kiley

He tilted his head, still smiling, eyes reflecting the fading light. “Just thinking,” he said, almost sheepishly. His free hand brushed at his hair before he let out a little chuckle. “I’ll just be so happy here with you. Even though it’s our first night, I can sense it.” He laughed at himself, boyish and a little embarrassed by how sentimental it sounded.

I slipped my arm around his shoulder, pulling myself closer until my cheek rested lightly against him. “I agree,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek before settling against him fully.

San’s shoulder was warm beneath me, his laughter soft as Byeol tumbled after the string. The tiny jingling sound of her collar mixed with San’s giggles filled the room. The boxes and the mess didn’t matter. Right there in the glow of our first evening, with his arm brushing mine and our little kitten chasing shadows, it already felt like home.

Byeol batted at my fingers as I wiggled them across the floor, her little paws wrapping around my hand before she tried to chew at the string I’d stolen from San. She let out a tiny squeak when I tugged it away, rolling over in dramatic defeat. I laughed softly, feeling the warmth of the evening settle over me.

San’s voice called from the kitchen, muffled by the sound of the microwave beeping. A few minutes later, he returned, balancing two steaming cups of macaroni in his hands and a couple of sodas tucked under his arm. He set them down carefully on top of a flattened cardboard box he’d dragged over, grinning like he’d just set up a five-star spread.

“Fine dining, wouldn’t you say?” he said through a mouthful of macaroni, already digging in as he cracked open his soda with a fizz.

I couldn’t help but laugh, reaching for my cup. “Only the best,” I teased, scooping up a bite. The cheese was way too hot, but the whole thing—the box as our table, the scattered moving chaos around us, San’s satisfied grin—felt so perfect I didn’t care.

He clinked his fork against mine like it was a wine glass, his eyes sparkling. “To our first night,” he said, dramatic, before taking another giant bite.

The courtroom buzzed faintly with the sound of papers shuffling, voices murmuring—but all you could focus on was Chan. Your husband, your partner in life and litigation, standing tall in a charcoal gray suit that hugged his shoulders and tapered perfectly down his body. He was all sharp lines and calm confidence, his voice smooth and deliberate as he delivered a closing argument that had even the opposing counsel sitting up straighter.

You should’ve been reviewing notes. You should’ve been focused on the case. But your eyes followed every little movement—his hand adjusting his cufflinks, the slight smirk when he knew he had the jury wrapped around his finger. He was brilliant, ruthless, and disgustingly attractive. And he was all yours.

Later that night, the second the front door closed behind you both, you were on him.

“You looked so sexy today,” you whispered, dropping your bag by the wall and wrapping your arms around his waist. “Do you have any idea how hard it was not to jump you in front of the judge?”

He laughed, his hands settling on your hips as you leaned up to kiss along his jaw. “You were staring at me all day.”

“Can you blame me?” you mumbled between kisses, working your way up to his lips. “You in that suit? I wanted to tear it off right there in the courtroom.”

Chan chuckled again, low and warm, letting you smother him in affection as he backed you both toward the couch. “Maybe I’ll wear it again tomorrow. Or maybe… I’ll just let you take it off now.”

You grinned against his lips. “Objection, your honor—irrelevant. But sustained.”

Your laugh was soft against his mouth as you tugged him down with you onto the couch, fingers already toying with the buttons of his dress shirt. His tie loosened easily beneath your touch, his hands moving slowly along your waist like he had all the time in the world.

“You really liked the suit that much?” he murmured, lips brushing against your neck.

I had always thought that love would be something I stumbled into—something soft and sudden, not something scheduled over dinner.

We were sitting at the long mahogany table in the dining room, the one my mother only used for special occasions. The chandelier above us flickered with dim light, casting golden glows over the plates of grilled salmon and wild rice. My father was in a particularly good mood, his eyes gleaming like he had a surprise gift to give.

And he did.

“We’ve been thinking,” my mother said suddenly, resting her fork on her plate with careful poise. “About your future.”

I felt a knot twist in my stomach. “My future?”

My father leaned forward, his tone casual but firm. “With Chan.”

I blinked. “What about Chan?”

“You two would be good together,” he said, like he was offering me a business opportunity rather than a life partner. “He’s successful, respectful, and he cares about this family. It would benefit everyone.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or choke. “You mean… marriage?”

“Arranged, yes,” my mother answered, folding her hands in her lap like it was the most normal thing in the world. “It would stabilize our family name in the industry. You’d never want for anything, sweetheart.”

I could hardly process what they were saying. My heart was pounding.

I knew Chan. Everyone in the industry did. He was a walking billboard for perfection—flawless skin, charming smile, the body of someone sculpted by gods. My father had scouted him years ago in Australia, said he saw potential in the boy with the soft eyes and quiet strength. Chan had moved here alone at eighteen. Since then, he’d become one of the agency’s biggest names. He was polite, humble, and always made a point to greet me when he visited. But marriage?

My head spun.

The next day, Chan came over for dinner. I expected awkwardness—some tension in the air—but he was calm, maybe a little too calm. His eyes met mine only once, and they held something I couldn’t name. I wondered if he was as thrown off as I was, or if he had known all along.

