“Let the poor boy rest, Miss L/N,” Madam Kang approaches with a tray of vials, each steaming a different neon colour. “He’s been asleep for an entire day, it’ll be a while before he can regain strength.”

The matron places it on the side-table, pushing his precious Thunderbolt VII out of the way, letting the broomstick fall to the floor ungracefully. Jaehyun feels the urge to protest, or at least reach for it—but the matron is already fussing over his injuries, tipping a healing potion into his mouth and patting him back onto the sheets, propping his casted leg up on a pillow.

She narrows her eyes as she makes sure he drinks every one of the vials, making him gulp down the awful liquid in nervous obedience. It goes down more painfully than the sharp throb in his leg.

“Make sure he doesn’t wander off, this boy has a habit of ignoring medical advice,” she says to you before sauntering off towards the room adjacent to the hospital wing. 

Jaehyun sighs, watching her disappear behind the door. 

“You’re not dead.”

He cranes his neck to see you stare at him—arm in a sling, sitting upright on the bed opposite him. 

“...Yeah.”

“You broke your leg,” you say, voice pinched, “Might hurt while the Skele-Grow takes effect… “

“Oh,” Jaehyun purses his lips, eyes drawn to your injured arm. “What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Your—” He tilts his jaw to point at your sling. “Your arm… is it hurt?”

He doesn’t realise the stupidity of his words immediately. Of course you’re hurt, why else would it be wrapped up and slung around your neck. Jaehyun expects you to blow up in his face, to call him an idiot and march off to the furthest bed you could. 

But you don’t.

Instead, you just say, “Nothing too bad, should be fine soon enough.” 

He’s never been this awkward around you. To say the atmosphere was civil would be the understatement of the century; instead, it’s tense in a way different from your in-game rivalry. 

The sound of the clock ticking by feels like his insides being wrung like a towel; the lights feel too bright, his leg feels too heavy, and his breaths way too loud. Every time he glances sideways, you’re either twiddling with your uninjured hand like you don’t know what to do with it, or you’re staring longingly out the window.

Jaehyun feels it too—the itch to get back to practice. 

At first, it’s a couple of hours. Then, a whole night—you toss and turn, grumbling in your sleep like you were having nightmares. He’s no better, staring straight up at the ceiling as though it could swallow him whole.

He even ponders jumping out the window on his broom and heading straight for Quidditch pitch.

There’s not much to look at other than four white walls, an unremarkable wooden door, and a couple holiday decorations that seems to have been magicked into places: a festive wreath in front of Madam Kang’s quarters, a little christmas tree hung with painted pinecones and shiny baubles, and streams of tinsel strewn here and there. 

Neither of you converse unless it’s to remind each other to take your healing potions, or sometimes when he needs help with sitting up against the bed. There are no visitors other than the matron’s occasional inspections—just Jaehyun, you, and the soft snowfall out through the frosty windowpanes. 

“How much longer did she say?” he whispers out on one chilly evening, head squished against a fluffy white pillow. 

You barely spare him a glance, trying to flip the page of your book over your tucked-in knees. “A week at least. You broke a lot in there.” You gesture vaguely at his body.

“Right,” Jaehyun grumbles. “I’m gonna lose so much muscle mass after this.”

You scoff on instinct. “Not like you had any to begin with.” 

It doesn’t mean to come out as an insult, not after days of uncomfortable silence. 

But surprisingly, something inside of Jaehyun settles in relief at the familiarity. “You say that and then gawk at my legs during a game. No wonder you don’t hit straight.”

The response is immediate—your eyes flash open, lips curling downward into an angry frown, hands gripping at your worn out copy of Quidditch Through the Ages as though you were about to swing it at his face. 

Jaehyun can’t help but smile at how less intimidating you look when you’re not thirty feet up in the air and sporting all four working limbs. Like a baby bird attempting to peck but without any real aggression. 

“You wouldn’t waste your precious book on me of all people.” He quips knowingly, managing to sound cocky even with a pathetic cast on his leg. 

And he’s right on the nose; you narrow your eyes, click your tongue in disapproval, and then lower your book back to your lap. 

It’s the first taste of normalcy he’s had in days.

Jaehyun sleeps with ease that night, quietly admitting to himself that maybe, being stuck with you in the hospital wing during the holidays wasn't the worst thing to happen to him after all. 

── 𓇢𓆸 

“Hold still,” you reprimand unintelligibly, leaning over his cast to slide the marker across it, the cap hanging between your teeth. 

“I can’t even move, dude,” Jaehyun sighs, watching the way you doodle a wonky lion on him, adding tiny horns and a moustache for flair. “That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to see…” He grimaces. “—and I’ve seen you on your bad days.”

You sneer at him, looking every bit as comical as he hopes you do when he makes you mad on purpose. 

“You’re not exactly Picasso to be talking a big game,” You spit the cap out and lift your sling—decorated with tweety birds, and a very elaborate, structurally accurate diagram of a Firebolt. “Can’t believe we’re stuck here during Christmas, drawing on each other’s broken limbs.”

“Did you have other plans?” He raises a brow.

“Quidditch, duh,” you state the obvious, watching him nod in agreement. “Match is in two months and I’m not even allowed to use a bat yet.”

“Well,” Jaehyun motions for you to pass the marker to him and scooch closer. “It could be worse. We could have been muggles and have had to get our bones mended their way—and that could take ages.”

“What do you know about muggle medicine?”

“More than you,” He starts to draw stars and snowflakes onto the fabric over your arm. “My mom’s a doctor—a muggle healer. I used to break my bones all the time.”

“...Doing what? Crawling?”

“Playing,” he corrects with a roll of his eye, tongue peeking out as he concentrates on his doodles. “She says I could never sit still as a kid. So she put me into every sport out there—little league baseball, football, archery—”

“They gave you a bow and arrow?”

“I quit after a week because I accidentally pricked my instructor with it.”

“Ah, that’s more like the Myung Jaehyun I know.” You snicker. 

The room has started to smell less like polyester and detergent, and more like Christmas. There’re two cups of cocoa on the side-table—courtesy of Madam Kang—balanced atop a mountain of Quidditch guides and biographies. The tinsel on the tree has multiplied somehow; there’s snow capping the windowsills, wrens and doves making the occasional visit. 

You miss playing Quidditch. But to make up for it, you’ve resorted to transferring your personal library to the hospital wing, the stack of books building by the day. 

At some point, Jaehyun lets out a bored sigh, and you non-verbally pass him a copy of Flying with the Cannons, if only to shut him up. 

“How did you know I’m going to join the Chudley Cannons!?” His face lights up like the tree in the corner of the room. “Don’t tell me you’re a prophet…?”

“Myung…you and I both almost failed Divination in our fifth year.”

“Oh, yeah.” He grins wistfully at the memory. “Honestly, I thought she failed us because you kept attacking me with your teacup.”

“Like you didn’t keep predicting my imminent doom on your crystal ball.” You squint at your book, confused at a particular sentence. “What does this mean—’bristles aid wind direction; the more streamlined the better’ ?”

“Hmm…think of it like birds’ feathers—” Jaehyun lays his own book flat on his chest, bookmarking his page. “—they basically smoothen the path of wind. The more lightweight, the better for flight. Seekers need to maneuver a lot, so we’d avoid heavier woods, like oak.”

“Oh… Beaters prefer the heavier kind. But it sucks when you have to speed after targets.”

“Your speed is fine,” he offers without a hint of deceit, “It’s the hesitance you need to focus on. You do this thing where you just…stop.”

Your brows knit together. “Huh?” 

“It’s like you’re trying to recollect what you’ve read…I can see it in your eye before you swing your bat—you waste so much time on thinking.”

“...” You feel like you’ve been peeled open and cut into two perfect cross-sections. “I don’t—” 

The rest never make it past your lips; you know you’d be lying if it did. 

“You worry too much too,” he continues, “makes you lose momentum. And, you don’t get to show off how skilled of a player you actually are.”

The compliment is thrown so casually as though he is merely commenting on the weather. Not like it’s a monumental milestone in your, mostly sour, age-old relationship.

“...Thanks,” you finally say, still a bit dubious. “You’re…uh… You fly well, I guess.”

Jaehyun snorts at your poor attempt at praise. “Thanks? That’s nice of you… I guess.”

“You don’t think enough up in the air or on the ground,” you huff, “but your muscle memory is impeccable. I can tell you to work hard at it.”

This time, he smiles, meaning it. 

When you let yourself sink into the comfort of simply being next to him— without the biting remarks or scalding anger to burn you—you find that it’s not as strange as you’d imagine it to be.

“Hey,” Jaehyun whispers, eyes tracking the blinking Christmas lights in the distance, the smile still etched onto his lips—as though he’s dipping his toes into uncharted waters. 

You turn your head, sneaking a peak at his face. He’s quiet, eyes soft around the corners, gaze unfocussed. 

“You know…” he begins teasingly, “you don’t need to stay. I heard the matron saying she dismissed you last week.”

Your stomach does a swoop—fluttering, squeezing around itself like you just ate something bad. You feel sick.

“I… She—” A gulp travels down your dry throat. “...I just needed to make sure I’m fully recovered.”

Jaehyun turns his head, lips stretching.

“Did I make you cry when I was knocked out?” He tosses you a lopsided grin, tilting his head playfully. “You know you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

You suck in a sharp breath, heart squeezing in a way you didn’t think hearts could. Jaehyun has that glint in his eyes—not unlike the one he wore when he quipped between practices, or circled around you like a menacing cat. But there’s something else there too…

A curiosity. 

“I—” You clear your throat, sinking deeper into your scarf in a foolish attempt to tame the heat on your cheeks. “I wasn’t worried.”

“Not what I asked.” He smiles, softer this time. “I heard you, you know—saying my name.”

Your cheeks are now scalding hot to the touch, every inch of you aflame in mortification. 

It had been a mistake. You weren’t thinking… You certainly weren’t worried about the loser. Why would you be? He’s brash, he has horrible manners, he teases you, he embarrasses you, he… 

He did save you.

Before you can come up with a justification to why you didn’t outright hate him for a split second while he was out like a light, Jaehyun is already changing the topic, complaining about the annotations you’ve filled into the book in his hand. “Such a nerd,” he murmurs, but still keeps reading—an annoying smirk plastered onto his face. 

You groan. But in the private crevices of your mind, you can admit the relief you feel when he doesn’t bring up the subject again. 

“Why is your common room so far away, ugh,” you grunt, testing out your newly healed arm with a roll of the bones.  

“Sweetheart, if you stopped complaining for one second, we’d already be here.” 

Jaehyun has a slight limp to his steps, but Madam Kang had reluctantly let him leave the hospital wing—after several shameless bats of his lashes, and a long speech you’d prepared, listing all the reasons why the white walls would only slow down his recovery and how much more infuriating he had been getting in bed confinement. 

After all, it was Christmas eve tonight.   

“This is ridiculous,” you say as you follow after him, stepping through the hole behind the painting on the wall. 

He snickers at your whining, and stops abruptly so that he purposely makes you bump your head right into his back. 

“God, you are so—”

“Charming?” He swivels around.

“—Pesky.” You poke his forehead to push him out of the way. “Why did you even bring me to his hellhole?”

“Because it’s almost Christmas, and also because you haven’t let me show you my blueprints in exchange for me listening to you go on and on and on about the history of Quidd—”

“Shut it.” 

The first thing you smell when you move forward is the fire—inviting and gentle on your nose. The first thing you see is red; it almost sends you into a panic-induced coma. 

But your eyes adjust to the red in increments, slowly turning less aggressive in your mind.  

And you can acknowledge one thing: Gryffindor tower is the right opposite of yours; almost everything is gold or crimson, rustic in a way it makes you feel warm all over. Cosy. 

Jaehyun wastes no time before he flops onto the couch, stretching as though he was making a snow angel against the fabric. 

The place looks lived-in—evidence of friendship and family stretching from wall to wall: half finished board games, party hats strewn under the table, a festive poster someone has stuck to the bulletin. There’s a tree beside the window, glittering in reds and yellows—snowflakes spiralling down outside.

You linger at the scarlet tapestries on the wall, the lion motifs adorning the sides—then you trace your hands over the bookcase in reverent awe. 

It’s…beautiful.

Of course, you’d be lying to say it isn’t. It’s not home to you—not like the Ravenclaw common room—but you can imagine Jaehyun growing up here, spending his days lazing around and surrounded by his friends. There’s love lingering in every corner.  

“Come here,” Jaehyun waves you over, having planted himself on the carpet near the coffee table at some point along your assessment of the room. “This is a Nimbus 1000; you’re already familiar with it—” He smoothes out a large glossy blue diagram, with chalk and scales overlaying it. 

Of course you were familiar; it was your first-ever broomstick your dad bought you.

You sit next to him, leaning over as he pushes it towards you. 

“See the handle and how it's curved over here—that’s to reduce air drag,” he points out, bringing your finger to the drawing. 

It’s slightly smudged, as though he had pressed his fist across it while sketching it down—or fallen asleep late into the night, cheeks against the paper. It’s a surprisingly fond image.

“And,” he continues, delving into the intricacies of broom aerodynamics. “see this—that’s to help with turning 360 degrees mid-flight. An old but reliable model.”

“Who knew you could read, Myung?” You quip, an insult too shallow to hurt. “So this is what you’re off doing instead of completing your Charms homework.”

“Says the girl who spends the class taking down Quidditch notes instead of practicing spells.”

“Thought you didn’t see me as a girl,” you wiggle your eyebrows, finding yourself relaxing a little. 

He pauses to look at you—then grunts away a response. 

For the first time in a very long time, you don’t worry. When he finishes showing you his collection of blueprints and miniature broom models, you settle into comfortable company; you read out loud your favourite passages from Quidditch Through the Ages as he works on another sketch—nodding along to your words with a question here and there.

Time quietly slips away; the world hangs its head as the hour hand walks its way to twelve. A cuckoo pops out to announce Christmas day.  

Jaehyun’s eyes are half open, head tossed back against the couch cushion. You’ve accidentally come to rest your side against his, fingertips a hair’s breath away from his. 

“Y/N,” he murmurs, dazed.

You aren’t any better. “Hmm?”

“Merry… Merry Christmas." 

Maybe it registers in your mind, maybe it doesn’t. Nonetheless, a smile shows itself.

“Merry Christmas,” You don’t even hear your own voice, eyes drooping closed, “Jaehyun.”

Christmas arrives, and you aren’t alone for the night. 

── 𓇢𓆸 

Gryffindor common room - Christmas 

“When I said let’s get food—” you huff, teetering on your heels. “—I didn’t mean the entire kitchen, Myung.”

“God forbid a man likes pastry,” he pouts through a cheekful of tart, barely balancing a mountain of plates in his hand, almost dropping an entire bowl of mini candy canes onto the plush red carpet. 

“The man needs to stop talking while he eats,” you frown in disgust, swerving out of the way before he sprays crumbs onto you. 

Morning light spills through the open window. It’s chilly, but the roaring fire and woollen clothes keep you warm. There’s a light trill of birds over someone humming carols from the grounds below. 

You and Jaehyun spend the entire morning and afternoon digging into as many delicacies as you can, and as quickly as your tummy allows. Being athletes called for a strict control over overindulgence—or at least for those of you who actually kept to it.

But today is an exception—you get to stuff yourself to your heart’s content.

Cupcake wrappers litter the coffee table, pavlova cream smeared at plate edges. The jars of what used to contain eggnog sits empty. The fruit cake is demolished. 

Jaehyun lies spread-eagle on the floor, patting his belly.

You would chide him for being so ungraceful—had you not been in the exact same situation. 

“I regret everything, ugh. Why didn’t you stop me?” You can barely speak through the pain in your chest, eggnog swirling dangerously within your tummy. 

“I did try,” Jaehyun grumbles. “You told me to go take a swan-dive off the Astronomy tower.”

You don’t refute.

It’s another minute before a lightbulb sparks alive on the top of your head—and he seems to have the same idea. 

What better way to work out the kinks in your muscles, to let off steam and to truly enjoy Christmas to its maximum?

“Broomride?” you ask.

“Broomride.” he nods.

The sun is only beginning to descend—making the Great Lake shimmer at the surface. Jaehyun swoops above the water, grinning as the cold air nips at his skin, his red scarf whipping behind him as he speeds up.

You join him with the same enthusiasm, not hiding the smile that escapes you. Hogwarts feels so small from up here—nothing but one of Jaehyun’s miniature models, an ant among giants. It’s breathtaking. To fly after ages feels like having your first inhale of a breath after holding it in for so long. 

