#junhui fic

JUNHUI ALWAYS SAYS YOU'RE A GOOD WIFE, BUT YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT. Junhui excuses a lot of your behavior though, because he is a good husband. He is everything a good husband ought to be - hard working, intelligent, kind, strong, and doting. Better even, is that he's not exactly a traditional husband, which might make the neighbors think he isn't a very good one. He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't chastise you when you keep unexplainably strange hours and business travels, and he doesn't get mad at you.

Ever.

You know you're not a good wife. You're a decent cook and you cook meals as often as you can. You always send holiday cards to his coworkers. You make sure to pack him lunches. You kiss him when he goes to work. You sit through tutoring sessions with him, letting him think he's teaching you Mandarin. You show up for all of the neighbors party's on his arm, and you leave him to his hobbies without pestering him to clean up the house or do chores.

But you're a liar and good wives don't lie to their husbands.

Outside, the city that never sleeps is wide awake. The cab rattles up Fifth Avenue, the horn blaring as a Model T Ford roars past, the chrome reflecting under the glow of the streetlamps. Overhead, the skyline is filled with shadowy outlines of the buildings, the Woolworth Building tallest among them, watching over the city. Your eyes snag on a billboard for Lucky Strikes, bright and bold against the night sky.

Glancing at the slim watch on your wrist, you realize you're late again. Your business meeting had run long, and though Junhui thinks you were off in Brooklyn selling medical equipment, it's a far cry from your real job spent tangled in coded messages and back-alley assassinations for Clockwork.

Your agency demands perfection. Your husband does not, thank the Lord. He had agreed to meet you at the Harringtons' holiday party in their Upper East Side townhouse - probably because he expected you to be late - and he was probably fending off back-handed compliments and inquiries about where is your slippery wife?

Junhui wouldn't mind. He never did.

That was because he was the perfect husband. Your perfect husband that you lived with in your perfect home, a graceful brownstone on East 77th Street. It was a late-Victorian building made of warm brown sandstone, flanked by wrought-iron gates and a manicured front stoop. It was the perfect home inside and out, with parquet floors and walls paneled in dark walnut and decorated with the perfect art.

It was a perfect home for a perfect couple. You'd chosen it together three years ago, shortly after your wedding when Junhui's investments in radio stocks and automobile companies began paying well. He traveled nearly as often as you did - Chicago, China, Paris, London - but the house waited in its perfect little shadow.

Pretending to be perfect was a requirement. Junui didn't have to play the part, though. You did.

The taxi pulls up to the curb and you pay the driver with a crisp bill. The air has a chill bite to it when you step out, the faint scent of coal smoke drifting from nearby chimneys. Your heels click on the pavement as you hurry up the steps, the fur stole around your shoulders scratching against the silk of your dress as you go.

You briefly touch the necklace at your throat to ensure it's there - a gift from your husband when he had visited his parents in Shenzhen. You'd changed in a hurry at an agency safe house downtown, but you made sure to look every bit the part of a dutiful wife to a successful financier, including wearing the beautiful and often thoughtful gifts he showered you in.

As you reach the door, it opens. You startle when you see Junhui smiling at you, as though he had been waiting by the window for your arrival to time welcoming you just right. Which he had been. You'd seen his familiar silhouette on the second floor, but you hadn't expected him to beat you.

"There you are," he says softly, smiling.

He's dressed in a tailored black dinner jacket that pulls tight across his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with a wing collar underneath. The silk bow knotted at his throat is knotted with precision, but you reach up to tweak it anyway, just because you can.

Junhui's hair is slicked back, the lamps in the hallway turning his skin gold. Your heart skips a little as he escorts you inside, a strand of dark hair escaping his slick back to brush endearingly over his brows. You can't help but stare a little at his face - handsome and expressive, and a large part of the reason you'd noticed him at a gala five years ago.

A little flare of possessiveness goes through you. You wonder if he has any idea how all the wives of his friends wish they were married to him instead, the handsome and mysterious businessman from overseas.

As always, he doesn't ask where you've been. He never does. Instead, he reaches for your hand and leans forward, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. "You look stunning, tiānshǐ. The Harringtons will be envious. Mrs. Harrington was asking about you - said she missed your deviled eggs at the bridge club."

You force a smile, the guilt twisting like a knife. "I'm sorry I'm late. The client in Brooklyn was particular."

He waves it off, helping you out of your stole before hanging it in the hall closet. "No need to say sorry, my love. I finished up early at the office today. Seungcheol was in a mood about the margin calls, but nothing a good lunch at Delmonico's couldn't smooth over."

Your heart squeezes when he chuckles and shuts the closet door. If your husband had any idea how often your business dealings brushed against the very financial world he navigated, he'd be dizzy and confused for days.

Junhui is intelligent, which makes your role as his wife more challenging than most people of your profession were willing to take on. He dissected market trends, turning modest inheritances through calculated risks in utilities and aviation stocks. He's the kind of husband who notices things but doesn't say anything, and you love him for it.

You shouldn't love him. You do anyway.

It's hard not to. He's unwaveringly kind, always tipping waiters generously, remembering birthdays for neighbors and secretaries, volunteering on the weekends to tutor kids in English and Mandarin alike. And doting - flowers delivered just because, notes tucked into your pockets, evenings spent rousing you from the couch to move you to bed.

And he is stuck with you for a wife. He calls you a good wife, but good wives don't lie. Spies do, though.

The Harringtons' part waits, full of jazz and bootleg champagne. Another evening of playing the perfect couple. Another evening of secrets.

Inside the Harringtons' home glows bright against the December night. The air is thick with the scent of pine from the massive Christmas tree in the corner, cigar smoke, and sweet perfume. A jazz trio plays in the corner of the parlor where Junhui escorts you, his hand steady and warm at the small of your back.

The moment you step into the room, heads turn. Not dramatically, but you feel every eye flicker to you - you're trained to know that kind of thing - every gaze appraising.

"There she is!" Charles Harrington’s voice booms from across the room. "The elusive Mrs. Wen at last. We were beginning to think you'd been kidnapped!"

The small circle around him chuckles quietly. You smile but he has no idea that you have been kidnapped. Thrice, in fact, when you were younger and less experienced with the agency. Once recently on purpose as part of an interrogation.

"What a ridiculous notion, Charles," you laugh back, approaching with Junhui. "Only delayed by a very stubborn client. I'm afraid Brooklyn doesn't keep the same hours as Manhattan."

"Brooklyn," Caroline Harrington scoffs. She glides toward her husband in a gown of silver lamé that catches the light. "You're so terribly modern, darling. Most of us wouldn't be caught dead on that side of the bridge at night."

Junhui laughs that low, easy sound of his, dispelling tension before it can gather. "She's braver than most."

You think your husband would make a good spy. He works the room without even trying, nodding here and shaking hands there, dipping to compliment women appropriately and warmly. People like him because he makes them feel seen without ever making them feel studied, which is important in crowds like this.

You accept a teacup from a passing tray and sniff lightly. It's bootleg gin with a twist of lemon and when you take a sip, you wince. It's not very good gin, but with the laws around alcohol, who really can get good gin? You sip while Junhui drifts toward a knot of brokers near the fireplace,

Caroline tucks her arm through yours, steering you toward the buffet. "Come, let me show you what everyone's been raving about. The oysters came in this morning straight from the Sound. By the way, your deviled eggs were the talk at bridge club last week - which you missed. You'll have to give me the recipe."

"It's nothing special. Just a little paprika and too much mustard."

"Nonsense." Caroline flutters her fingers at you. They're covered in rings, a mix of antique and new. "Everything you touch turns gold, it seems. Junhui is a lucky man. And so patient, too! Most husbands would be positively feral if their wives were running around Brooklyn."

You feel the comment for what it is - a gentle probe. You're used to the women trying to ferret out your secrets, all of them more eager than the last to unwrap the mystery that is Junhui's wife. You meet her smile like you always do, unwavering as you sip your gin.

"He's very understanding," you reply. "I'm the lucky one."

She hums, agreeing but not liking your dodging of her question. She won't press until she's had more cocktails, at least. Caroline is not the boldest woman in the circle of people you tentatively call friends, but after a few drinks, she'll be demanding answers you won't give.

Across the room, Junhui catches your gaze. He tilts his head slightly, a silent question - are you alright? You nod once and he gives you a small, private smile. You smile back, heart still racing a little.

Stupid, traitorous heart.

The music shifts and turns the energy in the room, couples dancing. One of Junhui's friends - Chan, as you recall his name - offers you a dance. Junhui winks at you and you sigh, letting the younger man pull you into a dance.

You don't like dancing, but the muscle memory kicks in. Clockwork had you trained in all manner of skills, including dancing. It was a useful skill when you were at galas and parties, using it to move about the room as another form of surveillance.

