#97.drabbles

You step out from behind the curtain separating the back room from the shop and come face to face with a very disgruntled looking Jihoon. Blinking at him, you slow to a stop, damp fingers still twisted in the fabric of your apron. “Jihoon? I thought you weren’t picking up your order until next Wednesday.”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Jihoon sighs. “The flowers for the venue can stay the same, but the bouquets need to be blue.”

You raise your eyebrow. “All of them?”

“And the boutonnieres too,” he says. “I know it’s short notice, I’m sorry,” he sighs, running his fingers through his already-tousled hair. He looks like he hasn’t slept in two days. 

“No, I can do it,” you smile at him. “I’ll come in this weekend to work on them. Chan,” you turn toward the boy, “can you go back and finish stripping the camellias?”

“O-oh, sure,” he responds, glancing briefly toward Jihoon before slinking past you and disappearing behind the curtain.

“Here, Jihoon,” you turn toward the wall of humming refrigerators along the back of the shop, “let’s see what we can do.”

Jihoon follows you, watching silently as you deftly pick out your selections. 

“What’s the vibe?” You pick out a small cluster of periwinkle-colored hydrangeas.

“Something with texture,” he responds. “Modern, not traditional, but not minimalist.”

“Some sage,” you pluck out the greenery and tuck it in with the quickly growing bundle in your arms. “These silver-dollar eucalyptus sprigs would be good too. As for the statement blooms, I’m thinking these delphiniums would do well. I have some dried blue thistles in the back as well. Some queen anne’s lace for extra texture. Um.” You look down at the mess of flowers and greenery in your hands. It’s a mess, completely unarranged, but you can already see the colors coming together.

Chewing on your lip, you shift some of the stems around, then you look up at Jihoon. “What do you think?”

Jihoon looks down at the flowers, then up at you. He might be looking at you more than the flowers, in fact. “I think,” he says, "you’re a genius.”

From behind a curtain of leaves and tightly-shut buds, you beam at him.

(Later, over steaming bowls of instant ramen and scattered thistle stems, Chan asks you how you know Jihoon.

It takes you longer than you’d like to answer that question, but you settle with what Jihoon would say if he was here: “we work together frequently.”)

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(August)

By the time Jihoon comes around, iced coffees in tow, it’s pouring rain outside. The perfect Sunday morning of just a few hours ago is now gone, replaced with low-hanging gray clouds and relentless sheets of stinging rain. It’s so humid, the large glass walls of the greenhouse are covered in a dense layer of condensation.

You, too, are covered in a sheen of sweat as you twist green florist’s wire around stems of sunflower and seeded eucalyptus into a wreath. 

“It’s terrible in here,” Jihoon groans as he takes his place on the stool next to you. “It feels like I’m inhaling water.”

Laughing, you glanced over at him. “Jihoon, it’s a greenhouse. What did you think it was gonna be like?” 

Jihoon ignores your question, instead choosing to ask a question of his own. “Aren’t you hot? Look, you’re sweating. Here.” He holds out an iced coffee at you.

You take the cup from his hand and relish the feeling of ice-cold condensation on your skin. “Thank you, Jihoon,” you tell him, watching as his ears instantly flush red, “you’re too nice to me.”

“I’m not,” he says automatically. “You work too hard.”

“Aren’t you being a bit of a hypocrite?”

“Yes,” he answers easily. “And here.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small earthenware vase with streaks of blue-green glaze. “Saw this at a gallery last night. It made me think of you, so I bought it for you.”

“Oh, Jihoon,” you smile fondly. He places the vase on your work table, and then he rotates it slightly so the most interesting glaze pattern is facing you. “I love it, Jihoon. Thank you for thinking of me.” In your little office in the shop, you have a bookshelf filled with trinkets and knick knacks. There’s a school art project that Chan had gifted to you, various books on horticulture and the Victorian language of flowers, dozens of your own notebooks detailing watering orders and deliveries and watering schedules and soil formulas, and a small smattering of little glass vases and earthenware pots that Jihoon has collected for you over the years. Every week, you dust them all and wipe them down with a damp cloth so that they shine in the afternoon sun.

(A week from today when Jihoon visits and drops by your office to pick up an invoice, he stops dead in his tracks when he spots the newest vase on your desk placed between your monitor and printer. It’s prime desk real estate, dedicated just to his vase and the small arrangement of wildflowers that you’ve placed in it.)

It’s the weekend, but Jihoon is restless and itching for some work to do, so you give him a plastic tub full of loose ribbon and twine and set him to the task of spooling and organizing everything. He puts his laptop on the work table, right between your side and his side, and the two of you watch anime quietly while working. At the end of the afternoon, you have a dozen bright sunflower wreaths, and he has a full rack of spooled ribbon. 

When he helps you put everything away, back in the fridges and cabinets where they all belong, he accidentally brushes against you. For a moment, you’re so close to Jihoon, you can smell the coffee on his breath, and you wonder would it would be like to kiss him.

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(December)

“Sorry,” Jihoon says, looking genuinely apologetic under the rising and falling waves of light coming from the passing streetlights. He’s driving, and you’re pleasantly tipsy, leaning your head against the cold window and watching him.

