#ibr+

San had been aimlessly wandering for the better part of an hour now. The cloudy sky above him was telling, raindrops threatening to come down any minute now. But San only continues, kicking forward the rather large pebble that had come loose from the sidewalk some blocks back.

Not too concerned with the passing time, San wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking. He hadn’t known how he’d managed to occupy his time in the past couple of weeks, the days and nights melding into one. He passes a busy salon and briefly glances at the women dying and perming their hair. He turns away, hoping they have an umbrella.  

But even the hovering bad weather wasn’t enough to bring the people walking besides him down. They walk giddily, hand in hand, pointing at the intricate window displays. He felt uncomfortable, his self-implicated alienation uncomfortably obvious among their holiday spirit.

He huffs a heavy sigh. This forced time off was proving to be much more difficult than he had anticipated. The first couple of days were manageable. He caught up with his much-needed lack of sleep and spent the rest of the days cleaning his apartment. But once he ran out of the little food he did have, he was reluctantly forced to visit the grocery store. 

He’d caught up on sleep, cleaned every corner of his apartment, and finally cleared out the fridge. But once he ran out of food, he’d been forced to venture out. A trip to the grocery store yielded a sad haul of bread, milk, and a boxed mix of leafy greens: a reflection of his lack of appetite and, frankly, his lack of enthusiasm for life outside work.

With his errands complete, he hadn’t been ready to return to his apartment, its silence pressing on him like a second skin. So, he walked, turning down unfamiliar streets and weaving through alleys with no destination in mind. Who was he without his badge? Without people to protect? Without a purpose?

San had always been a hardhead. It served him well in the academy and in the early days at the precinct. But lately, it had become more of a liability than an asset. He clenched his jaw at the memory of his last case, the interrogation room dim and suffocating as he pressed a suspect for hours on end. The man was as slippery as they came, smirking through San’s frustration until something in him snapped.

“You gotta cool it, son,” the chief had said, stepping into the hallway just as San stormed out of the room.

San hadn’t stopped, his boots echoing down the corridor as he made a beeline for his desk. “He’s guilty, and you know it,” he’d fired back over his shoulder, his tone cutting.

The chief followed, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe he is, but You can’t lose control like that, especially not without any evidence to back yourself up. I’ve been down that road before, and trust me, it doesn’t lead anywhere pretty. We’ve got protocols for a reason.”

San shoved a stack of papers aside, his jaw tightening. “Protocols don’t mean shit when someone like that walks free because of a technicality.”

The chief sighed, rubbing a hand over his weathered face. “Look, I get it. You’re one of the best we’ve got. Hell, I saw it back in the academy, and I see it every damn day. You’ve got drive, heart—more than most of the guys in this building. But that doesn’t mean you’re above the rules.”

San scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. “Half the guys here don’t give a damn about protecting anyone. They’re just here for the paycheck or the power trip. And you want to lecture me about rules?”

The chief’s gaze hardened, his voice dropping low. “Fine. Maybe not everyone’s in it for the right reasons. But you are. And that’s why you can’t let this anger consume you. You can’t help anyone if you burn out or get yourself benched permanently.”

They walked toward the heavy double doors, the city quiet in the crisp night air. The chief stopped at the top of the stairs, his breath visible as he exhaled slowly. “Listen, son. I’ve been where you are. I know what it feels like to want justice so bad it hurts. But you’ve got to channel that fire, not let it control you. That’s why I’m putting you on mandatory leave.”

San froze, turning to him with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” The chief’s tone was unyielding. “Give me your badge and gun. You’re not coming back until you’ve had time to figure out who you are without them.”

Reluctantly, San handed over the items, his heart sinking as the chief took them. The older man’s face softened, his voice quiet but resolute. “I know you’ve got anger for the unjust that’s drowning this city, but you can’t bottle it up and blow it out on some asshole that mugs old ladies. I want you to know this isn’t a punishment. It’s a second chance. Use it to get your head straight.” 

And San figures that was fair.

This time was supposed to help him answer that, but all San had done was sleep, clean his apartment, get some groceries, and take an obscurely long walk to strange parts of the city.

“Oops. Sorry, mister!” San looks down to find a little boy patting the material of his black trousers. He couldn’t have been any older than five, cheeks tinged rose in the cold. One of his hands was gloved, and the other was bare, tightly clutching a powdered pastry, much of the powder now on San’s pant leg. The kid’s gloved hand continues to wipe, only smearing the stark white sugar more, coloring the spot on his pants a light gray. 

The little boy’s mother pulls him away to continue down the crowded street, throwing a quick apology in San's way before turning around to scold her son. They quickly get lost in the sea of people in the busy downtown. 

The streets are bustling today. The decorations for the holidays had gone up some days ago, and now, every storefront was decked with wreaths and lights. San looks at the people that pass him, faces stretched wide with smiles and hands filled with presents and wrapping paper. His steps slow a little, watching the happiness decorate the faces of so many people. 

To look at the streets and people without having a tragedy to attach to them was unfamiliar to him, unnatural even. 

The traffic was only increasing, with more and more people bumping into San’s shoulders. San finds it stifling, and he feels as if he’s back in the interrogation room with the ticking clock of detainment breathing down his neck. 

His chest constricts, and San finds himself turning into an alley. Adapting a fast pace, he exits out the alley into another street, his large pebble shockingly still alongside his uneven stride. 

This street is quiet, void of the festive cheer from the street that runs parallel, and it helps in calming him down. He breathes in the cool November air and looks at his surroundings. Despite having lived in the city for several years now, he’d never been down this particular street, at least he thinks he hasn’t. There had never been time to explore with the multitude of cases.

The storefronts here are also decorated, but it fares lamely compared to the other street. The effort is minimal and it shows desperately. Many of the strung up lights are no longer lit, and the wreaths look as if one strong gust could blow them apart. 

The festivity on this street feels exhausted like it’s seen one to many holiday seasons and just can’t be bothered to participate in them, yet San finds it comforting. Despite the stress the holidays brought to the precinct, San had always liked this time of year, and the way this particular street was decorated seemed to resonate with him more. 

While he can still hear the commotion of people from one street over, he tries to walk it off, and for some minutes, San and his pebble stroll the quieter street. 

Without having to dodge other shoppers or watch out for little children, the chief’s words come back to his mind. 

You can’t lose control like that, especially not without any evidence to back yourself up. I’ve been down that road before, and trust me, it doesn’t lead anywhere pretty.

The chief’s downfall was a story San had pieced together from fragments over the years. The case that broke him was a mess—eyewitness accounts that contradicted each other, blurry CCTV footage, and the absence of concrete evidence. The parallels were impossible to ignore.

And if there was one thing Choi San did not have, it was the concrete evidence. 

But he knew that all it would’ve taken was a little bit of pushing. With just a little bit of prodding, he could’ve and would’ve gotten a confession. 

His frustration, while milder than it was the night of the interrogation, is renewed, and to exercise it, he kicks particularly hard at his pebble, making it roll off the sidewalk and unceremoniously fall into a storm drain. When he hears the clink as it reaches the sewer floor, San also feels the first raindrop. 

He can only sigh. With the pebble and the chief forgotten, he speeds up, finally tilting his head upwards to read the storefront signs, deciding that, without an umbrella, he’d surely need to find a sanctuary in one of them soon.

He passes far too many more salons and boutiques than one street needs, before entering a seemingly forgotten corner of the avenue. Many of the spaces are for sale, another couple advertising shady business operations, and finally one sad mattress store. Just past them, is another store with a sigh San can’t quite make out. As the weight of the raindrops increases, he moves closer, careful to not slip on the slick cobblestones. 

Nearing it, the sign simply reads “Old & Rare Books”. The outside of the store is sodden much like the rest of the street, and the interior so dark that the window in the front doesn’t show San anything but his own reflection. 

San turns his back to the store, eyeing the entrance of the mattress store and one of the many salons further down the street. With one more look at the thundering sky, San pushes the heavy wooden door to the bookstore open. 

The inside of the store, despite its cool appearance, is warm and unexpectedly smells of chocolate. The walls are lined with rich, ebony wood, only darkening the space more. As San turns to eye the rest of the store, his bag of groceries thuds against a stack of books, knocking the pile over. 

With a sigh, San only looks for an employee, but what he finds is complete disarray. 

To put it simply, the store was in utter chaos. Much like the fallen jumble by the door, there were books strewn everywhere, the messy heaps neverending, forcefully stacked and piled against one another with no formality. With a crooked neck, San finds the rest of the long and dim store in a similar manner. 

The state of the mess has San standing still, and as he observes his surroundings, his disbelief only builds. This store was like a thief’s playground. 

First of all, the store was entirely too dark, and there were no clear sightlines for San or any employees to keep an eye on the entirety of the store’s layout. The register was located in a strange corner to his right, and San was unable to spot any cameras. San wouldn’t even know how to begin to take inventory when the inventory itself was scattered so carelessly in every corner of the store. To his left, there was a brown leather couch nestled in another corner, and on its cushions slept a very much not alert gray cat. 

Opposite the couch was a box computer that looked to be older than San, a logo bouncing from edge to edge on its screen, and just behind that was a wire spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. And, there was still no employee in sight, despite the ringing of the bell that hung above the door and the thudding of the stack of books San had knocked over. 

If anyone did decide to steal, the store owner would be none the wiser. 

This was starting to piss San off. If a call had come into the precinct to report a theft of any kind, there would be little to nothing they could do, and their report would be a measly one page, lacking any and all substance. And he knows that after the fact, the precinct would still be bad-mouthed by the store owner or even a local newspaper, written aside to be lazy.  

He feels his chest constricting again and decides the mattress store will just have to do. He turns back towards the door he’s just come through, but through the window, he watches the rain pour, drizzling down heavily onto the pavement and roads, darkening them. Begrudgingly, he faces the interior of the bookstore again. 

He hears a gentle clicking of shoes against the wooden panels from the creaky floor above him, and suddenly, descending the wire staircase, you peak your head out. Oddly enough, the anxiety he was feeling only moments ago vanishes as you come into view. 

You seem misplaced in the store, the whites and cream of your apparel far too contrasted with the dark and moody interior. Your long cream skirt drags slightly along the floor, and there’s a dirtied apron tied securely around your waist smeared with a combination of sugar, butter, and flour. As you move closer, San can smell baked goods.

Unlike the artificially and sickly sweet smell coming from the bakeries and pastry shops from the parallel street, you smell real. San doesn’t know how to describe it, but he momentarily shuts his eyes, taking in your scent. 

“Hi! Welcome in, is there anything I can help you find?” Your voice is cheery, and you hope it isn’t all too obvious that you’re excited to finally have someone in the store. 

