You've had this power for as long as you could remember. You were around the age of 10 when you truly realized that you could hear the thoughts of your friends, teachers, and even your own parents.

Has life been hard dealing with this? A lot of times, yeah. You've gotten into quite a few dilemmas due to your power, like how you found out about your birthday gifts that were a supposed 'surprise' as a child, or how you found out your ex-boyfriend was trying to hit on other girls on Instagram.

Sometimes, the curiosity was too hard to resist, and it was only natural for you to just take a tiny peek into the heads of your friends or first dates, just so you could get an idea of what’s going on.

The same applies to customers; Since you're a barista, you've come across many people asking you about new drinks or recommendations on their order, so you usually read into their heads to find what they like for the right recommendations.

It definitely entertained you with some customers… namely, Yoon Jeonghan, who always seemed confused at his own lying.

ˋ°•*⁀➷.*♡

"Good morning, Jeonghan! Would you like to try something from our new line of matcha-flavored drinks?" you say, with your signature customer service smile on your face.

"Could you recommend something?" Fuck, I was supposed to get the usual! What am I doing? I don't even LIKE matcha...

You try your best to hide the confusion on your face and proceed to recommend to him your favorite, "I love the strawberry shortcake matcha! It's perfect for people new to matcha, or those who aren't big fans of it."

How the hell did she know I didn't like matcha...

"Y-yeah sure, I'll try the strawberry shortcake! Could I get a strawberry donut with that? Thanks." Jeonghan stutters out, a little embarrassed that he just agreed to drink something so performative.

You smile, "Of course! Anything else?"

"Nope, that's all."

What the hell does Cheol mean by "I have a crush on yn???" Jeonghan thinks with furrowed brows, staring deep into his text messages.

FLASHBACK TO LAST WEEK:

Jeonghan is staring. At you.

He's staring with such an intense gaze as you swiftly move around your coworker with your classic "focused work mode" face: brows furrowed and tongue slightly stuck out as you try making customers' drinks as fast as you can.

He finds your little habits cute, and as much as he's tried to deny it, he's starting to find you cute, too. He's noticed how your smile seems to be brighter when you look at him, your sweet voice while calling customers' names, and your big, sparkly eyes under the dim cafe lighting.

Huh. He's never realized how pretty you were until now.

And he doesn't know how long he's been staring.

"Jeonghan-ah!" "Jeonghan!" "Jeonghannie!" "Hannie!"

"YAH! Earth to Yoon Jeonghan!"

He's snapped out of his trance, utterly confused at what he's been doing this whole time.

"Yo, y'know you've been staring at yn for the past 5 minutes, right?" Joshua starts.

"Are you sure you aren't starting to think she's really cute? Or that you actually have some attraction towards her?" Seungcheol adds.

Jeonghan is quick to shut those ideas down, "What? No! I was, uhh, just staring at the signboard. I guess I just zoned out."

"Hm, I didn't know there was a signboard hovering over Yn's head this whole time." Seungcheol quips.

"Shut up!" Jeonghan shoots back.

OPERATION JEONGYN: DAY 1

"G'morning Jeonghan! What would you like to order today? I'm assuming the usual?" You chirp, flashing Jeonghan a bright smile.

"U-uh, actually.. No! I was wondering if I could order a small taro milk tea? I'm trying something new every day to... uhh... expand my palate! Heh..."

Oh, I am SO beating Joshua's ass when I get home... I don’t even fucking like taro! It’s okay! At least I can try and get close to Yn...

You now look like you're gonna jump out of your own skin after hearing that. "Are you okay, Ynnie?" he asks, looking at you, confused.

Suddenly flustered, you stutter out, "H-Huh? Oh no, I'm fine! Just got one of those cold jitters! And by the way--- Taro is my favorite flavor of milk tea! I'm sure you'll love it!" Now, you're frantically trying to make the best taro milk tea you've ever made in your entire life---because your crush most definitely cannot go the rest of his life not trying or liking taro milk tea.

And maybe, so you can get him to like you back.

Somehow, under some sort of miracle, Yoon Jeonghan liked the drink.

What the hell did she put in this???? I remember taro tasting like absolute booty... Was it even taro? I think booty something--ooby? Oops. I'll ask Cheol later, I guess...

ˋ°•*⁀➷.*♡

OPERATION JEONGYN: DAY 2

"Good morning Ynnie! I was hoping to try something new again today. Do you have any recommendations?" Jeonghan asks with a small smile.

I just gotta do this for like two more weeks... I got this! I NEED MY BLACK COFFEE. It's okay! I'll get Yn, and she'll fall in love with me, and we'll live happily ever after! Just two. more. weeks.

You smile brighter than you planned to.

"Of course, Jeonghan! Since you're trying new things, I'll give you the unicorn frappe—with caffeine—so you'll still get your energy! It's a mix of cotton candy and birthday cake flavoring, so I hope you'll like the sweetness."

Your enthusiasm and willingness to help him leaves him mesmerized—as if he isn't already—and just admiring how cute you look in your uniform with your hair pinned back, your bangs and strands of hair falling beneath your visor. To him, you look like the epitome of beauty.

His eye slightly twitches at the sound of unicorn, though.

Are you kidding me? A UNICORN frappe. If I get clowned for this, I'm going to riot against those two. The things I do for love....

ˋ°•*⁀➷.*♡

OPERATION JEONGYN: DAY 16

You've been growing closer and bolder with Jeonghan these past few days... And today is the day.

You're going to write your phone number. On his cup.

The extra chit-chat you've engaged in with him simply isn't enough. You feel the need to talk to him even more, get to know him better, and make him absolutely swoon for you—as if he isn't already.

"Jeonghan! Here's your caramel ribbon crunch frappe! I hope you enjoy it!" you giggle.

Confused as to why you're extra giddy today, he still gladly accepts the drink. A little black heart peeks out from the side of his cup, so he turns it around and finds "Hi! I would love to talk to you more outside the cafe! Hmu? - XXX-XXX-XXXX" written.

His face goes beet red.

HOLY SHIT. She just gave me her number. Yoon Jeonghan, you need to act chill and nonchalant. And text her. Like right now.

He flashes you a nervous smile and a thumbs up as he speed walks out of the cafe.

FRIDAY, 6:00 P.M.

Jeonghan looks up from his phone, glancing around to see whether you're here or not. The clock ticks 7:00 p.m.

"Hey Jeonghan! I'm here!"

He turns around, and his breath hitches. You're dressed in a cute, casual look— some jeans and your favorite top, paired with your shoulder bag —but he thinks you're absolutely stunning.

You cock your head slightly to the side. "Is something wrong, Hannie?"

"Oh-uh, no! Not at all... You just look... really pretty..." he blurts out.

Oh my gosh, bro, you're not supposed to confess yet! Why can't you wait until the Ferris wheel...

Now you look like you've seen a ghost, your palms start to feel clammy, and your smile stiffens.

Oh my god. OH MY GOD? The man of my dreams is going to confess. to me. TODAY?

Without thinking any further, you bolt in the opposite direction. Jeonghan is utterly confused at this, because he thought he had a chance... but ultimately, he's worried why you would suddenly run off like that.

"YN? Where are you going?!" he shouts.

You're frantically running to the bathroom, texting the girls about what to do. At the same time, Jeonghan texts the boys, fearing the possibilities of what might be going on in your head.

You're back at your meeting place, and you spot Jeonghan —who looks distraught as hell— constantly glancing up and down from his phone until he spots you. He jumps up from the bench and immediately runs toward you.

"Are you okay? What happened? Are you feeling unwell? Or- Or were you trying to escape me? Did I do something wrong?"

"OH! NO! I just really badly, uhhh, had to use the bathroom! Y'know how girls are..." 

"Oh, is today not a good time to hang out then? Or are you not feeling well? We could always- "

"No! I'll be fine, Jeonghan. Let's go to the boardwalk!"

As you both walk along the boardwalk, Jeonghan's pinky subtly intertwines with yours. Your heart jumps a little at the small gesture, and you're unaware that your cheeks have become rosier than your blush. 

Trying to distract yourself, you look towards the sea and pier, the glittering lights of the Ferris wheel and various rides in front of you, people's joyful screams and cheers drowning out your thoughts until...

"Hey, let's go check out that seafood restaurant over there!" Jeonghan smiles at you with a cute, boyish grin.

His words snap you out of your trance, and you shyly agree, continuing to walk alongside him with interlocked pinkies. 

Jeonghan starts thinking about how he's going to handle this confession. How is he going to convince you to date him? Do you even like him back? You probably don't, and he's probably just another eager regular at the cafe. But he is willing to take a chance with you, even though he's been lying his way to attract you.

ˋ°•*⁀➷.*♡

“Oh my god, these pastries look so cute! Should we get some?” “Look at those balloons with the lights!” “Let’s get some gelato!”

You’ve been pulling Jeonghan all over the boardwalk, stall-to-stall, vendor-to-vendor, exploring so many snacks and knick-knacks until your face lights up at the sight of the Ferris wheel.

“Jeonghan, let's go on the Ferris wheel!” Jeonghan stumbles as you start pulling him in that direction, and that’s when he decides he’ll confess to you on the ride. Little does he know, though…

ˋ°•*⁀➷.*♡

Once you’re settled in the Ferris wheel cart, you realize how little space there actually is between you and Jeonghan. You turn to look at him, and your cheeks heat up at the fact that his face is barely a foot away from yours. He looks deep into your eyes as you quickly look away, trying to figure out what you’re going to say. As you look back at him…

“I have something to tell you.” “Can I tell you something?”

You both blurt out at the same time.

“Y-you go first, Jeonghan!” You tell him. “Oh no, ladies first! You can start.”

“Okay… I want to confess. I like you. A lot. And I have for a while… I’ve been seeing you at the cafe for so long and around uni and thought you were really handsome and sweet, but I never got the courage to make any moves besides small talk until the day I gave you my phone number…”

Jeonghan’s eyes widen, and his smile falters. 

“It’s okay if you don’t like me back! I just wanted to tell you how I felt!” 

“NO- Not at all, actually. I’m just shocked because I was going to tell you the same thing just now. I’ve also really liked you for a while, with how cute you looked working as a barista and how sweet you always are to me when I’m at the cafe every day.”

Your words get caught in your throat. You knew he liked you back, but he actually liked you back, and now you’re wondering whether you should tell him that you knew. He takes your hand and gazes softly at your face, eyes flickering between your eyes and lips. 

“...May I?” 

You give him a tiny nod as he leans and softly presses his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. 

After you pull away, you mumble something to Jeonghan.

“Huh? What’d you say?”

“I want to tell you a secret… And confess something else… But you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this!” You say shyly.

He holds up a pinky, waiting for you to interlock yours with his.

“I promise! Now what is it?”

“I know how to read minds. I’ve had this power since I was young, and today I kind of, sort of read yours by accident at the beginning of our date and found out that you liked me back.”

Jeonghan’s eyes pop out of their sockets, and his jaw drops to the floor. 

He starts rambling. “WHAT?!? Wait- Is that why you ran away?? And does this mean you’ve been able to read my mind this whole time??? Do you even read your customers’ minds?”

You nod sheepishly as the boy next to you starts spiraling.

“Oh my god… WAIT- Does this also mean you’ve read my mind all those times I ordered ridiculous drinks at the cafe? I swear I was going to show you the real me… I just wanted to impress you first…”

“Yeah.. Don’t worry about it! I still appreciate the lengths you went for me! How did you even know I liked all those drinks?”

“Ehh… I just got a vibe from you, y’know!” He giggles, and he grabs your hand as the ride comes to a halt, and leads you out of the cart. And for the first time since this little crush started, you don't need to read his mind to know that this is real.

in all honesty, you were surprised that the twins knew how to drive safely and efficiently. the navigation app said you were set to arrive at the private resort in an hour, but kieran managed to get sylus's jeep to the destination in just half.

as for sylus, he sat in the back beside you with a thick blindfold over his eyes. his arms crossed, he looked like a petulant child who got told off for stealing cookies. you leaned on his shoulder with a laugh, wrapping your arm around his and cuddling into his side. "you look so funny." you said for the nth time during the trip with a snort.

"is the blindfold really necessary..."

"yes!" you replied mirthfully, "all so you won't ruin the surprise."

with a laugh, sylus blindly grabbed your hand in his, intertwining your fingers together. he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss on the back. "even if i don't get surprised, i'm sure i'll still enjoy this celebration." he reassured you quietly.

"aww, you're so sweet." you cooed, kissing his cheek in return. "but i still want you to act surprised."

sylus, knowing he had no room to argue, just chuckled, "yes ma'am."

kieran parked the jeep by the rocky shore, where a nearby dining table was set up as per your request. the circular table was decorated with red and white table cloth, fresh flowers on vases, and gold foil balloons. all that was missing were the food, which the twins quickly took out of the jeep to display around the table.

you jumped out of your skin when luke opened the back door for you to exit. you and luke managed to take sylus out of the vehicle without him stumbling and falling. you squeezed sylus's hand in excitement; upon closer look at the table, your expectations were definitely exceeded. with the sun setting in a few hours, the whole set up was about to look exactly like how you imagined this to be.

as the twins made swift work of setting up the food on the table, you turned to the birthday boy – he looked unimpressed, even with the blindfold covering half of his face. "just a few more minutes, sy."

"i'm getting impatient, sweetie." he deadpanned.

you giggled and placed his arm over your shoulder, settling closer to him. "just a few more minutes, sy."

sylus huffed, "I can already smell the food and the wine."

"boss lady! everything's ready!" luke called.

you removed yourself from sylus's warmth and guided him closer to the dining table, where his red feather cake sat in front of him. you gave luke a thumbs-up and he lit up the lighter, letting its flame catch onto the wick of the candle. you then quickly removed the blindfold around sylus's eyes.

sylus blinked hard, getting used to the sun in his eyes. he then glanced down at the table in front of him, finally seeing the days of hard work you and the twins gave for his birthday. his irritated expression immediately softened, the corners of his lips lifting into a misty smile.

"happy birthday, boss!" the twins sang cheerfully, their arms spread.

"happy birthday, sylus." you greeted quietly, squeezing his hand.

sylus grinned, his face and ears becoming redder. "thank you."

"make a wish, boss!" the twins excitedly said, pointing at the little candle on his birthday cake. sylus indulged them, closing his eyes and clasping his hands together to make his wish. after a few seconds, he then blew on the candle, letting the smoke fly upwards.

the three of you cheered for sylus, who couldn't help but grin wider. you pressed a lingering kiss on his cheek and he chuckled, unable to stop the redness on his cheeks and ears from spreading.

"thank you, sincerely," he said again, his eyes glancing at luke and kieran then to you. "i now have something to look forward to next april."

kieran cheered loudly, with luke following suit. sylus pulled you into his embrace and kissed you on top of your head. "let's eat!"

after dinner, luke and kieran still managed to be excited to go swimming. the waves on the shore must've been teasing their feet, since they sat closest to the water while they ate. they quickly ran back to the jeep to fetch their clothes. sylus wanted to do the same.

he handed you your bag after fetching it from the jeep, where you packed your spare clothes. you were already wearing the red bikini tara gifted you a few days ago, covered by a sweater and a sheer shawl tied around your waist. you handed the swimming trunks you bought for him, where he took it with a raised eyebrow.

"no shirt, kitten?" he teased.

you scoffed, putting your bag onto your empty chair. "since when did you become conservative with me?"

sylus chuckled as he took the shorts from you. he then walked off to the back of the jeep to change into them.

the twins returned after changing into their rash guards, running at full speed and then splashing head-first into the clear waters of the beach. luke emerged out of the water with a big gulp of air, his brother following suit. they mirrored each other's wicked smiles and, without even saying anything, began play-fighting in the water.

"aren't you going to join them in the water, sweetie?"

sylus returned as well, sporting his black and red swimming shorts proudly. he held a beach ball in one hand and his discarded pants in the other.

"eh, i'd rather not drown." you quipped, looking back at the twins, who were now choking each other. sylus handed you the ball and then tossed his pants onto the chair where he previously sat. "are they gonna be okay?" you asked, getting a little concerned over how the twins were toeing the line between play-fighting and actual violence.

sylus shrugged and grabbed the hem of his shirt, lifting it up to take it off and deliberately showing off his toned torso and glistening abs. clearing your throat, you refrained yourself from staring too much, not exactly in the mood to be teased.

his arm then wrapped around your shoulder, "let me ask again, then: aren't you going to join me in the water, sweetie?" he asked, his mouth directly close to your ear.

trying not to shiver, you shook your head and leaned into his hold, feeling his firm body against your side. "maybe later, I'm still waiting for the sun to set. I really want to go night-swimming."

sylus didn't respond. instead he frowned, displeased with your answer.

the twins' "play-fighting" soon resorted into just splashing each other. you and sylus watched them with amused faces, until one of them managed to make a huge wave that it hit you and sylus as well.

you gasped in surprise as the saltwater seeped into your clothes, laughing through chattering teeth when the cold water made you shiver. luke gasped as sylus laughed along with kieran.

"shit– i'm so sorry, boss lady!" luke yelped, but you waved him off nonchalantly.

"no worries!" you told him, where he then returned to splash around the water with his brother, this time away from you and sylus.

you grabbed the hem of your sweater and squeezed the water out. sylus chuckled beside you, "you're all wet, sweetie. i think that was the sign to go dip in the water with me."

"nooo. i'll just change my shirt – good thing you brought my bag here." you said, waving him off like you did with luke, approaching to your seat earlier where you hanged your bag onto its side.

sylus's scowl returned.

"hey boss lady, do you know where the beach ball is?" kieran asked, coughing out saltwater while shoving a finger into his ear.

you turned to the table where the inflated beach ball sylus brought sat next to your bag. "it's right here, i'll pass it for you." you said.

just as you were about to lift the ball and hit it to pass onto them, sylus swiftly moved to grab your bag, throwing it with all his might into the twins’ direction. you gasped as the bag narrowly missed kieran's shoulder, sinking your extra clothes under the gentle waves.

"oh, that's... boss lady's bag." luke said – he was clearly the more observant twin. kieran smacked him on the chest with a loud snort and went to grab the bag before it fully sunk to the ocean ground.

you turned to the tall, smirking man beside you, "sylus!"

sylus looked at you with a faux confusion, "oh, that wasn't the ball?"

you let out an exasperated sigh as kieran brought the bag back to you with a sheepish smile. sylus took the ball from your hand and tossed it to him.

"sorry, I got confused – they were the same color." he told kieran in an apologetic tone, flashing you a smile that did not look apologetic at all. kieran just nodded knowingly at his boss as he easily caught the beach ball and threw it in the other direction. luke then swiftly dived after it.

you glared up at him. they were definitely not the same color – the bag you brought was beige, while the beach ball was bright pink.

sylus grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you into the ocean and ignoring your protests. "hey, at least let me change into my bikini!" you whined, unbuttoning your wet sweater as your feet entered the clear waters. sylus, without any word of protest, lets go of you, letting you finish unbuttoning your clothes.

you tried not to give away how flustered you were as you shrugged off your sweater and placed it to where his pants were. you quickly untied the shawl around your waist and tossed it in the same direction. you cleared your throat as you dared to look up at sylus, who was quiet the entire time he watched you undress in front of him.

"stop staring," you commanded weakly.

sylus grinned, "no."

sylus continued guiding you into the water, you shivering in the cold waves. he noticed immediately and pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist. he leaned his head to yours, pressing a kiss onto your hair.

"where did you get this?" sylus asked with his voice muffled by your hair. his hands traveled down to the waistband of your panties, caressing you on the hip. he presses another kiss to your temple.

"I got this from a colleague," you replied.

"...a male colleague gave this to you?" sylus asked, snagging the fabric upwards and letting it snap back to your hip. you hit him on the chest for that and for his nonsense accusation.

"no! tara gave this to me." you said, walking a few steps ahead from sylus's embrace, "I usually never go out swimming with my friends at work, so when I told her we were going to a resort for your birthday, she gave this to me and told me to take pictures."

sylus hummed, seemingly satisfied with your answer. "is that why you wanted to go swimming after the sun sets? just so you could get good pictures?" he asked, smile lopsided and teasing.

you gave him a look that hopefully told him the answer. he laughed and pulled you back into his chest, kissing your forehead.

"I'm sorry sweetie. I'll take your photos for you later." he said.

a comfortable silence followed after, save for the gentle crashing of the waves on the shore and seagulls flying overhead. you nuzzled your head onto sylus's chest, giddiness and warmth slowly spreading throughout your body. it was quiet, save for the steady heartbeat of the man cuddling you in the ocean.

"so, how will you rate this birthday experience?" you asked. you were obviously hoping for a positive answer from him, but a part in your brain braced you for an unexpected answer. you looked up at him to see him already staring down at you, his smirk ever-present on his handsome face.

"why do you need a rating, kitten?" he questioned, his head tilting.

"well, I want to know if there are things to be improved upon for next year." you shyly said, looking away from his intense gaze.

with that, sylus's arms around you tightened. he held your chin in his grasp, lifting your face up to face him once more. his eyes drifting down to your lips, his thumb gently caressed your bottom lip as he bit down on his own. he looked back up to meet your eyes again.

"the fact that you want to celebrate my birthday next year is enough for me to give you a perfect score." he said, tone sincere, eyes tracing every part of your face, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you. "I'll never stop thinking that... I don't deserve... this kind of treatment from you. but I'll forever cherish anything you do for me, no matter how big or small it is."

sniffling, your eyes welled up under his gaze and you couldn't stop yourself from smiling widely at him. "happy birthday, sylus." you greeted him again.

sylus didn't respond, instead he leaned over to you to kiss your lips tenderly. you tilted your head to the side to kiss him deeper, taking in his scent as he invades your space, your everything. your arms found their way over his broad shoulders as the kiss intensified, while his arms began wandering over your sides and back.

you abruptly pulled away a few moments later when sylus suddenly stumbled backwards, landing the both of you into the water and soaking you. you shared a laugh with him, completely delirious with joy. sylus kissed you once more as he sat down in the ocean, settling you in between his open legs, facing the sun as it sets over the horizon.

"thank you, sweetie." he whispered into your ear, giving you one more kiss on your temple.

“Go to hell, dude,” Jeonghan snapped back. You squinted at him through your viewfinder to catch him carding a frustrated hand through his hair. “My Circadian rhythm needs flavored air to function.” 

The tiny red light flickered once, then vanished as you stopped recording. “Try regular air. It’s good for you—and free.” 

“Yeah? Then maybe this is my calling to get sober.”

(It was important to note that Jeonghan tended to say this very frequently.)

He finally rose from the corner of his dorm room where he had strewn the contents of his drawer all over the floor. Jeonghan crossed over to where you were sitting—on his bed, leaning against the wall with his Doraemon pillow—and plopped down beside you. His eyes, glazed-over and half-lidded, were fixed on the ceiling, as if he was going over each groove in the drywall. 

For the past two hours, you had been agonizing over ideas for your documentary. Jeonghan was typically great when it came to bouncing ideas off each other, so you often pestered him until inspiration struck. Today didn’t seem like a particularly stimulating day for either of you, though. Your best friend paid attention for maybe half an hour, but even he started running out of ideas for potential documentary content. 

“By the way,” he added, still stuck in a faraway trance, “do not use whatever you just recorded for your film project. I don’t consent to being exploited for views.” 

It had been weeks since you came to terms with the fact that Jeonghan didn’t want to be the subject of your documentary. You had a semester to complete this project for your documentary class, and although you still had a decent amount of time left, you were starting to get worried because most of your classmates already started outlining their ideas. You hadn’t even found your main character yet.

There were quite a few reasons why you wouldn’t have chosen Jeonghan in the first place; it didn’t just chalk down to his disinterest in being filmed. You wanted to capture someone with a story—a progression or growth that tugged at the heartstrings of your audience—and using someone you weren’t already close with would help you film more objectively.

You raised a brow at your friend. “You? I was clearly filming a wild animal in its natural habitat.”

“Recording without two-party consent is tasteless,” he reminded. “And just for that, I’m not telling you the incredible, brilliant idea I just had.”

“You haven’t exactly shared that many incredible, brilliant ideas for me to feel disappointed about that.”

“No, trust me. It’s really good.” He used his elbows to prop himself up, shooting you a wide grin. His resolve to withhold his proposition crumbled within seconds of his excitement. “It’s the best idea I’ve had since that one time I stole Seungcheol’s towel and t-shirt while he was showering.” 

You glanced at him through the corner of your eyes. “All you did was make him walk around shirtless.”

“Exactly.” Jeonghan returned your look with far more judgment than you had given him. “That was the best part.”

The memory was hard to forget. During your freshman year, you were living in the dorms where your RA was Choi Seungcheol. It was safe to say that a solid majority of the people on your floor had eyes for the dreamy Resident Advisor. Jeonghan only contributed to the noble cause of fan service by ensuring that Seungcheol would end up having to walk through the hallway with his glorious abs on display, his chiseled body beaded with water droplets. 

“So what’s your idea? Ask Seungcheol if I can film a strip tease?”

“No, it’s—wait, that’s so good. If we can get that greenlit, you should totally—”

“Nope, definitely not doing that,” you interjected with a firm shake of your head. You were not going to present a half-naked Seungcheol as your final project. “Give me something more PG-13.”

“Boring, but fine.” After mocking a pout, Jeonghan’s lips immediately curled up in a smirk. “Xu Minghao.” 

