행복

It began with small things. Little things that you had first brushed off as coincidences. Gestures that had never been there before.

The way his gaze lingered when you spoke during meetings. The brief touch of his hand when passing you a file, and the gentle brushes of his shoulder when he came to speak with you in group discussions. The way he always seemed to choose the seat beside you in the office or in the conference room. His quiet offers to drive you home after late nights at the office.

Even the tone of his voice softened when he spoke to you.

The staff noticed.

Everyone noticed.

Rumors spread quickly through the office. Some whispered that he was only trying to gain favor with your father by treating you well. Others insisted that he had simply learned to respect you after seeing how well you handled your work.

Instead of feeling flattered by the attention, however, you only found yourself growing more suspicious.

“What are you up to now?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

You were on your way to meet a new investor when Jinyoung insisted on walking you to the conference room—something he had begun doing far too often lately.

He stopped beside you, looking amused.

“Must you always question my intentions?”

“All the time,” you replied dryly.

He chuckled softly. “All I wanted was to keep you company,” he said. “I told you before—I enjoy helping you, and it should be normal for a team leader to escort a member of his team to an important meeting such as this one. Is that really so terrible for me to do something like this?”

You muttered under your breath, “It feels suspicious when you're being this nice.”

“Suspicious?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Does that mean kindness only earns your distrust?”

Yes.

It always had.

Because that was how you were raised—to always question someone’s goals when they approach you. Because people never show what their true intentions are right in front of you.

“Everybody has secrets. People don’t always show you their true selves or what they are after, so always question what’s lying underneath their smile.”

That was the one thing that your father had taught you growing up, to toughen you up so you would always be ready to face anything thrown at you. And from what you’ve learned so far, Park Jinyoung was one of those people you should be most wary of.

Meeting Jinyoung’s gaze, you said simply, “It just means you want something.”

A slow smile curved across his lips. For a moment, something in his expression shifted—something softer, yet more deliberate.

He stepped a little closer. “Maybe I do want something from you.”

You folded your arms. “I knew it.”

He laughed quietly at your reaction. “All I want,” he said, “is a chance to prove that I’m sincere when I say I want to help you. That I genuinely want us to get along.”

Your brows lifted. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

He hesitated for a moment before answering, “One dinner.”

You blinked. What?

“No assumptions. No rivalry. Just dinner,” he continued, “I won’t ask for more.”

Silence stretched between you. That had not been the answer you expected, and you weren’t sure how to respond.

Jinyoung seemed to sense your hesitation. “I know I made things difficult for you when you first joined the team,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time since you had met him, there was no arrogance in his voice. It made you want to believe him. When you looked at him, you realized that you already did.

“I wasn’t trying to undermine you,” he continued. “I just needed to know if you were really capable of what your father believed you could do.”

You considered his words carefully, before asking, “And what have you decided?”

His smile returned—gentler this time. “I’d have to say….that you’ve exceeded my expectations,” he finally said. The sincerity in his voice made your cheeks warm unexpectedly, forcing you to glance away.

“And if I’m being honest,” he added, “I’ve come to admire you. As a colleague… and as a person.”

His words sounded convincing. Yet still, you hesitated. You told yourself not to be swayed by sweet words and excessive praise. Especially not from someone as persuasive as him.

But you would be lying if you said you had never been affected by his charm. You had to admit that you’ve come to admire him as well. It was hard not to. Watching the way he handled the team, the way problems seemed to unravel under his calm leadership, was quite inspirational, that you often found yourself being drawn to him.

You took a breath as he waited patiently for your answer.

“Fine,” you said at last. Mustering the courage to look at him, you continued, “One dinner. No hidden motives.”

His smile widened, though he raised both hands in mock surrender. “I promise to behave.”

You turned and continued walking.

“Text me the details,” you said. “I’ll be there.”

“I will,” he replied, hurrying to catch up. “And I promise you won’t regret it.”

You had agreed to one dinner.

One evening without the presence of your past rivalry. No prejudice. No labels.

And you were given the chance to see each other without the constant tension that had followed you since the beginning.

That night, Jinyoung showed you a side of himself you had never seen before.

Maybe it was the quiet restaurant he chose. The warm glow of candlelight reflecting against the wine glasses. The way conversation flowed easily once the guarded edges between you softened.

Or maybe it was simply the way he looked at you—without challenge, without any sign of discord.

By the time he draped his jacket over your shoulders while walking you back to the car, you realized your guard had lowered without you noticing.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he said as he parked outside your home.

You stood beside his car, still wrapped in his suit jacket. The warmth of it lingered around you. It settled deep inside your chest, fluttering like the wind. You couldn’t put into words what you were feeling, when everything felt so…new.

“No, I should be the one to say it,” you said softly after a moment passed. “Thank you for the lovely evening.”

When he smiled, he didn’t bother to hide the joy he was feeling. Then, unexpectedly, he began to look nervous.

“Would it be alright,” he asked slowly, “if I ask you out again in the future?”

His offer surprised you, yet the answer came more easily than you expected.

“I’d like that.”

And that was how one dinner became another.

And another.

Weeks passed, and the distance that once separated you slowly disappeared. What began as curiosity deepened into something far more intimate than either of you had anticipated. It was a progress that you had never expected to happen. Yet your family welcomed it without hesitation.

Perhaps too easily.

“You knew this would happen.”

You said this to your father the day after Jinyoung asked for his blessing to marry you.

Your father only smiled. He didn’t even look surprised, which only made you question his actions, the work of mind.

“I have no idea what you mean, princess,” your father said in return, feigning innocence.

You narrowed your eyes. As if you would believe him when he acted this way. “Was this your plan from the beginning?”

He chuckled. “I planned for the two of you to work well together, to keep the balance so the company could survive,” he admitted. “But marriage was never part of it.”

“Then why do you look so pleased with yourself?”

Your father leaned back thoughtfully. “I simply think it’s fortunate,” he said, almost to himself. “And maybe you can say that it’s the best possible outcome that we could gain from asking you to work with him.”

His gaze softened as he looked at you.

“Winning your trust is already quite an achievement. But winning your heart as well?” He shook his head with quiet admiration. “That’s something else entirely.”

Then he added, almost casually—

“And it might solve more problems than you realize.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” he said gently. “If he becomes your husband, he can take your place within the company without question. And once everything stabilizes, you’ll be free to pursue your own business again. I’m sure he’ll have an open mind to support you through it.”

For a moment, it truly felt as if everything had fallen perfectly into place.

But that fragile sense of hope didn’t last long.

Because that night happened.

No matter how much you wished it had only been a nightmare, reality refused to fade.

You would never forget that night.

The small argument you had with Jinyoung earlier that evening felt painfully trivial when things unravelled hours later. You had planned to call him later, to settle things between you the way you always did.

Instead, you waited.

And waited.

When your phone finally rang close to midnight, relief washed over you. You reached for it without hesitation, expecting to hear his voice.

But the voice on the other end was unfamiliar. Calm. Professional.

“Does this number belong to a relative of Park Jinyoung?”

A pause. Brief, but it felt like time simply stood still, right before your entire world turned upside down.

“I’m afraid we have some terrible news—”

For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.

They reached you, but they refused to settle anywhere inside your mind.

Your fingers tightened around the phone as the deep voice spoke; his words almost sounded like a different language. “I’m sorry… what did you say?”

The voice on the other end repeated itself, slower this time. Careful. Polished. As if the caller had done this multiple times before. Each word landed heavier than the last.

Something about an accident.

Something about his name.

Something about how they needed someone to come to the hospital.

The room around you seemed to fall into a strange, suffocating silence. You couldn’t hear the ticking of the clock on the wall anymore, nor the distant noise from the street outside, nor the pitter-patter of the rain that comforted your anger earlier after the fight. All you could hear was the sound of your own breathing—shallow, uneven.

“No,” you murmured. You didn’t even realize you had spoken. “That… that can’t be right.”

You had just spoken to him earlier that evening. You had just listened to the voice message he left behind while you were stuck working late in the office.

You could still remember the sound of his voice, low and teasing, yet deeply regretful, as he spoke through the phone when he promised he would make it up to you for missing the date he had set up for the night.

Tomorrow, he had said.

Let me make it up to you tomorrow.

The voice on the other end of the line continued speaking, but the words blurred together now.

You didn’t want to hear them.

Because if you listened—if you truly listened—then it would make everything real.

Your hand trembled.

“Is he…?” The question caught in your throat, refusing to come out whole. “Is he alright?”

There was a pause. One that lasted for too long. And in that silence, something deep inside you began to collapse.

“We’re very sorry.”

The words were quiet.

Gentle.

But they struck harder than anything else that had been said.

You couldn’t remember when the phone slipped from your hand. Or how long you stood there in the middle of the room, staring at nothing while the world around you continued moving as if nothing had changed.

Because everything had.

Just hours ago, you had still been thinking about the future.

About the life you were planning to build together.

And now—

Now all that remained was the echo of a voice that would never call you again.

You kept telling yourself that this couldn’t be real.

That if you just waited long enough, your phone would ring again, and you would hear his voice on the other end—warm, teasing, apologizing for being late like he always did.

But the night stretched on in merciless silence.

And the phone never rang again.

— One week after Jinyoung’s funeral —

A week had passed since you buried Park Jinyoung.

People often said that time would make things easier. That grief would soften, little by little, until its sharp edges no longer cut quite so deeply.

You had yet to see any proof of that.

The days since the funeral had passed in a blur of quiet condolences, sympathetic looks, and conversations you barely remembered having. Faces came and went. Words were spoken that you knew were meant to comfort you, yet none of them truly reached you.

Everything felt distant, as though you were watching someone else’s life unfold from far away.

And through it all, the silence remained.

It followed you everywhere—in the empty passenger seat beside you on the drive home, in the quiet halls of your house, in the long hours of the night when sleep refused to come. Every corner of your life seemed to echo with the absence he had left behind.

You told yourself that this must be what grief felt like. A slow, hollow ache that refused to leave.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments when your mind wandered where it shouldn’t, another thought crept in—one that made the silence feel heavier than it already was.

Because even now, a part of you still expected the phone to ring.

Expected to hear his voice on the other side, warm and familiar, apologizing for being late like he always did.

And every time the silence answered instead, the truth settled a little deeper into your chest.

Park Jinyoung was gone. And the life you had once imagined with him had vanished with him.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Your father’s voice—low, gentle, and careful—broke through the quiet. You looked up to find him standing at the doorway to your office. Grief lingered in his eyes, mirroring your own. But there was something else there too.

Exhaustion. Worry etched into the lines of his face.

You weren’t the only one losing sleep.

Of course not. He had just lost someone who had been almost like a son to him.

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” you asked quietly. “This is my office.” You tried to put on a brave face, to hide the strain you’ve been feeling inside, yet your voice betrayed you.

Your father sighed as he stepped further inside. “That’s exactly my point. You should be at home, resting. You don’t look well enough to work.”

“I’ve done enough resting.”

Rest.

Had you truly rested at all?

How many days had you spent locked inside your room, hiding from the world—hiding from reality?

The long nights you spent awake, crying until your tears dried. Feeling as though something inside your chest had cracked open and refused to mend.

“I’m fine,” you said, forcing the words out. “It’s better to keep my mind busy than sit at home doing nothing.”

Alone.

Surrounded by memories. By all the things that reminded you of him. Waiting for the sound of his keys at the door.

“Very well.” Your father’s resistance softened. With a quiet sigh, he stepped closer and rested his hand briefly on the top of your head—a gesture from your childhood that he rarely used now.

You kept your eyes lowered, afraid that if you looked up, he might see the tears gathering there.

“Just don’t push yourself too hard,” he said gently. “I had the staff cover most of your responsibilities while you were gone. Start with something simple.”

You took a steady breath and nodded.

“I will.”

It took hours before your mind finally settled.

At first, your thoughts kept drifting—toward memories, toward silence, toward the spaces where Jinyoung used to be. Most of the staff kept their distance, offering quiet nods or sympathetic glances when you passed them in the hallway. Then you locked yourself in your office again, letting the silence take away the noises in your head as you drowned yourself with the tasks your father left behind.

By noon, you called Mandy through the intercom. “Could you bring me the files Jinyoung was working on recently?”

“Of course,” she answered. “I’ll ask Miss Ahn to bring the copies.”

A few minutes later, Mandy stepped into your office with a stack of documents, a cup of steaming coffee, and a small plate of snacks she probably hoped might lift your mood. The gesture made your chest tighten.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

The door closed again, leaving you alone with the files.

You spent the rest of the day combing through them—numbers, spreadsheets, production reports, sales projections. Old projects. New initiatives. Endless rows of data that blurred together the longer you stared at them.

Memories crept in despite your efforts to keep them away.

Late nights at the office with Jinyoung. The two of you sitting across from each other, arguing over figures, exchanging notes, comparing calculations before entering them into the system you had built together.

Back then, the work had felt easier because you were never doing it alone.

Doing this on your own now was wearing you out. But that was exactly what you needed. Keeping your mind occupied left no space for you to think of anything else.

Soon the silence pressed in again, heavier than before. But it wasn’t memories that made you feel hopeless. It felt like the data you’ve been working with refused to work with you.

The numbers refused to make sense, and there was no one left beside you to compare your calculations with.

By the time evening arrived, exhaustion had settled deep into your bones.

“Maybe I shouldn’t push myself this hard,” you muttered to yourself.

Let’s do this again tomorrow.

And so you did.

The next day, you returned to the same files. The same reports. The same endless lines of data.

Hours passed, and yet again, you found yourself stuck on the same thing. And that problem persisted for the next few days.

Still, you tried, thinking that perhaps you were doing things wrong without Jinyoung guiding you through it, or maybe the new system wasn’t working like it was supposed to.

Days slipped by in the same frustrating cycle. You expanded your search, digging deeper into past sales records, production logs, and departmental reports. You compared everything—old numbers against new, projections against actual results.

Still, something refused to line up.

Until one night, as you stared at the figures yet again, a quiet realization settled into your mind.

Something wasn’t just wrong.

Something was off.

It took several more attempts before you finally saw it.

“The numbers don’t match.”

— Two weeks after Jinyoung’s funeral —

Time kept moving, even when it felt as though you were standing still.

Grief still clung to you like a shadow. But now it was tangled together with something else.

Questions that were left unanswered. Puzzles that you just couldn’t complete. Suspicions grew, yet you kept yourself in denial while you looked for answers. You kept things to yourself, worried that perhaps you were the one making the mistakes, and you’d be pointing fingers at the wrong people.

You kept trying, yet every attempt led you back to the same dead end.

The numbers. The reports. The discrepancies that refused to resolve themselves.

Until one rainy afternoon changed everything.

You hadn’t expected the encounter with Detective Jeon.

In truth, you had known nothing about the man before that day. But the things he told you—about Jinyoung, about the accident—left a strange unease lingering in your mind long after you parted ways.

“Have you ever found or noticed any suspicious activity happening in your father’s company lately, or back when Jinyoung was still alive?”  he had asked.

At the time, the question had only confused you. But it planted a seed of doubt you could no longer ignore.

The next morning, you returned to your office with a quiet determination.

You opened the files again. This time, you forced yourself to stop thinking like someone searching for a mistake. Instead, you asked a different question.

What if there had never been a mistake at all?

Minutes passed, then your breath caught when you finally saw everything clearly.

“There’s no way…”

Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it was enough to make you feel like there was a deep fissure growing beneath your feet, pulling you down with the weight of truth. You leaned back slowly in your chair, heart pounding harder with every second.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

Why the inconsistencies had always seemed impossible to track.

Why the profit reports rose and fell without reason despite stable sales and production numbers.

Why the discrepancies between internal data and the reports given to upper management had never aligned.

And most importantly—

Why Jinyoung kept facing failure after failure over the months he spent combing through all the data, unable to find the source of the problem that kept the company’s fate hanging by a thread.

Your fingers trembled against the desk.

Because now you finally understood something you had never once considered before.

Park Jinyoung was never trying to fix the problem from the start.

He had been covering it.

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Bathed in the pale lights of a chaotic underground club, the pair of you were scanning each other like two ferocious beasts closed in the same cage, ready to attack. The only thing preventing you from throwing a cocktail to his face was Taehyung, with his arm around your shoulder, his thumb drawing circular patterns on your blouse, too busy talking with Jimin to take notice of the gloominess polluting the atmosphere. His voice was raspy, his laugh was rocky and cheerful, his eyes were brimmed with affection whenever he smiled at you--(you shake your head to erase these images from your mind, for your heart squealed in pain at such memory).

Your mutual hatred was palpable -born from a wrong word, an unwelcoming glance… Yoongi had ridiculous, light blue hair, thick eyebrows, sharp eyes and a small pout tugging at his lips. And you were wearing some simple clothes that clashed beside Taehyung’s polished figure or the ex-girlfriends he used to hold near him.

And now, incredible as it may seem, no trace remains of that visceral hate endured for years…

So, you gently smile at Yoongi -almost amused by the odd way your lives have intertwined. 

He swallows thickly, taken aback by your softer expression. "What?" 

"When we had to decide where to study, I told you I'd never set foot here because it'd be so full of you," you say, hearing those harsh words echo back into your mind. "I was wrong. It's nice, your bedroom," you add, glancing around. "Not really what I was expecting."

He arches a brow. "You thought it'd be messier?"

"Kind of, yeah.” You chuckle. “My bedroom is way messier, though..."

"Yeah, it's quite a battlefield.” Yoongi smirks, but his eyes are gentle. “That's why I like it. It's just like you.”

A shiver runs down your spine, it pinches the butterflies laying in the pit of your stomach. The way that “you” tumbled off his lips is so… sweet. Not judgeful. As if there was nothing wrong with you and the way you look or who you are. 

Yoongi is the first to break the stillness, approaching the desk. He takes off the rings, they clink on the top. “You seem so perfect from the outside, but you really aren't." His eyes widen when he registers his own affirmation, turning fast to look at you. "In a good way, of course! You know, I didn't mean to--ahm, shit--" He curses under his breath.

You can't help but chuckle, tenderness tugging at the corners of your lips. "I got it. It's a nice thing, considering you're saying it." Honesty skims over your words, aware that his harshness is just a symptom of the nervousness filling the atmosphere. 

His lips curl in a small pout. "I suck at words. Byeol could never get past them… but you can…” he scratches his hair. "I told you so many bullshits,” he adds with a low voice, almost… disappointed in himself. Then, he throws at you a kind of stare you can't interpret. "Why did we hate each other so much, (Y/N)?"

Your eyelids flicker fast, surprised by the fact that he brought up this topic at a moment like this. Despite the simplicity of his question though, you don't find it so easy to give him a proper explanation. You gasp for words, but they roll down your throat, leaving you completely alone to face this unexpected heart-to-heart chat. 

You don't feel like throwing yourself back to that very day -to the mean things you said, to the mean things he said… you don't know where this conversation could lead the pair of you, and you're quite scared that if you adventure into this path, you could lose sight of the pieces of this new Yoongi you're slowly putting in the right place. 

In the back of your mind, the pictures of the old Yoongi blend and smash with the small details of him you've grown fond of. 

“I don't know… you said something about my clothes. And I said something about your hair…” you reply, unsure, shrugging. “We were drunk, we said so many things. And we never got over it." You frown, forcing yourself to not spill the truth. 

That you were scared of him.

Of him, and his unbreakable friendship with Taehyung and the way his words could have shaped the impression and feelings Tae had of and for you -especially because, due to your doubts, you still weren't quite sure why he had chosen you. 

Seeing your boyfriend's best friend look at you as if you weren't enough for him, made your blood seethe. You could almost hear Yoongi's thoughts despite the music pounding in your ears: how could someone like Tae—whom he knew like the back of his hand—lose his head over someone like you and introduce you to his dearest friends as his new girlfriend?

After barely two months. With a smile shaped by tenderness. With a joy that lit his eyes and gathered softly in the lines around them…

You feel a barely whispered “Tae” rise along your throat, burning as it climbs, but you swallow it before it can fly out.

If you were to speak that name now—those three small letters, stained with affection and hatred and confusion alike—you would ruin everything.

Yourself, Yoongi, and this weird but still enjoyable thing you caught yourselves into…

And so, you shrug, answering back with a simple, "Does it really matter?" that, you hope, could put an end to this conversation.

Yoongi stares at you, hard and long -so intensely you can feel every fiber of your being shivering. 

Then, his tone goes softer. "No, it doesn't…"

And you feel it, his honesty. 

All the hate you felt for each other, right now… it doesn't matter anymore. Not at this very moment, at least.

Yoongi swallows thickly, hesitates. Then, he catches a small breath and breaks the ocean between the pair of you, the tip of his bare feet now touching yours. Without taking his eyes off you, his trembling hands find home on your hips, applying a light pressure as if he was trying to feel the skin beneath the garment.  

His scorching gaze meanders all over your face, slowly, maybe to catch the slightest hint of hesitation that could help him to take a step back. 

Imperceptibly, you moisten your lips, eyes fixed on his blushed face -a silent invitation to dissipate the thin layer of air separating you. 

And Yoongi doesn't wait for more…

He presses his lips on your forehead, inhaling sharply through his nose.  His right hand flies into your hair, tugs at it, while the other hand gently runs over your small back to pull you closer. The light smack sound of his pecks echoes back into your ribcage -your heart is pounding so hard and fast you fear he could catch the noise it's making. 

You find yourself smiling in his softness, indulging in that embrace that has nothing to do with the billions you shared until today. 

It's true, Yoongi is terrible at words. But, holy shit, he's so good at conveying whatever it's whirling in his mind... 

Your fingers finally uncurl from the hem of your dress and lay on his shoulder blades. You meekly follow the journey of his kisses with your head, tilting it to the side when his lips finally descend along the line of your nose to rest on your warm cheek. 

Once. Twice. Thrice…

At the mercy of his soft pecks, your thoughts dissolve like molasses, slipping into the farthest recesses of your mind. And you can suddenly feel a piping hot warmth sprouting from the pit of your stomach -a force so fierceful and urgent that makes you completely forget that, just a few seconds ago, you were feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. 

You need more. 

Bathed in the pale lights of a chaotic underground club, the pair of you were scanning each other like two ferocious beasts closed in the same cage, ready to attack. The only thing preventing you from throwing a cocktail to his face was Taehyung, with his arm around your shoulder, his thumb drawing circular patterns on your blouse, too busy talking with Jimin to take notice of the gloominess polluting the atmosphere. His voice was raspy, his laugh was rocky and cheerful, his eyes were brimmed with affection whenever he smiled at you--(you shake your head to erase these images from your mind, for your heart squealed in pain at such memory).

Your mutual hatred was palpable -born from a wrong word, an unwelcoming glance… Yoongi had ridiculous, light blue hair, thick eyebrows, sharp eyes and a small pout tugging at his lips. And you were wearing some simple clothes that clashed beside Taehyung’s polished figure or the ex-girlfriends he used to hold near him.

And now, incredible as it may seem, no trace remains of that visceral hate endured for years…

So, you gently smile at Yoongi -almost amused by the odd way your lives have intertwined. 

He swallows thickly, taken aback by your softer expression. "What?" 

"When we had to decide where to study, I told you I'd never set foot here because it'd be so full of you," you say, hearing those harsh words echo back into your mind. "I was wrong. It's nice, your bedroom," you add, glancing around. "Not really what I was expecting."

He arches a brow. "You thought it'd be messier?"

"Kind of, yeah.” You chuckle. “My bedroom is way messier, though..."

"Yeah, it's quite a battlefield.” Yoongi smirks, but his eyes are gentle. “That's why I like it. It's just like you.”

A shiver runs down your spine, it pinches the butterflies laying in the pit of your stomach. The way that “you” tumbled off his lips is so… sweet. Not judgeful. As if there was nothing wrong with you and the way you look or who you are. 

Yoongi is the first to break the stillness, approaching the desk. He takes off the rings, they clink on the top. “You seem so perfect from the outside, but you really aren't." His eyes widen when he registers his own affirmation, turning fast to look at you. "In a good way, of course! You know, I didn't mean to--ahm, shit--" He curses under his breath.

You can't help but chuckle, tenderness tugging at the corners of your lips. "I got it. It's a nice thing, considering you're saying it." Honesty skims over your words, aware that his harshness is just a symptom of the nervousness filling the atmosphere. 

His lips curl in a small pout. "I suck at words. Byeol could never get past them… but you can…” he scratches his hair. "I told you so many bullshits,” he adds with a low voice, almost… disappointed in himself. Then, he throws at you a kind of stare you can't interpret. "Why did we hate each other so much, (Y/N)?"

Your eyelids flicker fast, surprised by the fact that he brought up this topic at a moment like this. Despite the simplicity of his question though, you don't find it so easy to give him a proper explanation. You gasp for words, but they roll down your throat, leaving you completely alone to face this unexpected heart-to-heart chat. 

You don't feel like throwing yourself back to that very day -to the mean things you said, to the mean things he said… you don't know where this conversation could lead the pair of you, and you're quite scared that if you adventure into this path, you could lose sight of the pieces of this new Yoongi you're slowly putting in the right place. 

In the back of your mind, the pictures of the old Yoongi blend and smash with the small details of him you've grown fond of. 

“I don't know… you said something about my clothes. And I said something about your hair…” you reply, unsure, shrugging. “We were drunk, we said so many things. And we never got over it." You frown, forcing yourself to not spill the truth. 

That you were scared of him.

Of him, and his unbreakable friendship with Taehyung and the way his words could have shaped the impression and feelings Tae had of and for you -especially because, due to your doubts, you still weren't quite sure why he had chosen you. 

Seeing your boyfriend's best friend look at you as if you weren't enough for him, made your blood seethe. You could almost hear Yoongi's thoughts despite the music pounding in your ears: how could someone like Tae—whom he knew like the back of his hand—lose his head over someone like you and introduce you to his dearest friends as his new girlfriend?

After barely two months. With a smile shaped by tenderness. With a joy that lit his eyes and gathered softly in the lines around them…

You feel a barely whispered “Tae” rise along your throat, burning as it climbs, but you swallow it before it can fly out.

If you were to speak that name now—those three small letters, stained with affection and hatred and confusion alike—you would ruin everything.

Yourself, Yoongi, and this weird but still enjoyable thing you caught yourselves into…

And so, you shrug, answering back with a simple, "Does it really matter?" that, you hope, could put an end to this conversation.

Yoongi stares at you, hard and long -so intensely you can feel every fiber of your being shivering. 

Then, his tone goes softer. "No, it doesn't…"

And you feel it, his honesty. 

All the hate you felt for each other, right now… it doesn't matter anymore. Not at this very moment, at least.

Yoongi swallows thickly, hesitates. Then, he catches a small breath and breaks the ocean between the pair of you, the tip of his bare feet now touching yours. Without taking his eyes off you, his trembling hands find home on your hips, applying a light pressure as if he was trying to feel the skin beneath the garment.  

His scorching gaze meanders all over your face, slowly, maybe to catch the slightest hint of hesitation that could help him to take a step back. 

Imperceptibly, you moisten your lips, eyes fixed on his blushed face -a silent invitation to dissipate the thin layer of air separating you. 

And Yoongi doesn't wait for more…

He presses his lips on your forehead, inhaling sharply through his nose.  His right hand flies into your hair, tugs at it, while the other hand gently runs over your small back to pull you closer. The light smack sound of his pecks echoes back into your ribcage -your heart is pounding so hard and fast you fear he could catch the noise it's making. 

You find yourself smiling in his softness, indulging in that embrace that has nothing to do with the billions you shared until today. 

It's true, Yoongi is terrible at words. But, holy shit, he's so good at conveying whatever it's whirling in his mind... 

Your fingers finally uncurl from the hem of your dress and lay on his shoulder blades. You meekly follow the journey of his kisses with your head, tilting it to the side when his lips finally descend along the line of your nose to rest on your warm cheek. 

Once. Twice. Thrice…

At the mercy of his soft pecks, your thoughts dissolve like molasses, slipping into the farthest recesses of your mind. And you can suddenly feel a piping hot warmth sprouting from the pit of your stomach -a force so fierceful and urgent that makes you completely forget that, just a few seconds ago, you were feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. 

You need more. 

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 10 AM (DAY 13)

The sky hung low and colourless that Monday morning, like a lid clamped down over the city. A thin drizzle stitched against your bedroom window, leaving silver seams that caught the weak light of your desk lamp.

After a largely sleepless night on Yeonjun’s sofa and a questionable drive home, you’d promised yourself an hour’s nap. Your elective today had been cancelled after the professor got sick, so you figured you could spare sixty minutes with your eyes shut before your only remaining seminar of the day. Your bed waited, sheets rumpled and pleasantly warm.

Reina did not agree with this plan.

Every time she crossed the corridor while getting ready, she deliberately paused in your doorway.

When your face surfaced from the folds of your duvet, she bared her teeth. “Well?”

You burrowed deeper into the covers.

She breezed into your room.

“I know you’re awake,” she sang. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

Groaning, you dragged yourself upright. Reina took that as consent and clambered onto the mattress, her knees digging into your thigh.

Ever since she’d returned from her hometown the previous night and discovered your empty bed, she’d been incandescent with curiosity. And when Soobin came back shortly after, announcing—with a faint flush in his cheeks—that you and Yeonjun were at his house, her curiosity turned into proper sport. Now she was in the first row and demanded fireworks by intermission.

You refused to give her a show.

Pointedly ignoring her excitement, you recapped the weekend in clipped bullet points: a meal with Yeonjun’s parents, then the funeral for his Nissan. Not much else.

Reina declared that you were recounting it like items on a receipt and shook her head, unimpressed.

Instead of interrogating you further, however, she filled in every gap herself, tweaking her theories based on how heavily you sighed. Much to her growing satisfaction, you sighed very heavily.

When you escaped to the bathroom, she was hot on your heels.

“Think it’s clear,” she declared while you reached for your toothbrush, “you are obsessed with each other.”

“It’s just one weekend,” you replied, toothpaste frothing at your lips.

“Technically, it’s your second one,” she said, hopping up onto the counter. Her slippers knocked softly against the door. “And I bet next weekend, you’ll already have a shared list of groceries. Milk, eggs, toilet pap—”

“Rei.”

She grinned. “You’re glowing, have I mentioned?”

You switched the toothbrush to the other side. “S’the lighting.”

She leaned forward and covered the bulb above the mirror with her hand, throwing half your face into shadow.

“Mm.” Her eyes sparkled. “Still glowing.”