With the holiday season in full swing, the traffic on main street was bound to trickle into your street, but with new big-brand wholesale bookstores popping up all over the city, you could only pray customers would walk far enough into this street to see your place. 

So when anybody, especially someone this handsome, walks in, you want to be there to greet them, welcoming them into your store with a warm Hello! and sincere Thank you! for choosing your little bookstore instead of the heavily franchised wholesalers across town, but cookies in your oven had a different idea. 

The man’s features, although striking, were roughened, like he’d been to war and back, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep by toasty fire. Yet you stand undeterred and patiently in front of the man, waiting for him to answer. You were positive you could find him something to read in your store, it was your job after all.

“Just escaping the rain for some time, I’ll be leaving once it slows,” is all he says, voice deep and certain.

You only hum, continuing in his direction, stopping in front of the window. You stand side-by-side, watching the pouring rain for some seconds before whispering, “Wow, it’s really coming down out there.” You turn to the man, placing your hands on your hips, “Sure I can’t offer you something to read? We’ve got books for all ages, I’m sure I can find you something,” you suggest.

Normally, San would have a hard time believing you, and he thinks part of him definitely does. With the sheer lack of structure surrounding the two of you in the store, he doesn’t think it’s possible to find anything. But when your eyes sparkle even in the dim lights of the store, he only agrees, finding the smile on your face widening.

With a skip in your step, you begin weaving through the familiar aisles. Unsure of himself, San decided to follow you, watching as your eyes scan the titles on the shelves. 

Now that he’s looking closely at the actual books in your store, he sees that many of them don’t look too old or rare. In fact, some of them look like they’re straight from the manufacturing press. His fingertips trace the spine of a book that’s yet to be broken into, and the confusion on his face must be obvious, prompting you to speak up.

“The sign’s a bit misleading, I know. We’ve actually got more new books than we do old and rare, but I’ve grown attached to the old thing. Can’t find it in myself to replace it,” you say with a pensive sigh. Your eyes continue to rake along the stuffed shelves, searching for something particular. 

As the man follows a respectful distance behind you, you sneak in a couple of hopefully discrete glances. His form was broad and stiff, face hardened with a stoic expression. Despite it, you could feel some judgment radiating off of him. Deciding to look past it, you notice his dark attire. 

If it wasn’t for his face, he could’ve easily blended into the walls of the store. A jet black turtleneck matched with jet black trousers. A silver belt buckle resting exactly at the center of his waist. A dark gray woolen coat that seemed just a little too tight around his shoulders. Hair neat, each strand pushed out of his face. It told you everything and nothing at the same time. 

“What do you usually like to read…” you trail off, hoping at least a name would get you somewhere. 

“San,” he fills in. 

“San,” you say, pondering the name, continuing to walk down the busy aisles.  

But San lags behind. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his name said so sweetly before. Sure, his own name has been yelled at him many times before by his own father, his sisters, his academy teachers, and even the chief, but it’s never been said in a way that’s brought warmth to him. He clears his throat to rid himself of the feeling, catching up to you as you repeat, “What genres do you read most often?”

San’s steps falter again. The last time San had opened a book was during his finals at the academy, and even that had been a textbook. After he’d gotten his job at the precinct, the only reading he’d done had been from case files. What genre would those even qualify as? “Nonfiction,” he settles on before changing his mind, “True crime… mystery?” He grimaces at his diffident response, but even with the little he’d given you, your expression only brightens. 

With this knowledge, you speed through the aisles, San obediently keeping up behind you. You finally stop in front of a shelf that’s lined with thin books that look smaller than the size of San’s hands, and with a pointed finger, you graze the titles. When you spot the book you’re searching for, you pull it out with a gasp. 

“This is a good one,” you tell him, facing the cover towards him. Lost Horizon. The paperback book was old, probably printed some 50 years ago, and the cover donned a painted illustration of a peculiar scene. In the center of a series of jagged, snow-capped mountains was a patch of green. Four tiny men were leading another four tiny men to the warm refuge, navigating through the harsh alpine environment in clothing from the early 1900s. Despite its age, the book was well taken care of, void of discoloration and bent pages. 

“It’s a book about Hugh Conway, who’s a veteran. His plane crashes in the Himalayas, and he and his men take refuge in the valley of Blue Moon in a place called Shangri-La. It’s hard to establish a utopia when you’ve only got less than 200 pages to tell your story, but Hilton’s such a good writer that he does flawlessly. So, this place, Shangri-La, has no war, no crimes, and people don’t age, and oh, did you know this was the first ever mass-market produced paperback in history?”

Your face is animatedly excited, telling San more facts about the author or the premise or the paperback industry, and you know you’re ranting, far too excited about a novel that was published nearly 100 years ago. But this is the first customer, who also just happened to be ruggedly handsome and probably around your age, you’ve had in the store for the longest time. 

You try to wrap up quickly, deciding to only tell San half of the story about how President Roosevelt used the book to mislead journalists during the second World War, saying, “Anyways, Hilton’s a writer that wants his readers to feel good, and I— I just… I’m sorry if it isn’t my place to say this, but I feel like you could use some of that,” you admit, the decibels of your voice dropping significantly in the hopes that San doesn’t get offended and storm out of your store. 

But the shyly said words have the tension in San’s shoulder releasing, because yeah, he could use some of that. So mustering a friendly, albeit tight-lipped smile, he takes the book, which did in fact prove to be smaller than San’s hands, from your own, saying only a polite, “Thank you.”

Your smile returns, and you look away from him, eyeing the interior of your store. “You’re welcome to sit and read here until the rain slows down,” you tell him, pointing at the brown leather couch where the gray cat lay, still sleeping. Padding across the floor, you turn on a lamp, which sat precariously on top of a long pile of I-Spy books next to the couch. “You could give Violet some much needed company,” you say with a laugh, gently petting between the cat’s ears. 

Maybe this is what the chief was talking about. Maybe it wasn’t. 

But San sits down on the couch carefully anyways, so as to not disturb the sleeping Violet besides him. He watches more and more of your cream skirt drag along the floor as you walk away to tend to the stack of the books San’s groceries had knocked over. He turns his attention to the snow-capped mountains on the cover of the book, and when the incredibly unfamiliar sensation of relaxation takes over his form, he leans his back into the couch and turns the cover and begins reading.

Over your shoulder, you watch San get comfortable on your couch, flipping open the cover of Lost Horizon. You breathe out a relieved sigh, fixing the stack of knocked over books. It was never easy to gauge the interests of new customers, and with so many being driven away by the wholesalers, you’d grown rusty at it with many of your repeat customers being elderly women opinionated enough to know what they want to read.

But as the time ticks by and rain continues to pour, you watch San still engrossed in the story of Hugh Conway. You knew the book you’d picked out didn’t quite fit into any of the genres he’d mentioned to you, but you were taking a shot in the dark and luckily for you, it had landed squarely within San’s interests. 

A comfortable ambience takes over the bookstore, and you tend to its needs, straightening piles of books and dusting the ebony shelves. You head upstairs to your kitchen to package the now cooled chocolate cookies, even putting a new batch in the oven. Maybe I should offer some to San. 

Apprehensively, you bring a half a dozen packaged cookies down, sneaking glances at San. His stiff shoulders looked much more relaxed, thumbing through the tiny book page by page. You decide not to break his focus, placing the cookie under the register and continue on with your work, occasionally watching him slowly read a fourth of the way through the book, then halfway through while you complete your tasks. His presence in the store is comforting. and you find yourself not even caring if he makes a purchase or not. 

In San’s periphery, you run up and down the staircase and weave through the shelves endlessly, but he strictly focuses his attention on Hugh Conway’s adventure. It isn’t until Violet wakes up and begins to lick San’s fingertips that he’s brought out of the book. Turning his head in search of your figure, he sees you giving an older lady, who San hadn’t even noticed come in, some change back at the register, wishing her a good night to stay warm in the cooling weather. 

The sky outside has turned dark, welcoming the night, and the rain has also long since stopped. San clears his throat, sitting up straighter on the couch, closing the book shut. His bagful of groceries crinkles at his movement, and he realizes that his milk and greens have no doubt gone bad in the hours they’ve been sitting in the warm bookstore. 

Collecting all of his belongings, which weren’t many to begin with, he stands, joining you at the register. 

Looking up from your ledger notebook, your eyes widen in surprise. “Hey, how’s the book?”

“Good, I’m not quite finished yet, but I really should get going,” he raises his bag of groceries in his hand, hoping you’d understand. “But I’d like to purchase it,” he says, placing the book on the counter and fishing his wallet out of his coat. 

“Yeah, of course.” You scan the book, eyes catch the grocery receipt he’s tucked in it to mark his spot. You repeat his total to him, watching as he thumbs through the bills from his wallet. You hand him his change, and he lingers for a moment, as if he’s got something to say. Ultimately, San sends you another tight-lipped smile, securing Lost Horizon in his coat pocket and turning towards the door. 

You bite your lip, grabbing the package of cookies you’d hidden under the register. Just before he pushes the door open, you stop him. “Wait!” 

Hurriedly, you walk towards him, all but shoving the package of cookies in his hands. “As a thank you,” you say, quickly clarifying, “For coming into the store today. I hope you enjoy the rest of the book.” 

Had you given the older lady cookies? San hadn’t paid attention, but he grips the package tight in his hands. “Thank you, too…” he waits, as you answer with your name. He repeats it back, hoping it was as gentle and warm as when you had said his some hours ago. “For the book and for the cookies.”

*****

That night, San reads through the remaining pages of Lost Horizon in his silent apartment, snacking on your chocolate chip cookies alongside a glass of the milk that had surprisingly not gone bad. He lays awake, thinking about the book, about the characters, about the settings, and that night when he falls asleep, he dreams himself among them in the lamasery. 

For some hours that day, you’d helped San drift his mind away from the stuffy precinct and his inconsiderate coworkers. Maybe this is what the Chief was talking about. Maybe not. But when San wakes up the following morning, he decides to take another walk.

There’s no rain, but the day is significantly colder than the day before, biting at San’s exposed skin. It may not have been the most ideal temperature for taking a walk, but San does nonetheless, finding himself once again on Main Street, where yesterday’s crowd of people is nowhere to be found on today’s Monday morning.

Once again, he decides to turn down Abbey Avenue, and once again, he finds himself standing under your Old & Rare signage. Peering through the window, you’re nowhere to be seen, well at least as far as San is able to see through the old piled and stacked books. There’s no open hours posted on the door or posted anywhere online, and San knows better to try the door, so he lingers on the street that’s quiet in the hours before noon.