After dinner, we found ourselves alone in the kitchen, pretending to clean up dishes.

“I didn’t know they’d bring it up so soon,” he said softly, glancing at me.

I looked at him. “So you knew?”

He nodded. “Your dad mentioned it a few weeks ago. I thought he was joking.”

“And now?”

Chan leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Do you want this?” I asked before I could stop myself. My voice came out too honest, too raw.

He hesitated. “I want what’s best for both our families. And I trust your dad. But I’m not going to pretend this isn’t weird for you. Or for me.”

Something about the way he said it—gently, without pressure—made my shoulders drop. For a moment, he didn’t look like a top model or my father’s golden ticket. He just looked like a guy, caught in something bigger than himself, just like me.

In the weeks that followed, we started seeing more of each other. Not because we had to, but because we needed to figure out who we were—together.

Chan took me to a quiet café one morning, far away from the flashing cameras and fake smiles. He told me about his family back home, about how modeling saved him, about the nights he still felt like a scared kid in a foreign country. I told him about how I’d always felt like a shadow of my father’s legacy, a daughter expected to carry weight I never asked for.

And somewhere in between those conversations, the tension faded. We started laughing more. Sitting closer. We weren’t in love, not yet, but something was growing. Something real.

One night, after a long walk through the city, he looked at me as we reached my doorstep.

“I don’t want this to feel forced,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “If we’re going to do this… I want it to be because we chose it.”

I looked up at him, at the boy from Australia who became my father’s biggest star. And in that moment, I realized he wasn’t just an arrangement. He was a chance. A maybe. A slow burn I hadn’t expected.

“I want to choose it too,” I whispered.

And this time, when he leaned in—soft, careful, asking for nothing—I didn’t pull away.

The wedding had been beautiful, in that curated kind of way. Lavish, tasteful, a press-worthy event filled with glittering lights and people who only spoke in compliments. I smiled through every photo, every speech, every soft nudge from my mother telling me to look happier.

But under all of it, Chan and I were still two people who didn’t quite know how to belong to each other.

The first few months were a strange rhythm of politeness and space. We lived in the same house—separate rooms at first, quiet meals together, short conversations about his schedule or my family or what color we should repaint the guest bathroom. He was always kind, always respectful, but it felt like we were dancing around something we weren’t ready to admit.

Sometimes I’d catch him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. His gaze always held something soft—like he was trying to figure me out, memorize me even. Other nights, I’d lie awake and wonder what would happen if I slipped into his room, if I told him that even though we were strangers in some ways, I wanted more than silence between us.

One night, it happened.

I had a nightmare—I don’t even remember what it was about. I only remember waking up breathless, the sheets tangled around me, and this heavy sense of loneliness. On instinct, I got up and walked to his room. I knocked gently.

He opened the door wearing a worn white t-shirt and sleep-heavy eyes. “Y/N? Are you okay?”

“I just…” I paused, embarrassed. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Without a word, he stepped aside. I climbed into his bed like it was the most normal thing in the world, like it hadn’t taken me months to gather the courage.

We didn’t speak. He just slid in beside me and turned off the lamp. A few minutes later, I felt his fingers brush mine beneath the covers. I didn’t move away. That night, I slept better than I had in years.

After that, everything started shifting.

We started sharing the same room. The mornings became warmer—Chan would make coffee before his shoots and leave a cup on my nightstand with a sticky note that said something silly like don’t be grumpy today. He’d come home late and knock softly on the door, just to make sure I was still awake. I started watching his runway videos when he wasn’t around. I found myself proud, not because he was mine, but because I was starting to want him to be.

One rainy afternoon, I walked into the studio my dad owned. Chan was doing a shoot for a luxury brand, dressed in all black with that brooding look he wore so well. When our eyes met, he broke character for a split second—his expression softened like he forgot there were cameras on him.

Later, I found him backstage changing. “You looked good out there,” I said, almost shy.

He smiled. “So did you… sitting there with your arms crossed like you owned the place.”

I laughed, and he reached for my hand. “Come here.”

He pulled me gently into his arms, resting his forehead against mine. “It’s funny,” he whispered. “This thing we were forced into… I think I would’ve fallen for you anyway.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I just closed my eyes, let myself feel the truth in his touch. Because I felt it too—whatever we had started out of duty was now rooted in something deeper. Something tender. Something real.

That night, when we got home, he kissed me in the hallway. No cameras, no parents, no perfect lighting. Just us. And it wasn’t electric or cinematic—it was soft. Familiar. Like breathing.

And for the first time since this all began, I realized:

I didn’t just marry Chan.

I chose him.

And somewhere along the way, he chose me too.

It had been three years since our wedding.

Three years since I stood in a designer dress under ivory silk drapes, saying vows I hadn’t fully understood at the time. I’d said them because I had to. Because my parents believed in the business, in family legacy, in survival through strategy. And maybe, back then, I’d believed in none of it.

But now, I believed in us.

Chan and I had built a quiet, beautiful life together—one that belonged to neither my mother’s dreams nor my father’s vision. It was ours, shaped in small, ordinary ways. Mornings started with sleepy kisses and shared coffee. Evenings ended tangled on the couch, half-watching movies while he rested his head on my lap and I ran my fingers through his hair.