When you finally come back down to earth, feet skidding against the gravel, the rush of flight hasn’t worn off yet.

“This is where you pushed me off from,” Jaehyun leans over the pier, looking down into the bottomless blue, where merpeople and squids resided in their own pockets of life. 

“‘Push’ is a strong word,” you refute. “I prefer…‘gave you the nudge you needed.’”

“No wonder I choose to run before you can get me now,” he chuckles, skipping a stone over the gently cascading water. 

You follow suit, trying to outdo him, but come up two steps too short. “You don’t run when it matters though…that’s the important bit.”

Jaehyun remains silent; he knows you’re hovering over things you want to say—too afraid to acknowledge the elephant in the room, wary of breathing things into existence where they need not be. 

It must be the sunset softening your edges—because the words roll off your tongue as you watch the light bathe over the lake.

“You… saved me. You didn’t even think before you dived.”

Jaehyun’s eyes widen at your words.

Honestly, he never thought you’d mention it again. You aren’t the type to linger on guilt or pity—someone who worked through feelings with a book and a quill. And occasionally, a blackboard. He isn’t equipped to handle such a straightforward sentence out your mouth.

Jaehyun’s mouth is parted, words teetering between honesty and fear. 

“Seeker’s instinct,” he finally says. 

He’s not sure if he even believes it himself. There’s a truth there, but it’s not the entirety of it. 

For a Gryffindor, he was every bit a coward as you regarded him to be, Jaehyun thinks.

You, however, nod—taking what he’s willing to offer, not demanding anything more. 

Jaehyun wonders if you feel guilty for his broken leg. He nudges your shoulder with his own, keeping you rooted when you meet his eyes—with something more than just delicacy swimming underneath those brown flecks. 

“It’s not your fault. I was the one who jumped before thinking,” he says softly, a hint of self-blame dancing around his assurance. “Don’t worry that head of yours, alright?” For good measure, he gently flicks your temple, earning a shove into his ribs.

Before he can fall off into the water once again, in a perfect replication of the incident from three years ago—you pull him back onto solid ground by the neck of his sweater, letting him lean his weight against you, his still weak leg swaying.

“Thanks,” you say.

‘For saving me, for the anonymous tips,...for being here, for going into a food coma with me, for flying with me all day,’ goes unsaid, but the warmth in your gaze conveys it all. He doesn’t pull away; you don’t let him.

For the first time in years, you can admit you may enjoy Myung Jaehyun’s company.

It turns out to be one of the nicest Christmases you’ve ever had.

Great hall - first day of Spring Term

”Park Gunwook, stop eating the chocolate! That’s for Y/N!” Liz smacks the taller boy’s hands, making him drop a handful of bonbons back into the silver case. 

“Y/N-ie!!” She veers around him to throw herself against you—her own version of a hug. “I missed you!!”

“She did,” Gaeul appears behind her, grinning. “Wouldn’t shut up about it. My deaf Grandma had the worst three hours of her life trying to understand why she kept crying over home-made cookies.”

“The wonky one reminded me of Y/N,” Liz pouts, and you swing your hand back to punch her in the arm. 

But you’re interrupted by the barrage of the rest of the Ravenclaws flooding in through the main doors—Ricky, Leeseo, and Kazuha all mid-chatter and heading straight for you. You take turns hugging them, letting Kazuha ruffle your hair.

“Had a good holiday? Or should I ask—had a good Quidditch vacay?” She pinches your cheeks.

“You could say that,” you mumble, but don’t elaborate when she throws you a questioning look.

It’s a miracle that you’re saved from Liz’s nosy interrogation—thankfully, she’s too distracted by Gunwook now choking on what should have been your present. 

You watch them play around—returning to the welcoming dynamics of your friend-group—everyone settling comfortably back into the routine of awaiting classes, taking in the ceiling that was charmed to swirl snow onto the four long tables, watching as the other houses began to trickle in one after another. 

Then you wonder if one of those red scarves is Jaehyun’s. 

After Christmas, you had found a new sense of rhythm with him; more broomrides at night, a lot of discussions-turned-debates over flight moves and strategies… You even ended up showing him your most prized possession—your Quidditch notebook where you scratched down every fleeting thought and every observation you’ve ever made since the third year. 

In return, he’d practiced day and night with you—helping you act quicker without thinking too hard, reminding you not to strain your arm when you swung with too much force.

New year’s rolled around, and nothing changed for the worse. 

In fact, you even let yourself indulge in the gift-giving festivities: he now held onto your annotated copy of Flying with the Cannons—a note with his name and a haphazardly written ‘happy new year’ slipped into it.  And you… You were now the (not) proud owner of a miniature model of Tweety bird on a broomstick. 

“It’s a bird… Why the fuck does it need a broom?” You had asked, squinting at it in your palm.

Jaehyun had been undeterred, simply giggling when he’d said, “Can’t I be a little poetic, L/N?”

The memory is fond, feeling like an old story than from only a couple days ago. You’re trying to recollect your exact feeling of that moment when—

“Ah, stuffing your face as usual, I see,” Seok Matthew struts into view with a smirk, arms hidden in the depths of his trouser-pockets. 

Gunwook sneers around his chocolate, “Fuck you, Seok.”

“Fuck me yourself, coward.” The Gryffindor taunts, his smirk only growing.

“Jerk!” Gunwook squeezes his fists, flaring his nostrils in what is supposed to be intimidation.

It’s three seconds away from what could be anything between a food fight and a fist fight, when a steady hand pulls Matthew back before Gunwook can ambush him.  

“Hwan-” begins Kazuha, but she doesn’t finish when she realises that it isn’t the reliable vice captain that’s keeping them from decking each other. It’s—

“Myung,” you greet—softer than you should. 

“L/N,” he responds, likewise. 

“Y/N, let me at him,” Gunwook punches the air, trying to push past Kazuha. But you interject.

“Save that brawl for finals, we still need to get through one more match.” You say it casually, without dwelling on the meaning—but fourteen pairs of incredulous eyes whip around to stare at you. 

“What?” You blink at them. 

“...You’re…” Gunwook scrunches his brows together. “...stopping me from hitting him?”

You open your mouth, realise you have nothing fruitful to say—then close it at once. 

To make matters worse, Jaehyun doesn’t jump in at the convenient gap with one of his usual taunts. Instead, he’s looking past everyone, straight at you—with an expression that toes the line between tenderness, and like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

“I—” You gulp. “We’ll only lose house points if you injure him,” you say, turning towards Gunwook. “And I want you in perfect condition so we can beat these idiots.”

It seems to do the job—albeit just barely; Gunwook brightens up with newfound vigour, throwing a condescending look at Matthew for good measure. Liz joins in with a smirk and a covert middle finger pulled out of her robe’s pocket. 

Jaehyun just…smiles. 

“Alright,” he says simply—no malice, no hidden undertones. 

His relaxed tone sends a shiver down everyone’s spine, including your own—Ricky prickling up like a frightened cat, Gunwook’s eyes going wide. 

But Jaehyun is already walking off to the Gryffindor table with his arm around Matthew, who also seems to be just as confused at his captain’s sudden change in personality. 

“Is he trying to scare us?!” Liz gasps, “What the actual fuck was that?”

“He’s just—” You grasp at the clay model inside your pocket—the bird on the broom. “—being infuriating again. Don’t mind it.”

Gunwook starts to refute, but you cut in before he can start digging your grave—

“We have a match to practice for, and we’re already behind compared to those Hufflepuffs. I better see a huge improvement in the next two months, or it's back to the drawing board.”

Everyone zips their lips at once, slowly deflecting back to conversations about homework and professors. 

While the chatter builds and you begin to leave for your first class of the day, something new gnaws at your brain—not just the usual buzz of caffeine and Quidditch jargon. 

Because now, you have another thorn in your side: the near-impossible task of keeping up appearances with your supposed enemy, Myung Jaehyun—who, you realise, you don’t seem to hate as much anymore. 

── 𓇢𓆸 

“I almost got that point,” Gyuvin complains, stopping in front of the Ravenclaw hoops.

”Not my fault you move like a snail,” Gaeul says simply, her nonchalance more cutting than any bite the rest of your team could manage.

It’s yet another joint practice—blue and red robes billowing in the damp January air, snowcapped towers and grounds existing beneath like the inside of a snow globe. 

You’re tracking the movements of your team, mentally jotting down any details you might want to record for later. Kazuha is flying parallel to Ricky, receiving the Quaffle from him, cutting past Hanbin’s tricky ambush to head for the Gryffindor base. 

She swings it into the central hoop, scoring another ten points.

At the next play, you aim your Bludger at Intak before he can do the same to Ricky, managing the strength to knock it into his torso and make him lose his grasp. The novelty of getting the six-foot player to concede fills your heart with satisfaction. 

As though on instinct, you look for him—and find that Jaehyun is looking back at you, sporting a smile that clearly meant he was proud of you for not hesitating. 

It becomes a routine—stolen glances, the accidental mid-air bumps that were less than unfriendly, the way he circles around you for absolutely no reason when he should be looking for the Snitch…

The routine, for lack of better words, carries into your daily lives.

Jaehyun quietly saves you a seat when you come in late for Charms—away from the prying eyes of your teams, private and safe. You talk—over a growing bundle of Quidditch books and blueprints, in the tucked-away corners of the lake where few wandered, over your carefully aligned trips to Professor Jeon’s office when he calls for the captains. Over nothing and everything. 

“I’m telling you, let your Beaters aim for the knee if it’s Park Sunghoon—he loses balance every single time,” You tap the page of your play plan. “And if it’s Taesan, well…”

“I swear he’s got a thing for our Gryffindor prefect, dude,” Jaehyun insists.

The two of you sit side by side on a makeshift seat over the rocks overlooking the Great Lake, a shared notebook between you.

You respond in similar fervour, “Wait seriously? …that explains all the… staring.”

“He’s always bothering her with his pranks, though. She probably hates his guts.”

“Can you blame her? Childish pigtail-pulling only gets you so far.” You shake your head, disappointed in general at the male species. “Ugh, men.”

“Yeah?” Jaehyun’s voice is teasing, but slightly soft. “What would you suggest then?”

“Hmm?”

“If not pigtail pulling—” He waits for you to look his way before he finishes. “What would you suggest works?”

Your heart speeds without warning.

He’s wearing that look again—a hint of a lingering smile, the brown flecks in his dark eyes evident under the backdrop of sunlight hitting the snow—unguarded—his heart right on his sleeve, waiting to slip off into your hands if you offer them to him…

“I—” You lose breath from just looking at him—him and his stupid, earnest eyes… ”So Hufflepuff, ahem!”

Jaehyun all but groans. 

However, he has the self-respect to right himself, brushing off the slight pinch to his ego, and giving way to your digression.

“Their Captain might look all sweet but that guy’s a monster. Keep on his heels when you’re up there,” Jaehyun offers.

“Hao? The guy that stank up the entire Great Hall because he had to just eat his durian out in the open?” 

“Same one. Wolf in a sheep’s clothing, I swear, their whole lot.”

“Rich coming from you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes for him to see.

He ignores it.

“Hao prefers his right side too much, it was so obvious from our last match,” Jaehyun takes the quill from you to add his own little note to the margins. “And I think he’s into our Chaser.”

“Hanbin? Oh yeah, saw it from a mile away. I knew they were giving each other eyes in your last match.”

“Knew you came to spy on us.” He grins, and you pull his cheeks down so it turns into a pained frown.

“I wasn’t spying.”

“Ogling, then.”

“Ew…who would I ogle at…you?”

“Awww, is my Y/N-ie shy?” He coos, lightly grazing the nib of the quill against your nose, leaving a tiny blue mark there. “You weren’t like this when we were in the Hospital Wing and you were all like, ‘Jae-Jaehyun!’” he says in mock sorrow—an embarrassing imitation of your voice.

“WELL, SORRY FOR THINKING YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN DEAD—” you huff, jumping off the rock and beginning to stomp away, but he drags you back to your spot by your wrist. 

“Okay, okay—truce!” He puts both arms up in surrender. “Back to tactics, c’mon.”

You still pout but let him coax you back into strategising. 

“Sakura sticks to a pattern—it’s always, begin on the left, zig-zag across, then she goes right,” you explain as you point at your notes, “You can basically predict her next move before she even starts.”

“That should make it easy then—she’s faster than me as a Seeker, so I have trouble when we need to dive for the Snitch sometimes.”

You offer him advice based on your experience from playing against Slytherin, and he in turn, does the same for your eventual match against Hufflepuff. 

In Charms, the two of you pass notes—little tidbits that you might have not remembered to tell each other the day before. Then he’s slipping scraps of paper into your robe as he passes by you across the Quidditch field—nimble and deft with his hands—you make sure to tell him that he’d make an excellent pickpocket if being an athlete doesn’t work out in the future. 

And then…he stops with the niceties altogether. 

“Good game, partner.” Jaehyun extends his hand out to you after one of your joint practice matches.

You hesitate before taking it, too self-conscious of whether people see. “Hm, yeah.” You avert your eyes.

But he shamelessly lingers on your palm, gently tugging it closer. The pulse under your wrists speeds up dangerously, heart thudding when you look up to see him move your hand closer to his lips—you gulp, thinking he might press a kiss to it—

Jaehyun winks, a smirk appearing before he softly returns your hand back to you.

You almost combust.

//

“What the fuck, Myung? You can’t just—”

“Just?”

“—Flirt in front of my team!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “They can’t know that we’re—”

“That we’re..?” Jaehyun’s eyebrows raise; he’s smiling—not a bit concerned about you stressing out. “That we’re what, Sweetheart?”

Your temple throbs again. It’s infuriating—how easily he drives you up the wall, how he knows the exact buttons to push to elicit the exact reactions from you—how he knows you inside out like his own mind. 

“Don’t call me that.” You pout, plopping down on the bleachers. “You flirt like it’s your life blood.”

“Only with you, I’ve already told you this,” He puts his cheeks in his palms, leaning in. “I can stop if you hate it.”

You don’t respond. 

You can’t… There’s no way to know if you truly do hate it. Your body seemed to react to his sweet-talking with the same alertness it reserved for an active threat situation—heart racing, adrenaline coursing… but you can’t even say some part of you hasn’t started to look forward to the symptoms now.

Instead of acknowledging his words, you end up asking— 

“Why do you keep helping me?” 

The thought has been weighing you down like a head on a pillow—steadily, maybe even comfortably. There are so many answers he could give you, each one just as tender. 

But what he says knocks the air out of your lungs, and perhaps your heart just falls out and gives itself to the boy in front of you… 

“Maybe I want to make sure my last match here will be with you.” Jaehyun’s voice is a whisper. 

Snow softly drifts—melting atop his inky locks—and then you actually look at him. 

He is no longer the same thirteen year old boy that flew circles around you, or taunted you with his natural talent. He’s older now, his features sharper, shoulders broader—more reliable. 

But his eyes…they’re still as soft, still playful like a kid’s.

You wonder if you just never saw him before, or if you just refused to admit that you did. 

“...I,” you begin, but he’s already pulling you up with him.

“Play a 1 v 1 with me?” he asks, cheeks pink, and smile soft. 

When you finally nod, he’s turning away, leading you down to the broom stands.

Oh.

You watch his back, the way he turns around to look at you—and the world freezes for a second.

Oh, you think.

You’re fucked.

── 𓇢𓆸 

You’re thoroughly, absolutely fucked.

Jaehyun, when left unstopped, is a force to be reckoned with.

He flirts with a newfound passion now—in-between classes, during broomrides, up in the astronomy tower where you once take him to try out a nosedive—on the Quidditch pitch, twenty feet up in the air. 

The location is a second thought to him—all that matters is that he gets to say the word ‘Sweetheart’ to you, minimum three times a day.

“Sweetheart, you forgot to sleep today, didn’t you?”

“Sweetheart, do you think I should start shaving? I think it gives me a rugged look though, no?”

“Sweetheart, why aren’t you wearing your scarf, it’s freezing cold—here, take mine—”

“Myung Jaehyun, shut the fuck up,” You slam a hand to your forehead as he stares quizzically. “Why aren’t you celebrating your win with your team?”

The two of you stand crammed together in a tiny nook behind one of the stairs; Jaehyun is sweaty from his match against Slytherin, face flushed and chest still heaving. You had come to watch, but somehow, in a turn of events that was simultaneously strange and predictable—he had found you right after.

“It’s your win just as it is mine,” he says giddily, “I couldn’t have made that dive if you hadn’t practiced with me.”

“Lies. You didn’t need me for that.”

“I always need you.”

“God, ugh,” You drag your palms down your face, ready to pound your head against the wall. “You are so annoying!”