“It’s okay, I’m not cold.” The heating is wonky in his car, and he’s bundled up in a big puffy coat with his pressed white cuffs peeking out from under his sleeves every time he moves his hands on the steering wheel. His suit jacket had been given up for you to put over your legs like a blanket, despite your protests that you would wrinkle it. It’s okay, Jihoon had shrugged, ears red, I gotta bring it to the dry cleaners anyway.

“Oh, good,” Jihoon says. He pauses and laughs. “That’s not what I was apologizing for, but I’m sorry about the heating too.”

You frown. “What are you sorry for?”

Jihoon shrugs, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything. It’s just the sound of the highway and the soft music from the radio that filters over the noise. Then, Jihoon tells you, “sorry for dragging you to a wedding and making you sit in a corner all night.”

“Oh.” You blink at him, and then you laugh. “Jihoon, you didn’t drag me to a wedding. You invited me to be your plus one, and I accepted. And you didn’t make me sit in a corner all night, we sat at a table and spent all night talking and eating.” Feeling very sleepy and warm, you grin dopily at him.  “And, for the record, I had a lot of fun.”

Jihoon doesn’t respond again for a few seconds, and you almost doze off before he speaks again. “Thanks. I, um, also had a lot of fun.”

“Thanks, Jihoon-ah,” you mumble. “Wake me up when we get to my place, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Sweet dreams.” 

(Later on, when he parks and stops the engine, he waits for a while first. You’re already awake, of course— you had woken when he turned off the highway and onto the quieter streets of your neighborhood— but you sit with your head leaned against the window and eyes closed, breathing quiet and even, and you let him have this moment. Here, in his parked car, where it’s dark and quiet, you let him watch you and chew on the inside of his cheek, hand balled up in a fist in his lap, clenching and unclenching as he struggles over whatever internal turmoil he’s working through. 

You decide to save him from his struggle and shift slightly, putting on a show of blinking awake, all dazed and bleary. 

“Cute,” Jihoon mumbles quietly.

You look up at him, wincing at your sore neck. “Huh?”

His eyes widen. You have an inkling that he didn’t mean for you to actually hear that, but he just flushes and pulls his lips into a thin line. “Did you have a nice nap?”

You smile at him and nod. “Thanks for driving, Jihoon. And thanks for inviting me to come with you.”

Jihoon nods, cheeks pink, and accepts his crumpled jacket when you hand it back to him. “Um,” he starts, looking at your right ear, “I had a really good time. With you.”

“Me too,” you grin, leaning forward. He leans back for a moment, and then he seems to recollect himself and he straightens his spine again so that the two of you are just inches apart. 

“And, I think it would be nice if we could do this again,” he finishes his statement. 

He’s so cute and flustered, you can’t help but to tease him a little. “What, go to other weddings? As guests? Just how packed is your social calendar?”

“I mean, not weddings, necessarily,” he rushes to clarify, “but, like, other things. The two of us.”

Your heart feels so full, you’re afraid it’ll bubble over. Jihoon reminds you of the gardenia plant you keep in your kitchen. You had rescued it from a hardware store, purchased at a discount when it was sickly and yellow, and you spent months and months caring for it– running a humidifier next to it, timing the amount of sun it was getting and supplementing with grow lights, testing the moisture of the soil every week, and after half a year, your little gardenia shrub produced just one large, beautiful, white blossom. Gardenias are sensitive– they like sun, but only a little bit; they like humidity, but water on the leaves will cause spots; and they won’t tolerate being moved around. You had originally planned on moving the gardenia to the shop eventually, but you ended up keeping it for yourself, this fragile little resident of your kitchen counter. 

You decide to take mercy on Jihoon. “I like you,” you smile, unable to suppress the fond way you melt at him. “We don’t have to go on dates if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I do want to go on dates! I just…” he huffs out a quick bark of laughter and pushes his hand through his hair, messing up his perfectly styled hairdo. “I like you too.”

“That’s perfect, then.” You lean forward, even closer. “Jihoon, can I kiss you?”

“I–I,” he stammers, flushing even harder, “yeah. Yeah.”)

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(May, again)

“Hi, boss,” Chan pokes his head through the curtain separating the shop from the greenhouse. It’s his last summer before he goes off to college, so you’re having him train his younger brother before he leaves town. You’ll miss Chan, that’s for sure, but Geon is a sweet boy. “Your scary boyfriend is here again.”

You frown. “Don’t call him that.”

Chan shrugs. “I think Geon is gonna cry if you don’t come out.”

ten minutes and two allergy pills later, you’re furiously lint rolling your pajamas, which is futile considering the fact that your rude intruder is currently meowing and rubbing itself against your legs while headbutting you affectionately.

“i know, i know,” you sniffle, “you’re very sweet, but you make my eyes hurt and the benadryl hasn’t kicked in yet.”

“meow,” the cat replies plaintively.

“how did you get in anyways?” you wrack your brain for any entry points to your ninth floor apartment that this cat could have possibly used, but your brain is coming up blank. “you’re clearly somebody’s pet,” you tell the cat. he’s a fat grey cat with large eyes and little white feet— feet that are too clean and white to belong to a stray. “you’re clean, and you’re friendly. somebody is missing you.”

“mrrrrrow,” the cat says, standing up on his hind legs to place two delicate paws against your knee. “meow?”

“what is it, buddy,” you put down the lint roller, having given up on de-catifying your pajamas, “do you want attention?”

“mow,” the cat responds.