Turning around, he sees that some shops are open, so he visits the mattress store, and even with no intention of replacing his current bedding, still walks out with multiple cubed samples of memory foams and mini pillows. He also stops in one of the many salons as well, purchasing pomade and gel. He strolls through the many other shops, many of which don’t have much to offer San, but it’s a nice change to talk to people who aren’t filing complaints or opening cases. 

Finally, just minutes before noon, he walks up to the bookstore again. He looks through the window again, and when he spots you writing in your ledger notebook, he knocks on the door. 

The noise startles you, and you’re temporarily confused before you see San from yesterday standing at the door. 

Truthfully, you were never expecting to see him ever again. This was a big city, and he’d only stumbled into Abbey Avenue and your store by accident. Also you were certain that after accidentally, although well-intentionally, insulting him to his face and then offhandedly apologizing by giving him some cookies, he would have most definitely pegged you as a crazy lady and vowed to never wander down this area again or into your store.

Today, you’d woken up feeling gloomy knowing that San would never end up in Abbey Avenue again, and to shake away the sadness, you’d lay in bed for much longer than usual and when you finally did wake, you’d gone straight to your kitchen to put bake a loaf of spiced gingerbread, before finally heading downstairs to open up the store. 

But seeing San looking through the window with shopping bags in hand, you’re pleasantly surprised, flustered even. With an exasperated smile, you wave, motioning for him to come inside. 

“Hi!” You chirp, and you feel like you’re out of breath. You’re able to see San’s face more clearly in the midday light, noting the blush that runs across his cheeks. He’s dressed similarly to yesterday in his neutrals and darks, looking more like the owner of your bookstore more than you, who’s also dressed similarly to yesterday in your creams and pastels. 

“Hello,” is all San is able to say, not quite sure what he’s doing here as he fiddles with the strings of shopping bags. He was able to excuse his reason for coming yesterday on the torrential weather, but today, although the sky was littered with flat clouds, not a single drop of rain was expected to fall. 

He mulls the substance of each conversation over in his head, unable to actually say anything at all. Should he thank you for the delectable cookies? Should he ask you about your hours of operation? Should he talk about the ending of the book and what happens to Conway? God, the book was amazing.

Thankfully for him, you’re happy to lead the conversation, asking, “I’m taking it you finished Lost Horizon?”

Eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide, he looks at you with shock. “Yes, I di— how did you know?”

“You learn to notice the look after working at a bookstore for so long,” you tease with a shrug. “So, how’d you like it?” you ask, leaning your hip against the register. 

San grips the handles of his shopping bags in his hand, feeling the burn of their plastic on his ungloved hands. The book was incredible. The location, the philosophy splendid. San isn’t sure why he hadn’t picked up reading after so many rough days at the precinct. He’s grateful you didn’t give him a book about a gruesome murder or mystery. Just as you had said yesterday, Hilton’s writing had made him feel good, hopeful even. But these emotions were too much for him to put into cohesive words, so he pondered for a moment, somehow sure you’d give him the time to think about without judgement. 

And you do. While he collects his thoughts, you unabashedly take the time to stare at San. His reddened fingers clung onto a bag from Lou’s Mattress Shoppe, the perfectly cubed samples of memory foam jutting out from the plastic bag, and the other from Harry’s Hair Boutique, its brown bag concealing the tubbed products inside. 

Today, he was wearing a gray, long-sleeved shirt who’s long sleeves were proving to be too long, reaching beyond his wrist to cover his knuckles under his coat. The coat was the same one he’d worn yesterday, but in the light, you’re able to see some of the fibers from the woolen jacket had rubbed off onto his dark gray shirt and his collar. You were tempted to reach across the register and brush them off yourself, before you’re shaking the unprofessional thought away when San finally speaks.

“It was… brilliant,” he pauses to look at you. You’ve got a gentle smile on your face, slightly flushed as if you’ve been outside in the frigid weather. “Can you recommend something else for me?”

“Would you like to see something in particular?”

“Surprise me,” he finds himself saying.

The words sound like music to your ears, and grinning widely, you nod. The joy on your face quickly morphs into inquisitiveness as you navigate the aisles in search for another book San would enjoy. 

It’s equally thrilling and daunting to be in charge of someone’s next literary adventure. People like San were never in your store, and elderly ladies that would frequent would never ask you for your recommendations. Once in a while, some would trickle in from Main Street, haphazardly ending up in your corner of Abbey Avenue, come in for a quick see-through, maybe take a picture or two of the interior, and walk out only to never come again. 

So treating this as your utmost priority, you scan through the titles you’ve amassed with a laser-focus. You couldn’t give him something like Lost Horizon again, so you flit past the classics section. He seemed relaxed yesterday and you wanted him to be relaxed today, too, so with that in mind, you ignore the anxiety-inducing murder-mysteries. You come to a stop at the contemporary section.

These books were not for everyone, yet you found yourself lingering. Turning into the aisle, you try to remember the title of a book you’d read quite some time ago, eyebrows furrowed in series intent, hoping you don’t skim by the title by accident. When you reach a thin book with the gold-plated title, you beam with excitement. 

The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards by Kristopher Jansma. You’d read it for the first time during your first year in college, cozied up in your lofted bed with a mug of warm tea while a party ensued on both the floors above and below you. It was a good companion on that chilly night, but you were uneasy about what it would be for San. As a book about books and writing, it definitely wasn’t for everybody. But the prose was beautiful and story engaging, so shaking away the self-conscious feeling, you confidently hold the book out to him. 

“I have a feeling you’d like this one,” you tell him, watching as he flips the book in his hands. 

This book was definitely younger than Lost Horizon, and with the rigid, hardbound covers, the pages inside were far more well-protected than the pocketbook he’d purchased yesterday. He smiles as he checks the publication date and reads through the contents page, and like yesterday, it’s tight-lipped. 

But with the little more light that’s brightening the store, you can make out the faintest dimples in his cheeks. Suddenly, the ruggedness, the tiredness, the worn image you had of him fades away. He looks incredibly cute, like a big teddy bear wearing a disguise, and at the thought, you giggle lightly. 

San looks up at you in surprise, your laughter flowing like a forgotten melody in his head. He smiles wider, mostly out of confusion, but also to mimic you. You wave your own laughter away, calming yourself before clarifying, “I’m sorry, I just—”

There’s a shrill ringing of a timer coming from upstairs. Your spiced gingerbread loaf! 

There’s a panic in your eyes. “Oh, I’ve got to get that!” you say, before leaving San in the aisle as you dash towards your wire staircase. Making your way up, you continue, all but yelling, “You can join Violet and make yourself comfortable. And oh, make sure you read the Author’s Note, it’s actually a part of the story in this book!” 

And suddenly, San’s standing alone in the middle of the quiet bookstore. He can hear your footsteps above him scuffling across the floor to turn off your timer, as he flips the book in his hands again. San actually wasn’t planning on staying to read today, but now, he supposes, he probably could spare some time. 

He walks over the couch, where Violet is still lying atop of her fluffy cushion, and turns on the I-Spy lamp himself. He settles into the well worn leather, giving the sleepy Violet a timid pet. She doesn’t move away, in fact, nuzzling into San’s touch. 

Upstairs, you remove your steaming loaf from the oven with a satisfied smile. The loaf has risen perfectly symmetrical, the heavenly smell permeating throughout your home. Without giving it much time to cool properly, you begin to cut into the loaf, slicing through the hot bread. You plate a couple of slices on a plate, hurrying downstairs to give some to San. 

The cookies you’d made yesterday had partly been to serve as an apology for your comment yesterday, but it had been nice to share your baking with someone again. 

This bookstore had been your mother’s, and when she’d passed some time ago, the store had remained shut for the years immediately following. You’d spent those years deflecting the grief, busying yourself with finishing school, starting work at the bakery uptown, and staying as far away from Abbey Avenue as you possibly could. 

You were an exemplary employee, always early, first to offer to stay late, and eager to cover shifts for the other employees, but the work was only delaying the inevitable. You let the grief build up, neglecting the painful truth that your mother was gone for years, but after a particularly bad day, you’d stumbled into Abbey Avenue drunk, crying your heart out at the doors of the closed bookstore. 

The next morning, you rummaged through your apartment for the keys to the bookstore, opening its doors for the first time in nearly 3 years. 

You were searching for something you think, but you weren’t quite sure what it was. Maybe you were hoping your mother would walk down the staircase, adorned in her long skirts with a book always in hand, asking why you hadn’t come to visit in so long.

You had ignored the state of the bookstore altogether, climbing up the rickety wire staircase into the modest apartment upstairs. 

You took your time, sorting through every single piece of your mother’s belongings, smiling at the bittersweet memories framed in the pictures beside her bed and her personal collection of books with her notes still scribbled in the margins that she read to you from when you were little. You let yourself feel her loss, finally able to accept her absence in your life.

After wiping away your tears, you decided to stop running away and stay here to clean up the store and open its doors to the public again.

That first day, you hadn't even known where to start, simply being able to walk in the store had become an obstacle. There were no clean pathways, and the abandoned store had collected a thick layer of dust over every single open surface. It’s no secret to the regulars that your mother was a commercial hoarder, the old and new inventory all combined to form a stack of mismatched genres and various types of prints. It had been a difficult time, and it still was. 

But you persisted, organizing and cleaning and dusting, repeating the process over and over and over again until you could finally make out the ebony hardwood floors. You had cleared away the antique and expensive books further back in the store and placed the newer books upfront. 

But you couldn’t stay away from baking too long, and to relax from the hours and hours of organizing, you needed to destress in the kitchen with familiar ingredients and smells. Using a combination of the skills you’d picked up from the uptown bakery and your mother’s old recipe books, you started whipping up fresh mini batches of cookies everyday. Then you started to make more complicated recipes, including croissants, brownies, and pastries. 

You wanted to start selling your food in the bookstore as well, thinking it would up the ambience, the smell of bread drawing in customers away from the wholesalers, but you’d sworn to yourself you would organize the mess downstairs completely before you did. And that had been easier said than done. It had been nearly a year, and you only seemed to have made a measly dent in the heavy stock of books. 

Until then, you suppose treating one cute customer for free would do no harm.

Before San’s able to get too far into the book, you skip down the stairs with some slices of your freshly finished spiced gingerbread loaf. 

“Here,” you hand him the plate. “Something to accompany your reading.”

You seemed too nice. And this certainly wasn’t a good business technique; you surely had to be operating on a loss with the amount of treats you’d given him. San would’ve brought this up, even denied your plate of amazing smelling bread, but with the hopeful expression gracing your face, he can’t seem to find any words to say besides a low thanks that he’s not even sure you could hear. 

