?” You huff softly. “That’s random.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It tells me things.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You analyzing me now?”

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes—but you answer anyway.

“I wanted to be a novelist,” you admit. “I used to write stories. Cringey ones.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “You still write?”

You hesitate. “…Rarely now, in my notebooks in my apartment, or my notes app.”

“Why’d you stop wanting to be it?”

The question is gentle. Not invasive. Just curious. You shrug. “Reality. Expectations. It didn’t feel practical.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that like it matters.

“It still matters,” he says after a moment.

You glance at him. “What does?”

“The fact that you wanted to create something.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t brush it off. Just lets it sit there like it’s important.

Back home, when your mom asks you to help reorganize some old boxes in the storage room, he follows again.

It’s dusty. Warm. Dim.

You crouch down to open a box of old photo albums. He kneels beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours.

“That’s you?” he asks, picking up a picture of you at maybe twelve years old, hair shorter, smile wider.

You snatch it lightly. “Don’t judge.”

“I’m not,” he says. And he isn’t. He studies the photo like he’s memorizing it.

“You looked happy.”

“I was a kid.”

“And now?”

You look at him sharply. “What’s with the interrogation?”

“I told you,” he reminds you quietly. “I want to know you.”

There’s no rush in his tone. No desperation.

Just steadiness.

The day continues like that.

When you wash dishes, he dries them.

He asks about your university. Your friends. What stresses you out. What makes you laugh. What kind of music you secretly listen to when you’re alone.

At one point, he says, “You hum when you’re focused.”

You freeze. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists softly. “You were doing it while cutting fruit earlier.”

You didn’t even realize.

“The thing you do with your hand? That too.” He points out, while taking your hand, opening it and see the crescent marks on your palm.

“You notice too much,” you murmur.

He doesn’t deny it.

“Someone has to,” he replies.

The living room is dim, only the lamp by the window casting a warm glow across the space. The TV is on but forgotten, some late-night rerun playing to fill the silence.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you. Heeseung sits beside you—not too close, not too far—close enough that you’re aware of him without feeling crowded.

He’s been quieter tonight. Observing.

“Can I ask you something?” he says eventually.

You glance at him warily. “You’ve been doing that all day.”

A faint smile. “Humor me.”

You sigh. “Fine.” Only because you can’t resist his charming smile.

“That night,” he says carefully, “why were you really there?”

You stiffen slightly. “At the bar?”

“In another city. On a random weekend.”

“It wasn’t random,” you reply automatically.

He waits.

You stare at the muted TV screen for a long moment before answering.

“I party a lot with my friends,” you say finally.

He doesn’t react. Just listens. “More than people expect,” you add.

“Why?” he asks softly.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Because it’s loud.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“Because when the music’s blasting and the lights are flashing and everyone’s moving,” you continue, “I can’t hear my own thoughts.”

The honesty surprises even you.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“You know how exhausting job hunting is?” you ask quietly. “Applications. Tailoring your resume for every company. Writing cover letters that feel fake. Preparing for interviews. Smiling. Selling yourself.”

His expression shifts—more focused now.

“And then the emails,” you continue, voice flattening. “‘We regret to inform you.’ ‘After careful consideration.’ ‘We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.’”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it.

“Sometimes they don’t even reply.”

Silence stretches.

“It gets to you,” you admit. “You start wondering what’s wrong with you. If you’re not good enough. If everyone else is moving ahead while you’re just… stuck.”

He doesn’t look away.

“So yeah,” you shrug lightly, though your chest feels tight. “I party.”

“To forget?” he asks.

“To breathe,” you correct.

You shift slightly, hugging your knees closer.

“When I’m out with my friends, I’m not the girl refreshing her email at 2 a.m. I’m not the candidate who didn’t make it to the final round. I’m just… me.”

He studies you carefully.

“And that’s why you were in another city.”

You nod.

“We’d just gotten two rejections that week,” you admit. “Back-to-back. I felt so stupid for getting my hopes up.”

Your voice lowers.

“So we booked a cheap place, took a train, and told ourselves we deserved one reckless weekend.”

“You call it reckless,” he says quietly. “But you sound calculated.”

You frown slightly. “What?”

“You didn’t go there to ruin yourself,” he says. “You went there to survive.”

That makes you blink.