“okay, well the allergy meds are finally kicking in,” you sigh, crouching down and scratching the cat behind the ears. he instantly flops over and rolls onto his back to expose his fluffy belly. “i know it’s a trap,” you frown. the cat looks at you with those wide amber eyes, almost expectantly.

“mrow,” the cat demands, and you sigh.

“fine.” you reach out toward the cat’s belly, only to be met with gleeful biting and pawing as he attacks your hand. “ow!”

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it’s almost noon when you step out of your apartment, dressed in real human clothes with the little demon wrapped in a towel in your arms.

(“i don’t have a cat carrier,” you tell him, “and we gotta get you to the vet to check for a microchip. is it okay if i carry you?”

“meow,” the cat responds, lamp-like eyes round as you extend your hands.

he bats your arm as a warning, leaving faint red streaks. “ow!”

five minutes and an instructional youtube video about cat handling later, you’ve got him bundled up in a fluffy towel and he’s managed to calm down, too. if someone isn’t looking closely, they might even mistake the bundle in your arms for a baby.)

you’re walking down the hall of your apartment building, cat held close to your chest, when the door next to yours suddenly opens, flying towards you. jumping back, you let out a strangled yell as the cat in your arms makes an angry yowl of protest and manages to writhe out of the towel burrito. for a few seconds of terror, the grey cat in your arms scrambles up your shoulders and presses up against your face before he jumps to the ground and scales a pair of very long legs to settle in a pair of arms.

“soup!”

you recognize your new neighbor standing there, cradling the cat in his arms. he looks absolutely terrible-- his socks are mismatched and his sweatpants are ratty and his tee shirt is on backwards. through his round glasses, you can see dark circles under his eyes. “oh, soup,” he repeats, his deep voice wavering, relief apparent in every fiber of his being,

“you named your cat soup,” you say incredulously, holding the towel in your hands. your new neighbor looks up and meets your gaze, and you realize, miserably, how tall and handsome he is. “he broke into my apartment,” you explain lamely, pointing at the cat currently hanging off his shoulder.

he stares at you for one very long second before straightening himself and running a hand through his tousled hair, making it even more effortlessly tousled. “um, thank you so much,” he says, eyes wide, “for taking care of my cat. i’m wonwoo.”

he extends his hand. soup the cat is unfazed and remains on wonwoo’s chest, looking over his shoulder. you begin to introduce yourself, reaching out to accept his handshake, when you’re rudely interrupted by a sneeze.

“euugh,” you rub at your nose with your sleeve, which is covered in cat hair, and then you sneeze again, this time with tears springing to your eyes.

“um,” wonwoo says, still standing in front of you with his hands extended.

“sorry,” you sniffle, eyes narrowing as they begin to sting, “i’m allergic.”

wonwoo’s mouth drops open into a small ‘o’ shape as the realization sets in.

“i’m glad soup is home,” you say as you step backwards, “but i gotta go and take some benadryl. nice to meet you, wonwoo. see ya around. bye, soup!”

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“thanks for being a good neighbor” reads the card attached to the vase of flowers outside your door. “sorry about the cat, can i take you out for dinner?” is written underneath, and then there’s wonwoo’s name and a string of ten numbers.

“Already?” You laugh, “it’s only eleven, though.”

Jihoon presses his lips together, a grim expression on his face. “He started drinking at six. He’s at the karaoke machine with Seokmin right now.” Jihoon sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Not that you needed him to tell you— the sound of Soonyoung and Seokmin belting to Christina Aguilera hit you like a wall the moment you opened the door. “We don’t even have a karaoke machine. Who even brought it?”

“Seungkwan,” you say knowingly, dipping into the kitchen to make yourself a drink.

“Regardless, he spent about an hour earlier going around telling anybody who would stay still for more than two seconds about how cool you are.”

You lift your cup to your mouth and take a sip to hide the big goofy smile that spreads across your face. Alright, we get it, you’re in love, you can imagine Jihoon grumbling, pushing Soonyoung away as he tries to plant a sloppy wet kiss on Jihoon’s cheek (a not-uncommon spectacle). "Alright, alright, I'll take him home after I get a drink in me," you acquiesce.

You step out of the kitchen and head towards the loud singing. It’s hard not to miss Soonyoung, when he has the mic in his hand, a brightly colored tiger-patterned shirt on, standing on a coffee table in the middle of the living room belting his heart out to Christina Aguilera’s version of Reflection from Mulan.

You step out of the kitchen and head towards the loud singing. It’s hard not to miss Soonyoung, when he has the mic in his hand, a brightly colored tiger-patterned shirt on, standing on a coffee table in the middle of the living room belting his heart out to Christina Aguilera’s version of Reflection from Mulan.

You place hand on his elbow and tug his arm gently. “Hey babe,” you shout over the music. It takes another tug for Soonyoung to notice, but the moment he turns around and locks eyes with you, his eyes widen and his jaw goes slack.

You can tell he’s absolutely wasted— his cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are puffy.

“Hi,” you grin.

Soonyoung stares at you in amazement for another moment before lifting the mic to his lips and telling the room, “Hi. Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.” You shake your head. “How are you doing?”

“Hey Seokmin, look,” Soonyoung turns over his shoulder, still speaking directly into the mic and broadcasting his voice across the entire room, “it’s my girlfriend!”

“Hi!” Seokmin grins brightly, considerably less drunk. You wave at him, and Seokmin waves back.