We still worked in the world we were raised in—him modeling, me managing part of the agency now—but we’d created distance from the noise. We stopped caring about being seen, and started focusing on being known. Truly known.

I stood on the balcony that evening, watching the city lights blink in and out like stars that had lost their way. The air was warm, humming with summer. Behind me, I heard the sliding glass door open. Familiar footsteps padded toward me, and then arms wrapped around my waist from behind.

“You’re always out here when the sky turns gold,” Chan murmured into my shoulder.

I leaned back against him, smiling. “Because it’s the only time the world feels quiet.”

He kissed the side of my neck, slowly. “You make everything feel quiet.”

We stood like that for a while—no rush, no expectation. Just being. He rested his chin on my shoulder, our fingers intertwined on the railing.

“Do you remember the first night I let you sleep in my bed?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded. “You didn’t say anything. You just let me stay.”

He chuckled softly. “I was scared. I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t even know what it was yet.”

“I think I started falling for you that night,” I said quietly. “When you didn’t ask me why.”

Chan turned me gently to face him. His eyes were still the same—warm, steady, full of things he’d never need to say out loud. “You were always it for me, even before I knew what that meant.”

I felt tears sting the corners of my eyes. Not because I was sad—but because life had taken such a strange, twisting path to lead us here. We hadn’t found love. We had grown it—planted in uncertain soil, watered by patience, blooming in quiet, surprising ways.

If someone had told the girl from three years ago that she would be hopelessly in love with the man her parents chose for her, she would’ve laughed. But standing there in his arms, nothing felt more true.

Marriage didn’t save us.

We saved each other—

with time, with tenderness, with choice.

Always choice.

“Let’s stay out here a little longer,” I whispered, burying my face in his chest.

Chan held me closer. “For as long as you want.”

And under the golden sky, wrapped in the arms of a man I once called a stranger, I realized—I had everything I never thought I’d need.

It had to have been a blur of neon lights, too many shots, and bad decisions, because when I stumbled out of Hongjoong’s kitchen with mascara smeared halfway to my jawline, he grabbed my arm and said, “You need to go home. Like, now.”

And then, like some cruel joke, he added:

“Seonghwa’s gonna drive you.”

I laughed. Like actually laughed.

“You’re kidding. I’d rather walk.”

I wasn’t even wearing shoes.

But Hongjoong gave me that look, and before I could throw up another protest, I was being pushed toward Seonghwa, who stood by the front door with his arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like he’d rather set himself on fire than be within ten feet of me.

“Of course,” I muttered, staggering past him. He didn’t say a word. Just opened the car door and got in.

I leaned my head against the window and watched the lights smear across the glass. I could feel him stealing glances at me, probably imagining the most creative ways to dump my body in a ditch and make it look like an accident. I didn’t blame him. We’d hated each other for years.

Because of her. His ex.

My biggest enemy. A walking perfume ad with a superiority complex and a talent for gaslighting. I’d never said it to his face, but I’d always thought he was a fool for loving her. And I think he knew I thought that. Just like I knew he’d taken her side every time she tried to get me out of every room.

We’d been on the road maybe twenty minutes when he pulled off without a word and parked at a gas station.

“What are we—”

He just shot me a look. Cold. Sharp.

“Stay here,” he said, and got out.

I watched him disappear inside, arms tense, back rigid, and felt my stomach lurch again—nerves or nausea, I wasn’t sure. Probably both.

I closed my eyes and let the cold leather press against my skin, praying I wouldn’t throw up in his perfect, spotless car.

A few minutes later, the door opened. A rustle of a plastic bag. And then something cold pressed against my leg.

I looked over, expecting him to toss something into my lap with a grunt or some passive-aggressive jab.

Instead, he unscrewed the cap of a Gatorade bottle and leaned toward me, holding it up to my mouth.

“Drink,” he said, not harsh but not soft either—firm, almost like a command, but… gentle underneath.

My brows furrowed. “I can drink it myself.”

“You’ll spill it all over yourself.” His eyes flicked down to my hands, which were trembling slightly. “Just… let me.”

So I did.

Because I didn’t have it in me to fight. Because the Gatorade was cold and sweet and hit my stomach like a lifeline. Because something about the way he was holding it—like I was fragile, like I wasn’t the girl he used to argue with over petty shit every weekend—made me freeze.

He didn’t move until I took a few good sips. Then he finally pulled the bottle away, but instead of tossing it to the floor, he set it carefully in the cupholder like it actually mattered.

And then… he pulled something else from the plastic bag.

An Uncrustable. My mouth dropped open a little. “How did you…” “I know you keep a stash of them in Hongjoong’s freezer,” he said, avoiding my eyes, his voice lower now. “You always eat them when you’re drunk. Said something once about needing carbs to ‘absorb the stupid.’”

My breath caught, not from embarrassment—but because I hadn’t even remembered saying that.

“You pay attention?”

“Sometimes,” he muttered, like it was a crime.