This book was very different from yesterday. San didn’t even know the main character’s name, but he kept following his story all the way from high school to college to adulthood, from the heat of the Grand Canyon to the freezing cabin in the Arctic circle to the rolling hill stations in the tropics of India. 

In the hours that follow, several customers come and go, but San pays them no mind, reading quietly and snacking on your bread. You watch him read, almost as peacefully as yesterday, with even his large frame swallowed up by your leather couch. 

By happenstance, when he does look up, the sun has set yet again, and the store is empty. He spots you across from him, some aisles down, trying to dust the top of the bookshelves, standing precariously on the tips of your toes yet still unable to reach. He gives Violet a quick scratch before shutting his book and standing to help you. 

“Here, I can help you,” he says, voice gruff from hours of unuse. Startled at his sudden appearance behind you, you’re only able to send him a grateful smile while handing him the duster. 

He takes it wordlessly, throwing you his familiar tight-lipped smile, dimples making a pleasant reappearance. He reaches above you, getting a much cleaner swipe with his height compared to your aimlessly poke around in the hopes to clean something method. 

As he’s cleaning, his sweater rises up, revealing his toned stomach. The sight has you shamelessly staring, wanting to reach out and trace the defined muscles under his skin. 

Suddenly, you hear rampant yelling from across the street. One of the many shady loaning businesses doors fly open, and several angry people walk out. Many of them are cursing out the people inside, while others busy themselves in knocking over the trash cans placed in front of the establishment. 

It’s rowdy for several minutes, and much of the angered crowd walks past your bookstore, still muttering and spewing derogatory phrases back towards the loaning business. Through your window, some of the angered faces even look directly at you, yelling iterations of What, YOU gonna fuck me over, too? 

Instinctively, San rounds your body, blocking the mob’s crowd from you. They soon disappear, quickly turning down the street onto the main roads of the city. 

From behind San’s shoulder, you watch the owner of the loaning business step outside, looking both ways, making absolutely sure that the angered mob has gone while he picks up the remnants of the trash and mess they’ve left behind. 

This would’ve been one of those better times to have cameras handy. There’s no telling what the mass of anger would’ve done to your store had they just been a tad bit more angry. 

But more anger is probably something you don’t want to see, so San reconsiders his words and clears his throat, asking, “I apologize if this is intrusive, but have you considered getting cameras?”

You sigh, watching the loaning business across the street shut their blinds and flip their sign to read CLOSED. “Yeah, I have. It’s just that I haven’t really gotten troublesome customers like that. Everyone that comes in is always typically nice, so it’s never at the top of my priorities.” You turn your back to the window, feeling the stitching underneath your sweater. “And I know I should, what with living right upstairs and all, but I don’t know, I’ve just never gotten around to it.”

“Hmm,” San only hums.   

*****

When you spot him the next day, he waits nervously for you outside the door again, knocking to alert you of his presence, shy and head turned down towards a crumpled brown paper bag in his hands. 

As you move to greet him, he all but shoves the bag into your hands. “I had some extra laying around and thought they’d be of more use to you than rotting away in my garage,” he says, almost defensively. Inside the brown bag, there are 3 wireless security cameras. 

As you rummage through the bag, San desperately hopes you can’t tell that the cameras are newly purchased after all the time he’d spent tirelessly working to scrape off the impossible sticker residue from the boxes. 

But you’re simply too elated. Cameras had been on your to-do list, falling just under cleaning up the inventory, but under just the sheer amount of inventory you had to get through, they’d become a forgotten priority, even after the incident yesterday. 

The notion has you embarrassingly on the verge of tears, and in swift steps, you’re rounding the counter and wrapping your arms around San’s neck in an overwhelmed hug. It has San stumbling backwards before he catches himself. 

As soon as you’re able to breathe in his cologne, you suddenly sober and realize the position you’re in, immediately loosening your hold around his neck. Clearing your throat, you move back around the counter and laser your focus on the cords and instructions associated with the cameras. 

San can feel the blush settle across his face, and he bites his lip, tugging at the skin. He wished he’d hugged you back, but the moment has passed too quickly. He flicks his eyes to you. 

You’re in deep concentration, observing the labels and instructions, your furrowed eyebrows too obvious in exposing your utter confusion. “I can help you set them up,” he offers, scratching the hair at the nape of his neck.

A light drizzle begins to paint your windows when you happily take him up on the offer. He sets up one camera to face the front of the store and register, promising to set up the last one as soon as the rain stops, and in return, you place a copy of Fahrenheit 451 alongside a plate of teddy bear-shaped vanilla oatmeal cookies on your leather couch for him. 

The next day, the rain has yet to let up, but he spots parts of a bookshelf you’ve abandoned in an obscure corner of the store and offers to build it for you, for which you repay him with The Life of Pi and a slice of red velvet cake. 

“I can help you assemble that,” he had said. 

The rain is unceasing, so the day after that, he fixes up the jammed register, for which you repay him with Pachinko and a couple of warm butter croissants. 

“I can help unjam it,” he had said.

Pachinko was longer, it’s story heavier and more expansive than the other books you’d recommended him, and you were sure you wouldn’t be seeing him the next day. 

But he surprises you, knocking on your door as you’re adorning your large Christmas tree with your collection of ornaments, ready to talk about Sunja’s life and Hansu’s decisions in great depth with you. 

“I can help you decorate the tree while we talk,” he had said.

That day, he sits on the floor near the tree with a stack of childrens’ books, a combination of both his and your favorites. 

The next day, he aids you in completing the science fiction section, leaving each and every book on the shelf catalogued and inventoried, and you recommend to him a book of H.G. Wells’ short stories and some muffins. 

“I can help you catalogue those books,” he had said. 

The rain has yet to stop even the day after, San spends the better part of the afternoon assembling Violet’s new cat tower in a quiet corner near the couch. The cat watches him from her perch on the back of the sofa, her tail flicking lazily as if supervising his every move.

“I can help you build that,” he had said. 

Once he tightens the last screw, he steps back to admire his work. Violet wastes no time, leaping gracefully onto the lowest level and sniffing curiously at the new structure. Within moments, she’s sprawled on the top platform, her paws tucked neatly under her chest as she surveys the room like a queen on her throne.

You approach San, holding out a book. “Here’s the first of The Boxcar Children series,” you say with a smile. “Figured you might like something lighthearted after your last read.”

San takes the book, glancing at the cover—a simple illustration of four children standing in front of an old boxcar. He flips it over, reading the back blurb as you settle beside him on the couch, your gaze drifting to Violet.

“You know,” you begin, your voice soft, “Violet’s actually named after one of the siblings in that book.”

San raises a brow, glancing between you and the cat, who is now grooming herself atop the tower. “Really?”

You nod, leaning back slightly. “Yeah. Back when I worked at the bakery uptown, I used to feed the strays that hung around the alley behind the shop. There were always four of them. They sort of reminded me of the Boxcar Children, you know, sticking together, looking out for one another. But there was one cat who was always apprehensive. She was shy, always waiting to eat until I’d walked away. She never came close, never let me touch her, not even once. For the longest time, I thought she didn’t trust me at all.”

San had listened intently, his attention fixed on you. “And yet, she’s here now,” he said, his tone low.

“She’s the only one who followed me when I left,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “The others stayed behind, but Violet… I don’t know. Maybe she saw something in me that the others didn’t.”

San tilts his head, his eyes softening. “Sounds like she trusted you more than you thought.”

You laugh lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe. I guess I saw a little of myself in her, too. I was a lot like Violet growing up—quiet, keeping to myself, waiting in the background until everyone else had moved on. I think I still am in some ways.” You pause, your cheeks warming slightly. “And, well, we couldn’t have the same name, so… Violet it was.”

Your story trails off with a shrug, and you avoid San’s gaze, feeling suddenly self-conscious. It wasn’t a story you shared often, mostly because it felt silly—meaningless, even. Yet somehow with San, the words had come easily, almost as if the rainy day had coaxed them out of you.

But despite it, out of all the stories you’ve recommended to San so far, he thinks this one is his favorite. 

*****

The next day, with nothing left to build or fix and rain still pouring, you’ve got a book picked out for him before he even comes knocking at the store’s doors. To accompany it, you’d readied a dish of cinnamon rolls that were cooling upstairs. “You look like you would appreciate this,” you say, handing him an untouched copy of Kristopher Jansma’s newest book. 

He scratches his head, suddenly shy. “Actually, I was hoping to read some older stuff? Like stuff from the past?”

Your eyes widen in surprise then very quickly in excitement, and before he knows it, you’ve grabbed the sleeve of his coat jacket and are pulling him towards the back of the store. 

You’re able to dodge the misaligned shelves that jut forward out of practice, but San bumps into everything, sending books tumbling to the floor as his wide shoulders collide with thuds against the wooden shelves. He tries to stop, wanting to pick up the mess he’s leaving in his wake, but you only persist, telling him, “It’s okay, I’ll pick them later. Come on!”

You trudge further and further into the store, the atmosphere cooling even more. Finally, you pull San behind a rather tall bookshelf that he has a bit of a hard time getting through. Nonetheless, he squeezes in and follows you into a makeshift room. Its walls are filled to the brim with books, but unlike the others in the store, these are much larger. 

“This is my special collection,” you tell him, leaning against the mahogany table. “I’ve got archived newspapers, magazines, and journals from all over the city here. Most of these are from libraries in or around the city that have shut down, but I’ve bought a couple of them, too. Oh! Like this one!” You lean forward and grab a book titled “African Jungle Animals”. “This was published in 1937, but it’s got all sorts of information about species classification that’s incorrect by today’s standards, but it’s so easy to get lost in it. Oh!”

You pull out another book, and San listens diligently. Now that he’s not focused on the probable bruising that’s developing on his shoulders, he realizes how close you are. You were so beautiful, and even in the dull light of lamps, your eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm as you grabbed yet another book to show San. 

The realization has his breath catching in his throat. He can smell your sweet perfume and count each of your lashes, and he stills, watching in sheer awe. 

“I really want to get all of these things organized and scanned to put online… I just think there’s someone out there that’s interested in, oh, I don’t know,” you grab a newspaper from the shelf, “recipes from the The Great Depression.”

The bell at the door rings, announcing the arrival of another customer, and you stand at its sound, stacking the pile of books in your hand on the table. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” you say, slinking out of the intimate room. 

San watches you rush towards the customer, and when he can hear your cheery “Hello!”, he turns his attention back to the little room. He notices another lamp in the corner and switches it on, brightening the space a little.

The common disarray that he’d become familiar with at the front of the store welcomed him just as loudly here. He decides to place the stack of books you’d left on the table away in the same general area you’d pulled them out of, and then, with the cleared desk, he begins to thumb through your special collection. There’s a youthful part of him that feels giddy knowing that you’ve welcomed him into your private collection.