You laughed despite yourself, bent to spit, then straightened. Reina bumped her shoulder into yours. You retaliated by nudging her hip, enough to make her wobble on the counter.

She yelped, laughing as she caught your sleeve to steady herself.

“For the record,” she said, bracing a hand behind her so you wouldn’t both topple into the shower cabin, “I support this development between you. Just one thing, if I may?”

You sighed. “You may.”

“I believe I did very much tell you so.”

You clicked your tongue, and, for a few bright minutes, the flat floated with her laughter.

Soon, infected with her energy, you started to feel giddy, too—childishly so. Like a little kid trying not to laugh in the middle of a very serious lesson. You didn’t mind when you caught your reflection and noticed the smudged mascara on the corners of your eyes.

Then Reina reached for her phone to check the time and gasped.

You looked up from the sink. “What?”

She turned her screen towards you. There were five messages from Soobin stacked on top of each other, warning her of his upcoming demise from the cold outside.

“He’s been waiting for ten minutes,” she said, jumping off the counter. “Says he’s writing his will.”

You snorted. “He couldn’t come up?”

“We sort of agreed to meet downstairs,” she admitted, crossing the bathroom. “But then I got distracted by you and your boyfriend, so…”

She trailed off, casting one last meaningful look at you.

You shook your head, lips twitching. “Go. Don’t make him suffer.”

She gave you a hurried hug, then headed down the corridor to grab her bag and find her shoes. A minute later, the front door slammed shut.

Silence unfurled around you, interrupted only by the gentle rush of water as you washed your hands under the tap.

You glanced at your own phone.

YEONJUN [11:29 AM] can we meet before class? i need to talk to you

The smile on your lips waned.

You’d noted the message when it came, but Reina had been mid-cross-examination, so you didn’t dare to pick your phone up.

Now you hovered over the keyboard, tempted to say something flippant (are we bringing knives to this talk, or why are you so ominous). You swallowed it back.

YOU [12:07 PM] sure, omw now

This weekend had shifted something fundamental between you and Yeonjun. And with the bet ending tomorrow, it was relatively obvious what he’d want to talk about.

The inevitable now what.

The awkward so what are we.

That would have made sense.

But, alone under the bathroom lights, you saw the unease in your reflection: shoulders pulled in, a subtle tremour along your jaw. There was a taste of mint and something metallic in your mouth.

You were thinking about the drive home this morning.

Yeonjun had insisted on coming with you. He’d buckled himself into the passenger seat of Reina’s Honda, commented that it smelled very strongly of citrus, and hadn’t said anything else.

You didn’t have to come all this way, you had teased, pulling out into early morning traffic. I had the car.

He had looked at the windscreen and shrugged.

How’s your wrist? you’d asked.

Fine.

You sure?

Yeah.

You’d waited, hoping he’d hear his short, terse responses and offer just a sliver more. He hadn’t.

You alright? you’d tried again.

He’d glanced down at his brace and tightened it until his hand paled. Just tired, I guess.

Something brittle had threaded his voice. You felt it and pulled back, pride sealing your mouth before you could embarrass yourself by asking again.

Later, after parking down the street, you’d stood with him for ten minutes outside your building while he waited for his taxi. He’d had his hands in his pockets. In all that time, he hadn’t looked at you once.

Now the memory clung to you, unpleasant and persistent, as you locked the flat and stepped into the stairwell.

Maybe, you thought, it meant nothing. He might’ve really been tired.

Outside, the drizzle thickened into a steady downpour. It dampened your coat and seeped through the seams. Your umbrella snapped open with a resentful crack, warning you it was nearing retirement. The street was empty of colour, even the car headlights were blurred into pale smudges.

The closer you drew to campus, the thicker the scent of coffee became. The Social Sciences building loomed on the edge, its red bricks darkened by rain so much that they looked charred.

Yeonjun was standing at the edge of the parking lot.

You saw him before he saw you.

He stood too straight, spine locked, shoulders squared as though he expected something to hit him and had decided, stubbornly, not to budge when it did. Rain gathered along the seams of his black leather jacket, turning it glossy. He held three bouquets of freesias, their pale purple blossoms absurdly bright.

“Hi,” you said, stepping off the kerb.

He turned.

Up close, he looked worse than he had this morning.

Shadows pooled under his eyes. The bruises from the crash stood out, livid against his pale skin, deepening his cheekbones to a painful violet. Rain had plastered his hair into damp strands across his forehead.

“Hi,” he replied.

“You okay?” You angled the umbrella to cover him. “Sleep at all?”

He drew in a shuddering breath. “Uh, a bit.”

“But not much?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Not really.”

You readjusted the strap of your backpack, and your grip on the umbrella faltered. It tipped, and the corner tapped him on the head. He didn’t flinch.

“Sorry,” you muttered, righting it.

“S’fine.”

His eyes hovered somewhere near your collarbone. You weren’t wearing a scarf.

He dropped his stare to the wet pavement and inhaled.

He’d spent most of the morning getting you flowers and staring at them on his kitchen island with a bottle of wine from the fridge. It didn’t count as day drinking, he’d decided, if he’d never gone to bed. His mouth still tasted sour, his limbs oddly distant. More than anything, he wanted to cease for a minute. Just not be.

“This, um—” His voice faltered. He held out the freesias. “For you.”

Sighing, you wedged the umbrella between your cheek and shoulder and accepted the bouquets. The stems were cool, damp, and slightly sticky against your palm.

“Why three?” you asked.

Technically, he owed you two: one for yesterday, one for today.

“It’s in advance.” His hand lifted to the back of his head, fingers pressing into his hair. “And it’s an apology.”

You were breathing in the soft fragrance when the word registered.

“Hm?” You looked up. “For what?”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“It’s over,” he said. The rain hushed his words, but didn’t soften them. “The bet. You’ve won.”

You stared at him.

“I’ll leave the workshop,” he went on, his tone eerily even as though he was reciting a paragraph from a book. “We won’t talk again. It—that’s it. You’ve won.”

The parking lot seemed to shrink. White lines pressed at the edges of your vision.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquets. One freesia bent under the strain, and the stem snapped.

“What,” you said slowly, “do you mean?”

Yeonjun ran his tongue over his lips. They were as dry as the inside of his mouth.

“I said I’d prove you wrong about me,” he said. “And I’ve failed.”

Heat rushed up your neck.

You briefly questioned whether you’d imagined everything that had happened yesterday: from the A&E to his bathroom, his bedroom, his sofa.

“Mhmm.” The freesias rustled as you gathered them into one hand, gripping the umbrella with the other. Your ears burned. “So you think I don’t want you, then?”

A car rolled into the parking lot behind you, tyres hissing on wet asphalt. Instinctively, Yeonjun reached for you, hands lifted to guide you out of its path.

He stopped himself.

You saw the aborted movement. Saw the way his fingers curled inward instead.

The restraint hit like a punch to the gut.

“Wanting,” he said at last, drawing in a breath that scraped his lungs raw, “is not what love is.”

Recognition narrowed your gaze and tightened your throat.

You’d said this to him once, outside your flat, during your long, circular discussion about the purpose of the bet. About what love meant.

You’d waited for him to end the bet then.

But not like this.

Another car cut through the lot, spraying a fan of dirty water that stopped just short of your trainers.

Yeonjun flinched. “Could you move away from the—”

“I don’t get it,” you cut in, your pulse throbbing in your gums with every word. “What do you want me to say, then? Want me to tell you I’m in love with you?”

His chest seized. “I d—”

“I thought—you made it seem like this wasn’t a bet anymore.”

A frigid breeze swept across the parking lot, needling through your coat and whipping rain against your calves. The umbrella shuddered, dripping water from the rim. The paper around the flowers had gone limp and translucent.

Yeonjun was wondering if this was the last rain he’d ever get into with you.

“I know,” he said. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides.

“So it was just that, then?” you asked. Your voice had gone strangely calm. “A point to prove?”

He shook his head once, quick. “I—look, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” His gaze tracked the ripples spreading through a puddle at his boots. “Mostly for this.”

“What is this, Jun?” Your voice cracked on his name; it almost sounded pleading. You hated that it did.

“It—” He inhaled and forced himself to look up, but only managed half a glance at you before flinching away. “It’s over.”

The words propelled him.

Before he could reconsider, before you could say something that would pin him in place, he ducked out from under your umbrella and stepped past you.

The rain lashed down on him immediately, darkening his jacket, soaking his hair. For a heartbeat, you braced yourself, expecting him to brush against your arm. To hesitate. To stop.

He didn’t.

His boots skidded on the slick asphalt as he headed for his Mercedes. His movements were hurried, graceless, almost desperate. He was fleeing.

“You’re actually serious?” you called after him.

The rain drowned the question. He didn’t turn.

His fingers fumbled with the door handle. The brace on his wrist forced his hand into an awkward angle, grip compromised, knuckles pale with effort. He wasn’t supposed to be driving yet.

He slipped inside anyway.

You stepped forward without fully deciding to. Puddles swallowed the hems of your jeans, icy water seeping through your socks. The umbrella sagged against your shoulder. Rain found the gap at your collar and slid down your spine.

“So that’s it?” you demanded as his engine roared to life, too loud in the quiet parking lot. “We’re just not going to talk anymore?”

He didn’t answer.

For a wild second, you considered chucking the freesias under his tyres. Letting the petals burst purple beneath the wheels. Forcing him to get out and talk to you.

Inside the car, Yeonjun sat rigid, fingers locked around the steering wheel. The engine vibrated through him, a mechanical pulse that matched the frantic rhythm in his chest.

He could’ve driven off; you weren’t blocking him. There was space.

He didn’t move.

Through the rain-streaked windscreen, he felt the weight of your gaze, felt it land like a hand between his shoulder blades. Like your touch after he’d wrapped his Nissan around the oak.

Fuck.

You didn’t move, either.

Yeonjun knew you wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t chase him down the street, wouldn’t call him a coward, wouldn’t demand explanations. Partly out of pride, yes, but more than that, self-respect. You shouldn’t have had to ask for what he should’ve given freely.

He didn’t deserve you asking anyway.

And he had nothing to give.

Finally, almost involuntarily, he shifted into reverse. The car jolted slightly, then smoothed out. The indicator blinked, absurdly cheerful.

You watched the car retreat, tyres slicing through puddles. It turned the corner and disappeared.

Your coat clung heavily to your shoulders, water dripping from your sleeves. The freesias shook in your hands.

You inhaled. The air hurt.

Then you turned and went to class.

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 1 PM

Professor Myers’ auditorium was very warm. One window at the back had been cracked open, allowing in a reluctant draught that did nothing but rearrange the dust. The room smelled faintly of rain and old carpet.

Ten of your classmates sat around the seminar table, discussing news cycles. Someone clicked their pen with an arrhythmic insistence.

Click.

Pause.

Click-click.

Pause.

Click.

Your nerves latched onto the sound immediately. Your pulse matched with it, thudding in your temples, your wrists, the soft hollow at the base of your throat.

You hadn’t done the reading last night.

You’d been busy.

The thought promptly reignited your irritation with Yeonjun. You pressed your lips together and tried to focus on the PDF on your laptop screen in front of you.

The institution-based media of mass communication is no longer—

You scrolled.

The virality of the content in the observed period—

You scrolled.

Nothing assembled into coherence.

The pen clicked again. You had to resist the urge to lean across the table and snap it in two.

The discussion around you fell into a hush. Professor Myers’ gaze drifted over the table. She paused on you.

Your stomach dropped.

You’d always been prepared. Always had a sentence ready, something brief but sufficient. Now your mind was empty.

The professor watched you for a second. Then she moved on.

Relief came, but it wasn’t satisfying. Your pulse did not slow.

You shifted in your seat. The freesias rustled on the floor beside your chair, their wrapping wrinkled and damp. A few petals had already fallen onto the scuffed linoleum. Reina, seated to your left, glanced down at them. The small smile she wore felt like a relic from a different life.

When the seminar finally ended, the pen-clicker left first, abandoning the offending object on the table. You shot it a withering look as you pushed back your chair and slipped your laptop into your backpack.

Professor Myers called your name.

You looked up, startled.

She stood at the front, papers gathered in her hands. “A moment, please?”

Your stomach lurched with an unsettling sense of déjà vu.

You nodded.

At the doorway, Reina lingered just long enough to catch your eye. She mouthed I’ll see you later?, her brows raised in silent question. You managed a small nod. Nodding back, she disappeared into the corridor.

The auditorium felt larger now that it was empty, but no less stifling. Someone had dropped a tissue; it lay crumpled at the leg of the table.

You slung your backpack over your shoulder and collected the freesias. The stems had softened, bending slightly under their own weight.

You checked your phone on the way to the professor’s desk.

No new messages or missed calls.

Alright, then.

“So,” Professor Myers said, and paused for a long moment.

She sat behind her mahogany desk, arranging and rearranging a stack of papers that did not appear to require it. Her email was open on her desktop.

“There’ll be some changes to the workshop,” she said at last. “Yeonjun stopped by before the seminar.”

She made no comment about his absence at said seminar. You swallowed every tart reply that rose to your tongue.

“Yes,” you said. “He mentioned something.”

The professor hummed. “Do you think you’ll be alright continuing on your own?”

For a moment, you were acutely aware of your posture, the damp denim at your ankles, the awkward grip you had on the flowers.

You didn’t know if you would be alright continuing on your own.

“Yes,” you said anyway. Your voice sounded distant, as though you were borrowing it from someone else. “Of course. I’ve just been following the study plan.”

“Right, right.” She lifted the same stack of papers, tapped them into alignment, and set them back down. “To be honest, I don’t quite understand his reasoning. He made a very compelling case to co-host. It seemed important to him.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I can’t see why he’d suddenly withdraw. He—he did look tired, I suppose.”

She was subtly asking you if something had happened to him, you surmised. Perhaps some dramatic, sudden disease that had eaten away at his brain.

You were wondering the same thing.

“Yeah,” you said. “I don’t understand it either, Professor.”

She exhaled. “Well. I told him to formalise the withdrawal with the Administration himself. Hand back his staff badge, all that fun stuff. I assume he’ll sort that today, so he likely won’t join you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

Distracted, you glanced over to the clock above the door.

It was 2:45 PM.

The administrative hours began at three.

You could still catch him, if you wanted to.

You didn’t know if you wanted to.

“I was a bit curt with him,” the professor admitted, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I could’ve handled the paperwork for him. But I admit, I felt rather blindsided.”

Blindsided was a good word.

It nearly made you laugh.

“It’s a busy time,” you said, nodding towards her stack of papers. Someone’s midterms, you guessed from the student ID numbers at the top. “I’m sure he’ll manage himself.”

The professor studied you for a moment, more closely. Inevitably, her gaze slid to the bedraggled flowers in your hands.

At last, she leaned back in her chair, fatigue setting into her shoulders. Whatever rumours she’d overheard, whatever conclusions she might’ve privately drawn, she set them aside. With spring break starting next week, she had better uses for her energy.

“Would you mind stopping by tomorrow after the workshop?” she asked. “Any time before five. I’d like to hear how it went, in case we need to make adjustments.”

You assumed she meant finding you a new co-host.

You’d had quite enough of those.

“Of course,” you said. “Although I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s a good class. Very motivated.”

That was a lie, of course.

The students weren’t motivated so much as deeply aware of their credit requirements. But Professor Myers looked too weary to interrogate your claim.

“That’s good,” she said. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage it.”

You produced a smile that finally allowed her to dismiss you.

Fixing your backpack, you turned a little too quickly and caught the corner of her desk with the bouquets. More petals fell, bright against the dark wood. You didn’t stoop to gather them.

The corridor outside was noticeably cooler. You stopped by the window at the far end and leaned your hip against the windowsill.

You needed a moment.

The glass of the window was faintly fogged. Outside, students crossed the quad, their umbrellas tilting every which way with the wind. You slipped your hand into your coat pocket and found your phone.

Then, movement by the staircase caught your eye.

Reina and Soobin were approaching with identical expressions of cautious concern. They stopped on either side of you, unintentionally blocking every exit.

“Everything okay?” Reina asked, chin tilting toward the auditorium behind you.

You released your phone and pulled your hand out of your pocket.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just workshop stuff.”

Soobin hovered to your right, framed by the weak afternoon light.

He kept glancing at Reina as though waiting for her permission to speak. She looked at him and nodded.

“Um,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeonjun just texted me. Said he’s not going to be home the rest of the week. Have you two got plans? Because I don’t mind you staying at the house, I can just—you know.”

You lifted your head slowly.

Yeonjun wasn’t just leaving the workshop, then. He was leaving.

You couldn’t understand.

If this was about pride—what more did he want from you, your heart clearly wasn’t yours anymore—then yours had taken the bigger hit. You were the one standing in the parking lot, trying to process the end of something that had never even officially started. With three fucking bouquets of freesias.

“We haven’t got plans,” you told Soobin, “I don’t know anything about that.”

Reina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “S’he coming with you to the library?”

“No.”

Soobin edged half a step back, closer to Reina. They exchanged a look over your shoulder, brief but loaded.

“Did something happen?” he ventured. His eyes dipped to the freesias.

You exhaled and set the bouquets on the windowsill. One stem rolled lazily before settling against the damp paper. Then you hoisted yourself up beside them, palms braced against the sill. The glass pressed cool against your spine.

Yeonjun was probably at Administration by now.

“Nothing happened,” you said. “I won the bet.”

Soobin’s face lost colour in increments. Even his black turtleneck looked a shade lighter.

Reina blinked once. Twice. Then closed her eyes and frowned.

Their surprise steadied you. If they were this bewildered, then you weren’t losing your mind.

“What does that mean?” Reina asked.

You shrugged. “He said I’ve won. So he’s left the workshop. And we’re not speaking anymore.”

“Wait,” Soobin said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth all of a sudden. “So he just—and you—h-how—wh—”

Reina placed a hand on his forearm, squeezing briefly in a quiet command to stop, please.

She turned back to you. “Start at the part that makes sense, babe.”

You stared at the plant slumped in the corner of the windowsill. Its leaves were yellowing at the edges.

“Don’t know where that is,” you said. “He texted me this morning, said he needed to talk. So we talked. He said the bet was over.”

You lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Reina released a breath that sounded like it’d been trapped inside her lungs for days.

“It’s really not much of a plot twist when you look at it like that,” you added, dry. “We agreed on two weeks. Two weeks are over. Apparently, I won.”

Your gaze drifted back to the freesias beside you. Their purple blossoms had already started to bleach, as though reconsidering their earlier optimism.

For one reckless second, you imagined scooping them up and hurling them out of the window. Watching them arc against the low clouds and scatter across the quad like fucked up confetti.

The corridor was quiet.

Reina watched you without blinking, her hands clenched at her sides. She had a meeting with her thesis advisor in an hour. Now she was calculating whether she could squeeze in assault and battery beforehand. Perhaps just battery.

“Has he hit his head very hard at some point yesterday?” she asked, her tone honed to a fine point. “This is clearly not a fucking bet.”

The ferocity in her expression was familiar. Reina’s protectiveness had always bordered on criminal.

Once, years ago, during a night out in a basement club, some random bloke had asked for your number at the bar. You’d given it; he was very cute. Ten minutes later, Reina spotted him in a corner, devouring another girl with alarming enthusiasm.

She hadn’t stopped to think for one second.

She’d marched across the club, seized him by the collar—how she managed it, given he was twice her size, remained one of life’s enduring mysteries—and dragged him into the men’s room. Afterwards, she’d wedged a decorative plant against the door and left him there to reflect on his life.

He’d emerged twenty minutes later, looking very sober, and promptly left the club.

You were briefly tempted to unleash Reina on Yeonjun.

You resisted.

“Rei—”

“Hang on,” Soobin interjected, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his thoughts were threatening to spill out. “She’s right. He—I talked to Jun about this a few days ago. At Gyu and Kai’s.”

The memory of that party rolled through you like nausea. You’d lived three different lives in the space of this past week.

“That’s smashing,” you said, staring at a crack in the windowsill. “I talked to him today.”

“Okay, that—” Soobin frowned. “But it’s not just a bet. I asked him. I—”

“Well, then he lied to you too, Bin,” you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

A group of students passed behind Reina, their chatter loud and careless. It washed through the corridor.

The quiet after they disappeared into the stairwell felt hostile. The light behind the window dulled another shade.

Reina shook her head slowly. “I don’t think he lied.”

“Yeah,” Soobin said. “I don’t believe that, either.”

Their certainty pressed against your ribs, gentle and a lot like hope. You tried not to let it in.

“Something must have happened,” Soobin insisted, his gaze drifting past you to the rainy quad.

Reina stood next to him, deep in thought. She was rifling through every story you’d told her about Yeonjun, turning each detail over, pulling out screws, checking for loose wiring.

Either Yeonjun was in mortal danger, she reasoned, or she was going to put him in one.

“Could be his parents,” she said.

Soobin opened his mouth beside her, then turned to you, wide-eyed. “His parents.”

Your heart kicked and then slowed, wary.

“They were docile when we saw them, though,” you said, inclining your head. “Nothing happened.”

Reina shrugged. “So, they did something after you left.”

“What could they have done?” you returned. “We were together nearly the whole time.”

There were reasonable doubts in your voice.

Soobin shared none of them.

He knew Yeonjun’s parents well. They had deemed his family a good match and always welcomed him to their immaculate dinners. He’d seen Yeonjun’s mother smile at guests, and he’d seen that smile vanish the moment everyone’s attention shifted. He knew her. And he knew her control could travel through phone calls, through texts. Even through silence.

“They said something to him,” Soobin said, raking a hand through his hair hard enough to spark static. A few strands lifted at the crown. “They had to. Fuck.”

He began pacing in tight circles, visibly agitated. His boots squeaked faintly against the tiles.

“I warned him about playing games,” he muttered. “I fucking told him—” He cut himself off and pivoted back to you. His eyes found yours, but there was nothing in them that recognised you. “But I don’t—I still don’t understand.”

Uncomfortable under his vacant stare, you glanced at Reina.

She gave a shake of her head: let him dig.

“Even if his parents had said something to him,” Soobin dug, “he took this bet seriously. Swear he did. He wouldn’t have just—I mean, I talked to him. He was all ‘I’ll think about it’ and ‘fuck the scheme.’ He obviously knew what would happen if—”

“Wait.” You lifted a hand, palm out. “What?”

He finally blinked. “Hm?”

“What scheme?”

The silence in the corridor deepened.

Soobin’s shoulders drew up, his chest locking rib by rib.

“It—no,” he said, swallowing. “No, that was a joke.”

You stared at him. “About me?”

Reina got a very bad feeling and shifted a step back, putting a touch of space between them. Soobin watched her with naked horror.

“No,” he said quickly. His voice frayed. “It wasn’t about—not—not about you. Not exactly. It—”

“Bin,” Reina said, calm in a way that was almost threatening. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing, my love,” he replied automatically, forcing a smile that looked painful to maintain. Blinking too fast, he turned back to you. “It’s—have you tried talking to him again? Maybe he’s having—maybe he’s gone insane.”

“Maybe you have,” you said, pushing off the windowsill. Your trainers hit the tiles with a blunt thud. “What’s going on?”

Soobin tried to exhale, but lost sense of his breath halfway through. With his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, he looked abruptly younger. Like a kid who’d accidentally dropped something expensive and now waited for an adult to scold him.

“You should really speak to him,” he said. “There must be something you can do about—”

“I don’t want to do anything.” Your anger bit at your chest before it reached him. “What scheme?”

“It’s nothing.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if that might reverse time. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stu—”

“What scheme?”

His jaw clenched so tightly that you heard his teeth click.

“Please,” he said, glancing at you. “Just—just talk to him.”

You looked at Reina.

Her expression mirrored yours: the same disbelief, the same slowly rising fury.

Without another word, you gathered the freesias, scattering another handful of petals, and strode away. Your footsteps ricocheted against the stairwell walls.

For a moment, neither Reina nor Soobin moved.

Reina stared at the fallen petals, her chest tight.

“What the hell, Bin?” she said softly.

Soobin swallowed. The corridor felt smaller now, suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then, quieter, “fuck.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 3:30 PM

You crossed the quad in time to see Yeonjun step out of the Administration building, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind him. He headed for the parking lot without a backward glance, head down, eyes glued to the darkened pavement.

The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the scent of wet grass and damp stone.

By the time you reached him, he was already unlocking his car.

“Yeonjun.”

He froze.

He hadn’t expected to see you again today. He’d checked your timetable after he’d talked to Professor Myers. He’d calculated everything so he could leave campus before your library shift began at four.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, pulling the car door open wider. “I’ve got to—”

“What does ‘fuck the scheme’ mean?”

His hand tightened on the door handle.

You stood directly in front of him, close enough to see the pulse jumping at his neck as he looked up at you.

For several long seconds, he only stared. It was a change from his earlier avoidance, and you didn’t know what to make of it. You held his gaze anyway.

A car alarm chirped somewhere in the distance.

Yeonjun tried to find his words and ended up finding too many: “Where—what—wh—”

“Soobin mentioned it,” you said. “What scheme?”

The corner of his left eye twitched. He loved Soobin. At that moment, he loved him enough to consider throttling him.

He briefly shut his eyes, then opened them again.

He’d done this himself.

It was his fault.

“It’s not—” He exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing serious. Just an old joke.”

Your expression did not soften. “Let’s have a laugh, then.”

He swallowed, eyes darting over your shoulder to the gradually filling parking lot. A pair of students passed behind you, laughing about something. Their joy felt inappropriate. Obscene.

“I should really go—”

“You won’t be going anywhere,” you said, inching closer, “if you don’t explain that shit to me right now.”

His pulse jumped in a familiar reflex. He inhaled and forced his chest to settle.

He knew he shouldn’t be speaking to you here, under the Administration windows, where the glass reflected everything, including his mother’s office two buildings over.

Yet he found, with nauseating clarity, that he feared walking away from you now far more than the consequences that awaited him if he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice subdued. “Can we just go over there? It’s quieter.”

He motioned to the empty bench against the far wall, half-hidden behind a bare sycamore. Its branches swayed anxiously in the breeze.

You turned towards it without replying.

He followed.

Two weeks ago, you’d have made a joke about the bench being conveniently secluded; fewer witnesses if you’d killed him. He would’ve snorted and teased you about wanting to get him alone. You would’ve rolled your eyes.

Now you walked beside him in silence with a deliberate gap between you. And Yeonjun had a sinking suspicion that it would not be your rage that ultimately undid him. It would be this gap.

The bench was cold.

The moisture from the wood seeped into your jeans. You placed the freesias beside you, pretending not to feel the chill. Yeonjun lowered himself next to you with visible hesitation, leaving a careful inch of space. He rested his braced wrist on his thigh. His leather jacket creaked in the quiet.

Above, the sycamore stirred. Its few remaining leaves scraped together in dry, conspiratorial murmurs.

He needed a moment before he could speak. He had to make sure that when he opened his mouth, what emerged would be more than just a defeated heugh.

“Okay,” he said at last. “So, uh—a long time ago, I told Soobin that Amy and I had split up. ‘Course that didn’t mean much since we were never actually—well, you know the story.”

“Right.”

The single syllable fell flat between you.

Yeonjun fixed his eyes on the gravel under his feet. He nudged a loose stone with the toe of his boot.

“Well, after that break-up, my parents started parading candidates again,” he continued. “Organising dinners where everyone pretended we weren’t one meal away from an arranged marriage.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I kept refusing to go. My parents kept not caring.”

You stole a glance at him. The wind pushed a strand of hair into his eyes; he didn’t notice.

“So I was venting to Soobin about all that,” he went on. “And I said—it—this was long ago by the way. Years. I don’t even remember when exactly—”

“Get on with it, Yeonjun.”

His shoulders stiffened.

He couldn’t remember the last time you’d called him by his full name.

At once, he felt the past two weeks begin to lose their meaning. Felt them fading as though they’d never been more than a suggestion.

He knew he shouldn’t have cared. There was nothing he could do now. But, shit, his spine could barely find the strength to hold him upright.

“I-I told Soobin,” he forced out, scratching the corner of his eye, “that I was so tired of this rubbish that I was considering going out with someone my parents would hate. Someone they’d never choose for me. Different background, different everything. Just—someone to spite them. To piss them off.” He swallowed. “To prove they didn’t own me.”

The wind rose. The branches rustled, and a twig snapped somewhere directly overhead.

You couldn’t remember when you’d last inhaled.

“I was joking,” he said, staring at the ground. “It wasn’t serious. I said, uh—said I didn’t even know anyone who’d fit that scheme.”

The word lingered for a moment.

You heard it repeating, mixing with the echo of your pulse in your ears.

“And then,” he said, voice dropping, “Soobin joked that, um—that you would.”

He looked at you then. Saw the shutters slamming down behind your eyes as you turned away and clenched your jaw.

“He wasn’t being serious,” he added hastily. “He used to bring you up just to get a reaction. It was—it was a bit of a running joke.”

Slowly, you returned your gaze to him.

“You had a running joke,” you repeated, each word level, “about how I am exactly the sort of person that would embarrass your parents.”

“That—no.” His breaths grew uneven. “It wasn’t about—shit. It wasn’t like that. Bin mentioned you because he was trying to get under my skin. We—we laughed. S’all it was. Just—a stupid joke.”

You gave a curt nod. “Yeah, no, s’funny. Because I do, actually, fit the scheme.”

He blinked, instinctively prepared to contradict you, then stopped himself. Denying it, he knew, would only insult you further.

“Technically,” he said weakly, “I guess you do. But that’s not—this was before you and I started to—”

You stood from the bench. The wood gave a harsh creak.

Yeonjun flinched at the sound. Something in his chest choked him, like a knot he’d meant to loosen but ended up tightening instead.

“No, see,” you said, slowly shaking your head. “I knew it.”

The memories in your head realigned. You recalled sitting with Yeonjun at your flat, when he’d first told you that he and Amy had never actually dated. You recalled how carefully he’d chosen his words.

All the better for me, he’d said after you pointed out that you weren’t from a so-called respectable family.

You’d found that phrasing odd. Tried to excuse it.

But of course, it was better for him. This way, he could spite his parents.

Your skin crawled.

You couldn’t remember anything else from that night, not the piano at Taehyun’s theatre, not the walk home. And what did any of it matter anyway?

“I told you that you had motives,” you said, a sardonic smile on your lips. Your eyes were hollow. “And when you said you’d only gone out with Amy to get your parents off your case, I thought, oh. Maybe you’re doing the same with me.”