He opened the wrapper and held it out like he was offering some sacred treasure. I took it slowly, fingers brushing his. He flinched a little but didn’t pull away.

I stared at the half-thawed peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my hands, and then up at him.

“You still hate me?” I asked quietly, not really sure I wanted the answer. His eyes flicked up to mine, steady now. He exhaled, long and tired.

“I don’t know,” he said. His hands dropped to his lap. “Now I just don’t know what to do with you,” he finished. I smiled, small and a little sad. “Start with driving me home.”

And maybe something about the way I said it, soft like surrender, made his shoulders ease.

He looked at me for a second longer—like he was trying to figure something out. And then he nodded, turned the key, and pulled back onto the road.

This time, the silence wasn’t cold.

It felt warm.

Tentative.

Like the start of something we didn’t have a name for yet.

And when he glanced over again, eyes flicking to where I held the Uncrustable like it was a peace offering, I caught the tiniest twitch of a smile on his lips.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

One minute, I was chewing the last bite of the Uncrustable, stealing sideways glances at him under the glow of passing headlights. The next, the world went quiet, soft, blurry.

But Seonghwa remembers. He remembers how my head slowly slumped sideways until it found the middle console—until it brushed up gently against his arm. He remembers how he stiffened at first, surprised by the warmth, by how peaceful I looked, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, breathing even and slow.

I was asleep. Fully and completely. Out cold.

Still smelling faintly of vodka and vanilla body spray.

Still the same girl he’d sworn he couldn’t stand—until tonight.

And now? He told himself not to care. Told himself to focus on the road, on getting me home. Told himself it was just Hongjoong asking for a favor.

But when my fingers twitched slightly, brushing his arm like an accidental touch… something in him cracked open.

He let out a breath. Reached up without thinking and gently brushed a hand through my hair, slow and uncertain.

Why the hell am I feeling like this?

He couldn’t explain it.

The hate, the arguments, the years of silent glares across crowded rooms—none of it made sense now with how soft I looked. With how natural it felt to make sure I was okay.

And when he pulled up to my house—he hesitated.

The porch light was off. The street was quiet. My phone had buzzed once in my lap and then gone dark again.

I didn’t stir.

“Of course,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “You would knock out cold when we’re an hour from everything.”

He sat there for a second, just watching me breathe.

Then he sighed.

“Alright. Screw it.”

Seonghwa’s apartment was dark and clean, filled with the faint scent of eucalyptus and the low hum of his air purifier. He unlocked the door with one hand, the other gripping awkwardly around me—my arm slung over his shoulder, my feet dragging.

I might’ve mumbled something when he got me out of the car.

He didn’t respond. Just tightened his grip, muttering under his breath.

“You better forget all of this.”

He set me gently—gently—down on his couch. Adjusted the throw pillow under my head. Pulled the blanket off the back and draped it over me like he’d done this a hundred times before.

He stood there for a second, just looking at me.

Like he didn’t recognize the version of me lying in his living room.

Like he didn’t recognize the version of himself that wanted to protect me right now.

“God, what are you doing to me,” he whispered to no one.

No answer. Just the soft sound of my breathing and the faint crinkle of the Gatorade bottle still clutched loosely in my hand.

He turned, finally, and walked upstairs. Decided he’d deal with it in the morning. Decided I was someone else’s problem tomorrow.

But even as he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling—he already knew.

I wasn’t.

Not anymore.

The first thing I felt when I woke up wasn’t pain. It was regret. Then pain.

My head throbbed like I’d gone ten rounds in a cage match with a tequila bottle, and judging by the weight of the blanket over me and the faint scent of laundry detergent that didn’t belong to me… I wasn’t in my bed.

I sat up slowly, blinking against the sunlight leaking through unfamiliar curtains.

Couch.

Modern decor.

Too clean.

Definitely not Hongjoong’s place.

Then I heard it—the quiet shuffle of someone moving around. A soft clink of glass. A cabinet closing. Footsteps.

And that’s when it hit me.

I was in Seonghwa’s apartment.

I groaned under my breath, dragging my hands down my face and sinking back into the throw pillow. The night before came back in flashes: the party, the shots, the car ride, the Gatorade… the freaking Uncrustable.

And the worst part?

How gentle he’d been. How different.

I winced, raking my fingers through my tangled hair.

He was going to love this.

I slowly sat up again, blanket sliding off my shoulders, just as he turned the corner into the living room—mug in one hand, the other bracing against the doorframe. His hair was still tousled, hoodie hanging off one shoulder like he’d just thrown it on. He looked tired, maybe annoyed. Or maybe just confused.

I jumped slightly, not expecting him to be that close. “Jesus—”

“You’re awake,” he said, flat, like it was a surprise I’d survived the night.

“Barely,” I muttered. My voice was rough, coated in sleep and shame. I avoided his eyes, clutching the edge of the blanket tighter around me like it might swallow me whole.

“Sorry for last night,” I added quickly, rubbing at my eyes. “I didn’t mean to… y’know. Get that drunk. Or be that much of a mess.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just walked past me into the kitchen and set the mug down. I could hear him rummaging through a drawer, grabbing something.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said eventually, voice softer now. “You weren’t… awful.”