You can't help but do it now, scanning the room over Chan's shoulder to take everything in. There's a banker who had been too friendly with a certain German attaché last month, a woman who touches her pearl choker like a nervous tick, a man in the corner who hasn't smiled a single time because his wife is giggling with a group of finance men, and there's Junhui, watching you watch the room.

When the song ends, your partner bows to you and you thank him for the dance, drifting toward your husband as he turns to you with another cup of gin. You step close to him and he leans down, breath fanning your ear as he murmurs, "Why is it you always look ready to start a coup?"

"It was only a small one."

He smiles and kisses your temple. "And this is why I don't play bridge with you."

"You don't know how to play bridge, Jun."

"I'd learn for you."

There he goes again. You don't know what to do with him. This song and dance is both familiar and strange. You'd married Junhui because you could and because it was allowed within your line of work. Marriages made people of your skill set seem normal. Harmless. And Junhui had been vetted and cleared, as normal as they could get.

You hadn't intended to marry him because you liked him, but you certainly did. Which is why you felt rotten guilt every time you thought too much about it, how he had no idea that his wife had an entire double life eliminating people that a secret agency deemed too dangerous to continue living.

Because that's mostly what Clockwork was about. World advancement and keeping humanity in a forward propulsion was Clockwork's main goal, which meant that the agency had its fingers in all manner of realms: political, financial, corporation, social, casual, cultural, environmental. There is no shortage of influences across the globe that your agency doesn't have, and you are only one of its thousands of agents.

You sip your gin, letting the burn ground you. The party swirls on, louder and looser now. Someone has opened the French doors to the terrace and cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of snow and distant coal smoke. A few brave souls venture into the cold to smoke, the acrid smell of cigarettes drifting in with their laughter.

Junhui eventually sets his cup on a side table, turning to face you with a soft grin.

"What?" You ask, laughing as he pries the cup from your hand to set it down.

"Dance with me?"

It's not really a question but you nod anyway as he takes your hand to draw you into the slow sway of the next song. His palm is warm at your waist, his other hand cradling yours, fingers rough. You always thought it was strange that he had such rough hands for a financier. You ignore it, resting your cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the bay rum and the faint trace of cigar smoke.

"You're quiet tonight," he notes softly, switching to his native tongue. You smile. It feels like you get a part of him no one else does. "Are you alright?"

"Long day."

It was. You'd killed a man today, but you can't tell him that. So you settle for this, swaying against him with the steady beat of his heart pumping underneath your cheek. He doesn't push you - he never does.

You look up at him - really look. The soft glow of the chandelier turns his eyes warm and dark, the single escaped strand of hair still brushing his brow. For a single, reckless second, you want to tell him everything. You want to tell him how you'd been recruited right after you turned eighteen to an agency more secret and elusive than the CIA. You want to tell him sometimes your weeks on trips are spent overseas hunting people down. Extracting information. That even when you're halfway around the world, you hope your gentle husband is reading a book in his study.

You don't tell him. You can't.

Resting your head against his chest again, you think how nice it is to have the perfect husband and how sad it is that he has a rotten wife.

-

The clock strikes midnight as Junhui stands in the alley behind the speakeasy on Mulberry Street, a siren wailing in the distance. The air smells like the rotted garbage coming from the flowing bins and the metallic tang of the rusted fire escapes above him.

His gloved hands are steady, keeping his hands dry from the warm blood that flows from the neck of the man in his clutches. The Clockwork agent gurgles, wet and desperate before he sags forward. Junhui lets him crumple against the cold brick wall, blood spattering as he goes. The body hits the ground soundlessly - no noise, just how Junhui prefers it.

Silence is Protocol's highest priority, and tonight, he is very much that.

He wipes the blade methodically on the man's coat, noting that it's a nice make from Paris. He only knows fashion because you like fashion, and he thinks that maybe the next time he's in Paris he should grab one himself. You'd like that, he's sure.

Junhui tucks the weapon back into the hidden sheath at his ankle and stands. His pulse is even and his breathing is controlled despite the adrenaline rushing in his veins. He scans the hallway, but the only witness to the murder is a stray cat prowling near the dumpster with luminous eyes.

As usual, it was too easy. Clockwork operatives are often arrogant, too reliant on their skills and their agency's aura of inevitability. They always were. Junhui stares down at the man with a flicker of irritation. The self-righteous architects at Clockwork think they're better than everyone, molding the future and the world to their vision of engineered perfection.

Sighing, Junhui straightens his tight, the silk smooth under his fingers. You'd bought him this tie for Christmas a few weeks ago. He makes sure to wear it often and to make sure you see that he's wearing it. He likes when you buy him things, even though he certainly deserves nothing for you. You're the perfect wife buying her seemingly perfect husband gifts, but if you had half the idea of the rot inside of him, you might not spoil him so much.

He steps out into the alley, merging into the foot traffic on Mulberry, the chill January wind whipping at his overcoat. Horns blare from taxis on Canal Street and the faint sizzle of chestnuts from a vendor's cart reaches him as he walks, hands shoved in his pockets to keep the cold out.

The walk to the subway is brisk. Businessmen stagger from speakeasies, ties askew, breath fogging in the cold. Junhui pauses to buy a newspaper from a newsboy, tucking it under his arm as he goes. Blending in is as important as possible. No one knows there's blood on his gloves and a murder weapon hidden at his ankle.

Protocol had trained him well. They'd recruited him early at university as an economics theory major, his mind and intelligence surgical - exactly the type of agents they like. His background in martial arts through his childhood proved lethal as well, making him the perfect blend of already dangerous and easy to teach.

He'd risen quickly, specializing in clean hits that required little glamour or grandeur. Being unnoticed was his preference, and he was good at it.

Except when it came to you. You had noticed him at that art gala five years ago, wandering over to him and asking him what he thought of the art. He'd recited something rote from his flashcards he had looked at in case someone had asked him his thoughts, but he hadn't expected to need them. You surprised him like that all the time, and he surprised himself by wanting to see more of you after that night.

Surprised himself even more when he asked you to marry him.

Junhui's life isn't exactly fit for marriage, but it works. You're busy as a medical supplies seller, traveling around the boroughs and often other cities. It's a strange job for a woman to have, but he doesn't care. It keeps you happy and out of the house when he's gone, which is really all that matters.

He boards the uptown train, finding a seat in a half-empty car that rocks northward as it takes off. The lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows on the faces around him. He takes it all in with a single sweep, a habit that he will never let go. No one here pays attention to him - there's a pair of young lovers murmuring in the corner and a single hotel worker asleep, his head against the window.

Junhui leans back against the vibrating window, the cold glass pressing through his coat to his shoulder. There's no one here who can give him any trouble, so he shuts his eyes for a bit and lets his mind wander back to you.

You're probably asleep by now, curled under the heavy quilt in the brownstone you share together. The image brings a faint smile to his face. You're a good wife, despite the whispers from the neighbors about your erratic schedule and why you have a job at all. Women don't need jobs.

But your job makes you happy, and Junhui is in the business of keeping you happy.

On more than one occasion Charles Harrington has told Junhui he should be asking more questions about a woman who travels around Brooklyn at night. Junhui doesn't ask questions, though. He never does. You don't ask questions about why a financier needs to come home after midnight from meeting with a private client, so shouldn't he return the favor?

Sometimes he wonders if you have affairs. He can't help it. He wouldn't blame you if you did. You say and do all the right things - and yet Junhui isn't around nearly as much as he should be. Plus, you're not very intimate. Junhui's guilt doesn't let himself touch you often, too afraid to kiss you the way he wants and breathe you in like he desires, knowing that it's the ultimate betrayal to do so while lying to you.

Husbands shouldn't be liars.

But no, Junhui dismisses the idea of you stepping out on him. It's not in your character. You're loyal and steadfast, and you like to pack notes in his lunches. You send holiday cards to his invented coworkers, let him delve into hobbies without a word of complaint, even if it's piano sessions that stretch into the night. You never complain about the lack of intimacy, never push for more.

You're just you. Perfect.

The train jolts to a stop at 77th Street, the doors opening with a hiss. He exits into the quieter residential part of the city, the wind carrying the promise of snow and the gas lamps lighting the way. Your home waits at the end of the block, the windows dark save for a single gold glow of the hall lamp you always leave on for him.

He smiles. It's a small thing, but it tugs at his heartstrings as he ascends the stairs. Coming home to you is far too easy when his marriage to you is mostly supposed to be a cover up. It makes him look normal in a world full of couples - that's what he told Protocol, anyway. It wasn't out of some silly attempt to make a normal life or anything beyond that except… he does like you.

Inside the house is dark. His shoes click on the parquet floors and he can smell lavender that you'd probably been burning again. He hands his overcoat in the closet and shuts it as silently as he can before he moves upstairs like a shadow.