The very mention of his name made you straighten up. You hadn’t spoken to Minghao in years, and although your friends would tease you about being his childhood friend, you didn’t see your past with him as anything worth mentioning. After all, being close friends during middle school was nothing compared to the plethora of memories you made after the two of you grew distant. 

“Huh?”

“Xu Minghao,” he repeated. “Streets are saying he’s quit dancing.” 

You frowned. “Minghao quit dancing?” 

That couldn’t be right. Minghao? The same Xu Minghao who snuck out of his house to practice for hours in dance studios? The same one who took eight trains, walked fifteen miles, and hitchhiked to get to dance camp on his own? The same one who shed tears when he won his first dance competition? 

Dance was Minghao’s life; it came as naturally as breathing to him. You so clearly remembered his overwhelming passion that drove him to practice tirelessly for years. Just watching him move to the beat made you feel like he was born to express himself that way. You couldn’t imagine your childhood friend, who had been dancing his entire life, to just throw away all his hard work and talent on a whim.

“Streets also mentioned he hurt his foot real bad. Poor guy can’t compete at nationals anymore.” 

“Streets?”

“I’m protecting anonymity, okay?” After you peered at him for a moment, Jeonghan caved under the pressure of your stare and added, “Fine. It was Seungkwan.”

You scoffed. All credibility of the rumor vanished like a wisp of smoke. 

“Seungkwan also claimed Vernon needed to go to the emergency room when he got a paper cut,” you replied, unimpressed.

“No, I think it really is serious this time. You can check it out for yourself, if you want,” Jeonghan said. “He’s working at the café like, every day now.”

“His mom’s café?”

“Mmhm. He stopped for a while ‘cause of school, but he just picked up his shifts again.”

“And you think that’s what I should do for my documentary? Minghao quitting the one thing that could be worth filming?” 

“I don’t think he actually wanted to quit,” Jeonghan said, looking down at his intertwined hands in his lap with a puzzled expression, as if the Xu Minghao Dilemma™ had been keeping him up at night. “I don’t know what it is. Seungkwan said he seemed kind of off when he was talking about it.”

You were quiet for a moment, and Jeonghan continued, “You also find it weird, don’t you? It doesn’t make sense that he’d just quit like that.”

“I mean, if something’s really going on with him, then I don’t think it’s right for me to ask if I can turn that into a documentary,” you said. 

“I’m not saying that, but…” He trailed off before shrugging. “I just think it wouldn’t hurt to check in on him.”

You arched a brow at him. “Why don’t you check in on him? Aren’t you two friends?”

“We’re bros,” he corrected. Cue a dramatic groan from you, which was promptly ignored as Jeonghan elaborated, “our way of showing that we’re there for each other is by queueing up on League together or talking about the Roman Empire.” 

“Jeonghan, you have never once mentioned the Roman Empire.”

“Jokes on you, I did a research project on it in middle school.” He shut his eyes to wave off the tangent he started going off on. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re a girl—a woman. Women get to the point. They get things done.” He gave you a resolute nod, and you were starting to wonder if he was simply trying to use flattery against you. “Hence why I think you can figure out what’s going on with Minghao.”

You sighed. “But Minghao and I haven’t even spoken in so long. I don’t want to overstep.”

“Look, I’ve texted Hao—even met up with him in person—but the guy won’t budge. He just gives me that customer service smile of his and says he’s fine.”

“And what makes you think I’ll be able to do anything?”

“I’m not saying you will, but I think he’ll turn around when he realizes more people are concerned about him.”

On one hand, you didn’t exactly have any sort of relationship with Xu Minghao that gave you a reason to visit him. Did he even remember your name? You could only imagine the confusion drawing his brows together upon seeing you after years of silence. Or perhaps he wouldn’t care at all. The two of you could probably pass by each other as complete strangers, and he wouldn’t experience the same flicker of old memories that made your heart ache.

On the other hand, you truly were curious. And it wouldn’t hurt to visit the old café, either. 

Plus, you would never admit it out loud, but part of you had been waiting for an excuse to talk to your old friend again. 

You felt utterly stupid as you stood at the entrance of the café.

First, your heart was beating unbelievably fast for something that shouldn’t have been this difficult of a feat. It was a coffee shop, for crying out loud. All you had to do was walk inside and order something without making a fool out of yourself. Couldn’t be that hard, right? 

Second, it was hard to pretend like you were only here for coffee when your only intention was to check up on Minghao. Now you were wondering if you should’ve texted him first, but that probably would’ve taken you a few days to work up the courage to send. 

And the cherry on top of your miserable cake was that you didn’t even like coffee. Maybe you could get something to eat, but you weren’t big on pastries, either. You just had to force yourself to get whatever seemed the most appetizing and hope that Minghao took notice of you. 

That was another thing; you didn’t even know what hours he worked. Your plan was to work in the corner of the café until you saw him coming in. Knowing your luck, he probably didn’t even have a shift scheduled for today. Still, you were determined to wait it out since you had come this far already. 

With a shaky breath, you pushed open the door and were immediately greeted by a rush of warmth. You instinctively tugged your cardigan tighter around your frame as you scanned the space. It had been years since you stepped into the café, but everything was about the same; almost all the tables were occupied with teenagers or lone adults who came to get work done, the back wall had a space reserved for people to leave cute notes and drawings, and a familiar barista was eyeing you from the get-go. 

There he was, watching you from the counter. Clusters of stars encased in two midnight pools.

Xu Minghao, who you skillfully managed to avoid interacting with for the past six years, was looking at you with the same familiarity that stirred in your chest.

Your first reaction was to flee, but you would’ve looked ridiculous running out of the shop, so you walked to the nearest empty table first. Did people look for tables before they even ordered? You were starting to forget how to normally function as you set your bag down on the smooth oak wood. 

“Sample?” a gentle voice called from behind you as you were fumbling with getting your laptop out of your bag. You looked over your shoulder to see Minghao with a tray of bite-sized slices of cheesecake with toothpicks sticking out of the top. A warm smile graced his features, so dazzling to the point where it was blinding. “It’s one of our signature desserts here.” 

“Oh,” was all you could say at first, disoriented as you picked up one of the cheesecake bites. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be at the front whenever you’re ready to order.”

He left before you could get another word out, and you shoved the cube of cheesecake in your mouth so that you didn’t look completely frozen (which you were). Minghao probably went around giving samples to every customer, but surely he recognized you, right? It wasn’t like the two of you were completely oblivious to each other’s existence. Minghao had to know you two had mutual friends from the Instagram stories and posts you were featured in.

Moreover, his leg seemed fine. Boo Seungkwan had once again proven to be an untrustworthy source.

You worked up the courage to walk to the register after going over the menu about twenty times, finally deciding on getting a mango fruit tea. As soon as you were in front of Minghao, though, your predetermined order disappeared from your head and the menu looked like a blur of words.

Your mind went completely blank. 

“Uh…” You were floundering for something to say—anything. Coffee was the only drink coming to mind, but you weren’t sure the caffeine would be good for your nerves. “I'll have, uh…” 

This was so stupid. You waited for minutes on end to decide on your order and ended up looking like a complete fool in front of Minghao.

“Would you like a recommendation?” he offered smoothly, as if this was a routine response for him. You wondered how many other customers lost their train of thought upon seeing his face. 

“Yes, please.” 

“I know it's chilly outside, but our fruit teas are pretty popular. And, if I remember correctly, you've always been a fan of mango,” he said. You swore he was trying to avert his gaze now, although he had been maintaining proper eye contact up until this moment. “Injeolmi toast is a favorite here, too. I know you like injeolmi, unless your tastes have changed…” 

Wow. Maybe you were off the mark all along. Minghao clearly hadn't forgotten you; in fact, he remembered more of you than you could even recall yourself. 

“Mango fruit tea—that’s right. That’s what I wanted to order.” You let out an awkward laugh, brushing your hair over your shoulder to distract yourself from how hot your chest felt. “Then I’ll order both. I’ve never had injeolmi toast, but I do still like injeolmi.” 

His face broke into a bright smile—the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“Oh, good. I was worried I didn't remember correctly,” he admitted sheepishly. After entering your order into the tablet, he turned the screen around for you to pay. You were so focused on tipping that Minghao startled you when he asked, “How’ve you been?” 

When you looked up, his gaze was sincere. A torrent of warmth rushed through your body.

“Good. I mean—college, you know?” Everything you wanted to say sounded garbled in your head. You didn’t even know where to begin. “I barely have any free time these days outside of assignments and working on sets.”

“Oh, right. You’re in film, huh? How’s that been for you?”

“It’s been good so far. I’m actually getting ready to film a documentary right now.”

He looked up at you with wide eyes, gleaming with genuine interest. Since Minghao had been no more than a stranger to you these past several years, you hadn’t expected to see such sincerity in his enthusiasm. 

Your heart must have skipped a beat or two.

“A documentary? About what?” But then his attention was lost, his eyes unfocusing to glance at the customer waiting impatiently behind you. You immediately felt guilty for taking up so much time, but then Minghao said, “I get off in an hour. Are you still gonna be around?”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Great. Save a chair for me.” He flashed one of his shining, award-winning smiles again. “Your order will be out in a few minutes, Y/N.”

The injeolmi toast was cold. 

It tasted good enough for you to not mind, but when you saw someone else carrying a tray of the steaming bread, you figured that Minghao simply forgot to heat yours up. You were disheartened that you were doomed to eat cold, chewy injeolmi, but the sweet and nutty flavor was so delectable that you ended up scarfing it down within minutes anyway. The café seemed rather busy around this time, so you didn’t put it past Minghao to rush your order.

The mango fruit tea was incredible, though. By far the best fruit tea you’ve had. It was compelling enough for you to download Yelp to leave a glowing five-star review. 

When you opened Café du Soleil’s page, you noticed that your dear friend Seungkwan (credentials: Yelp Elite Squad) had already left a review mentioning the same drink. 

★★★★★ Nov 7, 2024 Incredible customer service. I love Xu Minghao. The mango fruit tea changed my life for the better.

You left a review about the mango fruit tea and injeolmi toast (conveniently leaving out the fact that yours wasn’t warmed up). A much more comprehensive review than Seungkwan’s, you would say. 

Your nerves were still buzzing from your conversation with Minghao. It had been years since you two had spoken to each other, and now you were waiting for him to get off his shift to catch up with you. If you maintained a friendship with him all these years, then maybe all of this would feel natural. Maybe this would’ve been your designated table to wait for Minghao after his shift, spending time with him after work and walking home together.

An hour passed by faster than you thought it would. The first ten minutes felt agonizing, watching the minutes tick by painfully slow, but once you were consumed in a discussion post for your Narrative Production class, Minghao was making his way over to you before you knew it.

“Hey, stranger,” he greeted, pulling out the chair across from you to sit down in. Your eyes followed the slice of cheesecake he brought over on a plate before he nodded toward the empty plate on your tray. “What’d you think of the toast?”

“Really good,” you gushed. You opted to leave out the part where your bread was cold. “I was almost about to go up to order again.”

“Ah, right.” He pushed the plate in your direction. “This is for you.”

“Oh,” you answered, startled. “How much was it? I can pay—”

“No, don’t worry. It’s on me,” Minghao cut in smoothly, signaling his objection with a wave of his hand. “I forgot to ask you if you liked the sample earlier, but I ended up bringing it over anyway.”

Just as you remembered, he was always thinking about others first. Minghao was so earnest in his words and actions that it was hard for you to grasp that he was real. Even in his adolescence, you remembered he had a different air of maturity from the other boys just because of how kind he was. You wanted to pick him apart and dissect his brain to figure out if he was just biologically wired to be perfect.

He was so different now—not completely different but just enough to set you on edge. Minghao had grown into his features so beautifully and still spoke in that calm and soft voice, but there was this newfound confidence he carried that seemed almost unshakeable. 

With the way he was staring at you so intently, you felt pressured to give your opinion on the cheesecake right away. You forked a sliver of the cake into your mouth, hand hovering over your mouth as you chewed. Mostly because you were trying to swallow as fast as possible so that Minghao would stop being so laser-focused on you.

“It’s good,” you mused. “I should come by more often.”

He perked up at your words, and soon Minghao was enthusiastically asking you to give him a recap on everything that was going on in your life. You hardly knew where to begin—or, rather, where to pick up after the two of you stopped being close. 

You told him about how your parents disapproved of your film major, how it took months of convincing and begging until they realized that you were serious about your passion for filmmaking. He listened intently as you talked about all the short films you made on your own to persuade your parents, and he even watched one of them on your phone, giving you nods of acknowledgement and an impressed hum.

The conversation bled into different aspects of your life, and Minghao was able to join in while you two talked about how you met your mutual friends. You explained how you met Jeonghan and Wonwoo at a party, somehow hitting it off so well that you two ended up hanging out the morning after. Minghao met Jeonghan when they were placed in the same orientation group, and you thought about how funny it was that the world was small enough for you two to have grown apart and still ended up with mutual friends. 

It was getting dark outside by the time Minghao was giving you the rundown of how he met Seungkwan, detailing the encounter in a way that made Seungkwan seem a little insane. Apparently, Minghao had gotten Seungkwan’s number at a dance workshop and the younger boy spammed him with texts one night until Minghao agreed to hang out. Thankfully, Minghao found Seungkwan’s persistence to be charming. A stark contrast from how you went home early during your first time hanging out with Seungkwan because you were so overstimulated.

When Minghao started talking about going to a dance workshop with Jeonghan, you realized this was your opening.

“Oh, yeah,” you said, feigning a casual tone, “Jeonghan mentioned that you were quitting dance?”

A sad smile dawned on his face. “At least until I finish college. I just needed to take some time off to focus on school.”

“That makes sense, I guess. But weren’t you supposed to have a competition at the end of the year?”

“Nationals,” he clarified. “I’ve been pushing back my withdrawal, but I’m gonna have to do it soon.”

You noticed his gloomy expression, and it was making you remember Jeonghan’s words about how Minghao probably didn’t actually want to quit. If he really wanted to drop out of the competition, then you were certain the corners of his mouth wouldn’t be tugging down, nor would the light in his eyes dim. 

The Minghao you once knew was honest about his feelings. He unapologetically wore his emotions on his sleeve, and he prepared himself for every possible outcome so that he could keep a strong front. You always admired how he was able to stay so calm and collected as the world weighed on his shoulders.

Now, the Minghao before you looked like a kettle sputtering water from its spout, a whistle away from overflowing completely. 

It was a bold question for someone you weren’t close with anymore, but you asked, “You don’t want to withdraw, right?”

With his mouth set in a grim line, Minghao shook his head. “If it was up to me, I’d still be dancing.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

“It’s just… complicated,” he said. “Our café’s been doing decently, but it’s not enough for it to stay up and running. We were barely keeping up with rent and now they’ve upped the prices, but…” He moved his leg from under the table so that it was stretched out to the side. “I tore my meniscus around four months ago. It’s a lot better now—still sore sometimes—but we had to pay for physical therapy on top of everything. I’ve had to pick up shifts here because we’re so understaffed now, so there isn’t really enough time for me to focus on dancing.”

“If we had enough money to cushion our rent for the next three months, I think this place would be saved,” he continued, “but if I’m gonna make that happen, I have to dedicate all my time here.”

Oh. You sent Boo Seungkwan a mental apology for ever doubting him about Minghao’s injury. Perhaps he wasn’t as unreliable of a source as you assumed he would be. 

You knew that the situation must have been serious for him to quit dancing, but you didn’t expect the café to be at stake. Of course, you had zero knowledge on what it took to be a dancer at a national level, but you just couldn’t wrap your head around Minghao giving up this easily. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s my decision.”

You asked, “Are you okay with that, though? Not dancing?”

“It is what it is.” He shrugged. “Our studio’s tuition on top of competition fees, private lesson fees, and workshop fees… it’s just not feasible for me to be able to keep doing this right now. Of course I could just practice on my own in the studio, but we just don’t have enough people to cover every shift here.”

You nodded along. He really sounded as defeated as his explanation made you feel, and you realized you were going to have to recount this to Jeonghan to get him to give up. This situation was far too nuanced for either of you to push Minghao to keep dancing out of pure passion. Sometimes that just wasn’t enough. 

Minghao eventually had to go to close up the shop, and you had to turn down his insistent offers to give you more food until he basically shoved a bunch of pastries into your arms before you left. As you walked back to your apartment, braving the icy bite of the wind, one thing was for certain: you were most definitely not making a documentary out of Xu Minghao’s tragic story.

“I’m running a survey,” you declared, “because this is a democracy and I value all of your opinions.”

You had called for an emergency meeting the day after you met up with Minghao. Your friends were all sitting haphazardly around your room; Seungkwan had his legs up against the wall and his body sprawled across your bed, Jeonghan was right next to Seungkwan, Junhui was sitting on top of your laundry basket despite being scolded about crushing it, Vernon was on top of your desk, and Wonwoo was the only one sensible enough to be sitting in a proper chair. 

Jeonghan scoffed. “She just doesn’t want to do the Minghao documentary.”

“There is no Minghao documentary,” you said. “There was never a Minghao documentary.”

“There was”—Jeonghan paused for long enough for the rest of them to think he had finished talking—“to me.”

Junhui leaned forward, nearly toppling over the laundry basket. Vernon was able to hold it down with his foot in time, although Junhui hardly even noticed his friend’s silent efforts to save him. 

“What’s the Minghao documentary?” he asked, his eyes bigger than ever. “Like, Xu Minghao?”

“Yes,” Jeonghan answered. “Wouldn't you watch a Xu Minghao documentary?” 

“I’d pay to watch a Xu Minghao documentary,” Junhui said, reaching over to high-five Jeonghan, who was extremely pleased that someone else supported his cause. “What can I say? He's a beautiful man.”

“Okay, there is no Xu Minghao documentary,” you repeated. “It's more of a… Xu Minghao dilemma.” 

“So you called us here because of Xu Minghao,” Vernon chimed in.

“No,” you replied pointedly, “I called you here because I really value your guys’ opinions and want to hear your suggestions about what I should include in my documentary.”

“Xu Minghao,” Jeonghan supplied.

“Except for Jeonghan. I don’t value his opinion.” 

“I think someone should die,” said Junhui with bright, sparkling eyes. “Something super tragic.”

“Or we can all live,” Seungkwan said.

Vernon offered, “Or how about something more sentimental—”

“—where everyone dies,” finished Junhui. 

“Okay, that wasn't what I was getting at,” Vernon said with mild concern crossing his features. “You scare me.”

Seungkwan, distressed at this point, spoke up louder to rehash, “Why don’t we all just live?”

You let out a resigned sigh. “Jun, let’s keep in mind that I’m filming a documentary for a college film class, not a Marvel movie.” 

This was going nowhere. Clearly, you misjudged when you decided your friends were the people to go to for serious inquiries. At this point, you were considering following up on the email you sent to the local ice skating rink a month ago, outright begging them for the chance to film their team practicing. (Spoiler: They ghosted you.) 

“How about the geology department?” Wonwoo suggested, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re researching crustal processes during the Hadean geological period right now. Exciting stuff.” 

Because Jeon Wonwoo was an incredibly persuasive man (mostly because of his lethal attractiveness), you were immediately swayed by the idea. “Wait, that’s an incredible idea, Wonwoo.”

“That is the worst idea I’ve heard in my life,” Seungkwan blurted out. “If you make a documentary about the geology department, I will personally come to the screening of your film myself just to throw tomatoes at you.”

As much as you hated to admit it (or, rather, hated to admit it in the presence of Wonwoo), Seungkwan had a fair point. Presenting a documentary about crustal formations was probably categorized as a form of social suicide. You had no true interest in the topic to make it sound interesting, and the only selling point would be geology major Jeon Wonwoo and his face of the century. The lackluster content coupled with your indifference toward rocks was a disaster waiting to happen. 

Maybe you could make geology sound interesting. You entertained the idea for a few seconds before recollecting the time when Wonwoo got four shots deep and started rattling off about the demand for lithium in China. Your freshman year self was almost charmed before those beguiling minutes stretched into long, torturous hours of Wonwoo breaking down geopolitics until you blacked out. 

No, you could not make geology sound interesting. 

“Thank you for that visual, Seungkwan,” you said. “Now that I’ve returned to my senses, I’ll accept ideas that aren’t about Xu Minghao or rocks.” 

“What’s wrong with the geology department?” Wonwoo spoke up, his hand shooting up in the air to get the room’s attention.

Jeonghan snorted. “Dude, what’s she gonna film? Planet Earth?”

Wonwoo accepted his defeat wordlessly as his arm slowly retreated back to his side.

“Not that I don’t think you can come up with better ideas,” Vernon started carefully, “but why are you so against making a documentary about Minghao?”

“I’m not against it,” you clarified. “It’s simply out of the question. He doesn’t even have time to dance right now because of how busy he is with the café.”

“If that’s the issue, I can literally ask around to see who’s interested in working there,” Jeonghan said.

“Minghao’s going through a lot right now. I personally think it’s insensitive to push him to do something when he’s got so much on his plate.”

The men finally quieted down at your words, and you came to the realization that your girl friends would have probably been more useful for this sort of conversation. Maybe it was because the guys were all on good terms with Xu Minghao that they were pushing for you to ask him to work with you. It was the only conclusion you could come to with how insistent they were on you choosing Minghao.

Then, Jeonghan spoke up, “Didn’t you say you wanted to make an impact with your documentary? What if you could really help him out?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just think about it.”

Your forehead creased. He clearly did have something in mind and just wanted to complicate matters for you, but you held your tongue instead of pressing Jeonghan further. 

Later that night, while you were laying in your bed with your laptop warm on your stomach, you could only think about Xu Minghao and his sad smile when he talked about quitting dance. He didn’t really want to quit, but there was just too much going on for him to juggle that along with the countless other balls being thrown at him. 

But was it right for him to just quietly let go of his dream? A passion that he had chased his whole life? 

If you were in his shoes and you had to give up your dream of film, you weren’t sure you could go down without a fight. Even when your parents were against film school, even when everyone around you questioned your abilities, you pushed yourself to take on every opportunity that came your way. Your situation had never been as dire as Minghao’s, but you could imagine how he must have felt for his dream to crumble in the palm of his hands. With the right amount of support, you believed he could mold that dream together again. 

In the still hours of twilight, you opened up a Word document and started typing away like your life depended on it. 

“You look like shit.” Kim Yooyeon’s eyes were wide when she watched you walk out of your room right when she was about to leave for her 8:00 a.m. lecture. She was in the middle of her bowl of cereal when you crossed her on your way to the couch. “Did you even sleep?” 

Your hand flew up to gently prod at the tender skin under your eyes. “Do I really look that tired?”

You all but fell against the couch, sinking into the cushions like it was quicksand. Normally, you could pour yourself a cup of coffee and get through the day, but you had accumulated enough sleep debt over the past few weeks to reach your breaking point. 

Your roommate snorted. “Remember when you stayed up for three days straight during finals week last year? You look exactly like how you did back then.”

Thanks to Jeonghan’s cryptic words, you ended up spending the entire night researching and planning ways for you to help Minghao—or, at least, what you thought would help Minghao. Your document spanned almost forty pages, and you weren’t even sure if you would be using any of it. Your intention was to share your proposals with Minghao in hopes that he would find at least one of them to possibly work out. 

The problem was: you were seconds away from falling asleep on the spot and your eyes felt sore every time you blinked. There was no way you could make it to Minghao’s coffee shop and deliver your pitch in this state. 

“I stayed up all night working on something for Minghao.”

Yooyeon’s spoon clattered against the bowl. “Xu Minghao?” 

You gave her the same rundown you gave your friends yesterday—a much more vague one because you didn't want to get into the nitty gritty details of Minghao’s life, especially when Yooyeon probably didn’t even care. Plus, you were too tired to get into the specifics. By the time you were finishing up your story, your mouth was hardly moving in time with your brain and your eyelids were drooping. You weren't even sure if you were speaking coherent sentences.

Yooyeon had her bag slung over her shoulder and was asking you something. You couldn't quite tell what it was because you were hanging by a thread at that point, but you definitely heard Jeonghan’s name at some point—maybe. All you could muster was a noncommittal sound before you drifted into a slumber.

A flash of red behind your eyelids roused you from your dreamless sleep, but you didn’t have time to squint before the nuisance of a light source was instantly blocked. You opened your eyes to see Xu Minghao sitting by your feet, using his hand to block the ray of light that shone through the window and landed directly on your face. 

Perhaps you overreacted, but you were sure anyone would scream at the sight. 

“Sorry, did I scare you?” Minghao stood up, alarmed. 

Clearly. 

You scrambled to sit up while he awkwardly shifted to the middle of your living room. 

“No, Minghao, I was just warming up my vocal cords,” you deadpanned. “I don’t think it’s weird at all that you’re inside my apartment while I’m asleep.”

“Oh.” Minghao went still for a second. You watched the puzzled look on his face morph into one of dread once he seemed to understand how odd the situation looked. “Oh.”

After a few more moments of gawking at you, he started again, “This looks pretty bad.”

“Yeah, just a little.”

“I swear it’s not as creepy as it looks. Jeonghan said you wanted to see me, and then your roommate let me in. She told me to just wake you up, but I felt bad after a while. That’s why I just let you sleep.”

That must have been what Yooyeon was asking you while you were half-conscious, and you probably stupidly agreed despite not catching anything she said. This wasn’t how you wanted to talk to him; you needed time to mentally prepare yourself to meet Minghao—preferably in an outdoor setting where you were appropriately dressed—but now he had caught you completely off-guard.