I glanced at him.

“Just… annoying,” he smirked, sliding a granola bar across the counter toward me. “But that’s not exactly new.”

I rolled my eyes, relief blooming somewhere in my chest despite myself. “Wow. So generous.”

He shrugged, finally meeting my gaze—and there was something there. Something quieter than the banter we were used to. Something more curious. Less guarded.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said, almost like a confession. “You weren’t that bad.”

I stared at him, searching for the bite in his tone. There wasn’t one.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… tentative. Like we were standing at the edge of something neither of us had meant to walk into.

“Thanks for… bringing me here,” I said, voice low. “And for not leaving me on the sidewalk.”

He gave a half-smile. “I thought about it.”

“You didn’t.”

“No,” he agreed, watching me. “I didn’t.”

The kettle started hissing behind him. He turned to it, breaking the moment. But I stayed still, the blanket bunching at my waist, my eyes fixed on the spot where he’d been standing.

Something had shifted.

I could feel it in the way he handed me a drink.

In the way he hadn’t let me wake up alone on some cold porch.

In the way he’d brushed my hair when he thought I wouldn’t know.

“Want to go get something for breakfast?” Seonghwa asked, not looking at me as he poured hot water over the tea bag. “Then I can drop you off at home.”

I blinked, halfway through chewing the granola bar he’d given me.

“…Like, actual breakfast?”

“Unless you want another Uncrustable,” he said without missing a beat, one corner of his mouth twitching.

I laughed—quiet, still groggy, but real. “Okay, yeah. Breakfast sounds good.”

The diner he picked was nothing special. Off a side road near his apartment, worn booths, sticky syrup bottles, the kind of place where the waitress calls you hon and never lets your coffee cup go empty.

We sat across from each other, steam rising between us, sharing glances between bites of pancakes and eggs and questions we didn’t know how to ask out loud.

I caught him watching me once when I reached for the syrup—eyes soft, expression unreadable.

When I looked back, he didn’t look away.

The drive to my house was quieter. Not the same awkward silence from the night before—this one was slower, comfortable. Full of thoughts neither of us wanted to ruin with words.

The closer we got to my place, the more my stomach turned—not from nausea, but from not wanting to leave.

He pulled into my driveway, shifting the car into park, fingers still resting on the gear stick. I looked over at him, hesitant.

“Thanks for…” I trailed off. “Everything.”

Seonghwa turned toward me. His eyes were warm now, not cold like yesterday. Not cautious.

“Don’t mention it,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat, “Seriously. Don’t. I have a reputation.”

I smiled, my heart doing something stupid.

I reached for the door handle. He leaned just a little closer.

“Wait—”

I froze.

His hand brushed lightly against mine where it rested on my leg, then slid back.

And then, just like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned forward and gave me the softest kiss.

Just a gentle press of lips. Barely there.

But full of everything we hadn’t said.

When he pulled back, his eyes met mine again—searching, unreadable, nervous.

“I… don’t know why I did that,” he said honestly.

But I smiled, still stunned, heart racing.

“I’m glad you did.”

He nodded slowly, like he didn’t believe this was real. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” I said, opening the door. “You will.”

And as I stepped out, closing it gently behind me, I felt the lingering warmth of his kiss still on my lips.

Last night, I couldn’t stand Seonghwa.

The garage always smelled like burnt rubber and gasoline.

Your job kept you behind the scenes—data logging, pressure checks, double-checking telemetry before races. You weren’t supposed to talk to the drivers. Especially not the obnoxiously hot one with the bleach-blonde streaks in his hair and the ego the size of the damn racetrack.

He walked like he owned the place. Like everyone here was lucky to watch him drive.

He was all jawline and tan skin and expensive sunglasses he never actually wore, just tucked into his fire suit like a prop. You’d seen him on TV, heard the interviews where he flirted with cameras more than the reporters. You weren’t impressed.

Until he stopped in front of you.

“…Didn’t know they let pretty girls in the garage,” he said, completely serious, eyebrows raised like he just dropped the line of the year.

You blinked at him. “I work here.”

He paused. Looked you up and down. “You’re kidding.”

You weren’t.

“Wait—like…you actually work on the cars?” he asked, genuinely shocked.

You glanced down at your jumpsuit, your gloves, the grease on your hands. Then back at him.

“Yeah. Wild concept.”

He whistled, low and impressed. “Damn. Hot and smart? That should be illegal.”

You rolled your eyes. “You always this forward, or am I just lucky?”

He grinned—no shame. “I’m always like this. But I only flirt when someone’s worth it.”

You turned back to your work, pretending your heart wasn’t beating just a little faster. He didn’t leave.

Instead, he leaned against the car you were working on. “You ever come watch me race?”

“I’m usually too busy cleaning up your mess.”

He laughed. Loud, boyish, and annoyingly attractive. “That was cold. You wound me.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ll survive.”

He tilted his head, still watching you like you were the most interesting thing in the room. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you trouble?”

You didn’t answer.

He grinned wider. “Trouble it is.”

Later that day, after the race—after he won and immediately looked toward the pit like he was searching for someone—you found him walking back through the garage, half unzipped and grinning like a fool.