“Aw, did I make Tweety bird mad?”

“What the fuck, Myung? Why do you keep calling me stuff like that!?”

“Because,” He shrugs. “You look like a Tweety Bird.”

When you just stare incredulously back at him, mouth agape, he elaborates, “Innocent and cute…and fun to chase around.”

“You can’t,” you sigh, ignoring the warmth pulsating inside your chest. “You can’t just keep doing this. Our teams hate each other, and…we can’t disappoint them.” The last sentence breaks out before you can think it through.

“And that’s the only reason?” he asks, coy.

You gulp, looking away. 

“Alright,” Jaehyun just nods, giving no indication that he intended to do as told, “I’ll hold back on the flirting.”

It’s an ominous statement, you think. The paranoia that claws its way up your body makes you stiffen when he ruffles your hair, saying nothing more after. 

He walks off to where his team waits for him—probably wondering where their Captain had gone off to—leaving you alone with your thoughts in a shadowy spot under the stairs. 

You wonder if you’ve awakened some sort of monster. 

Myung Jaehyun is no longer acting like Myung Jaehyun.

At least not the same one you’ve come to be familiar with—the obnoxious jerk who had somehow melted into a softer version of himself—a teasing, hyperactive puppy-dog of a human that kept following you around.

He takes what you had demanded of him and adds his own flair to it. 

You start to regret that you’d ever said those words. 

“Good game,” he says, without stringing a nickname at the end. “You did well.”

His words are still genuine, but you can tell he’s burying so much he would rather just say.

“Thanks,” you respond stiffly, the hair on your nape standing up. 

But a sly smile shows itself on his face. “What about me, did I do well?”

“Huh?” you sputter.

“I asked,” He leans in to whisper, his breath way too close to your lips. “Did I do well, Captain?”

You pray to the heavens above to swallow you whole, in case one of your teammates has heard it. 

Thankfully, they’re off to the sides, caught up in their own shenanigans—Gunwook seems to be attempting to break Matthews arm in what outwardly looks like a handshake, and Liz’s yells aimed at Gyuvin echoes as far as the distant mountains. 

Jaehyun is undeterred. “What?” he says again, in a pitch deep enough to send a shiver through you. “You said not to call you Sweetheart.” 

Before you can say anything intelligent in response, he walks off with a final squeeze to your palms. 

Then there’s your private strategy meet-ups: he shows up, talks just as enthusiastically about Quidditch with you, and every time the word ‘Sweetheart’ threatens to escape his mouth, he’ll replace it with something more dangerous.

Then there are his touches …

“Can you pass me that blueprint over there?” Jaehyun asks, pointing at the rolled-up paper next to you.

When you hand it to him, your fingertips accidentally brush against his, and the two of you look up to meet each other’s eyes. 

He smiles; you stutter. 

Or you’ll lean in too close without thinking, too caught up in recounting some historic match out of a guide, and when you look up, he’ll already be staring at you—shamelessly, with an attention he does not even offer to his school subjects. 

And it makes you have to dig your fingernails into your skin to keep yourself tethered to the material world.

In a twist you didn’t think the universe was cruel enough to pull on you, Myung Jaehyun proves to hold the capacity to be even more infuriating than you thought he could ever be.

And you are nothing but a victim of his perilous tenacity. 

Your paranoia spikes to an all time high when he approaches you from behind—making you jump in your own skin with just a casual greeting. You start to fear for your life lest he say something too sultry in front of your friends. You start watching your back, treating him like a threat to your life—a time-bomb about to explode that you need to run away from.

But he always finds you.

And you realise that you can’t take it anymore. 

His stupid face is in your head 24/7, his stupid voice now the narrator of your brain. He’s everywhere—physically, spiritually, in all the ways that suck the soul out of your body. 

Myung Jaehyun has cemented himself as the true bane of your existence.

After the nth time you catch yourself staring at his mouth while he rambled on about the Oakshaft 79, you decide you have had enough.

Jaheyun is on his way back from one of his classes, clueless as ever, caught up in his mental world of fast-going broomsticks when—

“Huh, what!—” He feels more than sees: the harsh tug of his necktie, the broom cupboard doors slamming shut behind him, drowning him in dancing shadows—and then you—and your mouth on his.

Your mouth…on…his?

“Y/N—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pulling him back down. Your hands tug at his nape, at his hair—tight enough to break, and eager enough to electrocute him. 

Jaehyun is stupidly giddy when any comment he might have attempted to make gets smothered by your kiss, fiery and deep. His hands come to find your waist, a desperate attempt to ground himself. It doesn’t work—his soul might as well be floating away with the way you kiss him breathlessly, in a rhythm that’s entirely primal.

When he dares to sneak a look at you, right as you part your mouth for him, he feels his heart skip several beats—your eyes are half-lidded, kiss-drunk, and Jaehyun feels himself lose all inhibition at once. 

He takes control, pushing you up against a wall, curling a hand around both your wrists when they come loose from his neck. Warmth prods at the seams of your lips, and you surrender to it. 

Jaehyun feels the same way he does twenty feet up in the sky, chasing headfirst after a Snitch, when the adrenaline rushes through him—purely chemical. 

Maybe it’s because he knows you so well, knows exactly what to predict from you, all the right buttons to push to coax a soft gasp out of your mouth. You might have been good at observing other players, but Jaehyun was the best when it came to studying you.

You let him kiss you with everything he’s got, as though he was making up for lost time—for all his wasted ‘Sweetheart’s and all the times he should have just given into his impulse. You think of how you used to hate him—and the memory only feeds your need to remind him that it’s different now—that the line between hate and love was want, and you’d been toeing it for a long time now. 

When you finally part, his hands are still where they were five minutes ago, his lips shiny, eyes dropped down to your mouth—he’s already thinking of a second round. 

But before Jaehyun’s about to dive down again, you press your palm against his mouth. 

He frowns behind it, like a kicked puppy.

“Not now,” you say—it comes out as a promise for later. His frustrated whine gets blanketed by your hand, and you shoot him a stern look.

You then peel back, adjust your uniform back into place, and poke a finger into his chest as a threatening reminder. “We never speak of this again, deal?”

He nods, dazed, mind still floating in the memory of your taste. 

“Good.” You leave him there, looking downright intoxicated—knees weak, tie askew, mouth parted, eyes in a slow-blinking haze, hair resembling a bird’s nest—disheveled from head to toe. 

When the door closes, Jaehyun leans his forehead against the wall and lets out a long and pleased sigh. 

You were going to be the death of him. 

“We did it, Y/N,” Kazuha’s hug is fierce as it is warm. “We won!”

“They didn’t stand a chance!” Leeseo bounces, punching her broom in the air, earning a round of ‘hooray’s from the stands. 

The entire Ravenclaw house roars from the crowd, blazing posters of blue and silver, chanting your names when you win them the last match before finals.

Finals.

You’ll be playing against Gryffindor.

Ricky and Gunwook pull everyone into a group hug, the latter close to tears at your hard-earned victory. There’s a light drizzle in the air, making everything look foggy beyond a distance; your hair is slightly damp, your skin buzzes with sweat and moisture, and your body is still stuck on the high of winning.

“Maybe I want to make sure my last match here will be with you.” Jaehyun’s voice echoes in your mind.

You don’t waste any time before seeking him out the first opportunity you find to free yourself from your team. He’s, as predicted, lingering somewhere behind the stands—bundled up in warm clothes, a cable knit sweater instead of his uniform, a thick scarf over it, and fuzzy gloves over his fingers. 

“Y/N, Congrat—” The rest turns into a yelp when you drag him by the collar, to a secluded recess behind the wooden planks. 

You lean up to press a single kiss to his lips.

Jaehyun doesn’t need to be told twice—he discards his gloves somewhere so that he can feel your cheeks underneath his palm without a barrier, thumbing away at the rain-kissed skin there. Then he pulls you back in, deepening it—his fingers coming to rest behind your head, freeing your hair from the confines of your tight ponytail. 

Maybe it's the adrenaline from the match, but you push back just as desperately—swallowing any and all sounds that escape him. Your teeth accidentally graze against his bottom lip, and he shivers against you, then squeezes your waist in response. 

“Congrats,” he ends up whispering into another kiss.

“Thanks,” you huff, too impatient for breaks. “It was—fuck,” Another kiss. “You helped.”

“Yeah?” He smiles against your kiss.

“Yeah.” You nod, eyes only half open. 

And just like that, yet another thing gets added into your routine—stolen kisses behind stairwells, more broom cupboard rendezvous, some softer, some heated, but always the same pattern—by the end, you have his mouth perfectly memorised like the insides of your Quidditch guides. 

Sometimes you want to kiss him because he’s being a gentleman to you on the pitch—offering his scarf when you accidentally shiver, or slipping a candy-bar into your pockets on days you’ve forgotten to eat. 

Other times, it’s when he’s being an absolute shit.

“You’re fucking annoying,” you complain, but your actions contradict the words when you’re shoving him against a wall to kiss the smirk off of his face.

“And you, Miss Captain,” he giggles, “have a potty mouth.”

“And what about it?” You raise one brow threateningly. 

“Oh nothing,” Jaehyun smoothens the knot between them with his thumb. “I like it, actually. You’re kinda hot when you’re mean.”

All you can respond with is a flustered cough, a grunt, and then another attempt to shut him up—with your mouth on his. 

Days bleed into weeks, and before you know it, your life has condensed into half-attended classes, a growing list of diagrams on your soon-to-finish notebook, more Quidditch practices with the Gryffindor team, and kisses that taste like fire and chocolate. 

The best part? Nobody but you and him knows—the thrill of a secret and the comfort of something hidden, it keeps you moving. On days when your stress threatens to break you, its his lips and heat that helps you let off steam. 

You start to look forward to seeing Jaehyun every day. And the dread of finals turns into a promise to be kept—you would beat him before you graduate Hogwarts, and you’ll do it with the assurance that he’ll come find you afterwards no matter what. 

And you’ll kiss all the animosity away, leaving behind only giddy warmth to replace it. 

//

A dent in your plan comes in the shape of one cat-like Chaser.

“Why aren’t you aiming at Myung anymore?” Ricky questions one day after practice, as you’re walking off the field, peeling off your gear.

“Huh?”

“You didn’t throw the Bludger at him even once today.”

You freeze; the chill that runs down your body is not from the cold.

He isn’t entirely wrong. You aim at every other Gryffindor on the team, but when it comes to a certain fluffy-haired boy… Your hand just happens to re-evaluate where you want to hit the ball, and it’s almost never at him.

“...Umm…”

“Is he threatening you, Y/N? ”Ricky asks seriously; it’s a little comedic—how earnest he seems about the concept of you potentially being blackmailed by the hyperactive Seeker of a boy.

You could do two things to worm your way out of his question—you could brush it off and change the topic to today’s weather and distract Ricky easily—he was as easy to bait as a cat is. Or, you could choose the slightly more deranged alternative and say:

“Ye-ah.”

“He is!?” Ricky is all ears—and eyes, from how large they grow. “I knew it, that asshole!”

It doesn’t take too long before the entire team is convinced that Myung Jaehyun was no longer just a headache in your life, but now also an active threat to their dearest captain. 

“We’ll avenge you, Y/N-ie.” Gunwook says, and Liz nods along vigorously over her bowl of warm popcorn. “We’ll beat them dead at finals… 

“Get it?” He turns to Liz. “Cuz I’m a beater…”

Liz stuffs some popcorn into his mouth to keep it shut before he can start guffawing at his own lame joke.

“Will you at least say what dirt he’s got on you?” Leeseo pipes up, curious.

The team is spread out around the common room—Gunwook, Liz and Kazuha on the baby blue couch, Ricky is off at the open window, having a staring contest with a black cat, and Leeseo hangs onto you over your shoulder as you scribble annotations into a guide-book over the short table. 

Gaeul paces around the room as she tries to memorise her Ancient Ruins vocabulary. 

“Secret,” you say before dipping your quill back into the ink bottle. 

Liz boos to express her discontentment, and Leeseo deflates with a pout.

“What we need to focus on,” you continue, “is the match against Gryffindor next month. And making sure we study their last one so we’re ready for finals.”

The room freezes collectively.

Gaeul stops walking, Gunwook’s popcorn falls out of his open mouth, Liz gapes, Ricky does a slow, dramatic turn of his head—Kazuha asks, “What did you just say..?”

You blink, confused—scared, “Huh?”

“You just said,” Gaeul repeats, her hand falling limp at her side. “Gryffindor.”

The gulp that runs down your throat is a painful one. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t—”

“You’re not even gagging after Gaeul unnie said their name.” Leeseo is in complete shock. “Are you sick?”

“I’m—” You touch Jaheyun’s new year’s gift inside your pocket, tightening your fist around to stop your anxiety from spiking.

Ricky, however, has his absurd theory. “Did Myung Jaehyun hex you? Oh my god, did he obliviate your memorie—”

“No! What?”

“It must be a fever then,” Leeseo places her hand on your forehead to check for a temperature. “You shouldn’t stress out over the finals too much. It might make you sick.”

You can’t do anything but nod, letting the girls coax you back under your bedsheets, laying a cold towel on your head, and forcefully detaching your notebook from your grasp.

You’re pretending to be a bedridden victim, when it was the last thing you were in reality.

The rest of them leave after more chiding, and stacking several healing potions near your bed for easy reach; Kazuha, however, stays behind.

“So…” she begins, careful. Your eyes trail up to hers, fear ballooning. 

Then, she grins like the devil.

“You sly dog,” Kazuha smirks. “You’re with Myung Jaehyun.”

Everything you thought you didn’t need to be prepared for comes to bite you in the rear with a single, terrifying truth. She knows.

“What?” You attempt, feigning confusion. “Pfft, no…pffft …fuck no!”

She’s having none of it. “Y/N-ie, my dearest, you made the entire team bathe in salt the last time Leeseo accidentally said the G-word. I had salt in my ear for days.” 

You open your mouth to protest, but she won’t let you. “We have to touch wood every time you see the colour red…You made Gaeul look up devil-warding talismans before last year’s match against them.

“And,” Her sneaky eyes trail down, a finger moving your collar out of the way, “That there, my friend, is no mosquito bite.”

Your entire face turns scarlet—too close to resembling the Gryffindor red, as though in mockery. 

“It’s not what you think!” You spring up, the wet towel flopping down onto your lap as you grab Kazuha by the shoulders, clutching it for dear life. “Listen! He and I—we’re…It’s—”

“My dearest Y/N,” She combs away the fray hair on your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. “You are a terrible liar.”

“Ricky believed me!” You give up trying to defend yourself, simply falling forward to place your forehead onto her shoulder. 

“Ricky’s an idiot,” she supplies, “And so are the rest of our team, thankfully. For a bunch of Ravenclaws, we’re pretty dumb when it comes to things like this.”

You sniffle dramatically, groaning as you realise what’s happened. Kazuha knows of you and Myung Jaehyun—the asshole you’re supposed to hate. The idiot you might be betraying your house for. 

“You guys are cute together,” She smiles. “I always thought his fighting was too superficial to be anything real—he always looks like he’s two steps away from flirting.”

“You’re not…mad?” You come up for air, blinking.

She just grins, taking your hands in her’s. “Of course, not. You’ve been looking happier these days…more energetic. And oh my god, your skin is glowing—”

“Oh shut up.” You roll your eyes, but the smile that escapes you is real. “Thanks…for being a good friend.”

“Only the best.” She winks.

“Yeah, you’re right,” You let her drag you into a hug, “Only the best.”

“Shush, don’t let Liz here that.” 

The weight on your chest elevates, just a little bit. 

Now if only the rest of your team was gauranteed to react the same way…

//

“So, any Ravenclaw inside scoop I can cash in on with a kiss?” Jaehyun wiggles his eyebrows, already pulling you flush against him, leaning closer with one hand braced on the wall next to your head. The staircase is quiet except for your whispers.

You push him away by the tip of your wand; he winces in confusion. “Kazhuha knows,” you say with a sigh.

“Hmm? Nakamura?...your Chaser?” He quirks his head.

“My best friend,” you correct, “We fucked up big time.”

“Oh, c’mon, who cares?” Jaehyun leans back in again, too eager to keep his hands to himself. 

“Me,” you say, stopping him again. He pouts. “Stop making that face. We need to be more careful from now on. My reputation is going to the sewers if they realise I’m with the likes of you.”

“Hey, that’s mean.”

“You said you like me mean.”

“That—” he pauses, then nods with a sigh. “That is very true. You have great memory.”