Yeonjun opened his mouth to argue. You cut it off with a sharp scoff.

“I didn’t fucking realise,” you went on, “that you were using me to get back at them instead.”

The wind swept low across the quad, pressing the grass into obedient waves. Its steady rush filled the space between you.

Yeonjun swallowed, as though he could force your accusation down with his breath.

“It wasn’t that,” he tried, his voice barely audible over the wind. “I didn’t want my parents to know about you. I told yo—”

You let out a short, humourless laugh.

“Yeah. You said they’d never support this relationship. Turns out that was the whole point.” You turned to him, eyes blazing with a heat so merciless that it made him feel entirely flammable. “And, really, you could’ve picked anyone for your little rebellion, couldn’t you? But you picked me. Because I fit the scheme best, yeah?”

His fingers twitched against his thighs.

Everything that he had said to you over the past two weeks was crumbling and reforming into the version of him you’d always accused him of being. The version you’d dreaded.

“S’why you asked about my family on our first date, wasn’t it?” you went on. “Just doing your research. Making sure I came from nothing. That’d really show them.”

He felt flayed open under your gaze.

When you looked away, however, he felt even worse.

“I asked about your family because I wanted to know,” he said. The words had to scrape their way up his throat. “That was real. It wasn’t about anything else.”

“Right.” You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “But the bet itself was about your parents.”

Yeonjun dropped his gaze back to the gravel.

He understood painfully well that he couldn’t fix this without breaking something else. If he explained everything properly, he’d end up telling you he loved you again. And he couldn’t tell you he loved you if he couldn’t be with you.

“I fucking knew it,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “And you made me feel stupid for thinking you were hiding something.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Until his mother’s call that morning, he had believed the two of you might stand a chance. He’d thought you’d have a real shot, none of this game shit. Thought you’d be happy.

He couldn’t believe now that you never would be.

“I’m sorry,” he said, clutching his jeans hard enough that his palm stung. The words were flimsy and inadequate, and still, he couldn’t find better ones.

Your voice was flat: “Don’t be.”

You bent down to gather the freesias from the bench. The faint scent of your perfume brushed past him, painfully familiar. The flowers looked terrible up close: bruised and battered, their stems bent at defeated angles.

You stepped onto the gravel without looking back.

Yeonjun felt each of your steps as if they’d landed inside his chest.

You only paused once, at the rubbish bin by the low wall. Every fracture in your heart seemed to echo outward. You felt the cracks spread to your lungs, your ribs, your skin.

You weren’t breathing.

One by one, you dropped the bouquets into the bin. The flowers struck plastic with a hollow thud, their colour vanishing into shadow.

The sound emptied him.

He knew he should’ve stayed where he was. Should’ve let you walk away.

If you believed he had used you, you’d stop fighting. You’d leave. And if you left, his parents couldn’t reach you.

He knew that.

And still, he stood. Still, he followed you down the path.

“Wait—please.”

His voice cracked behind you, splitting the steady crunch of gravel beneath your feet. The sound startled a pair of pigeons pecking at the edge of the grass. They burst into the air in a frantic flurry of wings and landed on the roof of the Administration building. Its tall windows reflected the colour of old tin.

You heard the rhythm of his boots, heard his strained breathing.

You did not slow. If you slowed, you might stop. And if you stopped—

Yeonjun’s hand closed around yours.

His touch jolted your bloodstream, igniting a cascade of tremors along your spine. You stopped.

When you turned to him, your face was stone.

He released you at once. “I—I’m sorry.”

You folded your arms across your chest again, rebuilding the barricade between you. Your fingers dug into the sleeves of your coat.

“I just—I wanted to say,” he began, floundering, “that it’ll be okay. You’ll forget about me.”

Your brows furrowed. “What—”

“You will,” he rushed on, looking at you like he needed you to believe this so that he could too, “because you deserve better.” His throat tightened helplessly. “But I—I’ll never forget.”

The air thinned inside your lungs.

A ray of sun slipped through the cloud cover and caught on the slick pavement. For a moment, the quad seemed jarringly bright.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again.

He took a step back, barely. Still, the distance struck you with palpable force.

You sucked in a sharp breath, grasping for words before pride could cauterise them.

“Jun.”

His breath shuddered. His head dipped slightly forward like he’d been hit.

For a long, burning second, he hesitated, trying not to imagine what would happen if he walked back to you. If he explained everything. If you listened. If you—

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He turned back towards his car.

Each step felt like he was walking through something viscous. He wanted to drive away. Disappear into roads that led nowhere, until he couldn’t recognise anyone, not even himself, anymore.

You didn’t move.

You watched him climb into his Mercedes. Heard the engine start. And watched, for the second and final time that day, as the car accelerated and disappeared at the end of the street.

When it was gone, the world did not pause for you to catch your breath.

A cyclist cut across the quad, with shorts that were too flimsy for this weather. Someone’s phone rang behind you with a generic Apple tone. A window opened above.

Yeonjun had been wrong.

You would not forget.

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 4:25 PM

When you checked the time, the screen of your phone blinked up at you with cold indifference.

You were twenty-five minutes late for your shift.

You stared at the numbers for a moment longer, as if willing the clock to rewind. It didn’t. Your reflection stared back, warped faintly by the smudges on the glass, tired and unfamiliar.

You rang in sick before you could talk yourself out of it.

Your voice sounded distracted and stifled, even to your own ears. Eunji wasn’t in today, but her assistant believed you without question. The ease of it all left something hollow behind your ribs.

You lowered your phone.

You’d go home, then. Sort yourself out.

The campus stretched before you in brick and glass and damp concrete. Noticeboards sagged under layers of outdated flyers. Students passed, laughing and arguing. Someone was lying on the bench by the marble fountain.

“Hey!”

The voice reached you from behind, pulling you back by force.

You turned back to see Soobin in the doorway of the Social Sciences building, his hand hooked in his backpack strap, the other one raised in a tentative wave. His hair was mussed by the wind.

You stopped, hesitated awkwardly, then wandered over to him.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping down the stairs by the entrance.

Your gaze flicked past him automatically, searching.

“Sure,” you said. “Do you, um—where’s Reina?”

Soobin glanced back without thinking. “Uh, still with her advisor. Her meeting’s running late.”

You turned to the dark first-floor windows. “Okay.”

There was nothing else for you to do with yourself.

Soobin shifted his weight. He didn’t know what to do with himself, either. He clasped his hands together, then let them go.

“Did you, uh,” he tried, “find Yeonjun?”

Your jaw clenched before you could stop it. “I did.”

He lowered his voice as though Yeonjun would materialise beside you at the sound of his name. “Did you talk to him?”

“I did.”

He paused.

Clearly, he shouldn’t ask how it went.

“I—I’m really sorry,” he said.

Something volatile churned in your chest. You’d heard at least twenty apologies today, which was about twenty more than you’d needed.

“For what?” you asked. The question came out quickly, sharper than you meant, and Soobin took a surprised step back. Guilt followed swiftly behind your irritation.

“For mentioning, uh—that so carelessly,” he said, then frowned at his choice of words. “I didn’t mean to make anything worse. I know you’re sort of fighting and—”

“We’re sort of not,” you said. “It’s over.”

Lips parting, he glanced down at your hands. You didn’t have the freesias anymore. Your fingers were clenched into fists.

“You—you brought up my name,” you said.

His gaze shot up. “Hm?”

“When Yeonjun couldn’t think of someone to fit his idiotic scheme, you suggested me.”

The wind tore across the quad, tugging at the hem of your coat. Behind him, a door slammed shut in the draft.

Soobin’s boots scuffed against the gravel. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That really hurt, Bin,” you admitted. “I thought we were friends.”

He winced.

“We are friends,” he said. “We are. I swear, it—God, this is such a mess.” He dragged a hurried hand down his face. “The reason I suggested you wasn’t—I wasn’t really suggesting you at all. Back then, Yeonjun talked about you constantly. Complaining or ranting or—whatever. I told him he probably had a crush on you. He denied it, but he denied anything that didn’t make him look cool.”

Your heart made an old, treacherous jump. You ignored it. You were getting very good at it.

“So I-I said your name to wind him up,” Soobin explained. “I brought you up to him whenever I could. I was teasing. That’s all it was.”

A group of girls hurried past him, hunched against the wind. Introduction to Sociology was printed in thick blue letters across the spines of the books clutched to their chests. First years, most likely. They looked purposeful. Keen. You almost envied them.

“I shouldn’t have said your name in that context, though,” Soobin added, quieter now. “Even as a joke. It was disrespectful. I’m sorry.”

You turned back to him, measuring the sincerity in his eyes against the uncomfortable ache spreading quietly through your chest.

“I get that,” you said at last. You did not have the energy to dig through another argument today. “It’s okay.”

Soobin knew it wasn’t okay.

But he hoped, perhaps selfishly, that you wanted it to be okay.

“I really wasn’t trying to plant ideas in his head,” he continued, the words stumbling out of him as though on a run from something. “I just wanted to tease him. And he was—he was angry about—about Amy, I think. Or his parents. We were both talking out of our asses.”

“It makes sense, though,” you said, staring at the building steps behind him. “I do fit the scheme.”

The wind dragged a scatter of dry leaves across the quad. They scraped over the gravel with a loud, brittle sound that set your teeth on edge.

Soobin watched the distance settle in your eyes.

“Okay,” he conceded reluctantly. “Maybe you do. But that’s not the reason he wants to be with you.”

You exhaled. Your gaze drifted past him to the spindly trees lining the gravel path. Their branches clawed at the grey sky.

“He doesn’t want to be with me,” you said.

I think I’m in love with you

I think I’m in love with you

I think I’m in love—

“We had a bet,” you added, stubbornly fighting against the tightness in your chest. “And now it’s over.”

“Right,” Soobin said. “But it wasn’t just a—”

“Well, even if it wasn’t,” you said, voice growing louder despite your attempts at restraint, “even if the scheme doesn’t mean anything, he left, yeah? Said whatever he had to say and left.”

Soobin swallowed. “Okay. But that still doesn’t mean that he—”

“Oh, forget it, Bin. It doesn’t—”

“No.” His voice was sharper now. It startled you both. “Just—just listen to me for a second, alright?”

The campus had fallen unnaturally quiet. A lecture must have started; every building around you stood solemn.

You’d never heard Soobin raise his voice before.

You nodded once, brief.

Soobin exhaled.

“He’s tired,” he said. “He’s been doing what his parents told him since he could walk. I think it’s reached the point where he doesn’t even feel like a person anymore, just going through the motions. Following obligations. Day in, day out.”

He scratched his neck, searching for words that would explain his point without betraying everything Yeonjun had trusted him with. This felt like force majeure, though. He hoped Yeonjun would forgive him.

“S’why he races,” he went on. “S’why he goes out so much. He’s got nothing that’s actually his. That’s why he came up with that scheme, too. Out of desperation, I guess.” He stopped, catching himself. “It—it’s not an excuse, of course. Just... context? A-and I was—I was scared for him. Living like that, always at someone’s command, it—that’s not a good life. But, um—with you, he’s different.”

Your fingers found the edge of your backpack strap and pulled it tight.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Soobin said, exhaling slowly. “He still never thinks before he speaks, I don’t think he ever will. But he started to look more awake when he met you. More alive. He had a—well, a purpose. Of course, that purpose was to piss you off, yeah—but still. It was his. No one else’s.”

Your thoughts were tangled together. You felt them splinter, felt them fight to make sense.

You remembered the way Yeonjun had looked at you—last night and two weeks ago. Remembered that he’d wanted to cover up your relationship using the rumours about himself and Amy.

Maybe, he’d said, I didn’t want to lose the one thing in my life that’s got nothing to do with my parents.

You swallowed. “How do you explain what happened, then?”

Your voice had changed. The new softness made Soobin’s chest twist.

He could hear, unmistakably now, that you were hurt.

Instinctively, he glanced at his coat pocket. His phone sat there completely useless. He’d texted Yeonjun a solid half a hundred times already. He’d left voice notes that ranged from frantic yelling—do you realise what the fuck you’re doing?—to desperate reasoning—try to use your brain, for once—and none had received a response.

Soobin knew there probably wasn’t much of a response anyway.

“He’s protecting you,” he said. “From his life.”

Something inside you recoiled.

You did not believe that leaving could ever be protection.

“Mhmm.” You clicked your tongue against your teeth. “Or maybe he’s still making it useful. Turning this into some other way to get his parents to fuck off. A new scheme, if you will.”

Soobin’s jaw tightened.

He could see you didn’t fully believe this. But reverting to your old habit of hating Yeonjun restored your balance.

Hurt made you feel small. Anger did not.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again, softer this time.

“I told you, it’s okay.”

“No.” He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I mean, about what happened with Yeonjun.”

You drew in a slow breath. The air in your lungs felt cooler now, sharper somehow. You held it in for a second, then let it go.

“Well,” you said with a faint lift of your chin, “it’s fine. I won the bet. So that’s something.”

Soobin wondered, distantly, what his dentist would say about the way he’d been grinding his teeth for the past ten minutes. It’d probably involve a mouth guard.

“Were you heading home?” he asked.

The question dislodged your mind from the dark depths it’d wandered to. You glanced over your shoulder, as if to check if the road you’d been taking was still there.

It was.

And if you squinted, you could just make out the trash bin, two streets over, where you’d tossed out the freesias.

“Yeah,” you said.

“Let me walk you.”

You turned back to him. “What? No. You’ve got to pick up Reina from her meeting.”

Soobin was already fishing his phone from his pocket. “I’ll text her.”

“No.” You brushed your fingers over the edge of the device. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

He lowered his phone and looked at you properly.

Your voice held steady, admirably so. But your eyes were overbright, like glass reflecting an aggressive slice of sunlight.

You noticed his scrutiny and offered him a small, stubborn nod. You weren’t fine, but you would force yourself to be.

“I’m staying with you until Reina comes to replace me, then,” he decided, just as stubborn.

You let out a short scoff. “Am I on suicide watch? You really think I’m down that bad?”

Panic flashed across his face. He mentally cursed himself for not having better articulation. He might just stop speaking altogether after today.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I just think you could use some company. It’s been a long two weeks.”

“It—” you began, but the weariness in your lungs stole the rest of the words. You exhaled what little air remained and nodded. “Yeah, alright. It has been.”

His shoulders dropped an inch.

“Come on,” he said.

He draped an arm around your shoulders, careful, very afraid of startling you. His coat smelled faintly of Reina’s perfume, floral and familiar. You allowed yourself to lean into it, just slightly.

“Let’s stop by the corner shop, and we can come back, pick Reina up,” he said. “Saw they restocked the ice cream you and Rei always hoard.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over your face. “We don’t hoard it.”

“It’s been sold out for months.”

“Not our fault they don’t stock enough.”

He snickered, his chest moving gently beside you. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you walked.

“Thank you,” you said, quietly.

He gave your shoulder a light squeeze. “S’what friends are for.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 5 PM

By the time you and Soobin made it back to the Social Sciences building, sugar buzzing through your veins, plastic bags of ice cream biting into your fingers, the streetlights had begun to flicker on one by one. Behind the buildings, the sky had sunk into a flat, depthless blue.

Reina was just stepping out mid-sentence, Taehyun beside her, caught in a debate about a reality show that they both claimed to have never seen. Her hands carved passionate shapes through the air, nearly thumping into his chest as she made her point.

Taehyun noticed you first.

His gaze dropped immediately to the waffle cone in your hand, then the bag swinging from your wrist.

He gave Reina a distracted, “mhmm, yes, yes,” and crossed to you with singular purpose. Without ceremony, he reached into your bag and extracted a strawberry ice cream.

“Appreciate it,” he said, as though you’d got it for him personally, and tore into the wrapper with his teeth.

You snorted. “You’re welcome.”

He paused, cone halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked to your tense shoulders, then to the restrained clench in Soobin’s jaw.

He almost asked what was wrong, but guessed, from the ice cream bags and the conspicuous absence of Yeonjun at your side, that you wouldn’t want to talk about it.

“Cheers,” he said instead, and stepped in to hug you. It was firmer than usual, deliberate, even as he angled the ice cream away from your hair. Cold syrup from his cone still brushed your sleeve as he pulled back.

He transferred the embrace to Reina, who squealed about the stickiness of his hands, but still wholeheartedly accepted the hug.

Then he gave Soobin a sticky fist bump, saluted you vaguely with his melting ice cream, and walked down the gravel path towards his theatre.

Reina stepped into the space he left behind, eyes alight when she spotted the second bag.

“You angels,” she breathed while you rummaged for her favourite pear flavour, holding your cherry cone between your teeth.

“Meeting okay?” you asked, pressing the ice cream into her expectant hand.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just a bunch of new reading he wants me to do. And I’m still about two thousand words short of the minimum.”

You huffed. “More literature review, then?”

“Yeah. Or something close to it, anyway.” She shrugged. She wrote most of her thesis at three in the morning; that was when her brain worked best. “I’ll worry about it before my next meeting.”

You smiled softly, biting into your waffle cone.

She watched your face as she unwrapped her ice cream. Your gaze seemed carefully neutral.

Soobin cleared his throat lightly.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll head home, then. Give you two some—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Stay. The three of us could hang out.”

Reina’s eyes flicked to him.

He nodded.

She continued to watch him, another question passing through her gaze.

This time, he gave the slightest shake of his head.

She inhaled sharply and licked the melting edge of her ice cream.

“Alright,” she said, linking her arm through yours. The pear cream was a little tangy on her tongue. “Let’s go.”

The three of you walked back towards your flat. Conversation drifted in and out without committing to anything heavy: homework, spring break, graduation. The pavement glittered faintly beneath the streetlights. Your shadows stayed close together.

As soon as you unlocked the flat, warmth folded around you. The air inside still held the clinging sweetness of freesias.

For a second, you considered turning around, claiming you’d forgotten something, camping out in the stairwell. Anything to avoid the scent.

Reina brushed past you, clasping your hand and tugging you inside.

“Right!” she announced, kicking off her trainers in the corridor. She only released you when Soobin shut the door. “Takeaway. Do you want noodles? Or something spicier, maybe. Or pizza? Actually, pizza sounds great. But noodles are—noodles are nice. Oh, maybe soup? Is soup too depressing? Soup can be depressing, s’very—actually, maybe we should skip straight to dessert. I read somewhere that fruit yoghurt works with roasted vegetables. Not cauliflower, though. I hate cauliflower. Would you want cauliflower with yoghurt? I think it—”

You laughed.

Her gaze snapped towards you, eyes lighting up with cautious victory. She’d distracted you, then, if only for a second.

“I’m going to put these in the fridge,” you said, taking Soobin’s bag. “But if you order cauliflower with yoghurt, I’m moving out and taking the ice cream with me.”

She laughed—louder than she’d meant in her eagerness—and nodded. Then she turned to help Soobin disentangle the absurd knot on his scarf.

In the kitchen, the freesias made it awkward to open the fridge. Petals brushed your wrist as you shifted them aside. The scent clung to the back of your throat.

You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the brushed steel of the fridge, refusing to look at the flowers directly. Refusing, especially, to think about where they had come from.

You’d throw them out tomorrow, you decided. You didn’t want to make a scene in front of Reina and Soobin.

You jammed the ice cream into the freezer, forced the door shut, then washed your hands to get rid of the stickiness from the cherry syrup.

With Reina and Soobin still arguing about noodles in the corridor, you slipped into your room. Your backpack landed on the bed with a soft, tired sigh. You unzipped it, pulled out your laptop and plugged it in.

While it powered on, you gathered the clothes draped over your chair and dropped them onto your bed. The shirt from last night was still faintly damp, cold at the cuffs. You dropped it quickly.

A soft ping.

You turned to your laptop. There was a new email notification in the lower right corner.

Subject: Offer – Predoctoral Research Fellowship, Sociology

Frowning, you lowered yourself into your chair and clicked it open.

The email started with your name.

It continued with words you couldn’t understand.

Following a faculty review of candidates nominated to our office, the email read, we are delighted to offer you a place in the Predoctoral Research Fellowship Program in the Department of Sociology at New York University.

You blinked. Then scrolled down.

The more you read, the less plausible the email seemed.

It claimed to be about a fully funded, nine-month fellowship with a monthly stipend, health insurance, and guaranteed access to graduate housing. At one of the leading research universities in New York.

Your head spun. Your heart beat so fast it felt briefly unmanageable.

Institutions like that were for people who wrote their names with bold, golden letters. You had never even dared to visit their admissions page. You could only imagine the acceptance rate, the cost.

You scrolled back to the top and checked the sender. Director of Predoctoral Studies. When you hovered over the address, a proper New York University domain appeared.

Official, then.

Real.

You stood abruptly. The room tilted around you. You steadied yourself against the desk, then dropped to your bed, pulling the laptop to your knees. The charger stretched across the room.

You read the email again. Then read it three more times.

The quiet in your room had grown unnatural.

Reina knocked lightly against the doorframe, Soobin just behind her shoulder.

“You good?” Reina asked.

You craned your neck towards her, then silently angled the screen.

They stepped inside. Soobin tripped on the charger and knocked the vase on your desk. He caught it before it hit the floor, muttering a distracted Jesus—fuck, then placing it back on your books.

They leaned in and read the email. Then read it three more times.

“Shit,” Soobin finally exhaled. “I didn’t even know you applied.”

“Me neither,” Reina murmured, her eyes locking onto the stipend figure.

“I didn’t,” you said. “Says it was a nomination.”

Something tight pressed into your chest, neither joy nor anticipation. It made your eyes water. You swallowed and scanned the email again.

“They’re citing my Master’s thesis,” you read, blinking too quickly. “Said some—someone from the programme attended the Spring Conference last year. When I presented my research project. Said they were—” Your throat caught. You cleared it. “Said my work was noted for its rigorous methodology.”

You remembered that conference room last year, the harsh light of the projector. Remembered how dense your slides had been, how fast you’d rushed through them, words tangling on your tongue. Your hands had been shaking.

You’d been proud of your work before, but during that conference, you were certain you’d embarrassed yourself. You couldn’t remember who you’d spoken to after that, if anyone at all.

What you did remember, however, was that Yeonjun had been there, too, sitting in the back row. He hadn’t presented anything, but he’d won the scholarship for outstanding academic achievements in a school year shortly after. It had reeked of nepotism. You’d hated him for it.

Exhaling shakily, you returned your gaze to your laptop screen.

“Fully funded, too,” Soobin said, leaning closer. “Shit—you’d only need to cover the flight.”

Your hands trembled against the keyboard. “Yeah.”

Reina was the first to notice the shine at the corners of your eyes.

“Babe,” she said gently, sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm came around your shoulders. Her cashmere sweater was warm and soft against your side. “This is incredible.”

You wiped at your cheeks with the heel of your palm, irritated by the heat in your eyes.

“I know,” you said. “Yeah.”

Your voice sounded small, even if it refused to tremble.

Reina watched you, brows drawn together, her chest weighted with everything you weren’t saying.

Only this morning, the two of you had chatted in the bathroom, laughing as you dissected the previous night. Following her relentless badgering, you’d told her about Yeonjun’s careless joke that you were practically living together. Told her about his infuriating smirk.

Would you mind, though? she’d asked, waggling her brows at your reflection. Actually living with him, one day?

Horribly, you had replied, smiling despite yourself, not at all.

Now your eyes burned, and you couldn’t understand why.

Reina could.

“Come here,” she whispered and did not wait.

She pulled you into her, one arm firm around your shoulders, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head. You folded into her without resistance, forehead pressing into her jumper. Her strawberry shampoo washed over you.

Your fingers curled into the fabric at her waist. Your breath hitched, then steadied. Then hitched again.

Soobin hovered tactfully in the doorway, pretending great interest in the peeling paint near the frame. He shifted his weight once, cleared his throat, and wordlessly excused himself to gather the takeaway menus abandoned on the kitchen counter.

Your bedroom held its breath. Your laptop cast a faint blue glow on the bed beside you. Staring at the screen, at the new life waiting for you there, something old stirred in your memory.

A poem.

You’d read it in your first year, sprawled across your bed while you waited for Reina’s late seminar to finish. The book had been second-hand, its spine broken, its margins annotated in cramped handwriting that wasn’t meant for you to understand.

You couldn’t remember the poet now. Couldn’t even remember what the poem had really been about.

Only the final lines had remained, lodged deep inside you, dormant and patient. Waiting.

And the fairytale ends early,

On an unexpectedly sad note.

THE END

SEQUEL COMING SOON

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✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 10 AM (DAY 13)

The sky hung low and colourless that Monday morning, like a lid clamped down over the city. A thin drizzle stitched against your bedroom window, leaving silver seams that caught the weak light of your desk lamp.

After a largely sleepless night on Yeonjun’s sofa and a questionable drive home, you’d promised yourself an hour’s nap. Your elective today had been cancelled after the professor got sick, so you figured you could spare sixty minutes with your eyes shut before your only remaining seminar of the day. Your bed waited, sheets rumpled and pleasantly warm.

Reina did not agree with this plan.

Every time she crossed the corridor while getting ready, she deliberately paused in your doorway.

When your face surfaced from the folds of your duvet, she bared her teeth. “Well?”

You burrowed deeper into the covers.

She breezed into your room.

“I know you’re awake,” she sang. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

Groaning, you dragged yourself upright. Reina took that as consent and clambered onto the mattress, her knees digging into your thigh.

Ever since she’d returned from her hometown the previous night and discovered your empty bed, she’d been incandescent with curiosity. And when Soobin came back shortly after, announcing—with a faint flush in his cheeks—that you and Yeonjun were at his house, her curiosity turned into proper sport. Now she was in the first row and demanded fireworks by intermission.

You refused to give her a show.

Pointedly ignoring her excitement, you recapped the weekend in clipped bullet points: a meal with Yeonjun’s parents, then the funeral for his Nissan. Not much else.

Reina declared that you were recounting it like items on a receipt and shook her head, unimpressed.

Instead of interrogating you further, however, she filled in every gap herself, tweaking her theories based on how heavily you sighed. Much to her growing satisfaction, you sighed very heavily.

When you escaped to the bathroom, she was hot on your heels.

“Think it’s clear,” she declared while you reached for your toothbrush, “you are obsessed with each other.”

“It’s just one weekend,” you replied, toothpaste frothing at your lips.

“Technically, it’s your second one,” she said, hopping up onto the counter. Her slippers knocked softly against the door. “And I bet next weekend, you’ll already have a shared list of groceries. Milk, eggs, toilet pap—”

“Rei.”

She grinned. “You’re glowing, have I mentioned?”

You switched the toothbrush to the other side. “S’the lighting.”

She leaned forward and covered the bulb above the mirror with her hand, throwing half your face into shadow.

“Mm.” Her eyes sparkled. “Still glowing.”

You laughed despite yourself, bent to spit, then straightened. Reina bumped her shoulder into yours. You retaliated by nudging her hip, enough to make her wobble on the counter.

She yelped, laughing as she caught your sleeve to steady herself.

“For the record,” she said, bracing a hand behind her so you wouldn’t both topple into the shower cabin, “I support this development between you. Just one thing, if I may?”

You sighed. “You may.”

“I believe I did very much tell you so.”

You clicked your tongue, and, for a few bright minutes, the flat floated with her laughter.

Soon, infected with her energy, you started to feel giddy, too—childishly so. Like a little kid trying not to laugh in the middle of a very serious lesson. You didn’t mind when you caught your reflection and noticed the smudged mascara on the corners of your eyes.

Then Reina reached for her phone to check the time and gasped.

You looked up from the sink. “What?”

She turned her screen towards you. There were five messages from Soobin stacked on top of each other, warning her of his upcoming demise from the cold outside.

“He’s been waiting for ten minutes,” she said, jumping off the counter. “Says he’s writing his will.”

You snorted. “He couldn’t come up?”

“We sort of agreed to meet downstairs,” she admitted, crossing the bathroom. “But then I got distracted by you and your boyfriend, so…”

She trailed off, casting one last meaningful look at you.

You shook your head, lips twitching. “Go. Don’t make him suffer.”

She gave you a hurried hug, then headed down the corridor to grab her bag and find her shoes. A minute later, the front door slammed shut.

Silence unfurled around you, interrupted only by the gentle rush of water as you washed your hands under the tap.

You glanced at your own phone.

YEONJUN [11:29 AM] can we meet before class? i need to talk to you

The smile on your lips waned.

You’d noted the message when it came, but Reina had been mid-cross-examination, so you didn’t dare to pick your phone up.

Now you hovered over the keyboard, tempted to say something flippant (are we bringing knives to this talk, or why are you so ominous). You swallowed it back.

YOU [12:07 PM] sure, omw now

This weekend had shifted something fundamental between you and Yeonjun. And with the bet ending tomorrow, it was relatively obvious what he’d want to talk about.

The inevitable now what.

The awkward so what are we.

That would have made sense.

But, alone under the bathroom lights, you saw the unease in your reflection: shoulders pulled in, a subtle tremour along your jaw. There was a taste of mint and something metallic in your mouth.

You were thinking about the drive home this morning.

Yeonjun had insisted on coming with you. He’d buckled himself into the passenger seat of Reina’s Honda, commented that it smelled very strongly of citrus, and hadn’t said anything else.

You didn’t have to come all this way, you had teased, pulling out into early morning traffic. I had the car.

He had looked at the windscreen and shrugged.

How’s your wrist? you’d asked.

Fine.

You sure?

Yeah.

You’d waited, hoping he’d hear his short, terse responses and offer just a sliver more. He hadn’t.

You alright? you’d tried again.

He’d glanced down at his brace and tightened it until his hand paled. Just tired, I guess.

Something brittle had threaded his voice. You felt it and pulled back, pride sealing your mouth before you could embarrass yourself by asking again.

Later, after parking down the street, you’d stood with him for ten minutes outside your building while he waited for his taxi. He’d had his hands in his pockets. In all that time, he hadn’t looked at you once.

Now the memory clung to you, unpleasant and persistent, as you locked the flat and stepped into the stairwell.

Maybe, you thought, it meant nothing. He might’ve really been tired.

Outside, the drizzle thickened into a steady downpour. It dampened your coat and seeped through the seams. Your umbrella snapped open with a resentful crack, warning you it was nearing retirement. The street was empty of colour, even the car headlights were blurred into pale smudges.

The closer you drew to campus, the thicker the scent of coffee became. The Social Sciences building loomed on the edge, its red bricks darkened by rain so much that they looked charred.