It looked like he had just gotten back from the gym with his flushed cheeks and the sleeveless top that showed off his toned arms. When he raised his arm, you could even catch a glimpse of the infinity tattoo inked across his shoulder blade. 

“I can leave,” he suggested, unsure. 

“No, stay,” you said. “It’s just that I was gonna go see you on my own. How long have you been waiting here for, anyway?” 

“Maybe ten minutes? I tried calling your name, but you asked me to let you sleep a little longer.”

You flushed, mortified. On top of accidentally inviting Minghao over to wait for you to wake up, you were sleep-talking in front of him too? Any semblance of professionalism you had was crashing and burning before you. 

“I think I was sleep-talking with my roommate, too. That’s probably why she thought I needed to see you now,” you explained with a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “Sorry about that.”

Minghao laughed and took a seat once he realized you weren’t going to shoo him out of the apartment anymore—or perhaps now he felt less guilty about showing up unexpectedly.

“So we’re even, right? Your stalking is forgiven,” you said, “but not forgotten.”

His eyes went wide with mock surprise, feigning a gasp. “Stalking? I could sue you for defamation of character.”

“Then sue me,” you challenged. “I have an outfit that I’ve been dying to wear in a courtroom.” Minghao raised his eyebrows with mild interest before you reached for your laptop on the coffee table. “Anyway, I wanted to show you something that could probably make you rethink that defamation lawsuit.”

You then turned to face him and clasped your hands together out of sheer desperation. “Please let me make you the star of my documentary.” 

Minghao blinked at you for a few seconds before asking, “The documentary for your class? You want me in it?”

You nodded eagerly. “It’ll be all about you—your dancing, the café—everything that shows how hard you’ve worked for your dreams.”

“I don’t know, Y/N…” He looked slightly uneasy at the prospect. “I might not have the time for this. I already have shifts at the café every day.”

“I think I have a solution for that, too.”

“That’s great and all, but either way, I don’t even know how much longer we’re gonna be able to keep the café running.”

“But Minghao, listen, I have it all planned out.” You scooted closer until your knees were bumping against his, and you angled your laptop for him to see the screen. “There’s a scholarship offering twenty thousand dollars, and they’re asking for a video submission on what success means to you. It’s specifically for the arts—something you’re passionate about.” 

“You mean…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the screen.

“I say we kill two birds with one stone; I film the documentary for my final project while you use it to win that cash prize.”

Minghao looked from you, to the screen, and to you again. There was a suspension of fear across his face that was coupled with a sparkle of hope in his eyes. It looked as if stardust had scattered across his irises and lit them up. 

“Twenty thousand dollars,” he started before mouthing the words again in disbelief. “That kind of money could save the café.”

“And pay for nationals,” you added. “I stayed up all night planning this out. If you trust me, I think we can actually make this work.”

“You really think so? But do you really think people would be interested in watching something that’s just about my life?”

“No doubt about it. That face sells,” you deadpanned, which caused the tips of his ears to go an endearing shade of red. “I wouldn’t have done all this work if I didn’t think we could pull it off.”

“This is all assuming I even get selected.”

“I’ll make sure you do. It’ll be my best work yet.”

After Minghao spent a considerable amount of time scanning your document over and over again (you were pretty sure the words were probably burned into his brain by now), the corner of his mouth quirked into a mischievous smile. “So, how good are you?”

“Good at what?”

“Filmmaking. I’ve never seen your work.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “I’ll have you know that I’ve had plenty of experience. I’m just using you for my big break.” You didn’t realize you had stiffened up until you let your body relax. “Do you want to see something I’ve filmed?” 

“Can I?”

“Of course. I can’t have you agree to something before you know the standard of quality you’re getting,” you said with a prideful puff of your chest that deflated too quickly when you realized that you would have to show Minghao something so vulnerable. Maybe it wasn’t as big of a deal for him, but you shed your heart and soul into your craft; it was precious to you. You opened the video file and looked at him expectantly. “We don’t have to watch it.”

“No, I want to,” he said in a voice so earnest that you wanted to believe him. He focused on the file name at the top of the video player. “A Bite of Summer—what’s it about?”

“It’s pretty short. I’ll just play it for you.”

You hit play and moved the laptop onto Minghao’s lap instead, watching both the screen and his reaction to your videography. He was so zeroed in on the film that he hardly seemed to notice the way you kept glancing at him. 

Summer was sweltering. Growing up, you always spent your summers surrounded by friends and family, whether it was going to the beach or going to the park. Living in the moment was simple back then; you weren’t confined to responsibilities and commitments that kept you from enjoying what life had to offer. In fact, some of your best summer memories were shared with Minghao. The two of you laughed without a care in the world as the warmth of the sun enveloped you.

Once you entered high school, however, summer felt so humid that it was suffocating. You were up to your neck in assignments, exam preparation, and part-time jobs. It became difficult to enjoy your youth when you had countless hours of work to do. Coincidentally, it was your first summer spent without Minghao; you weren’t sure if things would’ve been any different if you two were still friends back then, but maybe it would’ve simmered the ache in your chest. 

Your short film, A Bite of Summer, was created amidst your summer blues. The film was about a girl named Rhea who meets her younger self at the beach she once used to frequent during the summer. It represented the relationship the older you had with your younger self; you were excited to grow and move forward as the seasons changed, but summer was always a bittersweet reminder that you had no time to grieve over your childhood. You didn't know what you lost until it was gone, but perhaps that made the memories even more precious. 

You were still looking at Minghao, but you could hear your main character, Rhea, asking her younger self, “Are you ever scared of growing up?”

Minghao was watching intently, hanging onto every word. You weren’t sure why you felt so nervous about him watching. In your last year of middle school, you and Minghao began to have long conversations about how terrifying it was to grow up. He would open up about how much pressure he felt from balancing dancing and school, and you would tell him how you felt like you couldn’t breathe in the summer heat. Perhaps he had forgotten by now. Perhaps he wouldn’t connect your film back as being so personal to you.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his reaction during the scene where the younger Rhea reaches for the older Rhea’s hand, gripping tightly even as cold waves started to lap at their feet. Minghao watched quietly, dark eyebrows pulling together as he focused.

“I am,” the younger Rhea answered.

“You are?”

“It sounds exciting, but nothing scares me more.” You watched as Minghao’s lips parted, chestnut eyes glistening when she continued, “Maybe it doesn't feel that way because you don’t have to live through those hard times anymore, but I’m glad the good times stuck. That means this feeling will pass”—their hands dropped to their sides—“and yours will, too.” 

And that was when a tear fell from Xu Minghao’s feathery lashes. 

You’ve never witnessed anyone cry over the work you created. Sure, it tugged at your own heartstrings since it was so personal to you, but to watch someone else have such strong feelings over your film made tears well up in your eyes.

“Are… are you crying?” you stammered out, a tittering laugh following as Minghao used the pads of his thumbs to smear his tears off his cheeks. It was a pretty sight, like watching wet clay come undone before you. 

“It was really good,” he mumbled, giving you the most adorable pout you had ever seen on an adult man before turning his head away to keep wiping at his tears. “I’m serious. Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m just surprised. I’ve never seen someone react like that to my work.”

If you were just a little braver, you probably would’ve thanked him first before telling him that you were touched. You would’ve told him that no one had ever peeled back your layers without making it uncomfortable—sometimes even painful—but he handled you with so much delicacy. You would’ve told him that this film was about you, at your core, and perhaps he had already picked up on that, but you would’ve been brave enough to express yourself.

But you weren’t brave, so you just smiled at the lone tears that streaked Minghao’s face before he wiped them with his sleeve. 

“Seriously, you’re incredible,” he said, still staring at the paused video on your laptop. The corner of his mouth lifted. “That was so short and it still made me cry.”

You couldn’t help the wide grin that stretched across your face. “You’re actually crying.” 

“Well, yeah. Are you having fun watching me suffer?”

Was it borderline psychopathic that you were smiling while Minghao cried? Probably. On the other hand, you were simply glad you didn’t burst into tears alongside him. You nearly felt like you could’ve with the way he got so emotional about your work. 

“A little,” you admitted. Surprisingly, that got a smile out of him. “I’m just happy you like it.”

“I do,” he said. A pause, then, “Why’s it called ‘A Bite of Summer,’ by the way?”

You scoffed. Actually, you had your reasons, but no one had ever asked you about that film specifically.

“I hate summer, that’s why,” you told him. “I can’t stand the heat.”

“Really?” His brows lifted. “I think summer’s pretty overrated, too.”

You cracked a grin. “No, you don’t. It’s your favorite season.”

“Hey, I can still acknowledge my favorite season’s overrated.”

He grinned and held the palm of his hand out to you. You were confused before Minghao gently grabbed your wrist and put your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and giving you a firm shake. Your hands were too clammy to be gripping Minghao’s calloused palms, but he didn’t seem to mind. 

“Use me however you want, director,” he continued, and the sparkle in his eyes was something magnificent. “I’ll be your best star yet.”

“No lawsuit?” you asked.

Minghao laughed. “No lawsuit.”

You were sweating like you had just run a marathon. (You practically did; the distance from your apartment to Jeonghan’s location in the library was a mile and a half, and you were sprinting half the time.)

Since you needed some time to plan out your filming, you exchanged contact information with Minghao and told him that you would contact him when you were ready. Your nerves were buzzing with excitement now that you actually had a subject for your documentary. Conversations with your classmates would no longer make you feel like you were desperately hurrying to catch up with everybody else. 

Your friends usually claimed the big table on the third floor. It was positioned at an optimal location next to the bathrooms and the elevator, so you were quite proud of your unassigned-assigned table. Junhui and Wonwoo were normally the ones who spent the most time in the library, whereas Seungkwan and Vernon usually only stopped by if they wanted to mess around. 

“You bitch,” you spat, pointing an accusatory finger at Jeonghan, who was trying to frantically wave off clouds of smoke when he coughed in surprise. You collapsed into the chair next to him, catching your breath while Junhui and Wonwoo hardly batted an eye. “You should be prosecuted for vaping in the library, by the way.”

“I know, right?” Junhui frowned disapprovingly. “Take it outside, Jeonghan.”

“Addiction kills,” Wonwoo added, doleful. 

“I was gonna ghost it!” Jeonghan cried in defense, lowering his voice toward the end once he realized they were, in fact, still inside the library. He turned back to face you. “Anyway, why am I a bitch again?”

“You invited Minghao into my apartment!”

“Okay, a lot of accusations here. What about a hi? A hello? A congrats-on-finding-your-vape-Jeonghan?” 

You fixed him with a glare. “It’s one accusation that has already been confirmed, Jeonghan. Start talking.”

“Yooyeon told me that you needed to see Minghao. All I did was pass along the message,” he explained before a smirk grew on his face. “So what did you need to see him for?” 

“Oh, right.” You cleared your throat. “I’ve decided on doing the Minghao documentary.”

Jeonghan’s lips parted in surprise, the corners of his lips twitching upward again. “Oh my god, you’re actually doing it! I mean, I had a feeling after Yooyeon called me, but…” 

“Good choice,” Junhui said. “He’s an absurdly attractive man.”

“Phenomenal face for the cameras,” Wonwoo agreed, humming along. 

“Okay, since when were you guys the Xu Minghao Fan Club?” You looked around the table and shook your head once you saw Junhui’s dreamy expression. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Point is, the Minghao documentary is in motion and I have a shit-ton to plan.” You turned to face Jeonghan. “You said you’d help out at the café, right? You’ll get paid, of course, but Minghao can’t keep taking shifts every day.” 

“They’re still having money problems?” Jeonghan asked.

“Unfortunately, but he said that hiring part-timers is better for them financially.”

He hummed, nodding along to your words. “Well, I didn’t say I’d be helping at the café, but I’ll find you someone.”

“They’ll still have to be interviewed, of course. Oh, and they’ll have to be trained, and—”

“Don’t even worry,” Jeonghan assured. “I have the perfect person in mind. Actually, I think I can find you a few more, too.”

“I’m a little scared.”

“When have I ever let you down?” Before you could point out that there had actually been a few instances, Jeonghan seemed to realize the flaw in his question and added, “Rhetorical question. Anyway, just leave it to me.”

To an extent, you did trust him. Not only was Jeonghan involved in several clubs and organizations on campus, but he was also a freshman orientation leader for two years in a row. This was especially useful in the sense that he had connections to students you had never even seen in your life; when you used to have inquiries on subjects you wanted to film, you always asked Jeonghan for any references, and he almost always had a name in mind.

After a pause, your friend gave you a quizzical look. “Did you run all the way over here just to say that?”

“Uh…” 

“You know you could’ve just texted me, right? Or called? Modern technology works wonders, Y/N.”

“Oh—right.”

Come to think of it, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so excited over something that you full-on sprinted to tell your friends. It begged the question of whether you would be this ecstatic if you weren’t filming a certain someone. The ice skating rink surely wouldn’t have gotten this reaction out of you. 

You were fairly certain you knew the reason behind your lapse in judgement, and it was becoming clear that Xu Minghao was tangled right in the center of everything. 

Filming started the following Monday. 

You captured Minghao throughout his everyday life at first, which meant you had to follow him around all day to compile footage. Mentally, you weren’t very prepared for this. Following Minghao from campus, to the café, to his dance studio, and wherever else he decided to venture made you feel as if you were intruding. It was as if you were peaking into a world that you weren’t allowed into. 

He wasn’t that great when it came to school as a kid, but now Minghao really tried to study hard, even if that meant dozing off in the middle of reading a page of his textbook. Just a few days ago, he invited you over for a movie, and you were really supposed to be editing your footage, but you caved within minutes of him asking. You remembered Minghao had always been a sucker for coming-of-age movies, but you were dumbfounded when he shed tears during Little Women. (What you wouldn’t dare tell him was how endearing you found him). 

You toed the line as someone between a friend and a stranger; perhaps to Minghao you would be considered a friend, but you weren’t quite sure why you couldn’t see yourself fitting in that space again. Still, as you filmed him and shot his interviews, you were so intrigued by the new sides of him that kept coming up, as well as the parts you nearly forgot about. It felt strange to hear such sincere accounts of Minghao from the interviews with his instructors and peers, yet to be the one behind the camera that couldn’t hold onto him before.

Today, he was waiting for you at 11:30 a.m. sharp outside of the Arts building. It had been a little over a month since you and Minghao started working together, but you were more worried about the scholarship deadline than your own assignment’s deadline. Filming was going smoothly, but you still needed to get interviews from his friends and family. Editing the dance footage was going to take the entire night since you were in the studio for hours. 

You were overwhelmed, to say the least. 

Minghao was finished with classes for the day while you had an annoyingly long gap between your morning and evening classes. You were supposed to shoot some B-roll, but that completely slipped both of your minds as you were well into scarfing down the breakfast wraps you two had bought before sitting on a cold bench.

Dark, gray clouds moved like smoke across the sky. It was getting chillier, and you were suddenly reminded of when you’d wait for the school bus with Minghao in middle school. He was always carrying around hand warmers back then, offering you one without fail whenever you started to shiver. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder without thinking too deeply about how close you were. Now, with the awkward gap between you two, you wished you could go back to those simpler times. 

Maybe you were already considered friends. Maybe you were overthinking all of this.

You rarely analyzed your other friendships this thoroughly.

You would rather shrivel up and die than admit that you missed being the closest to Minghao, but whenever he said something particularly sweet or gave you that gentle smile where his eyes crinkled at the corners, you felt your heart soar just a little higher. Maybe—just maybe—if he pressed enough, he would get it out of you.

“I told my mentor I’m gonna keep practicing for nationals,” he said once he was waiting for you to finish the last few bites of your wrap, “and I told my mom about the scholarship. It took some time trying to convince her that it could actually work.”

“She was against it?”

“At first, yeah. I mean, I don’t blame her. We’re doing this on the off-chance I get selected—nothing’s guaranteed.” He gave you a crooked smile. “But, at the end of the day, it could save our café, so she’s touched that you’re trying.”

You took the last bite of your wrap instead of replying. Of course Minghao meant well, but you couldn’t help but feel your stomach pitted with anxiousness at the mention of how everything was riding on this film. It made you feel even worse because Minghao had more to lose than you did. Nationals and an assignment grade; it was almost ridiculous how high-stakes his situation was compared to yours.

“Jeonghan actually managed to find part-timers for the café,” he continued. “They’re coming by in the afternoon.”

“That’s good news, right? You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. We hardly get people who wanna work there.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s not as convenient as an on-campus job, so most people aren’t willing to walk that far for a part-time job when they can easily find something closer.”

You didn’t mind the commute yourself, but you only visited the café occasionally; it would’ve been a different story if you were heading to work there every single day. You hoped whoever Jeonghan found was actually committed to their job.

Then, Minghao asked, “What’re you gonna be filming today?”

“I was thinking we can get some footage of you training the newbies,” you said. “Speaking of, now that you have more employees, does this mean you won’t have to work at the café as much?”

He grinned brightly. “My shifts are cut down to three days a week now. I’ll have plenty of time to focus on dance. We have other employees to train the new guys, too, so it’s not all on me.” Minghao then leaned in a little closer (making you laser-focused on stepping on every crunchy leaf at your feet to ignore how your brain was spinning) to say, “Jeonghan thinks there'll be a lot more girls coming to the café.”

“Because of the new baristas?”

He shrugged. “They’re good-looking guys.”

You thought back to the demographic of cafégoers when you first visited Café du Soleil. The majority were, in fact, teenage girls. You wouldn’t have been surprised if you discovered that Minghao’s face was the selling point, but to have multiple men like him working there? Not only were you worried that the coffee shop would turn into the Ouran Host Club, but you simply couldn’t picture even more people of the same visual caliber as Xu Minghao. 

Before you could reply, Minghao noted your pause and asked, “What’re you thinking about?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Curious about what?”

When you looked at him, his gaze frantically scattered about before he returned to looking down at his wadded-up wrapper. You wouldn’t have found it weird if you caught him looking at you, but the fact that he looked away so quickly made you feel conscious of how warm you were getting under your jacket. 

“Just wondering if they’re really all that. I find it hard to believe that whoever Jeonghan called is gonna bring in more of a crowd than you already do.”

Minghao looked baffled before he chuckled. “I don’t bring in a crowd.”

“There were so many girls when I visited yesterday! Didn’t you notice them giggling after you left their table?”

“They were probably just giggling over whatever teenage girls giggle over.”

Minghao was oblivious by nature. He was also a man, therefore he was stupid. 

Coupled together, it was a disastrous combination that resulted in wildly attractive Xu Minghao being utterly useless when it came to recognizing that he was blessed with a first-rate genetic sequence. 

“Hao,” you started slowly, “teenage girls giggle over guys.” 

“Oh.” He frowned, and you held yourself back from rolling your eyes as you witnessed him take actual offense to what was supposed to be a compliment. You figured he had deeply misunderstood what you were getting at.

“Cute guys,” you corrected.

“Oh.”

You straightened up and stared back at him, bewildered. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Your—” Unable to articulate what you were trying to say (partly because it was far too embarrassing to outrightly call Minghao attractive), you made a dramatic gesture to refer to his face. “That!” 

To your horror, he turned incredibly smug. “What, my face? What about it?” 

“Uh…”

“Are you trying to say I look good, Y/N?”

This just in: Xu Minghao was a sick and twisted man. 

In this very exact, very precise moment, you felt the most vulnerable you had ever been in front of the dancer, and he was using the very opportunity to humiliate you even further. 

“I’m speaking objectively,” you said. 

“You’re objectively saying I look good.”

“Yes.”

“What about subjectively?”

“Can we circle back to the café instead?” you offered, buffering as if you had to muster up the strength to push the words out through your teeth. “I’d much rather talk about the café.”

“Really? I was having more fun talking about how objectively and subjectively good I look.”

A groan fell from your lips. “You objectively and subjectively need to shut up.”

Minghao laughed at your reaction before standing up and reaching into his pockets. “C’mon, let’s get going before it gets late,” he said and pulled out a hand warmer from his coat, holding it out to you. “Here.”

You took it from him. “What’s this for?”

“You’ve been shivering this whole time.”

While Minghao chatted your ear off on the way to Café du Soleil, all you could think about was how he surprisingly paid attention to the little details about you that most people would miss. You were formulating a rough theory in your head: Xu Minghao had to be some sort of otherworldly being because there was no other explanation for how perfect he was. 

Yoon Jeonghan was going to the deepest circle of Hell.

As soon as you saw Choi Seungcheol in an apron, you knew your insufferable friend had an agenda of his own when he was scouting out potential baristas. To Jeonghan’s credit, the other two baristas he found seemed like they had been objectively scouted (no offense to Seungcheol, but you were 99% sure Jeonghan just wanted a chance to see the man as frequently as possible).

“That’s Chan.” Jeonghan jerked his chin in the direction of the younger guy who was fumbling with the cash register, and then you followed his gaze over to the barista who was fixing an acrylic pin of Elphaba from Wicked to his apron. “And that one’s Seokmin.”

Apparently, Jeonghan met Lee Seokmin through a hiking club. More specifically, Jeonghan met Seokmin at a hiking club party while they were trying to puke their guts out in the same bush. 

Lee Chan, on the other hand, was a family friend’s son that Jeonghan adored. You recalled him bringing Chan to a college party once and never again; the high school senior was later given twenty bucks to keep his mouth shut about Jeonghan hitting his vape. 

After his eyes lingered on his eye candy (read: Seungcheol) for a ridiculously long amount of time, Jeonghan finally noticed the reproachful look you were giving him. “What?”

“I know damn well you just wanted to get Seungcheol in an apron.”

“No,” Jeonghan sneered, as if he was disgusted by your accusation. “I was trying to see him with his sleeves rolled up. There’s a difference.”

“Whatever, dude. They both boil down to you being a whore.”

“Hey, I mention a hiring notice to the man I want,” Jeonghan started with an air of confidence, leaning back in his seat to take a sip of his latte, “and you turn yours into the star of your film. We’re basically birds of a feather here.”

You nearly choked over your own drink (the mango fruit tea—again), and you were suddenly grateful that Minghao was currently training the newbies behind the counter despite feeling jealous earlier about them getting most of his attention. It was a relief that you two were alone at a table and out of earshot. Jeonghan needed to stay far, far away from Minghao; he was clearly not to be trusted to run his mouth around the dancer. 

You gave him an incredulous look, ignoring the burst of heat that exploded within your chest. “First of all, lower your voice before someone hears you and actually takes you seriously. Second of all, what?” 

“What’s wrong with me wanting Seung—”

“I’m talking about the other part!”

“I said what I said—and if you think about it, you’re crazier than I am.”

“Excuse me?” Your whisper might as well have been a shout. You quieted down again before speaking, “I’m not crazy, and I don’t want Hao.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jeonghan replied, unconvinced, “So you’re telling me that you didn’t feel any sort of way after he gave you a piggyback ride home from the club last week?”

It would be impossible to forget, even if you were blasted out of your mind. After much persuasion from Seungkwan and Jeonghan, you were convinced to invite Minghao last-minute to your night out. You were already several drinks in when he finally showed up at the club, so your first instinct was to throw yourself into his arms. Not your finest moment. But he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer by the waist, so you couldn’t help but let yourself get carried away. 

Several shots later, you found it impossible to walk with how your balance was completely off. Minghao, being the knight in shining armor he was, opted to carry you home on his back while holding onto your heels. 

You settled for saying, “He was just being nice.”

“That wasn’t my question, and I don’t think he was just trying to be nice.”

“Is it so hard for you to believe that he’s just a genuinely good guy?”

“Well, he is, but it’s not like you guys just film your little documentary and move on with your lives after,” Jeonghan said. “He hangs out with you, texts you every day, finds literally any excuse to invite you over, and you guys even bought matching pajamas!”

“They were on sale!”

“Lots of things were on sale, Y/N; it was literally Black Friday.”

“It was Cyber Monday,” you corrected in a grumble. 

“You specifically chose the pajamas to wear with him.”

“We’re friends,” you insisted, although it sounded like you were more so trying to convince yourself than Jeonghan. You would be lying if you said you didn’t feel the undercurrent of your emotions tugging at your ankles, but that was not a revelation you were meant to have at Café du Soleil with Minghao in your vicinity. “We’re just doing what friends do.”

Jeonghan slurped his drink in a ridiculously loud manner. You shot him a disapproving look.

“You know what I think?”

You were certain that you didn’t want to hear what Jeonghan thought, but nevertheless, you entertained his attempts to provoke you. “What now?” you snapped.

“I think you’re still hurt by how you two drifted apart—you and Hao,” he said, “and you’re probably thinking it’s gonna happen again. That’s why you’re too scared to admit he’s being a little more than nice to you.”

Bullseye. Jeonghan had watertight intuition when it came to the people he was close with, and you were no exception. His words were so on the mark that you felt vulnerable and exposed, like your skin was suddenly clinging too tight around your bones.

The thing was, you still couldn’t exactly remember how you and Minghao grew distant. You recalled the throng of memories of when you two were friends, but everything leading up to your falling out was hazy. Could you even call it a falling-out if there weren’t necessarily any hard feelings? He certainly hadn’t done anything that made you want to block him out of your memory (it was Xu Minghao, for God’s sake), but you couldn’t imagine why you would be so hurt over growing apart from an old friend.

“You really chose the worst possible time and place for this conversation,” was all you could mutter in response.

“We have air conditioning and cheesecake. What could possibly be better than this?” 

