Synopsis; one lives in a world under the weight of shadows the other lives in a world that screams.
"The sky is blue like Sacrifice by Elton John"
warnings; swearing, heavy themes
pairing; jeongguk x female reader
genre; angst, slowburn, smut, fwb
Jeongguk didn't know why he'd said yes.
He usually had a finely tuned internal compass for avoiding unnecessary social noise, but when Taehyung had slung an arm over his shoulder in the courtyard and mumbled something about "caffeine or death," Jeongguk hadn't shaken him off. He'd just let himself be led, a silent, dark shadow trailing behind Taehyung's frantic, colorful energy.
Now, sitting in a booth that smelled like burnt espresso and old upholstery, he regretted it.
Jimin was already there, his presence a bright, neon frequency that Jeongguk usually found manageable in small doses. But today, Jimin was vibrating.
"You're late," Jimin said, sliding a lukewarm Americano toward Jeongguk. "Taehyung said you were 'communing with the architecture' again."
"I was walking," Jeongguk muttered, his voice a low, rough vibration. He wrapped his hands around the cup, not to drink, but to ground himself.
"He was staring at a locker," Taehyung corrected, sliding into the seat next to Jimin. "Very intense. Very 'JK.' I think he was trying to intimidate the metal into revealing its secrets."
Jeongguk ignored them, his gaze drifting to the window. The rain was beginning to smear the world into a series of charcoal-washed gradients. But his mind wasn't on the rain. It was on the lingering, sour ghost of lime that seemed to have permanently stained his sinuses.
"So," Jimin said, his tone shifting. It was that specific, knowing lilt that made Jeongguk's neck stiffen. "I heard you had a... run-in with my girl today."
Jeongguk's eyes snapped to Jimin's. The word my landed like a discordant note. "Your what?"
"My girl. My best friend. The one you terrified in the North Corridor," Jimin said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "The one you told to 'fix' her hair while she was already having a sensory meltdown."
The air in the booth suddenly felt very thin.
Jeongguk felt a strange, uncomfortable jolt in his chest—not guilt, he didn't do guilt—but a weird, structural misalignment. He hadn't realized there was a bridge between you. He'd seen you as a solitary masterpiece being ruined in a vacuum. To find out you was tethered to Jimin, of all people, felt like a smudge on a clean canvas.
Can two people as different as him and the girl in restoration have a bridge like Jimin? It was a disturbing thought. It made you real in a way that logic couldn't touch.
"She was lying," Jeongguk said, his voice flat, unapologetic. "She was trying to turn herself into a hospital floor. I just pointed out the erasure."
"You called her pathetic, JK," Jimin's voice was soft, but it had the edge of a blade. "She's not a project. She's a person who's trying very hard to hold it together."
"Then she should hold it together with the originality," Jeongguk countered, his own agitation rising. "Not with bleach. Bleach kills the work, Jimin. You know that better than anyone."
"How do you even know her?" Jeongguk demanded, his eyes narrowing as he cataloged the fresh scent of Jimin's amusement. "And the other one—the loud one who hates my mere existence?"
Jimin leaned back, a smug, cat-like grin spreading across his face. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee before dropping the hammer. "Sora? She's my ex."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a building collapse.
Taehyung's jaw didn't just drop, it practically hit the third circle of hell and doom. "Your ex? As in... you dated the girl who currently looks like she wants to fight the entire patriarchy with a designer tote bag?"
"Two years ago," Jimin said, completely unbothered. He shrugged, looking remarkably proud of himself. "We dated for six months before she realized she liked girls. Honestly? It was a loss for me, but a win for women everywhere. She was phenomenal."
Jeongguk gripped his coffee cup tighter, his brain struggling to process the idea of the loud maneater girl and Jimin as a romantic unit. It made you feel even more real—too real. You weren't just a glitch anymore, you were part of a messy, interconnected history.
"Jimin, you're a pimp to a goddamn circus," Jeongguk muttered.
Taehyung let out a long, dramatic groan, burying his face in his hands. "Great. Jimin's exes are out here discovering their truths and being phenomenal, and I haven't gotten my dick wet since the fall semester. I'm basically a monk at this point. A very handsome, very frustrated monk."
Jimin snickered, kicking Taehyung under the table. "Maybe if you stopped trying to commune with silk in your projects, you'd have better luck. I've moved on, anyway. I'm into older women now. Sophistication, Tae. That's the vibe."
Jeongguk didn't move to leave. Instead, he leaned back in the booth, a wicked, rare glint in his eyes. The poetic intensity he usually carries was momentarily replaced by the sheer audacity of a boy.
"Speaking of which," Jeongguk said, his voice dropping into that low, faux-serious register, "Tae, how's your mom?"