“See that?” he asked, catching up to you, breathing still heavy. “Told you I’d win.”

“You didn’t tell me anything,” you muttered.

He leaned in closer. “I was trying to impress you.”

“Not working.”

“You sure? ‘Cause your face is doing this cute little—”

You shoved a rag into his chest before he could finish.

He just laughed. Like he couldn’t get enough of you already.

And honestly? You were starting to think maybe you didn’t mind the attention.

Especially not when he leaned back and murmured, “You should come with me sometime. I’ll drive real slow…just for you.”

You snorted. “You don’t know how to go slow.”

He licked his lips, gave you that look.

It was late—one of those quiet, slow-burning nights that made everything feel softer than usual. The house still had that honeymoon glow, warm and new like a fresh start. You padded into the kitchen, feet bare against the tile, your oversized sleep shirt swaying just above your knees. The lights were low, a soft yellow hum over the counter, and all you were focused on was pouring yourself a bowl of cereal before bed.

You could already hear the low hum of the TV from the bedroom—Chan must’ve turned it on while waiting for you. It had become your little routine, cuddling in bed, legs tangled under the covers, binging shows neither of you actually paid attention to because you were too busy talking or kissing or just being together.

As you poured the cereal, you heard footsteps. Familiar. Slow. A little lazy like he was already halfway in sleep mode.

Then you felt him—those arms, warm and strong, sliding around your waist from behind. His chest pressed to your back as his lips brushed your cheek.

“You’ve been my wife for a week now, hm?” he murmured into your skin, voice low and raspy with that end-of-the-day softness. “Isn’t that crazy?”

You smiled, leaning back into him. “Crazy in the best way.”

He kissed along your neck, gently, like each one was a little thank you. “I still can’t believe I get to call you that… my wife.”

You felt him shift slightly, one hand slipping away from your waist for a second. Then, the sound of his phone unlocking.

Moments later, soft guitar chords spilled into the kitchen.

Your heart jumped. You recognized it instantly.

“Do you hear me? I’m talking to you…”

Jason Mraz’s voice drifted through the speakers, and Chan—your now husband—started singing along softly.

You turned around in his arms, your bowl forgotten on the counter. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, smile lazy and full of love. He held your hand up and pulled you close, the cereal entirely abandoned as he swayed with you in the middle of the kitchen.

“This was our first dance,” you whispered.

Chan nodded, pressing your forehead to his. “Still one of my favorite songs. Reminds me of you.”

He spun you in a lazy circle, then pulled you back to him.

“Lucky I’m in love with my best friend…”

He grinned, eyes shining. “See? Best friend. That’s why it reminds me of you. You’re not just my wife—you’ve always been my person.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, cheeks aching with how hard you were smiling. “God, I love you.”

He kissed you again. “I love you more.”

It was the kind of chilly fall morning that made you want to stay curled up in bed forever—especially with Lee Know pressed against your side, his arm draped over your waist, his breathing warm and even. But it was his birthday, and you had plans. Big ones.

You had spent weeks thinking about it, planning every detail. The morning was for just the two of you—slow breakfast, walks under the orange trees near the edge of town, sharing a scarf as the wind picked up (although you both thought it was so cheesy). He didn’t like a lot of attention on his birthday, but you knew what he did like—comfort, quiet joy, and the people he loved most.

By the time the sun had dipped behind the trees, your little apartment was glowing with golden lights and smells of something warm and sweet. The boys started to trickle in, laughing and shivering as they shrugged off jackets and kicked off shoes. You kept everything simple, just like he liked it music low, lights soft, snacks easy.

Felix walked in last, proudly holding the plate of brownies he had frosted to look like a birthday cake, candles and all.

“They’re your favorite,” he grinned, setting them down gently. “Fudgy. Just how you like them.”

Lee Know smiled, already a little overwhelmed, brushing his hair back as he looked around at everyone. “You guys didn’t have to do all this…”

“Shut up and sit,” Seungmin said with a smirk, dragging him toward the couch.

Presents came next, small things—cat-shaped socks, a cozy hoodie, a plush keychain, a handmade card. Everyone knew he hated opening gifts in front of people, so they kept it quick, casual. But his hands still shook a little with each one, his expression tight in that way you knew meant he was deeply touched but holding it all in.

After the last ribbon had been untied, Lee Know collapsed onto the couch with the plate of brownies in his lap, already pulling pieces apart with his fingers and popping them into his mouth. You gave Jisung a look and a nod—time for the distraction.

“Hey, hyung,” Jisung said, sliding in next to him, “how’s Dori doing? I feel like he’s mad at me still.”

That lit the spark immediately.

“He is mad at you. You scared him with that stupid balloon last time you came over.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“You scared him so bad he refused to come out from under the bed for three hours,” Lee Know replied, animated now, eyes sharper, more alive.

While they talked, you slipped quietly behind the couch. Your heart thudded in your chest—you hoped this wasn’t too much. It felt like a risk, even if it was the most right thing in the world for him.

“I know you hate opening gifts,” you said softly, hands holding a small box tucked in a knitted blanket, “but I got you something extra. If you don’t like it, it’s okay.”