Whether Jeonghan was selective about what he chose to be perceptive about or simply didn’t understand the gravity of this situation, you couldn’t tell; you just gave him a dumbfounded stare. “Anywhere else! Anywhere else would’ve been better!”

“You’re so picky.”

“And you can’t read the room.”

“You know what I can read,” he started with a cheeky grin while his eyes focused on something—or someone—else behind you, “Xu Minghao’s name tag.”

“Oh, do you like it? I drew Seungkwan’s dog and Vernon’s cat next to my name,” came a breezy voice from behind you, making your heart plummet to your stomach. 

How long had he even been standing there? You thought you could just ignore Minghao, but you found yourself turning around to see his two pets he doodled on his nametag. Unfortunately, they were cute, but you were still too mortified to give him a proper reaction.

“How—how long have you been there for?” you stammered. “Did you hear what we were talking about?”

Minghao raised a brow. “Not long. Why? Is it something I’m not supposed to hear?”

You balked before answering, “No,” but the inflection in your tone made you sound as if you were questioning yourself. 

(Jeonghan made direct eye contact with you and mouthed the word pussy. You made a mental note to deal with him later in a potentially homicidal manner.)

“By the way, Jeonghan, the guys you brought in are doing great,” Minghao went on to praise. “I don’t think we even need to train them for that long. Seokmin’s a natural at this.”

Jeonghan let out a wistful sigh. “I knew I recognized his potential.”

“Didn’t you guys meet at a party? How’d he manage to show barista potential?” you asked.

“I was thirsty and he brought me water.”

Nice. That was one way to prove himself, you supposed. 

Then, Minghao turned his attention to you. “Were you gonna get some more shots today? Chan says he won’t make a run for it if he sees the camera this time.”

Earlier, you were trying to film Minghao showing Chan the proper technique of steaming milk, which Chan hardly was able to pay attention to because he was too busy gawking at the camera. As soon as Minghao was done talking, the high schooler hurried into the break room. 

“I think I got everything I needed,” you answered, tilting your head up to see him smiling fondly down at you. The look in his eyes made you feel like something syrupy was trickling down your throat, as if you were drowning in his endearment. “Why’d you call Jeonghan over here, anyway? He’s pissing me off.”

As expected, your words got a rise out of Jeonghan. “All I did was sit here!” 

“And you opened your mouth. That’s basically a misdemeanor.” 

“Jeonghan, quit bothering her,” Minghao scolded. (“What? What the hell? What did I do?” Jeonghan went on to complain. “This is going in my Yelp review, by the way—one star for betrayal and terrible customer service.”) He looked back at you with a softened gaze as Jeonghan’s maundering turned into background noise. “You’re not leaving yet, are you?” 

You were about to head out, but your legs suddenly didn’t feel like moving once Minghao looked at you with those warm eyes of his that made your insides feel like they had been doused in kerosene and lit aflame. 

Jeonghan, who was hell-bent on his mission to push you and Minghao closer as much as you resisted, appeared to take your hesitation as an opportunity. 

“We’re going back to my apartment to smoke,” your friend declared. Although that had never been the plan, you kept your mouth shut to see where Jeonghan was going with this. “You coming, Hao?”

Minghao snuck a glance at you. “Tonight? I don’t know. I might be free.”

“Holy shit,” Jeonghan gushed before Minghao’s words could even properly register in your ears, leaning over the table to put his hand on top of yours. “I should invite Soonyoung. Remember? The guy from our orientation group that you thought was cute?” 

Of course you remembered Kwon Soonyoung. How could anyone forget a face like that? But you wanted to reach over the table and strangle Jeonghan for bringing him up in the worst possible context and potentially screwing up your non-existent love life for good. As you fought down your murderous tendencies and glanced nervously between the boys, however, you noticed a muscle in Minghao’s jaw twitch. 

You started, “Soonyoung? I mean, sure, but—”

“Actually, I’ll be there,” Minghao cut in, his face void of emotion. “What time?”

Jeonghan simpered, quite pleased with himself. “Eight?” 

“Sounds good.”

Without another word, the barista walked off, leaving you in stunned silence. Did you just witness Xu Minghao get jealous? There was no way for you to spin this as anything else; it was pure, unadulterated envy that bled out of him. 

As your face grew increasingly hot, you spoke in a frantic, hushed voice, “He cut me off. He cut me off! Have you ever seen Hao that mad? I’ve never seen him that mad.”

But Jeonghan didn’t seem the least bit worried at all. In fact, he looked far too smug. “He’s really mad, isn’t he?” 

“What’d you say all that for? I don’t think I can handle Hao and Soonyoung in the same room after this. I haven’t even brought up Soonyoung since last year, you douchebag!”

“Relax,” Jeonghan replied coolly. “I’m not inviting Soonyoung. I just said that to fuck with Hao.” A Cheshire-like grin spread across his face, and he pulled out his phone to start tapping away in front of you. “I’ve never seen him that jealous before. Maybe you should wear something nice and lace—”

“Shut up,” you interrupted with a scowl. “There were never any plans to begin with, were there?”

“Yes, there were—now,” he said, causing you to groan at the end. “I just told the group chat about it. You can thank me later.”

“I am not thanking you for the amount of torment you just put me through,” you said, hesitated, then stiffly added, “but thank you.” 

“See? I’m always looking out for you.” He gave you a sincere look. “Now do me a solid and please get Seungcheol to show up.”

“I knew there was a catch.”

yoon jeonghan: smoke sesh at my place @ 9  yoon jeonghan: be there or our friendship’s over

boo seungkwan: i have no weed  boo seungkwan: lost my vape too

you: real hustlers would never make excuses

wen junhui: she’s right

vernon chwe: i have your vape seungkwan

boo seungkwan: wtf give it back boo seungkwan: wait my vape with vernon’s saliva 🤤

vernon chwe questioned “wait my vape with vernon’s saliva 🤤”

you: alright chill

boo seungkwan: if i close my eyes i can almost taste him

vernon chwe: um. vernon chwe: i'd like to give it back because it’s yours but idk if i should anymore 

jeon wonwoo: Why are we having a smoke sesh on a random ass day  jeon wonwoo: I have a midterm tomorrow

boo seungkwan: leave tomorrow’s problems for a Tomorrow You

jeon wonwoo: True jeon wonwoo: Ok see u guys there

yoon jeonghan: i’ll provide the smoke sesh essentials

wen junhui: i have 11 edibles wen junhui: each person gets 1 and fight to the death over the rest

boo seungkwan: pog

you: thanks for that

jeon wonwoo: Amazing

vernon chwe: incredible

You were blasted out of your mind.

True to his word, Jeonghan didn’t invite Soonyoung to his gathering; and true to your word, you roped Minghao into bringing Seungcheol along. 

You were initially worried that things would be awkward between you and Minghao, but he seemed to be in a significantly better mood by the time you got to talk to him. He didn’t even know that this whole night had been Jeonghan’s maniacal plot to set you guys up, so Minghao was completely oblivious when Seungkwan ushered him to sit next to you on the couch. 

The night started off with Junhui passing out his edibles and auctioning off his last three to whoever did the best animal impression (one went to Minghao, one went to Jeonghan, and one went to Vernon). You were content with your one edible because you never had that strong of a weed tolerance, and halfway into watching Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle, you felt your eyes starting to grow heavy.

There were two types of people when high, though: one was you, who could probably be considered motionless and inanimate; and the other was someone like Seungkwan, whose not-so-wise ideas seemed to increase tenfold.

And, of course, since Harold and Kumar wanted to go to White Castle, Seungkwan and Vernon wanted to go on an adventure, too. 

After much planning (which you weren’t part of because your body felt as if it was sinking into the couch cushions), your friends mobilized their efforts to come up with a scheme to bring back food from three different restaurants at once. They split themselves up into teams; Jeonghan and Seungcheol were going to Taco Bell, Seungkwan and Vernon were going to Panera Bread, and Junhui and Wonwoo were going to Chipotle.

If you were sober, you probably would have reminded them that UberEats still existed—or that they should probably look up the closing hours.

Naturally, you and Minghao were left in Jeonghan’s apartment. You didn’t mind because they promised to bring back food, but Jeonghan had definitely orchestrated getting you alone with Minghao. This meant you were probably expected to make a move or do whatever else was deemed entertaining in their eyes.

“Why didn't you go with them?” you asked Minghao. Everything seemed much more amusing to you all of a sudden, like the tuft of his hair that just wouldn't stay down. 

“I’d rather stay here.” He shrugged and nudged your arm with his elbow. “Why? Do you want me to go?” he teased.

You reached over and patted down the strands of hair that kept sticking up. “No, stay. I need a witness if Jun’s edibles kill me.”

He laughed. “You’re not gonna die.”

“I am.” You placed a hand against your chest, right where your heartbeat thundered at lightning speed. “Please don’t be mad at me if I flatline.”

“No, you’re fine,” he said, taking your hand and placing it over his heart. His heartbeat was fast but probably not as fast as yours. “See? They’re the same.”

You thought Xu Minghao should’ve done the right thing for your heart and not look so devastatingly good all the time, but he always managed to catch you off-guard with that sickeningly sweet smile of his. He also should’ve been making an effort to not touch you so casually when your heart was already running at a million miles per hour. It wasn’t very fair that you were cursed to control your emotions every time you saw him from a decidedly good angle (which was almost every angle). You needed to bury whatever you were feeling before he entered a dangerous territory of your heart. 

On second thought, you weren’t sure you could keep him out.

“No, they’re not,” you said. “I think it’s because of the weed and the fact that you’re very close.”

You swore you saw a ghost of a smirk on his lips, but Minghao expertly concealed it by raising a brow at you instead. “Oh? You’re blaming it on me now?”

“Blame is a strong word.”

Even he couldn’t stop the shit-eating grin from appearing on his face as he leaned in closer. “Then why am I such a problem for your heart, Y/N?” 

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “You just are.”

“Does it have anything to do with me being objectively good-looking?”

You groaned. “You won’t let that one go, will you?”

“Unfortunately for you, I think I like where this is going.”

Something very dangerous was brewing in your chest.

You weren't sure if it was the weed that was making you bolder, but the haze was surely letting down your inhibitions. Instead of feeling like you were sinking deeper into the couch, you felt like you were gravitating closer to Minghao. 

“Will you ever give me an answer?” he asked, and your breath caught in your throat when he delicately held your chin with two fingers, turning your head to look at him. 

“No, I don’t think so.”

He pouted, and then you mocked his pout in return.

And just when you thought he was done messing with you, Xu Minghao dipped his head to seal his lips over yours, kissing your pout away. 

Alarmed, you pulled back immediately, your eyes wide and unblinking as you stared at him in shock. He didn’t seem all that fazed himself, but he pressed his lips together tightly and withdrew his hand slowly. It was a short-lived kiss, but you were so close to getting hooked and losing all semblance of self-control.

“Sorry,” he apologized quickly.

“W-why are you sorry?” you stuttered, pitchy. 

“I should’ve asked first.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

You shook your head to clear the mess of tangled thoughts. This was the worst possible conversation to be having while you were both high out of your minds, but you were also feeling a lot more courageous now that you knew that Minghao actually wanted to kiss you. 

You wanted to kiss him, too. Now that you had a taste, you couldn’t resist thinking about how his lips would feel against yours again, how he would touch you again with such tenderness.

“Sorry, I thought you were asking,” you said.

“Asking what?”

“To kiss me.”

“Oh.” Minghao went silent for an entire minute. (You counted the seconds.) You watched as he stared blankly into space before the weight of your words seemed to finally register. “Oh.”

Your face felt hot. “Don’t just oh me.”

Minghao chuckled in response. He shifted so that he was turned toward you, one of his hands finding purchase on the back of your neck and the other on your knee. You nearly forgot how to breathe as you were so focused on how his touch burned your skin.

“No, I was just thinking about how cute you are,” he clarified. 

“Huh?” You were pretty sure your voice was an octave higher, judging by how Minghao now looked even more amused by you. “Cute?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” His hand started to inch up from your knee, torturously moving up and down. You swallowed thickly. “I think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

You choked out a laugh. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m dead serious,” he insisted, and you could tell he was by the way his eyes darkened and his hand slid higher up your thigh. “You know I’m not a liar, Y/N.”

When you didn’t respond, he lowered his voice and continued, “You know, a big part of dancing is about the finer details.” Minghao’s hand dragged across your skin so slowly that you couldn’t hold in your trembling breath full of want. “I always make sure to pay extra attention, so I think you can trust me when I tell you you’re pretty.”

For a moment, you were floundering for words. You were already feeling dizzy by his mere touch, and then he went on to say something that made you feel even more feverish. Xu Minghao truly was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

“Here,” he said, “let me just show you.”

He moved the hand on your thigh to grip your chin again, pressing a few tentative, experimental kisses to your lips before finally capturing them in a longer, desperate manner. Your heartbeat was hardly a rhythm anymore, just a steady line of white noise that rushed loudly in your ears. Kissing Minghao was addicting, and as you moved your arms to wrap around his neck, you found yourself losing the last shred of control that was keeping you from him. 

By the time Minghao made the daring decision to slide his hand up your shirt, you two had been kissing each other senselessly. Your legs were haphazardly strewn across his lap while he bent you down to kiss you at a better angle. 

Part of you was worried that this was moving too fast; the other half was begging you to speed up.

You couldn’t make sense of anything when his tongue slid against yours so languidly, sending delightful shivers up your spine. One of your hands moved up to entangle your fingers in his roots, tugging just enough to have him groaning into the kiss. 

Just when you were certain things were going to escalate further—and god, did you want them to escalate—a loud knock at the door had you and Minghao pulling apart like two magnets with opposite poles. 

“I don’t have a key!” Junhui’s muffled yell was heard through the door. 

You and Minghao exchanged a look before he stood up to get the door. You ran a hand through your hair to look presentable again, even though your half-lidded eyes were a dead giveaway that you were floating elsewhere, high up in the clouds. 

With his taste still on your lips, the tangle of an unspoken truth wound itself tighter around your throat. 

You used The Kiss™ as an excuse for some space. The excuse you gave Minghao, however, was that you “needed a week for editing.” 

This was a (white) lie for two reasons:

Minghao wasn't going to interfere with your editing process to the extent of needing to completely push him away.

You definitely did not need a full week for editing.

The cherry on top of your excellent decision-making was that it only took you a little over a day to start missing Minghao again. 

The worst part of it all was that being the sweetest man to grace this planet, Minghao understood you right away and stopped texting you immediately. And, of course, you started to overthink his silence, as if you weren’t the one who needed time. 

After you and Minghao had been rudely interrupted by Junhui and Wonwoo, the two of you carried on like nothing happened. Apparently, Jeonghan had been very strategic about where he made everyone go to pick up food: Chipotle was close by, and he claimed it was important that you and Minghao didn’t spend too much time alone in case things got awkward; and the other two were mostly for Jeonghan’s convenience (Panera Bread because he wanted a charged lemonade, and Taco Bell because it was the farthest away and gave him more time to be alone with Seungcheol). There were good intentions, yes, but you were bitter because the only part of Jeonghan’s plan that was supposed to benefit you was the part that ended up cockblocking you.

The guys made it impossible for you to get some alone time with Minghao for the rest of the night. You couldn’t even see him the next day because you ended up sleeping in so late that Minghao was gone by the time you woke up. 

Going back to your apartment the next morning felt like The Walk of Shame. 

Now, you were sprawled across the couch in your living room, laptop warm on your stomach as you sifted through your camera footage. Yooyeon was sitting on the carpet and doing her nails at the coffee table. Earlier in the morning, when you gave her the rundown of the events from last night, The Kiss™ had her jumping on the couch for so long that you ended up banishing her to the floor.

“After everything you just told me,” Yooyeon said, “I think you should just tell him how you feel. Don’t mince your balls. Just get right to the point.”

“Mince my balls? I don’t think that’s an expression.” You paused for what felt like forever until the appropriate idiom dawned on you. “It’s mince your words, dumbass, not mince your balls.”

“Mince your words, mince your balls—same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

“Okay, but you two have had this weird back-and-forth for, like, a month now,” she said. “It’s not like he’s gonna say no to a date.”

“But what if he does say no?”

Yooyeon rolled her eyes. “You guys literally kissed. Pretty sure that’s a free pass to ask him out.”

You thought back to Jeonghan’s words, how he suggested that you were still hurt by you and Minghao drifting apart in middle school and that you subconsciously thought it could happen again. It was uncharacteristic for you to hold a grudge this long, though, but you really couldn’t remember what was the turning point that made you feel like you had to walk on eggshells around him. 

After putting your headphones over your ears, you clicked on the next video file to decide whether you were saving it for the film or not. The thumbnail that popped up was Minghao’s arm around your shoulders while you were trying to record the both of you sharing takoyaki outside. It was one of the videos that you took for fun in the middle of your shoot, but the sight made your heart flutter in your chest.

“I’ll feed you,” Minghao in the video said, a wide grin on his face as he stabbed a toothpick into a takoyaki ball and inched it closer to your lips. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Your face twisted as soon as the searing hot takoyaki hit your tongue. You remembered how you were about to drop your camera and spit the takoyaki out, but in order to not embarrass yourself in front of Minghao and everyone else around you, it was crucial that you kept your composure. 

“I said it was hot!” Minghao exclaimed when you shot him an icy glare. 

As you attempted to eat the takoyaki without burning your tongue, some of the batter dribbled down your chin. You let out a muffled yelp when it scalded your skin, pointing frantically at the mess you were making. It looked like your lips were trying to frame the word tissue, but you immediately covered your mouthful of takoyaki with your hand. 

Minghao laughed at you, a dimple carving into the corner of his lip. “Stay still. Let me get it for you.” 

The video cut right while Minghao was wiping your chin with a spare napkin. You remembered how gentle his hold was on your face, as if you were fine china. The fond smile fixed on his face wasn’t doing your heart any favors. You glanced over at Yooyeon to make sure she was too preoccupied with her nails to catch the growing smile that kept creeping onto your lips.

When you opened the next video file, the thumbnail wasn’t a frame you recognized. Minghao was in his dance studio, facing the camera at the full-length mirror to capture his entire body. You remembered the exact day he must have filmed this because he let you attempt to braid his hair on the bus ride home. 

“Hey, Y/N, I’m recording this without your permission,” he started, a mischievous grin playing on his face. “Since you’re out getting snacks, I’ve decided to vlog the choreo I just came up with.”

This time, you realized too late that your face had broken into a smile so affectionate that Cupid may as well have sent an arrow right through your chest. You were seven minutes into watching Minghao trying to master his self-made choreography when it finally hit you that you had spent the entire month with Minghao—laughing, hanging out, watching movies, going on long drives, studying at his café, and getting to know him all over again. All of that was under the pretext of filming your documentary, but now that you were realizing there was no excuse for you to be around him anymore, a strange feeling of apprehension consumed you.

You could say that you and Minghao were friends now, but your life had become so intertwined with his that you weren’t sure how you would feel when things went back to normal. 

Your attention snapped back to your laptop screen when Minghao stopped dancing to speak to the camera again. 

“I know you’re probably procrastinating on editing this, so you owe me five dollars if you haven’t watched this by the 19th,” he said. You checked the clock to confirm that it was, indeed, past said date and well into the week after. Just as you were about to make a note to send Minghao the money, he lowered his voice and continued, “But, since you watched till the end, I’ll tell you a secret. You can’t tell anyone, though, especially not Jeonghan!” 

You noticed his face was flushed a faint shade of pink when he confessed, “Now I’m only telling you this because it’s been bothering me for weeks. You never brought it up, but… I intentionally didn’t warm up your injeolmi toast that day because I wanted you to bring it back so that we could, um… talk, I guess. I still can’t believe you ate the whole thing without realizing.”

Your heart stuttered—tripped, fell over, got up again, repeated the process—and, oh, you were a discombobulated mess on the inside. 

Minghao chuckled to himself and started going off on a tangent about the injeolmi toast, but you were unable to move on from what he had said. (“You know it’s supposed to be warmed up, right? I figured you just didn’t know because you’ve never had it… maybe I should’ve given you the wrong drink instead.”)

The answer was jammed in your throat like a pill you couldn’t swallow: you liked Xu Minghao. 

And, strangely enough, the feeling wasn’t unfamiliar. 

You remembered exactly what it was like to long for the sun. You’d fallen in love with all of Minghao long before. A rush of repressed feelings from your middle school years bubbled to the surface, and perhaps they didn’t make any sense to you in the past, but it was all too clear now. What you felt for Minghao wasn’t anything new; your first love blossomed long ago, and you plucked out all the petals of your feelings before they could grow any further. 

You just didn’t nip enough of them in the bud. 

If you remembered correctly, you and Minghao started growing apart the day he got his first girlfriend. It wasn’t that you two had a proper argument or fell out, but you safeguarded yourself from the heartbreak by distancing yourself until you were out of each other’s lives. He must have been too caught up in his new relationship to realize it himself, but of course you couldn’t blame him when you were the one who pulled away first. 

But things were different now. You were different now. 

In the past, you made sure to swallow your feelings down, no matter how painful and thick they were lodged in your throat. Now, however, despite how hard you tried to suppress them, you felt as if you were glowing in the light of reciprocated love. It was maddening—agonizing even—but so wonderful. 

“I think I like him, Yooyeon,” you blurted out, only looking in your roommate’s direction when you heard her knocking over her collection of press-on nails. The mess was hardly a concern to her right now, though. “Minghao, I mean.”

“Can I tell Jeonghan?” 

You reached around your laptop to grab a throw pillow and whack her over the head with it. “I’m having the most insane revelation of my life and pouring my heart out to you here, and your first instinct is to tell Jeonghan?” 

“Okay, damn, I’ll give it a few hours.” Yooyeon set her phone back down and turned around to face you again, her eyes lit up with excitement. “Now tell me everything. Like, everything. I need you to explain from start to finish.”

“That might take a while,” you warned. 

She snorted and picked up her nail file. “I think I can make time in my very busy schedule.”

Your interrogation with Yooyeon didn’t take a few hours, as you expected it would; rather, your discussion cut into the late hours of the night, keeping you and your roommate up until dawn. Jeonghan joined over FaceTime at some point and screeched loud enough for you to worry about noise complaints (Wonwoo made a guest appearance, too), but you also learned that your friend group had seen this coming from the beginning. You weren’t sure how you felt being the only one out of the loop, but Jeonghan made sure to point out that you were just completely oblivious.

You didn’t exactly discuss your next steps, though. Yooyeon mentioned asking Minghao out on a date, but you weren’t sure how to do that without acknowledging The Kiss™ first. You had to bring it up somehow, but you kept putting it off to work on editing. 

Thinking about Xu Minghao proved to be dangerous for your motivation. It had only been a week but you instinctively kept checking your phone to see if he texted you. (Spoiler: he didn’t.) It took all of your willpower, but you forced yourself to push him out of your head and focus on getting the documentary done. 

Editing was torturous. You practically spent all day and night glued to your laptop, whether it was in the dining hall or in your bed. For something that was only supposed to be ten minutes long, there were hours of footage for you to get through, some of which ended up being unusable, much to your frustration. 

Finally, though, after long days of tirelessly working, the finished project was in your hands. 

Of course, Minghao was the very first person you told. You were so giddy that you called him immediately, your heart soaring when he picked up on the second ring. In under an hour, you found yourself running to Café du Soleil to show him the documentary. 

Upon seeing Minghao’s bright face, before you could even get a hi out, he crushed you in his embrace. You breathed in the addicting scent of his cologne—gaiac wood and cedar. It was clear that neither of you wanted to pull away, but you took a step back first.

“Congratulations,” he praised, rubbing small circles on your upper arm with his thumb. “Do I get to watch it now?”

“If you have ten minutes to spare, we can watch it together,” you said, pulling out your laptop once you reached your usual table. “I wanted you to be the first person to see it.”

“I’m off my shift,” he replied, pulling up a chair right next to you, “so I’ve got time to kill.”

You handed him an AirPod to listen along with you. Sound was one of your favorite parts of creating a film—setting the atmosphere, building the tension, playing with senses and emotions—so you really wished you could give Minghao the full experience, but since you were in a public setting, this would have to do. 

The documentary opened with Minghao at his dance studio, sweat glistening on his toned muscles as his body moved to the beat. The demanding choreography coupled with his exhaustion didn’t stop him from showcasing an almost flawless performance. There was a brief exchange with his mentor before the scene cut to an interview with Minghao explaining how his passion for dance started and how he had grown into competing in national-level tournaments. 

You added a compilation of clips from Minghao’s previous performances, as well as accounts from his peers about how hardworking and motivated he was. His mentor gave a particularly heartwarming speech on how driven Minghao was as a dancer and how he put his all into everything he did. The part you were the proudest of had to be getting Jeonghan to give his two cents on being Minghao’s friend, and you were pleasantly surprised that he took it seriously and said something sweet.

“To me, success is about working hard despite my circumstances,” Minghao said. In his interview clip, he took on a more serious tone. “I don’t have to be the best dancer in the world as long as I’m doing what I’m passionate about. At some point, I think I lost myself for a while… but someone special pulled me out of that slump and pushed me to keep going. I can’t thank her enough, honestly.”

You knew it was coming because you put the clips together yourself, but your face still grew hot regardless. Minghao being right next to you wasn’t exactly helping your case or making you feel any less flustered. Perhaps most people watching your documentary wouldn’t realize who he was referring to, but you knew that he was talking about you. 