Taehyung froze. He looked up, his expression shifting from frustration to pure, unadulterated betrayal. "Man, what the fuck? Don't bring her up. Leave Mrs. Kim out of your filthy mouth."
"I'm serious," Jeongguk continued, staring Taehyung down. "I need Mrs. Kim in my life. She has that... classic integrity."
"Dude, she is so far out of your league it's embarrassing," Taehyung snapped, though he was fighting back a grin. "She'd eat you alive and then ask if you'd finished your homework."
Jeongguk just smirked, finally taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee. "That's the point, Tae. Oldies want this young dick. It's a supply and demand issue."
"Shut the hell up!" Taehyung yelled, throwing a crumpled sugar packet across the table. "Go find your sound and stay away from my mother!"
Jeongguk caught the packet, his laugh a low, genuine sound that briefly cut through the static of the shop. But as the laughter died down, his mind went back to the bridge.
Jimin was the bridge, Sora was the ex, and you were the masterpiece in the middle of it all, currently smelling like a fading lie.
The banter shifts as the coffee settles, the sugar-high from the earlier jokes mellowing into that weird, mid-afternoon vulnerability that only happens in dimly lit cafes.
Taehyung was still vibrating with indignation, muttering something about "filthy artistic hands" and "restraining orders," while Jimin just watched Jeongguk with a look that was far too perceptive.
"You're a piece of work, JK," Jimin said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Checking the 'integrity' of my best friend while eyeing Tae's mom for hers. Your life is a series of questionable aesthetic choices."
Jeongguk shrugged, unbothered. He was tracing the rim of his cup, his mind still stuck on the fact that you were so deeply woven into Jimin's world. It made him feel like he'd walked into a movie halfway through and realized he'd been rooting for the wrong plot point.
"So, what about you?" Jimin asked suddenly, his voice losing its playful edge. "Since we're airing out the skeletons in the closet. Who's your 'original ink,' JK? Any exes lurking in the shadows, or do you just date your charcoal pencils?"
Taehyung perked up, the mention of his mother forgotten in favor of fresh gossip. "Yeah, Jeongguk. You're always so loud about everyone else's business. Who was the last girl who had to endure your 'frequency lessons'?"
Jeongguk didn't flinch. He didn't even hesitate. He just looked at the dark liquid in his cup and felt... nothing.
"There were people," Jeongguk said, his voice flat. "A girl from the sculpture department in first year. A dancer last spring. They were what they were."
"And?" Jimin prodded. "No 'phenomenal' realizations? No heartbreak that turned into a three-story mural or Interstellar ready soundtracks ?"
Jeongguk finally looked up, his eyes cold and clear. "They were romantic partners at some point. Now they're not. There's no point in dwelling on what something once was. If the structure is gone, the piece is finished. You move on to the next."
The table went quiet. It was the most 'Jeongguk' thing he could have said, but hearing it out loud made the air feel heavy.
"That's cold, man," Taehyung whispered, the humor finally drained from his face. "You talk about people like they're sketches you can just flip the page on."
"It's not cold. It's honest," Jeongguk countered, his gaze drifting back to the window where the rain was turning the sidewalk into a blur. "People try to preserve things that are already dead. They try to keep the scent of a relationship alive even when the 'ink' has faded to nothing. That's how you end up like her—smelling like a hospital floor because you're terrified of admitting the garden died months ago."
He wasn't just talking about his exes anymore.
He was talking about you.
He was thinking about the way you looked at the 'Seen' receipt on your phone, and the way you tried to scrub your skin until it was raw just to fit into a life that clearly didn't have room for your noise.
Jimin's expression shifted. The protectiveness was back, but there was a flicker of something else—pity. "You think everything is about the art, JK. But sometimes the 'stain' isn't a mistake. Sometimes it's just love. Even if it's messy."
"Love shouldn't be an erasure," Jeongguk muttered, more to himself than to them.
He stood up then, the legs of his chair scraping a final, harsh note against the floor. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't need to. He had the scent of the basement in his head, and the image of your gold chime eyes burning through the gray.
He needed to see if you were still trying to be a blank page, or if you had finally decided to be a masterpiece.
Jeongguk stood under the concrete overhang of the Restoration Wing, the rain creating a translucent curtain between him and the rest of the campus. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, the click of his lighter a sharp, mechanical punctuation mark in the damp air.
He'd walked through the basement halls, his boots echoing against the stone, his nose twitching for that sharp, clinical lime. But the lab had been empty, the lights dimmed to a low, amber hum, leaving only the scent of expensive tea and the ghost of ancient dust.
He took a long drag, the smoke curling around his head like a question he hadn't asked yet.