San suppresses the feeling, opting to flip through a copy of Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha you’ve left on the desk. He reads through the first couple of pages, pocketing it to take him with him.

Under the book were the brittle pages of a 1950s newspaper that San decided to skim, his fingers careful not to tear the delicate material. The faint smell of aged paper fills the air, grounding him in a moment that feels oddly intimate. As he scans the faded headlines, he finds himself captivated by the glimpse into another time. A world that feels distant and yet eerily familiar. 

The atmosphere in the room is quiet but not silent; faint noises from the store’s main area drift in. The creak of floorboards, your cheerful laugh as you chat with a customer. He exhales slowly, letting himself sink into the calm that this little corner of the store offers. 

It’s then that he spots it: a stack of yellowed newspapers bound together with twine, pushed into the corner of a low shelf. The date on the top page catches his eye, and he pulls it free with deliberate care. As he begins to read, his chest tightens. 

The headline doesn’t scream, but it whispers loudly enough: a failed case, mishandled evidence, and the name of a familiar precinct. He reads further, his heart sinking as the pieces fall into place. This was the case. The one that had haunted the chief for decades, the one that was never spoken of but always loomed in the background of every cautionary warning the chief had ever given him. 

The details are vague, the article careful not to name names, but the tone is damning. The sense of failure bleeds through the words, painting a picture of a situation that spiraled out of control. San sets the paper down, his hands tightening into fists on the edge of the desk. 

He can see it clearly now: the frustration, the mounting pressure, and the breaking point the chief must have reached. It’s too familiar. San had walked dangerously close to that same line himself, and the realization shakes him to his core. 

The sound of your voice filters into the room again, and he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. This was supposed to be a refuge, a break from the chaos of his thoughts. But now, all he can feel is the weight of his own choices pressing down on him, mirroring the failures of someone he’d once idolized.

San exhales sharply, trying to shake off the tightening grip in his chest. He pushes the newspaper aside, its weight feeling heavier than it should, and picks up another, hoping for something, anything, to pull him away from the spiraling thoughts that have begun to consume him.

He reads aimlessly, flipping through pages of advertisements for long-defunct businesses, stories of local events, and the occasional human-interest piece. The words blur together, their meanings losing shape as his mind drifts back to the headline.

The familiar creak of the floorboards and the soft hum of your voice in the distance remind him of where he is. He forces himself to focus on the present, to absorb the comfort of this quiet corner. He leans back in the chair, letting the low light of the lamp and the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof lull him.

Somewhere between the yellowed pages and the warmth of the room, his eyes grow heavy. He doesn’t notice at first, his grip on the latest newspaper loosening as his body succumbs to the exhaustion he’s carried for weeks.

When closing time comes and passes, you don’t worry about San. You assume he’s lost track of time, so you busy yourself with the usual tasks—dusting shelves, straightening displays, and locking the front door against the persistent rain. The warmth of the bookstore wraps around you like a cocoon, and for a while, it’s enough to stave off concern.

It’s only when the clock inches closer to midnight that unease begins to creep in. You haven’t seen or heard San for hours, and the faint hum of the rain outside feels louder in the growing stillness. Finally, you decide to check on him, your footsteps quiet as you make your way to your private collection.

As you approach, you hear the faint sound of light snores, and your worry eases. Squeezing into the room, you find San slumped over the desk, fast asleep. His head rests awkwardly on his arm, his face half-buried in the sleeve of his turtleneck. A loose strand of hair has fallen from his normally neat style, and Violet, ever the opportunist, has curled up comfortably in his lap, purring softly.

You linger, unwilling to wake him just yet. In the dim light, you take in the quiet details you hadn’t allowed yourself to notice before: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep, the way his long fingers are splayed over the newspaper he’d left open. But as you watch, his expression begins to change.

The furrow in his brow deepens, and his fingers clenched into fists, the paper crumpling beneath them. He twitches, his breath coming in sharp, uneven huffs. Violet stirs, her ears flicking in annoyance before she hops off his lap, padding to the corner of the room. You hesitate, unsure of what to do, but the sight of his tightening features and restless movements pushes you forward.

Reaching out, you press your thumb gently to the crease in his forehead, smoothing it out with a light, steady touch. You hope your hand feels warm against his skin, soothing enough to pull him from whatever bad dream has its hold on him. For a moment, his expression softens, and you think it’s working.

But then San stirs, his hand shooting up to catch yours before you can pull away. His grip is firm but not harsh, his eyes blinking open, hazy and unfocused as he takes in his surroundings. The surprise on his face sharpens quickly into clarity, and you stand frozen, your heart racing.

“You were having a bad dream,” you blurt out, the words tumbling over each other. “I was just trying to help.”

The realization dawns on him, and he releases your hand, smoothing his palms over his pants as though trying to ground himself. His embarrassment is palpable, but you’re rooted in place, watching as he gathers himself. 

There’s a shift in his demeanor, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but it’s there. It seems as if the walls that had finally been knocked over had been built right back up in a matter of hours. 

Pushing aside the wrenching feeling, you clear your throat. “I’ve made cinnamon rolls,” you offer, your voice quieter now. “If you want some...” You trail off, hoping to diffuse the awkwardness.

San clears his throat as well, finally looking up at you. His voice is low and gruff from sleep as he says, “Yeah, that sounds great. Could I use your restroom first?”

You nod quickly, stepping aside to make room for him to exit. “Yeah, of course. It’s upstairs.”

You lead him up the spiral wire staircase, glancing back to see him rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his movements slow and deliberate. When the bathroom door closes behind him, you exhale heavily, pressing a hand to the arm he’d gripped moments ago.

His touch had been brief, but it lingered, searing into your skin with a quiet intensity that left you flustered.

Shaking the thought away, you turn back to the kitchen and begin packaging some cinnamon rolls in a brown paper bag. The act steadies you, the familiar motions bringing a small sense of calm. 

From inside the bathroom, you can hear the rush of water from your faucet. It runs for several seconds before it's turned off. Silence follows after, as you wait outside for San to come out. 

When an odd number of beats have passed, you step in front of the door, raising your hand to knock, uncertain if you should offer any help. Your hand hovers in the air, the hesitation thick in your chest. You take a shaky breath, steeling yourself to follow through. But before your knuckles can connect with the wood, the door swings open.

San stands inches away, his broad frame filling the doorway, his expression as startled as your own. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The dim light from the room behind him casts his face in shadows, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. The collar of his turtleneck is wet, as is his hair, and the tension in his shoulders speaks of a man caught somewhere between exhaustion and vigilance.

You blink, realizing how close you are, the air between you charged and thin. “I… I was just going to see if you needed anything,” you manage, your voice quieter than intended.

San’s gaze flickers to yours, his dark eyes searching your face for a beat too long before you step back, giving him space to exit. “I’m fine,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction. He clears his throat.

The room feels warmer now, though the silence is anything but comforting. San stands a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his posture rigid despite the quiet setting. “The rain’s finally stopped. I could put that last camera up,” he says, turning away from you. One look out the window tells you that it in fact has not stopped, turning instead into snow. But San walks toward the staircase, deciding not to turn around.  

“That’s okay. It’s late anyways, you can do it tomorrow,” you say, as he continues down the stairs. “You should just stay the night.”

Now that has him stopping. 

You take the opportunity to get in front of him, braving him directly in his eyes. “The weather’s getting pretty bad, I mean. And it’s the least I can do, you know, with all the stuff you’ve helped me with around here…” your confidence tapers off at San’s silence.

For a moment, San doesn’t move, caught between the weight of your words and the storm raging inside him. His lips press together, a faint tremor betraying the steadiness he’s trying so hard to maintain. You can see it all—confusion, longing, fear—all warring for dominance in his dark eyes. His gaze flickers to yours, then away, as if the intensity of your sincerity is too much to bear. The silence between you stretches thin, heavy with everything unspoken, until he finally inhales sharply, the sound breaking the tension like a fragile thread snapping under pressure. 

His hand twitches at his side, like he’s debating whether to reach for you or push you away, but ultimately, he takes a step back, distancing himself from the decision he doesn’t want to make, and continues towards the door. The bell above the door jingles sharply as he pushes it open, the cold air rushing in to meet the warmth of the store. 

You stand frozen for a moment, watching as the snow swirls around him, clinging to his dark coat and dampening his neat hair. He doesn’t look back, his shoulders hunched against the biting wind, but you can see the tension in every step he takes. 

Your chest tightens, and before you even realize it, you’re moving. Grabbing the umbrella from its place by the counter, you rush to the door and step into the frame, your voice soft but firm as you call after him. “San, wait—take this.” You hold the umbrella out toward him, your hand trembling in the cold, hoping he’ll take it, hoping he’ll stop.

San turns around, desperately hoping that in the blur of the rain you can’t see how much he wants to walk back into the bookstore and kiss you. He brings his hands up to the forehead, shielding his eyes from the numbing downpour. 

You want him to come back inside, to protect him from the freezing rain, but his expression is stoic, similar to the day when he first walked into your store, so biting back your words, you hold out your umbrella for him to take. 

San doesn’t take the umbrella. He just stares at it for a moment, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing comes. Instead, he exhales sharply and looks away, his jaw tightening.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mutters. “You don’t have to be so nice. You don’t have to feed me and entertain me because I’m lonely. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You step closer, the umbrella still outstretched, trembling slightly in your hand. You’re unable to say anything back, the bitter sadness of his words catching you off guard. 

But San only continues with a barely audible laugh. He shakes his head, melted snow droplets flicking from his damp hair. “You don’t get it. You think I’m this... decent guy, just because I’ve fixed a few things around here and kept you company when no one else did. But I’m not. I’ve done things—things that would make you look at me differently if you knew. And I don’t think I can handle seeing that look in your eyes.”

“Then tell me,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is pounding. “Tell me whatever you think would scare me off, because I’m standing here, San. I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

He finally meets your gaze, and the weight in his eyes makes your breath catch. For a moment, it feels like he might. Like he might let you in, lay everything bare, and give you the truth you’re asking for. But then his walls go back up, and he shakes his head again.

“I can’t stay,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “Not because I don’t want to—but because I do. And that’s the problem.”

“San—”

“I’m sorry.”

Before you can stop him, he turns and steps out into the snow. The umbrella slips from your fingers, falling uselessly to the ground as you watch him walk away, his figure disappearing into the swirling white.

You take a shaky breath, the cold biting at your skin. A part of you wants to run after him, to drag him back inside and make him see what you see in him. But another part of you knows that he won’t let you. Not yet anyways.

So instead, you pick up the umbrella, close the door, and wait. For the storm to pass, and maybe, just maybe, for him to find his way back.