The bedroom door is ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling through. He pushes it open gently and sees you asleep on your side, one arm draped over his empty pillow, the quilt pulled to your chin against the winter chill. You look ethereal, your lips parted faintly, the tiniest snore leaving you.

Fondness surges through him. He has no idea how he ended up with someone like you, how he, with hands forever marked with violence, ended up with someone as kind and patient as you are. He creeps over to you and gives you a brief kiss on the brow, unable to help himself. It rouses you from sleep immediately but he hushes you.

"Y'okay?" You mumble.

"I'm fine, I'm sorry I'm home late. I'm going to shower."

"Okay."

He smiles at you. "Go to sleep, my love."

"Mhmm."

You thud back against the pillow and he smiles before heading over to the adjoining bathroom. He waits to turn on the light until he has the door shut behind him, unwilling to wake you again. He avoids looking in the mirror - he knows what he'll see: young, handsome, incredibly manicured. The perfect man who seems unassuming. It's all an act, the sins hidden beneath the curated surface.

Junhui strips methodically: jacket over the hamper, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the faint scar from a botched hit a few years ago. Thankfully it had happened before you, and he was able to use the excuse of surgery when you asked about the scar.

Steam billows when he turns the shower on as hot as he can get it. He feels like it's important to burn away the sin of the kill when he comes home to you, too afraid to get into bed like you'll smell the blood on his skin or sense the darkness in his shadow.

As he lathers soap, he thinks about the Clockwork agent briefly - the surprise in his face, the bubbling sound he'd made when the knife went in. Another life ended, another contract closed.

Protocol owns him. They have since they recruited him. Junhui never expected it to matter, but as the lies pile up, he feels worse and worse about it. You're as safe as can be with him, but sometimes he wonders if it would be a better life to give you over to someone who can be there for you more often.

When the shower is over, the silence is deafening. He rushes to pull his pajamas on, itching to be in the bed that smells like you and near your warmth. He exits the bathroom, letting his eyes adjust to the dark bedroom, smiling when he sees you're still sleeping.

He gets into the bed and you murmur incoherently in your sleep, shifting closer to him. He wraps an arm around you without thinking and your warmth seeps into him, chasing the alley's chill away.

For a fleeting moment, he lets himself forget the blade and the alley, pretends the kill didn't happen. Here in this bed with you, he's just Mr. Wen and you're Mrs. Wen. He's your husband, the financier, nothing shady, nothing nefarious.

It won't last long. Tomorrow morning he has to find an excuse to tell you he has to leave for Paris in two days. The assignment had come before he'd even completed his hit tonight, a terse telegram in one of the many safe houses assigned to him.

CONTRACTOR JW0610. 01.29.1922. 10:00:00. DISTANCE REQUIRED. 48.8530°N, 2.3499°E. CHERCHEZ LA FLUER.

Two days to prepare for a hit isn't much, but he's used to it. It isn't a lot to go off of either, which meant it is a high profile hit. They hadn't even given him a name or affiliation, and he isn't sure what look for the flower meant. Junhui is smart though, and he has a feeling he'll know what it means when he sees it.

Tomorrow, he'll tell you over breakfast. Apologies, love. It's off to Paris. You'll nod and kiss him easily and pack his lunch without question. The cycle will repeat.

Junhui closes his eyes and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You sigh and melt into him, and for now, it's enough. But tomorrow, the lies resume like clockwork.

He smirks at the joke before finally giving into sleep.

-

Junhui perches on the narrow roof of a building overlooking the Île de la Cité, directly across from the Notre-Dame. The sacred dome of the church looms over him like a giant while the Seine slithers below, its twin towers clawing at the sky.

The wind coming off the river is sharper than he expected, the damp chill of water and the faint rot of algae wafting to him. Below, Rue du Cloître is a churning river of people. Parisians in heavy coats hurry past the cathedral's facade while tourists cluster together and snap photos with box cameras.

It's hard to hear anything up here with the wind, but the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the shrill honk of a black car trying to navigate the narrow bridge echoes to him as he finishes his set up, adrenaline pumping already.

He's set up on the flat roof of an old ecclesiastical residence, the kind of old and rotted place no one looks at. He wishes he had an overcoat, the thin shirt doing very little to keep him warm. Warm is a luxury he can't afford today, dressed in grey to blend in with his surroundings with a compression scarf pulled up to cover his lower face.

A rifle rests steady on its bipod, a sleek prototype from Protocol with a silencer and a modified Berthier with a German-made telescopic sight that lets him count the threads in a jacket on his victim if he needs to. It's obscene in its precision, and it required him several forged and real documents to get it through security and onto the private plane he took to get here.

Junhui watches below, shivering in the early morning. He's been here since first light, watching the cathedral steps, the parvis, the bridge. The crowd thickens as the morning wears on, and he watches a priest in a black cassock moving with purpose toward the side door.

No flower though. He's not sure what exactly it means, other than he'll know when he sees it. Not even the women here are dressed in floral, but the fleur de lis is everywhere. Somehow, he thinks that's not what the message meant, though. So he waits, mind straying errantly to you on occasion.

He'd felt his usual stab of guilt when he told you he was going to Paris. You'd simply smiled and told him to bring you back something pretty. The perfect wife, letting him disappear like always. He doesn't deserve you. He thinks he never has.

Sighing, he moves the scope, strafing right and then left. A flash of gold flints in the sun, small but unmistakable. He thinks nothing of it first, adjusting the scope to fix the focus. He's got the scope on a woman's throat, the delicate chain of her necklace glinting in the light. The lotus pendant on the thin chain shifts as she walks and Junhui's blood turns cold.

The pendant looks exactly like the one he'd purchased you in Shenzhen. For my wife, he'd told the jeweler, smiling because you remind him of a lotus - pure and resilient. He adjusts the scope again, heart pounding as he zooms out.

And sees you.

His stomach drops. The rifle trembles for the first time in years and he readjusts, hoping his proximity to the church lends him a miracle as he prays that it's a trick of the light, that a stranger is wearing the same necklace. But the profile sharpens and he sees the line of your jaw, the way you tilt your head, the small scar on your chin you'd told him was from a childhood fall.

You're here. In Paris. At the exact coordinates that Protocol had given him, at the exact time. With a flower he gave you.

You stop in the middle of the parvis, suddenly still. The crowd flows around you like water around a rock, a vendor bumping into your shoulder. You don't react, though. Your head turns, sweeping the crowd like you sense danger. Junhui's heart is hammering, his hands shaking as he watches you through the scope until you suddenly lift your eyes, sweeping the rooftops.

Your gaze lands impossibly on his position. He knows you can't see him - there's no way. He's three stories up with the sun at his back, and his in shadow. But he recognizes the look on your face, a predator suddenly aware there is something bigger and scarier than them hunting. Your shoulders go stiff and he tracks the way your hand twitches toward your coat pocket.

Panic slams into him. Not you. Not the woman who kisses him goodnight, who leaves notes in his lunch, who makes the brownstone feel like home instead of a safe house. The rifle is suddenly too heavy in his hands. How can you be the target? And why are you here? Only a single answer makes sense, and he cannot even think the words, lest they come true.

Suddenly, you bolt. It makes Junhui lurch, jerking the scope to track your movements but you immediately blend into the crowd. He curses and tears the rifle away, shaking as he breaks the weapon down and shoves the pieces into its satchel with frantic speed.

Gravel scrapes under his boots as he bolts for the stairwell, heart hammering. The stairs are dark and narrow but he takes two at a time, bursting onto the street level and startling a flock of doves. The crowd is thick, bodies pressing close. He weaves through them, shouldering the satchel as he scans for you.

Terror grips him. What if you disappear? What if Protocol has a backup for you? What if you're here to kill him?

He cuts through a narrow passage off Rue du Cloître. He spots you up ahead, your coat flashing as you turn into a shadowed courtyard entry. He accelerates, boots splashing in shallow puddles, his hand slipping into his pocket for the concealed gun on instinct.

He steps into the courtyard mouth just as you whirl, a gun in hand pointed directly at him. His heart squeezes painfully, both of you freezing. A thousand emotions flit across your face in that second, the gun trembling in your hand as you stare at him, open mouthed. You look as terrified as he feels.

"Junhui?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, voice cracking.

A patch of sun hits you between roofs. You don't squint in the light, trained to stare at him. The light catches on your necklace, the lotus looking right back at him. Find the flower. He sure has, he just hadn't expected it to be his wife.

"Hi, love."

- You circle the parvis of Notre-Dame slowly, the cobblestones uneven beneath your low heels. The cathedral looms above, its twin towers dark against the pale sky. Gargoyles leer down at you, watching you as though they know what you're here to do. Perhaps they do. You're not particularly religious, but the marvel of Notre-Dame inspires a healthy respect for religion as you eye the stone facades.