He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Making up wasn't a concept that existed in his vocabulary, to Jeongguk, a fight required two people who disagreed on a fact.
He didn't disagree with you—he just found your choices offensive. He couldn't conceptualize you as a person with feelings to be hurt. To him, you were still just a figment of his specific hatred for wasted vibrancy.
He had you filed away in a very rough, very dark corner of his mind. A drawer labeled Potential.
You were a series of contradictions he couldn't stop cataloging. You were the girl who smelled like gardenia—a scent that reminded him of something he'd hate to remember, a sweetness that felt like a trap. Something definitely filed under a much further drawer.
Well not gardenia anymore, but he already compartmentalized you under that scent.
You were a woman who spent her days restoring dead things, breathing life into frayed silk and faded ink, while simultaneously trying to bleach the life out of yourself.
And then there was the man.
Jeongguk exhaled, the smoke vanishing into the gray sky. You loved a man who didn't deserve you, but Jeongguk was a realist—we all pick our battles.
Some people pick mountains, you had picked a person who wanted you to be a valley.
He thought about your eyes. Interesting eyes. Accompanied by a smart mouth that only worked when you decided to raise your gaze from the pavement.
He'd seen you today, briefly, before you vanished into a classroom. The lime was finally fading. The noise was coming back. You were vibrating again, a low-frequency hum that made the back of his teeth ache in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
He flicked the ash onto the wet pavement. He didn't know why he was still standing here. He didn't know why he cared if you were a masterpiece or a smudge.
But as he took the final pull of his cigarette, he realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn't looking at a canvas. He was looking for a person.
And that was the most annoying glitch of all.
He doesn't reach for his phone. The idea of sending a string of digital characters to explain a visceral, artistic frustration feels beneath him. Instead, he drops the cigarette butt into the puddle, watching the last embers die with a hiss.
He knows where you'll be tomorrow. You have a 10 AM in the South Lab.
He knows you always take the stairs for whatever reason.
It's annoying how much space you've taken up in his inventory.
He'll be there. Not to apologize—never that—but to see if the "magenta" finally won.
Jeongguk turns away from the Restoration Wing, his leather jacket squeaking as he rolls his shoulders. The walk back to his own place is a series of gray gradients he usually finds comforting, but tonight, the world feels... under-saturated.
Jeongguk enters his apartment—a space that looks more like a gallery than a home.
He doesn't turn on the main lights. He doesn't need to. He moves through the dark by memory, his mind still replaying the conversation in the coffee shop.
The thought is a smudge on his mental canvas. He thinks about the way Jimin defended you—calling you a person instead of a project.
Jeongguk tosses his keys onto the metal table, the sharp, silver clack echoing through the hollow of his apartment. He doesn't call you a project—projects have a beginning and an end, a set of instructions. You're more like a discovery that he's failing to document correctly.
He moves to the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the rain smear the city into the dark, charcoal grays he's grown fond of.
The grays don't demand anything from him. They don't vibrate or scream, they just exist, calming the jagged, neon edges of his synesthesia.
But as he stands there, he realizes his own sanctuary is compromised. Your world has started to bleed into his, a slow, osmotic pressure he didn't give permission for.
He looks at the edge of his drafting table and sees a smudge of graphite that looks too much like the way you hold a pencil. He notices the texture of the concrete walls and, for a split second, he doesn't see industrial design—he sees the dusty, honest grit of your lab.
A flash of lightning rips across the horizon, a violent, overexposed white that bleeds into a deep, bruising purple. The thunder follows a heartbeat later—a low, guttural roar that doesn't just sound like noise. It feels like a physical weight, a textured, vibrating static that triggers a memory so loud it physically pains his retinas.
He flinches, the brightness of the memory searing through the back of his eyes like an old film reel catching fire. It's a sensory overload he hasn't felt in years—a jagged frequency, a scream of color, a moment where the world was too loud to breathe. He presses his palms against his eye sockets until he sees stars, trying to crush the visual echo of the past back into the dark.
The pain makes his breath hitch, a sharp contrast to the cold, sterile air of his apartment.
He needs to drown it out. He needs to replace the ghost-noise with something he can control.
With shaking fingers, he reaches for his phone, navigates deep into a hidden folder, scrolling past dates and labels until he finds a specific file.
Jeongguk hits play, and the recording immediately shoots a cold, electric ultramarine through his veins. It is a cooling flood, a deep-sea blue that settles the jagged static of the storm and anchor's him back to the earth. This is his sanctuary in digital form, the only frequency he has ever found that doesn't demand to be filtered or refined. It's always there, waiting in the dark of his phone like a tether to a version of reality that hasn't been bleached white.