*****

The next day, San comes back, though he tells himself it’s only to return the copy of Siddhartha he’d absentmindedly shoved into his pocket the night before. His steps are brisk as he approaches your bookstore, his thoughts a tangled mix of excuses and denials about why he’s here again.

He pushes the door open, and the faint chime of the bell feels oddly comforting. But what catches him off guard is the sight of you, bundled up in a thick jacket, a scarf wound tightly around your neck, and gloves covering your hands. Your nose is sniffling as you greet him with a shy, “Hi,” shocked to even see him back.

“Hey,” he replies, holding up the book. “I forgot I had this with me.”

You wave off his explanation, already stepping aside to let him in. “Don’t worry about it. Come in, it's freezing out there.”

San steps inside, and immediately the cold hits him. The store is far chillier than it had been the previous day, and he raises an eyebrow as you rub your gloved hands together for warmth.

“The storm blew out the power last night on the whole street,” you explain, motioning toward the darkened corners of the store. “So it’s a bit chilly in here. I’ve been trying to get the fire going, but…” You trail off, gesturing toward the old fireplace nestled near the back of the store. The pile of wood inside sits stubbornly unlit, a faint trace of smoke lingering in the air from your earlier attempts.

San glances at the fireplace, then back at you. He hesitates for a moment, then says the words you’ve been hoping to hear: “I can help you fix that.”

Relief floods your body, and you’ve done every time before, you accept his help.

The day stretches on, and San stays. Despite his insistence that he wouldn’t linger, he finds himself caught up in the small tasks you offer him to help keep the store running smoothly in the absence of power. Together, you rearrange shelves closer to the windows to take advantage of the fading daylight, and he even helps you move a heavy display table that you’ve been meaning to shift for weeks.

By late afternoon, the fires, both in the store and our apartment upstairs, finally roar to life, and the once-chilly bookstore begins to fill with a gentle, enveloping warmth. You can’t help but smile as you watch San step back, wiping his hands on his coat, the flickering flames casting a soft glow across his features.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice filled with genuine gratitude.

He only smiles, his lips tight and his dimples making a rare appearance.

As the sun sets and the firelight grows more prominent, the atmosphere in the store shifts. The usual hum of conversation fades, leaving behind a quiet that feels heavy, almost charged. You busy yourself with other tasks like straightening a pile of books here, brushing imaginary dust off a counter there, but your eyes keep drifting back to San, who sits near the fire, intently watching over the dancing flames, making sure they don’t go out.

He seems lost in thought, his usual guarded demeanor softened in the flickering light. You wonder what’s running through his mind but don’t dare to ask. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not quite comfortable either. It’s something else entirely, something that feels fragile and electric all at once.

As the clock nears closing time, you glance outside at the snow-covered street. The storm has finally calmed, but the icy wind still howls faintly against the windows. You turn back to San, who seems reluctant to move, his posture stiffening as if preparing to leave.

“You should warm up a bit before you head out,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can second-guess yourself. “You’ve been helping me all day. At least let me make you some tea or coffee?”

San looks at you, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. For a moment, you think he’ll refuse like he did yesterday, his lips parting to offer an excuse. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Tea would be good.”

“Great,” you smile, trying to mask the relief that floods through you.

The power outage had left the bookstore bathed in a warm, flickering glow. You’d pulled out every candle you could find—short pillars, tea lights, and a few mismatched taper candles. They were scattered across the shelves and counters, their soft light dancing on the walls and casting long shadows.

As you made your way up to prepare tea for San, you grabbed an extra candle and holder from a shelf. When San sees you juggling the items, he silently takes the candle from you, following behind with it held high to light your path.

“I can manage,” you said lightly, but he only shook his head, staying close as you climbed the spiral staircase.

The kitchen was dark and drafty, the windows rattling faintly from the lingering wind outside. Aside from the orange hues of the fireplace upstairs, the single candle San held provided the only light in the kitchen, the flame trembling as you set about filling the kettle. You moved to the stove, fumbling slightly in the dimness as you reached for the tea tins on the counter.

“Hold it closer?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder at San. He stepped forward without a word, bringing the candle nearer to the workspace.

But as you reached for the tea, the candle tilted slightly in his hand, and a small drip of molten wax landed on the back of your hand. You flinched instinctively, gasping at the hot sensation the wax leaves behind.

San’s eyes widened, and he set the candle down on the counter, grabbing your wrist gently. “Are you okay? Let me see,” he said, his voice low but filled with concern.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, though your voice wavered. It had felt good. You turned your hand over, the faint red mark already beginning to cool. “These are made of paraffin, so it’s… it’s all good,” you added awkwardly.

San didn’t seem convinced, his brows furrowed as he inspected your hand. “You’re sure?”

“See?” You ran your fingers over the reddened skin where the wax had fallen, showing him there was no lasting damage. “All good,” you confirmed.

Only then did he release your wrist, though his worry didn’t completely fade. His fingers brushed against yours briefly as he pulled away, leaving a warmth that lingered longer than the sting of the wax.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Don’t be,” you replied with a soft smile, trying to ease his discomfort. “It’s just a little wax. I’ve survived worse.”

The kettle began to whistle, breaking the charged silence between you. You turned back to the stove, busying yourself with pouring the steaming water into two mugs. San picked up the candle again, holding it steady this time as he stepped back to give you space.

When you turned around with the mugs in hand, he was watching you closely, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. For a moment, you thought about saying something, anything, to bridge the tension that had settled between you. 

But instead, you simply handed him one of the mugs and sat on the rug in front of the fireplace.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his fingers brushing yours as he took the cup, sitting with crossed legs beside you.

The material of the rug is soft and holds the heat from the fireplace well. As San sits in front of the fireplace, the tufts of fur tickle his skin, and suddenly he feels shy about the events from yesterday.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low but steady. “About last night…”

You blinked, startled by the suddenness of his words. “San—”

“No, let me just—” He cut you off, his words tumbling out faster now, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. “I shouldn’t have left like that. It wasn’t fair to you. I just… I needed to clear my head. I didn’t mean to make you feel like—like I was angry or—” He stopped, groaning softly, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “God, I’m terrible at this.”

“San—” you tried again, but he kept going, his voice growing more flustered.

“I mean, I didn’t even explain. I just walked out like some kind of idiot, and you were trying to help, and I—”

You couldn’t take it anymore. Turning abruptly, you put your mug down and turn to him, your heart pounding in your chest. Before he could ramble another word, you leaned in closer, cupping his face with your hands.

His eyes widen impossibly, and before he’s able to back away from you, you thumb the skin of his cheek carefully and tug him into you, lips colliding messily. You kiss him like you’ve wanted to since the moment he walked into your store, hungrily yet timidly, waiting for him to reciprocate, but San’s in a state of shock. 

He’s stuck in limbo, the selfish part of him wanting to kiss you back so desperately and the decent part of him knowing he’s not at all good for you. He lost his temper too quickly and most of the time, he thought he was better than his coworkers. Chief had told him so himself. He should stop this. 

Yet, when you start pulling away, the selfish part of him screams out in pain, his heart begging and thrashing against his rib cages to listen to himself for once. And so losing all lapse of judgement, he pulls you right back into him. 

You gasp in surprise, happy to know he wants you as much as you want him and shy at his rough hands at your waist. He pulls you towards him more at the impatient realization that you were too far away, growing more unhappy with the distance, and you let him, leaning into his eager touch. 

San’s mouth moves over yours hungrily, his tongue delving deep to taste you. With a whimper, you arch into him, one hand in his hair and the other fisting his shirt. You kiss him back just as desperately, the days of pent-up longing fueling you.

You kiss until you’re both breathless, only breaking apart to frantically yank at each other’s tops. Buttons fly and fabrics tear in your haste to get rid of the material in your way, and soon, you’re his lap again, both of you stripped naked, chests heaving as your eyes lock, darkened with desire. 

San’s eyes flick down your exposed boobs, your nipples hardened, and without hesitation, he takes one into his mouth and grips the other with his hand, swirling his tongue over your sensitive buds. Your fingers wrap around his bicep as he sucks and licks until you’re writhing in his hold. He moves between one boob to another, cupping them together, running his tongue along the valley before suckling each nipple in turn. 

You’re squirming at the feeling, when suddenly he’s slowing down, his hold on your loosening. 

“Why’d you stop?” you all but whine. Following his line of vision, you land on the melting candle. Much of the wax has now dripped onto the base of the holder, collecting in creams pools on your countertop. 

“Nothing, next time,” is all he says, before he’s sucking at your breasts again. 

Next time? You felt yourself physically grow wetter at the thought, wanting selfishly to have more of him, and so, you grow tired of San’s slow movements at your boobs and push at his chest. 

He reluctantly backs away, and in the light of the fireplace, you see his cheeks have grown impossibly red and the blacks of his irises are completely dilated with lust. You push him down until he’s laying flat against your rug and watch the crackling orange and yellow of the fireplace cast shadows across his chiseled abdomen. 

Brazenly, you trace your hands along the lines of his body, starting at his neck. Underneath your fingertips you can feel the quick thumping of his heart. Next, your hands travel to his pecks, slowing them to thumb his nipples. San shudders at the touch, jolting, following the way your own eyes have grown black like his. 

At his nudge, you’re moved further up his body, now sitting squarely on his toned abs. The hardened muscles bring an immeasurable relief to your neglected and embarrassingly wet pussy, and you inadvertently start moving your hips against them. 

Unabashedly, you start riding him, grinding your bare pussy against the defined ridges of his muscles. Your arousal is too apparent, juices coating his stomach, making it glisten in the golden hue of the fireplace. 

San groans at the sight, his cock straining against the material of his pants. He watches you through half-lidded eyes as you chase your orgasm with your head thrown back in pleasure. 

“Sannie,” you whine quietly, prompting him to tighten his core, his grip around your legs pushing you further onto him. You gasp at the change in rigidity, emboldened to grind harder, hips moving in quick circles. Your climax was rapidly building, and your legs had begun to shake. 

“Sannie, I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, feeling your body tense. 

“It’s okay, love,” San says, voice urgent and low. “Cum for me.”

Love. The word, uttered so sweetly from his lips, pushes you over the edge. Your pussy spasms, and you cry his name out over and over again, grinding yourself mercilessly against him as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

Suddenly, watching you come down from your orgasm, San feels parched. The way you smell, the way you feel, it all feels overwhelmingly good. He looks at you with open admiration, drinking in the sight of you lost in rapture. He zeroes in on the mess you’ve left on his stomach. 

When you open your eyes, you spot San’s bottom lip tucked lightly between his teeth. His adam’s apple bobs at your release that’s smeared across his stomach, and his grip on your thighs tightens, wrapping around them, nudging you up towards his mouth. You’ve yet to even fully recover from your previous orgasm, but you find yourself slowly moving upwards, thoughtless.