“I love you so much,” Soonyoung blabbers as he clambers off the coffee table and grabs your hand with his own sweaty hands. “Wow, you’re so pretty. Your eyes are so pretty.” He accidentally bumps the mic against his cheek and the resulting feedback causes the entire room to wince.

“Thank you,” you smile at him as you sneak the microphone out of his hand. Soonyoung doesn’t even notice when you turn the it off and place it on the table, because he’s grinning, his eyes curving into the hour and minute hands at 10:10, practically buzzing with excitement at your mere presence.

“So pretty,” he coos, tracing your cheek with his hand. “My girlfriend is so pretty and smart and cool. Guys,” he says to nobody in particular, “I love my girlfriend so much. Have I told you about my girlfriend?”

“I love you too.” You take his hand and lace your fingers between his, squeezing slightly.

“Mmmm,” Soonyoung purrs like a happy cat, letting you easily pull him through the party towards the exit. “Wait, wait.”

You stop when he tugs in your hand like a petulant child. “What’s wrong?”

“Wanna kiss you,” he mumbles, looking at the floor. “You’re so pretty.”

“You can kiss me if you want,” you tell him gently. He brightens almost immediately and flashes you a smile that makes your chest fizz, like cracking open a soda and watching the bubbles rise to the top, like sugar on your tongue.

Soonyoung wastes no time. He presses his lips against yours, stepping forward to cup your cheeks with his hands. It’s a wet, sloppy kiss that tastes suspiciously of tequila, and you can’t help but to laugh against his mouth, teeth clashing as he dissolves into giggles too.

“Love you.” Soonyoung is so happy, he might as well be glowing.

You think you hear a shout, but it doesn’t matter because your next musical cue is coming, two double flips following the failed triple loop.

You grit your teeth and somehow manage to pull yourself back to your feet, letting the residual momentum from your fall guide you upright. Breathe in, breathe out, count to the beat. You swing your free foot back, but when the toe pick hits the ice, your legs suddenly turn into jelly. You fall again, this time harder and directly onto your hands and knees as you pitch forward.

“Fuck,” you grunt, sliding across the ice as you feel yourself collapse. It feels like you skid for ages before you slowly drag to a stop. Your legs are covered in chips of ice, which begin to melt through your leggings and onto your tender skin, cold seeping into your bones.

You lay there for a moment, catching your breath and looking up at the dizzyingly bright stadium lights illuminating the rink, when out of the corner of your eye, you see movement.

Sighing, you take one of your earbuds out as you turn your head toward the gate. It’s Seungcheol, dressed in ratty old sweats with his hair shoved back into a beanie. He vaults over the wall easily, bypassing the gate, and jumps onto the ice. Even as the rest of your long program plays through the tinny speakers of your earbuds, you can hear the way his hockey skates shred the ice, a horrible, grating sound that sets your teeth on edge.

“What are you doing here,” you scowl, making no movement to get up. “It’s my rink time.”

“Not anymore,” Seungcheol says, coming to a stop beside you and kicking up a spray of ice. “My team’s time starts soon.”

“How has it been three hours already,” you groan, pushing yourself up to a seated position with some difficulty. Your right arm aches terribly, your ribs feel tender and sore, and you’re not quite able to suppress the wince that flashes across your face.

“Are you okay?” Seungcheol lowers himself to a squat by your side. “You took some pretty hard falls just now.”

“Obviously,” you snap. Your eyes ache and you know they're about a moment away from erupting into hot, angry tears. This is the most ambitious long program you’ve attempted— ambitious enough to take you to the world championships if you do it perfectly. Maybe it’s too ambitious, but you’re not ready to admit that. “Are you here to gloat, or what?” You turn toward him, ready to chew him out, but he doesn’t look particularly smug. Instead, he looks… worried.

“Take a break,” he orders. “No skating tomorrow.”

“You can’t order me around,” you huff, but he silences you with a sharp frown.

“Take. A. Break.” Seungcheol’s tone is steely and for a moment, just one moment, you see the leader in him that everybody talks about. The reliable Captain Seungcheol, the team’s source of strength.

You blink and the world blurs. Embarrassed, you turn your head away from him as you feel tears beading on your lashes. “I’m so close to getting it,” you choke. “If it’s not the rotations, it’s the angle. If it’s not the angle, it’s a stiff landing. I’m always just one step away, but I just can’t… get there.”

You don’t know why you’re telling this to him, a lumbering brute of a hockey player who couldn’t tell an axel from a lutz, but Seungcheol nods understandingly, and somehow, you feel like he knows.

“You just need to focus.” Seungcheol sits too, planting his butt solidly on the ice. “I know you’re capable. You know you’re capable. It’s not a matter of ability, it’s all in your head.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you mumble.

“Here.” Seungcheol takes your hand in his. You jerk your head toward him, wide-eyed and panicked as he peels the knit glove off your right hand, but then you hiss in pain as the yarn pulls away from flesh.

You’ve somehow manage to split the skin where the heel of your palm meets your wrist bone, likely when you were breaking your fall earlier, and in the adrenaline of the moment, you hadn’t even noticed it.

“I saw you bleeding,” Seungcheol murmurs quietly as he lays your palm gently in his lap. “That’s why I came out on the ice to check on you.” You watch as he pulls a small foil packet from the pocket of his sweatpants and tears it open to pull out an alcohol wipe.