He doesn't have the brain capacity to think of anything else. The migraine has already started, a violent bloom of pain behind his eyes that feels like blades rhythmically cutting the connections from his brain to his vision. Every flash of lightning outside the window is a physical strike against his retinas, a white-hot intrusion that makes the world tilt.
It's agonizingly painful. He sinks to the floor of his dark apartment, back pressed against the cold concrete wall, letting the ultramarine voice note wash over him. He can't think about the bridge, or Jimin, or the lime-scented erasure you've tried to become. He can only focus on the sound—the one thing capable of dulling the blades.
He stays there in the dark, the phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip, waiting for the storm and the memory to pass.
He knows he has to see you tomorrow.
He needs to know if your gold chime of gardenia infusion is still under that layer of disinfectant, because if he's losing his sanctuary, he isn't going to let you lose yours without a fight.
The ultramarine from the recording is the only thing that holds the blades at bay through the night. It sits in his ears like a cool compress, a digital sanctuary that eventually lulls the violent white-and-purple static into a low, manageable hum.
When morning finally breaks, it does so with a clarity that feels aggressive.
The storm has washed the city clean, leaving the air thin and biting. Jeongguk wakes up on the floor, his back stiff against the parquet, the ultramarine frequency still playing on a loop in his headphones. His retinas still feel bruised, but the jagged edges of the migraine have receded into a dull, rhythmic throb.
He doesn't eat. He doesn't need to. He just pulls on a fresh black t-shirt and his leather jacket, the familiar weight of the hide feeling like a second skin.
His apartment is filled with the gray morning light he's grown to depend on, but as he gathers his sketchbook, he realizes the "bleeding" hasn't stopped.
He looks at the glass of water on his table and thinks of the clear blue sky you two saw together once.
He looks at the door and thinks of the stairwell.
He's already moving before his brain can talk him out of it.
The South Lab stairwell is a vertical tunnel of echo and shadow. The elevator is three floors up, emitting that high-pitched, mechanical whine that he now realizes he hates just as much as you probably do. It's a "wrong" sound—synthetic, forced, and entirely devoid of the organic noise he's been hunting for.
He sits on the top step, his long legs stretched out across the landing, a sketchbook resting on his knees. To anyone else, he looks like a brooding art student caught in a moment of inspiration.
But Jeongguk isn't sketching. He's listening.
He's listening for the rhythmic, heavy thump of your shoes on the linoleum. He's listening for the sound of a frequency that has spent the night trying to decide if it's a garden or a hospital floor.
The heavy fire door at the bottom of the flight creaks open. The sound is a low, rusty groan—a real sound, a textured sound. And then, the footsteps. They aren't the confident, easy stride of Sora , and they aren't the efficient, silent steps of Minho.
They are slightly hesitant, echoing up the concrete shaft with a vibration that tells him exactly where you are in the dark.
Jeongguk doesn't look down. He keeps his eyes on the blank page of his sketchbook, his charcoal pencil poised like a weapon. He waits until the scent reaches him first—not the aggressive, biting lime from the hallway, but something softer. Something fading.
The lime is still there, a synthetic tartness that clings to the air, but beneath it, there's a ghost of something else. Something earthy.
He feels a jolt of something that isn't hatred and isn't irritation. It's recognition.
"You're late," he says, his voice a low, rough vibration that bounces off the concrete walls.
He finally looks up as you round the final landing. You're standing there, breathless, your hair a bit messy from the wind, looking like a manuscript that's been caught in the rain.
He doesn't apologize for yesterday. He doesn't ask if you're okay. He just scans your face with that bloodhound intensity, looking for something in your eyes to tell him the war isn't lost. Just one battle, maybe.
"The elevator is humming in B-flat today," he mutters, closing his sketchbook with a sharp snap. "It's disgusting. I don't know how you stand it.
Jeongguk watches you climb the final few steps, his gaze unblinking and heavy with that clinical, artistic scrutiny that always makes you feel like you're under a microscope.
"Late for what?" you ask, your voice coming out raspier than you intended. You adjust the strap of your bag, the weight of your archival supplies suddenly feeling like lead. "I don't remember ever making plans to see you again, Jeongguk. In fact, I was quite enjoying the idea of us being strangers."
He doesn't look offended. He doesn't even look surprised. He just stands up, the movement fluid and predatory, closing the distance between you until you can smell the sharp, metallic tang of the storm still clinging to his leather jacket.
"You're late for a conversation," he says, his voice a low vibration that seems to hum in your very bones. "One that doesn't involve you lying to yourself through your pores."
You let out a dry, sharp laugh. "I have a lab, Jeongguk. I have a life that doesn't revolve around your aesthetic critiques. Move."
"Walk with me," he counters. It isn't a request; it's a directive. "There's a place two blocks over. They don't use synthetic syrups and the acoustics aren't a disaster. We're getting coffee."