The film then got into Minghao’s financial struggles with the café, showing segments of his mother talking about Café du Soleil and how much the place meant to her family. You then showed the new part-timers being trained (with extra screen time for Seungcheol, as per Jeonghan’s suggestion—or, well, persuasion), and Seokmin even gushed about how much he looked up to Minghao in his own interview. 

The documentary ended with a few words from Minghao, switching back and forth between the dance studio and the café. The screen then faded to black with the bustling sounds of the café gradually fading out. 

It was only when your screen was dark enough to see your reflection that you realized there were tears in both yours and Minghao’s eyes. You already watched it about five times yourself, but something was different about watching it alongside the person you worked with for over a month to bring your ideas to life.

And, apparently, you two weren’t the only ones tearing up.

Minghao flinched when he turned his head to see the part-timers sitting at the table behind them and peering at the laptop screen. “Fuck, you guys scared me.”

“Sorry,” Seokmin apologized, hastily wiping at a stray tear. “It was just so beautiful.”

Chan gave you a nod of approval. “The only thing it needed was more screen time from me.”

“You literally ran away every time you were on camera,” you said, swiveling around to look at the two baristas. “Were you two just sitting behind us this whole time?” 

“Yes,” Seokmin confirmed. “We appreciated the subtitles.”

Truthfully, you were extremely satisfied with their reactions. Your short film, A Bite of Summer, bringing Minghao to tears was enough to rile you up for days, and now you had two other people who got emotional over a documentary you filmed and produced with your own two hands. 

“You really outdid yourself,” Minghao murmured, and when you turned to him, he was looking at you as if no one else was in the café except you. He reached his hand out to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

With a shy smile, you said, “It wouldn’t have come together without you.”

Through your periphery, you noticed Seokmin and Chan exchanging a look.

“Alright, they’re having a moment,” Seokmin announced, standing up and gesturing for Chan to follow him. “Let’s get back to work.”

Minghao, whose ears were a bright shade of red now, tried to awkwardly laugh off the embarrassment. There was a twinkle in his eyes when he looked back at you, and you burned up all over again once you remembered how his soft lips felt against yours. Unfortunately, one of the symptoms of having a crush on someone was that your mind often went blank and filled itself up with all things Xu Minghao instead, so you couldn’t exactly think straight right now. 

“I’ve finished the application and essay for the scholarship,” he said, “so I guess all there’s left to do is submit.”

“I’m sure no one else had an incredibly talented film major directing and producing their video,” you joked. 

“No, you’re right. If I don’t get the scholarship after this, I might take it personally.”

“Oh, please,” you muttered quietly, “you’re too nice.”

“I’m not that nice, Y/N.” To your surprise, Minghao’s eyes hardened. You had never seen such an expression on his face, and it made your stomach instantly sink to your feet, but he bounced right back to his cheery self soon after. “I’ll walk you home after we submit these?” 

“Y-yeah.”

Minghao pulled his own laptop out of his bag while you copied the link to your video in Dropbox. You pasted the link into an email, but your finger hovered over the send button for far too long. Once it went through, you were officially done with this project; it no longer tied you to Minghao. 

You sucked in a breath and sent him the link.

You could only stare at your Canvas submission page. The link to your documentary was already pasted in; all you had to do was hit submit, but you felt so anxious. Maybe you missed one of the guidelines, or maybe you needed to watch it again, but you knew deep down that you replayed it several times and it was as close to perfection as you wanted it to be. 

“Hao, I’m scared. Let’s submit ours at the same time.”

He chuckled. “You don’t have anything to be scared of, but yeah, let’s do that.”

It took another thirty minutes for Minghao to prepare himself, though. He read over his application and essay again, handing it over to you afterward for a second look at it. When Seungcheol eventually entered the café for his shift, Minghao had him take a look at it, too. 

Finally, you and Minghao were both ready with your submissions. You both had your cursors hovering over the submit button just before he slipped his free hand over yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

“Ready?” he asked.

With the heat of a thousand suns burning your cheeks, you nodded eagerly. 

You submitted your film.

It felt like a truckload of weight had been lifted off your shoulders, but the feeling of relief didn’t come without the slight unease. You looked over at Minghao, who had just submitted his and was being clapped on the back by Seungcheol, and you felt weird. You felt so incredibly proud of yourself, but another part of you couldn’t accept that it was over now. 

“Hey,” Minghao said softly, grinning when your eyes met his. “We really did it.” 

You sort of melted under his gaze, the corners of your mouth hitching up into a lovesick smile. “Yeah, we did.”

With that, his hand slipped out of yours to tell his mother about finishing the scholarship application, and you felt cold again. 

Minghao offered to walk you home, but you could hardly hold a proper conversation with him; your head was a mess.

Maybe it was wrong for you to feel this way after your week of radio silence, but something about this felt so final. You were scared that once you reached your apartment, you would go back to the life you had before you reconnected with Minghao. As much as you told yourself that you were just overthinking, there was a nagging fear in the back of your head. Maybe it was from the high of submitting your project, but you felt a rush of adrenaline course through you.

You wanted to hold onto Minghao one more time and tell him how you felt. 

It had been on your mind ever since you had your revelation yesterday, and sitting next to him in the café and pretending like you weren’t mad for him was nearly impossible. As you two trudged down the cobblestone street, your hands balled into the pockets of your coat, you realized that something along the lines of a confession was ready to burst through your lips. Minghao kept droning on about a holiday-exclusive drink that was coming to the café, but you couldn’t even listen to him properly without your brain screaming at you to tell him how you felt. 

It was when he brought the conversation back to your documentary that you found the perfect opportunity to bring up the secret video he filmed. 

“We must’ve filmed hours of content,” he was saying, throwing his head back and groaning at the mere thought. “I can’t believe you watched all of it—wait, did you watch all of it?”

“I did watch everything, Hao,” you said quietly.

“Hm? What was that?”

“I knew that the injeolmi toast was supposed to be heated up,” you blurted out. Minghao froze in his tracks and stared at you, wide-eyed, and normally this would’ve made you shy away immediately, but you wanted to be braver. You stopped walking too, and you raised your head to meet his eyes. “I thought you forgot to warm it up by accident, so I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

At your sudden admission, Minghao was speechless, even more so when you continued in a breathless ramble, “And I want you to know that the only reason I chose this subject for my documentary was because of you; and I missed you all of last week because all I could think about was how you kissed me; and I really fucking hate summer, Hao, but you made me fall in love with the sun.”

“And… and I like you,” you confessed. “I liked you back in middle school, and I like you again now.”

Minghao’s jaw went slack as he searched your eyes, as if looking for a lie in your words, as if he could hardly believe that what you were telling him was real.

“Are you serious?” he asked quietly, almost scared that you would say no. He walked closer to you. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!” Your courage threatened to falter, but you kept his gaze even as he reached out to hold your face with gentle hands. “I’ve never been this honest in my life.” 

With a shuddering breath, he said, “You’re telling the truth.”

“Yeah, I—”

“Do you even know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment?” Although Minghao spoke in a murmur, your words died on your tongue the moment he started talking, especially after his eyes dropped to your lips.

You could only blink back at him in stunned silence.

“You were my first love, too,” he confessed.

His words struck you right in your chest. The winter bite no longer chilled you to the bone; if anything, a wildfire was ripping through your body. For a split second, you wondered if you were actually on fire, so you remained perfectly, unmovingly still until you realized that Minghao was waiting for you to answer.

You swallowed hard. “I was? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I guess I was scared it would ruin our friendship… but I didn’t do a very good job of salvaging it, anyway.” You could see the regret painted on his face, but then he steeled his nerves. “I don’t care if I don’t win the scholarship, Y/N—I mean, I sort of care—but no matter what happens, I’m happy just being with you.”

Your heart beamed.

Even days ago, the mention of your past with Minghao would’ve been a sore spot for you. Now, however, you didn’t want it to keep weighing you down like an anchor buried deep within the sand. Maybe you were both just stupid kids who didn’t know what to do with their feelings.

But all of that hardly mattered now that your souls found each other again. You weren’t ever someone who was big on the idea of destiny, but if there were stars out there that predetermined fate, they must have been shining for you and Minghao.

This time, you initiated. It was almost effortless how your arms found themselves circling around Minghao’s neck, drawing him closer to you. His eyes looked as if they were still in a dream, but after a few seconds, his gentle hands found your waist. 

“I’m happy as long as I’m with you, too,” you said, your voice only loud enough for him to hear. 

Minghao let out a breathless sort of laugh, almost like he was still in disbelief, and you smiled before pressing your lips to his. Compared to your first kiss, which was charged with lust and intoxication, this one was so loving and calm that you lost yourself in him so easily. He smiled into the kiss, and you couldn’t help yourself either once you felt his lips curve up against yours.

His hand found your chin, pulling away for a brief moment to take a good look at you. Let the high of your reciprocated feelings sink in. Your eyes flitted from Minghao’s lips to his twinkling eyes, your heart doing a series of backflips and spins when you saw his lips curl into a smirk.

“Yeah,” he said in a low voice, “I think I can get used to this.”

And when his lips found yours again, you were sure your souls touched, too. 

(“So, are you gonna tell me if I’m objectively good-looking now?” 

“Let it go, Hao.”)

EPILOGUE

Vernon scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know if I was tripping out, but I swear they just had us watch Kim Mingyu doing tricks on a skateboard for ten minutes straight.”

“I think that was an actual film.” Seungcheol looked through the pamphlet of student films that were being screened and read, “Kim Mingyu Does a Kickflip—yeah, that’s the one.”

“Whose bright idea was it to make us take Jun’s edibles?” Jeonghan, who was fitted in a formal suit and tie, complained as he slouched deeper in his seat. His eyes were a few shades too close to red to pass as sober, but he was at least able to function on his own. “This shit has to be laced with something.”

“This is your fault, dude,” Seungkwan replied, exasperated. He didn’t seem as faded as Jeonghan was, but he looked more like he had just woken up. “You told us this would be more fun if we got high!”

“Okay, and who listened to me?” He sat up to catch Seungkwan, Vernon, and Wonwoo’s guilty heads hanging shamefully. “Exactly.”

Yooyeon shot you a withering look. “They're stressing me out.”

It was the night of your film’s showcase. After you passed the class with flying colors, your professor recommended your documentary be screened during the showcase for all the film majors in your year. It was an annual event, but only a certain number of films were selected from the students. In short, this was big for you. You invited your friends, of course, although you were starting to regret it now that you had to put Seungcheol and Junhui in charge of babysitting them. 

“Jeonghan, you really didn’t have to dress up like that,” you said once you noticed the contrast between his formal attire and Seungkwan’s sweater and jeans ensemble. “This isn’t even a formal event.”

Jeonghan leaned over Seungcheol to tell you, “This is important to me, okay?”

“Aw, Jeong—”

“I have to be the hottest one here.”

Alright, then. 

“Jeonghan, remember what we’re actually here for,” Junhui prompted, motioning to the front of the theater. 

You put a hand over your chest, touched. “Jun, you’re too sweet, I—”

“To see Minghao’s gorgeous face on the big screen,” he finished.

You decided you were going to let them finish their sentences from now on. 

Minghao, who was sitting next to you and gripping your hand, raised your hands to press a kiss to each one of your knuckles. He saved his public displays of affection for rare occasions, such as your grand showcase.

You two had been dating for the past five months at this point. It wasn’t much of a surprise to any of your friends, but what did change was that Minghao spent a lot more time with your friend group now. (Sometimes you worried if they liked him more than you, but you weren’t one to vie for attention.) It was also safe to say that you two weren’t exactly out of the honeymoon phase yet. Your heart still fluttered whenever he did anything particularly sweet, and Minghao still went bright red whenever you were feeling a little bolder. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice tickling your skin. “You said your professor recommended submitting it to a film festival, right?”

“Mhm.” You grinned and used the hand he wasn’t holding to pinch his cheek lightly. “Your face could be seen by thousands.”

He laughed. “It’s really all about you, not—” Minghao paused when his phone buzzed from inside his pocket. You two exchanged a nervous look before he fumbled to pull it out. “I think it’s them.”

A week ago, the announcement of the scholarship recipient was supposed to be sent out. However, there was a complication that led to them postponing the results until today. You and Minghao had been on edge all week, but having to think about the outcome on the same day as your film showcase was nerve-wracking.

“It is them.” Minghao bit his lip when he saw the sender in his notifications. He looked over at you and squeezed your hand tighter. “I’m gonna open it now.”

With suspended breath, you tried to gauge his reaction as he opened the email. (It wasn’t very hard to read Xu Minghao’s expression when he wore his heart on his sleeve.) He took so long that you thought he was reading over each word twice, but then you watched as his expression morphed into one of pure astonishment.

“What is it?” you asked. “What does it say?”

“I…” He swallowed thickly. “I got it.” He turned to you again, mouth twitching into a grin. “I actually got it!”

Your life had been going so smoothly recently that the scholarship results had been plaguing your thoughts for the past few weeks. You didn’t have to worry about your project anymore, so saving the café and getting Minghao his chance to compete had been weighing heavily on your mind. 

Now, though, upon hearing those words and seeing his eyes light up, you felt like you were glowing yourself. They selected Minghao, and they watched your film. Your work was going to save his mom’s café. It was going to let him keep chasing his dreams. 

You let out a yelp so loud that dozens of heads turned in your direction, but you didn’t mind any of them as soon as you reached over your armrest to tackle Minghao into a hug. He wrapped his arms around you tightly and pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“I knew they’d pick you,” you told him. “There’s no one else who deserves it more.”

“It’s seriously all because of you,” he said. When you pulled apart, Minghao looked absolutely winded from being so overjoyed. “I have to tell my mom as soon as we get home. She’s gonna be so happy that we get to keep the café running.”

Jeonghan, who was brazenly eavesdropping, patted Seungcheol firmly on the chest. “Hear that? You just got saved from unemployment.” He reached over Seungcheol (again) to dap up Minghao. 

You felt someone tap your shoulder from behind, and you craned your neck around to see your professor gesturing for you to go up on stage. That was your cue to introduce your film, and you gulped down the bundle of nerves that rose up your throat. 

Yooyeon squeezed your shoulder as you were getting up. Shakily, you straightened up, smiling weakly when your friends started cheering obnoxiously loud for you. Minghao caught your wrist before you walked to the front and gave you a reassuring squeeze that managed to calm your jittery hands.

You recognized a lot of your friends from your classes, so it wasn’t as scary as you thought it would be, but you were hopeful that the unfamiliar faces would be cheering for you by the time they saw your documentary. 

“We know her!” Jeonghan and Seungkwan were screaming from the top, pointing you out to every stranger in their vicinity. “That’s our friend!”

At the right wing of the stage, you were handed a mic and instructed to walk out to the center. You had never been in front of a crowd this huge, but seeing your friends in the seats melted away whatever fears were holding you back. 

“Thank you everyone for coming out today,” you spoke into the mic, smiling when it resounded throughout the grand auditorium. “My name’s Y/N, and I’m so excited to share my documentary: The Xu Minghao Dilemma.”

TAG LIST ▸ if you made it all the way here, thank you so much for reading!!! i hope you enjoyed xu minghao's dilemma 💗 first and foremost, this was written for @junyangis so shoutout my film major inspo. i tried to emulate the film student experience to the best of my ability so i hope it delivers 🙏 also you might notice the banner has jeonghan as the writer which sort of sounds misleading but it's because he was the one orchestrating everything between mc and minghao, so i thought it was fitting :') first fic of 2025, yay!! i hope to share more of my works with you this year & sending my love to everyone reading this right now ♡ thank you to everyone who asked to be part of the tag list as well !! 🫂

The racing engineer beside you, hunched over in bulky black headphones, peered at the screen before wrenching the headset off his ears. “I mean…it’s fine in the end, isn’t it?” he asked, searching for any essence of reassurance in your gaze. He would find none today.

It did not take long for the cause of your concern to be upon your screens again, chaos surrounding him in waves of red, the colour of Italian pride and joy as they celebrated a win for the man who beat the reigning champion. 

The Ferrari racer did not bother to take off his helmet as he pounced on his teammates behind the scenes, held on by hopeful arms, the screams of the tifosi striking through the loser’s helmet, radiating in his ears till they rang like a warning. 

The cameras focused on the still figure of such a man, processing the loss of first place, slipped away by half of a second. Any other driver, and the people would demand the helmet be taken off, see the loss painted on his face. No one dared ask him.

Only waited in anticipation for what would escape the certain-scowling mouth once the world caught a glimpse of him.

They managed only when he walked slowly over to the press, where the journalists nearly snapped their necks to take a glance at his stalking presence. BBC Sports were the first to brave an interview post-race. Dozens of protruding cameras instantly focused on the man as he brought his gloved hands to his decorated helmet. The blood-red sheen of Red Bull glistened in the Melbourne sun as the helmet was taken off. The white balaclava covered his features still, but there was no mistaking what curdled in the champion’s eyes. 

“Congratulations on another podium, Seungcheol,” the journalist began, and you could see it on your screen—the restrained twitch of the said-man’s eyelids—no doubt suppressing an eyeroll. “Though, judging by your…well, you don’t seem too happy.” 

Indeed. Seungcheol took a moment staring him down, eyes raking over his face, the mic, before peeling off his balaclava—instantly the raven locks hidden away bounced erratically around his frame, matted with sweat. “Yeah, well…the strategy let me down today.”

The racing engineer whirled his head to you, watching the same stream. He caught the sparks slowly catching fire from the words escaped on live television. “He’s saying that ‘cause he knows you’re watching,” he hurriedly offered. He was not sure he believed it.

You definitely did not. “Blaming it on the team, Jeonghan,” you muttered, feeling your temple crease from excess furrowing. Screwing up on the track is a mistake—pointing fingers is a flaw. 

“And why is that?” the reporter asked, taking the bait. It made you seethe to hear it. “What specific part of strategy did you not agree with?”

“You saw the ill-timed pit stop. I was ready to squeeze out five more laps with the mediums, but insisting on a second pit stop in the middle was ridiculous.” His voice rasped more through the stream—exhausted from the race. “And then having the Ferrari undercut me because of this…in your words, I’m not too happy.” 

He then threw the BBC reporter a smile which felt more like an irritated grimace. It had the driver’s engineer grimacing beside you. “Last time he did that was Bahrain.” 

Not even a month ago. “Let him have his public tantrum,” you declared, sitting up from your chair, Jeonghan following your sudden movement. “I’ll see how he runs his mouth in front of me.” 

“Here we go,” the man murmured, shaking his head as you left the pit wall. You would have let a curse slip at him, too, but now was not the time for inner-team tensions. The star-driver had already fanned the flames for such an event. 

You stalked through the newbuild, bright-lit halls of the Red Bull garage, mechanics running back and forth, interns following closely behind as a couple cameramen flanked and recorded each speech. The red, yellow and navy-flanked compound never rested, a vessel of labour and power as dozens upon dozens of individuals enslaved themselves to the team’s victory. Nodding to each acquaintance who said your name in anticipation, a scent of slight fear marinated over the garage. Shit. This meant the comments had travelled. 

And if the comments had travelled, that means the man who expelled them was nearby too. 

You did not let yourself focus on that outcome. Your only objective was seeking out Jihoon—who, due to Seungcheol’s little outburst, was hiding out from the press in the depths of the paddock. The publicists surrounding him were muttering frantically within earshot, and the moment they caught sight of you thundering towards them they immediately stopped, finding solace in your shared anger. 

Jihoon turned towards you, and he was already raising his hand before you could speak. “I know, I know,” he said, jerking his head towards the exit, a cue for the publicists. “You both go. We’ll handle it.” 

“We’ll handle it,” you parroted, watching them leave, the two clearly relieved. “How many times do we need to fix his mess?” 

The man crossed his arms, muscles tensing underneath his navy polo t-shirt, all the Red Bull sponsors on clear display. “In fairness, he’s less mouthy than last season. The only questions I got hit with today were over his refusal to pit-stop at the agreed lap.” 

That goddamned pit stop. Thirty-five laps in was the agreed protocol for. Seungcheol even agreed to it, albeit begrudgingly, but he was flying across the track on the thirty-fourth lap, and he barely heard the DRS activation call before he overtook the slower Ferrari, mocking a salute to Wonwoo before setting his sights on the real opponent. 

You had witnessed it all so clearly. The order from Jeonghan to box, but Seungcheol was 1.3 seconds away from Mingyu, a fastest lap time away from gaining top of the pedestal. His racing engineer warned him to take care of the tyres—no need to go batshit on the softs—but he saw the metal flesh of the Ferrari’s rear-wing, almost close enough to taste, and he could not help himself. 

“Maybe if he boxed when we agreed on initially, then he wouldn’t be bitching over second,” you guttered, watching the screens as Seungcheol entered the Red Bull garage. Yes, he should not be bitching, because he drove into the pit-lane five laps too late, soft tyres fraying, and the new mediums gave up in the hunt for first-place. 

Because he did not listen to you, he lost seven more points than was intended. Not just him—the whole team. 

Your souring expression only had Jihoon patting your shoulder. “Box that frown, _____. You need to greet the rookie.”

Releasing your last sighs, you shot the team principal and CEO a parting glare. “If he’s there, Jihoon, just know I’m not staying quiet.” 

“I didn’t think you could, anyway,” he called out, which you chose to let slide; you could not also butt heads with one of the most important men in the garage. 

Down some different hallways you walked through, taking the narrow stairs which brought you to the first level of the Red Bull facility. More interns ushered past, waving in greeting to you, you smiling in return, but any menial mirth upon your face slowly faded with every step closer to the door at the end of your journey. He was supposed to be there—the door slightly ajar, you thought him already present, bracing yourself for the booming snarl that would rock the room on its stilts. No doubt he was bothering the junior publicists responsible to follow his every move post-race. 

And now he will set his sights on you. Sucking in an irritated breath, you reached your hand out, pushing the door. The lights were almost blinding, accentuating the late afternoon sunlight as you took in the multiple tables and chairs, a whiteboard in the far end of the room with incomprehensible scribbles staining the surface. As you predicted, the publicists you had seen beforehand instantly shot up from their seats. 

The infamous champion, however, was not there—another man, much younger, sat in between the team members. Donning the Red Bull gear, even the outer layer of the suit zipped to the neck, his dark blond locks now raked dry. His sun-kissed face turned to you, and he, too, raised from his seat, looking around to the publicists in some form of approval. 

The image—and the absence of a particular sight—had you instantly raising your spirits. “Please, don’t be silly, sit, sit!” you immediately began, walking over to the table. “Look at you, Jay, first race of the season!” 

The said-rookie smiled sheepishly, turning to sip water from the long straw of his bottle. “It’s not like I scored any points,” he said, glancing at the sheets spread out before him. 

“Eleventh is not as bad as you think for a maiden race,” you assured him. You did not need to mention the previous second driver, Sohn Youngjae, DNFing in the first two races—you also did not need to mention whether those fumbles were his fault, or the new car. “Point is, it’s the third race. You’ll get in the top ten in no time.” 

Jay wanted to thank you. He could not, however, when a certain deep, booming voice grated in your ears.

“Already preparing the replacement for the chopping block?” 

It was involuntary, how your features twisted into a natural scowl. As if your body recognised the source of all agitation nearby, and prepared you for two outcomes—an attack, or defense. This time, the former would prove more useful. 

Taking every ounce of your strength to do it, you slowly turned your head. Your eyes pouncing on Choi Seungcheol had the rage igniting your exhaustion.

An air of irritated arrogance misted from his suited-frame, the uniform stripped to the waist, revealing the white, full-sleeved, sponsor decorated vest. His raven curls were less sweated, finger-brushed by his restless hands, though that had disappeared as he leaned against the doorframe, observing the scene before him.

A retort was slipping out of you before you knew yourself. “No, since you screwed us on and off the track!”

He was expecting this. “I won’t be held responsible for the terrible strategy,” he said as he approached. He then mocked a ponder, and you could not help your eye-roll. “Since, let me think…you, as Strategy Engineer, created said-terrible strategy.” 

“Principal Strategy Engineer, thank you. I know what my role is,” you jeered, squinting your eyes at him, “about time you learned yours too.” 

“Oh, I know,” he said, and his glare meant to strike true. “It’s why I’m still on the podium despite you trying to sabotage me.”

Even Jay turned his head to you at that. Your humourless laugh had Seungcheol frowning. “You thinking that confirms my suspicions,” you chortled out, “that helmet truly isn’t protecting anything inside.” 

The rookie could only watch, fearful eyes darting between his two superiors as they knifed each other down. “I’m not apologising for the interview,” the champion declared, leaning to where you sat. “Her Majesty wants Podium Pie but loses her appetite when I offer it to her.” 

You scoffed.“You’ll have a right to complain when you give us a win this season.” 

His jaw tightened—a stinging remark. “I’ll give you a win when you stop fucking with my races. I haven’t forgotten Bahrain.” 

When the second driver began to fidget in his seat, he realised another person remained in the room. That fact, too, seemed to irritate the podium sitter. “And stop wasting your time coddling rookies,” he added, rising straighter as he stood, throwing a glance at Jay. “Focus on the driver that’s actually giving this team some points.”

Before you could bark back at him, he already turned his back to you—any form of conversation with him now unwelcome. “You know who you can send any feedback for me to.” 

“Don’t bother pretending you’re gonna learn from it,” you sniped—an opportunity taken. 