“We need a game plan—so we don’t get caught by Ricky of all people again… God, I should have just swung that Bludger at your head, then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Uh… come again?” 

“They think I’m going soft!” you huff, crossing your arms. “Me! Soft! Can you believe it?”

“You are soft.” Jaehyun manages to pry your arms apart, pulling you close to his chest. You can hear his heart thud in a gentle rhythm against yourself. “Soft over here,” He pokes your cheeks. “Soft over here too.” He points to where your heart should be. “I blame them for realising too late.”

“Yeah?” You roll your eyes, albeit with all intention of entertaining his whims. “And you, Myung? When did you realise it?”

His eyes soften and he swallows nervously, an action not befitting the cocky Seeker you knew most of the time. “That time you called my name in the Hospital Wing. You sounded so…like you cared. Like beneath all that ice, I still somehow mattered to you somehow…”

“Oh… “ 

Jaehyun’s eyes are in their most vulnerable—soul bared as a stream of gentle colours spills over his cheeks from the stained glass window above. 

“Can you say it again?” he asks; it sounds like a spell. “My name.”

You answer with a kiss to his cheek, then another that lands at the corner of his lips—before he rights you and guides you to his mouth, letting you draw out something sweet. At the next press, you whisper against him, “Jaehyun.”

He smiles—just as sweet as he tastes. 

“Again?”

“Jaehyun…” Another peck. 

“Again,” he demands.

“Okay, you jerk—”

“Y/N,” he giggles, “L/N Y/N,… How am I ever gonna stay away from you?”

“Just until we graduate. Then you’ll join the Chudley Cannons—”

“And you’ll be with the Harpies.”

“—And we’ll have all the freedom in the world.”

“Promise me a broomride when this is all over.” It’s not a question.

“Promise.” You nod anyway. 

Staying away from Jaehyun proves to be harder than you expect it to be.

You’ve been attuned to tracking his figure at all times of day. It’s become second nature to find him, or for him to find you—lingering outside classrooms before you head off towards the lake, holding the seat beside yours in Charms for him, waiting all night to share a new piece of Quidditch news with him the next chance you get to. 

But now, you have to actively remind yourself to do the opposite. 

“You look tired,” Kazuha comments as you curl up into the couch, eyes burning from reading for too long. “Had dinner?”

You shake your head.

“Had lunch?”

You shake your head again.

“Did you fight with Myung—”

“Can you be quiet!?” You slap your hand across her mouth. “And no!”

Her response is muffled. “What’s going on then?”

“Nuffin.”

“Y/N—”

“I haven’t seen him, alright?” you groan in shame, hiding behind the crook of your elbow. “I..I..”

“Yes?... You…?”

“I…umm..”

“Almost there…”

“I miss him, okay!?” you whine, face the shade of a beetroot, pride crumbling down. “I hate that I miss him.”

It’s been weeks since you’ve shared any real contact with Jaehyun—no kisses awaiting a draining practice, no home to go to for warmth when you begin to feel the weight of pressure.

The worst part is, you don’t get to seek out his voice, to talk to him when it’s all you want to do—ramble about strategies, watch him doodle little broomsticks to help you take your mind off of championships, any passing moment that you can steal away from him—none of those exist anymore.

Your frustration amplifies when he still greets you with the contained happiness he needed to keep your… this thing, whatever it was, between you—a secret. 

When Jaehyun swoops past the Chasers and straight towards you, grazing your fingers as he reaches for the Snitch—your heart stutters; you can see Kazuha smirking coyly from behind him, and Ricky gritting his teeth like a hissing cat—still under the assumption that Myung Jaehyun had some sort of deep-running bad blood with you. 

It’s stupidly funny, and nightmarishly vexing, at the same time.

You miss him when he’s near you, touching barely but not enough. You miss him when he’s away—manifesting in your dreams that were usually about night rides on your beloved Firebolt—his phantom now on a broom right next to yours, on days where you’ll look at your Tweety bird model and think of him; he’s a permanent itch in your brain.

Each day that draws you closer to the finals heightens the buzz in your chest, turning dread into raw desperation—to win, and to finally meet him at eye-length, in the ultimate clash of your high-school Quidditch career.

You were so close to keeping your vow. 

You would prove to him that you were worthy of being his rival—of being the one who gets to stand alongside him in the last ever match you’d ever play at Hogwarts—his fated enemy, the best Beater he’d ever bear witness to. 

You would not let him, or yourself, down now.

── 𓇢𓆸 

Hogwarts Quidditch pitch - Finals: Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw 

It’s the day you’ve been waiting for—the day all your sleepless nights, every second you’ve spent on this same field to perfect yourself will be put to the test.

The last ever match you’ll have at Hogwarts.

“Brooms up!” Professor Jeon’s voice echoes from the mid-field. 

Jaehyun and you meet each other’s eyes—the rest of the world all but a blur. 

He grins, you grin back. Electricity crackles between you.

You mount your broom, and a sharp whistle blasts through the summer weather, the four enchanted balls whizzing out of their containment. Cold gave into heat, skins sticky from the weightless air. 

Kazuha, Liz, and Ricky fly parallel to each other, spanning across the pitch before they spread out in different directions.  

Tensions are high twenty feet up in the air—figures in blue and red whooshing by like ants from a distance. The crowd roars below you, cheering for either team as they attempt to outdo the other, both houses pumped with adrenaline—players and audience alike.

Liz narrowly avoid a Bludger from Intak, maneuvering around it to make the first goal.

“Ten points to Ravenclaw!” booms the commentator’s voice.

No time to waste; it’s a dive right back into the game without stopping to breath. Kazuha’s next shot is kicked away by the Gryffindor Keeper, Woonhak. He grins as he waits for Intak to send him a thumbs-up. 

Your brain buzzes with the mantra you’ve been teaching yourself during the past four years of rigorous training: Do not mess up your last game, do not start on the wrong foot, and do not ruin everything.

Do not waste time on thinking.  

Bracing yourself, you swing your bat against the hard iron of the Bludger flying past you, sending it whizzing at Jaehyun’s back. 

But he sees you from the corner of his eye, sensing your presence from just a huff of your beath. He swivels on his broom to dodge, ending up upside down—his hair flopping down in a fluffy mess. 

“You’re cute.” He manages to say through a proud chuckle.

“You’re aggravating,” you smile.

In the midst of the heart-pounding game—at the dead centre of the mass of flying bodies, echoes of hollers and house chants beyond the boundary of what held just you and him—sparks fly between your narrowed eyes. 

I missed you, his say.

I’m gonna win, yours reply.

Hanbin passes the Quaffle to Yujin, right as Gunwook attempts to knock him off his broom. They streak past your Chasers, heading for Gaeul at the hoops.

“Ten points—to Gryffindor!” 

You’re at a draw.

Slowly, the margin narrows—Matthew successfully manages to knock the Quaffle out of Ricky’s hands, but Liz swoops underneath to catch it. She heads for the Gryffindor goal with a one-track mind, barely swinging it through the right hoop before Woonhak stretches to swat it away.

Liz huffs, “Don’t smile too wide now.” Her threat has the younger Keeper begin to sweat.

When your teammates are caught up in their own flurry of competition, you see it—a glint of gold—the Snitch.

Jaehyun’s keen attention to your line of sight has him immediately launching himself at it. 

“Leeseo!” you yell for your Seeker, calling her up from her perch beside Gunwook’s defence. 

She zooms towards you in no time.

You follow at Jaehyun’s heel, chasing after him like a moth to a flame, Leeseo hounding him from the other side closest to the Snitch. When you speed up to fly parallel to his broom, he glances sideways—a satisfying smile etched on his face.

This is everything he imagined it to be—you can tell. 

You break against the wind, swinging your bat backward as you see a Bludger fly your way, extending it in one graceful arc behind your shoulder—and you slam against it— a sharp, resounding thwack reaching your eardrum.

It hits Jaehyun; at the exact second, Leeseo dives down for the Snitch, her hand curling around the golden ball.

The whistle breaks, somewhere far, far away. Someone says something through the loudspeaker.

You don’t hear it through the muffle of wind in your ears, the broom underneath you plummeting after the red spot—sight tunnel visioning on Jaehyun’s falling body. 

Not again, please, no.

There are cheers from the crowd; you can’t tell which house it belongs to. Just that your hands extend for him, your body suspended above his—the Firebolt accelerating faster and faster until it curves like an umbrella—

“Jae—”

You catch him, right in front of you, exactly as your broom thuds softly against the plush grass. 

“Y/N,” He grins, dazed. 

There are no visible injuries on him; no blood to be seen, to bruises to worry you.

His hand finds your cheek, thumbing away a tear that threatens to fall. 

“Jaehyun,” You whisper cracks as you’re throwing your body onto him, pulling him into a devastating hug. “You’re okay.”

“I am,” he assures with a chuckle. “You caught m—” mmff!

You swallow his words with a bruising kiss—uncaring of the hoots around you slowly dying, a confused murmur replacing it before the crowd once more erupts into excitement—students exclaiming amongst themselves.

“That’s Y/N, oh my god! She’s with Myung Jaehyun!?”

“I thought they hated each other! Damn!”

“Y/N, WE WON—Oh… ” Ricky stops in his tracks. Liz bumps into him, and when she looks past his shoulder to see you and Jaheyun’s intertwined figures on the grass—her mouth drops incredulously, 

“Hyung…” Woonhak is approaching from the other end, prepared to get berated by his captain when he too realises that said captain was kissing the opponent in front of the entire school. 

You and Jaehyun finally gasp for air, coming apart red and dizzy.

“Congrats, you two!” Kazuha winks, offering a pleased nod, and Intak agrees with a thumbs up—like he'd known all along. 

Gyuvin looks two seconds away from throwing up—either from the nausea of having lost the game, or from having to witness the shameless sight in front of him, no one will ever know. 

As a cherry on top of the absurd situation, Professor Jeon enters the scene with a dramatic cough, saying, “This is not what I meant by inter-house fraternising,” His chide disperses into a proud smile, “But, Oh well. Good luck, both of you—I expect great things.”

You blush profusely while Jaehyun rubs the back of his head in embarrassment. 

“Are we in hell?” Gunwook grimaces, having forgotten the past hour of playing, and any memory of winning the Inter-House Quidditch Cup. 

“Hey, it’s not like you and I don’t make out either,” Matthew smirks, bringing forth another tide of gasps and groans. “Occasionally,” he adds, like that made anything better. 

“It's…we were just letting off steam!” Gunwook flubbers in his attempt to explain to a betrayed-looking Ricky. 

Liz’s mouth is still comically agape. “What…When…How—WHAT!?” She's maniacal. “Is there anything more I don’t know!?”

Gyuvin swoops in at the chance, “Yeah, Woonhak has that thing with his Slytherin girl."

“Wait, what? Hyung, it’s not a thing—!” Woonhak tries to yell, but no one listens as all eyes snap toward Liz’s ear-splitting shriek.

“Is anyone here dating within their own house or???”

Several shakes of head return her way, but Kazuha leans in with a greasy tone.

“We could,” She wiggles eyebrows.

While the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams continue to argue, the world around you and Jaehyun spins to a stop—to a space where only the two of you exist, your friends’ chatter a comfortable background noise. 

“You saved me,” he’s saying, leaning forward with his hands braced on the grass behind him. Your broomsticks lay abandoned beside you, dirt and grime coating your fingernails and skin. It doesn’t matter—only he does. 

“I saved you back,” You lightly bump your forehead against his, affectionate. “We’re even now.” 

“Y/N,” he nuzzles into you.

“Yes, Jae?”

“Be my rival till I die?” He says it with the conviction of a marriage proposal.

You grin, leaving a kiss on his cheek. “I thought you’d never ask, Sweetheart.”

“So…” Ricky quirks his head in innocent confusion, making everyone turn their heads towards him. “He wasn't blackmailing you?” 

His words are met with a collective set of groans. 

You laugh into Jaehyun’s shoulder, body humming pleasantly, and when you look around at the Quidditch pitch that’s served as your home for the past several years—you recollect every stumble you’ve made here, every new move you’d been proud to learn. Where you grew as a team and as friends—a group of young Ravenclaws that had grown into family.

And, this is where you first met Jaehyun—where you swore you’d beat him one day. Where you finally kept your promise.

When you look at him, you see your past, your present, and then, the future that awaits you. 

One thing remains true even with all the inevitable changes to come: Myung Jaehyun would always be your sworn enemy, your most beloved person, and most of all—your biggest fan. 

You kiss him once more to make sure he knows it’s the same for you.

𓂃𓈒𓇢𓆸 fin

reblogs/comments/asks > likes!!

── .✦ for more hogwarts! aus, check out the signed, sealed, spellbound series!

main masterlist | series masterlist | upcoming works | perm tl

a/n: thank you to everyone who left a kind comment on my last rant post and also anyone that sent me an ask afterwards. I was only able to finish writing this without pushing myself too hard bcs of the enthusiasm i've received from you guys. it means a lot to me 💙 thnx to juney @mwotgata for bearing with my rambles and for always being there to bounce off my ideas. and ofc my lovely hana dul set @nemoihan who edits my terrible grammar and checks up on me exactly when i need her. katikins @ilysungho and moemoe @moesthinking who has kept me sane and going for the past week or so. and thank you gill @astrae4 for being so reassuring and the coolest of moots! @yuuvini, @dj-ami, and @tenshi-sama ily for your wonderful asks that made me very very happy. and ofc to my dearest, levy @pupillary, who i miss a lot. i hope you guys enjoyed this fic, ily guys a lot! p.s. sorry for being sappy lol

++ im thinking of opening an interview style ask for the hp series since im done with 3/6 fics now! it'll be any questions u might want to ask the already introduced characters in sungho, riwoo, and jaehyun's fics! if you think i should do this, do lmk!

perm tl: @pupillary (🍒) @ilysungho (🪶) @lovehakie (🌷) @leehanaholic @ivxae @ramizluv @moesthinking @gentiliana @athenaisonlinee @wnouzi @amarecerasus @defnotsanni @cl4ir0l0v3r @knrejj @fayepz @nemoihan @ruuroom @woonbabie @qeeun-didi @i-am-not-dal @tenshi-sama @mwotgata @kazukazukiiii @qeeun-didi @izhypen @bee-the-loser @beomtomie @haede-shi @kajaluvsjaehyun series tl: @yunextdoor @lvlyhiyyih @amnellsia @sssarahh @soonyoonswoo @ahnsuhosgf @yuuvini @geniejunn @its-starry 𓂃𓈒 𓇢𓆸 thank you for the support, ily ♡⸝⸝ networks: @k-records @fruiteronet

inbox always open!

there’s a knock at the door. three quick taps, then one hard one.

you already know it’s her.

you make her wait a beat before opening it. just out of spite. or nerves. probably both.

yunjin’s standing there. except she looks a little too tired to fully commit to it. her ginger hair’s still damp and messy, curling slightly at the ends from a rushed shower.

her tank top has come up and her sweatpants are slightly wrinkled. ahe smells faintly like your shampoo. her eyes skim over you once, quick but not careless.

“hey. i left my shoes.” she says breathlessly, like she ran up the stairs.

you lean on the doorframe and raise an eyebrow. “you have, like, five pairs of shoes here.”

“coincidentally my lucky ones.”

“oh. of course. can’t have a good practice without the power of your purple jordans.” you step aside, trying not to smile.

she walks past you like she owns the place, dropping her bag on your floor without asking. “you joke, but i dropped twenty three the last time i wore ‘em. that’s math.”

“no, that’s delusion.”

yunjin flashes a grin over her shoulder. “they’re your favorite color too.”

you roll your eyes and sit back on the edge of your bed, pretending not to notice how she takes her time crouching near the closet. she pushes aside a hoodie that’s definitely hers, then another, then one that used to be yours until she stole it.

“damn. you hoard everything, huh?” she says, standing back up with her sneakers in hand.

“me? you literally colonized my closet.”

“that’s crazy. you sound mad i’m comfortable.”

“i’m mad you don’t fold.”

she laughs at that and tosses the shoes onto the ground beside you before flopping down next to you. “you fold enough for both of us. it’s kinda hot.”

you shoot her a look. “don’t flirt with me just ‘cause your jump shot’s been off.”

“that’s not why.” she says it too quickly. then she shrugs like it was nothing.

the air shifts. she leans back on her hands, legs stretched out, her knee lightly brushing yours. her head tilts toward you.

“you coming tomorrow? it’s a big game.”

you hesitate. “i dunno.”

yunjin chews the inside of her cheek and looks away. “right. that’s cool.”

you don’t say anything. neither does she.

then she sighs and pushes up to her feet like she suddenly just remembered she’s supposed to leave. “alright . i’ll, uh— see you.”

she grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder again. but her fingers linger on the doorknob a little longer than they need to.