The air is sharp with the smell of the Seine, the damp stone and river mud serving as a faint undercurrent to the coal smoke from barges sliding past on the water. Tourists cluster together near the main facade, collars turned up against the wind. You duck your head as you walk, your necklace swinging with every step.

Clockwork's instructions had been simple, delivered through the encrypted telegram in your hotel room: enter the cathedral, eliminate the woman in the blue coat near the altar, no witnesses, vanish.

Bone-deep anxiety has clung to you since you docked in La Havre. Junhui had mentioned his business trip was in Paris as well, though you know he's off doing finance deals or something in the Bourse. He's somewhere buried in tickers and ledges and here you are walking toward a holy place to will a stranger.

Still, the feeling won't leave you.

The anxiety gets worse, turning to a sharp prickle at the back of your neck, the same instinct that has saved you in back alleys and safe houses over the years. It's the instinct that tells you someone is watching you.

You pause near a vendor cart selling postcards of the rose window, pretending to browse. Your eyes sweep the crowd, but there's no one obvious or lingering too long. You move again, circling as the wind picks up, carrying the scent of chestnuts.

The prickle sharpens.

You stop in the middle of the parvis, the crowd flowing around you. A vendor bumps into your shoulder and murmurs a quick apology in French, but you don't listen to him. You tilt your head, eyes lifting slowly as you scan the rooftops across the way. There's a bunch of old ecclesiastical buildings, their grey roofs slick with frost and chimneys.

Sunlight catches something - metal bright and brief. Your heart lurches when you realize it's the unmistakable flash of a rifle scope glinting from a high vantage point.

A gunman. Your stomach drops. Clockwork hadn't mentioned backup, which means this is opposition. Protocol, most likely. Their agents have been trying to kill you for years, but the paid thugs aren't nearly as refined as they think they are.

Without thinking twice, you bolt.

You weave through the tourists, shoulder clipping a man, apologies lost in your flight. The parvis gives way to a narrow street and you fash down it, your breath coming out in short gasps as you run, coat flapping. You hear nothing but your own pulse as you turn right and then left, ducking under an archway and past shuttered shops with faded signs.

What you need is a dead end, somewhere to wait and eliminate whoever follows. The gun in your pocket is loaded with two shots - enough to get the job done.

The alley narrows further, the walls high and mossy, sunlight barely reaching you. You spot a courtyard up ahead, a small and forgotten space behind an old residence, the iron gate half opened with ivy crawling over it. Perfect. You slip inside, drawing your gun and turning, ready.

Footsteps echo, fast and deliberate. You ready yourself, widening your stance as a shadow appears at the gate and -

Your husband stands there in a gray shirt, compression scarf pulled down around his neck, pistol in hand but low. His hair is mused from the wind, strands falling in his eyes that widen when they see you - shock, followed immediately by something raw and pain.

You freeze.

"Junhui?" The word comes out cracked, a million thoughts racing through your mind.

He doesn't move closer, gun still raised. "Hi, love."

The courtyard feels too small, the walls pressing in. The damp air is thick in your throat, and the lotus necklace burns against your skin like a brand. You stare at him - your husband - the man who kisses your forehead, who plays piano in the parlor, who never asks where you've been. Here. In Paris. With a rifle bag on his shoulder.

The pieces crash together.

"You were on the roof." Your voice was shaking. "That was you."

He nods. "Assignment."

The word turns your stomach to acid. Assignment. Not finance, not stocks. Assignment.

"Protocol?"

He swallows, gun lowering a little as he nods. "Clockwork?"

Understanding hits you like a physical blow. His agency has hated yours and vice versa for years. Clockwork's vision of controlled progress doesn't quite match with Protocol's military pragmatism, and somehow despite both agencies vetting, the two of you have married enemies.

Or have you? Has he known all along? You're not sure, but the horror on his face is either well practiced or genuine. You don't lower the gun just in case, despite the fact that he sags, defeated.

"You're here to kill me," you tell him. It isn't a question.

"I didn't know it was you. Until I saw the necklace. The flower." You don't move. "I'm not going to kill you."

"How do I know that?"

"I guess you don't." He puts his gun in his coat pocket and holds both of his hands up, a white flag. "Kill me if you wish."

His words hit like a slap. You recoil physically, your arm dropping as you lower the weapon. He seems a little relieved, but you're horror stricken. Kill him? You don't think you could, even if your life was on the line. Which it is, the two of you facing each other, breath misting the air.

"What about you?" He asks, drawing you from your whirlwind thoughts. "Why are you here?"

"Assigned to some woman. I obviously didn't complete it." You tuck your gun away carefully, eyeing him carefully. "I saw the flash on your scope."

He frowns. "The sun was behind me." You lift a shoulder. You're unsure what reflected off his scope, but perhaps it had been divine intervention after all. "We have to get moving. They're expecting confirmation. If we don't, they'll send someone else."

"We?"

He nods, checking a watch. "You're my wife."

"I'm… I'm Clockwork. You're Protocol."

He lowers his wrist and looks at you - really looks at you. You study him, your heart hammering, a dull ache in your chest blooming. He's still Junhui - at least he looks like it. He's your husband with warm brown eyes, who speaks softly and loves to kiss you on the forehead, who is patient and kind and steady.

And apparently he's a contract killer. But he didn't kill you. You hope it means something.

"You're my wife," he says again, softer this time.

Junhui extends his hand, slow and careful. He's wearing gloves but you take a few tentative steps toward him, placing your hand in his. His fingers close around yours, and even through the leather, they're warm. You step closer and he pulls you through the gate and into the alley, keeping you close.

"We're going to need to run," he murmurs looking down at you. "Just trust me enough to get us somewhere. Then we can talk. Can you do that?"

You think about it. Your training is telling you to kill him and run, to save yourself. But every instinct you have that is not the rained spy is looking at him - the man you married, the man who has rubbed your back when you were sick and warmed your hands in his pocket - is looking at you with nothing but honesty.

It's stupid. You know it is. Protocol isn't known for their spies as much as they are for their hitmen - Junhui would have been taught to blend in and run, but they're not an intelligence agency the way Clockwork is. They aren't taught to manipulate to the degree you are.

So you nod. You see the relief pass on his face as he tugs you gently, both of you breaking out into a run.

The city presses in, the narrow passageways smelling like damp stone and yesterday's rain. Your breath syncs with his, footsteps matching, the panic there but shared now. Not once does he let go of your hand, tugging you out of the way of a passing bike and into the safety of his arms for a brief moment.

Junhui leads you to a small doorway behind a boulangerie, the scent of fresh bread wafting out. He pulls out a compact telegraph key from his pocket, and for a second you think he's going to notify Protocol he has you in his hands. Your heart starts to slam in your ribcage, realizing that the love you have for him - that you're not supposed to - has been your undoing. Still, you don't reach for your weapon, unwilling to kill him even if-

He catches your panic. "I'm telling them you're dead," he notes, voice dry.

"Oh."

You do the same, tapping out a coded message to your operatives at Clockwork. It'll only buy you hours - maybe a single day. You're not sure.

"We need to get out of Paris," he says. "Home will be dangerous, but if we're going to survive we need to go there first." You hate that you agree. "Le Bourget? Private flight?"

"Yes."

Junhui hails a taxi near the river, the water dark and choppy under the bridges as an afternoon storm rolls in. You sit close to Junhui as the driver navigates the city, but not touching, the space between you heavy. Your mind spins - the brownstone waiting back home, its walnut panels, the piano - a life of mutual lies catching like tinder and burning down around you.

-

Le Bourget airfield is bustling with activity in the afternoon gloom, hangars looming like metal beasts under the gray sky. The smell of fuel hangs heavy in the air and the hum of propellers whirring buzzes in your ears as you cross the wet tarmac.

Junhui's hand hovers at your elbow as you walk, not quite touching. You feel the loss of his touch acutely, a small ache at the sudden distance between you. You don't know where you stand now, the man you've known for the last five years suddenly a complete stranger.

Somehow, you feel it only serves you right.

Junhui leads you to a waiting plane, the engines warming with a low rumble that vibrates through you. The plane is small, the cabin cramped with leather seats worn from use, the air inside tinged with tobacco. You climb aboard, settling into a seat by the window, rain streaking the glass like tears. Junhui sits across from you, the space between your knees too close in the small plane, knocking awkwardly.

Tension threads your shoulders as the plane readies for takeoff. You feel exposed and out of control - it was Junhui who arranged the flight, assuring you that he could do it discreetly and safely. Still, there was no guarantee there were Clockwork or Protocol agents already working on knocking your plane out of the sky and into the Atlantic.