“I like dancing,” you add quickly, deflecting. “I like dressing up. I like feeling wanted without having to prove I’m competent or impressive.”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at that word.

“Wanted.”

“It’s simple,” you say. “No resumes. No interviews. No expectations beyond having fun.”

“And me?” he asks gently.

You swallow.

“You weren’t part of the plan,” you admit.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I wasn’t looking for something serious,” you continue. “It was easier that way. Temporary city. Temporary connection. No future to mess up.”

“You think you mess things up?” he asks.

You give him a look. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says evenly. “I’m trying to understand.”

You hesitate.

“When you don’t get chosen enough,” you say slowly, “you stop expecting to be.”

The words hang in the air.

He goes very still.

“That night,” you continue, quieter now, “I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow. I just wanted to feel good. To not think about rejection emails. To not feel like I was behind in life.”

“And I was… what?” he asks softly.

“A distraction,” you answer honestly.

The word lands heavy.

But before he can retreat into it, you add—

“A good one.”

His gaze sharpens slightly.

“You were easy,” you explain. “Not in a bad way. You didn’t interrogate me. You didn’t act like you were doing me a favor. You just… were there.”

He exhales slowly.

“And when I woke up alone,” he says quietly, “it didn’t feel temporary.”

You look at him.

“I didn’t want to be just a distraction,” he continues. “I wanted to be something that stayed.”

Your heart stutters.

You look away first. “I don’t know how to let things stay,” you admit.

“Because you’re used to them leaving?” he asks.

The vulnerability in the room shifts everything.

He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t crowd you. He just sits there, steady.

“You party to break free,” he says after a moment. You nod.

“I’m not here to take that away from you.”

You glance at him cautiously.

“But I don’t want to be another escape,” he continues. “I want to be something you choose even when the music stops.”

Your chest tightens again.

Outside, the night is quiet. No music. No flashing lights. No crowd to drown out your thoughts.

Just him.

And the terrifying possibility that this time, you won’t be the one walking away before you can be rejected.

The room feels smaller after that.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The lamp beside the couch casts a soft golden glow across his face, catching in his eyes. The TV is still muted, forgotten entirely now. Outside, the world is quiet—no music, no city noise, no chaos to hide behind.

Just you.

And him.

“I don’t know how to let things stay,” you admit again, softer this time. “Nor how to stay.”

He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He doesn’t try to fix you. He just watches you like your words matter.

“Then don’t decide forever,” he says gently. “Just decide now.”

Your heart pounds.

“That’s how it starts,” you whisper. “Now turns into later. Later turns into expectations.”

“And expectations scare you,” he says.

“They fail,” you correct.

He studies you for a long moment. Then he shifts closer—not abruptly, not cornering—just enough that the space between your knees and his disappears.

“I’m not an interview,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to impress me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I already like you,” he continues. “On your stressed days. On your stubborn days. On the days you party too hard to feel free.”

You huff softly. “I don’t party too hard, I still control myself.”

He almost smiles. “You know what I mean.”

The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache.

“You don’t have to earn staying,” he says.

The words hit somewhere deep.

You look at him, really look at him. His hair is still slightly messy from earlier. He’s not styled, not composed like the first night you met. He’s just… him.

And he’s looking at you like you’re not temporary.

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You’re leaving.”

“In two days,” he says.

“And then?”

“Then we figure it out,” he replies. “Or we try. Or we fail. But at least we won’t be wondering.”

Your breathing feels uneven.

He lifts his hand slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away.

When you don’t, his fingers brush lightly against your cheek.

The touch is soft. Careful.

Nothing like that first night.

That night was heat and impulse and dim lights and stolen glances.

This is quiet.

Intentional.

His thumb traces gently along your jawline, barely there. You feel your pulse everywhere at once.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You swallow.

He doesn’t laugh at you.

Doesn’t tease.

His hand shifts slightly, cupping your cheek fully now. Warm. Steady.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean in first.

It’s small. Barely an inch, but it closes the distance.

His breath brushes your lips before they meet. Slow. Careful. Testing.

When he kisses you, it isn’t rushed.

It isn’t hungry.

It’s soft.

Like he’s asking a question.

Your fingers clutch lightly at the fabric of his T-shirt without thinking. The kiss deepens just slightly—not intense, not overwhelming—just enough to make your heart feel like it might burst.