You stare at him, incredulous. "Are you serious? You corner me in a stairwell, insult my existence for forty-eight hours, and now you think we're going on a coffee date?"
"It's not a date," he snaps, his eyes flashing with a sudden, jagged irritation. "It's an intervention for a masterpiece that's being painted over with bleach. I'm not letting you walk into that lab smelling like a compromise."
"I don't want to go anywhere with you," you say, turning to head back down the stairs. The "seen" receipt, the "pathetic" comment, the way he looked at you in the hallway—it all boils up into a hot, thick frustration.
He notices, of course. It's a little indent between your brows, a little pout of your mouth.
You clearly can't control your face when he's in front of you.
He likes that. It's honest. No mental gymnastics to know what you're feeling.
It's right there for him to see. Silent conversation he enjoys.
"Wait," you stop, looking back up at him. "Is this the part where you apologize? Because if you're taking me to coffee to tell me you're sorry for being an arrogant, boundary-crossing asshole, then maybe—maybe—I'll consider it."
Jeongguk stills. He looks at you for a long, silent moment, his head tilting slightly as if he's trying to find the gold chime in your anger.
"No," he says finally, his voice flat and entirely unapologetic. "I have nothing to apologize for. Truth isn't an insult, and I won't say sorry for being the only person in this building who can actually hear you."
He starts down the stairs toward you, his boots heavy and rhythmic. "Now, are you coming, or am I going to have to follow you into the lab and argue with your probably ancient prof about the structural integrity of your 'rebranding'?"
You stare at him, stunned by the sheer, unmitigated gall of the man. "You're unbelievable. You're actually fucking unbelievable."
"I'm consistent," he corrects, his voice dropping into that low, poetic register that makes your skin itch. "Consistency is a rare texture. You should appreciate it."
He's standing just one step above you now. From this angle, he's towering, a silhouette of black leather and sharp jawline against the brutalist concrete of the stairwell. You should walk away. You should turn around, go to your lab, bury your head in 18th-century silk, and forget he exists. But the clock in your chest is vibrating, a hot, restless frequency that refuses to settle.
"You think because you can 'hear' me, you have the right to dissect me?" you ask, your voice steadying as you find your footing. "You don't know me, Jeongguk. You know a scent and a sound. You don't know the reason I use the bleach. You don't know why I need the quiet."
"I know that the quiet you're chasing isn't peace," he says, stepping down so he's level with you. He's close enough now that the dog nose is back in full effect—he isn't looking at your eyes, he's looking at the way the pulse in your neck is jumping. "It's a burial. You're trying to muffle the gold chimes because they're too loud for the man you go home to. You're trying to be a flat line for a guy who's afraid of a curve."
The accuracy of it hits you like a physical blow to the solar plexus. It's too sharp. It's too honest. It's a truth that you haven't even whispered to yourself in the dark, yet here he is, throwing it at you in a dusty stairwell like it's common knowledge.
"I'm not going to coffee with you," you whisper, though the defiance is starting to fray at the edges.
"Yes, you are," he says, his tone shifting from aggressive to something almost... quiet. Something that reminds you of the way he described his grays. "Because your hands are shaking, and the lime scent is almost gone, and if you walk into that lab right now, you're going to break something that can't be restored."
He reaches out, his hand hovering near your elbow but not touching. He doesn't do "gentle," but there's a pull in his presence that feels like gravity.
"Two blocks," he repeats. "No synthetic syrups. No B-flat hum. Just a conversation in a frequency you don't have to apologize for."
You look at his hand, then up at his face. The rings that decorate it seem cold against his warm hand. The tattoos look like they have a story.
The "blades" behind his eyes from the night before have left a lingering shadow, a bruised look that makes him seem less like a predator and more like someone who's survived the same storm you're currently drowning in.
"I'm still not forgiving you," you mutter, finally shifting your weight toward the door.
Jeongguk lets out a breath—a short, jagged sound that might have been a laugh if he were any other person. "I didn't ask for forgiveness. I asked for your time. Forgiveness is for people who made a mistake. I just made an observation."
He pushes the fire door open for you, the heavy metal groaning on its hinges. As you step out into the crisp, post-storm air, the scent of the wet pavement rises to meet you—earthy, metallic, and real.
"Lead the way, then," you say, not looking at him. "Since you're the expert on what I need."
"I'm not an expert on what you need," he says, falling into step beside you, his leather jacket squeaking with every move. "I'm just an expert on what's real. And right now? This is the first real thing you've done all week."
The air outside is biting, but the walk is short. Jeongguk leads you to a place tucked into a brick alleyway—no neon signs, no industrial hum. Just a heavy wooden door and the low, amber glow of Edison bulbs.