Seungcheol gently cleans off your wound with the wipe, wincing too when you wince at the painful sting of the alcohol. “Sorry,” he says, apologetic, like it’s somehow his fault. “Here.” You watch as he takes out a band-aid from his pocket and carefully places it over the wound, his fingers pressing down the adhesive, impossibly gentle. You feel your skin tingle where he touched you, almost like the phantom of Seungcheol’s fingertips brushing across your palm.

“All done,” Seungcheol says, shoving the spent wrappers back into his pocket as he stands.

“Th-thank you,” you bite out. Why are your cheeks so hot when the rest of you is so cold? Your legs shake when you try to pull yourself to your feet, both from the cold and from exhaustion. You stand for a moment, thighs aching, before your knees give out and you collapse.

But instead of meeting the ice again, you feel Seungcheol’s arms around your waist, holding you up and catching you as you fall. You gasp, instinctively reaching up to cling on to him. Your fingers close on his large, firm biceps, defined even through the thick cotton of his sweatshirt, and you furiously will yourself not to think about the shape of his body.

You pull yourself up and try to take another step, but your muscles are limp and feel like they’re out of your control.

Seungcheol grins. It’s a grin that you’ve come to hate, and the next words that come out of his mouth make you hate him more. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way,” he says, cocky, confident. Just like that, the tender stillness of the moment is broken and you shove him away, slapping his shoulder in the process. Somehow, you’re grateful that the tenderness has been stripped away. It’s easier this way, this familiar antagonism, the carefully maintained distance burning between the two of you.

“Fuck off, Choi Seungcheol,” you snap as you hobble your way toward the wall, trying your best to ignore the way your legs tremble and your hip throbs in pain. “Fucking prick.”

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice as he calls out after you, “you’re welcome!”

you can tell because the servants are pale as they rush around, murmuring in hushed voices. one of the new kitchen maids looks absolutely terrified as she brushes past you. “–d you see? …covered in blood, and he was still–”

“enough,” the old housekeeper snaps. “hurry and draw a bath for young master yoon. and tell the laundry to prepare vinegar and cold water.”

(it’s been years since jeonghan has been young master yoon, but sometimes you think that grandfather seo looks at jeonghan and sees the person he used to be. grandfather seo had always been so affectionate, too sentimental beneath his cantankerous facade.)

you watch, silently, as the kitchen maids clutch at their sleeves and bow their heads before hurrying to their duties. nobody spares you a glance, not even grandfather seo. instead, he sighs heavily and sits on one of the ornate granite stools in the courtyard, groaning as his joints creak. 

hot water, you think. one of the kitchen maids should bring him a basin of hot water and a towel for his bad back. you can imagine the thick, humid air of the kitchen, the large glazed jug resting on the stove, always filled with water and piping hot, ready for whoever needs it. the smell of the straw fire, the smoke stinging at your eyes. but instead of walking the familiar path back, you gather your robes and walk towards the main house. 

(there was a time when you were a maid too, with chapped hands and the persistent smell of smoke clinging to your clothes. but it’s been years since you stepped into the kitchen. you hold a strange position in this house– not a servant anymore, but not a lady either. something in between. a pet, they used to sneer. the young master’s beloved, grandfather seo says.)

the moonlight-sheer silk of your outer robes flutter in the wind as you make your way across the courtyard and under the arch separating the back of the manor from the front. the sun is setting now, and the sky is bloody red, making your white robes glow scarlet. 

jeonghan sits in his private chambers, legs crossed, elbow propped against his desk. there are no servants here– nobody is brave, or foolish, enough to cross jeonghan’s path when he’s in such a state. the sliding door leading to the gardens is open, and as soon as he sees you rounding the corner, his expression brightens.

“oh, my little dove,” he calls out to you, tilting his head affectionately. “i’ve missed you all day.”

you smile, hands clasped, as you make your way towards him. “good evening, my lord. did you just return?”

jeonghan looks like a disaster. his celadon-blue robes are covered in blood, soaked into the heavy silk like ink stains. there’s blood spattered on his cheek and on his hands, and he’s still carrying his sword, unsheathed, covered in gore. 

you carefully step up onto the threshold of the room, holding the hem of your skirts out of the way. they swirl like gossamar as you walk towards him and take a seat at his side.

jeonghan finally takes the cloth off his desk and begins to wipe the blood off his sword, like a ritual. “where have you been all day?”

“i apologize for my absence, my lord,” you say as you begin to pour him tea. white tea, his favorite. “i was feeling weak this morning, so i rested.”

“my poor darling,” he croons, pausing to lift his hand to your cheek. the blood has dried now and flakes off his skin like rust. impossibly gently, he strokes his fingers down the line of your jaw, as if to reassure you. you imagine the blood smearing in streaks. 

swallowing down the lump in your throat, you smile at him again and present him his tea. “it’s nothing to worry about.”

jeonghan sighs, but he doesn’t take his tea. “you know i worry, though. how can i not?”

“you’re too good to me,” you mumble, looking away.

“never.” the tender, loving way he tucks your hair behind your ear is at odds with the scent of blood and gore on his hands. he tilts his head into your field of vision in that silly way that he always does, smiling even as his hair falls into his face. 

“i heard about what you did today,” you say quietly.

jeonghan’s smile falters for just a moment, but it passes in a blink of an eye. “don’t fret, darling. you know i don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

of course, jeonghan’s grasp of morality isn’t quite all that… there. at least, not these days. you wonder how much he had to torture today’s poor victim before he got the confession he wanted to hear, regardless of whether it was true or not. 