He pulls back a fraction, forehead resting against yours.

His voice is low. Almost unsteady.

“This isn’t an escape,” he says.

You nod faintly, breath mingling with his.

“I know.”

He kisses you again.

This time with more certainty.

Not claiming. Not demanding.

Choosing.

Your hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair. He exhales softly against your lips, one hand moving to your waist—secure, but not pulling you in without permission.

The world outside the living room feels nonexistent.

No rejection emails.

No interviews.

No expectations.

Just this moment.

When you finally pull back, your lips feel warm, your thoughts scattered.

“Now,” he murmurs softly, echoing his earlier words.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Now,” you repeat.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something you’re running from.

It feels like something you’re choosing.

The living room feels impossibly small after that kiss. Your pulse is racing, every nerve on fire, yet your mind is dizzy in a way that makes thinking impossible.

Heeseung pulls back just slightly, his forehead still resting against yours, and you can feel the warmth of him everywhere. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, the air thick with unsaid words.

“I—” you start, but your voice falters.

“I’ve got you,” he says suddenly, firm but gentle. His hands slide under your arms, and before you can protest, he lifts you effortlessly.

Your stomach flips. “Heeseung! Put me down!” you squeak, half-laughing, half-panicking, but you don’t resist.

“I don’t want to,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the side of your temple as he carries you toward your room. His voice is low, intimate, and the closeness makes your chest tighten even more.

Your room feels impossibly far and yet too close. The walls, the soft glow of your lamp, the familiar smell of your space—all of it is suddenly charged.

He sets you down gently on your bed, but the tension doesn’t leave. His hands linger near your waist, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your shirt. You feel the deliberate weight of his gaze on you, assessing, quiet, patient.

“Are you… okay with this?” he asks, voice husky but careful, and you can’t tell if he’s asking about the kiss, being alone together, or everything.

You swallow hard, your pulse loud in your ears. “I—I think so,” you admit, your words trembling just enough to betray your certainty.

He shifts closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on the mattress near yours. You’re inches apart, every movement amplified. The air feels electric, charged with anticipation and heat.

His eyes trace your face slowly, almost like he’s memorizing every line, every shadow. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Your breath catches. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside. Your fingers twitch at the edge of the blanket, trying to ground yourself, but he leans in, closing the space further.

His hand moves to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, brushing against your jaw as he does. You feel your own hands rise, unconsciously resting on his forearm. The intimacy is subtle, teasing—every touch deliberate, careful, yet charged with something unspoken.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he admits quietly, gaze locking with yours. “All day. Since breakfast. Even when we were doing the dishes… I couldn’t stop thinking.”

Your chest tightens. The honesty in his tone, combined with the nearness, makes your head spin. “Maybe you also have been lingering in my head all along for the past two months.”

“I—” you start, but he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slower, deliberate, exploratory—but there’s a hunger there too, restrained yet unmistakable.

Your hands find his chest, fingers brushing against the fabric of his T-shirt, feeling the solid warmth underneath. The kiss deepens slightly, teasing, suggestive, daring—but still measured.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, reading your reaction, searching for consent in your gaze. Your pulse is racing, your thoughts scattered, but the answer is clear in the flutter of your heartbeat.

His lips hover over yours again, close enough that you can feel the warmth and breath, and for a moment, nothing else exists: no hesitation, no past regrets, just the two of you, the quiet room, and the thrilling, dangerous pull of something more.

And then he whispers, low and husky, “Do you trust me?”

Your answer is a shiver, a nod, a soft, “Yes,” barely audible—but it’s enough.

The air between you thickens, charged with a suggestion, a promise, a question that doesn’t need words—because the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s close enough to touch, it says it all.

…

Heeseung’s lips trail down your neck with a slow, teasing warmth—each kiss featherlight at first, then lingering just enough to leave faint tingles in their wake. His breathing is uneven but controlled, clearly trying to balance the haze with focus.

“Always smell so good.” He murmur between kisses. One hand rests tentatively against your shoulder while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before continuing his path lower.

Then he pauses abruptly near your collarbone as if remembering something, “I don’t have condoms with me,” He looks at you.

You huff, turning to your handbag. Pulling out the small foil packet, he smiles at you. “For your other one night stands?” You laugh.