The thought unsettles you as the plane taxis and takes off, your ears popping as the city falls away below Paris, a patchwork of stone and river. You watch it shrink, the Eiffel Tower a distant spike on the horizon.

Your mind whirls like the propellers, skipping between the flash of his scope and your agencies turning you against the other. But mostly your thoughts are on the man across the way from you. Your husband. The man you thought was perfect, who called you tiānshǐ and kissed your forehead. The man who is Protocol, a killer like you, but from the opposite side.

You weren't supposed to, but you'd fallen for him along the way. You wonder now if that was on purpose, if he had lured you into his arms to act as a shield of normalcy. Your intention had been to seem normal and married, but you'd fallen for the way he smiled at your broken Mandarin, the way he kept the notes in his lunches, the quiet evenings where he'd play piano.

But now? Doubt creeps in, cold and insidious. Was any of it real for him?

The plane levels out, the rumble steady now. You turn from the window and look at him. He's watching you already, expression unreadable.

"How'd you charter this without Protocol?" You ask. "Sounds difficult."

He hesitates, then nods. "Someone in Interpol owed me a favor. From a job a few years back. Clean flight, no records."

Interpol. It shouldn't surprise you - he's Protocol after all, with connections in shadows you never imagined. It's another small layer peeled back, revealing the man you didn't realize was your husband all this time.

The cabin is silent for a long moment, just the hum of the plane and the rain on the fuselage. Finally alone, the questions he seems to be holding bubble to the surface.

"Can we talk?" He switches languages, watching you dubiously.

"Of course we can. You first."

His lip twitches. "So you do speak it fluently." You flush, caught. "You learned way too fast. I'm a good teacher but your accent was always good."

"I speak seven languages."

"I speak eight."

"Show off."

He leans back, the smile fading as he looks you up and down. "It started in college," he tells you. "I did study economics at Columbia. I was good at it. Money was tight with my family in Shenzhen and me in school. Protocol approached my senior year and said I had potential. Offered training, pay, and a way to send money home." He pauses, fingers drumming. "Martial arts from childhood helped. I specialized in going unnoticed."

You listen, heart aching. The man he describes is the one you married - intelligent, steady. But now this one is darker. Something else.

"And me?" You ask. "At the gala?

"I was there for a job," he admits. "You approached me and asked about the art and I recited flashcards but… I didn't anticipate you. You were smart and funny, and I liked you. After I checked that you were safe - which was wrong, I should add - the agency realized marrying you made me look normal. Protocol approved."

The words land like a punch even though you saw it coming. Cover. Normal. Not love. Not the way you'd fallen for him, piece by piece. You'd thought maybe it was real - that despite your lies, he loved you. But for him, it was a necessity. Fondness? Sure. But you were a tool to appear harmless.

It serves you right, you suppose, but sadness swells. You've been in love with him for years - or were, before this. The man who called you angel, who never pressed for intimacy despite your guilt keeping you from touching him most nights. And here you are expecting him to love you when he did the very thing you were supposed to do.

He's succeeded where you have failed.

It breaks something in you and you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly needing it like armor. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.

"Your turn," he urges.

You swallow, nodding as you start, your throat tight. "Clockwork recruited me when I turned eighteen. Right after high school. Saw potential in my test scores or whatever. Trained me in everything - codes, killing, covers." You pause and look at the wedding ring on your hand. "The gala was a surveillance job. You stood out - handsome, different. I approached on impulse, which was rare for me. Didn't intend to keep seeing you until I did, and Clockwork thought a husband would help me blend in."

He nods, absorbing it. The plane dips slightly, turbulence rattling the cabin. You grip the armrest, mind still spinning. Three years of marriage, built on agency approvals. Lies on lies. And now, exposed.

Neither of you speak for a while. You watch out the window at the clouds, the grey Atlantic stretching below. Your stomach is in knots, the truth between you doing nothing to seal the gap. It only pushes you further apart.

Finally, Junhui breaks the silence. "I don't want to kill you."

"I don't want to kill you either."

"The agencies won't stop. We're loose ends now."

You nod, the reality settling like lead. They'll hunt. Aggressively. No mercy for traitors.

"I fear we're at a deadlock."

He nods. "We have to escape their reach."

"How?"

The urge to reach for him is strong. You don't, though. Not now that you know it's not the same, that this isn't the same for him as it is for you.

"Collect what we need. Cash, papers. Then go our separate ways. Safer that way and harder to track."

The words slice through you. Separate ways. It breaks your heart, a sharp, quiet pain that steals your breath. You'd imagined - stupidly, perhaps - a life together, even now. Running away as one. But he's right. And perhaps it's better for him to be fond and not in love so it makes this easier, to be at a deadlock in which no progress can be made.

"Agreed," you nod.

He looks at you, something unreadable in his eyes, but you turn to the window, watching the clouds. You reserve the part of you that wants to beg him to stay, knowing you don't deserve it and he doesn't want to.

The flight drags, hours of tension and unspoken words. You land in New York under cover of night, sleet slashing the tarmac. When you step out of the plane and he hails a cab, you know nothing will ever be the same.

-

The plane touches down with a jolt. Junhui looks at you but you're staring out of the window, face turned away. The cabin feels too small, air thick with the tension of unspoken words and the faint scent of fuel seeping in from outside.

Junhui stands first, offering a hand to help you up. You stand up on your own, movements reserved, eyes not quite meeting his. It makes his heart squeeze, knowing now that everything was a lie.

He'd fallen in love with you slowly and unintentionally. He'd thought maybe it was mutual - always felt guilty for it - but now? Doubt poisons everything. You're Clockwork - were Clockwork. The marriage was a cover. He was convenient. Safe. Normal.

The sadness twists in him like a blade, even though he was supposed to be doing the same thing to you. But for him it had turned real. Foolish, really. But he's glad there's enough fondness in you to let him live, to part ways.

He'd suggested separate ways not because he wanted it, but to save what little pride he had left. If you didn't love him, better to let you go without begging. Without admitting how much that it hurt.

The pilot nods as you exit, no questions, just like Junhui had paid for. Outside, the sleet stings Junhui's face, wind whipping through his coat as you both rush through customs and back out into the wind to hail a cab. The driver is an older man that complains about the weather, but he takes the cash as you both slide into the back.

Despite the small space in the back of the car, there's a chasm between you. He wants to bridge it - wish he could. He wants to reach for your hand and pull you close, to tell you that it was real for him. That he had been lying, but not really. Not all the time. But he doesn't. You're reserved now, words sparse, gazed fixed outside of the window.

The silence stretches, broken only by the slosh of tires on wet roads and the driver's occasional cough. Junhui's mind races, replaying every moment over the last five years with you - the gala where you'd approached him, your smile bright and charming. The proposal he'd made because he couldn't imagine life without you. He night's he'd held back from you, guilt over his lies making him afraid to take more than you offered.

He'd thought you were content, that what you'd had was enough. But it was all a facade for you. Cover. The word echoes, bitter. He loves you - fiercely, achingly - but it was never real for you. And he doesn't blame you one bit. He cannot hold you to trial for a crime he was also committing.

Sadness swells, a silent grief that makes his chest tight. He will miss you more than you know. It's the right call, despite the fact it makes him want to fall to his knees.

The brownstone appears like a ghost in the sleet. He helps you out of the cab and you let him this time, though you step away from him the moment you're outside. The stoop creaks under you both as you hurry inside, the key turning into the lock with a familiar click.

You head upstairs without a word, movements quick. Junhui follows, heart heavy, watching you rush into the bedroom to start packing. He stands in the doorway for a moment, the reality hitting him. This was his home, a perfect life that he'd clung to, even if it was built on lies. Now it's ending and you're eager to go.

He moves to his side of the closet, packing his own things - cash from a hidden safe, false papers tucked into a book spine, weapons from certain shoes. His fingers linger on the tie you'd given him for Christmas, silk smooth, a reminder of you. He keeps it, wanting to hold on even when you're gone.

In the middle of folding one of his shirts, something prickles at the back of his neck. It's the same instinct he's had before ducking before being shot at. The house is too quiet, the sleet outside rhythmic. He glances up, drawn to the window where your back is turned as you pack, the curtain half-drawn. A red dot appears on your bag, small and steady.

His blood turns cold.

"Get down!" He yells, lunging across the room.

You startle, but he tackles you to the floor just as the window shatters, glass exploding inward. Bullets spray through the bedroom, thudding into the walls, splintering wood. Junhui's body covers yours, shards of glass raining down on you both. Pain blooms in his shoulder - glass or a bullet graze, he doesn't know - but adrenaline surges.

"They know," he gasps, rolling off of you. He pulls a pistol from the nightstand.