“Come here,” he begs. “Please, please, come here.” And so you do, carefully moving up his chest and stopping to hover right above his face. “Please,” he begs of you again with a hungry tenderness in his eyes and with that, you sit. 

Immediately, you want to double over in pleasure as San moans against your pussy at the contact while his eyes flutter shut at your weight and taste. But you stay still, fingers coming to tangle themselves in San’s strands of hair while he mumbles incoherent words into you, kissing you reverently, lips soft and warm against your delicate skin. 

It takes a few moments for San to find his rhythm, lost in himself as your scent surrounds him. His hands which were laying flat over your thighs have moved up, knuckles growing white as he roughly grips the flesh of your ass, ensuring that you don’t have any chance to move away from him. 

You gasp at the gentle contact, your body tingling with need. You settle fully on his face and feel his stubble lightly abrading your inner thighs as he opens his mouth, licking a thick stripe into you, deeply humming at your flavor, sending vibrations up your core. He laps at your essence with long, slow strokes, savoring you, worshipping you, alternating between soft and firm licks.

With both hands tangled in his hair, you rock gently against him, guided by his tongue. You whimper and writhe over him, feeling the taut pull of rope threatening to snap inside your stomach. 

As your whines grow louder, San redoubles his efforts, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue and drawing to his mouth to suck then switching to rapidly flicking your swollen bud. His strong hands dig into her hips, holding her steady as he continues to eat you out ravishingly. Of the mumble that was escaping his lips, the one thing you were able to catch loud and clear was a husky repetition of, “Cum for me.”

With a drawn out cry, you do just that, pussy clamping down and pulsing around San’s tongue. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you as he continues to lap at you, gentling his touch as you float down from your high. 

When your shudders finally subside, he lifts you off of him, delicately laying you down on the soft, white fuzz of your rug. Before he can get too far, you pull him down into you, tasting yourself on his lips. 

You felt wrecked with the back to back orgasms, and surely, there was no way you could handle another. Yet, when he pulls away, “Please,” is all you ask of him.

And San obliges with a groan, the head of his thick cock nudging against your slick entrance. With one slow, steady push, he pushes himself inside you, filling you so completely. “You’re so beautiful. Fuck, you feel incredible,” he rasps, beginning to move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper as you start to rock your hips against his, but San has other plans, taking hold of the underside of your thigh, pushing them back and effectively folding you in half. There’s sweat collecting on his brow that drips into the valley between your breasts and you brokenly moan at the feeling. 

As you clamp around him, San picks up the pace, driving into you with deep, powerful thrusts. The headboard slams against the wall with the force of his movements, the room filling with the sounds of skin slapping and breathy moans. 

“Louder," he growls. "I want to hear you, love. Please,” he begs of you.

"Fuck!" you cry out, your head thrashing against your rug as the pleasure builds to a crest. You can feel your release approaching rapidly, your pussy clenching around his pistoning cock. The intensity reaches a fever pitch as you rock against each other, skin glistening with sweat in the firelight. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he feels your silken walls fluttering around his aching cock. “Don't stop,” you begs, nails raking down his arms. “Please, Sannie, I'm so close,” you whine.

He reaches down between your bodies, finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles around it. “Cum for me, baby,” he commands for the third time that night, his voice rough with desire.

His words are your undoing and with a sharp cry of completion, you shatter beneath him, your pussy gushing around his cock as you spurt your release. He groans deeply, hips jerking as he follows you over the edge, emptying himself inside you with a few final, deep thrusts.

And you’re not sure what it is, but you don’t stop there despite the burn in your thighs. Insatiable, the two of you keep going, until San has to replace the firewood in the dimming fireplace. 

When he finally has to leave, he promises to come back. 

And he does. 

Even after he’d returned to work at the precinct, he began to show up more often—not always with a reason, and not always needing one. 

Sometimes he’d sit by the fire with a book you’d chosen for him, his quiet presence filling the store in a way that felt grounding. Other times, he’d help you organize shelves or tinker with small repairs, his hands steady as yours danced nervously around his.

One snowy afternoon, in the aftermath of another blizzard, the world outside was left blanketed in white. The sun filtered through the windows, its pale light reflecting off the snow and illuminating the bookstore in a way that felt almost magical. San was by the fireplace, his fingers running idly along the spine of a book as he watched you rearrange a display near the counter.

“You’re going to run out of books to organize,” he teased, his voice warm and teasing.

You glanced over your shoulder, laughing softly. “Not with this inventory, trust me. I’ll be at it until I’m eighty.”

San’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Well, I guess I’ll have to stick around to help.”

You paused, the words catching you off guard in the best way. Turning to face him fully, you tilted your head, studying the sincerity in his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, his gaze steady.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the fire cast long shadows across the store, San stood by the counter, tugging his coat on. He looked at you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it, and something in his eyes made your heart swell.

“I think I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, almost shyly, though you both knew it wasn’t a question.

Author's Note II: What did you guys think? Please leave a comment or reblog, it always helps to see what people think, even if it's a keyboard smash or emojis lol. Anyways, thanks again for 700 followers, much love <333

I knew this silence wasn't going to last.

And I knew—when he finally spoke, it was going to ruin me.

His car pulled up in front of my building, but neither of us moved.

The engine hummed. The air between us crackled.

Then—“Get out.”

My heart dropped to my stomach.

I should’ve listened. Should’ve taken the out he’d given me.

But I didn’t.

I turned to face him. “Yoongi—”

His knuckles whitened around the wheel. “Get. Out.”

I swallowed hard. “Can we just—”

He exhaled sharply, finally looking at me.

And it was devastating.

The heat—the quiet affection, the teasing—it was gone.

All that was left was frustration. Exhaustion. Resignation.

“Either you tell me,” he said quietly, “or you leave.”

The air thinned.

My hands curled into fists against my lap. “It’s not that simple.” I whispered.

He clenched his jaw. “It is for me, Y/N.”

I flinched, but he wasn’t done.

“I fought for you tonight.” His voice is low, sharp. “If that doesn’t make you trust me then...”

I blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. “Yoon—,” my voice cracked.

He tilted his head slightly. “You know what that tells me?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

I just shook my head, refusing to accept whatever he was about to say.

His lips pressed into a thin line, brow furrowed. “You don’t want this… not the way I do.”

My chest ached.

Because that wasn’t true.

It’d never been true.

But how could I explain that I didn’t know how to let him in? That I’d spent so long keeping things buried, keeping people at arm’s length, that the thought of giving in—of letting him see me, the real—terrified me?

Through the tears I could only get out, “That’s not…please I–”

Yoongi exhaled harshly, cutting me off. “You can’t even say it. Everything in you always pulls away from me.”

And then—he got out of the car. I barely registered the movement before my door swung open.

He stood there, waiting.

A nonverbal ultimatum.

Get out. Face this. Or don’t.

I hesitated. And that was all it took.

His expression shifted.

And for the first time in weeks, he looked at me like I was nothing more than a stranger.

The final thread between us snapped.

“Fine.” His voice was eerily calm. “You don’t want to talk? I won’t ask again.”

Panic flooded my chest.

No. No, that’s not—

But I was frozen.

And before I could find the words, before I could stop him—

He walked away.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t wait.

Just gone.

I sat there, staring at the empty space he left behind, with the crushing weight of realization settling over me.

I’d just lost him.

—

Yoongi didn’t text me.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t come back for his car.

He wouldn’t even look at me when I saw him on campus the next day.

I should’ve known this was coming. Should’ve known the second I hesitated last night that we were finished. But there never really was a we.

Knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

And it did hurt. Like hell.

Because I’d seen Yoongi irritated before. Seen him frustrated, exasperated, amused at my expense.

But I’d never seen him like this.

Treating me like I didn’t exist.

Like I was just another face in the crowd.

I tried not to let it affect me.

I focused on my work. I went to meetings. I acted like everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.

Because when I stepped into the studio that evening, ready to finalize the last of my edits, he was already there.

And for the first time since this internship started, he didn’t acknowledge me.

He didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t say a single word.

Just kept working.

Like I wasn’t even there.

I swallowed hard, setting my bag down and opening my laptop.

The silence was unbearable.

More than that—it was calculated.

Yoongi knew exactly how to make me miserable.

Knew that if he argued with me, teased me, fought me—I’d push back. I’d give in.

But this?

This absence?

This was worse.

I stole a glance at him. He was staring at the screen, fingers moving effortlessly over the controls. His expression was unreadable.

I hesitated. “Yoongi…”

Nothing.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

I exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the chair. “You’re seriously going to ignore me?”

Silence.

My pulse spiked.

“Yoongi.”

Still nothing.

Frustration coiled in my chest.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Finally—finally—he moved.

But not toward me.

Instead, he leaned forward, pressed a key on the console, and the track played through the speakers, effectively drowning out my voice.

I froze.

Because this wasn’t just ignoring me.

This was shutting me out completely.

And I hated it.

I pushed off my chair, crossing the room until I was standing beside him.

I didn’t care that I was interrupting his work.

I didn’t care that he didn't want to hear me.

Because I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let this be how we ended.

I reached for the controls and paused the track.

The silence was deafening.

Yoongi exhales through his nose, slow and even. “What do you want?”

His voice was cold. Detached.

I flinched. “You don’t have to do this.”

He tilted his head, finally—finally—looking at me.

And I wished he hadn’t.

Because his gaze was empty.

Like he’d already written me off.

“Do what?” he said flatly.

I swallowed, shrugging. “This. Acting like I don’t exist.”

Yoongi blinked. “I’m not acting.”

A hollow ache settled in my chest.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You didn’t want to tell me? Fine. You don’t owe me anything.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “So don’t expect anything from me, either.”

Air stalled in my lungs.

Because I knew what he was saying.

He was done.

He was done waiting, done pushing, done caring.

And it was my fault.

I took a step back. “Yoongi—”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

Then he reached forward—pressed play again.

The music started up, drowning out anything else I could have said.

That time I didn’t stop it.

I just stood there.

Watching the person who used to push me, tease me, see me—turn into someone who didn’t care at all.

And for the first time, I realized—

I might have finally gotten what I thought I wanted.

And I hated it more than anything.

Day 1

I knew Yoongi was cold.

I just didn’t know how cold he could be.

The internship office was quieter than usual—not because people weren’t talking, but because Yoongi wasn't.

He sat at the end of the conference table, scrolling through his notes with an expression so hard it might as well have been carved from stone.

When Namjoon asked about the schedule, Yoongi barely looked up.

"Figure it out yourself."