“That was the plan, but I stopped doing thise after you.” He doesn’t question it, because he knows. You tug at his shirt, signalling you want it off.

Heeseung makes quick work of his shirt, tossing it aside before popping the button on his pants. His movements are fluid—confident but not rushed—as he steps out of them and kicks them toward the floor.

“Better?” He asks, voice low as he reaches for you again, now only in his boxers.

His fingers are gentle but eager as he helps you out of your own clothes—each piece discarded with care until there’s nothing left between you. His touch lingers on bare skin, like he’s relearning every curve after months of yearning.

"God… I love this,"he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “So beautiful.”

Heeseung trails kisses downward—slow, deliberate—each one hotter than the last. His hands follow, mapping your body like he’s memorizing it anew. When his lips finally reach the place you have been dying for him to touch, he glances up at you through his lashes, smirking.

“Want me to touch you here?”

You nod, he tsks. “Need to hear you, baby.” As his breath brushes your open folds.

“Yes.” You gasped, “Yes, please.”

He smiles, Heeseung doesn’t waste another second—his mouth sealing over you with practiced devotion. Every flick of his tongue, every hum against your skin is calculated to unravel you.

And it works.

His free hand grips your thigh, holding you steady as he focuses entirely on pleasuring and loving you—like this is the only mission that matters tonight.

Heeseung zeroes in on your clit instantly—his tongue circling it with just the right amount of pressure before sucking lightly. His eyes stay locked on yours, gauging every twitch and gasp to adjust his technique.

"This okay?" he murmurs against you, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear you say it anyway.

You nod, he hums in approval—taking your nod as permission to double down. His tongue flicks faster now, alternating between broad strokes and precise little darts while his fingers slip inside you, curling just right.

You yelp at the sudden intrusion, Heeseung pauses immediately—pulling back just enough to check your expression. His brows furrow in concern, but he keeps his fingers still inside you.

"Too much?" he asks softly, ready to adjust at your slightest hint. You shake your head, “It’s good, s’good..”

He exhales in relief—his tension melting into renewed focus. He resumes with even more care now, his movements deliberate and gentle as he coaxes you toward pleasure rather than overwhelming you.

"That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing your inner thigh between words. "Just relax… I’ve got you."

“I’ll make you feel better than that night.”

He adds a second finger—stretching you gradually as his thumb replaces his tongue, rubbing slow circles over your clit instead. His eyes stay locked on your face, tracking every flutter of pleasure.

“Tell me if anything’s too much," he reminds, voice thick with concern beneath the desire.

Heeseung's touch remains gentle and attentive, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm that builds pleasure without rushing you. Every now and then, he glances up to make sure you're still comfortable—his expression soft with care even as desire burns in his gaze.

“So good for me, you’re so good for me.” He murmurs againts your skin, words warm and reverent.

He senses you're close—your breaths hitching, your body tensing around his fingers. He presses a final open-mouthed kiss to your clit before murmuring,

"Come for me, baby.”

His words are the last push you need—your climax crashing over you in waves as Heeseung rides it out with his fingers, his touch never faltering. When your tremors subside, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and slowly withdraws his hand.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, crawling up to claim your lips in a deep kiss—letting you taste yourself on him.

“Need you, now.” You breath againts his lips

Heeseung groans at your words, his body responding instantly. In one fluid motion, he flips onto his back—pulling you atop him, before rolling the condom on with practiced ease.

“Ride me,” he rasps, before teasing his tip on your folds and guiding himself to your entrance. He hisses as you sink onto him—his hands flying to your hips, gripping hard as he adjusts to the sudden tightness. His head falls back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he forces them open again, needing to see you.

"Fuck," he grits out, "You feel…"

Words fail him—too overwhelmed by how perfectly you take him in.

His breath comes in ragged bursts as you start moving—his hips instinctively bucking up to meet each of your descents. One hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you down into a searing kiss while the other presses possessively against your back.

He loses himself in the rhythm you set—every roll of your hips sending sparks through his veins. His hands roam your body, worshiping every curve as he murmurs praise against your skin.

“Gonna kill me like this, baby.” He cups your breasts as he pinches one of your nipples, you moan.

His control starts to fray—his thrusts becoming less measured, more desperate. He can feel his climax building rapidly, but he refuses to let go until you do first.