When you step inside, the sensory assault you've been dreading never comes. Instead, the air is thick with a scent that is so warm, so rounded, it feels like a physical weight lifting off your chest. It's a deep, toasted sweetness—burnt sugar and something savory, like sea salt caught in a breeze.
Jeongguk doesn't go to the counter. He leads you to a small, scarred wooden table in the back, far away from the door. He orders for both of you without asking, and for once, you don't fight it. You're too busy trying to figure out why the noise in your head has suddenly gone soft.
When he returns, he places a small ceramic cup in front of you.
"Salted caramel latte," he says, sitting down and watching you with that same unblinking focus. "But they don't use the bottled stuff. They render the sugar in the back. It's messy. It's honest."
You take a sip, and it's like your brain finally finds the right frequency. It's not the cloying, synthetic syrup you're used to. It's deep and complex, the salt cutting through the sugar in a way that feels intentional.
"It's... actually good," you admit, cradling the warm ceramic between your palms.
Jeongguk leans forward, his eyes tracking the way you're finally relaxing your shoulders. "It's not just good. It's a texture. Most people want coffee to be a utility—a flat line to get them through the day. But this? This has a curve. It has a shadow."
"You really can't help yourself, can you?" you ask, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Everything has to be a lecture on 'integrity.'"
"It's not a lecture," he says, and for the first time, his voice isn't a challenge. It's almost... shy. "It's just... why settle for a smudge when you can have a masterpiece? You don't belong in a hospital wing. You belong in a space that smells like this. Something that isn't afraid to be a little burnt at the edges."
You look down at your coffee, watching the steam curl in the low light. "I've spent so much time trying to be 'clean' for Minho. I thought if I could just get the scent right, if I could just be quiet enough, the noise would stop hurting."
"The noise only hurts because you're fighting it," Jeongguk says softly. He reaches across the table, and for a second, you think he's going to touch your hand. Instead, he just taps the table right next to your fingers, a rhythmic, grounding beat. "Don't be a flat line. Be the salted caramel. Be the thing that's a little too much for some people, but exactly right for the ones who actually know how to taste."
You look up at him, and the dullness in his eyes is gone. In their place is a warmth you haven't seen before—a deep, almost sweet recognition.
"Is this your version of being nice, Jeongguk?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
He scoffs, leaning back and regaining his usual defensive posture, but the edges of his mouth are twitching. "I'm never nice. I'm just right. There's a difference."
"Right," you laugh, and it's the first time the sound doesn't feel like a lie. "You're an arrogant, boundary-crossing asshole who happens to have very good taste in coffee."
"Exactly," he smirks, taking a sip of his own dark, bitter brew. "Now, drink your coffee. We have a lot of work to do if we're going to get that lime out of your system for good."
You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your cup, the warmth of the salted caramel still humming on your tongue. "And what makes you so sure I want it out of my system?" you ask, your voice regaining that spark of defiance. "The lime is safe. The lime is... quiet. It's what everyone expects. Maybe I like being a hospital floor, Jeongguk. It's easier to clean than a garden."
Jeongguk doesn't look away. He leans forward, his forearms resting on the scarred wood of the table, bringing him into your personal space. The low amber light catches the depth of his eyes, making them look like polished obsidian.
"Liar," he says softly. It isn't a snap this time; it's a gentle vibration. "If you liked the lime, you wouldn't be sitting here with me, drinking a coffee that tastes like a burnt memory. You want the noise back because without it, you're just a blank canvas waiting for someone else to tell you what to paint. And you hate being told what to do."
He's right, and it's infuriating. You huff, looking away to hide the way your cheeks are heating up. To change the subject, you nod toward the dark, steaming liquid in his hand.
"What did you even get, anyway? You were so busy playing barista for me, I didn't see."
"Double espresso. No sugar. No milk," he says, sounding far too proud of his bitter choices. "The way coffee is supposed to be. Pure architecture."
"Architecture?" you scoff, reaching across the table. "It sounds like battery acid. Give me a sip."
Jeongguk's eyebrows shoot up. He doesn't move the cup away, but he doesn't hand it over either. "You won't like it. It's too bitter for you. Stay with your sweetness."
"Try me," you challenge, your fingers brushing against his as you wrap your hand around his cup.
You have soft hands for someone who restores corpses of history.
He lets you take it, a small, amused smirk tugging at his lips. You take a brave sip, and immediately, your face twists. It's incredibly strong—earthy, bitter, and sharp enough to make your eyes water. It's exactly like him: unapologetic and overwhelming.
"Oh god," you choke out, handing it back as you reach for your salted caramel to wash away the taste. "That is... that is violence in a cup. How do you drink that?"