“good luck kiss?” she adds while holding up her shoes, cocky again, like that’ll cover the part of her that didn’t want to go.

“um. the shoes?”

“you. but i’ll take it.” she shrugs.

you don’t answer until the door’s already halfway closed. “don’t trip over your ego on the way out.”

“i’ll text you!” she calls before the door closes with a thud.

you’re pretty sure she’s still smiling when it clicks shut.

then hours later, your phone lights up for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

chaewon doesn’t even glance up from her seat at the edge of your bed. “is that her again?”

you don’t answer. you’re too busy pretending to scroll through something else. something that’s definitely not the text from yunjin asking “you home?” like she hasn’t been here three nights this week already.

chaewon throws a gummy worm at you. “don’t play with me. you’re not slick.”

you furrow your eyebrows, throwing it back. “i’m literally just on tiktok.”

she scoffs. “cap. you’re fake scrolling. nobody blinks that much when they’re on tiktok.”

you toss your phone. “okay fine. it’s her.”

“and you’re ignoring her because?” she says with a gummy bear in her mouth.

“she’s annoying.”

“wow. how ever did you fall in love with her.”

you sit up with a groan. “i’m not in love with her.”

“she smokes in your car, you wear eachother’s clothes, and she calls you baby when she wants something. you let her. that’s literally just marriage.”

“bruh. she’s just loud.”

“and so are you.”

“she’s always flirting with other girls.”

“so do you.”

“she’s a player.”

“you’re a dumbass.”

you open up your mouth to argue. then you shut it.

because what are you even gonna say? that yunjin makes you nervous when she touches your knee under the table? that she always lights her blunt, takes a hit, and then passes it to you with that lazy smile like she knows you’ll give in? that she makes you crazy but you like it?

“look. you like her. she clearly likes you. so either go to her stupid ass game and cheer her on like a good fake girlfriend or keep acting like a dumbass until she stops waiting for you to catch up.”

“i’m not her fake girlfriend.” you protest, crossing your arms.

“you should tell her that.” her words make you roll your eyes.

“she already asked if i was coming.” you say.

“and you said?”

“i’m ignoring her! so i said i wasn’t sure.”

chaewon groans. “you’re the worst. no wonder she’s obsessed with you.”

“she’s not—”

“she is. and if you don’t show up to the game then i’ll go in your place. i’ll even make a sign.” she says, cutting you off.

“ew! you won’t.”

chaewon takes it as a challenge. “bet. i will. ima paint a giant heart around her number and scream ‘THAT’S MY WIFE’ every time she has the ball.”

“you’re insane.” you raise your top lip in mock disgust.

“i’m supportive. unlike someone i know who ghosts her situationship the night before a rival game.” she says.

“she’s not my situationship.” you mumble.

“oh? what is she then?”

you open your mouth. and shut it again.

exactly.

chaewon throws another gummy at you.

“yeah. that’s what i thought.”

you both sit there for a moment, her legs swinging off your bed while you stare at your phone like it might text her for you. like it would make this any easier.

it doesn’t.

“she looked really tired at practice yesterday.” chaewon says casually.

“you were watching her?”

“duh. everyone was. she’s yunjin.”

that’s the problem, isn’t it?

she’s yunjin. loud, flashy, and impossible to ignore. the girl who plays like she’s untouchable but always shows up to your place like she isn’t.

“ugh. fine. i’ll go.” you mutter while standing up.

“i knew you would!”

“not ‘cause i like her.”

“riiiight.”

“i just don’t want you embarrassing me.”

“too late. i’m making the sign anyway.” she says already in her notes app.

───────────౨ৎ───────────

she shows up again later that night. you don’t even get a knock.

she just opens the door and walks inside like she lives her. because, well, lately… she kind of does.

“you ignored me.” yunjin says from the doorway, her voice already that kind of lazy but annoyed. like she expected it but it still pisses her off.

you glance up from your bed, pretending not to care. “you didn’t say you were coming over.”

“yeah. because you didn’t answer any of my texts.”

you shrug, scrolling through your phone. “busy.”

yunjin scoffs, stepping into your room like she owns it. “right. too busy to say two words, but not too busy to repost shit on tiktok.”

you finally look up at her. “what is your problem?”

“my problem is you acting like we’re strangers after i spend three nights here.”

“i didn’t ask you to stay.”

yunjin scoffs before she crosses her arms, leaning against your doorframe with that typical smirk. the one she uses to piss people off. “huh. didn’t know we were being petty now.”

you set your phone down with your jaw clenched. “you’re not my girlfriend, yunjin. i don’t owe you anything.”

“no. but you could at least pretend like you give a fuck.”

you scoff. “says the one who flirts with every girl who breathes?”

she lets out a humorless laugh. “ohh. is that what this is?”

“it’s not anything. we’re not anything. you made that clear a long time ago.” you snap.

yunjin goes still. the kind of still that makes your throat feel like it’s closing.

then she speaks again.

“so why do you care if i flirt with someone else?”

you hate her.

you hate the way she asks like she doesn’t already know.

hate the way her voice drops, just a little, when she gets serious. hate the fact that she’s standing in your doorway like a bad habit you can’t quit.

you stand up. “you know what? don’t come over if you’re just gonna pick fights.”

she laughs in disbelief. “you think i’m picking the fight?”

“you showed up! uninvited! again!”

“because i wanted to see you.”

you stare.

“i just wanted to see you. but you don’t feel the same. i got it.” she shakes her head, running a hand through her hair like she’s trying not to explode.

“i’m not—” you pause, then you laugh bitterly. “you can’t say that like you’re innocent. you flirt with me when you’re bored, leave your shit here like we live together, smoke in my car, then act surprised when i don’t know what the hell we are.”

“i mean, we could be something,” she says suddenly and it’s so honest that it shuts you up.

your breath catches.

and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

then you scoff. “you only say that when i threaten to walk away.”

“maybe ‘cause that’s the only time you actually listen.”

you stare at each other.

“i don’t listen now?”

“see? wow.” yunjin laughed.

“see if i’m at the game tomorrow then.”

and for the first time all night, yunjin looks hurt.

just for a second. like it slips out before she can stop it.

“fine. do whatever you want.” she says, and her voice is a little colder this time.

she turns to leave.

and for some reason, it makes your chest ache.

like maybe this time she really will stop waiting.

the door clicks shut behind her. and for the first time all day, your room feels cold.

quiet, too. like her leaving sucked the air out of it. like you’re still waiting for her to call you on your lie.

but she doesn’t.

you stare at the spot she was just standing. then at your phone. then at the hoodie she left on the back of your chair last week. the one you swore you weren’t gonna wear again.

the silence is loud.

you sit back down but suddenly everything feels wrong. your bed’s too big. your room’s too empty. your heartbeat’s too loud.

god.

you miss her.

and not in the she’s kinda hot and fun to smoke with kinda way. you miss her in the stupid, real way.

you bury your face in your hands. “fuck.”

you grab your phone, scroll past her name three times before you finally text someone else.

you
chaewon. emergency. are u awake

chaewon
it’s 11:43 why

you
i think i like her

chaewon
no fucking shit

you
sybau this is serious

chaewon
ofc it took a near-breakup to realize

you
IT WASN’T A BREAKUP THO
WE WEREN’T EVEN TOGETHER

chaewon
girl she’s been your girlfriend you just dumb

you
she said we could be something

chaewon
AND???

you
i said she only says that when i walk away

chaewon
toxic af

crazy

then what

you
idk i think she meant it this time

chaewon
bruh she always means it

you

no

i think i fucked up

chaewon
you usually do but this one is like

salvageable

you
she looked so hurt when i said i wasn’t coming tomorrow

chaewon
bc she’s in love with you dumbass

you
don’t say that

chaewon
scared it’s true?

you don’t answer.

because yeah. maybe you are.

chaewon

she could have anyone

ANYONE

but she keeps showing up at your door

bringing you food n shit

smoking you out

leaving her clothes on the floor like it’s her room too

wake tf up

you
i hate you

chaewon
no you don’t

you hate that i’m right

you throw your phone onto the bed face down. like that’ll make her words stop echoing in your head.

but she’s right. of course she’s right. you close your eyes and let yourself picture it.

yunjin’s always looking for you in the crowd like. pointing it’s like you're the whole reason she plays the way she does.

your phone buzzes again.

chaewon
if you don’t go to that game tomorrow i swear on my soul ima wear a shirt that says “i heart huh yunjin”

you
STOP
i’m literally going
i’m already planning what to wear

chaewon
i knew it

simp 🫵

you
i’m not a simp

you
ok maybe i’m a little cooked

chaewon
girl you deep fried

extra crispy

marinated in delusion

───────────౨ৎ───────────

the bleachers are packed. people are yelling, the gym smells like sweat and popcorn, and your leg won’t stop bouncing.

you’re early. like, annoyingly early.
chaewon insisted on it. said if you showed up late it would give "i don’t care that much" energy.


and apparently, that’s illegal now.

you’re wearing her hoodie. the same one you almost cried over last night. the one that still smells like her.

chaewon saw it the second you walked out of your room, but she didn’t make you change. just dragged you to the front row with a comically large amount of popcorn.

and that fuckass sign that says ‘that’s y/n’s girlfriend’ with hearts surrounding it.

so now here you are.

heart in your throat. eyes on the court. pretending not to care.

until you see her.

yunjin steps out of the locker room, jersey tucked in, wrist already taped.


she looks good. obviously. annoyingly good.


her hair is pushed back, jaw clenched, scanning the crowd like she usually does.

and then she sees you.

and everything slows down.

her eyes lock onto yours.


for a second, she looks stunned. like she didn’t believe you would actually come.


then her whole face changes.

she smiles.

it’s small and stupid. but mostly just soft.

you freeze.

chaewon elbows you hard. “girl.”

you don’t answer.


yunjin’s walking toward the bench, still looking at you. like she’s playing this game for you.

and maybe she is.

you watch her laugh with a teammate. stretch, adjust her shorts, and then sip from her water bottle.

“can you two just date already. i’m so tired.”

you don’t respond because you’re still too busy staring.


and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna say when the game’s over. if you’ll say anything at all.


or if you’ll just wait by the locker room door until she finds you first. because she will.


she always does.

the game’s close.

like, too close. the crowd’s on their feet, coaches are screaming, everyone is basically foaming at the mouth. and you're there in the middle of it. pretending your stomach isn’t in knots, like you haven’t been tracking yunjin’s every move since she stepped onto the court.

she’s killing it. obviously.

she’s fast, locked in, dropping threes like she does it in her sleep.


and every time she scores, her eyes flick toward the stands.


toward you.

“she’s totally doing this for you.” chaewon says.

you scoff. “please. she’s doing this ‘cause she’s in love with basketballs.”

but you can’t breathe.

and then it happens. last thirty seconds, tied score, ball in her hands.


the crowd’s losing it, her teammates are yelling, but yunjin just dribbles steadily.

and then yunjin looks up. dead at you.

like a movie scene. like she rehearsed it.

and then— oh god.

she points at you.

literally points.

and mouths. “this one’s for you, baby.”

you recoil so hard you nearly fall off the bleacher. “what the fuck—”

“OH MY GOD.” chaewon screams, grabbing your arm. you bury your face in your hands.

“i’m not going out with her. i’m blocking her number. i’m moving states.”

and then, just to make it worse, she hits the shot.

a clean, obnoxious, buzzer beating three.

the crowd goes feral. the team tackles her. everyone’s shouting like someone just won the olympics. and yunjin?

yunjin’s just jogging down the court.

pointing at you again.

blowing a kiss.

chaewon is sobbing with laughter beside you. you glare at her.

“this is your fault.”

“what did i do?”

“you encouraged her.”

“nuh uh! you’re the one wearing her hoodie.” she laughs before raising the sign.

“that’s y/n’s girlfriend!”

“please shut up.”

yunjin makes it halfway to the stands before she’s pulled into a pile of screaming teammates, and you just sit there with your arms crossed and your cheeks burning.

you hate her.

you hate her.

god, you’re gonna marry her.

you’re pacing next to your car like a divorced dad when the game is over.

the gym is still loud behind you, packed with students and fans and probably three girls who are trying to get yunjin’s number.

you wouldn’t blame them.

she did hit a buzzer-beater.

and she did point at you.

and she did call you baby.

in front of witnesses.

you cover your face with both hands. “i’m gonna puke.”

“you better not. this is my favorite hoodie.” a voice says suddenly.

you flinch then spin around. and there she is.

she’s sweaty, grinning, and still in uniform. walking toward you like she doesn’t even feel her legs. like she’d beeline to you even if the building was on fire.

“did you sprint out of the locker room?”

“duh. what if you left? what if someone else tried to flirt with you before i got here? i had to secure the perimeter.” she says like it’s obvious.

you stare at her. “you’re literally insane.”

“insanely in love with you, maybe.”

you groan so loud it echoes in the parking lot. “you pointed at me, yunjin.”

“and dedicated the game winner to you. i should get a kiss at the minumum. that’s like, the rule.” she says proudly.

“there is no rule.”

“uhhh. i think the crowd would disagree.” she says, stepping closer.

you narrow your eyes. “you mean the crowd that tackled you?”

she shrugs. “they’ll get over it.”

“you’re unbearable. your form was ass, by the way.”

she gasps. “oh my god. you’re a hater.”

“i’m literally your biggest fan. i just think you’re annoying.”

“well. good thing i’m obsessed with you anyway.” she says, stepping closer.

you feel your breath hitch. she’s still cocky. still sweaty. still so irritating.

but her eyes are all soft now. like all the yelling, all the dumb flirting, all the chaos was for this.

for you.

you swallow. “you smell like a gym.”

“you like it.”

“i don’t.”

“you’re literally wearing my name on your back right now.”

you freeze and glance down.

oh, god.

you are.

she must’ve left this hoodie at your place after that night you both passed out on the couch, halfway through a movie you weren’t watching. her name’s printed big and bold across the back in that annoying varsity font.

“coincidence.” you mutter.

she hums. “sure.”

you look up at her again, and she’s still smiling. not the shit eating post win grin she had earlier. this one’s quieter. softer.

like she doesn’t care about the game anymore.

like you’re the only thing she came here to win.

you roll your eyes and push at her chest lightly. “you’re lucky i like you.”

“yeah?” she leans in, tilting her head. “how much?”

you glance away.

“enough to wear your stupid jersey.”

“hm. what else?”

you sigh dramatically. “enough to not block your number.”

she grins. “and?”

“enough to kiss you, i guess.” you mutter.

“you guess?”

you grab the collar of her jersey, yank her down, and kiss her right there in the parking lot. under the buzz of an almost broken gym light and the sound of half the campus still celebrating her shot.

and she melts.

completely.

when you finally pull back, her eyes are wide. dazed.

“shit. that felt like a girlfriend kiss.” she breathes.

you groan, shoving her toward the passenger door. “get in the car, jennifer.”

“yes ma’am.”

"You know what I think?" Jaehyun says, and you can hear the forced lightness in his voice, the way he's trying to pull you both back from the edge of fear.

"What?"

"I think your heart's just confused because it belongs to me now, and it's trying to beat in sync with mine from all the way over there." His fingers resume their gentle movement through your hair, each touch deliberate and precious. "When someone steals your heart, there's bound to be some biological confusion."

You laugh despite the terror that's been living in your chest for weeks now. How does he do this? How does he take your darkest fears and spin them into gold, into moments of joy that can coexist with the growing certainty that your own body is failing you?

"Well, when you put it that way," you say, tilting your head up to find his lips in the darkness, "I guess that makes you the love of my life, doesn't it?"

The words slip out wrapped in sleepy affection, but they carry more weight than you intended. It's the first time either of you has said it—love of my life—and the phrase hangs in the air between you like a confession and a benediction.

"The love of your life," he repeats softly, and there's reverence in his voice, like he's holding your words up to the light to examine their truth. "I like the sound of that."

"Good, because I'm pretty sure it's a permanent position."

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady, absolutely determined to keep time with yours for as long as humanly possible. You don't know yet that he's already calculating exactly how long that might be, or that he's already decided what he'll do when your heart can no longer keep its promise to stay beating.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

The cardiologist's office exists in a space between hope and devastation, neutral colours and careful lighting designed to soften the impact of life-changing news. But nothing can soften the weight of the words that hang in the air between you and the doctor, each syllable a small violence against the future you thought you were building.

"Twenty percent," she repeats, because apparently the first time wasn't devastating enough. "Your heart function has declined to twenty percent of normal capacity."