Heeseung flips you onto your back with surprising gentleness despite the urgency in his movements. The second he’s nestled between your thighs again, he surges into you—each thrust deep and deliberate.

"Look at me," he demands softly, cradling your face as his pace turns relentless. "Want to see you when we finish."

His thrusts grow erratic—his breath coming in sharp gasps as he chases his release. But even now, at the peak of pleasure, his focus stays on you, making sure you’re right there with him.

“Searched for you like crazy, kept..kept..asking around.” He went down to latch on your nipple, sucking softly and twirling his tongue making you whimper underneath him.

“Need the girl that made me fall hopelessly from just one night.”

Heeseung’s eyes lock onto yours, the intensity in his gaze nearly overwhelming as he pushes you both toward release. His thrusts grow sharper—each one hitting that perfect spot inside you while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure, making your moans slightly louder than before.

"Close?" he rasps, voice strained with restraint.

You nod frantically, your body coiling tight with impending pleasure. Heeseung’s answering grin is fierce—he can feel it too.

"Then let go," he urges, his own rhythm faltering as he chases his own peak alongside you.

The moment your climax hits—waves of pleasure crashing over you in relentless succession—Heeseung follows with a broken groan. His thrusts stutter before he buries himself deep, shuddering through his release as he holds you close.

For several breathless seconds, all either of you can do is cling to each other, sweaty and spent but utterly satisfied.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave this time.” He says, pressing a lazy kiss on your shoulder.

“Can’t run even if I tried,” you laugh, finally aware that you guys fucked in your childhood bedroom, in your parents’ house. With his and your moms just a few doors away.

…

Morning comes softly.

Not with alarms. Not with loud footsteps downstairs.

Just sunlight.

It slips through the thin gap in your curtains, warm and golden, stretching slowly across your walls, across your desk, across the edge of your bed.

You blink awake gradually, consciousness returning in pieces.

The warmth against your back registers first.

Then the weight around your waist.

Then the steady rise and fall of someone else’s breathing.

Your heart stutters.

Heeseung.

His arm is draped securely around you, palm resting flat against your stomach like it belongs there. Your back is pressed lightly to his chest, his face buried somewhere near the back of your neck, breath warm against your skin.

For a second, you don’t move, you just lie there and lets the reality settle.

Last night wasn’t loud or reckless or fleeting. It wasn’t dim bar lights and alcohol-blurred edges.

It was slow.

Intentional.

You remember how careful he was. How he kept checking in. How he looked at you like this wasn’t just physical.

Your cheeks warm at the memory.

Behind you, he shifts slightly. His arm tightens instinctively when you move.

“Mmm,” he hums, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t go.” You freeze.

“I’m not,” you whisper, even though you hadn’t actually planned to.

He exhales softly against your shoulder, clearly not fully awake yet. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, like he’s grounding himself.

The sunlight climbs higher.

You slowly turn your head just enough to glance at him.

His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes. His lips are slightly parted, expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. No guarded composure. No teasing edge.

Just him.

Peaceful.

He blinks awake a moment later, eyes adjusting slowly.

There’s a brief second of confusion.

Then recognition.

Then something softer.

“Morning,” he murmurs. Your heart flips.

“Morning.”

Neither of you moves away.

Neither of you makes it awkward.

He studies your face like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he half-expected to wake up alone again. “You’re still here,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “So are you.” A small smile touches his lips.

He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb gently along your cheekbone. Not suggestive. Not urgent. Just… tender.

“Regrets?” he asks carefully.

You consider it. The sunlight. The warmth. The quiet. His arm still wrapped around you.

“No,” you answer honestly.

Relief flickers across his face so subtly you almost miss it.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Silence settles again, but it’s comfortable.

You’re suddenly aware of the house. Of your mom downstairs. Of Mrs. Lee probably already awake.

Reality creeping back in.

“We should probably get up,” you say softly. He groans lightly. “Five more minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your waist absentmindedly.

“Last night,” he begins quietly, “wasn’t just… heat.”

You turn slightly to face him more fully now, the blanket shifting around you.

“I know,” you reply. His eyes search yours.

“I meant what I said,” he continues. “About wanting more.”

The weight of it is still there. But this time, it doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels steady.