Jeongguk actually laughs—a real, rich sound that isn't filtered through sarcasm. "It clears the static," he says, watching you with an expression that is dangerously close to endearing. "And now you have a smudge of it on your lip."
Before you can reach for a napkin, he taps the corner of his own mouth, guiding you. "Right there. The 'original ink' is messy, remember?"
For a second, the coffee shop seems to go completely silent, the only sound being the rhythmic thumping of your heart. You wipe your lip, feeling the weight of his gaze.
Your lips are nice too. From an objective stand-point.
Even when stained by his bitterness in a cup.
You catch him watching your hand move—a sharp, focused look that makes you feel more like a centerpiece than a student.
"Don't get used to it," you mutter, finally setting your salted caramel back down. "The laughing. The coffee. One decent cup of rendered sugar doesn't erase the fact that you called me pathetic in front of half the department."
Jeongguk leans back, his leather jacket creaking in the quiet booth. The amusement doesn't leave his eyes, but it settles into something more anchored. "I told you. I don't apologize for the truth. You were being pathetic. You were letting a bottle of cleaning spray win a fight against your own soul."
"And you're still an asshole," you counter, but the bite is gone from your voice. You find yourself leaning in, playing into the gravity of the moment just to see if he'll flinch. "So, what's the plan, Expert? You've successfully kidnapped me for what? Forty-five minutes? You've fed me expensive sugar. Is this where you tell me I'm your new muse or something equally cliché?"
Jeongguk scoffs, the sound rich and vibrating. "Muse? Please. I don't need a muse. I need things to be in their correct state. I'm just here to make sure the restoration doesn't fail."
He reaches for his espresso, his fingers nimble and scarred—signs of a man who works with his hands until they bleed. "You're going back to the lab after this. And when you pick up that silk or that ink, you aren't going to think about what 'quiet' looks like. You're going to think about how this coffee felt. The salt, the burn, the noise."
He looks up, his gaze locking onto yours with a sudden, startling intensity. "If you try to bleach it out again, I'll smell it. And I'll just come find you again."
"Is that a threat or a promise?" you ask, your heart doing a strange, syncopated rhythm against your ribs.
"It's a structural necessity," he says, and for a split second, his voice drops into that low, poetic register that feels like a secret. "Now, finish your drink. You've got five minutes before you're officially 'late' for the second time this week."
You take a final sip of the salted caramel, the sweetness now tempered by the lingering bitterness of his espresso. You aren't sold on forgiving him—not even close—but as you follow him back out into the crisp air, you realize this isn't a headache anymore. It's a pulse.
The walk back to the campus gates is quieter, the air between you no longer a battlefield but a strange, shared frequency.
But Jeongguk wouldn't be Jeongguk if he didn't find a way to shatter the peace with a jagged truth he thinks you're too blind to see.
"You know," he says, his hands shoved deep into his leather jacket pockets as he stares straight ahead at the brutalist architecture of the university. "Structural integrity isn't just about the ink. It's about the frame. You're trying to house a masterpiece in a rotten frame."
You stiffen, your grip tightening on your bag. "If this is another metaphor for my life, Jeongguk, I think I've reached my quota for the hour."
"It's not a metaphor. It's an observation of a leak," he counters, his voice dropping into that flat, clinical tone that usually precedes a disaster. He stops walking, forcing you to halt as well. He turns to look at you, the post-storm sunlight catching the sharp, unapologetic line of his jaw. "The man you're erasing yourself for? Minho? He's a cheater."
The word hits you like ice water. The "magenta" in your chest flatlines into a cold, dull gray. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't even know him."
Jeongguk's eyes darken, a flash of frustration crossing his face. He steps into your space, his presence suddenly suffocating, forcing you to look up.
"Fine. I don't know him," he says, his voice dropping into a low, urgent vibration. "Then tell me. What's your shampoo? The one you've been using now, for quietness."
The question is so left-field you blink, momentarily stunned. "What? Why does—"
"Just answer the question," he demands, his gaze boring into yours.
"Lime," you snap. "It's lime. You know that. You've been complaining about it."
"And what does he smell like?" Jeongguk asks, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a dark, velvety pressure.
"He smells clean," you repeat, though the conviction is leaking out of your words. "Like... fresh linen. It's a designer cologne. It's sophisticated, Jeongguk. It doesn't scream."
"It doesn't scream because it's a mask," Jeongguk says, stepping even closer, his presence a wall of heat and leather. "Think, for once, without trying to find an excuse. If your boyfriend loved citrus so much—if he really found that lime 'refreshing'—don't you think he'd be wearing it? Don't you think his world would be filled with it?"