You nod, gun drawn as you both turn. Another spray of bullets rips through, punching holes in the wallpaper, the chandelier downstairs crashing. The house shakes with the assault, sleet cutting in through the broken windows, cold and stinging.

Junhui crawls to the edge of the bed and looks over to see shadows moving outside. There are three figures in black downstairs advancing on the stoop, rifles up. He fires twice through the window, the suppressed pops lost in the chaos.

"Back stairs," You tell him, already moving.

A bullet whines past your head, embedding in the walnut paneling. Junhui's heart lurches but you don't flinch as you return fire, turning into a woman he doesn't know at all. He follows, shoulder burning still, pistol steady as he shoots at a figure bursting through the front door below. The man jerks and falls, but more come in, footsteps thundering.

The back stairs are narrow and dark, the air thick with fust. You descend first, sweeping the landing as you clear it while Junhui covers you, exchanging fire. A shadow appears at the bottom but you fire once, the man crumpling. Junhui is suddenly thankful that you're trained and lethal.

The kitchen explodes into view. Bullets shatter the window over the sink as Junhui grabs a knife from the block, hurling it at an assailant charging through the door. The blade hits the man in the throat, blood spraying in a crimson fan as he falls. You snatch a revolver from a hidden drawer - Junhui realizes it's his - and fire at another in the hall.

"How did you know that was there?" He asked, stupefied.

"I thought you were just trying to protect the house," you admit. "I assumed you didn't know how to use it. It was sweet."

He doesn't have time to be offended as the kitchen erupts into chaos, men pouring in through the door from the garage. They're dressed in tactical gear like the rest, faces masked, rifles swinging to take aim.

You're too close for guns. Junhui shoves you around the island cojunter top as the first gunman shoots at you, the bullet pinging off the fridge. You squeeze the trigger of the revolver as you duck, feeling the click of the rotating chamber as you unload the full round into the first man, his vest catching them before you catch him in the throat, red spraying.

Chamber empty, you grab the cast iron skillet off the stove as another man charges Junhui. Your husband doesn't hesitate, ducking under the barrel of the rifle as twisting as he drives his elbow up into the assailant's ribs. You hear bones crack but Junhui doesn't stop, slipping behind the man and kicking out with a foot directly in his back, sending him forward.

The third man comes for you, dropping his rifle in the closed space to grab your arm. You swing the skillet hard, catching him across the temple. He goes stumbling, blood trickling from a gash. He recovers quickly, tackling you against the cabinets.

Pain flares in your back as things shatter, the drawers rattling behind you. You knee him in the groin, buying a second to scramble for a knife from the butchers block. His hand snaps out, iron clad on your wrist as he tries to keep you from the weapon. You snarl and throw your head forward, pain exploding behind your eyes as you use your head to crunch his nose.

Across the room, Junhui has turned into a weapon. His strikes are blindly fast, driving his palm up into his opponents nose before bring the knife down across the chest, the arms, the neck. He drops down and spins, sweeping the man's feet from under him as he goes down in a wet gurgle, vanishing on the other side of the island.

The man grappling you pins you to the counter and you scream, reaching for the knife, fingers slipping as his grip locks around your throat, squeezing tighter than anything you've ever felt. Panic flickers in your chest, air cutting off, vision spotting. You stomp on his instep and elbow him hard in the gut but he ignores it, dragging you across the counter and toward the garage door.

Then he's gone, thrown to the side as Junhui yanks him, chest heaving with rage. The violence in his face is raw as you choke down gasps of air, mouth wet with spit as you suck in breaths.

"Do not," Junhui growls, slinking forward. "Touch my fucking wife."

He collides with your attacker, sending them both into the wall. Plaster cracks under their weight as Junhui lands a series of strikes to the mans face, middle, ribs. The man gasps and Junhui grabs his head in both hands and twists violently, a loud crack echoing before the man goes limp to the floor.

Panting, Junhui turns to you, his shoulder wound seeping through his shirt, glass shards glittering in his hair. His eyes scan you frantically, rage morphing into panic. He storms over to you, cupping your face gently, turning your head side to side. "Are you hurt?"

"No," you rasp, voice hoarse from the choking. "Thank you."

He lingers a moment longer, something flaring in his face before he nods, hands dropping reluctantly. "Let's go."

You both plunge into the garage and you bolt for the motorcycle that Junhui never uses. It's a sleek, black Indian Scout. You'd never asked to ride it and he never really bothered with it, only using it on the summer nights when you were out of town. He assumed you didn't like motorcycles, but now you don't hesitate.

"Come on."

"Are you serious?"

"Get on," you demand, moving toward it.

You reach the bike first, swinging a leg over the seat without pause. The engine is cold, but the key is in the ignition. You twist it, thumb the starter, and the bike roars to life.

"You can ride?" He asks, as you kick the stand up and rev the throttle. "Since when?"

"Since I was twenty, get on."

Junhui swings on behind you, arms coming around your waist automatically. His grip is tight and he feels your hammering heart as he presses his chest to your back. You drop the clutch and twist the throttle, the scout lunging forward.

The acceleration is brutal, the front wheel lifting a bit before you muscle it down. He lets out a startled breath against your neck as you peel out onto the street, the bike fishtailing. You learn into it and the bike straightens, rocketing down the block as gunfire pops behind you.

Sleet and wind sting his eyes. Neither of you are dressed for this but he clings to you as you flick the bike through the street, taking the first corner harder, nearly laying it down. He lets out a shriek and a curse as you straighten out, gunning it.

"Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?"

"Clockwork," you yell. "Some of us learned more than guns!"

He laughs, the sound vibrating through him. He doesn't know what to think as the wind screams in his ears, biking roaring under him.

You weave through the late night traffic on Fifth, dodging Model T's and taxes, the bike's headlight cutting a white blade through the sleet. He turns to see a sedan following you and he curses. You steal the breath from his lungs again when you cut left onto a side street, narrow and barely wide enough. You downshift and fishtail as you come out of the side street and onto the road, swerving around a car.

Junui's arms flex around you, one hand sliding up to brace against your shoulder. "You're insane!"

You don't respond, but the admiration sings in his veins, nearly warm enough to fight off the bitter cold as you drive through back roads. He gives you directions as you drive, the two of you shivering as you lose your pursuers, cutting through the city.

His hands stay firm on you. He feels you shiver and he pulls you tighter, trying to keep you warm. At least, that's what he tells himself. He knows he's doing it to keep you a little longer, anchoring himself to you like he can keep you. He wonders if you feel the same fracture he does.

He wonders if it matters.

Dawn is grey and cold when you finally slow, the Scout's engine ticking as it cools. You're both shivering as you kill the engine and pull up in front of a farmhouse with a sagging porch and oaks surrounding it.

Junhui slides off first, offering a hand. You take it, shivering and shaking. You look up at the house, tears frozen on your face, lips swollen with cold. "What is this place?"

"Friend of mine. Not Protocol. From college. He's in Milan."

Minghao's place is cold as you step in. Junhui bolts for the fireplace, knowing it's dire to get it going. You stand in the threshold of the living room, trembling and freezing as he manages to get the dry wood lit. He turns and gestures you over. You come wordlessly, nearly collapsing as the orange flames lick over the logs.

Both of you hold your hands to the fire, trembling. It almost hurts to feel heat again, both of you shivering in silence as the fire roars to life. Slowly, you both sit, unwilling to move from the flames.

"We're safe," Junhui murmurs, tired, switching languages on instinct. "We rest first. Then plan."

You nod, slowly getting up to move to a chair, the distance between you vast.

-

You step out of the shower, steam curling around you. You dry off quickly and change into pajamas Junhui has given you - they're not exactly your size, but they work. Everything in this house belongs to Minghao who hadn't been preparing for you to stay, but Junhui swears he won't mind anyway.

Reentering the bedroom, you stop short. Junhui is standing in front of the small dresser mirror, shirtless. He's turned around, trying to look at the injury on his shoulder, the lamplight carving shadows across the muscles of his back, the narrow taper of his waist. He prods at the graze, wincing as he looks at it.

He sees you reflected and straightens, hand dropping. "Sorry, it's the only mirror in the house."

"Let me help," you say, setting your things down and rushing to him.

He nods as you riffle through the bathroom for medical supplies. Minghao thankfully has a simple one and you make Junhui sit on the edge of the bed as you wet cotton with antiseptic. He smells clean like the shower he took immediately before you, his skin warm as you near him, heart hammering.

Suddenly, it feels too intimate. You shake off the feeling - he's your husband. So you kneel on the bed, mattress dipping under your weight. Up close, the graze looks a little worse thank you though, jagged and angry. You feel a pang in your chest. He didn't complain once during the ride, didn't mention the pain. Just held on to you on the bike, arms tight around your waist.