“you’re unhappy.” jeonghan frowns. “please trust me.”

“i do,” you tell him. it’s a lie, and you know he can tell. 

“i swear.” his hand closes around yours, leaving rust-colored smears of blood on the white silk of your sleeve. “i won’t rest until i’ve fulfilled my promise. you remember that, don’t you?”

(you remember. by the time he finds you, it’s too late. you stare up at grey clouds, lightening with daybreak, eyes open but not seeing. who did this, he asks, but you can’t answer.

jeonghan has never begged before, but he’s on his knees now, gripping your shoulders, begging you. the great lord yoon pleading to a mere servant girl who somehow became something precious to him. he makes the promise right then and there. revenge.)

there’s no point. you want to tell him, but you can’t, so you just smile at him and squeeze his hand in return. your dear jeonghan, too cunning and vengeful for his own good. 

he’ll find out eventually, you’re sure because jeonghan always finds out in the end, that the man who killed you had drowned in the river later that same night, his head held down under the water as he struggled. all the desperation in the world is nothing in the face of a vengeful spirit. 

(you had waited until he stopped moving, and then you counted to 100 after that just to make sure, and then you watched as the body was carried by the water out of town, out towards the sea.

and then when you were done, you turned back and stepped out of the river. you needed to be back at the manor by daybreak. you weren’t supposed to be out, and jeonghan would be upset to find you gone.

there's a coffee stain on his crisp white shirt that he's trying to dab away at in the bathroom at his office, all the while balancing his cell phone on his shoulder as the florist apologetically explains the mixup with his order and that the two dozen roses would be delivered tomorrow instead of today. there's forty minutes until the dinner reservation at the michelin starred restaurant that he had been on the waitlist for for months, and he's running dismally late.

seungcheol finally manages to get off the call with the florist and is jogging in the rain toward his car when he gets a call from you, a call that he picks up right away.

"hey, sorry i'm late," he pants, ducking into the safety of his car. he inspects himself in the rear view mirror, only to realize in dismay that the rain had soaked him down to the skin. "i'll be home to pick you up in twenty," he says, turning the ignition.

"cheol," your voice comes across, rising into a near hysterical pitch. the moment he hears the distress in your voice, all thoughts of the dinner reservation, of the lost flower arrangement, of his ruined shirt and rain-soaked hair, (of the little velvet box in his pocket hiding a perfect diamond ring) go flying out of his head.

"what's wrong," he asks urgently, his heart jumping into his throat.

"i came home," you start, voice shaking in a clear attempt to calm yourself, "and i noticed the brillo pad in the sink was missing. remember the queso from yesterday and how i was scrubbing it with the brillo pad? i couldn't find it. and kkuma was being really lethargic, and just now, she started whining. i think kkuma ate the brillo pad," your voice rises in pitch again, tight with panic, "and the car won't start, so i need you to drive us to the emergency vet."

his throat tightens. "i'll be there right away," he says, backing out of his parking space. the worry from a few moments ago is replaced by a new wave of worry, one that's more real, heavy, tangible. his family needs him.

[ . . . . . ]

all in all, things could have gone a lot worse, seungcheol thinks to himself as he throws himself down on the couch, boneless and exhausted, still dressed in his work clothes with the coffee stain on his shirt. kkuma had indeed eaten the brillo pad, and needed emergency surgery to remove it. everything had gone smoothly, and she's currently staying overnight at the vet for observation. the car just had a dead battery, and he has an appointment to get it replaced in a few days. you're currently in the shower, cleaning yourself off after kkuma had peed all over the new dress that you had planned on wearing to dinner.

seungcheol's perfectly crafted plans had been a dismal failure, but his dog is fine, his girlfriend is fine, and seungcheol is fine, so he supposes that he can't really complain.

when you finally emerge from the shower dressed in pajamas, the first thing you do is throw yourself on the couch by his side and bury your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around him. instinctively, seungcheol pulls you into his side, holding you securely and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"i'm sorry," he hears your muffled voice mumble against his chest. then, he feels the warm wetness of tears soaking through his shirt.

"oh, babe, it's okay," he immediately smooths his hand over your hair, stroking the back of your head comfortingly. "kkuma is fine. the vet said we can take her home tomorrow. she's in good hands."

"i know," you say, face still pressed solidly against seungcheol's chest. "i'm sorry for ruining your plans. i should have finished cleaning up last night, and i should have put that brillo pad in the trash, and i should have known that i just needed to jump start the car--"

"shh, no, my plans don't matter," he immediately responds, hands on your shoulders. he gently pries you off of him and looks you in the eye. your eyes are puffy and your face is swollen, and you sniffle dejectedly. "the only thing that matters is that we're all okay. don't apologize, it was out of your control. alright?" he thumbs away at a stray tear that spills over your lashes, impossibly tender.

"i know," you sigh. "but it took you months to get that reservation, and i got a call today that you ordered flowers for me but the order was delayed, and we've both been looking forward to this, and," you bite your lip, tears welling up again, "and... and i know you were planning to propose, and i'm sorry i ruined everything!"

seungcheol blinks. "how did you find out?"