Jaehyun's hand finds yours automatically, fingers lacing together like they've done a thousand times before, but his grip is different now, tighter, more desperate, like he's trying to anchor you to the world through sheer force of will.

Twenty percent. The number echoes in your mind like a death knell. How is it possible that the muscle responsible for keeping you alive is barely working? How can you feel so present, so here, when the most essential part of you is failing?

"What does that mean for her?" Jaehyun asks, and his voice sounds steady but you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they press against yours.

"It means we need to discuss surgical options. A heart transplant."

The words pierce right through your chest, each one reshaping the air you breathe. Transplant means your heart—the one that's been beating in your chest for several years, the one that learned to race when Jaehyun first kissed you, the one that settles into peaceful rhythm when he holds you—isn't enough anymore. 

It will never be enough again.

"How long?" The question tears itself from your throat before you can stop it.

"Without intervention? Maybe six months. With aggressive treatment and if we can find a donor..." She pauses, and in that silence lies the terrible mathematics of hope and probability. "It's hard to say."

The drive home passes in silence so complete it feels like mourning. Jaehyun's hand rests on your thigh, thumb tracing patterns against your jeans like he's trying to memorize the shape of this moment before everything changes forever.

"It's going to be okay," he says finally, but his voice cracks on the words.

"How can you know that?"

"It has to be." He pulls over suddenly, the car lurching to a stop on the shoulder of the road. He turns to look at you, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "I just found the love of my life, and I refuse to believe the universe is cruel enough to take her away from me now."

Love of my life. The phrase has become sacred between you, spoken like a prayer, like a talisman against all the ways the world might try to tear you apart. But listening to him say it now, you can hear the desperation underneath, the way he's using love like armor against mortality.

You want to tell him that armor made of love is still just armor made of hope, and hope has never stopped a failing heart from giving up. You want to explain that all the devotion in the world can't rewrite the cruel mathematics of cardiac function, can't negotiate with the twenty percent that's all your heart has left to give. But looking at his face in the dim light of the car's interior, seeing how he's clinging to those four words like they're the only thing standing between you and the grave, you don't have the heart to strip away his beautiful, desperate faith.

Instead, you memorize this moment—the way his voice breaks on "love," how his hands shake despite his steady words, the particular quality of late afternoon light that makes his tears look like gold. You memorize it because somewhere deep in your bones, in the part of you that exists beyond rational thought, you know that moments like these are finite now. That there will come a day when no one calls you the love of their life, when that sacred phrase becomes just another memory you carry alone.

He doesn't know yet that he's already mourning you. He doesn't realize that the desperation in his voice is grief wearing the mask of determination. But you can hear it, the sound of someone trying to love you hard enough to keep you alive, as if the sheer force of his devotion could substitute for the failing muscle in your chest.

The cruelest part is how much you want to believe him, how desperately you want his love to be enough to rewrite the ending that's already been written in your medical charts.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

The hospital becomes your world with a swiftness that leaves you reeling. One day you're living your normal life, and the next you're intimately familiar with the rhythm of shift changes, the precise way morning light looks filtered through institutional windows, the sound Jaehyun makes when he's trying not to cry in his sleep.

He's violating visiting hours on a nightly basis, but the nurses have stopped enforcing the rules. Maybe they recognize the particular desperation of someone trying to love a person through the impossible, or maybe they just don't have the heart to separate you when separation feels inevitable anyway.

But the cruelest part of hospitals isn’t the beeping monitors or the sterile hallways. It’s the way love keeps trying to bloom in places where grief has already taken root. And Jaehyun, stubborn as ever, was determined to plant whole gardens in the cracks of your breaking heart, even if it meant he wouldn’t live to see them bloom.

Your body betrays you in increments. First it's the shortness of breath that comes from walking to the bathroom. Then it's the way sitting up requires conscious effort, like your chest is filled with concrete instead of air. The monitors track your decline with clinical precision, oxygen saturation dropping, heart rate becoming more erratic, the numbers painting a picture you don't want to see.

"Your ejection fraction is down to fifteen percent," your doctor explains during morning rounds, and Jaehyun's hand tightens around yours like he can physically keep your heart from giving up. "We need to have you on continuous monitoring now."

Continuous monitoring means more wires, more machines, more evidence that your body is systematically shutting down despite every medication they've tried. But it also means Jaehyun has a legitimate excuse to never leave your side, perched in his chair like a guardian who's forgotten that some things can't be protected against.

"Tell me about the future again," you whisper one afternoon when breathing feels like drowning in reverse and the monitors are beeping their anxious warnings about your irregular rhythm.

"Which part?" he asks, though you both know there's only one version of the future you want to hear about now.

"All of it.”

He settles deeper into his chair and takes your hand, thumb tracing patterns that have become as familiar as prayer. "When you get out of here—and you will get out of here—we're going to go home and sleep for a week straight. And then I'm going to make you breakfast every morning, and you're going to complain that I put too much cinnamon in the pancakes while stealing half of them off my plate."

"Naturally."

"We're going to have fights about what to watch on Netflix, and you're going to win because you have better taste than me and also because I'm completely incapable of saying no to you about anything."

The future he describes feels like a story about other people, characters in a book you'll never get to finish reading. But you let him paint these pictures anyway, because hope is the only medication that doesn't come with devastating side effects.

"And I'm going to tell you every single day that you're the love of my life," he continues, voice steady despite the tears gathering in his eyes. "Even when you're ninety and sick of hearing it, I'm going to whisper it to you in your sleep just to make sure you never forget."

"Promise?"

"I promise." But there's weight in his voice that makes the words feel less like commitment and more like goodbye disguised as hope.

Late at night, when you drift in and out of medicated sleep, you catch him staring at you with expressions you can't decipher. There's love there, always love, but underneath it lurks determination that feels dangerous, like someone who's made a decision they can't unmake.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask one night, startling him out of whatever reverie had claimed him.

"It's nothing important," he says, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm just watching you breathe."

Watching you breathe. The phrase should be romantic, but it tastes like surveillance, like someone keeping vigil over processes that might stop working at any moment.

The conversations with doctors happen when you're sleeping now, hushed conferences outside your room that Jaehyun participates in with the kind of focused attention he usually reserves for you. You catch fragments sometimes—"compatibility testing",  "psychological evaluation", "time-sensitive procedure"—but the morphine makes it hard to hold onto the words long enough to understand what they mean.

"They're talking about putting me on the transplant list," you tell him one morning after overhearing your doctor mention waiting times and donor matching.

"I know," he says simply, and there's relief in his voice that doesn't quite make sense. Relief should come after good news, not before it.

"Are you okay with that? The idea of me having someone else's heart?"

He's quiet for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, his words carry strange weight. "I think hearts recognize love, no matter whose chest they're beating in. I think if someone loved you enough, their heart would know exactly where it belonged."

The comment strikes you as oddly specific, but before you can ask what he means, exhaustion pulls you back under, and you forget to wonder why he sounded like someone stating fact rather than offering comfort.

Your decline accelerates with frightening speed. One day you're managing short walks to the bathroom, the next you can barely lift your head from the pillow without your vision graying at the edges. The doctors use words like "critical" and "urgent" more frequently, and Jaehyun stops pretending to sleep, just sits beside your bed watching every breath like he's afraid you'll stop taking them the moment he looks away.

"I need to tell you something," he says one evening when the sun is setting through your window and painting everything golden and melancholy.

"What?"

But instead of speaking, he leans forward and presses his hand against your chest, palm flat over your heart. Your weak, irregular heartbeat flutters beneath his touch like a bird with broken wings.

"Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me that if you ever get a chance at life, you'll take it, even if it costs more than you think you can afford."

There's urgency in his voice that makes your chest tighten with more than cardiac distress. "Jaehyun, what are you talking about?"

"Just promise me."

"I promise," you say, though you have no idea what you're promising or why it makes him look like someone who's just received absolution.

Four days later, your heart stops beating entirely.

The code blue alarm screams through the hospital corridors like the end of the world, and the last thing you see before consciousness abandons you is Jaehyun's face, calm in a way that doesn't match the chaos around you, like someone who's been expecting this moment and has already made peace with what comes next.

"It's okay," he whispers as the medical team floods your room with crash carts and desperate efficiency. "It's going to be okay. I promised you, remember?"

But promises don't restart hearts, and love doesn't negotiate with mortality, and as the world fades to black, you wonder what he meant by all those strange comments before about hearts knowing where they belong.

You don't wake up until after the miracle has already happened.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

The world returns to you in fragments, sounds first, then sensations, finally the cruel brightness of fluorescent lights that make everything look washed out and new. Your chest aches with a different kind of pain than you remember, deeper but somehow cleaner, like your body is hurting in service of healing rather than decay.

Your hand moves instinctively to press against your sternum, and beneath your palm you feel it : strong, steady, absolutely determined to keep you alive. The rhythm is unfamiliar but perfect, each beat precise and powerful in a way your old heart had forgotten how to be.

"You're awake," a voice says, warm with relief and professional satisfaction. "The surgery was a complete success."

Surgery. The word feels strange in your mouth, like vocabulary from a dream you're trying to remember. Your new heart pounds steadily beneath your ribs, and the sensation is both foreign and miraculous. This is what a healthy heart feels like. This is what it means to have a muscle that doesn't have to fight for every beat.

"How long was I...?"

"About eighteen hours. Everything went perfectly. Your new heart is working beautifully. You're going to make a full recovery."

Full recovery. Those two words should fill you with joy, should make you weep with gratitude and relief. Instead, you feel hollow, like the most important part of you is missing even though you've technically been made whole.

"Jaehyun," you say suddenly, the name tearing from your throat with desperate urgency. "Where is he? He promised he'd be here when I woke up."

The silence that follows your question lasts exactly three heartbeats—you count them, your new heart marking time with mechanical precision. But it's the kind of silence that carries weight, heavy with things no one wants to say.

"Let's focus on your recovery first," your doctor says gently, and the evasion sends ice through your veins. "You need to rest."

"I need to see Jaehyun." The words come out sharper now, because panic is rising in your chest and your new heart is responding to it with steady, strong beats that feel wrong for the terror coursing through you. "He was here before the surgery. He held my hand. He promised—"

"I know he was here," she interrupts softly. "But right now, you need to focus on healing."

There's pity in her voice, careful and practiced, the kind medical professionals develop when they have to deliver news that will fundamentally alter someone's understanding of their own salvation. You've heard that tone before, but never directed at you, never wrapped around words about the person you love most in the world.

"Something's wrong," you whisper, and it's not a question. "Something happened to him."

Your doctor sits down in the chair beside your bed—his chair, the one where he spent weeks refusing to leave your side, and the sight of someone else occupying his space makes your new heart stutter despite its perfect function.

"Your surgery required very specific timing," she begins carefully. "The donor heart had to be harvested and transplanted within hours to ensure viability. The coordination was... complex."

The clinical words bounce around your skull like pinballs, refusing to connect into anything resembling sense. Your new heart pounds steadily, and for the first time since waking up, you listen to it, not just the strength of it, but the rhythm, the particular cadence that should be foreign but feels...

Feels familiar.

"Who was my donor?" you ask, though part of you already knows, has known since the moment you felt this heartbeat and recognized it as home.

She doesn't speak. The room is too quiet, the silence stretches and shatters at the same time. Her eyes avoid yours, and it’s in that absence of words that the truth takes shape, because who else could it be? Who else would give you life at the cost of his own?

The room tilts sideways, and suddenly you can't breathe despite your new, perfect heart working exactly as it should. Because you know that rhythm. You've fallen asleep to it hundreds of times, felt it race when he was nervous, felt it slow when he was content. You've pressed your ear to it while he hummed melodies in the dark and whispered promises about forever.

"No," you breathe, but the word carries no conviction because your body already knows the truth. This heart beating in your chest—it's his. It's been his all along.

"Jaehyun volunteered weeks ago," your doctor continues, her voice gentle but implacable. "He was tested, found to be a perfect match, and made all the legal arrangements. He wanted to make sure that if anything happened to your condition, you'd have options."

Perfect match. The phrase tastes like cosmic irony, because of course he was a perfect match. His heart has been beating in sync with yours since the day you met, keeping time with your life, your love and your dreams for a future that only one of you will get to see.

"He didn't tell me," you whisper.

"He made everyone promise not to. He said if you knew, you'd refuse the transplant, and he couldn't live with watching you die when he had the power to save you."

The tragic poetry of it all tears through your chest, rewriting everything you thought you understood about his love. He couldn't live with watching you die, so he chose not to live at all.

How long had he been carrying this decision? How many nights did he lie awake beside you, listening to your irregular heartbeat and calculating the exact moment when loving you would require him to stop existing? You think about all those conversations where he painted pictures of your future together, and now you realize he was describing a world he knew he'd never inhabit, a tomorrow built on the foundation of his absence.

The mathematics are devastating in their simplicity. Your life plus his death equals the only equation he could accept. He looked at the impossible choice between losing you and losing himself, and he chose losing himself so completely, so absolutely, that even his grief was sacrificed to keep you breathing.

What kind of love calculates its own extinction? What kind of devotion measures itself in heartbeats given rather than heartbeats shared? You've spent your whole life believing that love was about building something together, about two people choosing each other again and again until forever felt possible. But his love was about subtraction disguised as gift-giving, about making himself small enough to fit inside your chest cavity, about transforming his entire existence into your continued breathing.

You were both always going to love each other to death. The only variable was whose death it would be.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Hours pass, or perhaps, maybe days? Time has lost all meaning in this sterile room where your new heart keeps perfect time while your world falls apart. Nurses come and go, checking vitals and adjusting medications, their faces carefully neutral in the way medical professionals perfect when dealing with complicated grief.

His phone sits on your bedside table, abandoned like everything else he left behind. The screen is cracked from where he dropped it during your code blue, but when you manage to turn it on with shaking fingers, his wallpaper is a picture of you laughing at something ridiculous he'd said. You look happy in the photo, alive in a way that feels impossible now.

There are no goodbye messages. No final voicemails explaining his choice. He was too smart for that, knew you too well to leave evidence of premeditation that might make you blame yourself. But his silence is almost worse than words would have been, because it means he carried this decision alone, made this choice without giving you any chance to fight for him the way he'd fought for you.

Your parents visit, his parents visit, friends who don't know what to say to someone who's been simultaneously saved and destroyed by the same act of love. They bring flowers and well-wishes and careful congratulations that taste like ashes, because how do you celebrate a miracle that cost the only person who made miracles worth having?

"He left something for you," his mother says one day during a visit, producing an envelope with your name written in his familiar handwriting. Her eyes are red-rimmed and hollow, but she manages a watery smile. "He made me promise to give it to you when you were strong enough."

You stare at the envelope like it might contain explosives. Inside are his final words, his explanation for the most incomprehensible act of love in human history. But you can't open it, not yet, because his final words are the last piece of him that exists untouched by your grief, and once you read them, once you let his voice speak to you from beyond the choice he made, there will be nothing left of him that death hasn't claimed. The envelope holds his goodbye like a sealed tomb, and breaking that seal means accepting that goodbye is all you have left of the person who used to promise you forever with every breath.

Reading his letter means crossing the final threshold from hope into acceptance, from the fantasy that this might all be some terrible mistake into the concrete reality that he planned this, chose this, wrote his love for you in past tense because he knew he wouldn't be alive to say it in present. Those words waiting inside the envelope are the difference between knowing he's gone and believing he's gone, and your heart—his heart—isn't ready to stop hoping for impossibilities that will never come.

"I can't," you whisper, and his mother nods like she understands.

"When you're ready," she says, placing the letter on your bedside table next to his phone. "He said you'd know when."

But will you ever be ready to read the final words of someone who loved you enough to die so you could live? Will there ever come a moment when that level of sacrifice feels like anything other than the cruelest gift imaginable?

Days blur together in a haze of cardiac rehabilitation and grief counseling and well-meaning visitors who keep using words like "grateful", "blessed", "lucky." But what kind of luck transforms love into loss? What kind of blessing demands such a devastating price?

You catch yourself pressing your hand to your chest where his heart beats steady and sure, and the anger that rises in your throat tastes like copper and betrayal. How dare he make this choice for both of you? How dare he decide that your life was worth more than his, that your grief was an acceptable price for your survival? The fury burns through your veins, but his heart keeps beating with that same unwavering rhythm, and you realize that even your rage belongs to him now. Every emotion powered by the muscle he gave you, every feeling pumped through your body by his final act of love.