Carefully, you start to dab at the wound. He doesn't hiss or make a sound, but his muscles twitch under your fingers. He turns his head to watch you, dark eyes intense. You swallow, feeling the tension crackle to life as you watch. You're close enough that you can feel his breath on your face, your fingers nimble and careful as you clean the cut.

"When did you get this?" You ask, voice quiet.

"The glass."

You realize what he means. A piece of jagged must have caught him while he was shielding you - protecting you - from the spray of glass and bullets that moment he saw the sniper before you did. It makes you feel guilty immediately. How stupid of you to turn your back to the window, even for a moment. You're lucky he was there - lucky he still cares.

The heat of him radiates toward you and you fight a shiver as he watches, eyes half-lidded. You could count every single one of his lashes this close, but instead you put down the pink-tinged cotton and exchange it for a needle and thread.

"It's not deep," you murmur. "But I think it needs stitches."

Carefully, you pierce the skin and pull the thread through. He doesn't react. Instead, he says, "You're pretty good at this. How many times have you done it?"

"Oh? Are we exchanging work stories?"

His mouth curves. "Indulge me."

It makes your stomach flip when he says it. You pause as you think about all of the times you've stitched someone or yourself. It feels weird to think of a story to tell him, the barriers between you suddenly gone.

"I've done it a lot," you admit. "Sometimes on myself, but mostly on other people. One time in Vienna a partner I was working with was shot in the leg during an extraction. I had to stitch him up in an awful basement with almost no light. He lived but Joshua literally never forgave me for the scar."

"Well Joshua should mind his tongue when speaking to you."

Your mouth twitches as you pull another stitch through. "What about you?"

"Botched hit in Berlin. The one on my chest."

You pause, narrowing your eyes. "You told me you got that in surgery."

"I'm a bit of a liar, love."

Your heart races from the nearness of him, his knee brushing your arm as you shift to tie off another stitch. You've been this close before, but never like this, vulnerable and exposed, everything tripped away.

"I had to patch myself for the first time in Shanghai," you continue. "It was in an opium den. Could barely figure out where the hell I was from the contact high."

"I've been there." You give him a look. "Protocol sends me to a lot of places, angel."

The nickname makes your heart trip over itself. He's called you that since the early days of your relationship when you were pretending not to speak Mandarin and letting him teach you, the warmth and fondness for him just as strong as it is now, despite the lies.

"I'm sure you had lots of pretty girls to stitch you up." You don't know why you say it, but it's out before you can stop it.

"None as pretty as you."

You don't know how to respond, your fingers shaking. You tie the last stitch, snipping the thread, your hand lingering for a second too long, craving the warmth. He's quiet, watching you with an expression that you can't read.

"There," you whisper. "Done."

He flexes the shoulder, looking away from you to the injury. You use the break in tension to shift away from him, sucking in air, wishing you felt cooler than you did.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

You stand, suddenly too aware of the charged tension. "I'm going to start dinner."

Junhui nods, but his eyes follow you as you head out the door, clicking the bedroom shut behind you.

In the hall, you lean against the door, heart pounding. The closeness - the heat of his skin, the shared stories - it's too much. You love him, but you know that your marriage wasn't built on love. It was built on deceit and versions of yourself you never really let the other have, and now you don't know what to do with it.

The kitchen is sparse, but the cupboards are filled with canned goods and a variety of spices. You light the stove, flames flickering to life as you rummage for potatoes, onions, and spices. Stew is the only answer for dinner tonight, and you're thankful there's at least chicken stock in the pantry.

Your hands move automatically, chopping, stirring, but your mind is on him. The graze, his quiet admission of jobs, the way he let you help without protest. Footsteps creak and you flinch, turning with the knife raised. It's Junhui, shirt on and hands up.

"Sorry," he notes and you drop the knife, sighing. He watches you for a moment before walking toward you. "Let me help."

You nod, handing him the knife for the onions. He stands too close, his arm brushing yours as he chops. The space is small, the stove's heat warming the room as you work together. It feels normal, almost, the two of you working in perfect tandem that you've built over the years. You stir the pot, making room for him as he leans for salt, arm brushing yours.

Junhui is different now - quieter, more intense - but he's still him. His mouth curves when his eyes flicker to you, something fond and understanding. It makes you nervous, the desire and sadness gnawing at you. You itch to touch him but you're unsure you can.

When the food is done, you eat at the small table, stew steaming in bowls. The fire crackling from the living room is the only sound as you both eat quickly, avoiding his gaze that keeps finding your face from across the table.

After, you clear the plates, doing anything to put space between you, thoughts spinning and full of him. You don't know what happens now - where to go or how to leave him. You watch him as he grabs blankets from the hall closet, intending to sleep on the couch - away from you, away from everything you've built.

You feel the fracture in your heart widen, the separation between you looming and wider than ever. The question falls from your lips before you can think twice, unable to stop yourself from asking any longer.

"Did you ever love me?" The words hang there, Junhui freezing. "Or was it just a cover all the time? I assume the latter, since we were fond but never very intimate, I guess. But I just - did you ever?"

Junhui freezes, the folded blanket clutched in his hands. The firelight paints him in flickering orange and gold, catching the way his composure cracks. He sets the blanket down slowly, moving toward you as he shakes his head."

"I loved you from the start," he murmurs. "Before I even married you. Marrying you was convenient, but I fell in love with you at that stupid gala. You asked me about that painting and I panicked and recited an entire catalogue of notes memorized the night before and you laughed - not at me, in delight. Like you found something unexpected and wonderful. And I remember thinking that I was the worst thing that could happen to you."

He laughs once, a small, broken sound as your heart hammers in your chest, breaths coming fast.

"You made it worse by being you," he admits, softening as he takes another step toward you. "You did small things for me, made my life perfect in ways that mattered. You never asked anything of me, you just… were there for me. I thought if I stayed gentle, if I stayed careful, if I never asked too many questions, maybe you’d never realize what kind of monster was sleeping beside you. I thought the guilt would be less if I never took more than you offered. So I kissed your forehead and pretended that was enough.”

Junui's palm is warm when he cups your face and turns you to look up at him. His thumb swipes across your cheek and you realize you're crying. His face is pained as he looks down at you, freehand snaking around your waist to pull you chest to chest with him, warm. His heart beats in time with yours as he looks down at you, gaze searching.

"It was never enough," he admits. "I love you so much it makes me sick with it. Every time you came home late I wanted to pull you into my arms and ask where you’d been. Every time you smiled at me across a crowded room at one of those awful parties I wanted to drag you into a coat closet and kiss you until neither of us could breathe. I didn’t. Because I thought it would make me evil to take what I wanted and lie to you at the same time."

You hiccup a sob. "I thought you didn't want me. You said you wanted to go our separate ways on the plane."

"I suggested it because I thought it was what you wanted. Because I thought letting you go was the kindest thing I could do for the woman I love."

"You absolute idiot!" Junhui blinks as you hug him, pressing your face to his chest. He laughs, a little confused as you squeeze him. "I took the forehead kisses and the gentle hands and the soft words and tried to convince myself it was enough, because I thought that was all you wanted from me and all I thought I deserved!”

"Really?"

"Yes, you oaf! I was so guilty for lying to you that I accepted what love you offered and felt grateful for it. Asked no questions. Thought I was awful."

He laughs squeezing you tighter, arms warm and secure and home. The arms of your husband, the Junhui you've always known.

You pull away from him a little, looking up at him. "When you said separate ways on that plane, I thought my heart was going to cave in. I agreed because I thought that’s what you needed. Because I thought you didn’t love me the way I loved you. And I was going to let you go. I was going to let you walk away because I thought it was the kindest thing I could do for the man I love.”

He cradles your face again, eyes dark as he looks down at you. Tears cling to your lashes and you sniff unceremoniously. He smiles, fond - in love - fingers pressed to your cheeks.

"What do you want, tiānshǐ?"

You reach up slowly, fingers trembling as you brush the hair from his face, his eyes shining.

"I want my husband," you tell him, heart racing. "All of him. The man who tutors neighborhood kids on weekends. The man who remembers birthdays and tips too generously. And the man who comes home with blood on his hands. The man who shielded me from bullets tonight. The man who’s been carrying the same guilt I have for years.”

For a single heartbeat, the world narrows to just the space between you. Then he moves, pulling you in - not gently or careful like you're used to - but desperate, with half a decade of starvation. He kisses you like he's starved, his mouth warm and wet and tasting of the salt from your tears.

You kiss him back, fisting his shirt in your hands, the years of things you've held back crashing through you - guilt, longing, terror, the stupid, vicious love you have for him. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and pulls you in closer, desperate for you.

When you finally break apart, his mouth doesn't go far, his lips ghosting across yours as he murmurs, "Wǒ de Tiānshǐ."

"Lǎo xiàng hǎo."