"mingyu accidentally told me last week," you wail, more frustrated tears spilling over your cheeks. "i'm so, so, sorry, cheol, i'll make it up to you, i know you wanted everything to be perfect when you would finally ask and i would say yes, and i messed it up--"

"wait, what?" seungcheol stares at you, still trying to wrap his head around your words. "you'd say yes?"

you stare back at him, mouth falling slack in momentary surprise, before you wrench it shut and press your lips together. "of course, stupid," you retort tearfully. "of course i'll marry you. you could ask me in a mcdonald's parking lot and i'd still say yes. i love you, cheol."

seungcheol doesn't waste another second, because he's immediately kissing you, his heart bursting, his blood rushing. of course i'll marry you, your voice echoes in his head, bouncing around like the jingling of a bell. yes. in his arms, you immediately melt into the kiss, all the tension draining from your shoulders.

"god, i love you so much," seungcheol says breathlessly, unable to hide the wide grin that spreads across his face when he pulls away. "i'll plan another date. it'll be perfect. there's other restaurants, anyway. and i'll pick up the flowers myself."

"i'll pretend to be surprised and everything," you laugh. "and we can try again."

Sighing, you sink down deeper into your bath until the lavender scented foam reaches your chin, and you reach out to take the bag full of blood resting on the bath caddy. The water is so hot, the bathroom fills with steam, but running a hot bath always makes you feel better after drinking refrigerated blood. You partially submerge the bag in your hands in the water, careful not to let the bubbles reach the opening where you’ve stuck your straw. Maybe you can warm it up enough that it feels like the real thing.

(After catching you shivering under an electric blanket while feeding out of bagged blood, Seungcheol had bought you a bottle warmer, the kind people use to heat up baby formula. You never use it. Reheating blood gives it a strange aftertaste that you can’t stand, you told him. I just don’t like to see you cold, was his response.)

Seungcheol is outside the house now. He’s still shifted— you can hear the soft crunch of grass under paws and the tap-tap-tap-tap of claws on pavement. There’s a brief shuffling noise as he pushes at the door handle with his snout, but you had left the door unlocked for him earlier so he could get in without shifting back to his human form out on the street. A second later, the door swings open, and then shut. He remembered to close the door, you think with some satisfaction.

(“Alone in the house all night with the doors unlocked?” Seungcheol’s brows furrow in concern when you offhandedly mention it for the first time. “No. Please lock the doors. It’s not safe.”

You turn toward him, putting your book down for a moment. “Cheol, please think. Not safe for who?”

“What if someone breaks in,” he frowns, seemingly not absorbing a single word you said. “What if someone’s watching and knows that you’re home alone and tries to take advantage of that?”

You grin at him, baring your fangs. “Then they’ll be met with an unpleasant surprise,” you laugh, “and I’ll have some fresh food for once.”)

You hear the clicking of paws turn into the soft padding of feet about halfway up the stairs. His scent is always stronger this time of the month, like freshly cut wood and petrichor and bitter oranges, heat under his skin, rushing through his veins. Seungcheol opens the door and looks into the bathroom, golden eyes sweeping until they make contact with your own peeking over the endless bubbles of your bath.

“Hi,” he grins, “relaxing tonight?”

You wordlessly raise up your half-drained bag of blood, and Seungcheol nods in understanding. 

“Ah. Do you want to drink from me?”

It’s a tempting offer. He’s still flushed and sweaty and he smells so good, you feel yourself starting to salivate at the thought. “Not now,” you decide. Then, your eyes narrow at him as he steps fully into the bathroom, naked. “Seungcheol! You’re filthy!”

There’s dirt smeared across his body and a stray leaf is still stuck in his hair. He at least has the decency to look ashamed. You can almost picture his wolf ears flattening against his head. “Sorry, the pack got kind of carried away,” he runs his fingers through his hair, freeing the leaf and a few blades of grass, “and I think I might have buried a rabbit carcass at some point.”

“That’s disgusting.” You wrinkle your nose. “You smell like wet dog,” you declare, putting the blood bag back into your bath caddy and pushing everything to the side. “Come join me.”

He grins. It’s almost as if this was his goal all along. 

The water sloshes against the sides of the tub as Seungcheol carefully clambers in, wincing a bit at the temperature of the bath. “Ow,” he whines. A little bit of water spills over the side, but you’re quick to pull the plug and let some water drain before the whole bathroom becomes a mess. 

“I like to overcompensate,” you argue in response to his whine. “You try having no body heat. See how you like that.”

When Seungcheol is fully in the bath, you dip the washcloth into the water and start scrubbing gently at his broad back, watching the fine dirt dissolve under your fingertips. “Did you have a good run?” 

“Mmh,” he hums and tilts his head. “Always good to stretch my limbs and get out there.” 

You scratch lightly at the back of his neck and he groans, a low rumble in his chest. “Who’s a good boy,” you grin, laughing when he makes a small embarrassed noise in protest. Seungcheol pouts at you.

“You sure you don’t want a little sip? It’s the full moon,” he adds on, unhelpfully. “You could even drain me if you want.”

“I won’t drain you. Maybe just a little snack later, though.” You press a light kiss against his shoulder. “Just admit that the moon makes you horny, Cheol.” 

Seungcheol laughs, and you shove him lightly. “Huh,” he stretches his arms over his head, flexing his muscles. “Is it time for a shower?”

You grin at him. “You go shower first. I still have to clean up the bathtub from all your dirt.”