The cruelest irony settles in your bones like winter. He made this choice because he loved you too much to watch you die, but now you have to live with loving him too much to forgive him for dying. Your anger and your gratitude exist in the same space, fed by the same heartbeat, and you don't know how to reconcile wanting to throttle him for his sacrifice while knowing that his sacrifice is the only reason you're alive to want to throttle him at all.

Sleep becomes impossible because closing your eyes means listening to his heart without the distraction of sight, means confronting the steady rhythm that once belonged to him and now belongs to you and somehow still belongs to neither of you. Every beat is a reminder that he calculated the exact value of his life against yours and decided you were worth more. Every pulse is proof that somewhere in those final weeks, he looked at your future and his future and chose to erase himself from the equation entirely.

The envelope sits unopened on your bedside table for days, weeks, a reminder of words you're not ready to hear. His handwriting on the outside is achingly familiar, the way he wrote your name like it was sacred, like every letter mattered more than breath.

You trace the ink with trembling fingers but never break the seal. What could he possibly have written that would make this bearable? What words exist that could transform the devastating mathematics of his sacrifice into something that resembles comfort?

The letter waits with infinite patience while you learn to live with his heart beating in your chest. Every pulse is a reminder of what you've lost and what you've gained, every heartbeat proof that some loves are so complete they literally transcend the boundaries between life and death.

All those times he said you had his heart, your palm pressed flat against your chest where the evidence beats with mechanical precision, and the realization rewrites every conversation you ever had about love. He wasn't speaking in metaphors when he promised you his heart, he was making inventory of an organ he'd already decided belonged to you. Every casual declaration of love was actually a contract he was writing in his mind, every "you have my heart" a literal promise he was planning to fulfill with surgical precision.

The phrase takes on the weight of prophecy now, and you understand that he was never speaking about emotional possession but about biological destiny. When he said his heart belonged to you, he meant it would one day beat inside your chest, that his love for you was so complete it required anatomical expression. He turned the oldest cliché in the book into the most devastating truth imaginable, made poetry out of cardiothoracic surgery, transformed metaphor into the bloodiest kind of reality.

How many times did he say those words while already knowing they would become literally true? How many nights did he whisper about giving you his heart while the paperwork for actually giving you his heart sat signed and notarized in some lawyer's office? Every endearment was a goodbye disguised as affection, every promise of forever was him telling you exactly how long forever would last—not until death do us part, but until death makes us one person with one heart beating for both of our lives.

The realization doesn't bring peace, but it brings understanding. This isn't just grief, this is carrying the physical evidence of the most profound love imaginable, feeling his devotion beat in your chest with every breath you take. Every heartbeat is his love made tangible, every pulse a promise that he'll be with you in the most intimate way possible for however long forever turns out to be.

You close your eyes and listen to the steady rhythm that was once his, now yours, now somehow both. This heart that kept him alive for all his years now beats for you, carries you forward into a world that feels fundamentally different without him in it.

You were the love of his life, and he was the love of yours, and for the briefest moment that phrase sits in the darkness like a benediction, like the final line of the most beautiful story ever written. The words taste like every morning you woke up in his arms, every night you fell asleep to his heartbeat, every moment when loving him felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But the truth reshapes itself with the cruelty of hindsight, and you realize the terrible symmetry of what's happened. He didn't just die loving you, he died so completely that his love became your literal pulse, so thoroughly that his absence became your presence. 

The realization hits like falling through ice. He's not just gone, he's the reason you're here to feel him being gone. Your salvation and your devastation share the same rhythm, beat with the same borrowed heart, exist in the same impossible space where love and loss have become anatomically indistinguishable.

The love of your life transformed himself into your lifeline, and now every beat in your chest is proof that the person who mattered most chose to matter only in past tense.

He's become the loss of your life too.

@coriihanniee ᯓᡣ𐭩

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

you never understood “girlfriend privileges” until you started dating a barely chalant emo boy a few months ago. of course, there were things you noticed without anyone pointing it out to you-- you weren’t entirely unaware.

girlfriend privilege #1: you knew his cold exterior crumbled when he so much as looked at you, often sporting a soft lovesick smile ever since you guys started talking.

girlfriend privilege #2: you knew he only allowed you in his studio because you’re the only person who doesn’t piss him off while he works and because you, in his words, are his muse.

girlfriend privilege #3: he lets you smush his face or smother him in kisses when you feel the urge. you quite literally watched leehan attempt to do the same thing, but your boyfriend slapped his hand away before he could even try

you really thought you were aware of everything that taesan let’s slide for you just because you’re his girlfriend. that was until this morning.

you slept over at his dorm like usual when your schedules aligned slightly for the week. the great thing about working at the same company meant similar schedules and dorm buildings in the same area, so it wasn’t uncommon for you two to be sleeping over when it was convenient. plus, waking up to his face buried in your neck and his arm wrapped tightly around your waist was always something you looked forward to.

you inhaled sharply as you carefully turned in his hold, grazing over his sleeping face. girlfriend privilege #4: he only really let you be this close to him while he slept. and somehow, like every other day, he smiles in his sleep and murmurs something along the lines of “like what you see?” it’s like clockwork for you now, but you two never get tired of it. you both are impossibly close and whisper to each other when you talk as you simply bathe in the quiet that you know is going to be short-lived. and after the adjustment of waking up is really done, he pecks your lips and pulls you out of bed with him to start the day.

privilege #5: he lets you doll him up however you want. he very simply lets you put the pink piggy headband on him that you bought just for when you’re at his place. he would usually hate it, but it’s you and the big huge smile that fuels him through the day that’s doing it, so how could he say no to that? when he’s brushing his teeth with his decorated headband on, he’s also pulling you into his chest and hugging you while you wake up.

he turned your chin to face him after you finished washing up and kissed you sweetly, muttering something about how he would save the extra skincare you got him for after his morning shower. and don’t worry, he made sure to tell you to help yourself in the kitchen and make yourself at home when you leave his bathroom (like he always does).

before you left for the company, you wanted to throw something comfortable on and eat breakfast while you’re here, so you made your way to taesan’s closet and threw on the first hoodie you saw, along with your own wide leg sweatpants you left over before. usually, he would put his clothes on you himself when you slept over, so you really didn’t think anyone would mind.

when you stepped into the common space, you greeted jaehyun and riwoo, who were both standing at separate ends of the kitchen doing their own respective things. they had grown accustomed to seeing their bandmates girlfriend come over, so seeing you was nothing new.

“hey y/n- oh my…”

jaehyun looked up at you from his place at the sink, but the words died on his tongue when he looked at what you were wearing. your eyebrow perked up in question at his now nervous face.

“um, hi jaehyun… why do you look like someone’s holding you at gunpoint?” riwoo snorted at the comment until he turned his head to look at you too. now he’s stuttering and repeatedly looking between you and jaehyun.

“because you might be held at gunpoint y/n-- is that dongmin’s hoodie?” you look down at the hoodie that’s practically swallowing you whole. “yeah? what? is it cursed or something?”

“taesan NEVER-- and i really mean never-- lets anyone borrow his clothes. like he seriously gets mad at us if we do.” your eyebrows raise in surprise now, feeling slight concern. was pulling the hoodie out of his closet yourself an invasion of his privacy? he never told you, nor had he ever given you the impression, that he hated when other people wore his clothes. you didn’t want to be the kind of girlfriend that oversteps boundaries or makes him uncomfortable.

“did he give you that hoodie himself?” riwoo asks, placing a bagel in front of where you sat at the island.

“no, i just pulled it out of his closet.” riwoo and jaehyun simultaneously hiss, sparking a panicked “what??? wait guys, am i in trouble??”

“i don’t know y/n… maybe you should change before he gets out of the shower. for your sake.” you immediately push your chair out and turn around to make your way to your boyfriends room. just to your luck, taesan turns the corner of the entrance to the kitchen and collides with your smaller frame. he's quick to pull you into him, however, making sure your okay after that abrupt collision. you look back at riwoo and jaehyun in panic as you watch them immediately turn back to what they were doing before you got there, riwoo even whistling to avoid the potential conflict that might arise from you wearing taesan’s prized hoodie. you turn back to your boyfriend’s concerned face and sigh.

“why didn’t you tell me you don’t like when i wear your clothes?”

“i love when you wear my clothes.”

his response was almost instantaneous, as if that was the dumbest question you could’ve asked him. suddenly the boys in the kitchen who were once “preoccupied” were now yelling out in protest. taesan, who still confused at what caused you to even ask such question, is more peeved at the fact that he can’t have a peaceful morning with his girlfriend. he just sighed and wordlessly turned you around, pulling you flush against his front while draping an arm over your chest and shoulders.

“you yell at us when we wear your clothes??!”

“yeah, cause i’m not in love with you guys.” you look up at him in shock while jaehyun is practically yelling at the “unfairness of it all.” taesan simply looked down at you and twitched his head to acknowledge your gaze.

“go sit back down and eat-- and don’t listen to whatever these dumbasses tell you.” he kissed the top of your head and guided you to where you were sitting before.

“i’m sick of these girlfriend privileges, han dongmin. if i give you a big kiss, would you let me wear your clothes?” you and riwoo laugh as taesan leans over the counter and knocks jaehyun upside the head, causing even more protests from the boy. settling down, other than the quiet grumbling from jaehyun, you all ate breakfast together at the counter.

you turned to look at your boyfriend, who was mindlessly chewing on his bagel with his phone in his other hand. grabbing his face to give him a big kiss on his cheek, he scrunched his face like he always does, smiling into his bagel as you let go.

girlfriend privilege #6: taesan lets you do anything you want-- even let’s you wear his clothes, because in his words, he’s only in love with you.

He did not know how he was able to get you to date him.

You were, after all, the campus golden girl—a title you didn't coin yourself because really, how mortifying would that be? No, you were the campus golden girl because you were the embodiment of the phrase: "talent speaks for itself."

Student council president who somehow still had time to ace exams. A familiar face at debates and cultural nights. Juggling dance troupe rehearsals and weekend volunteer work like it was nothing. People swore you had this magical ability to make everyone feel at ease. Teachers trust you. Peers adored you. Even strangers find you not just capable, but also genuinely kind.

And of course you were so so pretty, Jaehyun used to whine to his friends about it at least once a day before you got together (and now that you’re dating, the number’s gone up to three, because apparently "three times because you're a charm" or however the saying goes).

That's exactly how courting you went.

One minute, he's lamenting to Riwoo about how the light frames your face perfectly; the next, he's confessing his feelings for you outside your home, in a dress shirt that fit too tight around his neck, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hands, and his friends rallying behind him in matching dress shirts forming a makeshift band.

And despite the concerned looks from your parents because why is this boy serenading you at 8 in the morning on a weekend, you walked up to him, kissed his cheek, agreed to date him.

(When you invited him and his friends in for breakfast, they left liking you more than ever. Partly because you were charming, mostly because you kept Jaehyun from stealing their food)

And so, things had been very muy bien for Myung Jaehyun. Dating you turned out to be the best thing that has ever happened to him, even if half the university told him it'd be a challenge.

Sure, everyone wanted your attention and that meant constant competition. But Jaehyun was comfortable with the relationship and was very much madly in love with you. To him, you weren't an untouchable dream. To him, you were just his.

Of course, Jaehyun being secure did not mean he never got jealous. Oh, he got jealous, alright. He may have been okay with the idea of sharing you with the rest of the world, but apparently, his idea of sharing meant people could borrow your notes or relish under your leadership or maybe even take a picture with you.

Everything else—or at least, the ones that involved stealing you away from him, were a no-no in his book. And it wasn't because he doubted you. He knew you love him just as much as he loves you (or a little less, because he claims he loves you more). He knew you had never and will never entertain anyone else no matter how many admirers you had. He understood that and trusted you unequivocally.

That doesn't mean he can't scare them away.

I.

YOU'VE BEEN STUDENT COUNCIL president long enough to know the drill when it comes to a new transferee. Although you had another schedule in the next hour, you knew you couldn't say no when one of the advisers asked you to give the new guy a small tour around campus. This had been a common occurrence after all, and naturally part of your responsibilities.

The new transfer Anton, a tall boy with kind eyes and a gentle way of talking, walked beside you as you pointed out different places. "So this is the main quad. It's usually a free space to use, unless there are festivals. We have one upcoming so you'd might want to look forward to that! Then—oh, the cafeteria is right through that arch. The lunch rush is bad so I don't recommend it."

Anton laughed softly, his hair falling in front of his eyes. "Got it. Um... you must be really busy huh? Doing this on top of everything else?"

You smiled, brushing it off. "Not really. It's part of the job. Besides, it's nice meeting new people."

. . .

Across the quad, three boys were sprawled on the grass, casually soaking up the sun's rays while they wait for their next class.

"Oh?" Woonhak squinted, lowering his can of cola. "Who's that guy Noona's with?"

Jaehyun shot up from his previously lying-down position at the mention of you. He snapped his neck so fast, it was a wonder he didn't crack it. "What guy?"

Leehan followed Woonhak's gaze, "Ah, that's the new transfer. Noona's probably giving him a tour."

Woonhak smirked, turning to Jaehyun. "Ooh, what do you have to say about that, Hyung?"

But Jaehyun's spot was already empty. Woonhak blinked at the vacant spot of grass. "Hyung??"

. . .

You were mid-conversation about which clubs were looking for new applicants when you felt a sudden shift in the air. Next thing you know, an arm landed across your shoulders, a familiar scent wafted into your senses, and Jaehyun's voice drawled right against your ear.

"Hi, babe! What are you doing?"

You blinked. "Jaehyun? I'm showing the new transfer around campus. This is—" you gestured to Anton, who looked positively spooked by your boyfriend's sudden appearance, about to introduce him but Jaehyun's already cutting you off.

"Cool, cool." He twirled a piece of your hair, his smile not fully reaching his eyes. "Anyway, don't you have committee prep in fifteen minutes?"

You blinked again. "How'd you know about that?"

But he was already removing himself from you to throw his arm over Anton, who's eyes widened further when Jaehyun clapped his back. "Anyway! Let me give you the tour, man! I know all the great spots! Shortcut to the cafeteria, best vending machines, nap spots, all the essentials. Trust me, I've been here forever."

Before you could stop him, Jaehyun was already steering Anton away.

"See you later, baby!" he called over his shoulder, winking.

You stood there frozen in the middle of the hallway in disbelief.

"...What just happened?"

II.

JAEHYUN FLIPPED ANOTHER PAGE of his propped-up textbook with exaggerated casualness. If anyone walked by, they'd see an upstanding diligent student studying in the library. What they don't see is the way his gaze hadn't dropped from the glass-walled conference room right across him.

There you were, seated at the head of the table with your notes out as you listened to one of your committee members talk about the upcoming festival.

He leaned his cheek against his palm. He was supposed to be reviewing econ. Instead, he'd been counting how many times you tucked your hair behind your ear. Ten, eleven, twelve...

“You know,” a voice said flatly above him. “If you weren’t already dating Noona, this would be considered stalking.”

Jaehyun jerked his head up. Taesan stood there, unimpressed. Behind him, Sungho added, “Even if they are dating, it’s still stalking.”

Jaehyun bristled. “I was studying—” He stopped mid-sentence when, through the glass, he saw Gaon, one of your council members with a look of his face that ruffled Jaehyun's feathers, leaned a little too close to you as he borrowed yet another pen.

His eyes narrowed.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered instead, grabbing both Taesan’s and Sungho’s pencil cases in one swoop.

“Hey, wait!” Sungho lunged for his, but Jaehyun was already striding off.

. . .

“Sorry, can I borrow a sticky note? Mine ran out.”

You didn’t even look up. This was Gaon’s third request in twenty minutes. Sliding your pouch over, you kept your eyes on the council member presenting the proposed floor plan for the upcoming festival.

“Thanks! Oh, and another pen? This one’s, uh, dead.”

You sighed, pulling one out when the door to the conference room swung open.

Jaehyun strolled in like he owned the place, depositing two pencil cases, with different colors and mismatched charms dangling off the zippers, right in front of you and Gaon.

“There,” he said matter-of-factly. “So you don’t have to keep sharing.”

Gaon blinked. “Uh… thanks?”

Before you could so much react to the sudden appearance of your boyfriend, Jaehyun snapped his fingers and turned to the presenter. He gave the PowerPoint slides one long appraising look, nodded once, then started rattling off suggestions.

“Booths here will bottleneck. Space them out more. Put food stalls near exits so crowds keep moving. Better double the ticket system with online codes or you’ll get long lines.”

The room went silent, then erupted into praises.

"Woah, that's so smart!"

"Write that down! WRITE THAT DOWN!"