Yeonjun was standing at the edge of the parking lot.

You saw him before he saw you.

He stood too straight, spine locked, shoulders squared as though he expected something to hit him and had decided, stubbornly, not to budge when it did. Rain gathered along the seams of his black leather jacket, turning it glossy. He held three bouquets of freesias, their pale purple blossoms absurdly bright.

“Hi,” you said, stepping off the kerb.

He turned.

Up close, he looked worse than he had this morning.

Shadows pooled under his eyes. The bruises from the crash stood out, livid against his pale skin, deepening his cheekbones to a painful violet. Rain had plastered his hair into damp strands across his forehead.

“Hi,” he replied.

“You okay?” You angled the umbrella to cover him. “Sleep at all?”

He drew in a shuddering breath. “Uh, a bit.”

“But not much?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Not really.”

You readjusted the strap of your backpack, and your grip on the umbrella faltered. It tipped, and the corner tapped him on the head. He didn’t flinch.

“Sorry,” you muttered, righting it.

“S’fine.”

His eyes hovered somewhere near your collarbone. You weren’t wearing a scarf.

He dropped his stare to the wet pavement and inhaled.

He’d spent most of the morning getting you flowers and staring at them on his kitchen island with a bottle of wine from the fridge. It didn’t count as day drinking, he’d decided, if he’d never gone to bed. His mouth still tasted sour, his limbs oddly distant. More than anything, he wanted to cease for a minute. Just not be.

“This, um—” His voice faltered. He held out the freesias. “For you.”

Sighing, you wedged the umbrella between your cheek and shoulder and accepted the bouquets. The stems were cool, damp, and slightly sticky against your palm.

“Why three?” you asked.

Technically, he owed you two: one for yesterday, one for today.

“It’s in advance.” His hand lifted to the back of his head, fingers pressing into his hair. “And it’s an apology.”

You were breathing in the soft fragrance when the word registered.

“Hm?” You looked up. “For what?”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“It’s over,” he said. The rain hushed his words, but didn’t soften them. “The bet. You’ve won.”

You stared at him.

“I’ll leave the workshop,” he went on, his tone eerily even as though he was reciting a paragraph from a book. “We won’t talk again. It—that’s it. You’ve won.”

The parking lot seemed to shrink. White lines pressed at the edges of your vision.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquets. One freesia bent under the strain, and the stem snapped.

“What,” you said slowly, “do you mean?”

Yeonjun ran his tongue over his lips. They were as dry as the inside of his mouth.

“I said I’d prove you wrong about me,” he said. “And I’ve failed.”

Heat rushed up your neck.

You briefly questioned whether you’d imagined everything that had happened yesterday: from the A&E to his bathroom, his bedroom, his sofa.

“Mhmm.” The freesias rustled as you gathered them into one hand, gripping the umbrella with the other. Your ears burned. “So you think I don’t want you, then?”

A car rolled into the parking lot behind you, tyres hissing on wet asphalt. Instinctively, Yeonjun reached for you, hands lifted to guide you out of its path.

He stopped himself.

You saw the aborted movement. Saw the way his fingers curled inward instead.

The restraint hit like a punch to the gut.

“Wanting,” he said at last, drawing in a breath that scraped his lungs raw, “is not what love is.”

Recognition narrowed your gaze and tightened your throat.

You’d said this to him once, outside your flat, during your long, circular discussion about the purpose of the bet. About what love meant.

You’d waited for him to end the bet then.

But not like this.

Another car cut through the lot, spraying a fan of dirty water that stopped just short of your trainers.

Yeonjun flinched. “Could you move away from the—”

“I don’t get it,” you cut in, your pulse throbbing in your gums with every word. “What do you want me to say, then? Want me to tell you I’m in love with you?”

His chest seized. “I d—”

“I thought—you made it seem like this wasn’t a bet anymore.”

A frigid breeze swept across the parking lot, needling through your coat and whipping rain against your calves. The umbrella shuddered, dripping water from the rim. The paper around the flowers had gone limp and translucent.

Yeonjun was wondering if this was the last rain he’d ever get into with you.

“I know,” he said. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides.

“So it was just that, then?” you asked. Your voice had gone strangely calm. “A point to prove?”

He shook his head once, quick. “I—look, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” His gaze tracked the ripples spreading through a puddle at his boots. “Mostly for this.”

“What is this, Jun?” Your voice cracked on his name; it almost sounded pleading. You hated that it did.

“It—” He inhaled and forced himself to look up, but only managed half a glance at you before flinching away. “It’s over.”

The words propelled him.

Before he could reconsider, before you could say something that would pin him in place, he ducked out from under your umbrella and stepped past you.

The rain lashed down on him immediately, darkening his jacket, soaking his hair. For a heartbeat, you braced yourself, expecting him to brush against your arm. To hesitate. To stop.

He didn’t.

His boots skidded on the slick asphalt as he headed for his Mercedes. His movements were hurried, graceless, almost desperate. He was fleeing.

“You’re actually serious?” you called after him.

The rain drowned the question. He didn’t turn.

His fingers fumbled with the door handle. The brace on his wrist forced his hand into an awkward angle, grip compromised, knuckles pale with effort. He wasn’t supposed to be driving yet.

He slipped inside anyway.

You stepped forward without fully deciding to. Puddles swallowed the hems of your jeans, icy water seeping through your socks. The umbrella sagged against your shoulder. Rain found the gap at your collar and slid down your spine.

“So that’s it?” you demanded as his engine roared to life, too loud in the quiet parking lot. “We’re just not going to talk anymore?”

He didn’t answer.

For a wild second, you considered chucking the freesias under his tyres. Letting the petals burst purple beneath the wheels. Forcing him to get out and talk to you.

Inside the car, Yeonjun sat rigid, fingers locked around the steering wheel. The engine vibrated through him, a mechanical pulse that matched the frantic rhythm in his chest.

He could’ve driven off; you weren’t blocking him. There was space.

He didn’t move.

Through the rain-streaked windscreen, he felt the weight of your gaze, felt it land like a hand between his shoulder blades. Like your touch after he’d wrapped his Nissan around the oak.

Fuck.

You didn’t move, either.

Yeonjun knew you wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t chase him down the street, wouldn’t call him a coward, wouldn’t demand explanations. Partly out of pride, yes, but more than that, self-respect. You shouldn’t have had to ask for what he should’ve given freely.

He didn’t deserve you asking anyway.

And he had nothing to give.

Finally, almost involuntarily, he shifted into reverse. The car jolted slightly, then smoothed out. The indicator blinked, absurdly cheerful.

You watched the car retreat, tyres slicing through puddles. It turned the corner and disappeared.

Your coat clung heavily to your shoulders, water dripping from your sleeves. The freesias shook in your hands.

You inhaled. The air hurt.

Then you turned and went to class.

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 1 PM

Professor Myers’ auditorium was very warm. One window at the back had been cracked open, allowing in a reluctant draught that did nothing but rearrange the dust. The room smelled faintly of rain and old carpet.

Ten of your classmates sat around the seminar table, discussing news cycles. Someone clicked their pen with an arrhythmic insistence.

Click.

Pause.

Click-click.

Pause.

Click.

Your nerves latched onto the sound immediately. Your pulse matched with it, thudding in your temples, your wrists, the soft hollow at the base of your throat.

You hadn’t done the reading last night.

You’d been busy.

The thought promptly reignited your irritation with Yeonjun. You pressed your lips together and tried to focus on the PDF on your laptop screen in front of you.

The institution-based media of mass communication is no longer—

You scrolled.

The virality of the content in the observed period—

You scrolled.

Nothing assembled into coherence.

The pen clicked again. You had to resist the urge to lean across the table and snap it in two.

The discussion around you fell into a hush. Professor Myers’ gaze drifted over the table. She paused on you.

Your stomach dropped.

You’d always been prepared. Always had a sentence ready, something brief but sufficient. Now your mind was empty.

The professor watched you for a second. Then she moved on.

Relief came, but it wasn’t satisfying. Your pulse did not slow.

You shifted in your seat. The freesias rustled on the floor beside your chair, their wrapping wrinkled and damp. A few petals had already fallen onto the scuffed linoleum. Reina, seated to your left, glanced down at them. The small smile she wore felt like a relic from a different life.

When the seminar finally ended, the pen-clicker left first, abandoning the offending object on the table. You shot it a withering look as you pushed back your chair and slipped your laptop into your backpack.

Professor Myers called your name.

You looked up, startled.

She stood at the front, papers gathered in her hands. “A moment, please?”

Your stomach lurched with an unsettling sense of déjà vu.

You nodded.

At the doorway, Reina lingered just long enough to catch your eye. She mouthed I’ll see you later?, her brows raised in silent question. You managed a small nod. Nodding back, she disappeared into the corridor.

The auditorium felt larger now that it was empty, but no less stifling. Someone had dropped a tissue; it lay crumpled at the leg of the table.

You slung your backpack over your shoulder and collected the freesias. The stems had softened, bending slightly under their own weight.

You checked your phone on the way to the professor’s desk.

No new messages or missed calls.

Alright, then.

“So,” Professor Myers said, and paused for a long moment.

She sat behind her mahogany desk, arranging and rearranging a stack of papers that did not appear to require it. Her email was open on her desktop.

“There’ll be some changes to the workshop,” she said at last. “Yeonjun stopped by before the seminar.”

She made no comment about his absence at said seminar. You swallowed every tart reply that rose to your tongue.

“Yes,” you said. “He mentioned something.”

The professor hummed. “Do you think you’ll be alright continuing on your own?”

For a moment, you were acutely aware of your posture, the damp denim at your ankles, the awkward grip you had on the flowers.

You didn’t know if you would be alright continuing on your own.

“Yes,” you said anyway. Your voice sounded distant, as though you were borrowing it from someone else. “Of course. I’ve just been following the study plan.”

“Right, right.” She lifted the same stack of papers, tapped them into alignment, and set them back down. “To be honest, I don’t quite understand his reasoning. He made a very compelling case to co-host. It seemed important to him.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I can’t see why he’d suddenly withdraw. He—he did look tired, I suppose.”

She was subtly asking you if something had happened to him, you surmised. Perhaps some dramatic, sudden disease that had eaten away at his brain.

You were wondering the same thing.

“Yeah,” you said. “I don’t understand it either, Professor.”

She exhaled. “Well. I told him to formalise the withdrawal with the Administration himself. Hand back his staff badge, all that fun stuff. I assume he’ll sort that today, so he likely won’t join you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

Distracted, you glanced over to the clock above the door.

It was 2:45 PM.

The administrative hours began at three.

You could still catch him, if you wanted to.

You didn’t know if you wanted to.

“I was a bit curt with him,” the professor admitted, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I could’ve handled the paperwork for him. But I admit, I felt rather blindsided.”

Blindsided was a good word.

It nearly made you laugh.

“It’s a busy time,” you said, nodding towards her stack of papers. Someone’s midterms, you guessed from the student ID numbers at the top. “I’m sure he’ll manage himself.”

The professor studied you for a moment, more closely. Inevitably, her gaze slid to the bedraggled flowers in your hands.

At last, she leaned back in her chair, fatigue setting into her shoulders. Whatever rumours she’d overheard, whatever conclusions she might’ve privately drawn, she set them aside. With spring break starting next week, she had better uses for her energy.

“Would you mind stopping by tomorrow after the workshop?” she asked. “Any time before five. I’d like to hear how it went, in case we need to make adjustments.”

You assumed she meant finding you a new co-host.

You’d had quite enough of those.

“Of course,” you said. “Although I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s a good class. Very motivated.”

That was a lie, of course.

The students weren’t motivated so much as deeply aware of their credit requirements. But Professor Myers looked too weary to interrogate your claim.

“That’s good,” she said. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage it.”

You produced a smile that finally allowed her to dismiss you.

Fixing your backpack, you turned a little too quickly and caught the corner of her desk with the bouquets. More petals fell, bright against the dark wood. You didn’t stoop to gather them.

The corridor outside was noticeably cooler. You stopped by the window at the far end and leaned your hip against the windowsill.

You needed a moment.

The glass of the window was faintly fogged. Outside, students crossed the quad, their umbrellas tilting every which way with the wind. You slipped your hand into your coat pocket and found your phone.

Then, movement by the staircase caught your eye.

Reina and Soobin were approaching with identical expressions of cautious concern. They stopped on either side of you, unintentionally blocking every exit.

“Everything okay?” Reina asked, chin tilting toward the auditorium behind you.

You released your phone and pulled your hand out of your pocket.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just workshop stuff.”

Soobin hovered to your right, framed by the weak afternoon light.

He kept glancing at Reina as though waiting for her permission to speak. She looked at him and nodded.

“Um,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeonjun just texted me. Said he’s not going to be home the rest of the week. Have you two got plans? Because I don’t mind you staying at the house, I can just—you know.”

You lifted your head slowly.

Yeonjun wasn’t just leaving the workshop, then. He was leaving.

You couldn’t understand.

If this was about pride—what more did he want from you, your heart clearly wasn’t yours anymore—then yours had taken the bigger hit. You were the one standing in the parking lot, trying to process the end of something that had never even officially started. With three fucking bouquets of freesias.

“We haven’t got plans,” you told Soobin, “I don’t know anything about that.”

Reina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “S’he coming with you to the library?”

“No.”

Soobin edged half a step back, closer to Reina. They exchanged a look over your shoulder, brief but loaded.

“Did something happen?” he ventured. His eyes dipped to the freesias.

You exhaled and set the bouquets on the windowsill. One stem rolled lazily before settling against the damp paper. Then you hoisted yourself up beside them, palms braced against the sill. The glass pressed cool against your spine.

Yeonjun was probably at Administration by now.

“Nothing happened,” you said. “I won the bet.”

Soobin’s face lost colour in increments. Even his black turtleneck looked a shade lighter.

Reina blinked once. Twice. Then closed her eyes and frowned.

Their surprise steadied you. If they were this bewildered, then you weren’t losing your mind.

“What does that mean?” Reina asked.

You shrugged. “He said I’ve won. So he’s left the workshop. And we’re not speaking anymore.”

“Wait,” Soobin said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth all of a sudden. “So he just—and you—h-how—wh—”

Reina placed a hand on his forearm, squeezing briefly in a quiet command to stop, please.

She turned back to you. “Start at the part that makes sense, babe.”

You stared at the plant slumped in the corner of the windowsill. Its leaves were yellowing at the edges.

“Don’t know where that is,” you said. “He texted me this morning, said he needed to talk. So we talked. He said the bet was over.”

You lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Reina released a breath that sounded like it’d been trapped inside her lungs for days.

“It’s really not much of a plot twist when you look at it like that,” you added, dry. “We agreed on two weeks. Two weeks are over. Apparently, I won.”

Your gaze drifted back to the freesias beside you. Their purple blossoms had already started to bleach, as though reconsidering their earlier optimism.

For one reckless second, you imagined scooping them up and hurling them out of the window. Watching them arc against the low clouds and scatter across the quad like fucked up confetti.

The corridor was quiet.

Reina watched you without blinking, her hands clenched at her sides. She had a meeting with her thesis advisor in an hour. Now she was calculating whether she could squeeze in assault and battery beforehand. Perhaps just battery.

“Has he hit his head very hard at some point yesterday?” she asked, her tone honed to a fine point. “This is clearly not a fucking bet.”

The ferocity in her expression was familiar. Reina’s protectiveness had always bordered on criminal.

Once, years ago, during a night out in a basement club, some random bloke had asked for your number at the bar. You’d given it; he was very cute. Ten minutes later, Reina spotted him in a corner, devouring another girl with alarming enthusiasm.

She hadn’t stopped to think for one second.

She’d marched across the club, seized him by the collar—how she managed it, given he was twice her size, remained one of life’s enduring mysteries—and dragged him into the men’s room. Afterwards, she’d wedged a decorative plant against the door and left him there to reflect on his life.

He’d emerged twenty minutes later, looking very sober, and promptly left the club.

You were briefly tempted to unleash Reina on Yeonjun.

You resisted.

“Rei—”

“Hang on,” Soobin interjected, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his thoughts were threatening to spill out. “She’s right. He—I talked to Jun about this a few days ago. At Gyu and Kai’s.”

The memory of that party rolled through you like nausea. You’d lived three different lives in the space of this past week.

“That’s smashing,” you said, staring at a crack in the windowsill. “I talked to him today.”

“Okay, that—” Soobin frowned. “But it’s not just a bet. I asked him. I—”

“Well, then he lied to you too, Bin,” you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

A group of students passed behind Reina, their chatter loud and careless. It washed through the corridor.

The quiet after they disappeared into the stairwell felt hostile. The light behind the window dulled another shade.

Reina shook her head slowly. “I don’t think he lied.”

“Yeah,” Soobin said. “I don’t believe that, either.”

Their certainty pressed against your ribs, gentle and a lot like hope. You tried not to let it in.

“Something must have happened,” Soobin insisted, his gaze drifting past you to the rainy quad.

Reina stood next to him, deep in thought. She was rifling through every story you’d told her about Yeonjun, turning each detail over, pulling out screws, checking for loose wiring.

Either Yeonjun was in mortal danger, she reasoned, or she was going to put him in one.

“Could be his parents,” she said.

Soobin opened his mouth beside her, then turned to you, wide-eyed. “His parents.”

Your heart kicked and then slowed, wary.

“They were docile when we saw them, though,” you said, inclining your head. “Nothing happened.”

Reina shrugged. “So, they did something after you left.”

“What could they have done?” you returned. “We were together nearly the whole time.”

There were reasonable doubts in your voice.

Soobin shared none of them.

He knew Yeonjun’s parents well. They had deemed his family a good match and always welcomed him to their immaculate dinners. He’d seen Yeonjun’s mother smile at guests, and he’d seen that smile vanish the moment everyone’s attention shifted. He knew her. And he knew her control could travel through phone calls, through texts. Even through silence.

“They said something to him,” Soobin said, raking a hand through his hair hard enough to spark static. A few strands lifted at the crown. “They had to. Fuck.”

He began pacing in tight circles, visibly agitated. His boots squeaked faintly against the tiles.

“I warned him about playing games,” he muttered. “I fucking told him—” He cut himself off and pivoted back to you. His eyes found yours, but there was nothing in them that recognised you. “But I don’t—I still don’t understand.”

Uncomfortable under his vacant stare, you glanced at Reina.

She gave a shake of her head: let him dig.

“Even if his parents had said something to him,” Soobin dug, “he took this bet seriously. Swear he did. He wouldn’t have just—I mean, I talked to him. He was all ‘I’ll think about it’ and ‘fuck the scheme.’ He obviously knew what would happen if—”

“Wait.” You lifted a hand, palm out. “What?”

He finally blinked. “Hm?”

“What scheme?”

The silence in the corridor deepened.

Soobin’s shoulders drew up, his chest locking rib by rib.

“It—no,” he said, swallowing. “No, that was a joke.”

You stared at him. “About me?”

Reina got a very bad feeling and shifted a step back, putting a touch of space between them. Soobin watched her with naked horror.

“No,” he said quickly. His voice frayed. “It wasn’t about—not—not about you. Not exactly. It—”

“Bin,” Reina said, calm in a way that was almost threatening. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing, my love,” he replied automatically, forcing a smile that looked painful to maintain. Blinking too fast, he turned back to you. “It’s—have you tried talking to him again? Maybe he’s having—maybe he’s gone insane.”

“Maybe you have,” you said, pushing off the windowsill. Your trainers hit the tiles with a blunt thud. “What’s going on?”

Soobin tried to exhale, but lost sense of his breath halfway through. With his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, he looked abruptly younger. Like a kid who’d accidentally dropped something expensive and now waited for an adult to scold him.

“You should really speak to him,” he said. “There must be something you can do about—”

“I don’t want to do anything.” Your anger bit at your chest before it reached him. “What scheme?”

“It’s nothing.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if that might reverse time. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stu—”

“What scheme?”

His jaw clenched so tightly that you heard his teeth click.

“Please,” he said, glancing at you. “Just—just talk to him.”

You looked at Reina.

Her expression mirrored yours: the same disbelief, the same slowly rising fury.

Without another word, you gathered the freesias, scattering another handful of petals, and strode away. Your footsteps ricocheted against the stairwell walls.

For a moment, neither Reina nor Soobin moved.

Reina stared at the fallen petals, her chest tight.

“What the hell, Bin?” she said softly.

Soobin swallowed. The corridor felt smaller now, suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then, quieter, “fuck.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 3:30 PM

You crossed the quad in time to see Yeonjun step out of the Administration building, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind him. He headed for the parking lot without a backward glance, head down, eyes glued to the darkened pavement.

The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the scent of wet grass and damp stone.

By the time you reached him, he was already unlocking his car.

“Yeonjun.”

He froze.

He hadn’t expected to see you again today. He’d checked your timetable after he’d talked to Professor Myers. He’d calculated everything so he could leave campus before your library shift began at four.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, pulling the car door open wider. “I’ve got to—”

“What does ‘fuck the scheme’ mean?”

His hand tightened on the door handle.

You stood directly in front of him, close enough to see the pulse jumping at his neck as he looked up at you.

For several long seconds, he only stared. It was a change from his earlier avoidance, and you didn’t know what to make of it. You held his gaze anyway.

A car alarm chirped somewhere in the distance.

Yeonjun tried to find his words and ended up finding too many: “Where—what—wh—”

“Soobin mentioned it,” you said. “What scheme?”

The corner of his left eye twitched. He loved Soobin. At that moment, he loved him enough to consider throttling him.

He briefly shut his eyes, then opened them again.

He’d done this himself.

It was his fault.

“It’s not—” He exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing serious. Just an old joke.”

Your expression did not soften. “Let’s have a laugh, then.”

He swallowed, eyes darting over your shoulder to the gradually filling parking lot. A pair of students passed behind you, laughing about something. Their joy felt inappropriate. Obscene.

“I should really go—”

“You won’t be going anywhere,” you said, inching closer, “if you don’t explain that shit to me right now.”

His pulse jumped in a familiar reflex. He inhaled and forced his chest to settle.

He knew he shouldn’t be speaking to you here, under the Administration windows, where the glass reflected everything, including his mother’s office two buildings over.

Yet he found, with nauseating clarity, that he feared walking away from you now far more than the consequences that awaited him if he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice subdued. “Can we just go over there? It’s quieter.”

He motioned to the empty bench against the far wall, half-hidden behind a bare sycamore. Its branches swayed anxiously in the breeze.

You turned towards it without replying.

He followed.

Two weeks ago, you’d have made a joke about the bench being conveniently secluded; fewer witnesses if you’d killed him. He would’ve snorted and teased you about wanting to get him alone. You would’ve rolled your eyes.

Now you walked beside him in silence with a deliberate gap between you. And Yeonjun had a sinking suspicion that it would not be your rage that ultimately undid him. It would be this gap.

The bench was cold.

The moisture from the wood seeped into your jeans. You placed the freesias beside you, pretending not to feel the chill. Yeonjun lowered himself next to you with visible hesitation, leaving a careful inch of space. He rested his braced wrist on his thigh. His leather jacket creaked in the quiet.

Above, the sycamore stirred. Its few remaining leaves scraped together in dry, conspiratorial murmurs.

He needed a moment before he could speak. He had to make sure that when he opened his mouth, what emerged would be more than just a defeated heugh.

“Okay,” he said at last. “So, uh—a long time ago, I told Soobin that Amy and I had split up. ‘Course that didn’t mean much since we were never actually—well, you know the story.”

“Right.”

The single syllable fell flat between you.

Yeonjun fixed his eyes on the gravel under his feet. He nudged a loose stone with the toe of his boot.

“Well, after that break-up, my parents started parading candidates again,” he continued. “Organising dinners where everyone pretended we weren’t one meal away from an arranged marriage.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I kept refusing to go. My parents kept not caring.”

You stole a glance at him. The wind pushed a strand of hair into his eyes; he didn’t notice.

“So I was venting to Soobin about all that,” he went on. “And I said—it—this was long ago by the way. Years. I don’t even remember when exactly—”

“Get on with it, Yeonjun.”

His shoulders stiffened.

He couldn’t remember the last time you’d called him by his full name.

At once, he felt the past two weeks begin to lose their meaning. Felt them fading as though they’d never been more than a suggestion.

He knew he shouldn’t have cared. There was nothing he could do now. But, shit, his spine could barely find the strength to hold him upright.

“I-I told Soobin,” he forced out, scratching the corner of his eye, “that I was so tired of this rubbish that I was considering going out with someone my parents would hate. Someone they’d never choose for me. Different background, different everything. Just—someone to spite them. To piss them off.” He swallowed. “To prove they didn’t own me.”

The wind rose. The branches rustled, and a twig snapped somewhere directly overhead.

You couldn’t remember when you’d last inhaled.

“I was joking,” he said, staring at the ground. “It wasn’t serious. I said, uh—said I didn’t even know anyone who’d fit that scheme.”

The word lingered for a moment.

You heard it repeating, mixing with the echo of your pulse in your ears.

“And then,” he said, voice dropping, “Soobin joked that, um—that you would.”

He looked at you then. Saw the shutters slamming down behind your eyes as you turned away and clenched your jaw.

“He wasn’t being serious,” he added hastily. “He used to bring you up just to get a reaction. It was—it was a bit of a running joke.”

Slowly, you returned your gaze to him.

“You had a running joke,” you repeated, each word level, “about how I am exactly the sort of person that would embarrass your parents.”

“That—no.” His breaths grew uneven. “It wasn’t about—shit. It wasn’t like that. Bin mentioned you because he was trying to get under my skin. We—we laughed. S’all it was. Just—a stupid joke.”

You gave a curt nod. “Yeah, no, s’funny. Because I do, actually, fit the scheme.”

He blinked, instinctively prepared to contradict you, then stopped himself. Denying it, he knew, would only insult you further.

“Technically,” he said weakly, “I guess you do. But that’s not—this was before you and I started to—”

You stood from the bench. The wood gave a harsh creak.

Yeonjun flinched at the sound. Something in his chest choked him, like a knot he’d meant to loosen but ended up tightening instead.

“No, see,” you said, slowly shaking your head. “I knew it.”

The memories in your head realigned. You recalled sitting with Yeonjun at your flat, when he’d first told you that he and Amy had never actually dated. You recalled how carefully he’d chosen his words.

All the better for me, he’d said after you pointed out that you weren’t from a so-called respectable family.

You’d found that phrasing odd. Tried to excuse it.

But of course, it was better for him. This way, he could spite his parents.

Your skin crawled.

You couldn’t remember anything else from that night, not the piano at Taehyun’s theatre, not the walk home. And what did any of it matter anyway?

“I told you that you had motives,” you said, a sardonic smile on your lips. Your eyes were hollow. “And when you said you’d only gone out with Amy to get your parents off your case, I thought, oh. Maybe you’re doing the same with me.”

Yeonjun opened his mouth to argue. You cut it off with a sharp scoff.

“I didn’t fucking realise,” you went on, “that you were using me to get back at them instead.”

The wind swept low across the quad, pressing the grass into obedient waves. Its steady rush filled the space between you.

Yeonjun swallowed, as though he could force your accusation down with his breath.

“It wasn’t that,” he tried, his voice barely audible over the wind. “I didn’t want my parents to know about you. I told yo—”

You let out a short, humourless laugh.

“Yeah. You said they’d never support this relationship. Turns out that was the whole point.” You turned to him, eyes blazing with a heat so merciless that it made him feel entirely flammable. “And, really, you could’ve picked anyone for your little rebellion, couldn’t you? But you picked me. Because I fit the scheme best, yeah?”

His fingers twitched against his thighs.

Everything that he had said to you over the past two weeks was crumbling and reforming into the version of him you’d always accused him of being. The version you’d dreaded.

“S’why you asked about my family on our first date, wasn’t it?” you went on. “Just doing your research. Making sure I came from nothing. That’d really show them.”

He felt flayed open under your gaze.

When you looked away, however, he felt even worse.

“I asked about your family because I wanted to know,” he said. The words had to scrape their way up his throat. “That was real. It wasn’t about anything else.”

“Right.” You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “But the bet itself was about your parents.”

Yeonjun dropped his gaze back to the gravel.

He understood painfully well that he couldn’t fix this without breaking something else. If he explained everything properly, he’d end up telling you he loved you again. And he couldn’t tell you he loved you if he couldn’t be with you.

“I fucking knew it,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “And you made me feel stupid for thinking you were hiding something.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Until his mother’s call that morning, he had believed the two of you might stand a chance. He’d thought you’d have a real shot, none of this game shit. Thought you’d be happy.

He couldn’t believe now that you never would be.

“I’m sorry,” he said, clutching his jeans hard enough that his palm stung. The words were flimsy and inadequate, and still, he couldn’t find better ones.

Your voice was flat: “Don’t be.”

You bent down to gather the freesias from the bench. The faint scent of your perfume brushed past him, painfully familiar. The flowers looked terrible up close: bruised and battered, their stems bent at defeated angles.

You stepped onto the gravel without looking back.

Yeonjun felt each of your steps as if they’d landed inside his chest.

You only paused once, at the rubbish bin by the low wall. Every fracture in your heart seemed to echo outward. You felt the cracks spread to your lungs, your ribs, your skin.

You weren’t breathing.

One by one, you dropped the bouquets into the bin. The flowers struck plastic with a hollow thud, their colour vanishing into shadow.

The sound emptied him.

He knew he should’ve stayed where he was. Should’ve let you walk away.

If you believed he had used you, you’d stop fighting. You’d leave. And if you left, his parents couldn’t reach you.

He knew that.

And still, he stood. Still, he followed you down the path.

“Wait—please.”

His voice cracked behind you, splitting the steady crunch of gravel beneath your feet. The sound startled a pair of pigeons pecking at the edge of the grass. They burst into the air in a frantic flurry of wings and landed on the roof of the Administration building. Its tall windows reflected the colour of old tin.

You heard the rhythm of his boots, heard his strained breathing.

You did not slow. If you slowed, you might stop. And if you stopped—

Yeonjun’s hand closed around yours.

His touch jolted your bloodstream, igniting a cascade of tremors along your spine. You stopped.

When you turned to him, your face was stone.

He released you at once. “I—I’m sorry.”

You folded your arms across your chest again, rebuilding the barricade between you. Your fingers dug into the sleeves of your coat.

“I just—I wanted to say,” he began, floundering, “that it’ll be okay. You’ll forget about me.”