He twisted around to look at you, his brow furrowed, cheeks already pink from the warmth and sugar.

You passed the box over the couch carefully. “Just… open it.”

Jisung peeked over with wide eyes, then scooted away to give him space.

Lee Know set the brownies down, resting the box on his knees. His fingers tugged the blanket aside, carefully, and then—

A tiny black kitten blinked up at him with glassy eyes, so small it barely made a sound, a soft purring hum barely audible over the music.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. His hand reached out slowly, like he couldn’t believe it was real. The kitten sniffed his fingertips, then nudged its nose against his palm.

He inhaled sharply. “You got me… a cat?”

You nodded. “She’s yours. She needed a home. I saw her and I thought of you.”

His mouth opened like he was about to say something, but nothing came out.

Then—his bottom lip quivered. And his face crumpled.

Tears started spilling fast, his shoulders curling in as a sob caught in his throat. He cradled the kitten gently against his chest like she was made of something sacred, fingers trembling as he pet her tiny head.

Everyone went silent.

“Hyung…” Felix whispered from the kitchen, a hand coming up to his mouth. “You okay?”

Lee Know let out a shaky breath, nodding through the tears. “Yeah. I just… I didn’t expect this. I didn’t think anyone would ever… do something like this for me.”

You came around the couch slowly, kneeling in front of him just as he put the kitten in Jisung’s arms and reached for you. He pulled you into him without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist, his face buried in your chest.

His tears soaked into your shirt as he held you close, lips pressing a trembling kiss against your collarbone, then your neck, then your jaw.

“I love you,” he whispered through quiet sobs. “I love you so much. You don’t know what this means to me. I’ve always wanted… I can’t even explain it. You know me better than anyone. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

You cupped his face gently and kissed his forehead, your own eyes stinging now.

“I just wanted you to feel as loved as you make everyone else feel,” you whispered back.

He kissed you again, soft and sure. The kitten mewed quietly from Jisung’s arms, and everyone around you exhaled with small smiles, letting the warmth of the moment linger.

The smell of weed hit you before Jisung even came around the corner. You were standing outside the skate park, hands stuffed in your hoodie, nervously shifting on your feet as your eyes scanned the scene. Mostly guys, mostly loud, mostly high. Your phone buzzed.

🐹 Jisung:

yo im pulling up on the red board

don’t laugh if i fall i’m fragile rn 😔

You smiled. He’d been making you laugh like this over text for weeks now—sweet, chaotic, always just the right amount of bold. You knew him through Felix, who vouched for him with a simple:

“He’s stupid in the best way. You’ll love him.”

When he finally skated into view—lazily, wobbly but somehow still cool—your heart stuttered a little. Baggy jeans, black hoodie, curls peeking out from under a beanie, blunt barely tucked between his lips. His eyes were squinty, cheeks flushed, and when he spotted you, he nearly fell off the board grinning.

“Yooo, you’re real!” he said like it was the most surprising thing that had ever happened to him. His voice was raspy, smooth with a little croak of laughter. “Dude, Felix wasn’t lying. You’re, like… crazy pretty.”

You blinked, trying not to smile too hard. “You’re, like… kinda high.”

He snorted, dragging a hand through his hair as he came to a stop in front of you. “That too. But I mean it. You look exactly like your stories but also better?”

You laughed, finally relaxing a little. “Thanks, I think?”

Jisung shrugged, tucking the blunt behind his ear before holding out a small baggie. “I brought some if you’re into it. No pressure. I just figured first hangs shouldn’t be too sober. Unless you’re, like, pure and innocent. You give off that vibe a little.”

You took the bag from him, brushing your fingers over his accidentally, and he looked a little dazed for a second before shaking it off with a sheepish grin.

“So,” he started, biting his lip, “you down to get a little stupid with me? Then maybe I’ll teach you how to fall off a board real gracefully.”

You smirked. “Only if you hold my hand.”

“Deal,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But fair warning—I’ll probably never let go.”

You hadn’t expected to like him this much.

Guys like Jisung—loud, goofy, with skater-boy swagger and weed-slowed speech—usually weren’t your thing. Not even close. But something about him was disarming. Not in the way most stoners are laid-back and detached, but in this warm, attentive kind of way that made you feel like you were the only person in the world he was tuned into.

You were sitting on the edge of a ramp now, legs dangling, lungs pleasantly foggy and your cheeks sore from laughing. Jisung had taken exactly two puffs before handing you the rest and then focused entirely on making sure you didn’t fall trying to skate for the first time.

“Okay, but if you fall, fall into me, yeah?” he’d said earlier, catching your arm like muscle memory the second you wobbled.

He kept doing stuff like that—hovering just enough to catch you but never crowd you. His fingers would brush your arm like he wanted to hold it but didn’t want to assume. He offered water between fits of giggles. Fixed your hoodie when the wind caught it. Every single thing was gentle and lowkey, but it made your chest feel too full.

Now, he sat beside you, pulling his beanie off and fluffing out his curls like he needed to cool down. He turned his head, his profile glowing orange in the setting sun. When he looked at you, he looked at you, not through you.