Heat shot to your cheeks. Meanwhile, Jaehyun blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected this outcome at all. Still, he smoothly slid into the seat between you and Gaon, grinning like it was all part of the plan.

Leaning in, he whispered, “I have no idea what I’m talking about.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back, but the smug look on his face paired with the quiet panic in his voice did you in.

When he added, “But hey, I scored you some free labor,” you broke.

You laughed so much, hiding behind your notes as the whole room turned to look. Beside you, Jaehyun beamed.

III.

The annual festival was a three-day event for your university. It had everything from food stalls and game tents to live performances (which he and his friends are a part of on day three). It had been the perfect opportunity to spend time with you (as if he hadn't been spending time with you since you started dating).

Still, Jaehyun couldn't help but feel deflated when he realized you had to help man your booth for half the day.

He’d tried convincing you to sneak away and explore with him, but you’d smiled that sweet smile that he could never say no to and shoved him toward Riwoo and Woonhak.

“Go enjoy yourself,” you said. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

So now, Jaehyun was trudging down the main row of booths with his friends, hands shoved in his pockets with his friends ohhing and ahhing at the displays.

"I miss my girlfriend," he whined to Riwoo for the millionth time.

"You'll be seeing her later in the day anyway." Riwoo resisted the urge to sigh. "Here, have some of Woonhak's chicken."

"Hey!"

Then the crowd ahead of them thickened. A whole group of guys clustered near one booth, blocking the path.

Woonhak craned his neck. “What’s everyone gathering for?”

Riwoo squinted. “Isn’t that… YN’s booth? The ring toss thing?”

Jaehyun froze, eyes narrowing. Then his voice took on a serious tone, bordering on urgent. “We should go.”

“But weren’t we going to get more chick—” Woonhak started.

“Nope. We’re going,” Jaehyun said, already marching forward.

. . .

You hadn't expected the sudden swarm of male students around your council's ring toss booth. Your members joked it had something to do with switching out Gaon for you at the registration area.

Even when you stood there, internally overwhelmed, you had on your brightest smile as you handed over rings and explained the rules. The rowdy group of guys seemed especially determined, saying things like they'd win the prizes for you, which you laughed off politely. As long as the tickets were selling, you weren't complaining.

Then, through the crowd, three familiar faces appeared.

“Hey, noona!” Woonhak called brightly, waving. You'd never tell Jaehyun (though you're sure he shared the same sentiments) but you had a soft spot for the youngest member of their friend group.

Riwoo gave you a grin and a nod, and Jaehyun... well, Jaehyun looked like he was headed into battle.

"Hi baby," he started, intentionally raising his voice for the group of guys beside him to hear, before slapping down tickets unto the table. "I'll play."

You chuckled. You knew where this was headed. "Sure! Three tries!"

He tossed the first ring. Missed. Second ring. Missed. Third ring... it spun once before clattering off the bottle.

From the sidelines, his friends winced.

"I'll try." Riwoo stepped forward, stepping up. He managed to snag a bottle neck on his second throw, earning himself a small keychain prize. Woonhak followed, grinning when he landed one too.

They both turned to Jaehyun, who was already paying for another round.

“Again,” he muttered.

You bit back a smile, handing him the rings. He tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed again. His growing frustration somehow radiated through-out the booth, making the rest of the guys scatter. One of your council members whispered to you that Jaehyun was scaring off potential customers but you were too engrossed and amused by your boyfriend's antics to care.

Clink! Finally, a ring settled neatly around a bottle neck.

“Yes!” Jaehyun shouted triumphantly, throwing his arms around you as if he won a major championship game. He accepted the prize (another minor keychain), turned to you, and grinned. His friends snickered behind him.

You coudn't resist the sight of his proud face when he presented it to you, so you leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you."

His smile stuck to his face, eyes a little dazed. Even after you shoo'd them away from the booth and promised to look around with him in the afternoon, the goofy grin stayed plastered on his face.

"If all it took for you to stop sulking was seeing Noona, then we should've brought you earlier," Woonhak whined. "I had to sacrifice my chicken!"

"I'll get you more chicken."

"Yes!"

IV.

The gym was packed for the festival's dance competition on the second day. Jaehyun sat on the bleachers with his friends, holding signs with your face and name on it.

"Make sure you're getting her fancam right," Jaehyun told Leehan, who gave him a thumbs-up.

When your introduction was made and the music blasted through the speakers, Jaehyun cheered like a mad mad when you took center stage. His heart swelled with pride as he watched you perform a series of complicated steps, commanding the stage and shining just like you always did.

Beside him, Sungho let out a whistle. "Wow, she's a better dancer than you."

“Yeah,” Jaehyun said instantly, grinning from ear to ear. “She’s amazing.”

He clapped and cheered louder than anyone else, not even embarrassed when a couple of students turned to stare. Every time you hit a particularly difficult move, he jumped up in excitement, biting down his knuckle to push down giddiness.

By the time your routine ended, the crowd was on their feet in a loud roar of cheers. Jaehyun’s voice cracked from shouting so much, but he didn’t care. His girlfriend absolutely killed it!

. . .

When the emcee announced your troupe as the winners for the annual festival, you let out a breath of relief as your team exploded in cheers around you. The dance competition had been a reprieve from your usual day-to-day activities, despite being just as stressful to prepare for. But when you performed on that stage, everything felt lighter. Winning had been the icing on the cake.

Suddenly, you were pushed forward by your team, urging you to accept the trophy with them in tow. In a rare bout of shyness, you led them up the stage.

The emcee then ushered a guest presenter to the stage—Sohee, the captain of the basketball team. He carried the trophy and a bouquet of flowers, sauntering to you with a smile that made the crowd buzz.

"Congratulations," he said.

You took them with a practiced smile, murmuring a small thanks. At the back of your mind, you slightly braced your self. You half-expected Jaehyun to come storming up the stage with his classic jealous boyfriend act (something you had brought up with him multiple times in the past, which he innocently claimed to "not have any clue about"). But surprisingly... nothing happened.

When the photo ops started, and your team gathered around you to take pictures with the trophy, you stood corrected. You barely had time to relax when you heard a part of the gym explode into hoots and cheers.

"Excuse me," a familiar voice cut from the left side of the stage.

You turned... and there he was. Jaehyun, your ever dramatic boyfriend with a deep fondness for grand gestures, striding unto the stage with an even bigger bouquet of your favorite flowers. The smug smile on his face was devastating. The crowd went wild.

He stopped in front of you and glanced at the bouquet in your hands. With a little quirk of his head, he turned to one of your teammates. "Would you mind holding that for a moment?"

Your teammate, albeit a little stunned by his charming smile, rushed forward to take the bouquet from your hands. Jaehyun smoothly swapped them with his own.

"For you," he murmured.

You didn't know whether to laugh or melt at the gesture, while your team screamed in the background. The entire gym shook with the noise from your classmates chanting and whistling at the spectacle.

"Really?" you snorted, half-exasperated, half-amused.

He shrugged. "What? You deserve flowers that aren't recycled from the basketball team's funds." He then settled beside you to join in the picture-taking.

With an arm around you, he grinned cheekily once more before leaning forward and kissing your cheek just as the camera went click!

(It was only a week after the festival, when you were giving yet another transferee a tour around campus and stopped in front of the trophy cabinet, that you saw the winner’s picture and realized Jaehyun’s gesture had been the best way to make it known to the school that you were his).

I.

YOU HADN'T PLANNED on roping your boyfriend and his friends into performing for the last day of the festival. But after that chaotic serenade he'd pulled off to court you, you knew the crowd would love them.

And you were right.

From the side of the stage, you watched him slip into performer mode effortlessly. He looked absolutely magnetic, with his beautiful voice and amazing dance skills that rivaled yours. Of course, the front row was packed with girls, squealing and waving signs of his name.

You told yourself you didn't mind the attention he was getting. Your boyfriend was incredible, after all. But when one of them yelled, "You're so handsome, Jaehyun!" and he laughed into the mic, you couldn't help your eye twitching.

By the end of the set, the boys were basking in the applause, and Jaehyun hopped off stage. You were about to approach him when three girls beat you to it.

They immediately showered him with praises, offering water bottles and towels. When one of them leaned too close into his personal space to take a picture, your feet moved you forward without thinking.

You slipped an arm around Jaehyun's waist, catching him off-guard for a second before he relaxed after realizing it was you. His gaze burned the side of your face, yet you were too distracted by something else.

"Sorry girls," you said brightly. "He's a little busy."

To your surprise, their eyes widened. "Oh! You're his girlfriend, right? YN-nim?"

When you nodded, they switched up so fast, apologizing and cooing over your relationship like they shipped you since the very beginning. They then scattered, giggling as they went.

You turned back to your boyfriend, who looked down at you with lips twitching. "That was so..." Jaehyun smirked. "Possessive."

You couldn't help but blush. "They were crowding you, I was just... helping."

Helping,” he echoed, clearly amused. “So, when you wrapped yourself around me and told them off, that was just ‘helping?’”

You glared. “Don’t start.”

He only leaned closer, grin softening into something that made your stomach flip. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I wasn’t—”

"God, I love you," he started. Then, without waiting for a response, he tugged you gently by the waist and kissed you. He smiled against your lips when he felt you relax in his embrace.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "Better?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't wipe the grin off your face. "Much."

He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.

Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”

“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”

Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.

“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”

“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”

Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”

Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”

Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.

And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.

Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”

“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.

Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”

Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.

“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”

Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.

Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”

Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.

Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.

Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.

Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.

Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.

Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.

On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.

But still. No podium. Not yet.

He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.

Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.

Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.

Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13. 

Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately. 

Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”

Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”

Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”

“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”

That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”

Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”

“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”

“Maybe buy it dinner first.” 

They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”

Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”

“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense. 

But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption. 

Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.

“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”

Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.

Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.

Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.

He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.

Your name.

It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing. 

The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.

Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”

And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.

Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.

The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. 

Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps. 

Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.

He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.

Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.

Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.

The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio. 

There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”

He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.

“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”

“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”

He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.

He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.

The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”

He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”

It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish. 

The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.

The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”

Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”

“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”

“…Thanks, gu—my what?”

The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.” 

He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.

Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.

Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.

But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.

Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.

“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”

He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”

A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)

Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”

“What about it?” 

“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”

Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”

Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.

It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.

His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.

Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.

The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.

Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum. 

But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.

Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.

Partner. As in…? 

He doesn’t even know you.

He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.

Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”

Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.

The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.

God, Mingyu thinks, unfair. 

Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.

“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”

You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”

Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”

PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”

Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”

“And you’re certain?” PR presses.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”

“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”

PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.

The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.

He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.

What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”

James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”

“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”

The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. 

Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.

There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. 

The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.

Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.

Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at. 

Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.

The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.

The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.” 

Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.

Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.

A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.

He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.

“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.

“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”

Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”

“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”

The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.

Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.

By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.

Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.

Until the morning of qualifying, that is.

Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.

Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.

He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.

Deletes.

Types again. Wow!!!

Deletes harder.

What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.

With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—

He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.

He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.

But his thumb betrays him a second time.

Sent.

A beat.

Delivered changes to Seen. 

Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.

Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.

Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.

|   yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though. 

Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply. 

|   min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you. 

There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears. 

|   yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.

He grins despite himself, typing fast.

|   min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.

|   yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨

Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.

|   min6yu_k: Guilty

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.

This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.

|   yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything 

|   yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’

Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:

|   min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.

Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.

|   yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u

|   min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍

The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:

|   yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock 

|   yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀

The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.

He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.

Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.

“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.

Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”

“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”

He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”

“Negative, keep pushing.”

He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.

The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”

His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”

Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”

There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.

Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.

The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.

Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.

Of course. Of course.

You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”

Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.

“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”

Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”

You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.

Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.

Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.

By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.

He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again. 

Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.

Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.

Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile. 

Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.

Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.

The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.

“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”

“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”

“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.

The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.

Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.

Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.

Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?

But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished. 

Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.

Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.

It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.

He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.

In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.

He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.

The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.

“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.

“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”

“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.

Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”

“Am not.”

Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”

Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.

On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.

For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you. 

No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.

Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”

Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”

Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.

By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”

Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”

“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.

“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”

“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.

“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.

The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.

One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.

“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”

Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”

You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.

The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.

Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.

You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer  before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”

You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”

Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”

“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”

The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?

You sigh, breaking the stalemate. 

“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”

That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”

The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.

He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.

But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.

Mingyu pretends not to care. 

He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.

Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder. 

Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.

Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.

Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.

Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”

Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”

Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”

For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.

Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”

“Too?” Joshua finally glances over, eyebrows raised. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”

Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”

Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.

Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.

He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”

The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.

You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.

“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”

Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”

“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”

You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.

“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”

Mingyu stares. 

You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.

“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”

“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”

Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”

Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.

That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.

Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.

A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.

The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.

Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.

He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.

A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck. 

Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.

For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”

Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.

“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “

Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”

The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.

And then it rains.

Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”

“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”

His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.

The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”

Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”

The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.

“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”

The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out. 

He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”

Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.

When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.

The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.

“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”

Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.” 

He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.

By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.

The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.

When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”

And then he sees.

It’s you.

You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.

His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”

You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.

Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”

Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?” 

He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy. 

You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”

He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”

That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’

He  stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”

“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”

“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”

You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”

He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”

“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”

“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”

The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.

For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all. 

Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.

“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”

You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”

Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.

Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.

You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”

You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.

“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.

For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.

It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?

The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.

He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.

“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”

There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.

Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4. 

The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.

Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”

The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.

He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”

The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his. 

His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.

It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.

Your story.

It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.

Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.

Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵

Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.

The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.

Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)

They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.

Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”

“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.

“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”

Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.

Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”

Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.

He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other. 

The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.

Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.

He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.

Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.

The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”

“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”

You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”

“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”

Your brows lift. “What happened?”

Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”

You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”

“You’re doing it very poorly.”

“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”

He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”

“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.

Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.

“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”

You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”

“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”

You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.

He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”

“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.

Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”

You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.

At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.

Like an actual couple.

The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.

It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:

|   min6yu_k: Hey

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive. 

|   min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore

|   min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺

It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise. 

Except three dots appear. Then a reply.

|   yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :) 

Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer. 

At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.

When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption: 

|   min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.

You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering. 

|   yourusername: sardinia? how original

|   yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️

He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager. 

Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.

And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.

But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.

This is where it gets him: 

Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.

|   yourusername: help me pick? 

It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.

Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.

By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.

Your reply comes minutes later. 

|   yourusername: perfect

|   yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️

Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too? 

That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.

But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has? 

He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance. 

Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.

Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.

|   yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well

|   yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮‍💨 is that stupid?) 

His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.

“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.

Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days. 

|   min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????

|   min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then 

|   min6yu_k: Because I miss you too 

The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.

He calls anyway.

The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”

“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”

“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”

There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.

Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”

He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”

You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”

Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”

Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself. 

The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.

Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.

He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.

Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.

“Uh,” he starts, already regretting it, “you look… very… event appropriate.”

A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.

You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”

That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”

You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”

Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.

Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.

He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”

You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”

The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.

He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.

He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.

He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”

“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”

“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”

You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”

“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”

You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”

“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”

“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”

The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.

At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.

You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”

Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.

You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say. 

He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching. 

The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.

Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.

Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.

There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.

“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”

Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.

And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.

No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.

Just open track.

Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”

“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”

P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015. 

Now it’s him. Now it’s real.

The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams. 

“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”

Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”

He keeps driving.

For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race. 

Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.

“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.

“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”

Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.

But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”

He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.

And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.

The world resumes its natural order.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.

He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.

When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”

Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.

Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.

And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.

You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”

As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.

Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”

You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.

“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”

Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.

Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

“You have to break up with her.”

That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.

Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”

“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”

“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”

“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”

Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.

Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”

His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”

Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.

The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.

He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.

“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”

Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”

The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up. 

You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.

He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.

You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”

You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.

It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.

He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.

It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”

“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”

“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”

“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”

“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”

Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”

He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.

Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.

Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.

The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”

“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.

You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”

For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”

“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”

Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”

You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”

That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.

He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.

So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”

The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.

Your brows knit. “No?”

Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.

“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”

You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse. 

“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”

The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.

Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”

It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—

“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”

Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”

You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”

He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”

Oh.

Oh. 

His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”

Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.

His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.

You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.

When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”

Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.

Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him. 

He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.

Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.” 

The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.

They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.

But then—then—he sees you.

You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.

“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”

Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”

Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.

He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.

You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.

“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”

You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”

Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.

“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”

“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”

Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack. 

Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday. 

For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.

The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.” 

His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.

He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise. 

The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no. 

James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed. 

Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.

And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. 

He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.

He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.

Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl. 

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.

He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.

And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.

Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.

He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.

He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya. 

Eight laps. 

Six. 

His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”

Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in. 

The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his. 

Four laps. 

He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady. 

Three laps. Two. 

Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.

Final lap. 

The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight. 

The checkered flag waves.

Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.

The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.

Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”

Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.

That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you.