He looked over his shoulder. “So you do focus on me, then?” A ghost of a smirk plastered on his cherry lips. “Good to know you do the bare minimum in your job.” 

Bastard. “How about you follow my example then and do some bloody work yourself?” You pointed towards the door. “Stop wasting my time.” 

“Thought I’d return the favour,” he merely said, hands lazing on his hips. “Since you waste so much of mine on the track.” 

“Oh my God, just piss off!” you demanded, and the rookie almost flinched at the shrill change of your tone. 

The champion merely laughed, a heartless little chuckle which had steam churning out of your ears. “Don’t go complaining to Jihoon about my meeting absences, then,” he called as he began to leave, “I know how you don’t like to fight your own battles.” 

You were going to prove him wrong when you grabbed a Sharpie from the table, hand raised to throw it at his face. With a driver’s agility he swerved out of the room, his self-satisfied humming ringing in your ears. 

Jay watched you set down the marker rather harshly, taking a quick peek at the doorway once more. “I knew Seungcheol had problems with people on track, but…” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” you sighed out, rubbing your temples. “Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t mean for you to see that.” 

“It’s fine, really.” His hand travelled to the back of his neck, scratching a little awkwardly. “In all honesty, it’s not the first time I’ve seen you both…um…” 

Your mind unintentionally wandered to all the possible moments your rookie would have witnessed—the notion that he had multiple opportunities was enough for a breath to huff from your lips. “I’m sorry,” you said, although it only held half its intended worth. “Enough about him, though. How are you feeling? Especially with the car?”

The boy paused, head hesitantly curving to different directions before quickly leaning forward, elbows propped on the table. “Well, it’s great…obviously,” he began, a calming assurance before the stormy confession. “I can feel it being faster than the RB one, but the sensitivity—” he raised his hands, fingers curling around an imaginary wheel, steering an imitation of his Melbourne drive. “It feels like I could be a tenth off a turn and crash immediately.” 

Of course—the same problem predicted champion Sohn Youngjae experienced in last year’s car, the exact predicament that landed every junior Red Bull rookie stumbling behind Seungcheol in two-digit places. Everyone on the paddock sensed the issue. The question as to whether anyone was to highlight the issue was, itself, an entire issue. 

“I’ve spoken about that,” you said to him, though he merely lifted his shoulders in an impassive shrug. “You don’t need to worry about it. You leave it to me.”

He snuck a glance to the door—a shadow of who thundered in and out somehow still lingering. “Seems like a lot of people are leaving it to you. I heard the papers saying it was less Red Bull, more _____  and Co. Formula One team.”

That brought a soft bout of laughter from you. “The first time the news is appealing to me,” you remarked, playing with the pen clicker. “But they’re still wrong. Red Bull isn’t what it is without its entire team…and that includes you now.” You then pointed the end of the pen towards the rookie. “Work hard, Jay, and you’ll make the podiums by the summer.”

Nodding enthusiastically, he raised his hand towards you—a personified olive branch. “Thank you,” he said in earnest. “I won’t let you down.”

You scoffed, though not maliciously. Taking his hand, you shook it promptly. “Seungcheol may not be counting on you, but I am. The whole team is.”

As the expectations settled upon him, his face morphing into a myriad of awe and pressure, you observed his will, mind wandering over his words. ______ and Co. You restrained a pride-stained smirk—if that was the impression Red Bull had left, then the publicists here needed to work overtime. Still, you could not help your ego, usually so bruised by recent results, slowly swelling from Jay’s comments. You did have many colleagues relying on you, whether they wished to admit it or not. 

But it did not matter to you, because you all worked for one objective: winning the Constructor’s Championships, thus making Red Bull the dominating field in Formula One as it was before. Whether certain colleagues will allow you to complete your objective is another matter entirely.

So, as you finally let go of the rookie’s hand, you hoped that either the reigning champion learned to behave, or Jay knew how to drive. 

THE RED BULL TEAM, IN COLLECTIVE MEASURE, SIGHED IN RELIEF AT THE SUZUKA CIRCUIT. 

Everyone, as per usual, had their calculating, uncertain gazes plastered on the superior driver as he swerved from each sharp turn to razor-cut corners, grunting acknowledgments to his messenger at every update. The harder the track, the greater the win—nothing easy was ever rewarding, and Seungcheol craved the sweet consequences of overcoming a challenge.

The car pushed against him as he curled into the infamous Esses, turns three and four in the middle of the race. The staggering g-force threatened to stutter his lightning pace, but Seungcheol was a bullet, blasting from the cannons of Honda’s engine. Power thrummed from his veins, attached to the Red Bull vehicle, and though there were splutters of near-loss of precisions in turn eight, it did not cost him. Even with one specific strategy ignored, he gained into podium position, and by lap 40 had overtaken the aspiring McLaren, vengeful papayas in his wake to whom he merely chortled at.

It was no shock to anyone, then, when the chequered flag waved over his car first. 

The garage whirled to life in a cheer, everyone around you already out of their chairs and swarming to the open paddock, where the stops were set up to position each driver as they slowed. The navy, red and yellows of your team proudly stuck like a primary-coloured beacon—first before anyone else. 

You, however, strayed your vision from the winner. On the screens splayed before your now emptying desk, you observed the secondary driver surpass the Aston Martin. The battle sparked within the Casio Triangle of curves, the last difficult section in the circuit. No one expected, perhaps even cared, to see Jay surpass Alonso’s defense, but the boy swerved inside turn 18, snagging sixth place from the senior champion. 

You did not understand the stillness of your body until that boy, too, earned his black and white flag. Felt the rush of relief thrum through you, realisation striking clear in your mind. 

Park Jay had brought the car in the points. 

The post-race interviews blurred through your conscience, time eating away the evening until you saw the podium celebrations. Seungcheol pedestalled the tallest, his champagne spray all the more glorious as it attacked Mingyu on third and Piastri in second. Still, with everyone’s eyes on the winners, you only looked at the boy walking into the garage, getting cheers from the mechanics. 

You were at the scene as the most important crew scrambled to assemble for the next meeting. “Jay!” you exclaimed at the slight-sweated racer, who immediately smiled at your approach. “Fourth race and you’ve given us solid points.” 

He was waving off your words, though the smile on his face was smug. “Alonso was giving me a hard time,” he admitted, weaving through the hallways with you. Mechanics had already brought the cars in, stripping the winning vehicle to analyse minor damages, any possible elements for change. 

“And yet it wasn’t hard enough,” you countered, taking out a special pass and hovering it over the security reader. With a successful beep! you opened the door, and most of the team presented themselves before you, cheering emulating once they saw the driver beside you. 

Jihoon, at the head of the long, white table, ushered over the newcomers, a lazy grin hanging over his mouth. “Good job, kid,” he praised, Jay dipping his head to hide what you were certain was a growing blush. “Already doing better than your predecessors.” 

“Any more of this and he’ll turn redder than our bull,” you teased, which only made it worse for the boy. Chuckling, the team principal waved a finger over the empty seats, the driver sitting next to his racing engineer. 

You wanted to set yourself down next to Jihoon, but he shook his head, pointing to the seat beside Jeonghan. “Seungcheol’s there…you don’t wanna sit on his champagne.” 

Sure enough, the chair was drenched with prosecco—stains of his wins. “Couldn’t he have cleaned himself up a little?” you remarked. “Leaving his mess without a second thought.” 

“Let him off this time,” Jeonghan said, crossing his arms as he watched you approach the free seat. “He’s given you the win.” 

“He hasn’t given me anything,” you mumbled, settling yourself, hearing the door slide open. “He races for himself…not like he listens to that damned radio either.” 

Just as you finished your sentence, you saw Jeonghan send you a warning glare—you understood why when you found the very man you spoke of close the door behind him, his eyes rooted to you and the criticisms fresh off your lips. Jihoon glanced between you two, waving him over. “We were wondering where you went,” he said, waving him over to his seat. 

“I was gonna come earlier,” he began, still watching you as he made his way over to his champagned chair, “but I kept being stopped by well-wishers. Everybody’s just so happy for me.” 

“You deserve it today, buddy,” Jihoon agreed, holding out his hand as Seungcheol sat down, then patting him on the back. “We need these wins to fend off the McLarens. Both Chan and Piastri have championship potential.”  

“We, however, already have a champion in the midst,” Jeonghan declared, thumb rocking over to said-man’s direction, earning a smug smile from him. 

Your sigh managed to hide most of your disdain from the team, everyone about to move on. Only one caught onto it. “Isn’t that right, _____?” Seungcheol asked, a little too loudly, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on you, all plastered with confusion. 

“That was last year,” you said, picking at the seam of your trouser. “You’re not leading the tables, so you’re not a champion as of now.” 

His smile sharpened. “You’re the only person who thinks that.” 

“Doesn’t make my thinking wrong, though.” 

“Your thinking is wrong,” he immediately rebuked, crossing his arms, “which isn’t surprising, since it never really is right.” 

His tone had your mouth snapping open. “Is this why you don’t bother listening to team strategy?” You matched his stature. “Think your opinion is so important it trumps a dozen people’s ideas?” 

“We all know who’s leading the game plan,” he maintained, so matter-of-factly that you could not help yourself. Instantly your head threatened to burst from its body, so much agitation boiling within you it took Jeonghan holding onto your arm in due time to stop yourself from hurling at him. 

Still, you snarled, “Oh, so you’re deliberately ignoring my plans?” 

A dismissing look. “I never said that now, did I?” 

A cutting glance right back. “You’re implying it.” 

He said nothing to that, eyes lidded with snide boredom. You burned with the agitation he lacked—always a game to him, these interactions. You could tell with his leaning back in the dampened, swivelling chair, the corner of his lips, barely tugging upwards…the very image of nonchalance. 

The team principal instantly jerked his head to his computer screen, clearing his throat. “Anyway…” he trailed off, fixing himself in his seat. “Results. Obviously, Cheol gained first after losing out on pole. How did you feel about the degradation during the middle laps, since you had to pit stop earlier than planned?” 

“It was getting bad, to be honest, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” was the answer, the driver bringing out the tab to the Suzuka circuit telemetry. “Piastri pitting first over Chan was definitely a mistake on the McLarens’ part.” 

You observed each driver’s positions through each lap on the data sheet, watching Seungcheol’s gain in positions from the papaya drivers through the ill-timed pit stops. “The mediums could have lasted longer, though,” you pointed out, pointing your pen at the downward graph on his drive line. “Jeonghan warned you about traction.” 

“I was a little busy getting Hamilton off my ass on 20th,” he countered, raising a brow, “Wonwoo was about to leave the pit lane too at that time.” 

“Hamilton had a failing gearbox straight after,” you argued, turning around the paper, “and your tyres were about to fly off their tethers.” 

His finger pointed at a certain place on your paper. “I managed fine, didn’t I?” 

You knew where he pointed—his first place position. “It’s not about where you ended up,” you insisted, setting the graph down, “it’s about following orders. What would have happened if your tyres did fall apart?” 

“They didn’t, so why are you still talking about it?” 

“Because I have to think about the consequences should things go wrong,” you fumed out, ignoring Jeonghan’s careful gaze. In the corner of your eye, you could sense Jay nearby, his own confused, concerned state doing nothing to satiate your anger. “You don’t think about the risks, which is why I’m the one constantly worrying about the state of our cars, and whether it’ll give us wins.” 

“I’ve given you a win, haven’t I?!” Seungcheol suddenly lashed out, and you furrowed your brows. “Why are you still complaining?” He then looked around the room, glancing at every single unnerved face. “Should we not be celebrating my win today?” 

When the murmurs erupted, majority agreeing with his stance, you scowled, unable to contain your heavy sigh. The racing engineer beside you shrugged his shoulders, he too joining the wave. 

“He has had a comeback, in fairness,” Jihoon agreed, and that was that. Once again, the champion reigned over the room, undecided winner on the track and within this boardroom. 

It was not the first time this had happened—nor, did you imagine, would it be the last. 

As always, you were expected to play along. “Of course,” you faltered, deflated. You did not blame the CEO for wanting to drop the subject, but you could not help it, the irritation lingering. 

This stinging, however, would soon fade when he piped up in a more positive note. “Mr. Jay Park!” he declared, focusing on the young rookie, who instantly exuded a little surprise. “Now in the points!” 

The boy smiled, fixing his dampened locks. “The car was amazing today,” he began, efforting to look at everyone’s faces, filled with mirth—save for one, of course. “Yeah, the mechanics…they’ve worked really hard.” 

His answer had you smiling. “You can praise yourself too, you know,” you said, glancing at the rise in position at the end of the jutting curve, the difficult 17th turn which solidified the rookie’s position. “You overtook a two-time world champion.” 

“He definitely reminded me in the last three laps.” He raked a hand through his hair, thinking back on the race. “If that Aston was any faster, he would have spun me off the road.” 

“You kept your cool, Jay, especially with a driver of that aggression.” You reached your hand out, whole-heartedly patting his shoulder. “You should give yourself more credit.” 

His smile widened at you. “Thank you, _____.” He then glanced at Jihoon, a little more breadth in his chest. “Yeah, I’m…very proud of this result.” 

“You should be,” was the man’s answer, sending him a slight smirk before focusing back on his computer screen. “Let’s say a drink after I’m done doing some paperwork? We should celebrate Cheol and Jay’s points.” 

“I know a nice place nearby,” you chimed in, pulling out your phone and checking its location. “I hope everyone’s free, since today’ll mark a shift in Red Bull.” Slotting the device back in your pocket, you clapped your hands together, taking in the positive ambience of the room, which finally began to emerge. “Here’s to both cars in the points and a chance for the Constructor’s!” 

A round of cheers travelled round the group, one remaining silent as he became the first to stand. As he muttered a few words to his engineer, he excused himself, mocking a farewell salute to Jihoon before departing the room. The others began to disperse too, no doubt hoping to find more celebratory champagne. 

As you got up, Jay reflecting your actions, you were about to speak to Jihoon for the China plans when the former got to you first. “Hey, um,” he started, watching the rest of the team slowly leave the room, “I just wanted to thank you—again, actually,” he added right after, sheepishly chuckling, “for being so…you know.” 

When you ticked your head, scrunching your brows, he made himself more specific. “I was a little scared about Suzuka, especially since there was so much pressure.” He nodded, locking in the answer. “I know Red Bull’s ‘unlucky second driver’ rumour.” 

You clamped your lips together, suppressing an aww. “I mean, there is pressure. You’re in the top three teams right now,” you pointed out, “but you’re gonna prove that rumour wrong.”  

“This is what I mean,” he said, holding onto your words. “You’ve been really nice about today, and I appreciate it a lot.” 

“Well, of course!” You waved a hand at him. “Part of my job is to make sure the drivers are confident in the plans we’ve created.” 

“Anyway…” He scratched the back of his head. “Even if people may think you’re wasting your time, coddling me or whatnot, I still wanted to thank you for being nice to me.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek. Stop wasting your time coddling rookies…focus on the driver that’s actually giving this team some points. So that was the reason behind Jay’s sincerity. 

Oh, you were going to kill Seungcheol.

“Of course…” you trailed off, sending him an uncertain smile which he blissfully returned with his own sincere grin, letting you know he will attend the rooftop bar as he exited the room. 

As you made your way out of the meeting room, you then thundered to where you predicted the senior driver would be residing, in a further, grander part of the Team Hub. You were certain Red Bull spent at least a third of its budget on this man’s amenities—truly, if you were to take control of the capital, maybe the second car would be capable of podiums too. 

Up the stairs you went, the bottom half of the walls bathed in navy, the top reflecting a stainless-steel silver all around you. The reds and yellows never escaped you either, labels on the door indicating your way around, each engineer or mechanic’s room printed out. You reached a grand set of double doors, murmuring barely heard from behind the painted frame.

You knocked—you should have waited before entering, but the knock was sufficient warning. The man did not deserve a choice for rejecting whoever entered his room.

You deserved it, though, because once you walked inside, the sight of half-naked Seungcheol nearly rocked you to your core. 

Upon a massage table he lay on his stomach, chin resting on his hands as his physiotherapist worked on the upper parts of his back, towards the muscles that connected to his neck. A white sheet stopped your sight from straying any further, and instantly you trailed back to his face, which now craned upward to shoot an irritated glance towards you. 

Because the image stunned you still, he took the opportunity of your silence to retort, “Aren’t you familiar with the concept of privacy?” 

His quip instantly snapped you out of your momentary daze. The only thing you could demand from him was, “Why’re you wasting your time on a massage?” 

A whoosh of breath escaped him, more exaggerated to incite your vexation. “You might as well stop now, Soon,” he exasperated to his attendee, “No one’s gonna be allowed to relax anymore.” 

“As if you stop bumming about when I tell you not to,” you cut right back, nodding in greeting to Seungcheol’s personal physio. “Soonyoung, next time just keep squeezing the tension in his neck till it snaps.” 

The man’s mouth could have fallen to the floor in pure shock—more so when the driver spluttered out a rough laugh. “And you’re laughing?” he demanded. “I say, maybe you deserve it, judging by your reaction.” 

“If _____ wants to choke me so badly, she can come here and do it herself.” He slid his head, baring his neck to you. “It’ll give you an excuse to touch me since you want me so bad.” 

Your scoff had the poor medic a little concerned for your throat. “I would rather the Ferraris run me over,” you snarled. “Or I could take Jay’s car and run you over instead! Save us all the headache, no?” 

“You might as well take my car then,” he quipped, settling his head in his hands, “You’ll run me over faster.” 

“So you admit you’re favoured over the second driver?” You latched onto the implication, stepping forward. “I always had a feeling the mechanics took extra time tuning your car.” 

“Since you’re too stupid to recognise it, I was praising the driver, not the car.” 

“Oh, I know, that’s why I ignored the indication,” you jeered, crossing your arms. “It’s a miracle he’s scored points anyway, given how difficult it is to drive the RB22.” 

Seungcheol’s remark was quick—cutting. “He’s not a bloody baby. His whole job is to get points.” 

There—the perfect opportunity, presenting itself to you. “Hey, Soon, any chance I can speak to him alone?” 

“Of course,” he said, nodding as he swiped his hands together, dusting off remnants of his client. “Though I’m scared if Jihoon asks me to collect him I’ll only see his bleeding body on the table.” 

“Just know I did it for the team,” you drawled, earning a huff of laughter from the physio, and an unimpressed scoff from the champion. As the former bid his adieu, he closed the door behind him, you watching it slide shut.

With the door closed, you made yourself turn, expecting to stare him down. His eyes were already poised upon you. Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable, the pressure akin to the Turn One g-force at the very circuit the man before you won in. It did not help either that he barely had any clothes on.

Not that it had an effect on you—no amount of perfectly lean muscle, dangerously curved shoulders that swell with every slight movement could change your mind about him. You made to keep your sight on his face, which had enraged you so much its objective allure had worn off completely.

That very face contorted in an arrogant dismissal. “Tryna get me alone while I’ve only got a towel to cover myself?” he provoked, slowly shifting his position. “Another one of your so-called faultless strategies?” 

“Your vanity is staggering, Seungcheol,” you remarked, rolling your eyes. “I was actually trying to save face, but I suppose I should have kept an audience to humiliate you.” 

A scoff through his nose. “You can try to humiliate me,” he dared, slowly swinging his leg downward, sitting up on the massage table. “What do you want?” 

You decided to cling onto the lead he slipped out. “You’re suspiciously critical about that boy,” you said. “Not a single word of congrats to him when he’s one of your first teammates in a while to gain points for the team.” 

He raised an incredulous brow. “That’s your issue with me?” 

“Don’t try to demean it,” you opposed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “He’s already got a ton of pressure on him for needing to perform after the previous rookie failures. You being overly mean doesn’t help.” 

Disbelieved, he twisted his mouth in a frown. “You’re berating me…because I’m not best friends with my teammate? The guy who’s competing with me for the Drivers’?” Then, he clicked his tongue, unable to help himself. “I mean, not that he actually is, since there is no competition between us.” 

“Oh my God, this is what I mean!” you exclaimed, breaking the crossed arms to bring your hands to your hips. “I’m not asking for friendship bracelets, I’m asking there to be a little mutual respect. Jay clearly admires you, and you being the ‘difficult senior’ is only gonna make his journey in Red Bull more difficult.” 

He breathed in sharply, his bare chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm. “Well…it seems you’re already there to make everything easier for him, so I don’t need to do anything.”

Your brows immediately furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, you know what I mean.” He jerked his head towards the left wall, where the meeting room would have been situated. “You were all cheers and promises of team drinks when he placed fifth today. Fifth,” he repeated for good measure, almost spitting the position out. 

“So? I’m only celebrating team achievement.” 

“But when my name is concerned, suddenly praises and celebrations are illegal! Banned on the paddock!” he declared. “Shit, I won the Grand Prix today, yet you acted like I was disqualified.”

“I did not act like that,” you countered. “Pointing out possible performance improvements is not, and should not be taken as, a personal attack. Of course, since you’re so self-centred, I know how hard that is for you.” 

“It’s not selfishness to demand respect,” he huffed, gripping harder onto the edges of the table. “I just think you hate to see me succeed.” 

You paused then, at a loss for words. “...what?” 

He carried on, forever a man in love with his own voice—Narcissus if he battled for podiums. “Don’t act so shocked by this. You just can’t take it if I’m winning.” 

The sheer lack of logic in his declaration had you snarking, “The only time you’re ever useful is when you are winning, since, you know,” you iterated, as if he was a child needing extra explanation, “we’re on the same team!” 

“Are we?” He stepped off the table, wrapping the towel around his waist—hanging too comfortably as it cut off the v-line trail, and still exposing his begrudgingly sculpted legs. “Are we really, when you applaud the kid more when he wasn’t even on the podium?” 

“Here we go again,” you grumbled, rubbing the space between your temples. “Seungcheol, the kid is on your team, too. This might be a foreign concept to you, but I want to support both the drivers.” You craned your head to glare at him—never forgetting his height the closer he stalked towards you. “It’s the Oracle Red Bull Team, not the Red Bull Solo.”  

“I hope you remember that too,” he muttered, eyes imprisoning your own. “Stop needlessly shitting on me when I’m the reason you have points right now.” 

A scowl marred your mouth.  “Jay’s given us ten points.” 

His eyes now squinted. “I’ve given you twenty-five today.”

“You’ve given me nothing,” you clarified, raising your chin at him. “It’s all going to the team.” 

“Are you not part of the team?” A slight lean, a stance to intimidate you. “Do all your little speeches on teamwork not apply to you?” 

“Don’t pretend I don’t slave away for this team,” you guttered, refusing to be subdued. You stood tall, despite his muscled stature threatening to overpower you. “All those so-called speeches you call them are aimed towards you.” 

He exhaled lightly then, lips breaking to release a lazy, self-satisfied grin. “Careful, Your Majesty, or I’m gonna think you’re obsessed with me.” 

Your nostrils flared at his audacity. “The only person obsessed with you is yourself, you stupid prick.” 

You meant to hurt him, bruise his ego. It only seemed to swell before your very eyes as his grin widened. “I have to, since you praise every idiot on the paddock save for me. Doesn’t help my three-time championship winning mindset, you see.” 

All these little quips, snippets of tom-foolery spluttering out of his cherry mouth. “You’ll deserve praise from me when you learn how to help your team out.” 

His pupils darted over your impassioned stare, your determined stance burning inside. “I’ll help the team out when you bother helping me out.” 

Bastard, bastard, bastard. Never pondering beyond his own mental borders—always thinking about himself. You could see it in his eyes, too. The dark, oak-hard browns of his irises, so resolute in his self-centredness. It made your lungs tighten in discomfort at the notion. 

You did not bid his terrible counter with a response, simply sufficing in glaring him down. Of course, because he always knew how to match you, he, too, stayed content in this heavy silence, crossing his arms over his upper chest, barely catching onto the swell of his shoulders growing with the movement. 

Even this was a power play—any normal opponent would have reacted to the state he was in, but you refused to succumb to the lack of layers. Any atom of awkwardness was thwarted by your growing obstinacy. No amount of aesthetic perfection could cancel out how much of an asshole he was. 

At least he knew that you were no frail intern, or a mindful, hesitant engineer. If he wished to stoop low, then you would dive to the lowest depths in order to silence him. 

As long as Choi Seungcheol did not win over you. 

You did not realise how long the two of you stared each other down, refusing to back away, until the doors suddenly opened, and still none moved until you heard the surprised “Oh!” from a flustered Jay, freezing at the entrance. 

Looking over your shoulder, you found yourself straightening your posture, clearing your throat a little too loud. Seungcheol’s irritated growl cut through your ears, striking the rookie in the process “What’re you doing here?!”

Seeing Jay almost flinch had you glaring at the man before you. “I’m sorry, I—” the former began as he looked to his right, beyond your own vision, then back at the scene before him. “Jihoon was asking for you both, so…”

It looked as if Seungcheol was about to open his mouth again, so you beat him to it, replying, “Tell him we’re right behind you.”

You could tell Jay wanted to inquire further, but the senior’s presence was enough to have him hurryingly nodding, leaving the two of you alone once more. You wasted no time, smacking the man on the arm. 

“Hey!” he exclaimed, rubbing the spot where you whacked home. “What the hell was that for?” 

“Stop being so difficult,” was all you demanded, hoping in vain that the warning would stick. 

He merely dismissed you with an aloof glance, stepping past you to where his clothes were neatly folded on the side tables. “I’ll stop being difficult with him when you stop being difficult with me.” 