“I’ll see you in a sec, then,” he turns toward you as he rises, splashing water everywhere. You smile at him, the sharp, pointy kind of smile that you rarely ever show. It’s a razor-tipped smile. One that reminds him, you’re dangerous, an apex predator.

You smile awkwardly at him, but you’re not sure it really carries past the large wide-brimmed hat and veil protecting your face from the sun. You try your best to remember what you would have done back when you were a human, but your memory fails you.

“So,” you say, clasping your gloved hands. You’re out in daylight today, accompanying Seungcheol as he runs some errands. He had to stop by a relative’s house to drop something off, and you had elected to wait outside to avoid the awkwardness of needing to be invited in.

Chan was on his way back from the train station when he ran into you, and out of obligation and politeness more than anything, he stopped to greet you. You know it wasn’t his first choice, because you can sense the adrenaline in his blood and the minuscule shift of his muscles, like he’s steeling himself in case he has to fight. Dressed in his school uniform and walking his bike, he somehow seems even younger than you remember him looking a few weeks ago when he came of age and joined the other wolves in the run for the first time.

You know you’re quite intimidating dressed in all black and standing in the shadow of a building, but this is the first time you’ve been face-to-face with the boy without Seungcheol acting as some sort of buffer, and you desperately want him to stop making those terrified deer-in-the-headlights eyes at you. “How is school?”

“G-good,” Chan stammers.

“Are you studying hard for your college entrance exams?”

“Yeah,” he looks down at his feet.

You’re trying your best to seem warm and friendly, you really are, but centuries of isolation really does take a toll on your social skills. 

“You know, you can always come to me for help,” you tell him. “I have four degrees.” A product of having nothing better to do over the past two hundred years.

“Thank you,” Chan says. “You’re very generous.”

The two of you fall in silence again. What are the kids into these days? You’re itching to tell him not to be afraid of you, that you haven’t killed anyone in nearly five decades, that you’re freshly sated and have no hunger for his blood, but a part of your brain tells you that doing so might make him even more afraid of you, so you just smile at him again.

Thankfully, Seungcheol rescues you. “Hey Chan, heading home from school?” He comes up beside you and takes your hand, effortlessly entwining his fingers between your own gloved fingers. 

“Oh, hyung,” Chan breathes a sigh of relief. “Hi. I’m heading to cram school right now.”

“Well, you don’t want to be late, do you,” Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at Chan, who instantly gets the message. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get going,” he swings his leg back over his bike, the numerous little keychains hanging off his backpack jostling and clinking in the process. “I’ll see you, then.”

“Oh, and Chan?”

“Hm?” He looks up.

“Don’t be so nervous around my partner.”

.

.

.

“It’s so embarrassing,” you moan, hanging up your hat as soon as you reach the blessed darkness inside your house. “Your packmates are terrified of me. I’m like, half of Mingyu’s size,” you gripe, stripping your gloves off, “and the other day he still asked me if I’ve ever ripped anyone’s head off.”

“Well, have you?” Seungcheol sets the shopping bags down in the kitchen.

You wave your hand flippantly as you shrug off your long black coat. “Yeah, but that was over a century ago.”

“Don’t worry about it, they’ll come around eventually,” he promises, settling an arm around your waist and kissing your cheek. “Mingyu is afraid of everything. And to be fair, you’re a very powerful being.”

You frown at him. “I’m a socially awkward hermit.”

“You could kill me at any moment if you wanted,” he adds on conversationally, as if he isn’t talking about murder. 

“You’d put up a good fight,” you counter. “We’re pretty evenly matched.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he laughs.

“You’re the only one with no self preservation instinct.” You sigh as you collapse into a chair, exhausted from an afternoon of being out in public. 

Seungcheol shrugs. “Well that’s because we’ve met before. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Hmm?” You look up at him as he puts away groceries. “What are you talking about?”

He pauses, one hand held hesitantly over a bag of carrots. “I met you before. When I was a child.”

You stare at him. 

Seungcheol furrows his brows. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” you respond. “But then again, I’m old. My memory isn’t the best.”

“Hmm,” he turns back towards the task at hand. “It’s fine if you don’t remember, then.”

“You’ll have to remind me about it some time.” You lean your head against the back of your chair. 

.

.

.

(It’s raining outside, and you’re trying your best to focus on the book in your lap, but the persistent whimpering outside your house is distracting you. It’s probably just some wild animal, but something about the sound is unsettling. It’s not right. 

Your eyes scan over the same paragraph for the third time before you sigh and snap the book shut. If you don’t address the whining, you’re not going to get anything done all night.

Tugging on your rain boots and wrapping a coat loosely around yourself, you step out onto the porch to investigate the noise. It’s a full moon tonight, but any moonlight is obscured by the dark storm clouds overhead. You step out onto the creaky old wood and look around, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and then you spot it, the source of the whimpering.

It’s a puppy. No, you frown. It’s not an ordinary puppy. That’s a lost werewolf pup, a young one at that. He’s soaking wet and covered in mud, shivering in the paltry shelter of a flowerpot holding a wilted rose bush. “Oh dear,” you murmur, stepping forward. Without hesitation, you shrug off your coat and wrap the pup up, holding him close to your chest. You know it’s no use, that your body doesn’t carry any heat, but the action must have soothed him somewhat, because the whimpering quiets down into the occasional keen.