You stay silent, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"He smells like sandalwood," Jeongguk says, his gaze boring into yours. "Deep, woody, expensive sandalwood. It's a base note. It's heavy. It's the exact opposite of that sharp, acidic lime he's forced on you."
He huffs a short, bitter breath, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying intensity. He's vibrating with a frustration he can't quite articulate without breaking the unwritten rules of the department. He knows Irina. He knows that when he entered her office that day he felt it.
The stinging citrus and lies in her wake.
He knows that the quiet Minho demands from you is just a way to make sure the loud, zesty scent of another woman doesn't trigger an alarm.
"He's a curator," Jeongguk mutters, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wants to shake you.
"He knows how to balance a room. He knows that if he keeps you at a clinical, lime-scented zero, he can bring home as much 'noise' as he wants and you'll never be able to pick it out of the air. You're being used as a neutralizer, a background wash so his main subject can stay hidden."
"You don't know that," you whisper, though the image of Irina—bright, sharp, and smelling of the very thing you use to hide yourself—is suddenly burning behind your eyelids.
"I know the connections!" Jeongguk practically begs, his voice cracking with a rare, raw emotion. "I see the textures, I hear the frequencies, and right now, your entire life is a discordant mess. He's draped you in lime so he can wear the scent of someone else and call it 'fresh air' when he walks through your front door. Please... just look at the palette he's given you. It's not yours. It's a cover-up."
He lets go of your shoulders, the sudden lack of contact making you feel like you're falling. He looks at you one last time—not with the arrogance of a critic, but with the hollowed-out look of someone who's tired of watching a masterpiece get vandalized.
"Don't go to the lab," he says, his voice now a quiet, defeated ghost of itself. "Go home. Look at his bottles. Smell the air when he isn't trying to 'clean' it. If I'm wrong, I'll never speak to you again. But I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong about the stains."
He turns on his heel, his leather jacket squeaking as he disappears into the crowd of students, leaving you standing alone with the faint, lingering scent of sandalwood and the crushing weight of a truth you finally can't unsee.
Jeongguk didn't look back.
He didn't need to see the way your face was crumpling or the way you were clutching your bag like a life raft. He could already hear the shift in your frequency—the gold chimes were gone, replaced by a low, hollow thrum of realization. It was the sound of a structure finally giving way under the weight of a rot it had been hiding for too long.
He walked toward the arts building, his boots hitting the pavement with a rhythmic, heavy finality. His chest felt tight, the air still tasting like the bitter espresso he'd forced himself to drink.
He'd done it. He'd ripped the "hospital floor" right out from under you.
He knew he wasn't gentle. He knew that for any normal person, the way he'd just dismantled your life in the middle of a walkway was a crime. But Jeongguk wasn't a normal person; he was a devotee of the truth, and the truth was that Minho was a smudge that needed to be erased.
As he pushed open the heavy glass doors of the studio wing, the scent of turpentine and old wood rose to meet him. It was a grounding scent, but even here, the "bleeding" wouldn't stop. He looked at the white walls of the gallery and didn't see a blank space; he saw the sterile, lime-scented cage you were currently trapped in.
He thought about the way you'd looked at him in the coffee shop—the small, genuine smile that had cut through the static of his own mind. He thought about the way you'd tasted his coffee, the face you'd made, the "violence in a cup."
He reached into his pocket and felt the cool metal of his lighter. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to drown out the lingering scent of your lime and the phantom trace of Minho's sandalwood.
But mostly, he just wanted to know if you were going home to break the frame, or if you were going to let the rot take you whole.
He climbed the stairs to his studio, the "B-flat" hum of the elevator fading into the background. He sat down at his drafting table, picked up a fresh piece of charcoal, and pressed it so hard against the paper that the tip snapped.
Jeongguk caused indentations again on the paper.
He didn't draw a frequency this time. He didn't draw a masterpiece.
He just sat in the silence of the studio, listening to the echo of his own heartbeat, and realized that for the first time in his life, he didn't want the "quiet" back. He wanted the noise.
And if that meant he had to burn everything you knew to the ground just to hear it again, then he'd let the whole world go up in flames. Not because he grew to like you—he didn't do "like".
You were still filed under potential.
But because he's fascinated. Fascinated with your will of loving something so wrong for you, you're willing to carve out your eyes instead of seeing the truth.
Was it true love or true sacrifice?
He doesn't know the answer because he only knew the later.
And it wasn't from something he wants to remember.
Jeongguk leaned back, closing his eyes as the "ultramarine" recording began to play in his mind again, a cooling hum against the fever of his thoughts. Tomorrow, you would either show up in the lab as a masterpiece or as a pile of ash. Either way, at least you would finally be real.
And for Jeongguk, that was the only thing that had ever mattered.