The room shifted uncomfortably.

Hoseok tried to lighten the mood, nudging him with an easy grin. “Hyung, if you keep scaring everyone, no one’s gonna wanna work with you.”

Yoongi scoffed, shutting his laptop with a click. “Good.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Hoseok’s smile faded. Namjoon exchanged a glance with Jungkook. No one knew what to say.

And me?

I sat on the opposite end of the table, pretending like the air between us wasn’t suffocating me.

Like his voice didn’t sound different.

Like his words weren’t meant for me.

Day 2

People noticed.

They didn’t say it outright, but they felt it.

The way Yoongi’s friends hesitated before speaking around me. The way Krystal watched me with careful eyes. The way Hoseok pulled Jungkook aside before he could giddily greet me like he used to.

The shift was slow, but it was there.

I knew they didn’t mean to take sides.

But they did. They had to.

And I was alone.

Day 3 – Studio 3B

I shouldn’t  have been here.

But I didn’t know where else to go.

I stood outside the studio door, heart hammering, trying to think.

Trying to find a way to fix things.

Because I hated this.

Hated the distance. Hated the silence. Hated the way he was shutting me out like I never meant anything at all.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Yoongi didn’t even flinch.

He was at the console, eyes locked on the screen editing, moving like he was on autopilot.

Like he could do this in his sleep.

Like nothing else in the world existed.

I hovered near the door, heartbeat tripping over itself.

I cleared my throat. “Yoongi.”

Nothing.

A dull ache bloomed in my chest. “I know you’re pissed—”

He exhaled sharply, standing abruptly.

“What do you want?” His voice was flat. Emotionless.

I swallowed hard. “Can we just—talk?”

He laughed. A short, humorless thing. “Now you want to talk?”

I winced. “Yoongi, come on. I—”

He shook his head, cutting me off. “No. You don’t. You want things to go back to normal.”

I recoiled. “Is that such a bad thing?”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “You don’t get it, do you?”

I took a step forward. “Then make me get it.” I begged.

He finally looked at me.

But it was not the look I wanted.

It was exhaustion. It was empty.

And for a second, I thought he would.

I thought he’d finally tell me what he was thinking, what he was feeling, what I’d done to push him this far away.

But instead—

He pushed his hair back, threw his hands up in exasperation. “What do you want me to say?” His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was crushing.

I exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. Anything! That you’re not just going to shut me out like this.”

He scoffed. “Like what?”

I stepped forward, gripping the edge of the console. “Like I don’t exist.”

He sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’m busy, Y/N. I don’t have time for this. Go home.”

I shook my head, on the verge of breaking again. “Not until you talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say to you!” His voice didn’t rise, but the fury behind it was deafening.

It was flat. Final—told me everything I needed to know.

He stepped back.

Like he wasn’t even willing to put up with this fight anymore.

My chest splintered around a truth I didn’t want to face.

“Go home, Y/N.” His voice was quieter now. Exhausted.

I inhaled a shuddering breath. “Yoongi—”

But he just turned away. Back to his work. Back to his silence.

Back to anything but me.

And I realized—This wasn’t just distance.

This was erasure.

And I didn’t know how to come back from that.

Day 5

The silence followed me everywhere.

I heard it in the spaces Yoongi used to fill—the sarcastic remarks, the teasing, the quiet hum of approval when we had worked side by side.

I saw it in the way our friends hesitated before talking to me, like they don’t know whose side to take.

And I felt it. God, I felt it in my chest like something was caving in.

But the worst part?

It wasn’t just his silence.

It was mine, too.

Because I was tired.

Tired of trying. Tired of reaching out just to be met with a wall. Tired of pretending that my stomach didn’t sink every time I stepped into a room and saw him sitting there, perfectly fine without me.

So, after that night in the studio, I stopped trying.

I stopped waiting for him to acknowledge me.

I stopped hoping he’d look at me and see me again.

I didn’t have the energy for it anymore.

And I couldn’t blame anyone but myself.

Day 8

Amber nudged me in class, her brows furrowing. “You good?”

I blinked at her, startled. “Yeah. Why?”

She gestures vaguely. “You haven’t said anything in, like, a week. That’s not normal.”

Krystal chimed in from the other side. “You also didn’t react when the professor mispronounced Jungkook’s name five times in a row. You usually love roasting people for that.”

I forced a small smile. “Guess I’m just tired.”

Amber and Krystal exchanged a look.

Luna tilted her head. “Is this about Yoongi?”

I stiffened.

I should’ve lied. Should’ve brushed it off and said I didn’t care.

But I couldn’t force the words out.

That alone was enough of an answer.

Amber sighed. “Dude.”

Krystal frowned, reaching for my arm. “What happened?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

Amber scoffed. “Yeah, okay, and I’m the next CEO of BigHit.”

Luna leaned forward, voice softer. “Did you guys fight?”

I breathed slowly, carefully. “Something like that.”

They waited for me to elaborate.

I didn’t.

Because I didn’t know how to explain it.

How could I put into words that I had something—someone—and now he was just gone?

How could I tell them I had ruined it all over the course of one night?

So I didn’t say anything at all.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Day 11

Namjoon and Hoseok walked past me in the hallway.

They didn’t stop.

They didn’t even look at me.

I don’t know why I expected them to.

Yoongi was their friend. Their loyalty was to him.

But it still stung.

I press my lips together and keep walking.

Day 14

We were all in the same room again.

It was the final round of internship meetings before our project presentations next week, and everyone was on edge.

But no one was worse than him.

Yoongi sat across the table, arms crossed, expression dark.

Every time someone spoke to him, his responses were clipped, impatient.

Even Hoseok barely avoided a crippling insult. Namjoon tensed when Yoongi dismissed another scheduling question.

The entire room felt like they were holding their breath.

And I knew exactly why.

Because Yoongi wasn’t just cold anymore.

He was angry.

And the whole department was on the receiving end of his wrath.

The tension got so bad that Professor Kang had to step in, cutting the meeting short before someone said something they couldn’t take back.

I lingered near the exit, watching Yoongi pack up his things, shoulders tight with frustration.

I should say something.

I should’ve walked over, told him to stop taking this out on everyone else.

But then he looked up.

Our eyes meet.

And for a split second, I thought I saw something crackle in his expression—something raw, something aching.

But then—he looked away.

And I knew.

I knew he wasn’t coming back from this.

Not unless I made him.

But I didn’t know if I could.

Not when I barely had the strength to hold myself together.

So I did nothing.

I watched him walk away.

Again.

Day 17

I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I woke up exhausted. Went through the motions—never present, never feeling. I showed up where I needed to be, spoke only when necessary, and kept my head down.

I didn’t have the energy for anything else.

Not when the weight of everything was pressing down on me.

Not when I could still feel Yoongi’s absence like a phantom limb.

My friends noticed, but they stopped asking.

They tried to comfort me. Eventually they gave me space too.

Yoongi’s friends avoided me altogether.

And Yoongi?

He existed somewhere beyond my reach—close enough to see, but never close enough to touch.

Day 19

I was in the studio alone, staring blankly at my laptop screen.

I hadn’t made any real progress in hours.

I should’ve cared.

But I didn’t.

Not when the silence felt heavier than any unfinished project.

The door creaked open.

I didn’t look up.

Not until a voice—low, familiar, and entirely unwanted—filled the room.

“Didn’t expect to find you here alone.”

My stomach twisted, and for the first time in days, something sharp and hot pierced through the numbness.

I inhaled slowly, forcing my expression into something neutral before turning to face him.

“What do you want?”

Jae stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. He looked me over, head tilting slightly.

“You look like hell.”

I rolled my eyes. “And yet, I’d rather be there than here with you.”

His lips twitched. “Harsh.”

I didn’t respond.

I didn’t have the patience for whatever game he was trying to play.

Jae clicked his tongue, stepping closer. “So.” His eyes flashed with something knowing. Something dangerous. “How long are you going to keep pretending you don’t miss him?”

My lungs locked up, but I didn't let him see it.

I kept my voice steady. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He laughed. “Sure you don’t.”

I glared at him. “Why do you care?”

Jae shrugged. “I don’t.”

Then why did he look so fucking smug?

I exhaled sharply. “If you’re done wasting my time—”

“You know,” Jae interrupted, voice quieter, “I’ve seen this before.”

My spine straightened without thinking.

He leaned against the table, watching me carefully. “You shut people out. You let them chase you just long enough to think they have a chance—then you pull away.”

My heartbeat slammed against my ribs.

I forced a scoff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jae hummed. “Maybe not.”

Then, he tilted his head, smirk fading.

“But I do know one thing.”

I crossed my arms. “And what’s that?”

Jae stepped closer, voice dropping lower.

“You can keep pretending all you want,” he murmurs. “But at the end of the day—you’re the one who always ruins it all.”

My stomach dropped.

Because for the first time since I had escaped Jae, I couldn’t tell if I was more angry at him.

Or at myself for believing him.

Day 22

Jae’s words lingered long after he was gone.

I told myself that those words didn’t matter. That he didn’t matter.

But the truth was—they did.

They sank into my bones, curled around my ribs, and stayed there, festering like an open wound I couldn’t reach.

Because he was right.

I had ruined everything.

I let Yoongi walk away.

And I didn’t know how to get him back.

Day 27

I didn’t go to the studio.

I didn’t go to class, either.

Hadn’t for a few days now.

I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that none of this was as bad as it felt.

That I’d wake up tomorrow and this weight in my chest would be gone.

But it hadn’t yesterday. 

And it wouldn't tomorrow.

But the lie kept me breathing.

Day 30

Krystal forced me out of my apartment.

We sat in a café, and she watched me pick at my muffin like I was some kind of fragile animal that might bolt at any second.

She’d insisted on personally ensuring I ate every bite, considering I’d dropped about 15 lbs since…then.

Finally, she sighed.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, voice careful. “But if you don’t snap out of this soon, I’m going to start making terrible decisions for you.”

I blinked at her. “Like what?”

Krystal shrugged. “Like signing you up for a public poetry reading about heartbreak.”

I groaned, dropping my head onto the table. “Please don’t.”

“Then start acting like a functional human being.”

I exhaled slowly. “I’m trying.”

She softened slightly. “Try harder.”

I wanted to.

But I didn’t know how.

Day 33

I saw Yoongi.

It was in the hallway between classes, brief and unexpected.

For a split second, his gaze flickered to mine.

Hope fluttered in the pit of my stomach. And then—

He walked right past me.

Like I still meant nothing.

Something in my chest cracked.

But I didn't let it show.

Not here.

Not where people can see.

Instead, I did the only thing I could.

I turned and walked the other way.

Because if he was done pretending I existed—

Then maybe I should be, too.

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