You watched him pick up a shirt, about to unloosen the ties on his towel. He then looked at you. “I know you’ve already seen me half-naked, but that’s enough privileges for you today.” 

The eye-roll was instinctive, uncontrollable. “Less privilege, more punishment,” you muttered, thundering out of the entrance.

As you were about to shut the door when you heard him say, “Yeah, you keep believing that!” 

“Shut up!” was your incredibly witty response, slamming the door behind you. Aggressively you shook your head, bolting down the hallways with your mind spinning with his words, his attitude, his bare chest glistening as it shifted with every slight turn of his arm, twist of his abdomen. 

You seethed, widening your eyes at yourself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you murmured, a mantra to your own scrambled mind, to the man you left behind, and this strange scene now in the very near past.

Choi Seungcheol was a born and bred bastard. You could not let him stray from your original objective—no matter how much he endeavoured to make you stray. 

WHOEVER DROVE BEHIND THE WHEELS OF RED BULL’S DESTINY DECIDED TO PUT ITS CELESTIAL FOOT ON THE PEDALS. 

You did not tend to believe in luck in winning races—it was obvious, considering strategy meant ruling out coincidences, strokes of mere fortune over logistics—but there was definite shift in the team, as if the very tides of the sport had turned, the entire paddock rearranging itself according to your team’s success. 

Now you did think your colleagues were exaggerating with such claims, but Shanghai brought favourable results once more. The sprint allowed several points to enter the Red Bull threshold, Seungcheol achieving first in the sprint, the Ferrari rocket barely missing him by a fifteenth of a second. Jay’s softs had major traction, but still managed to snag points position. 

Chaos began during the actual race on the Sunday, several of the mid-fielders spinning after a Haas car braked too late. The star driver of the team battled for first between Mingyu and Piastri once more, polesitter Seungcheol retaining his position while Jay managed to snag fifth again—conversations opened towards the latter’s growing impact on the car, especially when he also earned an extra point for fastest lap. 

Still, the Chinese Grand Prix failed to be as eventful as its successor. Miami weekend arrived within a fortnight, and the city prepared in full splendour—it could have rivalled Las Vegas’ grandeur, especially since the yellow sun and turquoise beaches that usually bathe the population in a coming-of-Summer ambiance were nowhere in sight. Torrential rain was predicted on race weekend, and it had every team on the paddock shitting in their fire-proof suits. 

The Red Bull Garage were one of the first to establish themselves on the track, Jihoon watching over you as you laid down the possible groundwork to secure a win. There was more work to be done, since Miami introduced the sprint similar to the previous host, which meant recognising what went according to plan, and what could have been improved. 

Sprints were Seungcheol’s forte. The man was made of velocity, as if his very blood accelerated through his veins at the speed of the RB18, which followed his every call. Obviously—it was made solely for him, even if the mechanics tried to convince you otherwise. Regardless, you knew that, despite the horrendous weather conditions, you knew that he would be faultless—he would turn the car into a motorboat. 

Jay, on the other hand, you were unsure about. His improvements reassured half of the team, but cynics like yourself needed more convincing when torrential rain was predicted. He had also never raced beside his rivals in such conditions—one rocky incident during his F2 career had crippled his reputation for performing unpredictably. 

You had even asked him during practice, when you were informing him of the game plan for Saturday as the angered rainfall made no attempt to settle into a calm drizzle. “This’ll be harder than Shanghai,” you warned him.

The boy looked beyond the Red Bull Hub’s windows, watching the flurry of black and white and red and blue umbrellas pass by him through the blurred, watery glass. “I know…but you’ve prepared me for the risks.” He paused for a second, clamping his lips together. “I won’t do as well as Seungcheol, though.” 

You did not know why that had your mouth constricting into a frown. “Why do you think that?” you demanded, and the sour taste of your question left the driver almost shrinking back.

“He got first in Shanghai,” he reasoned, reaching a finger out as he doodled to the window. “I’m still staggering behind him.”

“This is your first season, Jay,” you countered, glancing at him. “You both can’t be compared when he’s won three championships.” 

“He won the sprint in his first season, too,” he said, doodling absentmindedly on the fogged pane. “And it only went up for him then.” 

You snorted. “That’s ‘cause he was still following orders without a fight at that time. He’s fucked a race before, too, you know.” You took a step towards him, propping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And that was when he wasn’t listening to me.”

As Jay looked back at you, you set your gaze a little harder. “He doesn’t like to admit it, but it takes a village to make a resident champion. If you listen to the team, Jay…if you listen to me, you won’t just be some rookie in Red Bull. You’ll be a champion in your own right.”

He watched you in return, blinking back at your words. There, you were not a mere friendly face anymore. Before him now was an ally—a powerful mentor who genuinely believed in his success. A Kingmaker, if he was to be so bold.

You hoped he had taken your words seriously, and left him to ponder over your sincerity as the day ended. Saturday, as predicted, brought oceans’ worth of rain upon the coastal city, onlookers adorning parkas and plastic covers to avoid the worst of the showers. The track was more than slick with the rainfall, and every team decided to start on wets.

And if there is rain, then there is always a crash. 

Not quite a crash which was of any importance to your team in particular, but one of the Ferraris—Wonwoo’s you believed—spun out of control due to severe aquaplaning on turn 7, nearly bringing down his teammate and Seungcheol in the process. Of course, since the latter cannot ever control himself, the official broadcasts had to censor his stream of stupid bastards and fucking idiots before Jeonghan finally told him to hold his tongue. 

Still, Seungcheol recovered quickly, unlike Mingyu, so he widened the gap between himself and the next opponent—Chan in his papaya’d fury—but he would be no match for the contending champion. Unsurprised as you were, you let Jihoon focus on him as you set your sights on the rookie, climbing up and up, nearly sending Seokmin in the Aston off wide at the end of the sprint lane. A risky move indeed, with speeds up to 200 miles per hour, but he had prepared for this. You had prepared him for this. 

Before you knew it, you had hardly gauged Seungcheol’s win in the Miami sprint before Jay flew past the chequered flag, gaining fourth in a sprint which had half the drivers spinning in the rain fall. Once again, the garage was delighted, but while the crew flung towards the winner, you found yourself bracing for a rather disappointed boy walking towards you.

He only stopped a foot before you, holding onto his helmet with both hands. “I’ll do better in the race.”

You could only furrow your brows in confusion. “But fourth is what I expected?” 

“Bloody Piastri,” he muttered, watching as it was time for the interviews. “I promise, _____, I won’t let you down.” 

“Jay…” you began, but he trudged towards the press, who no doubt would bring up the F2 incident. Amongst the crowds, the champion watched the little interaction, slowly turning to examine your disheartened expression.

As you noticed his stare, he shot you a rather feline smile. “Christ,” you muttered, watching him now make the rounds to you. 

“Someone isn’t too chuffed about his performance, then,” he greeted you, sparing his teammate a mockingly pitiful glance. “I take it you’ve finally stopped babying him? Told him his performance is dogshit?” 

“I didn’t need to tell him—” and then you brought an accusatory finger upwards— “Not that I needed to, by the way!” You clicked your tongue. “No, he was already disappointed in himself.”

“As he should be,” he corrected, locking his hands behind his back, helmet dangling between his fingers. “Piastri’s overtake was like taking candy from a baby.” 

“And when your brakes locked at Turn 12? Right in front of the Ferrari?” you demanded, turning to him. “I heard the stewards weren’t pleased.” 

“We didn’t get the investigation, though, so I don’t care.” He twisted the corner of his mouth upwards. “This is what happens when you pamper your drivers. Maybe if you treat him the way you treat me then he’d actually win something.” 

You tilted your head at him. “So you admit that I directly influence your wins?” 

His chuckle immediately stifled any hint of amusement. “So positive, huh? No, I’m admitting that you’re directly influencing his losses.” He swung his helmet over to his front. “My wins will always be my own.”

“One day you’ll be punished, Seungcheol,” you warned, propping your fists on either side of your hips, “all these ignoring my orders, pretending you don’t have the garage supporting you whenever you win.” 

“Maybe,” he only said, once again his disregard taking over. He slid his eyes to the banners on the circuit screen, his face at the forefront of any other driver. “But it won’t be today.” 

And he left you there at the front of the garage, watching the rain pour steadily, the drops unable to soothe the anger that he left behind. 

This damned rain decided to be merciless on race day, too. The engineers eyed their radars warily as teams began setting up their positions on the grid, Jay having a few words with the mechanics. Qualifying turned out to be chaos, too, with nearly a third of the drivers barely making Q2. Fortunately the Red Bull drivers were safe in Q3, but Seungcheol lost out on pole to Mingyu, which meant that the entire team had to deal with his sulking as they prepared for the final touches on the main day. 

In the end, no sprint could have rivalled the anarchy which was the Miami Grand Prix. The beginning had most of the wet tyres spraying huge excesses of water, causing horrendous visibility issues for everyone save for the smug Ferrari in the lead. Seungcheol managed to divert from Mingyu’s spraying, but could not go fast enough to overtake him in the first lap. 

Still, he could not complain when just after, the neon Sauber collided through the avalanche of mist into a Williams, in turn striking off his front right tyre in the process. The virtual safety car was brought out, thus forcing the champion to stay in his position, with his teammate five positions behind him. 

The race restarted on lap six, but the rain did not stop, the danger of further crashes constantly imminent, especially in the clustered mid-field. Mingyu began widening the gap between himself and Seungcheol, and it fuelled the latter’s grit, even more so on the straight after turn 16 where he almost flew off his wheels from the sheer speed. 

It was around lap 20 when you heard Jay’s message on the radio through to his race engineer. “Heeseung, the rain’s gonna stop soon. Let’s do intermediates.”

Heeseung turned to you and Jihoon, waiting for confirmation. Why Jay was certain of the weather changing, you had no idea, since the forecast predicted the rainfall to continue till the end of the day. It was as if he could recognise it, as the engineer clarified, “He was saying beforehand that the clouds were clearing…that no one can properly predict coastal temperatures.” 

You kept looking at the information, the tyre degradation as well as the car performance in general upon the ongoing telemetry. Last time the cars rolled out in Miami during a storm, half of the grid was wiped out due to poor tyre choice. A part of you thought him crazy.

“It’s your call,” Jihoon said to you.

I promise, _____, I won’t let you down. 

Your fingers tapped against the table, watching over the shower—slowly softening, you noticed, amongst the sounds of rapid spraying from the midfielders passing. “Tell him to box the next lap,” was your final call. Heeseung nodded, relaying the message to his driver. 

Jay cruised his way into the pit lane, you watching the broadcast dropping his name down from fourth, fifth, sixth, major places as the mechanics did a perfect pit-stop, green light barely flashing before the rookie escaped, entering just before a rather shaken Alpine who had locked up. Eleventh, you saw, but he had time.

Time which he used to his advantage.

While Seungcheol was in Mingyu’s battling sphere once more, the commentators in the background spoke of the rain slowing, the track already drying out from the torrential damage an hour back. The wets began to be a nuisance, even for the drivers at the forefront, the gap between the two and the rest of the field saving the champion. 

With everyone’s eyes on Seungcheol’s struggle, his agitation towards Mingyu, you found Jay’s banner rising with every overtake done between the next twenty laps. You could not look away, so stunned by his exploiting of the drying track as the rest toiled to keep their vehicles stable. He was akin to a rocket, razor-focus on the track ahead of him, each corner swirled as if he had raced this circuit a million times. 

He had captured your attention so intently you barely saw the final battle turn in the senior driver’s favour, who, after finally latching onto Mingyu’s wide turn in 11, swooped past him, smirking underneath his helmet. “Nicely done, Cheol,” Jeonghan commented, fixing his headset.

“Light work,” was the answer, which only had you snorting—as if he was not chewing on struggle puffs for half the race. That was the sole moment of your focus diverting, once again back on the rookie who now passed Chan on the longest straight. 

“Oh my God,” you got out, watching the screen as Chan refused to give up, DRS on both as each tried to bring their front wing after the other. It was one close call after another, the straight nearly ending, barely three seconds left to turn before the McLaren driver braked early, too early, and Jay had taken that opportunity, a golden egg handed in his gloved hands as he turned sharply, beating his opponent from the outside and accelerating enough to then swoop in from the inside at 18. 

Heeseung could barely contain his shocked grin. “Holding P3, baby!” he exclaimed on the radio, but Jay gave a curt response, undoubtedly too focused to communicate back with the same energy. 

And he stayed within this position. Perhaps he could have battled Mingyu too, but the latter was already challenging Seungcheol after both had pitted around the same time—a terrible call from Ferrari, you had to admit. Despite that, Jay’s consistent acceleration stopped the papaya drivers from creeping too close for comfort. 

The chequered flag fell in your favour—scraping into first was Seungcheol, Mingyu hot on his heels in second as fireworks erupted in a sudden rocket-launch into the air, deafening cheers detonating from the crowds at another Redbull win. 

A win and a podium as Jay’s car saw the wave of the black and white flag. A double podium for Red Bull after a whole two years of rookie failures. 

It was not long before the finished cars set themselves along their positions on the grid. The rookie barely flung himself out of the car before you were dragged by Jihoon and the rest of the men on the track, finding yourself in front of the boy as he found you amongst the sea of red and blue and yellow. He wrenched off his helmet, pulling down his balaclava and immediately dashing towards you.

His breathlessness in reaching you had your own eyes widening. “Jay!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “A fucking podium!” 

He was smiling, lips curving wider with every beat. Then, without warning, he flung his arms around you, pulling you into a most heartfelt embrace. You stilled at the sudden contact, chin grazing against his neck as he hummed against you. “Thank you for believing in me, _____.”

You could not help it—the smile, which threatened to inhabit your face, your hands which snaked around his neck. “It’s my job,” you merely said, ruffling his hair. “I’d have been a shit colleague otherwise.” 

“No,” he murmured, slowly pulling away as he kept you at arm’s length. “You’d have just been every other person on our team…but you’re not.” 

Pursing your lips a little from grinning, you patted him, fully accepting his hug. With hundreds of thousands of eyes upon the two of you, there was no discomfort—maybe a sense of satisfaction, that a driver finally believed in your vision. 

In the corner of your vision, you saw the incoming journalist. You jerked your head towards them. “They’re waiting for you.”

Glancing back, he retained his mirth, stepping away. “I can keep them waiting…if you want me to.” 

“Can’t have you slacking already,” you teased, Jay huffing out a laugh. “You go. We’ll celebrate in your honour soon enough.”

Satisfied by that, he dismissed himself from you with a little wave, jogging over to the press for the post-race interviews. You watched him leave, smile unable to be wiped off, your own lingering for him. He deserved it today—more than anyone else on the grid.

You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts you did not realise that not everyone had left their focus on you, as the rest of the world shifted to the Red Bull drivers who had made their team incredibly proud. You did not realise the stinging glimpses, the turn of his head every moment towards you as you headed inside of the garage, waiting for the podium celebrations. 

It was all for the better, perhaps—had you recognised the bestower of such a heavy gaze, it would have ruined a perfectly good day. And you refused to let your spirits be dampened by anyone.

ORACLE RED BULL TEAM WERE ALREADY EXTRAVAGANT, BUT THEY SPARED NO EXPENSE IN CELEBRATING THEIR GREAT WIN. 

Every sports anchor and news outlet commemorated Jay’s quick rise to gaining his first podium within the first couple of months, slotting his name after every compliment bestowed to Seungcheol. You could not get enough of it, already aware that the rookie deserved such praise since he settled himself in the Red Bull seat. 

The prized driver himself felt a little out of place with all the international praise, but Jihoon’s compliments had nearly made him faint with the sheer embarrassment. The CEO and Team Principal prided himself on this great achievement, and sought to celebrate it properly, Ferrari and Mercedes-style. 

With over a week left in Imola, the man in charge decided to fly out the team to the headquarters in Milton Keynes, hiring luxury event planners whilst informally tasking you to look over the preparations. The pomp and splendour may have been in excess—and you told as such to him—Jihoon was not to hear it. 

Seungcheol, despite his superior’s glee, had no troubles complaining about it. “You’d think we’re celebrating a royal wedding,” he guttered, crossing his arms after the event-planning meeting. “It’s only a bloody podium.” 

“This is for you, too, Cheol” Jihoon assured him, patting him on the chest as he left, emailing you over the minutes supplied by the publicists. “_____, get ready for tomorrow. I want you in early.” 

The champion tsked out as the former left. “He never did this shit even when I won the championship.” 

Now you knew he was spreading misinformation, but you chose to bother him in another manner. “Maybe because both drivers earning points is more important to him than one driver winning?” you contemplated, mocking a ponder. 

Unsurprisingly, he was not amused. “Stop putting your words in his mouth,” he huffed. “And why the hell are you involved in the planning? I know you’d rather crash into the Ferrari garage than plan a tacky party.”

“First of all, it’s not a tacky party,” you corrected, checking over the details on your clipboard. “It’s to showcase our achievements. We haven’t had a double podium in years.” 

He turned his head away, frowning—as if he did not care. “So? I won us the Driver’s.”

“So?” you parroted, emphasising his mumbling. “Because of Jay, we have a chance of winning the Constructor’s, too.” 

Even with his face turned, you caught the tick in his jaw. “Are you not satisfied by my wins?” you heard him ask. 

You made him wait—pausing in melodramatic fashion, enough to see him glance back at you again, anticipating in irritation. “So you don’t want the Driver’s then, is that what I’m hearing?” 

“You’re not hearing anything because I haven’t said anything,” you pointed out, hugging the clipboard to your chest. “Besides, you already know how I feel about your wins.” 

He craned his head to the side, studying your face. “No…I don’t, actually.” 

You did not like it, his eyes darting over your every feature—your steady gaze, the slight flare of your nostrils, your lips, hiding the slight gritting teeth. “A win for you is a win for you only. Jay’s wins on top of it, though…then it’s a win for us.” 

His eyes narrowed. “And you say I talk a lot of shit.” 

All you could manage now was a scowl. “Of course you wouldn’t get it.” With that, you turned on your heel. “Don’t be late for the party,” you called out, not bothering to look back at him. “It’s meant for you too, even if you don’t believe it.” 

You did not wait for his answer, choosing to ignore him for the rest of the day. 

Involuntarily, you missed the opportunity to speak to your rookie, too, so wrapped up with the party-planning In the end, you dampened down the overindulgence, realising you did not want the papers speaking about it, and—you had to face it—this was not your job, what with your Imola-strategy planning forced to be side-lined, which was a terrible strategic decision in itself. Jihoon did not provide enough time for you to set up anything too extravagant, so you hoped the addition of a luxury open bar would be enough to satiate expectations. 

The next evening arrived quicker than anticipated, the entire team arriving in clusters to the sleek, silver building, a huge, graphic bull plastered on its right side to welcome back the locals—officially named the MK-7. Everyone dressed majestically for the event, semi-formal attire adorned with all the riches people had saved, diamond earrings and Rolexes sparkling in the vibrant lighting. 

As the CEO ordered, you were one of the first present, welcoming everyone who arrived. Mechanics, engineers, publicists, everyone working or associated with the team were present. Even certain VIP members of Racing Bulls were invited, attempting to establish the relationship between two sister teams. 

It was not long before music had livened up the huge, metallic hallways of the building, food and drink eagerly consumed by the guests, everyone intermingling smoother than you expected. Granted, the absence of journalists may have played a part in the ease of the ambiance, but you liked to think that you had played a part.

_____ and Co. Formula Team. You smiled as you sipped your first of many champagne glasses of the night. That smile widened when you spotted Jay making his appearance, flanked by Heeseung and Jihoon. Each one of them were clad in sleek black suits, although the latter’s three-piece was more luxurious than his employees—one had to boast of their paycheck after all, you surmised. 

The rookie found you instantly amongst the crowds. “Hey!” he called, ushering over to you. Instantly he hugged you with one arm, a casualness established. “Wow, you look great outside of the Red Bull colours!”

Indeed. You observed your outfit, a simple enough black dress which shimmered with every flicker of light catching on its fabric, its asymmetrical hem cut across your right leg, slicing up to your left thigh. Heels were the less practical choice, but they matched your outfit, so you tolerated the aching in your feet. 

Even so, you matched his compliment with one of your own. “You scrub up quite nicely yourself.” You set your sights on Jihoon. “You’re wasting money on your stylist.” 

“Yeah, you’re looking ugly too,” was his dignified answer, to which you kissed him on the cheek. “I suppose the party’s not horrific. Where’s the bar you promised?” 

“Fuck you,” you first commented, pointing towards the food and drink situated at the far ends of the hall. “I made sure they stocked up on the rum and cokes.” 

“You truly are Red Bull’s saving grace,” the CEO praised, to which you rolled your eyes, downing another glass of champagne. 

“Join us when you’re done greeting everyone,” Jay offered, looking around the room.

“I’ll try,” you promised, observing the many admirers he had garnered within minutes. “I’ll let you tend to your fans first.” His immediate blush had you chuckling. “You both mingle. I’ll be right back.” 

As Jihoon dragged the boy to the open bar, you double-checked the banners hanging from one point of the first-floor balcony to the other, flanking Red Bull colours celebrating both the drivers’ names and achievements. 

You could hear the conversations, the whispers of opinions—everyone expected the champion to retain his lead, but to have a genuinely talented rookie challenge him introduced a whole new dimension to the race. 

It was peak entertainment, in their words—their meaning of Formula One. 

You supposed it did spark interest within the team. Nobody enjoyed Seungcheol’s second championship run, his winning every race on the calendar a terrible viewing experience for the average fan. Despite that, it was advantageous for you, for the team, so you did not complain too much. Even if it meant the second driver was side-lined. Even if he visibly struggled in a car meant for Red Bull’s golden boy. 

“Bastard,” you muttered, unable to stop yourself from cursing. How strange, that profanities never ceased, how instinctive they remained on your tongue at the thought of the man. 

“You really are obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched. Instantly, you swivelled around, and your breathing nearly stopped again at the sight of said-bastard—Choi Seungcheol, out of his racing suits—clad in clean, crisp black suit, no bow-tie in show as the top button of his white-shirt opened, revealing a patch of smooth, golden skin. His hair was a little longer, curls smoother, done over as they tucked obediently behind his neck, caressing the sides only with the turns and twists of his head. His one hand was tucked in his trouser pocket, the other adorning an empty champagne flute. 

You attempted to regain yourself—more so when he, too, assessed your out-of-office attire. Shamelessly, you then noticed with a surprise. “You’re not the only bastard in this field.” 

“Really? A shame.” He clicked his tongue. “Here I was, feeling special knowing I was the only bastard in your life.” 

“You don’t hold that much importance to me,” you merely said.

“A lie,” he opposed. “Your success and mine are intricately linked. I am, in fact, essential to you.” 

“No wonder you thought yourself special,” you drawled, “Your delusions found a way to being the centre of attention again.” 

“That’s because I am,” he clarified, the emphasis so heavy you wondered whether that was his first glass of the night. 

You made a show of looking over to his teammate—who, by the open bar, had now gained a crowd of recognition. “Hmm…I don’t think so.” 

He followed your line of sight. Comical, how instantaneous his mood soured. “Your PR works wonders, then.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“All this splendour…this luxury…” A weighted pause. “You wouldn’t have done any of this for me alone.”

“Well, of course not,” you agreed, which had him scoffing. “It’s a celebration of the team, not just the driver. Jihoon’s the one who initiated it.” 

“You had no problem turning it down, though,” he accused, and suddenly you realised the button undone at the top, the slight blush tinging his cheeks. “I thought you hated doing this shit.” 

You made sure he did not turn away from your stare. “I’d do anything for the team, Seungcheol.” 

He was blinking slowly, breathing heavily. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and you caught the action, darting away for a second. He was leaning a little closer, the scent of his perfume entering your nostrils, the infusion of champagne mixed in. 

“Anything…” he repeated, languid. “Anything…for the team?” 

He did not need to hear the answer. He could see it, stained on the determined set of your alluring features, all made up for tonight. 

“I see.” He made to down the flute, then realised the lack of alcohol swirling inside. “I need a drink.” 

You slid your eyes to the bar. “You can join your teammate. Share the success.” 

The corner of his cherry mouth twitched upward. “Share,” he scoffed, as if the very word offended him. He said nothing else, skulking past you, almost knocking you over as he made his way instead to the waiters carrying trays full of champagne. 

You lifted your chin at his back, fading within the crowds. Fine. Let him sulk—tonight was not solely about him, anyway. You made sure of it.

Still, the conversation did not escape your mind, his slight slurring words, the cruel tone of his voice striking an unwelcome commotion within you. Fortunately, Jeonghan, who had arrived soon after, forced you to drink some more, gossipping about the terrible dancers from the engineering department. 

The night had begun to incite further excitement, music turning louder, spirits becoming more animated. Everyone was—or, at least, seemed to be—enjoying themselves, either drinking or dancing or laughing, and you made it your sole objective to mingle too, refusing to let your labours go to waste. 

You even managed to swing about with Jay, who turned out to be a rather good dancer after acquiring a little liquid confidence. The next couple of hours were a dream—more so when, after engorging yourselves in amusement, the music began to settle, Jihoon jogging to the front of the crowds. His magnetic presence had the guests pausing their ministrations, eyeing his swaying figure as he clinked his glass with a desert spoon.

“Thank you everyone for joining us today!” he exclaimed, waving his hands over to the audience before him—you at the forefront. “This has been a long-time coming, and I couldn’t have been happier to be celebrating with the finest team in F1!” 