Your brows furrowed. “What—”

“You will,” he rushed on, looking at you like he needed you to believe this so that he could too, “because you deserve better.” His throat tightened helplessly. “But I—I’ll never forget.”

The air thinned inside your lungs.

A ray of sun slipped through the cloud cover and caught on the slick pavement. For a moment, the quad seemed jarringly bright.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again.

He took a step back, barely. Still, the distance struck you with palpable force.

You sucked in a sharp breath, grasping for words before pride could cauterise them.

“Jun.”

His breath shuddered. His head dipped slightly forward like he’d been hit.

For a long, burning second, he hesitated, trying not to imagine what would happen if he walked back to you. If he explained everything. If you listened. If you—

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He turned back towards his car.

Each step felt like he was walking through something viscous. He wanted to drive away. Disappear into roads that led nowhere, until he couldn’t recognise anyone, not even himself, anymore.

You didn’t move.

You watched him climb into his Mercedes. Heard the engine start. And watched, for the second and final time that day, as the car accelerated and disappeared at the end of the street.

When it was gone, the world did not pause for you to catch your breath.

A cyclist cut across the quad, with shorts that were too flimsy for this weather. Someone’s phone rang behind you with a generic Apple tone. A window opened above.

Yeonjun had been wrong.

You would not forget.

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 4:25 PM

When you checked the time, the screen of your phone blinked up at you with cold indifference.

You were twenty-five minutes late for your shift.

You stared at the numbers for a moment longer, as if willing the clock to rewind. It didn’t. Your reflection stared back, warped faintly by the smudges on the glass, tired and unfamiliar.

You rang in sick before you could talk yourself out of it.

Your voice sounded distracted and stifled, even to your own ears. Eunji wasn’t in today, but her assistant believed you without question. The ease of it all left something hollow behind your ribs.

You lowered your phone.

You’d go home, then. Sort yourself out.

The campus stretched before you in brick and glass and damp concrete. Noticeboards sagged under layers of outdated flyers. Students passed, laughing and arguing. Someone was lying on the bench by the marble fountain.

“Hey!”

The voice reached you from behind, pulling you back by force.

You turned back to see Soobin in the doorway of the Social Sciences building, his hand hooked in his backpack strap, the other one raised in a tentative wave. His hair was mussed by the wind.

You stopped, hesitated awkwardly, then wandered over to him.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping down the stairs by the entrance.

Your gaze flicked past him automatically, searching.

“Sure,” you said. “Do you, um—where’s Reina?”

Soobin glanced back without thinking. “Uh, still with her advisor. Her meeting’s running late.”

You turned to the dark first-floor windows. “Okay.”

There was nothing else for you to do with yourself.

Soobin shifted his weight. He didn’t know what to do with himself, either. He clasped his hands together, then let them go.

“Did you, uh,” he tried, “find Yeonjun?”

Your jaw clenched before you could stop it. “I did.”

He lowered his voice as though Yeonjun would materialise beside you at the sound of his name. “Did you talk to him?”

“I did.”

He paused.

Clearly, he shouldn’t ask how it went.

“I—I’m really sorry,” he said.

Something volatile churned in your chest. You’d heard at least twenty apologies today, which was about twenty more than you’d needed.

“For what?” you asked. The question came out quickly, sharper than you meant, and Soobin took a surprised step back. Guilt followed swiftly behind your irritation.

“For mentioning, uh—that so carelessly,” he said, then frowned at his choice of words. “I didn’t mean to make anything worse. I know you’re sort of fighting and—”

“We’re sort of not,” you said. “It’s over.”

Lips parting, he glanced down at your hands. You didn’t have the freesias anymore. Your fingers were clenched into fists.

“You—you brought up my name,” you said.

His gaze shot up. “Hm?”

“When Yeonjun couldn’t think of someone to fit his idiotic scheme, you suggested me.”

The wind tore across the quad, tugging at the hem of your coat. Behind him, a door slammed shut in the draft.

Soobin’s boots scuffed against the gravel. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That really hurt, Bin,” you admitted. “I thought we were friends.”

He winced.

“We are friends,” he said. “We are. I swear, it—God, this is such a mess.” He dragged a hurried hand down his face. “The reason I suggested you wasn’t—I wasn’t really suggesting you at all. Back then, Yeonjun talked about you constantly. Complaining or ranting or—whatever. I told him he probably had a crush on you. He denied it, but he denied anything that didn’t make him look cool.”

Your heart made an old, treacherous jump. You ignored it. You were getting very good at it.

“So I-I said your name to wind him up,” Soobin explained. “I brought you up to him whenever I could. I was teasing. That’s all it was.”

A group of girls hurried past him, hunched against the wind. Introduction to Sociology was printed in thick blue letters across the spines of the books clutched to their chests. First years, most likely. They looked purposeful. Keen. You almost envied them.

“I shouldn’t have said your name in that context, though,” Soobin added, quieter now. “Even as a joke. It was disrespectful. I’m sorry.”

You turned back to him, measuring the sincerity in his eyes against the uncomfortable ache spreading quietly through your chest.

“I get that,” you said at last. You did not have the energy to dig through another argument today. “It’s okay.”

Soobin knew it wasn’t okay.

But he hoped, perhaps selfishly, that you wanted it to be okay.

“I really wasn’t trying to plant ideas in his head,” he continued, the words stumbling out of him as though on a run from something. “I just wanted to tease him. And he was—he was angry about—about Amy, I think. Or his parents. We were both talking out of our asses.”

“It makes sense, though,” you said, staring at the building steps behind him. “I do fit the scheme.”

The wind dragged a scatter of dry leaves across the quad. They scraped over the gravel with a loud, brittle sound that set your teeth on edge.

Soobin watched the distance settle in your eyes.

“Okay,” he conceded reluctantly. “Maybe you do. But that’s not the reason he wants to be with you.”

You exhaled. Your gaze drifted past him to the spindly trees lining the gravel path. Their branches clawed at the grey sky.

“He doesn’t want to be with me,” you said.

I think I’m in love with you

I think I’m in love with you

I think I’m in love—

“We had a bet,” you added, stubbornly fighting against the tightness in your chest. “And now it’s over.”

“Right,” Soobin said. “But it wasn’t just a—”

“Well, even if it wasn’t,” you said, voice growing louder despite your attempts at restraint, “even if the scheme doesn’t mean anything, he left, yeah? Said whatever he had to say and left.”

Soobin swallowed. “Okay. But that still doesn’t mean that he—”

“Oh, forget it, Bin. It doesn’t—”

“No.” His voice was sharper now. It startled you both. “Just—just listen to me for a second, alright?”

The campus had fallen unnaturally quiet. A lecture must have started; every building around you stood solemn.

You’d never heard Soobin raise his voice before.

You nodded once, brief.

Soobin exhaled.

“He’s tired,” he said. “He’s been doing what his parents told him since he could walk. I think it’s reached the point where he doesn’t even feel like a person anymore, just going through the motions. Following obligations. Day in, day out.”

He scratched his neck, searching for words that would explain his point without betraying everything Yeonjun had trusted him with. This felt like force majeure, though. He hoped Yeonjun would forgive him.

“S’why he races,” he went on. “S’why he goes out so much. He’s got nothing that’s actually his. That’s why he came up with that scheme, too. Out of desperation, I guess.” He stopped, catching himself. “It—it’s not an excuse, of course. Just... context? A-and I was—I was scared for him. Living like that, always at someone’s command, it—that’s not a good life. But, um—with you, he’s different.”

Your fingers found the edge of your backpack strap and pulled it tight.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Soobin said, exhaling slowly. “He still never thinks before he speaks, I don’t think he ever will. But he started to look more awake when he met you. More alive. He had a—well, a purpose. Of course, that purpose was to piss you off, yeah—but still. It was his. No one else’s.”

Your thoughts were tangled together. You felt them splinter, felt them fight to make sense.

You remembered the way Yeonjun had looked at you—last night and two weeks ago. Remembered that he’d wanted to cover up your relationship using the rumours about himself and Amy.

Maybe, he’d said, I didn’t want to lose the one thing in my life that’s got nothing to do with my parents.

You swallowed. “How do you explain what happened, then?”

Your voice had changed. The new softness made Soobin’s chest twist.

He could hear, unmistakably now, that you were hurt.

Instinctively, he glanced at his coat pocket. His phone sat there completely useless. He’d texted Yeonjun a solid half a hundred times already. He’d left voice notes that ranged from frantic yelling—do you realise what the fuck you’re doing?—to desperate reasoning—try to use your brain, for once—and none had received a response.

Soobin knew there probably wasn’t much of a response anyway.

“He’s protecting you,” he said. “From his life.”

Something inside you recoiled.

You did not believe that leaving could ever be protection.

“Mhmm.” You clicked your tongue against your teeth. “Or maybe he’s still making it useful. Turning this into some other way to get his parents to fuck off. A new scheme, if you will.”

Soobin’s jaw tightened.

He could see you didn’t fully believe this. But reverting to your old habit of hating Yeonjun restored your balance.

Hurt made you feel small. Anger did not.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again, softer this time.

“I told you, it’s okay.”

“No.” He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I mean, about what happened with Yeonjun.”

You drew in a slow breath. The air in your lungs felt cooler now, sharper somehow. You held it in for a second, then let it go.

“Well,” you said with a faint lift of your chin, “it’s fine. I won the bet. So that’s something.”

Soobin wondered, distantly, what his dentist would say about the way he’d been grinding his teeth for the past ten minutes. It’d probably involve a mouth guard.

“Were you heading home?” he asked.

The question dislodged your mind from the dark depths it’d wandered to. You glanced over your shoulder, as if to check if the road you’d been taking was still there.

It was.

And if you squinted, you could just make out the trash bin, two streets over, where you’d tossed out the freesias.

“Yeah,” you said.

“Let me walk you.”

You turned back to him. “What? No. You’ve got to pick up Reina from her meeting.”

Soobin was already fishing his phone from his pocket. “I’ll text her.”

“No.” You brushed your fingers over the edge of the device. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

He lowered his phone and looked at you properly.

Your voice held steady, admirably so. But your eyes were overbright, like glass reflecting an aggressive slice of sunlight.

You noticed his scrutiny and offered him a small, stubborn nod. You weren’t fine, but you would force yourself to be.

“I’m staying with you until Reina comes to replace me, then,” he decided, just as stubborn.

You let out a short scoff. “Am I on suicide watch? You really think I’m down that bad?”

Panic flashed across his face. He mentally cursed himself for not having better articulation. He might just stop speaking altogether after today.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I just think you could use some company. It’s been a long two weeks.”

“It—” you began, but the weariness in your lungs stole the rest of the words. You exhaled what little air remained and nodded. “Yeah, alright. It has been.”

His shoulders dropped an inch.

“Come on,” he said.

He draped an arm around your shoulders, careful, very afraid of startling you. His coat smelled faintly of Reina’s perfume, floral and familiar. You allowed yourself to lean into it, just slightly.

“Let’s stop by the corner shop, and we can come back, pick Reina up,” he said. “Saw they restocked the ice cream you and Rei always hoard.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over your face. “We don’t hoard it.”

“It’s been sold out for months.”

“Not our fault they don’t stock enough.”

He snickered, his chest moving gently beside you. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you walked.

“Thank you,” you said, quietly.

He gave your shoulder a light squeeze. “S’what friends are for.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 5 PM

By the time you and Soobin made it back to the Social Sciences building, sugar buzzing through your veins, plastic bags of ice cream biting into your fingers, the streetlights had begun to flicker on one by one. Behind the buildings, the sky had sunk into a flat, depthless blue.

Reina was just stepping out mid-sentence, Taehyun beside her, caught in a debate about a reality show that they both claimed to have never seen. Her hands carved passionate shapes through the air, nearly thumping into his chest as she made her point.

Taehyun noticed you first.

His gaze dropped immediately to the waffle cone in your hand, then the bag swinging from your wrist.

He gave Reina a distracted, “mhmm, yes, yes,” and crossed to you with singular purpose. Without ceremony, he reached into your bag and extracted a strawberry ice cream.

“Appreciate it,” he said, as though you’d got it for him personally, and tore into the wrapper with his teeth.

You snorted. “You’re welcome.”

He paused, cone halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked to your tense shoulders, then to the restrained clench in Soobin’s jaw.

He almost asked what was wrong, but guessed, from the ice cream bags and the conspicuous absence of Yeonjun at your side, that you wouldn’t want to talk about it.

“Cheers,” he said instead, and stepped in to hug you. It was firmer than usual, deliberate, even as he angled the ice cream away from your hair. Cold syrup from his cone still brushed your sleeve as he pulled back.

He transferred the embrace to Reina, who squealed about the stickiness of his hands, but still wholeheartedly accepted the hug.

Then he gave Soobin a sticky fist bump, saluted you vaguely with his melting ice cream, and walked down the gravel path towards his theatre.

Reina stepped into the space he left behind, eyes alight when she spotted the second bag.

“You angels,” she breathed while you rummaged for her favourite pear flavour, holding your cherry cone between your teeth.

“Meeting okay?” you asked, pressing the ice cream into her expectant hand.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just a bunch of new reading he wants me to do. And I’m still about two thousand words short of the minimum.”

You huffed. “More literature review, then?”

“Yeah. Or something close to it, anyway.” She shrugged. She wrote most of her thesis at three in the morning; that was when her brain worked best. “I’ll worry about it before my next meeting.”

You smiled softly, biting into your waffle cone.

She watched your face as she unwrapped her ice cream. Your gaze seemed carefully neutral.

Soobin cleared his throat lightly.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll head home, then. Give you two some—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Stay. The three of us could hang out.”

Reina’s eyes flicked to him.

He nodded.

She continued to watch him, another question passing through her gaze.

This time, he gave the slightest shake of his head.

She inhaled sharply and licked the melting edge of her ice cream.

“Alright,” she said, linking her arm through yours. The pear cream was a little tangy on her tongue. “Let’s go.”

The three of you walked back towards your flat. Conversation drifted in and out without committing to anything heavy: homework, spring break, graduation. The pavement glittered faintly beneath the streetlights. Your shadows stayed close together.

As soon as you unlocked the flat, warmth folded around you. The air inside still held the clinging sweetness of freesias.

For a second, you considered turning around, claiming you’d forgotten something, camping out in the stairwell. Anything to avoid the scent.

Reina brushed past you, clasping your hand and tugging you inside.

“Right!” she announced, kicking off her trainers in the corridor. She only released you when Soobin shut the door. “Takeaway. Do you want noodles? Or something spicier, maybe. Or pizza? Actually, pizza sounds great. But noodles are—noodles are nice. Oh, maybe soup? Is soup too depressing? Soup can be depressing, s’very—actually, maybe we should skip straight to dessert. I read somewhere that fruit yoghurt works with roasted vegetables. Not cauliflower, though. I hate cauliflower. Would you want cauliflower with yoghurt? I think it—”

You laughed.

Her gaze snapped towards you, eyes lighting up with cautious victory. She’d distracted you, then, if only for a second.

“I’m going to put these in the fridge,” you said, taking Soobin’s bag. “But if you order cauliflower with yoghurt, I’m moving out and taking the ice cream with me.”

She laughed—louder than she’d meant in her eagerness—and nodded. Then she turned to help Soobin disentangle the absurd knot on his scarf.

In the kitchen, the freesias made it awkward to open the fridge. Petals brushed your wrist as you shifted them aside. The scent clung to the back of your throat.

You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the brushed steel of the fridge, refusing to look at the flowers directly. Refusing, especially, to think about where they had come from.

You’d throw them out tomorrow, you decided. You didn’t want to make a scene in front of Reina and Soobin.

You jammed the ice cream into the freezer, forced the door shut, then washed your hands to get rid of the stickiness from the cherry syrup.

With Reina and Soobin still arguing about noodles in the corridor, you slipped into your room. Your backpack landed on the bed with a soft, tired sigh. You unzipped it, pulled out your laptop and plugged it in.

While it powered on, you gathered the clothes draped over your chair and dropped them onto your bed. The shirt from last night was still faintly damp, cold at the cuffs. You dropped it quickly.

A soft ping.

You turned to your laptop. There was a new email notification in the lower right corner.

Subject: Offer – Predoctoral Research Fellowship, Sociology

Frowning, you lowered yourself into your chair and clicked it open.

The email started with your name.

It continued with words you couldn’t understand.

Following a faculty review of candidates nominated to our office, the email read, we are delighted to offer you a place in the Predoctoral Research Fellowship Program in the Department of Sociology at New York University.

You blinked. Then scrolled down.

The more you read, the less plausible the email seemed.

It claimed to be about a fully funded, nine-month fellowship with a monthly stipend, health insurance, and guaranteed access to graduate housing. At one of the leading research universities in New York.

Your head spun. Your heart beat so fast it felt briefly unmanageable.

Institutions like that were for people who wrote their names with bold, golden letters. You had never even dared to visit their admissions page. You could only imagine the acceptance rate, the cost.

You scrolled back to the top and checked the sender. Director of Predoctoral Studies. When you hovered over the address, a proper New York University domain appeared.

Official, then.

Real.

You stood abruptly. The room tilted around you. You steadied yourself against the desk, then dropped to your bed, pulling the laptop to your knees. The charger stretched across the room.

You read the email again. Then read it three more times.

The quiet in your room had grown unnatural.

Reina knocked lightly against the doorframe, Soobin just behind her shoulder.

“You good?” Reina asked.

You craned your neck towards her, then silently angled the screen.

They stepped inside. Soobin tripped on the charger and knocked the vase on your desk. He caught it before it hit the floor, muttering a distracted Jesus—fuck, then placing it back on your books.

They leaned in and read the email. Then read it three more times.

“Shit,” Soobin finally exhaled. “I didn’t even know you applied.”

“Me neither,” Reina murmured, her eyes locking onto the stipend figure.

“I didn’t,” you said. “Says it was a nomination.”

Something tight pressed into your chest, neither joy nor anticipation. It made your eyes water. You swallowed and scanned the email again.

“They’re citing my Master’s thesis,” you read, blinking too quickly. “Said some—someone from the programme attended the Spring Conference last year. When I presented my research project. Said they were—” Your throat caught. You cleared it. “Said my work was noted for its rigorous methodology.”

You remembered that conference room last year, the harsh light of the projector. Remembered how dense your slides had been, how fast you’d rushed through them, words tangling on your tongue. Your hands had been shaking.

You’d been proud of your work before, but during that conference, you were certain you’d embarrassed yourself. You couldn’t remember who you’d spoken to after that, if anyone at all.

What you did remember, however, was that Yeonjun had been there, too, sitting in the back row. He hadn’t presented anything, but he’d won the scholarship for outstanding academic achievements in a school year shortly after. It had reeked of nepotism. You’d hated him for it.

Exhaling shakily, you returned your gaze to your laptop screen.

“Fully funded, too,” Soobin said, leaning closer. “Shit—you’d only need to cover the flight.”

Your hands trembled against the keyboard. “Yeah.”

Reina was the first to notice the shine at the corners of your eyes.

“Babe,” she said gently, sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm came around your shoulders. Her cashmere sweater was warm and soft against your side. “This is incredible.”

You wiped at your cheeks with the heel of your palm, irritated by the heat in your eyes.

“I know,” you said. “Yeah.”

Your voice sounded small, even if it refused to tremble.

Reina watched you, brows drawn together, her chest weighted with everything you weren’t saying.

Only this morning, the two of you had chatted in the bathroom, laughing as you dissected the previous night. Following her relentless badgering, you’d told her about Yeonjun’s careless joke that you were practically living together. Told her about his infuriating smirk.

Would you mind, though? she’d asked, waggling her brows at your reflection. Actually living with him, one day?

Horribly, you had replied, smiling despite yourself, not at all.

Now your eyes burned, and you couldn’t understand why.

Reina could.

“Come here,” she whispered and did not wait.

She pulled you into her, one arm firm around your shoulders, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head. You folded into her without resistance, forehead pressing into her jumper. Her strawberry shampoo washed over you.

Your fingers curled into the fabric at her waist. Your breath hitched, then steadied. Then hitched again.

Soobin hovered tactfully in the doorway, pretending great interest in the peeling paint near the frame. He shifted his weight once, cleared his throat, and wordlessly excused himself to gather the takeaway menus abandoned on the kitchen counter.

Your bedroom held its breath. Your laptop cast a faint blue glow on the bed beside you. Staring at the screen, at the new life waiting for you there, something old stirred in your memory.

A poem.

You’d read it in your first year, sprawled across your bed while you waited for Reina’s late seminar to finish. The book had been second-hand, its spine broken, its margins annotated in cramped handwriting that wasn’t meant for you to understand.

You couldn’t remember the poet now. Couldn’t even remember what the poem had really been about.

Only the final lines had remained, lodged deep inside you, dormant and patient. Waiting.

And the fairytale ends early,

On an unexpectedly sad note.

THE END

SEQUEL COMING SOON

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Twelve Years Ago

Overly romantic and prone to flights of fancy – words written by your fourth-grade teacher on your report card, and words that come to mind now, seated with your nose pressed against the second-floor window. Delicately, you lean back and wipe the pane with your sweater.

Long ago, you decided to embrace your (unfortunately immutable) overzealous nature. It’s your superpower; the ability to make the best of a situation and always figure out a path forward. Even your high school drama teacher agrees – last spring, she declared your performance of Fantine in Les Mis to be the most spirited rendition she had ever seen.

Which, come to think of it, may not have been a compliment.

Regardless, it is not in your nature to do things half-measure. And honestly, you would dare even the most cynical high schooler to feel anything less than ecstasy when faced with a date with Yoongi Min. Impossible.

Bright lights swing onto your drive, and you snap the blinds shut, nearly toppling over in your haste to stand. The window seat on the second floor remains your favorite place to spy on the neighborhood. Never mind that things have been cramped since last summer’s growth spurt when you sprang upward four inches.

Below, your dad’s voice drifts up the stairs. “Y/N!” he yells. “Your gentleman caller has arrived!”

Coming to a stop at the landing, you smooth down your sweater and grimace at your hair in the mirror. No matter what you do, it refuses to behave the same way your mom’s does, which always looks perfect. When your dad calls your name again, you give up and head down the stairs.

One thing you never question is where in the family your dramatics came from. While you were upstairs snooping, your dad was in the living room, doing the exact same. He would never miss an opportunity to reenact the scene from Twilight with Charlie Swann and his shotgun. Never mind that your dad has never so much as held a gun, let alone threatened with one. Instead of a rifle, he makes do with the wooden cane your grandma left in your garage last Christmas.

Grabbing your coat, you shove one arm through the sleeve. “Don’t wait up,” you call as you pass by the kitchen.

Your mom barely looks up from where she’s dicing tomatoes. “Be safe, honey. Don’t forget your curfew is 10:00, and there are to be no drugs, no alcohol, and no destruction of public property!”

“Cool, cool – private property is fine, though. Right?”

She laughs, never ceasing with the knife. “Have fun, honey,” she adds as you continue down the hall.

Rushing to the front door, you meet your dad halfway, who emerges from the living room with the cane in one hand.

“Dad, no!” you blurt, nearly tripping on your coat in your haste to reach him. “Please,” you beg, skidding to a stop between him and the door. “You are not allowed to embarrass me tonight.”

Adjusting the cane, he places one hand on his heart. “Who, me?”

Not breaking eye contact, you lower yourself and shove your feet into boots. “Yes, you,” you huff, not trusting him out of your sight. “Or are you not the same dad who humiliated me last year before the homecoming dance?”

Your dad taps his chin. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Oh, no? So, when my date showed up with his pants too high, you did not say, ‘One time I thought the dryer shrunk my clothes, but it turns out it was just –”

“The refrigerator!” Your dad guffaws, remembering the punchline. “And your date didn’t think that was funny?” he asks, sobering at the idea of you dating someone with no sense of humor.

Dad humor, that is.

“Honey,” your mom calls from the kitchen. “Why don’t you come help set the table? We can spy on Y/N from the window when she leaves, like normal parents.”

“Why isn’t Bea helping?” you ask, zipping your coat. “Where is she?”

Bea is your younger sister, and most school nights are spent studying at the library, although she’s usually home by now on Fridays.

“Model UN,” comes your mom’s voice.

Before your dad can form a new argument – his expression looks dangerously close – you dart around him and wrench open the door.

“Thanks!” you yell, stepping outside and slamming it shut. “See you!”

Perhaps you slam the door a tad harder than necessary, since when you turn, you find yourself nose-to-nose with your date.

Yoongi blinks at you, his right hand outstretched as though he were about to knock. Slowly, he lowers his arm. “Uh…” He looks over your shoulder. “Shouldn’t I meet your parents?”

Images of Yoongi facing down the barrel of a wooden cane fill your mind, and you visibly wince.

“Nope,” you blurt, grabbing him by the elbow to steer him towards his car. His car, because – swoon – Yoongi is sixteen and already has his license. “We’re fine, let’s go.”

Yoongi looks once more over his shoulder but eventually follows. Shutting yourself in the passenger seat, you balance your purse on your lap. A purse borrowed from your mom, since no fifteen-year-old needs a purse for everyday life.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Yoongi methodically checks his mirrors. When he looks over and meets your gaze, butterflies erupt in your stomach.

“Hey.” He smiles. “You look nice tonight.”

Thrilled, you glance down, as though you didn’t spend hours with your best friend Jasmine picking out this very outfit.

“Oh, this?” you say, casually. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Yoongi chuckles and faces forward.

Not bad is an understatement – Yoongi looks devastating. His straight, black hair falls across his forehead and those rips in his skinny jeans must be strategic. Also impractical, since it’s winter in Merriman. Hell, you’re cold, even wearing your peacoat, and Yoongi has on only a dark leather jacket.

Placing one hand on the back of your headrest, Yoongi looks behind you while backing out of your driveway. It takes everything in you not to swoon. As a result, your face scrunches in an approximation of pain, which Yoongi notices when he faces forward.

“Cold?” he asks, reaching to turn up the heat.

“No,” you say, only to realize this is the lesser of evils. It would be weird to admit you were pained by his dating moves. “I mean, uh, yeah. A bit.”

He simply nods, returning his errant hand to the wheel. The two of you drive in silence for a few minutes, until you clear your throat.

“Thanks for driving tonight,” you tell him.

Yoongi’s lips twitch. “I didn’t think you had a license.”

Blinking over the console, it takes you a moment to digest. When you rehearsed this in your mind earlier, you pictured him saying something different. The Yoongi in your imagination accepted your thanks with ease, then commented how he’d been watching you from afar.

In a non-creepy way.

But that’s fine. You can be flexible with the best of them.

You manage to smile. “I don’t,” you say. As though you needed another reminder Yoongi is older than you and, frankly, out of your league.

He glances at you. “Then, I’m not sure I had a choice – did I?”

Before you can stop yourself, you roll your eyes. “Just take the compliment, Min.”

Yoongi stares at you for a long moment, then starts to laugh, his shoulders shaking. Some of the tension you felt releases, and you can’t help but smile as you look towards the window. Although it’s December, a layer of snow already blankets the ground, sparkling violet-white under the moon.

A faint buzzing interrupts your reverie. Retrieving your phone from your purse, you glance at the screen and see Jasmine’s name.

Jazzy-Jaz: HOW IS THE DATE GOING [7:06 PM]

Jazzy-Jaz: Wait, don’t answer that [7:06 PM]

Jazzy-Jaz: In fact!! Why are you even looking at your phone?? [7:07 PM]

Jazzy-Jaz: PS I ate all the brownies you made and need more. I am a fiend. You created a monster. Stop being so good at baking [7:07 PM]

You stifle a laugh, beginning to type out a response when the car stops, and you realize you’ve reached your destination. Looking up, you spot the neon sign for Brewsters, the dive-bar-slash-restaurant.

“Oh!” you blurt, lamely. “We’re here.”

Yoongi unbuckles his seatbelt, turning away so you can’t see his face. “Yeah, we are.”

Heat rises when you realize he may have seen you texting. Again, in your daydreams, you never made your date feel like they were unwanted. You’re beginning to realize this whole dating thing might be trickier than you realized.

Hastily, you climb out of the car. “Sorry,” you say, when Yoongi appears from the other side. “That was my best friend. Jaz – uh, Jasmine. Pillai. Do you know her?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Not really.”

“Oh. Well, she was just texting me about this date.”

He nods, the gesture tight.

Shit. That could mean anything. Get it together, Y/N, you sternly internalize. “Because I’ve been so nervous,” you explain.

Yoongi’s expression softens and he pauses at the restaurant, one hand on the door. “You were nervous?” he asks. “About tonight?”

“Of course, I was. You’re, well” – seeing how interested Yoongi gets, you fumble a little – “you.”

He lifts a brow. “And that’s… bad.”

“No! It’s good.”

“Good?”

“Very good,” you clarify.

“Very good. Hm.” Nodding, Yoongi pulls open the door. When you pass him, he leans forward to murmur, “For what it’s worth, I was nervous about tonight, too.”

Your brain fills with static, barely able to think as he leads you inside. Five minutes later, you find yourself seated with Yoongi in a booth near the back. To your dismay, what seems like half your high school is already here.

Admittedly, you could have predicted this. There are exactly three places in town to go to on weekends, and two are in hotels owned by your family and Yoongi’s.

That was how you met Yoongi years ago. Your family owns the Rosy Finch, a cozy inn situated in the center of town, while Mr. Min owns the Lodge at Blue Glenn, a four-star luxury resort nested in the Blue Mountains. Despite their differences, your lodgings are considered the best within a one-hundred-mile radius.

You grew up attending conferences with your family and would inevitably run into Yoongi, dragged along by his parents. Mostly, you two ignored each other. Or – well, he ignored you and you pretended to do the same. Lately though, you found yourself watching him, wondering when the Min kid got so damn hot. You were as shocked as anyone when he appeared at your locker last week and asked you out.

It still doesn’t seem real to you as you open your menu – and open, and open, until the entire table is covered.

“What the…” Yoongi trails off. “How many pages is this thing?”

“Have you never been here before?”

His cheeks turn slightly pink. “No. My dad is kind of picky about where we eat.”

Sensing this to be a sensitive topic, you quickly move on. “Here,” you say, reaching for his menu. “The trick is only to order from page three. Pub food is the safe zone – anything else is a risk.”

“Oh?” Painstakingly, Yoongi flips the giant page. “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t get the quesadilla with… holy shit, is that mayonnaise?”