“You okay?” he asked, like he meant it.

You nodded. “Yeah. This is… actually really fun.”

His lips tugged into the softest grin. “Told you. Dumb fun’s the best kind. But if you wanna go, or sit, or just vibe—I’m down for whatever makes you feel good.”

That part kept catching you off guard. The way he’d joke about your thighs one second and then gently ask if you were dizzy the next. The way he didn’t push, didn’t flex. Just wanted to hang with you.

“You’re really sweet,” you blurted out before your brain could catch up.

He blinked. “Me?”

You laughed, nudging his knee with yours. “Yeah, you. You’re not what I expected.”

“Damn. What did you expect?” he smirked, though his cheeks pinked a little.

“Someone kind of… cocky? Distracted? Most guys like you don’t really check in, y’know?”

He leaned back on his elbows, looking thoughtful for a moment before glancing over at you again. “Yeah… but you’re not most people. So I gotta act right.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just stared at him for a second too long, watching the way his lips twitched like he was holding back something flirty.

“Wanna try skating again?” he finally asked, standing up and offering his hand to you.

You were both way too high.

Like, limbs-light, cheeks-hurting, can’t-stop-laughing high. Jisung wasn’t much better. He was laying flat on the cool concrete next to you, legs sprawled out like a starfish, one hand on his chest like he was grounding himself and the other lazily reaching for yours every few minutes like he had to check you were still real.

At some point—somewhere between failing to ollie and collapsing in a tangled heap of laughter—he’d kissed you.

It wasn’t planned. You’d just looked at him, eyes glassy and lips curled in that dopey little smile.

And he blinked once, laughed softly, then leaned in and kissed you. Not fast or hard or cocky. Just sweet. Warm. His hand cupped the side of your face like he’d been thinking about it all night and finally let himself do it.

You both froze the second it happened. Then—giggles. “Oh my god,” he mumbled through his hands, face bright red. “I just kissed you. I just kissed you, bro.” He peeked at you through his fingers, smiling so wide it looked painful. “You let me do that?”

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Why are you acting like I wasn’t literally just looking at your mouth for ten minutes straight?”

Jisung gasped, sitting up dramatically. “Wait—were you?! I thought I was imagining that! I hoped that! Bro, I need to call Felix. I’m losing my mind.”

“Nooo,” you groaned, slapping his arm gently. “Do not involve Felix in this.” But he was already fumbling with his phone, trying not to drop it as he squinted through the blur of his high. “I have to. I can’t drive you, and you’re, like…so pretty. I’d get distracted and crash us into a tree or something.”

You hid your face in his hoodie while he called. Jisung tried so hard to sound normal, but the second Felix picked up, he cracked.

“Bro,” he said, barely holding it together, “can you come get us? I accidentally kissed your friend and now we’re both giggling like dumbasses in the parking lot. I think I’m in love, man.”

Felix’s groan echoed from the phone: “Jesus Christ, I’ll be there in ten.”

You and Jisung locked eyes after the call ended and immediately fell back into giggles. He flopped beside you again, cheeks still red, hand finding yours again.

if Kim Hongjoong rolled his eyes one more time, I was going to glue them shut.

“You spelled ‘cinematography’ wrong on the board,” he muttered behind me, not even looking up from his sketchpad.

I turned around slowly, jaw tight. “It’s not your board.”

He finally looked up, dark eyes flicking up from beneath his bleach-blonde fringe. “It’s everyone’s board. Unfortunately.”

God, he was insufferable. Always dressed like he was going to a Vogue interview, always saying something smug with that slow, quiet voice. A walking contradiction. He cared too much about the things I didn’t, and acted too cool about the things I did.

And we were paired together. Again. For the final project of our Media Arts seminar.

“Your idea is… fine,” he said flatly after I pitched it—an experimental short about identity using analog film and layered sound.

I blinked. “Fine?”

He shrugged. “If we’re trying to get a B.”

I nearly lunged over the table, but instead I pushed my laptop screen toward him. “You’re so full of yourself. Why don’t you pitch something?”

He smirked, leaning forward. “At least I’d have the decency to spell cinematography right.”

The first few nights we worked together, it was torture.

He would rearrange every shot. Change the color grading. Argue with me about music until midnight. But there was something about the way he looked when he was editing—lips pressed tight, hands moving fast, brow furrowed in hyper-focus—that made something flicker deep in my gut.

And then, one night, when I finally snapped and told him he didn’t know how to collaborate, he stopped talking. For a long time. His jaw clenched.

“I know how to work with people,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know how to work with you.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “Because you make me want to throw things. And kiss you.”

My heart short-circuited. “What?”

“I said what I said.”

After that night, everything changed.

The fighting got worse—worse and closer. Heated whispers. Long stares when we thought the other wasn’t looking. Our edits started to blend more seamlessly, our ideas clashing in a way that created something better. Sharper. Beautiful.

We finished the film two days before the deadline.

And that night, I stood outside his dorm room, not sure what I was doing there. When he opened the door, hair messy, hoodie too big, eyes surprised, I couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. I just said:

“You make me want to throw things too.”

He smiled, slow. “Still want to kiss me?”