His declaration was followed by a round of hooting. “We’ve been so lucky with our star driver, who’s brought us three trophies here. Seungcheol, I’m too short to find you in there, but here’s to you for putting Red Bull in the contender’s scene!” 

The cheers were deafening—the drink in you had you joining in, albeit not as enthusiastically as your peers. “This year, though, we have achieved something we did not even dream of in the previous seasons. One rookie has done what previous experienced drivers were unable to do. Barely 23 years of age, but has managed to start off his career by having one of the quickest podium finishes in the Red Bull season!” 

Jihoon raised his glass to you. “With our Principal Strategist Engineer by our side, we have created the team of legends!” His grin was hazardous, infecting each guest that surrounded him. “We will be the winning team of this Championship!” 

You, in turn, lifted your flute. “To gaining a chance in the Constructor’s! To Jay, and a new beginning!” 

Everyone followed your league. “To a new beginning!” 

The entire hall drank simultaneously, cheering once again threatening to take down the ceiling with the sheer, unadulterated mirth that radiated within the four walls. There was no denying it. Everyone was so happy. Even you were eventually, after the alcohol had blanketed your senses, making your senses buzz with excitement. 

Jay, at the very least, was on the top of the world, already tipsy with wine and compliments as he made full use of the bar. “Heeseung, how much has he drunk?” you asked, watching him attempting a backflip next to the walls of trophies. 

“Blame Jeonghan. He egged him on to do four kamikaze shots with him. Each.” 

“Christ,” you got out, checking the time on your watch. “And where’s Jihoon?” 

“He’s trying to see if we have a karaoke machine in the spare boardrooms,” he replied, swirling his drink. “As if we’re that jobless at the headquarters.” 

You huffed out a chuckle, one more name on your tongue remaining. “Take care of yourself,” you said, squeezing his shoulder before filtering your way through the clusters. 

Eventually you found the CEO, who was unsuccessful in his search for further entertainment. “No karaoke machine at MK-7,” he faltered, shaking his head as he downed another rum and coke. “Do we run a racing team or a prison?”

“Alright now,” you muttered, setting him down on the bar stools. “Maybe that’s enough for you today.”

“No, I need one more drink with Cheol,” he said, raising his pointer finger for emphasis. “Where’s the prick gone? Did a whole toast for him, but I didn’t see him anywhere.” 

So he noticed, too. “Probably off somewhere…licking the wounds he inflicted on himself.” To that, Jihoon gave you a look. “What?”

“He’s not used to being challenged, _____, that’s all.” 

“And how’s that my problem?” 

“He’s your driver as much as Jay is.” He leaned against the countertop. “Go find him for me. I’ll sort him out.” 

You contemplated giving Jihoon more to drink so he would shut down that request. Unfortunately, you were a good friend. “Fine…” you got up, straightening your dress. “...but I’m not feeling too great either. I’ll take a while.” 

“Excuses,” was his answer, to which you flipped him off, a gesture you would not dare be committing sober. Thankfully, your boss was plastered too, so only found it the funniest action on the face of this earth.

Making your way out the hallways, you tried your best not to be distracted by the guests. Many tried to pull you for a conversation, congratulate you for your work. Although you appreciated it, you had a job to do, and that would always remain your priority. 

Stalking the empty hallways, music from the party fading slowly, you walked further away from the merriment. The building was huge, a metallic maze in its own right. You were almost certain you were lost until you found yourself within the grand halls of the Red Bull showroom. 

Gazing beyond the grand staircase which brought one down to the gallery, dozens of priceless Red Bull cars were lined up in a circular arc, flanked by banners of their numbers in a sea of navy. You had observed your team’s lineage many times, especially during the initial promotion at the beginning of each season, so you knew this room inside out. 

It was the sole reason Seungcheol stood out. 

There he was, in the dimmed lights of the showroom, flickering every now and then in a certain corner. It dampened his grave features; his eyes were set on the car before you—the RB15, which won him his first championship four years ago, settled neatly on a pedestal. His mouth was a hard line, a tightrope of agitation, and his absent-minded swirling of his sad champagne was the only sound in the room. 

He was so absorbed in his reflections that he did not gauge your step down, the entrance within the hall. Perhaps he did notice, but did not seem to care anymore. Nothing out of the ordinary for him. 

It was that thought that had you taunting him. “Why’re you hiding out here?” 

Blinking back, his eyes sharpened, darting to you. He drew back a heavy breath. “So generous for Her Majesty to come after me,” he drawled, drawn out. 

You clicked your tongue. “Principal’s orders,” you clarified, downing the last of the alcohol in your glass. “I would’ve happily let you sulk here.” 

“I’m not sulking,” he sneered, but his words were heavy, effortful. The alcohol took its toll on his dry, cruel wit. “Go back to your party.” 

“My party?” You propped the champagne flute upon the ground, dusting away at your hands. “Last time I remember, it was your name on the banner.” His mocking snort had you raising a brow. “I’m sorry, you’ve lost your ability to read, now? What can you do successfully?” 

A crease marred the centre of his browline. “You’re the last person who can measure my successes,” he spat. “You shit yourself when you have to say one good thing about me.” 

You twisted your mouth. “I have no problems pointing out your successes. It’s my bloody job to scrutinise your performance. Not my fault you provide me with so many criticisms.”

“It is your fault,” he began, stepping out of the championed car’s vicinity, his suited-self in full view. “I have won almost every single Grand Prix since the start of the season, yet all I got from you is radio silence. I have brought points for the team, but I’m hearing nothing about myself!” 

“Oh yeah?” you taunted, taking a step forward, the first embers of your anger warming in your gut. “Tell me, Great Champion, what have I been saying that’s made you so upset?” 

Your counter only had him scowling further. He opened his mouth, and the imitation that spewed out of him had you blinking back. “Oh, ‘Jay is improving so much in such a short time! Jay is somehow driving the undrivable car’!” He kept parroting your casual comments, accentuating his teammate’s name with cruel sarcasm as he stalked towards you. “‘Jay this, Jay that, Jay can be the future fucking champion’!” 

You could only gape at him. “You’re mad…because Jay is doing well?” a harsh chortle escaped you, and it cracked the ice forming on the driver’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Great Champion, Saviour of Formula One, that your teammate is challenging you! I’m fucking devastated that he can drive a car that no one else can drive!” 

“I can drive that car!” he roared, and you swore his rage echoed in the grand hall. “I am winning in that fucking car!” 

“Because it’s made for you and you only!” you screamed back, pointing a finger at him. “If you couldn’t bloody drive it, what the hell are you here for?!” 

“What the hell am I here for?!” His wild eyes were rooted to you, staring you down in a frenzy akin to his visage during a tense race. “I’m your fucking driver. I’m the reason you have a job in the first place.” 

A gasp flew out of your mouth at his audacity. “How dare you,” you guttered, another two steps forward. He was closer now, his rage radiating off his stature like rubber off a ruined tyre. “I’m the reason you’ve managed to get three championships. Any other and they’d have left long back.”

“Oh, so now I get no credit for my wins, while the teenager swiped from go-karting gets all the credit for his measly podiums?” He snarled loudly in your face. “I thought being a good strategist meant you were objective about a situation. Maybe you are out of your league with this job.” 

He was drunk. He said this because the champagne he downed in spite went straight to his head. Because of that, you let your rage rush to your head too—alcohol and anger never mixed well. 

“You…you selfish bastard!” you spat, glaring into his eyes, set ablaze by your words. “Getting jealous of your teammate…refusing to celebrate the team victory because you think it damages you…taking all your anger out on me when you’re the one who never follows any orders!” 

“And why should I follow your orders?” he snarled, and you could feel the disdain bite at your face. “You’ve never done anything for me.” 

A laugh barked out of you, and it drove him insane. “Look at you! Can’t even see outside of yourself! Of course I never do anything for you, I don’t work for you! I work for the team, while you only work for yourself! You’re so fucking self-centred that you haven’t realised it for years!” 

As he watched you snap one word after the next, the final scream drove straight home. “You only do what you want! You only care about yourself!” 

And you would have let your mouth run this eternal sprint, never ceasing the curses against him. Except the champion had had enough. 

The champion let out an agitated, aggravated breath, seized your shoulders in his shaking hands and crashed your lips against his. 

Your eyes shot open at the pressure, the sensation of his mouth moving at frightening pace, and it swept over your senses, shooting sparks at every corner of your hazy, flustered mind. His grip on your arms was iron, the ore of his ire striking through your flesh, binding you to the spot he desired. You perhaps might have, had you ever bent to his will.

But you were—yes, you may have thrashed against him, repelling from his burning hands, but you found your lips betraying your will, finding a rhythm, chasing after his own, opening for him to delve deeper. What the fuck are you doing? Your mind screamed at you, shaking your senses awake but to no avail. Whatever cage held your logic in safety, Seungcheol’s hands, Seungcheol’s lips had pried it open, locks torn in savagery. 

Savage because there was nothing beautiful in this scene—no sweet kisses, no tender touches softening ample desires. This was a cruel circus, a gross collection of drunken stupors and heated rages finally pushing to the surface. He was all over you, a mighty presence blanketing your frame, his hands on your arms travelling down, encircling your waist, yanking you so close you almost melted against the heat, radiating off his frame. 

Maybe the sounds of lips smacking against lips, deep pants flying out in between dragged your common sense back into the cage. Somehow, the logic which he had set free came crawling back. Whatever function that faltered in your arms had fixed itself, fingers rising to his tensing chest and pushing him back. 

The ferocity had him stumbling, hazed-out by the actions he had committed—did not realise he committed. You sputtered out a ragged breath, chest rising, falling, as erratic as your gaze, all over his flushed, raging features. He was the same, harbouring the same anger as you, always on the same level. 

This time was unprecedented. These levels of sheer rage never penetrated the surface previously. Perhaps the drinks were responsible for the fading propriety—not that you both ever showcased any sense of professionalism around each other. 

But in the white lights of Red Bull’s hall of fame, any semblance of decorum vanished. 

The two of you, facing each other—eyes refusing to tear away from one or the other, rooted in case one slipped. You would never—would refuse to let it happen. You saw it in Seungcheol, too—the determined, skin-slicing glare of his, you always on the opposite end of it. And maybe the drink cursed your senses, disheveled your conscience. It had to, because he was straying, this time, straying from your burning eyes to your now-swelling lips. 

Your question meant to freeze him over. “Why…why did you do that?” 

He lost himself in your parted mouth, shining because of him. It was an effort, dragging his carnal gaze up to meet your own. “Because I do what I want…by your description.” 

That had your lips parting wider, brows twitching upward. Like an itch the irritation, an eczema of anger scaled your very skin, and it proved impossible to scratch away. The insults formed, climbing too quickly in your constricting throat. “You fucking bastard.” 

Seungcheol squinted, as if the venom stored in your slander struck his face. Good. You meant for it to hurt. But his eyes hooded, head dipping just a little to look at you with the full force of his focus. God, you could tell he was drunk, but those irises held emotions more pungent than any alcohol he downed. 

What he did was scoff through his nose, a small, dismissive gesture—as if he was aware. As if it was old news, rotting in the Red Bull garage. As if your observation held no importance. 

That drove you off the goddamn paddock. Oh, you were going to murder him. 

And you were going to—your legs thundered to your supposed victim, hands already rising to strangle him, except your fingers did not squeeze the life out of his throat, but raised to the back of his head, pulling so viciously towards you that he had no warning for your lips. 

Yes, your mouth was on the attack this time, stumbling his ministrations upon you, allowing you to smirk against him as you kissed him back with the same fervour. By God, Seungcheol stood corrected with his statement, his brow furrowing as he finally recognised the situation. You quickened your mouth against him, and he could not match you fast enough, a matching pace with a rival car, teasing to overtake but not quite allowing himself that win.

He needed that win—his hands shook with the sheer want as they wrapped around your frame, swiping over your dress, finding any sliver of skin to extract its warmth. He could not even wait before his tongue swiped against the seam of your lips, and it was lights out for the champion, delving deeper inside your mouth.

Your lips were the finishing line, the pole position. Your taste was the champagne spray at each win Seungcheol gained, but the taste of your tongue was sweeter, the same alcohol you consumed prior now mixing into a passionate cocktail of your kisses. 

Even the passion, however, could not rival the fury that laced your mouth, the heat of his tongue undermining the volcanic pants tumbling out of you. You writhed against him, each swipe into his dark curls harsher knowing it was the bane of your existence who bore them, each rough swirl of your tongue along more vigorous realising it was the beacon of your ire that offered it. 

He pushed you further and further, the large, rectangular table in the middle of the too-bright hall an obstacle in his war path, fingers finding recess along the buttons of your dress, efforting to pop them open but he was clumsy, like a fool when handling the fabric. 

You broke away for air, heaving more as he pounced on the corners of your mouth, lips travelling down. “Stop ruining my dress,” you rasped out in irritation, sensing the pressure of the sleeve pushing down, stopped by your neck. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grunted, roughly hoisting you upon the table-top, empty glasses falling with a soft thunk all around you. His hands travelled down, so fast, too fast, finding the hem of the dress, riding it up with scrambled fingers. 

You hissed at the touch, his remnants up your legs, the outer-side of your thighs. “It’s my job,” you snarled, a startling rush of breath escaping you as his mouth planted on your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses at the column of your throat. It was a magnetic feeling, the sparks inside the base of your skin alighting with every brush of his teeth. 

“Your job—” he barked out, squeezing out flushed kisses upon you, eliciting soft exhales from you— “Is to focus on me, to make me win.” 

“Always about you, isn’t it—” you meant to bite back, but the dress now bunched at your waist, and his thumb skimmed much too close to the apex of your thighs as he opened your legs. “Ah, never thinking about anyone else.” 

He paused from his assault on your neck, dizzying head dipping down to the display: your panties, matching your dress, and he blinked back rapidly, insides swelling with a hunger that almost made him forget why he pounced on you in the first place. “I don’t give a fuck about anyone else.” 

Realising your impending silence, he dragged his gaze upwards, caging your own. “Not right now anyway.”

His tone irked you so much, but the look in his eyes stunned you to further quiet. Again, you blamed the champagne for slowing your wit, any chance to humiliate him. You kept pointing fingers to it, because you ignored it—watching as one of his hands, firmly hanging onto your hips before falling, leaving a ghost trail in their wake, found slight purchase against the lace of your panties. 

Your breath hitched—and the curse was out, because he heard it. Quiet as a Saharan night, but to his ears as loud as a festival. “Shit,” he got out, wrenching your legs further, settling in between, snuffing any distance. “Liked what I did?” 

At least your drunken state allowed some form of torment. “You haven’t even done anything,” you griped, acutely aware of his fingers still lingering. “Bigging yourself up for no reason.” 

“You and your fucking mouth,” he guttered, colliding his lips against yours, attempts to silence you successful enough that you could merely hum, closing your eyes and letting the sounds of your mouths engulf you entirely. You wished to be strong, pride seeping through the haze of lust, but then you felt a most delicious sensation against your core—dampening lace rubbing against your slit, and then a little further, and that damned pride of yours crumbled over his fingers. 

The champion savoured your broken moans on his tongue as his thumb rubbed your clit, drinking them in like liquor—tasted infinitely richer than any alcohol he downed in a rage this evening. He circled the bud, swelling under his touch, and he felt your absence on his mouth, breaking away in growing pleasure. 

Pleasure. From Choi fucking Seungcheol. 

Agitation sprung on your veins, battling against the sheer desire overwhelming your senses, cultivating the quicker he encircled your clit, other digits slipping past the underwear’s lining and teasing your entrance. His other hand gripped onto your thigh, hard enough that you knew it would leave a remnant, but you were scraping your nails against his neck, dipping underneath his dress shirt, each sharp graze earning seething breaths. 

He was teasing still, never taking the panties off while he played with you, swiping your arousal with expert fingers, groaning at the sight of the tips slick with your eagerness. His head hung heavy, loaded with the sounds of your weighted sighs, but nothing stopped his determined gaze, looking at you through his lashes as he kept going. 

And because he did not stop, did not dare give you a moment’s rest—did he ever, you thought in passing amidst the chaos—your core tightened beneath his touches, your thighs tensing with every second faster in his circling, his mouth growing desperate in its torturous path. He claimed your lips again, and the desire rippling off his tongue was so intense you could not help the moan climbing out of your own mouth, loud enough it escaped his clutches, releasing it to the Red Bull halls. 

Your orgasm was near, so near—any minute and you would be undone by the one man who had unravelled your professional demeanour countless times, and would now wield the ability to pleasure you over your head. 

“Fuck, I can’t wait—” he slipped out, wrenching his fingers away from you, almost making you scream. “I know, I know, just give me a second—!” 

Frantically his fingers attempted to undo his trouser buttons, but found himself erupting to a pause. “Wait, shit, I don’t have a condom.” 

You groaned at him for stopping, tugging at his shoulders. “I’ve got the implant,” you chided, as if he was supposed to be aware of this information already. “Get on with it already!” 

He would have argued back with you, but his desire leashed his tongue. Stupid, drunken fool—restless in his movements, so impatient to have you that his fingers ceased to work, unable to take his trousers off, buttons popping quick enough for your hands to wrench down his Calvins. His cock sprung free from its cotton, and you had to falter for a second, seeing the sight before you. 

Oh Christ—the near-release was forgotten, fading within you, but this new sight occupied all your thoughts instead. Your parted mouth and widened eyes had him unable to stop a wild smile from forming. 

You would have regretted this—all of it—more so when his smirk sparked your insides into a frenzy. “If I knew this was a way to shut you up…” he trailed off, pulling down your underwear. 

You watched him guide his cock to where your arousal still prevailed, waiting for respite. Even your scrambled mind could not stop retorting, “Says the one who couldn’t get his pants down properly.” 

He merely chuckled, a harsh huff of laughter. “Here you go again,” he said as he leaned in, imprisoning you with his stare. “I shouldn’t even fuck you for all that attitude you give me.” 

“And you’re such an angel, huh?” But then you felt his tip slip against your folds, and you paused—hesitated. Oh, he really was no angel at all.

“I hope not,” he slurred, his free hand hanging onto your hip. “Especially not with you…you don’t deserve it.” 

Somehow that too pissed you off, and you furrowed your brow, ready to begin yet another argument when he slipped past you, his cock sliding in, and your brows then raised, sputtering breaths escaping, because he was inside, Seungcheol was inside you, and you could only gape at him.

You were drunk—of that there was no doubt, since none of this could have occurred in your dreams. Nothing in your imagination could have conjured the sheer fullness of him, the size of his length making your cunt pulsate at its very presence. Sure, you had engaged in illicit relations, had some fun in your early days, but those days were easily forgotten.

You knew, as he bottomed out in you, that no amount of champagne could ever make you forget this feeling. 

He watched your eyes widen, lips contort in that wonder, releasing a ragged, satisfied breath. “Jesus,” he said, matching your amazement. “You’ve never even looked at me this way when I’ve won you points.”

“Still—” you began, but hesitated when he slowly began to pull out. Even so, you got out, “Still thinking about yourself?” 

A chuckle sputtered out of him as his tip solely remained, teasing between your slit. “Thinking about myself, am I?” he repeated, his hands taking hold of your thighs, pushing you to wrap your legs around him. “Even now?”

Knowing you, you would have said yes, just to spite him—then his cock was sliding right in again, a little faster than before, and your walls betrayed you, welcoming him much too quickly for your liking. You held onto him, too focused on him inside of you to care that your dress was barely off, sweated into, fingers digging so urgently into his shirt you were certain of its ripping. 

Your incoherence, more so when he commenced a quicker pace, made him unable to contain his grin. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered to you, his words leaving their trace on the shell of your ear. His arrogance set you ablaze, but there kindled another kernel of fire, more dangerous than your usual agitation. You were not allowed to think on it further, your thoughts revolving solely on the precise, razor-sharp movements—never failing to slip out to the tip, and then ever so quickly diving back in.

Seungcheol could not stop grinning. Goosebumps spread over his heated skin, his dress-shirt matted with sweat, but he was alive inside you, thrusting into you with a rising pace which had you drawing out sounds he did not think possible to extract. He had already shamefully admitted to himself that your nose constantly upturned at him, your hmphs and whatevers had him smirking unknowingly, but that very mouth now singing harmonies of pleasure—pleasure he extracted—was a feeling too addictive for him to consume responsibly.

One more advance of his cock into your pulsing cunt and your back arched, soaked fabric against soaked fabric clashing with each of his movements. The sensation grew from your core, curling along your spine, the inner lining of your thighs, and it returned, by God it had returned, when you thought the bastard would rob you of it again. 

And he could feel it too. He could barely comprehend it himself, much less say it to you, his open, heavy kisses dropping on every expanse of your skin just not enough to satiate him. The champagne dizzied his mind, your cunt staggered his senses. Even his thrusting became erratic, the sweat on his brow grazing against your temple with every swipe up, with every slide down. 

“S-Seungcheol—” you finally got out, your thighs tensing, your core tightening even further. You were close now, dangerously near, and his name on your tongue made his self-control wane even thinner, fingers sliding down to your clit once more. “I think I’m gonna—fuck!” 

You gasped at his circling, the familiar movements back to taunt you. The languidity of his touches had long vanished now, rocking you on the table, the thudding of bodies against wood quickening at a pace most impressive for two drunkards, screwed-out colleagues who could barely navigate their mouths towards each other, sloppy kisses on cheeks and chins, free hands finding whatever purchase on sweated shirts, knotted dresses, sheen skin. 

Your moans. God, your fucking moans, your sweet, victorious, passionate grunts, slipping out of you without helping it, despite your restraint in truly letting go. This drink had cursed you, this damned party had weakened you, but when he hit a certain spot, balls-deep within you, you almost lost the will to care. 

In the great halls of Red Bull Racing, the winning lights of your team flashed on you and Seungcheol as you found yourself on the brink of collapse. 

Red Bull’s champion could sense it beyond the alcoholic haze. “You’re close, right?” he whispered, barely voiced properly—unsurprising, since all his strength fixated on you. “Shit, hang on—” 

And then he became ruthless, setting a pace so rapid and perfect that you understood why he gained all these titles, overtook all his opponents. He was faster than any car flying on the racing tracks, beadier than any steward pacing on the paddock. He followed onto every soft moan that escaped you, every dig of your nails in his shirt. You could feel him slipping and yet he never ceased to please you, contributing to the ever-increasing tension ridged within your thighs. The release was fated to arrive, and Choi Seungcheol would be the one leading it with his stained fingers. 

One more circle of his fingers around your clit, and you were undone.

Completely, utterly unable to stop yourself from shaking as you wrenched your eyes shut, rasping out to him as you came. As he pulled his face away from your own, comprehending your newfound position, the contortions of your face, the shake of your thighs had him stunned. His emotions overwhelmed him, his desire turned pungent, his pride so powerful from the image it had him cursing, holding onto you as he, too, let himself go, finishing himself into you with a pained grunt. 

The very action had the man hanging his head, exhaling painfully as he held onto your hips. You, too, could hardly take enough time settling yourself, barely registering his touch as you kept your eyes closed, listening to your own heartbeat. 

The only sounds in the room now were your inhales and his exhales, soft swaying of the fabric with every minute moment, the slight creak of the table from the champion’s weight. Hell, his cock was still inside you, but there was no recognising it, your astonishment holding you captive. 

It was only when, after great effort, when Seungcheol lifted his head, his tired, heavy-lidded gaze finding your own, your feelings halted—just for a moment. 

Those bitter, brown eyes; a circuit’s worth of arrogance racing around in those irises usually, sparks of challenge always afire whenever they locked with yours. These were the same pair of eyes, widening, ever so slightly, the more you studied them—the more you realised that these were the same eyes you equalled with as they undressed you without shame. 

Instinctively, your hands went down to your bunched-up dress, further down. His cock was still there, only now sliding out as the bearer, too, slowly grasped what had just occurred. 

It was as if the guise of alcohol had dropped. No more champagne-tinted glasses adorned. Your fingers that had somehow grazed his skin then confirmed your fear, at first a little organism which now grew large enough to suffocate you in the victor’s hall. 

You just had sex with Choi Seungcheol. 

Every drop of blood drained from your face. What have you done?

He, too, looked as if he had seen a ghost.

Your eyes did not dare leave his as your hands pushed your dress down, bottom sliding off the table, forcing the man to pull back, take a step behind him. None of you said a word, simply staring, physically unable to tear your gazes off each other. 

What have you done?

The champion’s mouth parted, almost as if wanting to say something, anything to stifle the shock growing in his insides. Gone was the desire, the scathing, painful lust that permeated the very atoms of this room. 

Your breaths could barely come out, tensely lodged in the back of your throat. 

Seungcheol rasped out only one word. “_____?” 

_____. You could have died then and there. 

It was what had you slipping out, scarcely there, “What have you done?”

And it was not fair—for the first time, you were not fair, completely unjust, but you did not care, did not care a single bit for the slow, contorted confusion, surprise staining his broken, perspired face. 

Because what you said was undeserved, you blamed the nerves of your words for your next actions; picking up your panties—God, evidence of his ministrations still present—and you whirled your back to him, taking off in a hurried rapidity towards the exit. You did not dare look back, in case you confronted the haunting stare on your neck, the dying, disoriented glint in those irises. 

The lights were still on. The winning cars still remained stationary, as they were before, and always will be. 

You and Seungcheol, however, were forever changed.