“Oh, wait, no – I actually hear that’s delicious. If you lack tastebuds.”

Yoongi solemnly nods. “Before that though, we should get this onion stick platter. Not sure if that’s a typo, but–”

“Y/N!”

You barely have time to react before fuzzy arms in a cardigan are flung about you. Face squished against Lucy Walsh’s chest, you struggle to free yourself.

“Y/N,” she repeats, yanking you back to hold you by the shoulders. “I thought I saw you back here! Did you get the group text?”

“The… group text?”

It’s hard to focus on what she’s saying with Yoongi across from you. Idly, he flips a page in the menu, as though its contents may have changed.

“The group chat!” Lucy laughs, curls bouncing. “A bunch of us decided to go to Brewsters at the last minute. I assumed you saw the text and – oh!” she says, finally noticing Yoongi. “I didn’t see you there. You’re in my brother’s grade, right?”

Before Yoongi can respond, Lucy adds, “Yes, that’s right.” She snaps her fingers. “You’re friends with Seokjin Kim, right? The mayor’s kid.”

Yoongi frowns. “Seokjin isn’t the mayor’s kid.”

“No, but doesn’t his family like, own half the town? He’s basically royalty if Merriman had royalty, which we don’t but–”

“Luce,” you interrupt, smiling brightly. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

Her gaze bounces between you and Yoongi, and then her eyes widen. “Oh,” Lucy says. “This is a date, isn’t it? Okay, I am so dumb. I just assumed you were here because Jaz is on her way. I’ll make myself scarce. Nice to meet you,” she calls to Yoongi as she retreats.

Yoongi stares at the back of her fuzzy, pink cardigan. Awkwardly, you fiddle with the spoon on the table.

“Um, sorry about that,” you say, forcing a laugh. “Lucy is nice, but kind of oblivious.”

Yoongi returns to you. “It’s no problem,” he says mildly. “Did you want to go and say hi to your friends? It sounded like they were–”

“Hi, there!”

Twisting in your seat, you curse internally when you see your waitress is Annie Summers. Annie is seventeen and gorgeous, which wouldn’t be a problem if she didn’t have the nasty habit of hitting on all her friends’ boyfriends.

Flipping open her notepad, Annie props one hand on her hip. Her smile is directed at Yoongi. “See anything you like?”

Yoongi glances at his menu. “I’ll have the burger.”

“Same,” you say, syrupy sweet as you close your menu.

Annie nods, collecting the menus without looking at you. “Of course. And if you need anything else” – she drops a wink at Yoongi – “you know where to find me.”

Sauntering away from your table, she tucks both the menus beneath her free arm. You glower at her backside until Yoongi clears his throat.

“Oh.” Blinking, you face forward. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Yoongi opens his mouth, then hesitates. He sits back. “Nothing. So – the burger, huh? Should we be worried that technically, it was on page four?”

You laugh and before you know it, a bus boy is dropping two burgers off at your table. For a moment, you think Brewsters has set a new service record, but then you look at your watch and realize you’ve been talking for nearly an hour.

Blinking at your meal, you take this fact in. Ever since Yoongi asked you out, you’ve built this up in your mind. Not only is this your first date with Yoongi, but your first date ever and you admit you may have come in with high expectations. The direct result of your obsession with movies like How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and When Harry Met Sally.

Somehow, though, tonight has exceeded them all. Sure, there were a few hiccups at the start – and do you love the fact that Annie keeps hitting on Yoongi? No. But there’s still something about tonight that leaves your stomach giddy, high with anticipation that this might be the real thing.

Yoongi fiddles with the wrapper of his straw, his hand inches away. You watch his gaze dart to your fingers, lingering before he exhales and withdraws.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Annie appears like a bad habit, and you try not to wince. Forcing a smile, you shake your head, no, then look at Yoongi.

His gaze is on Annie. “I’m good, thanks.”

Her smile widens. “Okay, cool.” Before she leaves, she drags her finger along the table. “You’re Yoongi, right? I think I’ve seen you around.”

“Yeah,” he says, then falls silent.

Your fingers begin tapping a rhythm on the booth. You wait, expecting for Yoongi to shut things down, but nothing happens.

Uncomfortable, you sit there as your skin starts to itch. Something about the moment feels… wrong, but you can’t put a name to it. Maybe it’s more noticeable because only five minutes ago, you felt on top of the world.

Right as you think this, the door to Brewsters opens. Your jaw drops when you see two familiar faces, and you jump out of your seat.

Both Yoongi and Annie swivel to face you. “Sorry!” you blurt, grabbing your purse. “I, um, need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Annie’s face shifts to something like pity, but Yoongi looks concerned.

“Okay.” He half-rises. “Are you okay, Y/N?”

“Yeah,” you add, panicked that he’ll turn around and see the new entrants. “I just, um, need to pee. Be right back.”

Before he can respond, you dart away. Powerwalking to the front of Brewsters, you have a clear view of Jasmine and Namjoon seated at a table. Jasmine withdraws a beanie from her backpack to squash over her hair. Namjoon wears no disguise, although he has on his glasses instead of the usual contacts.

“What are you doing here,” you hiss, dropping both hands on their table. Namjoon, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed. “I am on a date.”

“Exactly!” Jasmine squints from under her beanie. “We’re here as your back-up. You never texted me back.”

“You were the one who told me not to respond!”

Her lips purse. “Okay, that was dumb of me. What if Yoongi kidnapped you? From now on, ignore what I say and send me hourly updates.”

Slowly, your eyes close.

Namjoon chooses this moment to chime in with, “You look nice tonight, Y/N.”

“I know,” you snap, your eyes flying open. “I look nice for Yoongi, not you two clowns, who are ruining my date with your presence!”

“Uh…” Jasmine points over your shoulder. “Actually, I think Annie Summers might be the one ruining your date. Not us.”

Following her hand, your entire body goes still. Annie has taken your seat at the booth, and while you watch, she laughs at something Yoongi just said. A second later, she slides her hand forward to brush against his.

Heat – and embarrassment – claws up your throat.

You knew this whole thing was too good to be true. Yoongi is older, more attractive than you, and he has the whole mysterious, cool guy vibe women go nuts for. It never made sense for him to ask you out, and now you have proof. You’re a nerdy, theatre-loving loudmouth with no significant plans to go to college.

Tears prick the back of your eyes, and you do your best to quell them. Jasmine and Namjoon continue speaking, but you barely hear. All you can do is concentrate on recovering enough to march over and end this. Ideally, without crying.

Squaring your shoulders, you gather yourself. “Okay,” you say. “I’m heading in. Jaz – you have my location on Find My Friends. That should be enough; there’s no need for hourly texts. And Namjoon…” Disappointed, you shake your head. “I expected better from you. You’re supposed to be the reasonable one of this group.”

Visibly, he deflates. “Sorry. Jaz promised me ice cream.”

“In December?” you ask. “Do better. Okay, I’ll text you both later – way later,” you clarify before turning around.

Wiping your palms on your pants, you head towards your table. Annie remains seated and Yoongi’s back is to you, so you don’t see his expression, but clearly, he hasn’t said to get lost before now.

Closing the distance, your heart starts to thud.

Noticing your approach, Annie slides from the booth, but not before sliding Yoongi a pink scrap of paper. “Call me,” she says, not bothering to be quiet.

She moves towards the kitchen, swaying her hips, and you watch Yoongi slip the paper into his pocket.

Your heart plummets. Although your feet are frozen, it feels like the world tilts beneath you. Dizzily, you try to hold on to what you felt before – the way Yoongi made you laugh, the way he confessed his nerves, and the easy way you conversed.

All of it is marred by the image of him accepting that phone number. Mindless, your hands curl into fists at your sides. Somewhere amidst the devastation, a sliver of anger worms its way into your thoughts.

Annie isn’t the problem. Yes, it was shitty of her to hit on your date, but Yoongi is the one who accepted her advance. He could have shut it all down. He could have told her to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he sat across from her in the booth and he talked. He accepted her phone number.

The fact hurts worse than you thought it would. Granted, you don’t have much to compare things to, but you didn’t think rejection would feel so wholly tangible. Once, when you were younger, you dared Bea to punch you in the stomach as hard as she could. You nearly threw up, and your mom barred you from fighting, but you can’t help but think of that in this moment.

The idea of staying any longer is sickening, so all you can hope for is to escape with your dignity.

Marching up to the table, you grab your purse. “I’m not feeling well,” you say, also collecting your jacket.

Yoongi half-stands. “Y/N,” he says, then frowns when he registers what you just said. “You aren’t feeling well?” His gaze scans your empty plate. “Was it the burger?”

“Maybe,” you say, buttoning your coat. “I think it would be best if I leave.”

“Okay.” Yoongi scoots to the edge of the booth. “I can drive you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Yoongi freezes, one foot on the floor.

“I mean” – you glance over your shoulder – “my friends can drive me home. There’s no need for you to go out of your way.”

More importantly, the last thing you want is to sit in a car with Yoongi for another twenty minutes knowing Annie’s phone number burns a hole in his pocket. Meeting his gaze, you watch his confusion morph to something close to suspicion. His gaze travels to fix on a point over your shoulder.

Slowly, his brows lower. “Isn’t that the friend you were texting?” he asks. “Did… you know they were coming?”

“No?” you ask, uncertain where this is heading.

His gaze flickers. “Okay.”

Yoongi’s tone has cooled, and you try not to flinch. It’s at that point you register what this must look like. It must look like you texted Jasmine in the car to come save you. As soon as you realize this though, you bristle, because you’re supposed to be the one with the moral high ground.

Yoongi was flirting with a waitress in front of you.

“Right,” you announce, pulling on your gloves. “I’m going to head out. I’ll send you money for the food, okay?”

Yoongi tenses. “Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m the one who asked you out. I’ll pay.”

“I insist,” you respond, well-aware you’re just being petty, but beyond the point of caring.

Yoongi slowly stands, taking a step forward until you’re inches apart. His chest rises and falls, hands clenched at his sides – fuck, his forearms are vascular. The visual sends heat flushing through you, since all of it is (unfortunately) extremely attractive.

When you move backwards, Yoongi follows. He looks at you down his nose, his gaze almost calculating.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

You can’t help but feel this is about more than the drive home, and for a moment, you falter. Yoongi’s gaze is so open that you wonder briefly if this is all some misunderstanding. But then your gaze falls on the now-empty table, and you remember the phone number Yoongi just pocketed.

You lift your chin. “I’m good.”

Yoongi nods. “Okay. Sure.”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

The heat of his chest is practically tangible. Standing this close, you’re aware Yoongi smells of citrus and amber, an intoxicating combo you wish you had never known. His pupils are blown out, leaving mostly black.

Each second that passes brings you closer together – and then your name is called from somewhere behind you. Snapping free of the trance, you turn around.

“Bye,” you choke before leaving.

Jasmine and Namjoon stand beside Lucy, laughing at something her table just said. Appearing next to Namjoon, you tug on his sleeve. Looking down at you, his eyes widen and he swiftly sequesters you to stand beside Jasmine.

“Shit,” she mutters, placing her arm around you. “Do you want to leave?”

Silent, you nod as tears prick your eyes.

“I’ll call my dad,” Namjoon says, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “He should be able to turn around and come back.”

You nod again, wobbling, and Jasmine leads you away to a plate of trash fries. Trash fries are exactly what they sound like – heaped with anything and everything that is bad for your body. When Remmy Quarrels, a senior that every girl hates, hoots and asks where your date went, Jasmine flips him off until he turns around.

Collapsing into a booth by the window, you watch Yoongi’s tail lights leave the parking lot. The slightest hint of indignation stirs in your belly. He didn’t even wait to see if you were okay before leaving.

Anger is a more useful emotion than hurt, so you do your best to hold onto it. By the time Namjoon’s dad parks, your group has landed head-first in We Hate Yoongi mode. Jasmine declares herself captain, insisting skinny jeans will be a thing of the past in less than ten years.

Taking a deep breath, you do your best to convince yourself that tonight meant nothing. No one ends up with their first date from high school. No one ends up with their first date, period. This was merely a moment in your dating timeline, and if you’re lucky, you’ll never have to see Yoongi again.

And from now on, you’re determined to guard your heart better. Never again will you be so easily sucked in. You may be overzealous, but you are no longer naïve.

At least you have Yoongi Min to thank for that.

Present Day

“Oh my god,” Jasmine whispers, way too loud in your ear. “Yoongi looks fucking hot. Doesn’t he?”

It takes everything in you not to punch her in the arm. Instead, you grip your notebook and force a tight nod. “He looks… fine. I guess.”

Jasmine makes a loud snort of objection. Settling in her uncomfortable folding chair, she shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” she says. “I know you two had that weird falling out in high school–”

“You were there, Jaz. He hit on someone else. On our date.”

 “–but like, damn. Look at that outfit. An open blazer and scarf? Only a hot person can pull that off. I should know – I do it often.”

Your lips twitch, unable to come up with a suitable response. The worst part is Jasmine is not wrong. Yoongi is every bit as handsome as he was twelve years ago – more so, now that he’s twenty-eight and no longer sixteen.

His outfit is, unfortunately, as heart-melting as Jasmine implies. Yoongi has grown out his hair long enough for the ends to curl against his throat. Everything about his look screams expensive – the exact opposite of your outfit, thrifted from local craft stores.

Shifting away from him, you pointedly turn your face towards the stage. Well, stage is a loose term. Your high school musicals were set in a better venue. Every month for town meetings, Larry the janitor sets up a small platform in your town hall. The stage can only hold one person at a time and right now, that person is Judy Relis, town mayor. Judy has been the mayor since you were a small child, although admittedly, her campaigns in your youth had more vigor.

Tapping the microphone, Judy leans in and asks, “Is this thing on?”

Feedback echoes around the room, and you clap both hands over your ears. In the front row, Yoongi and Seokjin do the same. The two have been best friends for what seems like forever; even when Yoongi moved away from Merriman, the entire town knew of his doings through Seokjin.

“Sorry!” Judy beams at the crowd – well, at the approximately thirty people present. “Thank you for coming out on short notice. We have a packed agenda tonight, so I won’t take up too much of your time. I just wanted to thank you all for coming and let you know that tonight’s snacks were supplied by the Van Buren family. Thank you, Melissa and Jeff!”

Jasmine elbows your side. “That could be you,” she hisses. “The Van Burens brought store-bought goods. Your pastries are way better. And more impressive.”

Shaking your head, you give her a look. No matter how many times you tell Jasmine that you have a job, she pretends not to hear. Granted, you have invested a lot of time in baking as of late, and the town’s patisserie recently moved away, but that’s beside the point.

“First on the agenda,” Judy says, “I want to invite to the stage your new town treasurer, Remmy Quarrels.”

A light smattering of applause fills the room. You and Jasmine pointedly remain silent – as do Yoongi and Seokjin, seated at the front. Twisting, you spot Namjoon next to Jimin at the back of the room. The two launched their travel agency while they were roommates in college and decided to move to Merriman and establish their headquarters. Lately, their main effort has been increasing the town’s exposure.

Flipping open your notebook, you scribble the date at the top. Earlier this week, an email went out to every town businessperson, requesting their presence. Granted, you usually attend the town meetings, but the email explains Yoongi Min’s attendance. He rarely goes anywhere unless requested.

Lifting your gaze, you watch him lean over and whisper something to Seokjin. The two of them smirk when Remmy takes the stage.

You wish you could say they were in the wrong, but honestly, Remmy Quarrels is the worst. It was to your horror that he won the election last summer. Since then, he’s made it his mission to make the town money – often in unusual and unsavory ways. At one point, he approached your dad about a per head tax for children at the Rosy Finch. Your dad pretended not to hear until Remmy left.

“Good evening,” says Remmy, smiling at the room from the stage. “We have a full house tonight. I see those personalized emails did the trick.”

A few attendees laugh politely, but mostly they stay silent. Removing the microphone from the stand, Remmy smooths a hand over his hair. Blonde and thinning, the strands are plastered to his scalp by some kind of gel. Few things about him have changed since high school, including Remmy’s tendency to overuse hair products.

His smile widens. “I have an important proposition to share with you all tonight. I’m not exaggerating when I say this idea could be life changing.”

In the front row, Yoongi loudly coughs. Remmy glances down, slightly thrown, and you unfortunately find yourself rooting for Yoongi. The enemy of your enemy is your friend, as the saying goes.

Although more than a decade has passed, things remain frosty between you and Yoongi. After your disastrous date back in high school, he adopted radio silence, avoiding you at school until he graduated. He went to some rich, fancy college where he majored in hospitality, and secured a job afterwards at a luxury resort far from town.

He only returned to Merriman three years back when his dad died and Yoongi inherited the Lodge at Blue Glenn. The two of you have run into each other a few times since – hard not to, since your family still runs the Rosy Finch – but he retains an air of frigid professionalism.

It drives you insane.

“When you all voted for me as town treasurer,” Remmy continues, breaking into your thoughts.

Jasmine leans over. “I didn’t vote for him.”

“Me, either,” you whisper from the side of your mouth.

“Our town was struggling,” Remmy continues, adopting a serious face. “It was, but we’ve grown since then.”

“He was voted in four months ago,” Jasmine mutters. “Why is he acting like years have gone by?”

A snort escapes you, and you duck your head when Remmy glances your way.

“I promised,” he continues, voice raised, “that as your town treasurer, I would bring us success. New businesses! New partnerships! And in my role as town treasurer, I will –”

“We should have brought vodka,” Jasmine groans, slumping further. “And done a shot every time Remmy says the word treasurer.”

“We would have been drunk.”

“We would not have been bored.”

A true laugh escapes and now, Remmy is flat-out glaring in your direction. Desperate, you slide down in your chair to escape him.

“How many of you have heard of Emerald Corporation?”

Emerald Corporation? Oh, no.

You shoot upward so fast, the chair legs rattle ominously. The Emerald Corporation is a hospitality group headquartered in some giant city. Last year, you heard they bought a bunch of boutique hotels and renovated them extensively. They also fired the original management teams to do so, which escaped the press notices.

Other people in the room nod though, and your stomach churns as you see several grins. Not Yoongi, though. He remains seated in the front row with arms crossed and feet planted.

Remmy allows the excitement to build. “Well,” he says, pausing dramatically, “I recently had a meeting with their head of development, Phil Jones. Emerald Corporation is interested in purchasing the old Tully estate on Mount Bowler and turning it into a luxury ski resort.”

Mount Bowler, named for the ridge around its summit which gives it the shape of said hat, is next to Mauve Peak, on which sits the Lodge at Blue Glenn. The Tully estate is nothing but an empty piece of land. The family bought it decades ago, intending to build a chalet, but lost interest before they broke ground. It’s been for sale ever since.

If only they weren’t planning to sell it to Emerald Corp. Merriman barely has the tourism to keep you and Yoongi in business. A third hotel – let alone a giant resort – would be devastating to bookings. Glowering, you bend over your notebook and scribble Mount Bowler.

When you look up, Yoongi speaks quietly to Seokjin. His face has turned in your direction, allowing you to see his utterly tranquil expression. Annoyingly so.

Remmy continues, “This would be a major investment in Merriman. The Emerald Corporation would position their resort as a top offering, and they plan to spend big on marketing and publicity. All of our businesses would benefit from the boom.”

Your hand shoots up.

Remmy closes his eyes, as though anticipating what you have to say. Eventually, he exhales and points in your direction. “Do you have a question, Y/N?”

“No.” Primly, you fold your hands over your notebook. “But I do have a correction – your proposal would not benefit all town businesses.”

If his lips thinned any further, they might become invisible. “Fine, Miss Y/L/N,” Remmy acquiesces. “You’re right. Most of the town’s businesses – by which I mean the vast majority – would benefit.”

“Except for the two already existing hotels.”

“Yes,” Remmy snaps. “Two businesses, while the hundreds that remain would greatly – ah, yes. Mr. Min, what is it?”

Yoongi has raised his hand in the front row. When Remmy points, he lowers his arm and leans forward. “Two hotels that currently employ over a hundred members of the community, not to mention support many local businesses.”

Remmy’s expression sours. Clearly, he thought, due to Yoongi’s clothing and stature, he would be on his side. Instead, his comment sends a discontented murmur throughout the room.

Glancing around, Remmy adjusts his mic. “I am sure Emerald Corporation would plan to staff their resort with members of the community.”

Your eyebrows shoot upward. That’s a bold promise to make. Based on what you’ve heard, Emerald Corp tends to clean house before they take over.

If Remmy’s promise is real, though, it would make the task ahead of you more arduous. It would be hard to argue against the idea if you and Yoongi are the only two individuals who might suffer.

Luckily, Yoongi seems to be thinking the same. “Have you gotten that promise in writing?” he asks. “My friend owned the Knotted Pine until Emerald Corp took over, and he was pushed out. He said Emerald Corp preferred to bring in their own employees rather than staff from the town.”

Another wave of whispers follows.

Remmy has clearly had enough of this conversation. “Yes, well, there’s plenty of time to work out the details,” he snaps. “The point is this will be good for the town.”

“Debatable,” you mutter to Jasmine, who nods.

“People are noticing us!” Remmy adds, throwing his arms out wide. This brings the microphone away from his mouth, and he hurriedly pulls it back. “People are noticing you, and with more attention like this, we can bring more jobs to Merriman. Speaking of which, we’ve had incredibly successful fall events this year. Tourism is at an all-time high, which…”

Tuning him out, you lean over to Jasmine. “How bad do you think this is, on a scale of wet to dry mac and cheese?”

Jasmine blinks. “Wait, which is the worse end of the scale?”

“Dry, obviously.”

“But… what if it’s wet in a weird way? Like… slimy.”

“Ew,” you groan. “Jaz, why would you put that in my mind?”

“You put it in my mind! And I don’t know,” she admits, biting her lip. “It doesn’t sound good, but maybe it’s worse for Yoongi than you?”

You pause. “Oh. Maybe you’re right? I mean, it’s not like the Rosy Finch’s clientele can afford Emerald Corp’s prices.”

“Exactly.” She nods. “But Yoongi’s resort? Direct competition.”

The Rosy Finch markets itself as a family inn, with prices that fit the agendas of budget-conscious travelers. Yoongi’s lodge caters to an exclusive, luxury crowd who want a well-guarded retreat.

Settling back, you should feel some relief, but instead, your thoughts continue to drift towards Yoongi. After taking over the Lodge at Blue Glenn, he raised its status from four to five stars and utilized his industry connections to cater to the rich and famous. Merriman is far enough off the map that they’re willing to pay top prices to escape.

A gigantic resort on the next mountain would likely put a stop to all that. And although your inn may not be in direct competition, Emerald Corp is not known for being merciful in their strategy. They’re known to undercut pricing to kill all competition, which you can’t afford to match.

Fidgeting with your pen, you do your best to stem the rising tide of anxiety. You’ve never been good at the financial side of the business. The prospect of cutting prices makes your insides wither, since you already operate on extremely slim margins. Unfortunately, that was the part of the business your mom was good at.

Your fingers freeze when the dull pain washes through you. Last September marked ten years since she passed away, but there are still moments when you think of her and it catches you off-guard. The pain is no longer as sharp as it was – more of an ache than a stab – but you aren’t sure it will ever fully fade.

Lowering your head, you distract yourself by taking copious notes the rest of the meeting. Sadly, your penmanship leaves something to be desired and at the end, you find yourself squinting at the third line you wrote. Standing from the hard plastic chair, you show your notebook to Jasmine, the only one capable of deciphering your writing.

“What do you think I meant here?” you muse. “Lax efficiency. Lax – like lacrosse?”

“Tax deficiency, I think,” says a familiar voice right behind you.

Snapping your notebook shut, you whirl around. Yoongi Min stands in the aisle, watching you with amusement. Always amusement – and always directed at you.

He glances at your closed notebook. “If you can’t read your own notes, Y/N, I don’t think you need to worry about me reading them.”

Scowling, you recover and take a step closer. “Nice try, Yoongi, but I’m not falling for that one. You’re probably just trying to steal my Christmas decorations – again.”

Yoongi blinks at you down his nose. “Y/N, there are precisely three holiday decorators in town.”

“Which, frankly, seems like a lot.” Seokjin Kim appears by his side. Adjusting his coat, he smiles at Jasmine. “Is there really enough work for three holiday decorators?”

Yoongi ignores this. “Odds are, our holiday décor will overlap, Y/N. There’s only so much a person can do with red and green.”

“Sure,” you say loftily. “If you’re burdened by the smallest thimble of creativity.”

His lips twitch. “Thimble?”

“Thimbles are small, Yoongi. Didn’t you ever watch Thumbelina? Where she floats down the river and –”

“Anyways,” Jasmine loudly interrupts. “What did you think of Remmy’s presentation, Yoongi?”

His expression flattens. “I think Remmy is full of crap,” Yoongi says, still looking at you.

Most of the room has now emptied, leaving the four of you standing alone in your row. Remmy has also disappeared from the premises – likely in a cloud of sulfur and bullshit.

Surprised, you manage a nod. “For once, we agree on something.”

“Do we disagree on so much, Y/N?”

You wish Yoongi would stop saying your name like that. Purposefully – savoringly – as though the word were melting. It must be distracting to people other than you.

Jasmine has certainly noticed. She keeps glancing between you with an expression you once described as her Emma Woodhouse look. Inevitably, a matchmaking scheme will follow, and you still haven’t recovered from the time she tried to set Jimin up with the woman from the candle shop.

“Do you think the offer is legit?” Jasmine muses, turning to Seokjin. If anyone in town would know, it would be him. “Have you heard anything?”

“No.” Seokjin shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean much, since the sale would be private. I’ll ask my cousin – she works in the mayor’s office. She’ll know of any large property being bought or sold.”

“Okay, cool.”

Returning your gaze to Yoongi, your eyes narrow. “What if the offer is real?” you demand. “What if Emerald Corp does plan to buy land on Mount Bowler? What will you do about it?”

Yoongi seems taken aback. “Doabout it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would I be responsible in that scenario? And what do you expect me to do, egg someone’s house?”

“Please be serious, Yoongi.”

“I–”

“This is a corporation we’re talking about. You would need to egg several houses.”

Jasmine and Seokjin burst out laughing, and you hide a smile, pleased. You don’t know Seokjin very well, since he was two grades older than you were in school. It would seem your humor matches, though, which is nice. Anything which frustrates Yoongi Min is music to your ears.

Unfortunately though, Yoongi doesn’t seem frustrated. If anything, it looks like he’s suppressing his laughter.

“This is typical Remmy,” you mutter, cracking open your notebook to search for something – anything – useful. “You know he tried selling parking permits on Main Street this winter?”

A crease mars Yoongi’s forehead. “Don’t the snowplows go through there?”

“Yep.”

Seokjin seems appalled. “Dastardly. Who would pay for a parking permit they have to shovel themselves out of?”

You snap your notebook shut again. “Hence why the motion never passed. Yoongi, come on,” you groan, stepping closer and poking him – hard – in the bicep. “We have to do something.”

Staring at your hand, he swiftly shakes his head. “There is no we, Y/N.”

Stiffening, you withdraw. Of course, there’s no we. Yoongi made that crystal clear to you in high school, but there’s no need for him to be so emphatic. You get it. Yoongi does not – and will not – ever like you like that.

Jasmine is scowling, likely thinking along the same lines, and you hasten to interject before she can say something embarrassing.

“Do you or do you not,” you ask, “own the Lodge at Blue Glenn.”

“I do,” he says slowly.

“And as the town’s only lodgings, don’t you think we should stick together?”

“Not true,” Jasmine pipes in cheerfully. “Mr. Moldove is renting the room above his barn. I saw an ad.”

Twisting around, you glare daggers at her. “Whose side are you on?”

Holding up both hands, Jasmine takes a step backwards to stand beside Seokjin.

Returning to Yoongi, you cross your arms. “Well?”

His gaze moves between you and Seokjin, who seems to echo Jasmine’s philosophy of not getting involved.

Eventually, Yoongi sighs. “Fine. Why don’t I reach out to Emerald Corporation and ask them for a meeting? We can explain to them our situation and try to convince them to build elsewhere.”

You pause. It’s not a bad idea, although privately, you feel nothing will come from it. At the very least, you’ll be able to say that you tried.

“Okay,” you say, turning to Jasmine. “Ready to go?”

Nodding, she zips her coat up to her chin. “It was nice meeting you,” she says to Seokjin. Her expression turns stony when she beholds Yoongi. “Always a pleasure.”

“I’ll send an email once I arrange the meeting,” says Yoongi, seemingly oblivious to Jasmine’s death stare. “Is your work email okay?”

Stomach plummeting, you realize what this means. Yoongi deleted your number.

Attempting to rally, you convince yourself it doesn’t matter. Not everyone is a hoarder whose contacts section of their phone reads like a who’s who of late-night occupants of Brewsters’ bar bathroom. Yoongi is probably the type of person who reviews their contacts periodically and deletes names he doesn’t talk to.

Well, that’s fine. If Yoongi wants to keep this professional, you can do that. You can be corporate as hell.

Lifting your chin, you scan the recesses of your brain for something relevant. “Perfect,” you say grandly. “Let’s circle back on this.”

Yoongi frowns. “You want to… circle back before we’ve had the meeting?”

Shit. You took a shot in the dark. “Um, no,” you cough. “I just meant, let’s put a pin in this. Find time on my calendar.”

Even Jasmine is looking at you as though you’ve grown a second head. Swiftly, you turn around and head for the exit. “See you!” you squeak, striding towards the doors.

Luckily, Jasmine chooses to follow, and when you burst outside, you find Namjoon and Jimin waiting beside the main door. They stand beneath the streetlight, Jimin loudly complaining about his hair and the static. Despite this being his fifth winter in the mountains, he still complains about the climate.

Without breaking stride, you link your arm in his and begin dragging him down the road.

“Hey, Y/N!” Jimin says brightly, rolling with your antics. “Where are we going?”

“Bar,” you grunt. “Need shots. Now.”

Jasmine laughs from behind, where she walks with Namjoon.

“Uh-oh,” says Namjoon. “Does this have something to do with Emerald Corporation?”

“And Yoongi Min,” Jasmine singsongs.

Beside you, Jimin’s eyes alight with an unholy glee. Shit. You forgot that when it comes to matchmaking, he ranks second only to Jasmine.

“Tell me everything,” he gushes, grip like iron while steering you through the snow.

You make it to Brewsters in record time. Several shots in, things don’t seem quite so bleak. Namjoon points out that no one in town likes Remmy or corporations, so it’s unlikely this whole thing will even come to pass. Jasmine whips out an impression of Yoongi that sounds more like Mr. Darcy, and Jimin falls off his stool from laughing too hard.

All in all, when you collapse into your bed that night, much of the day has been pleasantly dulled. Except for one thing, cutting through the haze like a knife.

The sound of Yoongi Min saying your name.

Early the next week, Yoongi reaches out – via email – to say Emerald Corporation has responded. They’ll be in town Thursday and are open to meeting and discussing their proposed expansion.

Yoongi offered no personal commentary along with the email. He simply forwarded a thread begun by his general manager, Taehyung Kim. Vaguely, you remember Taehyung from high school. He was a grade below and, while also musical, was more into band than theatre.

Trying to make a good impression, you arrive at the Lodge at Blue Glenn more than an hour early. Politely, a woman named Cheryl shows you a cushy seating area before a roaring fire and informs you Yoongi is still in another meeting.

Seated before the fire, you cross your legs and scowl into the flames. Unfortunately for you, the chair is extremely comfortable, and the décor is hospitable. Unwittingly, you feel much calmer.

Eyes wandering the lobby, you must admit Yoongi has done a good job. The few times you visited Blue Glenn as a child you remember the vibe being stuffy and old. Since Yoongi took over, he retained the air of old-world sophistication but renovated the lodge in a way that feels fresh.

Floor-to-ceiling windows look onto the mountain, watching the ski lift bring people up and down the white slopes. The interior looks as though it’s been spit from a Ralph Lauren catalogue – in a good way.

In fact, you’re so busy perusing your surroundings, you do not see Yoongi standing before you for several moments.

“Ah!” you yelp, jerking backwards.

Yoongi lifts a brow, both hands in his pockets. “That’s good. Get it all out before the meeting.”

Scowling, you try to get up from the chair – and sink further down. You attempt this twice more before Yoongi sighs, holding his hand out to help you up. His palm is calloused and warm, sending a brief flutter through you when your eyes lock.

Abruptly, Yoongi releases you and takes a step backwards.

Feeling oddly bereft at the loss, you glance over his shoulder. “Should we get going?” you ask.

He pauses, then nods and gestures for you to follow. “The conference room is this way,” he says, leading you down a long hall.

You fall into step alongside him, keeping your gaze straight ahead. In the email Yoongi forwarded, he volunteered Blue Glenn as a meeting place, and you swiftly agreed. The Rosy Finch is cozy and charming, which in real estate terms means small.

Most of your work is conducted from the tiny back office or your apartment on Bell Street, several blocks over. There is absolutely no space for conferences or meetings, so when you walk into the room, you’re momentarily speechless.

“Whoa,” you breathe, turning around.

The wall opposite you is entirely made of glass, showcasing a different view of the ski runs outside. In the middle rests a long, oval table stocked with pen and paper. The entire back is taken up by a drink console offering water, coffee, and tea.

Making a beeline for this, you pour yourself a large mug of coffee – and add several sugars. Taking a sip, you sigh before turning around.

Yoongi has seated himself at the head of the table, which does not surprise you. What does surprise you is how natural he looks, as though he were born to wear bespoke suits and speak business-ese. In high school, Yoongi was more likely to be dressed in converse and ripped jeans than a Bijan jacket.

Not that anyone in your small town has the money or know-how to buy Bijan couture. As though he can read your mind, Yoongi tilts his head.

“You look nice,” he says bluntly.

You wore what you’ve deemed your work power outfit, which is a pencil skirt and heels. It is also the only work power outfit you own, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Deliberate, you march to the opposite end of the table. “Is that your strategy?” you ask as you sit. “Catch me off guard with a compliment?”

Yoongi blinks. “What would I gain from that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe make a bid for Emerald Corp by yourself. It would make sense,” you add, fingers tapping the table. “Your lodge fits neatly within their portfolio. You could sell to the group and stay on to run things. Why not?”

When this thought occurred to you earlier this week, it kept you awake for several nights. You don’t want to assume the worst about Yoongi, but the fact remains that you’re business rivals, and you had to convince him to help in the first place.

His jaw tenses. “Didn’t you hear me at town hall? Emerald Corp has a tradition of ousting management teams once they take over. Consider me crazy, Y/N, but I plan to stay employed.”

“There are ways around that.”

A dangerous gleam enters his eyes. “I said you look nice because you look nice, Y/N. When I think you look differently, I’ll tell you that, too.”

You stare him down from across the table. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

Anger simmers between you, but beneath it, you think you catch a rare glimpse of hurt. It’s hard to tell, since he shifted to anger so quickly, but it’s possible Yoongi took offense to your assumption that he would sell out.

You open your mouth to apologize when the door to the room opens.

Taehyung Kim pokes his head inside. “Emerald Corporation is here, Mr. Min. Are you ready for them?”

While Yoongi’s attire is appropriate for a board meeting, Taehyung is dressed as though Christmas threw up on him. His holiday sweater has a bright Rudolph nose, and he wears green plaid pants and a red Santa hat. Honestly, unsurprising from what you remember of him in high school.

When Yoongi nods, Taehyung throws open the door. “Come in,” he tells the row of bland suits behind him.

Each of them files in and you stiffen, counting no less than five men. Wonderful. Always a treat to be the only woman in a business meeting.

Yoongi does not stand when they enter, so you do the same.

“Gentlemen,” he says, inclining his head. “Welcome to Merriman. Which one of you is Mr. Jones? We spoke over email.”

The last man through the door lifts a hand in greeting. He deposits his briefcase on top of the table, choosing a seat in the middle. Taehyung winces at the dirty briefcase before he withdraws, shutting the door behind him.

“Glad we could make this happen,” says Mr. Jones. He clicks his briefcase open. “You can call me Phil.”

You choose this moment to jump in. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Phil. My name is Y/N Y/L/N. My family owns the Rosy Finch here in town.”

Slowly, his gaze swings your way. He surveys you once, head-to-toe, then returns to Yoongi. “Then, you must be Mr. Min. My secretary said there would be coffee.”

He speaks without question marks, as though each word of his is a statement to be taken seriously.

Yoongi leans back. “Help yourselves,” he says, gesturing to the back wall.

A man immediately jumps up and pours the rest of them coffee, so you assume he must be an intern or associate. Your younger sister, Bea, interned at a law firm last summer, and you remember her complaining about the menial tasks.

Sitting pin-straight, you wait until they’re settled before speaking again. “Thank you for joining us this morning,” you say. “It was good of you to make time in your busy schedule.”

You may be laying it on a bit thick. Yoongi seems to think so, based on the way his eyebrows raise. Choosing to ignore this, you smile at Mr. Jones. One thing you’ve learned over the years is that women in business need to use every tool in their arsenal. You may lack your mom’s financial prowess, but you’re well-adept at killing people with kindness.

“It was no problem.” Phil takes a sip of his coffee. “We were coming up here already to check the land on Mount Bowler.”

“A good segue,” says Yoongi. “The land purchase is exactly what we want to talk about.”

Slowly, Phil sits back in his chair. “Oh?” He swivels. “I expect you to tell us that the land is bad, Mr. Min? Or maybe that the sun doesn’t hit the mountain quite right? Is that it?”

Yoongi’s jaw clenches. “Not at all,” he says smoothly. “The spot is beautiful. But you see, both Y/N and I run successful hotels with loyal customers. The market is tapped out. I would hate to see the Emerald Corporation waste investor dollars on a purchase.”

The youngest suit seems thrown by this remark, but Mr. Jones never wavers. Holding out his hand, he waits until an associate hands over a binder. Flipping this open, he scans the first page.

“The Rosy Finch,” he reads aloud. “Fifteen bedrooms. Maximum capacity of fifty guests. Average 5% vacancy rate. Not bad,” he adds, sparing you a glance. Mr. Jones flips the page. “The Lodge at Blue Glenn. Seventy-five rooms. Maximum guest capacity of three hundred. Average 7% vacancy rate. Conference room capacity up to seventy people.”

“Your point, Mr. Jones?” asks Yoongi.

“Well.” Closing the binder, Mr. Jones leans back. “You both operate with low vacancy rates, which seems to imply a greater demand than what you can keep up with. The resort we plan on opening will have one hundred and fifty guest rooms for a maximum capacity of six hundred, so we should easily accommodate your current customers plus any surplus.”

You nearly spit out your coffee. “Excuse me?”

Mr. Jones smiles, and the result is not pleasant. “I will be frank, Mr. Min and Miss Y/L/N. Your businesses may be doing well, but I doubt that will be the case once we build our property. And, well – brand loyalty only goes so far. We can afford to undercut your current prices for a few years. Long enough to ensure loyalty from your current guests and close the doors of your businesses. After that, well.” Aimless, he waves a hand. “Who knows what the future will bring? We may need to raise rates to accommodate future costs.”

At the other end of the table, Yoongi has gone eerily still. “So, you acknowledge that demand for a third property is nonexistent,” he says softly. “And instead, you plan to steal our guests and drive us both out of business.”

Mr. Jones chuckles lightly. “I would not put things so crudely, Mr. Min. After all” – he waves in your direction – “we have a lady present.”

It takes everything in you not to give him the middle finger.

“No,” he sighs. “That’s not at all how I would put things. I would say we plan to offer a new service to travelers who already love the area. We will bring our trademark Emerald service at competitive rates. Any impact that occurs to your businesses would be unintentional – and, of course, regrettable.”

“Except you just told us your plan,” you point out. “Which makes it seem intentional.”

Unruffled, he shrugs. “I can’t predict the future, Miss Y/L/N. Who knows what might happen? There could be enough guests out there for everyone to survive, even thrive.”

Yoongi grips his pen tightly. “What you’re doing is unethical.”

“What we’re doing is capitalism,” Mr. Jones corrects. “If you cannot compete, you do not deserve to be in the market. Now,” he says, draining the rest of his coffee. “If you’ll excuse us, we have a meeting to get to with a potential builder.”

Pushing his chair back, he stands and – as though on cue – the other four stand, as well.

“Feel free to send any follow-up questions via email,” Mr. Jones says on his way out the door. “I don’t think another meeting between us will be necessary.”

One of his associates collects the binder and deposits the mugs on the back counter. Once they have gone, you and Yoongi remain seated, neither one of you speaking.

Abruptly, Yoongi swears and pushes his chair back. Running a hand through his hair, he stalks towards the window to glare at the slopes.

Your eyes widen. This is the first time you have seen Yoongi anything less than calm, and oddly, it provokes in you the opposite reaction. You have always been better at navigating times of crisis. The ability to look on the bright side, to see a path through the darkness, has always served you well.

Getting up from your chair, you cross the room and gently touch his elbow. “Hey,” you murmur. “It’s going to be okay.”

He roughly exhales. “Will it?” Yoongi demands. “Because it sounds like you were right from the start, and their goal is to put us both out of business.”

“Oh!”

Startled, he looks sideways. “What, Y/N? What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, poised to move closer.

 “No.” You shake your head. “I’m just stunned that you – fancy hospitality school graduate and town success story – are telling me that I’m right.”

You expect Yoongi to roll his eyes, or maybe even laugh but instead, he slowly frowns. “What are you talking about, Y/N?” he asks. “You’re insanely smart.”

Oh, no. Discomfort wraps around you as you realize you may have been too self-deprecating. Usually, people respond well when you say things like that. It lessens the seriousness of the situation, which is often your main goal.

Forcing a smile, you shrug. “I don’t know. I just… you know, I didn’t go to college like you did.”

If anything, his frown deepens. “But you started running the Rosy Finch when your mom died,” Yoongi points out. “You were barely eighteen. If anything, you have nearly ten years of industry experience, and I’m entry-level.”

You laugh, a strangled sound. “You run this resort, Yoongi.”

“Through nepotism. Exactly.”

This time, the laugh that escapes you is genuine. Somehow, Yoongi has managed to turn this conversation around and make you feel better. Odd. That’s usually your job.

“Well,” you say, struggling to regain your footing. “Regardless, we’re both in the same boat now. Seems like Emerald Corp is full of shitty people.”

“If they’re even people,” Yoongi mutters. “Maybe the lizard-people conspiracy theories are right.”

“You think so?” Visibly, you perk up. “Personally, I think that would be kind of cool. Although, if they are lizard people, opening a ski resort seems like a bad idea. Reptiles can’t regulate their own temperature,” you explain. “They’d freeze.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Your mind is a fascinating place, Y/N.”

When he turns, you follow him back to the conference table. “Fascinating as in, belongs in a museum? Or a hospital?”

“Why limit yourself?”

You laugh again and when Yoongi hears this, he smiles. Retreating to your side, you grab your notebook to examine your notes from earlier. Something-something-Mr. Jones sucks-something-TAX deficiency-what suit is Yoongi wearing-his eyes are distracting-

You shut your notebook. That’s enough for now, you think.

Draining the rest of your coffee, you set the mug on the back wall with the rest. Turning around, you gaze at the slopes.

“I guess that’s that,” you sigh. “At least we did everything we could.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond right away, staring down at his notes. Eventually, he lifts his head and says, “Well. Not everything.”

You blink back at him. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you say earlier that we need to do something?” He lifts his eyebrows, waiting for you to catch on. When you do, Yoongi smiles. “What was it, exactly, that you had in mind?”

“No.” Yoongi stares, appalled, over his iced americano. “That’s a terrible idea, Y/N.”

Dejected, you slump in your seat. “Well, you think of something better, then!”

Yoongi’s lips twitch as he settles back to fiddle with the wrapper of his straw.

Merriman caught up with the times seven years ago, turning a vacant building into its first coffeehouse. The Bean Exchange is cute, with comfortable seating and delicious food, and at night it doubles as a wine bar and community space. Jasmine started working here after college and slowly worked her way up to the day manager. Ever since, it’s become your go-to spot.

When Yoongi reached out – via email again – and suggested you meet, it was the first place you thought of. Home turf advantage, and all that.

Not that you need it anymore. You have been thinking a lot since the meeting with Emerald Corp. Not just about Emerald Corporation and their villainous intentions, but about Yoongi – and more specifically, you and Yoongi, together.

It’s been a long time since the disastrous date back in high school. The two of you are older now, more mature and full-grown adults. Neither one of you live with your parents anymore, for example. In fact, last you heard, Yoongi’s mom moved back east to be closer to her sister.  

Sure, Yoongi did something lousy to you in high school, but it was high school. You are no longer the same girl who daydreamed about Yoongi in gym class and at your parents’ conferences. Maybe he wasn’t in the right place to date back then. Maybe he was just sixteen and immature.

Either way, it’s pointless to continue treating him like the boy who broke your heart then. You need Yoongi’s help, and it would behoove you to be effective work partners.

If only he wasn’t so damn infuriating.

Yoongi stares while you sip your Frappuccino. “Is whipped cream the flavor of the Frappuccino,” he asks slowly, “or a nod to the metric ton of whipped cream Jasmine added on top?”

Ignoring this, you swipe your finger through the whipped cream to slide this into your mouth. “Does it matter?” you ask, pulling your finger out with a pop.

“No,” Yoongi says, slightly strangled.

“Anyways.” You continue swirling your drink. “As I was saying – do you have any better ideas?”

The two of you have been at the coffee shop for the better part of an hour, and Yoongi has shot down every one of your suggestions. Granted, not all have been winners, but you really thought you had something with the idea to release a herd of elk onto their property.

“How would we ensure the elk stayed on their property, though?” Yoongi wondered. “And how would we get them there? And then,” he added, “what would they do besides eat some bark?”

“Terrorize landscapers?” you offered, but he had a point.

Now, Yoongi leans back. “We could reach out to Phil Jones’ boss.”

You make a buzzer sound with your mouth. “Terrible idea. Why do you think higher up the corporate ladder will be less corrupt than Phil?”

Yoongi grunts but concedes. He sips his drink again, and you take the opportunity to examine his outfit. This is the most casual look you have seen Yoongi wear to date. It would appear on weekends he allows himself the luxury of wearing jeans. Admittedly, these are paired with a button-down that looks softer than anything you have in your closet.

“Fine,” Yoongi exhales. “What are your other plans?”

Beaming, you tout out your notebook. “So glad you asked. Okay, so you ruled out the herd of deer – right?” you add, glancing at him to check. Yoongi nods and looks pained. “Okay, fine. Your loss. Let’s see… we could pretend to be ghosts and haunt the property?”

“How?”

“What do you mean, how?”

“I’m at a loss for how my question can possibly be misinterpreted.”

“We powder our faces and say ooooo a lot.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “No.”

“So narrow-minded. Okay, what about sabotage? We could block the main road that leads up to Mount Bowler.”

“Again – how?”

You stifle a grin, because you honestly thought his objection would be the legality of the plan, not its logistics.

“Um, let’s see,” you say, flipping a page. “We could cut down a tree. Trees fall down all the time! We just do it on the road and make it look like an accident.”

Yoongi considers. “Admittedly, that’s the best plan so far.”

“Why, thank you–”

“Which doesn’t say much.”

Scowling, you flip the page. “And again, I don’t hear you contributing anything useful.”

“I know, I know,” Yoongi groans, massaging his temples. “I’m terrible at this part of the business. The creative, imaginative side. That’s why I have Taehyung.”

Your stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with whipped cream. Ducking your head, you stare at your drink as though you find the contents fascinating.

“Hey.”

Glancing up, you find Yoongi has shifted closer. His gaze is curious. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” you say on instinct, then pause.

Most men would rather chew off their own arm than admit to wrongdoing, yet Yoongi just offered it freely. An odd sensation rises within you – a desire to tell the truth. Usually, this is deeply repressed by the need not to be burdensome.

“It’s just…” You trail off. “I wish I had a Taehyung sometimes. Not like, in a weird way,” you hasten. “But it must be nice not having to do everything yourself. There are parts of the business I’m not good at, either.”

Yoongi contemplates. “Does your dad help, or…?”

You nod, then shrug. “Well, yeah. My dad helps a lot. We usually divide all the work, but through the curse of genetics, we both end up being good at the same things.” Rueful, you laugh. “I usually end up managing our finances and booking system, both of which I’m awful at.”

“Have you talked to your dad about it?”

“Kind of.”

The answer to his question is a big, fat no, but that’s not something you’re comfortable sharing just yet. Yoongi seems to understand, nodding as he sits back to sip his iced drink.

“You know,” he says. “I’ve always hated the idea that one person needs to be good at everything.”

“What?”

“You know. The idea that one person should be innovative and a hard worker and good with numbers plus a great communicator. It’s an impossible standard,” he says, “designed to make you feel bad, and ultimately, to ensure you go nowhere. It keeps the status quo.”

“That’s… intense.”

“That’s capitalism,” Yoongi responds, managing to keep a straight face.

Your lips twitch. “I didn’t expect to receive a socialist rant today.”

“You should expect that anytime you’re with me, to be honest.”

Unable to help yourself, you laugh. “Yoongi, you run a business.”

“Yeah,” he says, but he smiles, “one in which I pay people a livable wage.”

“Ooh,” you say, mock-shivering. “Keep talking, that’s sexy.”

“Want to hear more about our community garden project?”

“Stop, stop,” you joke, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I might swoon. Where was all this back in high school?”

The moment feels like a record-scratch.

You both freeze, staring at one another while facing the reality of what you’ve left unsaid. Immediately, you wish you could take it back. You had not recognized how fragile this newfound truce of yours was.

The messiness of your past lingers between you, until eventually, Yoongi clears his throat. “I don’t know that much has changed,” he says. “For me, anyways.”

Face hot, you look down, since you know what that means. Yoongi did not like you in high school, and that has not changed. It would be good for you to remember this as you work together. It would be all too easy to fall into the same trap again.

“Right. Okay,” you respond. Taking a deep breath, you force yourself to rally. “What should we do, then?”

When you look upward, Yoongi seems about to say something, but the look on your face makes him change his mind. He frowns, then carefully says, “I don’t know. Didn’t something similar happen in Garland a few years ago?”

Jumping on the change in subject, you reach for your phone. “I think so. A warehouse wanted to build within their town lines, right?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi nods. “Wait – hang on, no. That land was owned by the town, and they just refused to sell. It wasn’t the same.”

Frowning, you open a search engine. “What about in New York? Wasn’t there a big company that wanted to build their headquarters in Queens but ended up withdrawing? Whatever happened there?”

Yoongi grabs his own phone. “You’re right. Okay – hm,” he says as he scrolls. “In that case, a bunch of state and local politicians opposed the company’s presence. They refused to cooperate.”

“Well, that’s out,” you say glumly. “Remmy has practically made t-shirts with Emerald Corp’s logo on them.”

“I shudder to think of the graphic design elements.”

“Emerald Corp is Coming to Town?” you suggest.

Yoongi can’t help but laugh. “Terrible,” he agrees.

“Wait!” you blurt, stopping mid-page. “This says that the reason politicians objected was due to community backlash. People led protests, made petitions, even camped outside their offices.”

“Are you suggesting we camp in Remmy’s front yard?”

“What you do in your free time is up to you,” you sniff. “I was more thinking along the lines of petitions and protests.”

“That’s a good idea,” he admits. “We can reach out to other small businesses. Go door to door. I bet a lot of townspeople would stand with us.”

“Yeah,” you add, your excitement growing. “Remmy will have no choice but to listen if everyone bands together. He wants to run again for office, right?”

“Well, well, well.” Yoongi tsks, sitting back. “Look at you, being devious.”

“Is it devious?” you ask. “Or simply forcing politicians to represent the will of the people who voted for them?”

Yoongi whistles. “Got me there, Y/N.”

“And what I need to get is more whipped cream,” you say, standing from your chair. “Want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” says Yoongi, opening a spreadsheet on his phone.

Heading towards the front counter serves several purposes. On one hand, you really do need more whipped cream; on the other, it gives you a second to distance yourself.

Yoongi’s words from earlier play in your mind: not much has changed.

He’s wrong, though. A lot of things between you have changed. Yoongi left town, then came back, and now he runs his family lodge. Your mom passed away and since then, your outlook on life has been different. The two of you are no longer the same people you were then, even if you wanted to be.

Uncomfortably, you think about your interactions and realize that, for the past three years, you were the one avoiding him. Yoongi returned with his fancy degree and five-star work experience, and you assumed he would think less of you. Maybe though, that was all self-projection. After all, the two of you never really talked after the disaster date.

If nothing has changed, then Yoongi would not be here now, offering to help. He would not be seated here in this coffee shop, doing his best to brainstorm despite your past differences, and so, things are different.

Which means maybe it’s time you started acting like it. It might be time for you to consider who Yoongi is now, rather than who he was back in high school.

One positive about small-town living is that the total number of businesses in Merriman are less than one hundred. Which makes your task much easier on Friday when you set out to collect signatures. Most of the businesses are located on Main Street, so you start your trek early in the center of town.

Coffee in hand, you march up to the first business and loudly knock. Yoongi squints at the wreath, making a face.

“See, people have gone too far,” he murmurs, careful to keep his voice low. “A blue and orange wreath? That’s not Christmas-y. In fact, that’s –”

“Happy holidays!” you blurt as the door swings open. “Hello!”

Mrs. Larson, the owner of Larson’s Candy and Sweets, beams at you. “Oh my goodness,” she laughs, adjusting her glasses. “Y/N, is that you? For a second, I thought you were your mother. You look so much like her. Come in, come in,” she gushes, stepping backwards. “Come in from the cold.”

For a moment, you freeze, the way you always do when someone compares you to her.

Yoongi steps closer and lightly touches your back. “Hey,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

He examines you seriously. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” This time, you manage to smile. “Thanks. Let’s go get that signature.”

Yoongi hovers another moment, then nods and gestures for you to go first. The moment you enter, you find yourself ensconced in sugar and chocolate. Mrs. Larson steps before her main counter, where she readies the daily display of chocolate and candy.

Peering at the tray, you spot a few macarons near the back. “Oh!” you gasp, bending closer. “These are so difficult to make, Mrs. Larson. How did you make sure the top didn’t crack?”

Chuckling, she pushes the tray closer. “I’ll confess, I didn’t make these myself. Macarons are beyond me, I’m afraid. I asked Sara from Garland to make me a few batches to sell.”

You nod, examining them from one side. “I have trouble with the consistency. I think it’s because my oven is…” Trailing off, you realize Mrs. Larson and Yoongi are both watching you. “Sorry,” you say as you straighten. “That’s not what we came to discuss.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem, Y/N!” Mrs. Larson smiles. “If you ever decide to start selling your macarons, just let me know. Now” – she clasps both hands together – “how can I help you dears?”

Yoongi takes the first part of your rehearsed speech. “Were you at the last town hall, Mrs. Larson?”

“No, no. Couldn’t get away. Why? Anything fun happen? Did that Remmy Quarrels throw another tantrum when the projector died?”

Hiding a smile, you shake your head. It bodes well for you that Remmy’s ridiculousness is well-known around Merriman. You plan to use this to your full advantage.

“Not this time,” says Yoongi. “But Remmy did share a new proposal for the town. The hotel chain, Emerald Corporation, plans to buy land on Mount Bowler and open a new resort.”

Mrs. Larson seems stricken. “But that’s so close to Blue Glenn!”

“Exactly,” you say, jumping in. “Yoongi and I met with Emerald Corporation to see if we could find a solution, but it didn’t go well.”

Yoongi snorts. “Y/N is being polite. They said they intend to put us out of business and then hike up their resort prices.”

Mrs. Larson’s eyes flash. “Is that so, now?”

“It is.”

“Well!” She sniffs, wiping both hands on her apron. “We can’t have that type of attitude muddying the neighborhood, can we? What do you need me to do?”

Exchanging a swift glance with Yoongi, you contain your enthusiasm (a monumental task). Possibly this will be easier than you anticipated.

“We’re forming a petition,” you say. Handing over your iPad, you give Mrs. Larson the stylus. “We plan to submit this to Remmy before the next town hall. If we gather enough signatures from other businesses, maybe he’ll think twice.”

“Exactly right,” she says, signing with a flourish. “You kids let me know if you need anything else. Nothing fuels a righteous cause like chocolate!”

“Absolutely.” Yoongi nods, helping himself when she holds out a tray. “I’ve always said that.”

Mrs. Larson encourages him to take more, until eventually, you grab Yoongi by the elbow to drag him away. Steering him towards the door, you wave goodbye.

“Thanks, Mrs. Larson!” you call as you leave. “We appreciate your support!”

She waves you off, the bells tinkling overhead when you step outside. It’s still early, so most of the shops are not yet open. Heading in the direction of the next building, you look sternly at Yoongi, unwrapping his chocolate.

Blithely, he pops this in his mouth. “’aht?”

“You know what,” you say, the point somewhat lessened when you start to smile.

Yoongi blinks at you innocently. “I just didn’t want to offend her. That’s all.”

Rolling your eyes, you walk up the next drive and Yoongi follows. 14 Main Street is a cozy bungalow with a low, sloping red roof. Ringing the doorbell, you step back and wait.

Footsteps precede the door pulling open. Mr. Halloway looks between the two of you, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. “Hello,” he says politely. “How can I help you today?”

You don’t blame his confusion; Mr. Halloway owns a small law firm specializing in insurance law. He likely does not receive a lot of drop-in calls, especially not before visiting hours.

Smiling brightly, you take a step forward. “Hello, Mr. Halloway,” you say. “We are hoping for a minute of your time this morning.”

Mr. Halloway nods and then, seeing Yoongi, his expression brightens. “Of course! Mr. Min, it is good to see you looking healthy. Hope everything is going well with that new car service?”

Yoongi nods. “Good, sir. Thank you for the recommendation last spring. Our guests have been raving about them all summer.”

Waving a hand, Mr. Halloway steps aside and ushers you in. “It was nothing. Are you here on an insurance matter? Or is there something else I can do for you?” he asks, holding out a hand for your coat.

“Y/N,” you supply. “And actually, yes, there is.”

“Oh?”

Yoongi shuts the door. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Emerald Corporation?”

Mr. Halloway frowns, his spectacles slipping. “I have, but I’m afraid I don’t do any business with them. Not many do in my line of work,” he adds with a chuckle. “They have quite the reputation.”

You and Yoongi exchange another glance. This information could prove useful later.

“Then, you may have heard Emerald Corp plans to buy land on Mount Bowler,” you explain. “We met with their acquisition team last week, and it seems clear they do not have the best interests of Merriman at heart.”

“No, I would imagine not!” Mr. Halloway shakes his head. “That would be reserved for their shareholders.”

“Exactly,” says Yoongi. “Which is why we’re going door-to-door, gathering signatures from other small businesses. We want to show Remmy that–”

“Remmy Quarrels is behind this?” Mr. Halloway interrupts sharply. “Well, then, give me a pen and tell me where to sign. That man couldn’t tell a pebble from a diamond,” he complains, scribbling his name.

And so it goes, the rest of the morning.

By the time you reach the town square, you’re feeling optimistic. Yoongi has collected nearly forty signatures – as the shops began opening, several customers even asked to sign, which was encouraging.

Passing a snow-covered bench, Yoongi exhales and collapses upon it. He groans, stretching his arms and legs. “Let’s sit for a second. It’s nice outside.”

“You’re sounding like a true northerner,” you joke as you sit beside him. “Calling it warm when the temperature is below freezing.”

“Yeah, but after last week’s cold snap, this is nothing.”

“True,” you sigh.

The two of you stare at the snow-dusted gazebo, strung with Christmas lights. Garland has been wound around the spare railings, and even in daytime, the place is a winter paradise. After a full morning of speaking, it’s nice to rest and simply relax.

Eventually though, Yoongi exhales. “Does that ever get weird for you?”

You don’t need to ask to know what he means. Several other people compared you to your mom this morning, commenting about how you looked like her or had her smile. It was enough that, by the end, said smile was plastered unnaturally on your face.

“Kind of,” you admit. “But it’s also kind of… nice? It feels like she’s still here, in some way.”

Yoongi nods. He examines the row of icicles hanging from the gazebo.

Curiously, you look at him and find none of what you’ve come to expect in his gaze. Typically, when people ask about your mom, they expect you to be sad or respond with a platitude that won’t derail the conversation. Rarely do they ask and truly want to know.

If anyone can understand, you suppose it would be Yoongi. His interest seems genuine and what’s more, he seems to be interested in you, not just your mom. It makes you want to keep talking.

“But then again,” you add. “It can also be weird.”

“Why?”

“My mom and I… we couldn’t have been more different.” Roughly, you exhale. “So sometimes, when people compare us, all I can think about are the ways in which we weren’t the same.”

Yoongi waits for a beat. “How so?”

“She was always so put-together. So logical. She could calm things down in an instant, fix anything. And well, running the Rosy Finch was always her dream.”

Breaking off, you stare at your hands in your lap. A lump has lodged in your throat; one you can’t talk around.

Shifting closer, Yoongi’s right thigh presses against yours on the bench. The warmth of him is comforting, letting you know that he’s there.

“And it’s not yours?” he asks, carefully.

On instinct, a door in your mind slams itself shut. One that opens to what you really want to do, who you really want to be.

“I’ve always wanted to continue her dream,” you respond.

Yoongi looks at you like he sees through this, but won’t push you further. Nodding, he sits back and stares at the snow.  

“You’re good at this, you know,” you murmur. “Convincing people to sign our petition. Getting them to believe in our cause.”

The corner of his lips lift. “That sounds like you thought I wouldn’t be.”

“Well…”

Yoongi looks over at you, a subtle gleam in his eye. “You did think I would be bad at it.”

Embarrassed, you shrug. Again, you hesitate, unsure how much to say. “You were always so quiet in high school,” you confess. “It was hard for me to tell what you were really thinking. I just assumed…”

“That it would be the same way with work,” Yoongi finishes for you.

You nod.

He thinks for a moment, then his expression changes. “You thought this about me back in high school?”

“Yeah.”

“So… on our date?”

Your words die again.

Yoongi seems to consider this, turning it over in his mind. “That makes sense. I used to struggle with speaking my mind back then. You were always better at that than me.”

“Sometimes,” you admit. “I’ve always been good at talking, but not so good at speaking my mind.”

Silence falls between you, though not as sharp as before.

“What would you do if you weren’t running the inn?”

Although your lips part, nothing comes out.

The question is a good one. One you’ve thought about often. And then swiftly, you un-think it, not wanting to tempt fate. Your mom died your senior year of high school when you were newly eighteen.

A few weeks after the funeral, you trudged downstairs in the middle of the night – sleeping was hard back then – for a glass of water and stumbled upon your dad. He was speaking on the phone with his brother, and you caught the tail end of their conversation.

“It’s too much,” your dad said lowly, rubbing his forehead at the kitchen table. “Running the Rosy Finch is impossible without her. There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do it alone.”

Stomach sinking, you immediately turned around, not wanting to intrude. You lay awake that night for hours, staring at the ceiling. The month prior had been devastating, but something about the conversation hit you in the gut.

The Rosy Finch had been your mom’s dream. She was not born in Merriman, but it always felt like she had been. When your dad brought her home over Christmas their first year of dating, she fell in love – both with him and the town, your mom liked to joke. She wanted to extend that feeling of warmth to others, and her joy could be felt all over the inn.

Selling the place felt like a betrayal. It felt like removing the last piece of her from your lives.

The next morning, you marched down at breakfast and informed your dad of your intention to stay. He was stunned at first, then in denial, but you eventually wore him down. College had never been your dream. You planned on going, but that was mostly to satisfy your parents’ expectations.

There was no career path that called to you, no job you found enticing, and at the time, the idea of carrying on your mom’s legacy was most important.

Now though, you find yourself wondering if this is still so. Or more importantly, you wonder if by choosing your mom’s dream, you passed over the prospect of having your own.

Shifting on the bench, you glance sideways at Yoongi. “I don’t know. I mean” – a self-deprecating laugh – “what would I even do?”

The way Yoongi looks at you says he, again, sees right through you but understands why you might not be ready to say it aloud. After a moment, you exhale, your breath frosting before you.

Glancing at your watch, you wince at the time. “We should get going,” you say, standing up from the bench. “Let’s continue on this street?”

Yoongi nods, ambling along you with both hands in his pockets. In the sunlight, his black hair has an almost-blue tint. You wonder why you didn’t notice that earlier.

Catching you staring, Yoongi lifts a brow. “What?”

“Nothing.” Cheeks hot, you face forward. Helpless, you search for the easy banter of earlier. “I’m just surprised you stayed out for so long, that’s all.”

His lips twitch. “Oh? Because it’s so cold?”

“Or because you can’t stand me,” you laugh and continue.

It takes you several steps to realize Yoongi has not followed. When you turn, you find him in the same spot, a weird look on his face.

“Y/N,” he says slowly. “What are you talking about?”

You backtrack to where he stands. Brow furrowed, you look up at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Hearing Yoongi use italics is enough to make you giddy, but you refrain from teasing him. “I really don’t.”

“You think… I can’t stand you, Y/N.”

You frown. “That’s not a question.”

“Okay, fine. Do you think I can’t stand you, Y/N?”

“Well…” Brows furrowed, you shake your head. “I mean, I don’t know? That seems kind of extreme, considering we’ve been hanging out all day.”

His gaze does not waver. “But you think I dislike you.”

“Um. Yeah?”

“Why?”

Your eyes bug out. “Why?”

Yoongi nods, somber and a laugh escapes you.

“Yoongi, come on,” you say.

“What? Tell me?”

Your teeth grit. “Don’t make me say it.”

He continues to look baffled, and you try – but fail – to suppress your annoyance. You aren’t sure how Yoongi can act like you’re the crazy one, when he’s barely talked to you in more than a decade.

“Say what?” he demands.

“Say – okay, fine,” you snap, taking a step closer. Yoongi looks down at you, his gaze dark and challenging. “Yoongi,” you say, speaking slowly. “I think you dislike me because during our date twelve years ago, you hit on another woman in front of me. If that doesn’t scream disinterest, I don’t know what does. Oh, and then you ignored me the rest of our time in high school. And also, when you returned to Merriman. That’s it. The end,” you declare, moving to stomp past him.

Yoongi’s hand closes around your upper arm. Gently, he pulls you about to face him. “That’s pretty damning,” he remarks.

“I agree.”

His brows arch. “Or it would be, if it were true.”

Your jaw drops. “Everything I just said is true!”

“No, it’s not,” Yoongi says, and then frowns. “Who did I hit on in front of you?”

“Uh, does the name Annie Summers ring a bell?”

“No. Should it?”

“Our waitress that night?”

Understanding dawns. “Oh.” His eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” you huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me –”

When you try to leave again, Yoongi pulls you right back to face him. Admittedly, you don’t try very hard, but still – damn. Yoongi may be lean, but he’s strong.

“You didn’t see what you think you saw,” he insists.

“I didn’t get contacts until I was twenty-two, Yoongi. I saw plenty.”

His lips tilt. “No. I mean – yes, Annie was flirting with me. When you left to hang out with your friends, she sat down in your spot. I was… young and stupid. I didn’t want to be rude, so I let her talk. When I finally asked her to leave, she slid me her number. I didn’t want you to misunderstand, so I put it in my pocket –”

“Ha!”

“– and threw it away on my way out,” Yoongi finishes.

“Huh.”

He steps closer. “I wasn’t interested in anyone but you that night, Y/N.”

“But…” You stare at him, trailing off. “You were so quiet with me. You barely spoke our entire date! You let me leave.”

His cheeks flush. “I was nervous.”

“Oh,” you say, starting to feel very silly. After a moment though, something important registers. “Hang on. You said that I left to hang out with my friends.”

Yoongi looks away. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“Which time?”

Your eyes widen. “What do you mean, which time?”

“Well, there was the thing in the car,” Yoongi says in a way that makes you think he’s thought about it often. “And then, when we got there and your friend stopped by. And again, at the end,” Yoongi continues, matter-of-fact, “when you texted your friends to come get you. You left to talk to them, then returned and said they were taking you home. I got the hint, Y/N. Believe me.”

In an unfortunate turn of events, you cannot seem to scrape your jaw from the floor. It takes several attempts before you recover.

“That’s not what happened,” you manage to croak.

“No?” Yoongi demands. “Then what happened?”

“Jaz texted me in the car, but mostly to gush about how hot you were and how lucky I was.”

Yoongi pauses. “Oh.”

This seems to be your shared word of the moment. “Our date was at one of the three most popular hangouts in town, Yoongi, so, yeah – I knew someone there. It was a coincidence. I didn’t plan that.”

His eyes narrow. “And the rest?”

“The rest!” you sputter, barely catching your breath. “Namjoon and Jaz are busybodies, that’s all. They came to Brewsters to spy on our date. I left our table to tell them off, and then I saw Annie giving you her phone number on my way back. That’s why I left.”

Yoongi visibly flinches. You watch his thoughts churn, unusually visible through his calm exterior.

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms. “I bet you feel silly now, huh? All this time you spent hating me, when you really –”

“I never hated you.”

His words stop you in your tracks, and you watch Yoongi, expectant.

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving your face. “I never hated you,” Yoongi repeats. “Even when I thought you hated me, and even when I thought you called your friends to end the date, I never hated you.”

“Oh,” you say, staring back at him.

He fights a smile. “We’ve been saying that a lot.”

“Yeah, well. It seems appropriate when you’re unwinding a pivotal event from your childhood.”

“Our date was a pivotal event for you?”

“It” – flummoxed, you stumble – “well, if you must know –”

“Because it was for me,” he adds, so soft you nearly miss it.

For a long moment, you stand there and simply take Yoongi in. Layering in the new context, you can see how, from his perspective, the events of the night would look different. In an odd way, it feels like the first time you’re truly seeing him.

“So,” you say slowly. “You thought that I wasn’t interested in you. That I called my friends to come get me.”

His cheeks redden. “Like I said, I wasn’t very confident back then. You were so… funny. And fun. And friends with everyone. I assumed you were bored of me, and that was that.”

“And meanwhile,” you say, a slight hitch to your voice, “I spent most of our date wondering how someone as cool and interesting as you would bother asking me out.”

His gaze sharpens. “Well, shit,” he says after a moment.

You laugh. “Yeah.”

Shaking his head, Yoongi glances around the town square. “What was it you said earlier, about me feeling silly?”

“Truthfully, I’m the one who feels silly right now.”

Yoongi turns around. “You? What for?”

“I should have asked you,” you say. “I mean, I saw Annie give you her number, but you’re right – I should have just asked you what happened instead of blowing you off.”

“Would it have helped?” Yoongi frowns. “I could have told Annie to leave earlier. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I was trying… I don’t know what I was trying to do,” he admits. “Let’s call it a draw. We both could have done things differently.”

“Deal,” you allow.

As though this has settled more than just that, the two of you begin walking, resuming your task. Snow crunches beneath your feet, and you wonder how you didn’t recognize how beautiful the town looks this way. Sometimes things sneak up on you, even though they’ve been there all along.

You glance over at Yoongi, wondering if this changes anything for him now.

There is nothing you can do to undo the past, but you meant what you felt earlier at the coffee shop. Things are so different for you now. Neither of you are the people you once were. With the misconception out of the way, you’re forced to admit to yourself what you’ve known for some time now: what you feel for Yoongi isn’t irritation, or annoyance, or even a rivalry.

You like him. You like Yoongi Min, and the more time you spend with him, your feelings only get stronger. Which means if you don’t want to suffer the same mistakes, you need to make sure Yoongi knows it. Or risk missing yet another opportunity at something that could be real.

By the time you finish canvassing, the sun has sunk nearly beyond the horizon. Your dad texted you to stop by for dinner, so you head there immediately and park on the street. Slipping in through the garage, you remove your coat and snow boots, hanging everything up in the mud room and entering through the kitchen – where you’re immediately accosted by your sister, Bea.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, wine glass in hand. “Look who it is.”

Wincing, you come to a stop. Bea sits at the kitchen table while your dad chops onions at the counter behind her. He looks up, amused by your entrance and Bea’s uncordial welcome.

Unfolding an arm, she points at the clock. “Well?” she demands. “What time is it?”

Knowing you have no excuse, you cross the room to kiss your dad on the cheek. “Sorry I’m a little late. I got tied up. Wait,” you blurt, glancing between them. “If all three of us are here, who’s at the inn?”

Circling the kitchen, your dad drops onions into a pan. “Janine is holding things down at reception, and Drew is on housekeeping.”

“Okay,” you sigh, sinking into a chair. Reaching over, you grab Bea’s wine glass and take a large sip. “Thanks.”

“Hey!” she complains, yanking her wine back. “This wine is for members of our family who actually tell the truth.”

Brows raised, you look at your dad. “And this implies I… do not tell the truth? What’s Bea on about this time?”

Your dad sadly shakes his head. “I’m on Bea’s side, actually. When were you going to tell us about Emerald Corporation?”

You immediately freeze. Shit.

Snapping her fingers, Bea points at your expression. “See!” she declares. “I told you! She did know!”

“Know what?” you protest, voice weak.

Sighing emphatically, your dad returns to the stove. “I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, Y/N, but it seems your sister was right.”

“I always am,” Bea crows. “Okay, so now that all the lies are revealed, you might as well catch us up. What’s going on, Y/N?”

For a moment, you waver and contemplate playing dumb but decide there’s no point. If they don’t know already, they likely will soon.

“Fine,” you sigh. “What have you heard?”

“One of my law school friends used to consult for Emerald Corp,” Bea informs you. “They reached out and asked if I heard Emerald Corp was purchasing land in Merriman. No thanks to you,” she throws at you.

You slump in your seat, staring at the ceiling. “When did you get so annoying? And when did you stop listening to your elders?”

“Law school, bitch.”

“Language,” says your dad, not turning around.

Your heart twinges, since that used to be something your mother would say. After she passed, your dad seemed to feel the urge to take on both roles. You aren’t sure whether you or Bea ever told him he didn’t have to.

Bea is younger by only two years, but to you, it always seemed like more. She was fifteen when your mom died, but it was her dream to go to law school, so you and your dad worked to make it a reality. When she offered to stay home, you always refused.

Maybe there’s a part of you that resents her for this; you were able to convince your dad to let you stay, but Bea never succeeded. When Bea graduated in the spring and passed the bar exam, you wanted her to stay in the city and score a fancy job. Instead, she insists on living in Merriman, and maybe you resent her for that, as well.

You made the choice that made sense at the time, but Bea isn’t like you. She has big dreams, and the limit in Merriman is Mr. Halloway’s law practice. Which is great, but Bea is smart. Driven, like your mom. She deserves the most her field has to offer, and you and your dad are doing just fine.

Mostly. Current situation aside.

“Fine,” you gripe. “At the last town hall–”

“I have got to start going to those things,” mutters Bea.

“At the last town hall,” you repeat, “Remmy announced Emerald Corporation is looking to buy land on Mount Bowler. The Tully property.”

Your dad’s spoon clatters to the counter. “Near the Min family lodge?”

Bea blinks. “That’s an odd choice,” she says. “Why would Emerald Corp want to build a hotel where there already is one? The market is tapped out.”

“That’s what I said!” you blurt, then remember the situation. “Well, yeah. Since then, things have become more complicated.”

“More complicated… how?”

“Yoongi and I met with Emerald Corporation last week.”

“You met with them?” asks your dad, his shock clear.

When you turn, you see the hurt clear in his face before he can disguise it. Swiftly, he begins stirring the onions.

You fumble momentarily, guilt churning inside you. You avoided telling your dad because you didn’t want him to worry, but maybe that was the wrong call. You thought you could control this, fix things before they became real, but now things have snowballed and you’ve hurt them, too.

Bea may not be involved in the day-to-day running of the Rosy Finch, but your dad is co-owner. Admittedly, he hasn’t had the head for issues like this in the past. Your mom always took care of them and then, more recently, you have. Still, you should have told him – he deserves to be in the know.

“I’m sorry,” you say, helpless. “It just sort of… happened.”

An awkward silence falls before your dad nods and returns to his cooking. When you look at Bea, you expect to see disappointment, and you do – only hers is directed at your dad, not at you.

Her frown deepens, and then she turns to face you. “Wait,” Bea says. “Did you say you and Yoongi met with them?”

Heat climbs your throat. “Um… yes.”

Her jaw drops, and you sense more questions coming, but your dad jumps in to save you.

“What did Emerald Corp say?”

Grateful, you turn. “Basically, that they’re buying land on the mountain because of our proven profit. They plan to undercut us and the Lodge, take our guests, and then hike the prices.”

“What the fuck.”

“Bea!” both you and your dad chime in.

Rolling her eyes, Bea pulls out her phone. “I will not apologize for swearing when it’s appropriate. Emerald Corp is the true villain here.”

“Relativism is a dangerous philosophy,” your dad warns, returning to the stove.

Bea and you exchange a look that nearly dissolves into laughter. Your dad loves to do that – say something vague and retreat from an argument. You learned from the best. It used to drive your mom crazy, but you and Bea have grown fond of it. You love to see how far you can push things.

“Anyways,” you sigh. “It doesn’t seem like Emerald Corp can be reasoned with. Yoongi and I have been brainstorming other options.”

“Yoongi and I,” Bea muses, her smile growing. “Is that a thing now?”

“Can we please be mature about this?”

“We can,” she agrees, “once you address the elephant in the room. When did you start colluding with your ex-boyfriend?”

Your dad again drops the spoon. “Ex-boyfriend?” he gasps, and you remember where you got your dramatics. “Y/N, why don’t I remember this? Did Yoongi break your heart? Did you and your mother hide this from me?” he demands, brandishing the wooden spoon.

“Dad, no,” you groan. “Bea is overreacting. Yoongi and I went on one date in high school, and it ended badly. That’s all.”

He squints. “Define badly.”

“This is your fault,” you huff, glaring at Bea.

She places one hand on her throat. “Mine!” she says. “You’re the one who’s igniting old flames, then lying about them to the family.”

“We went on one date.”

“What happened on the date!” insists your dad, brandishing the spoon for emphasis.

“Nothing! It was all a misunderstanding. We’ve cleared it up. An-y-ways” – you speak loudly to drown out their protests – “what’s important is that Yoongi is now on our side, and we’re doing everything we can to take down Emerald Corp.”

Your dad pauses mid-brandish. “You know, the Lodge does have more resources than we do.”

“Exactly,” you soothe. “Honestly, I have this all under control. Yoongi and I went around Main Street this morning and collected signatures against the proposition. People don’t want Emerald Corporation in Merriman.”

Pulling the signatures up on your phone, you show this to Bea, who takes the device and reluctantly nods. “This is a good start,” she admits.

“Atta girl,” says your dad, crossing to the fridge. “So, is there anything your sister or I can do to help?”

“No!”

Bea peers over your phone. “Are you sure, Y/N? I mean, this is good, but…”

“But?”

She glances at your dad’s back, then seems to think better of what she was about to say. “Nothing.” Her lips tighten, and she sets down your phone. “I trust you, Y/N.”

Your dad moves to rummaging in the cabinets. “Y/N, do you know where the olive oil is?”

Standing from the table, you help your dad with dinner, and conversation turns into more mundane topics. Bea appears to forgive and forget, although you know better than to assume she’s fully given up.

In truth, everything your sister said has been quietly simmering under the surface for years. When you began working at the inn, it took several years to work out a rhythm with your dad. He’s good at customer interactions, at schmoozing with vendors and ensuring people return. Usually, your dad works at the front desk or manages business relationships.

Everything else falls to you. A patchwork job of event management (fun!) to building maintenance (less fun!) and financial analysis (an evil you would not wish upon your worst enemy!) has become your job. At the start, it was enjoyable. Each new task was a challenge; a puzzle you had to solve. There was joy you found in being good at something and in being needed.

Slowly though, the joy dwindled. Now, even your current challenge feels like a chore; something to figure out before the next one arrives. You aren’t sure when the change happened but can’t ignore its presence.

“Are you alright?” Bea asks as you wash up after dinner.

“Fine,” you reply, forcing a smile. “Good, even.”

She gives you a look, but before she can respond, your dad is bustling into the kitchen with leftovers. You hand over the dark chocolate pistachio cookies you baked in preparation, and it distracts them enough that you vacate the premises.

Still, you feel Bea’s eyes on you as you pull away. You may have everyone else in the town fooled, but if there is anyone who can see through your bullshit, it’s Jaz and Bea. Which means if you want to figure Emerald Corp out by yourself, then you need to do so – and fast.

The next morning, you meet Jasmine at Brewsters for brunch, a monthly ritual that began in your early twenties. At night, Brewsters may be a dive, but in the morning, they have a surprisingly edible and extensive brunch menu.

A menu you have been staring at for the past five minutes, prompting Jasmine to wave her napkin in your face.

“Y/N,” she calls. “Earth to Y/N – hello?”

Jerking to life, you swat the fabric away. “I’m fine. Just… a headache. I’ll be fine soon.”

“Good.” Settling, Jasmine drops her napkin into her lap. “Namjoon should be here soon. He was running late this morning.”

Nodding, you glance out the window at the parking lot. Mostly empty today, thanks to the snow last night. Only a few cars are clustered, including your own, and several maintain a light layer of snow.

A few minutes later, Namjoon bursts into Brewsters, glancing around and removing his hat. Spotting you at the back, he heads in your direction.

“Hey, guys,” he says, collapsing on the bench beside you. “Anything new on the menu?”

“Unfortunately.” Jasmine pulls a face. “Raf has been experimenting in the kitchen. His latest creation is creamed mushrooms and eggs.”

Namjoon frowns, then pauses and tilts his head. “You know what, that might not be terrible.”

Primly, you open your gigantic menu. “I’ll stick to my usual. The sausage breakfast sandwich with hot sauce.”

“A classic,” agrees Jasmine. “The same?” she asks Namjoon, who nods.

Jasmine leaves to go find your waiter. Her cousin works here on weekends and chooses to ignore your table until you’re ready to order.

When she disappears, Namjoon turns to face you.

“What?” you ask, sipping your water.

“Nothing.” He pauses. “Which is the problem. How did signature collecting go? We’ve gotten no updates.”

“I know,” you groan. “It felt like too much to update you over text.”

You launch into a description of yesterday’s canvassing, repeating the entire story when Jasmine rejoins you. You avoid replaying the talk with your family, which feels more private than the rest. Never mind that you confessed more intimate things to Yoongi yesterday.

“Besides all of that…” You shrug. “I have a shift at the inn this afternoon. Suzy is sick, so I’m working the front desk, which is always a nightmare. Yoongi and I need to grab some remaining signatures tomorrow, and then… we’ll see.”

Namjoon nods, and Jasmine asks a question, but you barely hear her, too distracted by the commotion at the front of the restaurant.

Remmy Quarrels has entered, speaking to none other than Bob Schwartz, owner of the Holly Jolly Toy Shop. You and Yoongi missed Bob yesterday, which was a disappointment. The Holly Jolly Toy Shop has a sizable online presence, and they ship all over the country.

They end up being seated at the next table, though neither one notices you. As a result, you hear Remmy’s pitch, crystal-clear.

“All I’m saying is that you should keep your options open,” says Remmy, pulling out a chair. “There’s no need to petition Emerald Corporation until you hear their full pitch. They’ve promised me they’ll keep local businesses in mind – and just think of the tourism boom, and what that would mean for your shop!”

Bob slowly nods, as though all this makes sense.

In the booth, your hands white-knuckle your silverware, and you can practically feel the steam coming from your ears. Namjoon and Jasmine are listening, too, rapt and incensed.

“I knew it,” Namjoon mutters. “Jimin said he saw Remmy parked on Main Street last night, but we didn’t know what he was doing. I just knew he was up to something shady.”

 “Remmy was parked on Main Street?” you ask, dazed. “So… he was just walking behind us the entire time, countering our ask?”

Jasmine makes a noise close to a growl.

“Seems like it,” says Namjoon.

“That little snake,” you hiss.

Abruptly, you stand.

Namjoon looks up in alarm. “Y/N,” he says, trying and failing to catch your forearm. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to –”

“Oh, I think this is the perfect time,” you declare, marching away.

Remmy sees you coming first, his eyes widening comically over Bob’s head. When you stop beside them, smiling politely, you can see him sweating.

“Hi, Bob,” you greet. “Hi, Remmy. Hope your day is going well.”

“It is,” says Bob. He glances behind you. “Are you here for breakfast?”

“Mhm,” you say, your gaze sliding to Remmy. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation about Emerald Corp. Did Remmy share with you the conversation Yoongi and I had with their head of development?”

Bob blinks, then looks at Remmy. “You didn’t tell me Y/N and Yoongi had already met with Emerald Corp.”

Remmy, who has been glaring daggers, quickly stops to nod. “Oh, yes,” he says. “I mean – yes, it would seem they did. I didn’t know. How did things go?” he asks, turning to you.

“Extremely well,” you say sweetly. “That’s why Yoongi and I are gathering signatures to stop Emerald Corp from building here in Merriman.”

Bob guffaws, slapping his knee. “The same humor as your mother,” he chuckles. “She would have cut down a tree on the mountain road, or something by now.”

“That’s what I said!” you blurt, beaming at him.

Bob smiles back.

Jasmine appears at your side with your breakfast sandwich. “Sustenance, milady,” she says, then scowls at Remmy. “Oh, you’re here.”

Remmy’s expression looks as though he has swallowed something sour. This worsens when Bob turns to him, a frown on his face.

“What was that you said about Emerald Corp supporting local businesses?” he asks. “It doesn’t sound like that’s the case if they’re blatantly ignoring the concerns of our town hotels.”

You can practically see the wheels turning in Remmy’s mind. “Look,” he sighs. “I will admit, this deal has pros and cons. The con is what Y/N just said – most likely, Emerald Corp will end up as the town’s main accommodation. On the plus side though, their lodge will be able to host more than double the occupancy of Y/N and Yoongi’s buildings.”

Bob considers this. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” The look Remmy gives you is triumphant. “They also have substantial connections in the tourism industry and have promised me 100% capacity during the holiday season. Think of what that would mean for your sales, Bob! To the toy shop. Or the coffee shop,” he adds, pointing outside.

Jasmine crosses her arms. “I think I can speak for the Bean Exchange when I say we’re doing just fine.”

Namjoon stops beside her. “My company also has significant connections in the tourism industry,” he points out to Remmy. “I don’t see how that’s a large selling point for working with Emerald Corp.”

Remmy chooses to ignore him. “This is what I promised to do when I became town treasurer,” he says, practically a growl. “Find new opportunities for growth! Find the net positive, even when there are some negatives!”

Slowly, your anger begins to build. Thus far, you have been able to suppress it and keep your speech civil, but Remmy seems hell-bent on riling you up. Still, you do your best to stay calm.

“And what about when Emerald Corporation forces Yoongi and I out of business, Remmy?” you ask him. “Then what? What will your next idea be? A Barnes and Noble to replace Brooke’s Nook? A Target,” you add, throwing in the kicker, “to replace the Holly Jolly Toy Shop?”

Bob blinks, as though the thought had never occurred to him, and Remmy turns vaguely purple.

“I have had enough,” he huffs, pushing himself to stand, “of you running around, sticking your nose in where –”

A familiar silhouette steps between you. “Is there a problem?” Yoongi asks, sounding bored while holding his coffee.

Although he seems calm, you notice the stiff set to his shoulders. It seems that Yoongi has tells, and you now know him well enough to decipher his feelings.

Whatever Remmy sees on Yoongi’s face confirms this fact, and he swiftly sits down. “No,” he says. “Of course, not.”

Bob picks up his menu, although his expression is troubled, so you count this as a win. Nodding in his direction, you turn around.

“Well,” Jasmine says, grabbing Namjoon by the arm. “Our food is getting cold. Joon, let’s go wait at the table.”

Although Namjoon protests, he is swiftly dragged off. You try to follow but are stopped when someone lays a hand on your arm. Expecting Yoongi, you turn and find Bob.

He glances between you and Yoongi, who still stands beside you. “Well,” he says slowly. “Y/N, it was a real pleasure to see you. I’m thankful you stopped me and said what I needed to hear.”

“Oh,” you falter. “You’re welcome.”

Bob looks over his shoulder. Remmy has vacated their table, and when you look out the window, you see his car’s taillights.

“If I might return the favor,” Bob says, stepping closer. “You should know that Remmy and his team have been meeting with many of the town business owners. I think he’s convinced a large group of them – not me, anymore – to back his idea, and offput your signatures. They feel the increase in sales may be worth it.”

Slowly, the anger in your chest begins to deflate.

It was one thing to hear Remmy – slick-talking, unlikable Remmy – not care about you or your business. It is another thing entirely to hear the same being said from your neighbors and colleagues.

“Oh,” you murmur. “Thanks.”

Bob looks like he wants to say more, but Yoongi steps forward. “Thanks, Bob,” he says. “Can we reach out to you if we have any questions?”

“Yes, of course.” Bob fishes around for a business card. He hands this to Yoongi and walks away, patting you on the shoulder once as he leaves. “For what it’s worth, you two have my vote,” he says. “Happy holidays!

“Happy holidays,” you mumble.

Staring at your breakfast sandwich in hand, you begin to unravel. Remmy has been going around to undo all the hard work you accomplished. If Namjoon’s intel is correct, he was steps behind you all day, swaying opinions you thought you had won.

Worst of all, you are starting to wonder if maybe Remmy is right. Maybe you are being selfish in your plan for the inn. Maybe it would be better for the town to increase their tourist capacity through the Emerald Corp.

“Okay,” says Yoongi, breaking through your train of thought. “Let’s get out of here.”

Startled, you look upward.

Yoongi is standing before you, brows furrowed. His nose is red from the cold, matching the stripe down his puffy jacket. He must have come here for food and now, because you look rattled, he’s immediately suggesting you leave.

Warmth suffuses your body. “Get out of here and go where?”

Yoongi shrugs. “How do you feel about surprises?”

“Badly.”

“I know a spot,” he responds, failing to elaborate further. “You look like you could use a distraction.”

The warmth spreads even further, tingling your toes and your fingertips. “Alright,” you say, only to wince. “Wait – no. Your coffee! You must have come in here for coffee or food, right?”

He gives you a half-smile. “I can take it to go, Y/N.”

“Oh. Right.”

As though on cue, Jasmine’s cousin jogs up with a white paper bag. “Here you go,” he says, thrusting this at Yoongi. “Y/N, Jaz said you forgot your coffee on the table. She said you should uh, text her every hour so she knows you haven’t died.”

Starting to laugh, you give Jasmine the middle finger and turn to face Yoongi. “Well?” you say, grasping your coffee. “Let’s get out of here. Distract me.”

His smile takes your breath away. When Yoongi opens the front door and gestures to his waiting truck, the sense of déjà vu feels somehow freeing. “After you,” Yoongi says, and you follow him out.