He stares down at you, snorting, unbelieving. "We really need to talk about how you pretended not to speak Mandarin."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, but right now I have other things on my mind."

You raise your brows, heart skipping a beat. "Like what?"

His lips curve into a slow, predatory smile, one you rarely see. It's possessive and hungry, your stomach knotting as he knocks his nose against yours. "Making love to my wife."

The words hang in the air, sending a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he scoops you in one fluid motion, his arms strong and sure beneath you. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your hands clutching his shoulders as he carries you toward the bedroom.

He moves effortlessly, body honed from years of training, muscles shifting under your touch. He kicks the door open with his foot, the wood creaking in protest, as he enters and throws you on the bed. You laugh, the breath escaping your lungs as he smiles at you while pressing you backward into the mattress, leaning over you.

Junhui shrugs his shirt off in a swift pull, revealing the scars you now know the stories to - the stitches on his shoulder fresh and delicate. There's no pain on his face now, just unrestrained hunger as he presses his waist to yours, leaning to kiss you again.

"You have no idea how often I've wanted this," he murmurs. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch toward him. "To claim you all the time. Often."

You reach for him, sliding your fingers through his hair as he kisses you again, teeth clashing. His weight on you is comforting, the mattress dipping under you both. He braces one knee between your thighs, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawn and down your throat. He nips the skin there, soothing the sting with his tongue. It makes you whimper and he groans in response, the flat of his tongue sweeping up your neck.

"Jun," you whisper, shivering.

He pulls away just enough to strip away your top, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you bare. "So beautiful," he growls. "My wife. Mine."

Junhui's hands roam, calloused palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch into the touch, heat pooling low in your belly as he lowers his head to catch a nipple in his mouth. The sensation makes you writhe, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you. You gasp, hips bucking instinctively, making him chuckle.

"Patience, my love," he teases.

His free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your pajama bottoms and panties, tugging them off in one rough motion. The cool air hits your exposed skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire inside of you. He tosses them aside, gaze fixed between your legs where you're wet and aching for him.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Have you been waiting for this too? Waiting for me to take you apart like you deserve?"

"Yes." His fingers trace the inside of your thigh, teasing higher but not quite touching where you need him most. "God, yes."

He hums in approval, shifting down the bed until he's kneeling between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing your knees apart. You feel exposed, breaths coming in quicker as he looks up at you, pupils blown and fucked out when he hasn't even touched you.

"I want to taste you first," he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to your knee. He kisses your inner thigh, your muscles twitching. "Want to make you come on my tongue. Can, I love? Will you let your husband devour you?"

"Please," you laugh, breathless and desperate. "Please, Jun."

He doesn't need more than that. His hands grip your thighs, holding them open as he leans in, his tongue flattening against you in one long, slow lick from entrance to clit. The sensation scrambles your brain, his tongue hot and wet. Your back arches off the bed as you suck in a harsh breath, his mouth closing against you as he groans. The vibration goes through you, making you squirm. He holds you harder, tongue diving in deeper before circling your clit lazily.

"Shit," you gasp, the curse leaving your lips before you can stop it.

Junhui laughs as you twist your fingers in the sheet, his mouth lethal against you. He switches between broad strokes and pointed pressure, sucking your clit into his mouth gently before releasing it with a pop that makes your toes curl. You feel the way you melt in his mouth, arousal and spit dripping from your cunt to the curve of your ass. He chases it, tongue hungry and greedy and you let out a broken sound.

He's relentless, possessive in a way he has never been with you all this time, tongue fucking you in shallow thrusts that have you grinding against him. One of his hands leaves your thighs, drifting to slide two fingers into your heat, curling upward to press against your front wall. Stars burst behind your eyes, one of your hands going to his head, fingers twisting in his hair.

"So tight," he murmurs, words muffled against you. "So perfect."

He suctions his mouth on your clit, sucking in time with the thrust of his fingers. Pleasure curls in your stomach and you feel yourself teetering on the edge, squirming in his hold.

"I'm - shit I'm gonna-"

"Come for me," he pants. "Let me taste you."

His fingers thrust harder, tongue circling your clit until you shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you, body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as you ride it out. He doesn't stop, licking you through it, drawing out over sound until you're shaking and oversensitive. Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening with your release, grinning.

"You taste like heaven," he rasps, leaning up to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself in his mouth. You moan into it, nails dragging down his back.

Junhui's fingers drift back between your legs, pressing in again. You whine and he hushes you with a kiss, stretching your cunt around three of his fingers, thrusts gentle.

"You can take it," he whispers. "Want you ready for me, yeah? You can do it, my love."

You nod as he pumps them slowly at first, scissoring to open you up. It feels so good, the edges of your vision blurring while his thumb circles your swollen clit in lazy strokes. The overstimulation borders on pain, but it melts into pleasure, your body singing.

"You've been holding back too, hm?" He asks. "All those nights I could have had you like this writhing for me."

"Yes," you pant. "Wanted you so badly but didn't know how."

Cur curls his fingers again, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. Sweat beads on your skin and it feels like your heart is going to pound out of your chest, slamming in your ribcage as you arch, head pressing backward into the mattress.

Junhui attaches his mouth to your throat, sucking the tender spot underneath your ear as he works you toward another orgasm. The slide of his chest against yours, the way he groans - it all makes you come again, squeezes his fingers hard as you flood his hand, making him curse.

"That's it," he praises. "Just like that, love."

He withdraws his fingers with a wet slide, bringing them up to this mouth, sucking them clean with a hum of satisfaction. You look at him, dazed as he grins and kisses your forehead. You press your hands to his shoulders, anchoring your knees to his hips and he only has a second of warning with your grin as you roll, flipping him under you.

Junhui looks up at you with stars in his eyes as you lean up on your knees, panting. His hands automatically go to your hips, squeezing as you catch your breath, looking down at him. His mouth is swollen and covered in spit and slick but you don't care - he's the most beautiful creature you've ever seen.

With shaking hands, you help him out of his pants, only making room so he can kick them down before you have him pinned under you again, letting you grind against his leaking cock. He groans and you grin, watching as his eyes squeeze shut as you tease him, the heat of your cunt nearly unbearable.

You reach between you, grabbing his hard cock, pumping a little before you line him up at your entrance, the thick head pressed tight against you. He hisses, watching as you sink down slowly, taking him inch by thick inch. It's a lot and you feel the air punch from your lungs until you're ass it flush to his thighs, stretched so tight you can barely breath.

"Fuck," he bites out. "You are fucking perfect. I love you."

You grin. "I love you, even though you were going to leave me."

"I'm an idiot."

"Yes," you agree, gasping as you start to move. "You are."

It's slow at first, your hips rolling in languid circles. The friction feels so good, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. His hands roam, squeezing your ass, thumbs digging into your hipbones to urge you a little faster.

"That's it," he rasps. "Use me."

Emboldened, you pick up the pace, bouncing now. Every thrust feels like it knocks the sense out of you, sweat slicking down your body as you try to catch your breath, thighs trembling. His hips thrust up to meet you, driving deeper, and you lean forward, nails raking down his chest.

"Mine," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your back to hold you to him. "No more holding back." You whimper and he thrusts up harder, gasping. "You're going to come on my cock, aren't you?"

You nod, unable to find the words, the angle letting him hit that spot inside of you that renders you useless. He takes over, banding you to his chest as he thrusts up hard and fast. It's too much, making you clench around him as you come with a scream, body sliding against his.

In one smooth motion, he rolls you, pressing you into the mattress. He's buried deep till, the weight of him pressing into you makes you delirious. He uses a hand to pin yours above your head, his hips grinding into yours, public bone pressing your clit as you whimper his name.

"One more," he begs, his thrusts turning deeper and slower. You nod as his free hand slides between you, gently circling your clit. "One more for me, love. My perfect fucking wife."

The overstimulation is torture, your body on fire, every nerve singing as he pulls you toward another high. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, hands squirming in his grasp as he pins you.

"That's it," he whispers, pace faltering as he starts to fall apart.

You come together, vision whiting out as you squeeze around him. He lets out a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside of you as he twitches. You can barely breathe, both of you tangled together, hearts pounding in sync.

He presses gentle kisses to your shoulder, murmuring in Mandarin, all the things he's always wanted to say - everything you needed to hear. You hold him close, never wanting to let go, uncaring that you were never the perfect wife and he was never the perfect husband. You're perfect for each other, two congruent pieces of a puzzle.

"I love you," he says again, voice rough. "From the moment I meant you."

"I love you," you whisper. "Before I even approached you."

-

The sun hangs low over the Aegean, painting the whitewashed walls of the stone house in gold. Naxos is beautiful this time of year, the sun painting the small kitchen with cracked blue tiles in the perfect light.

It's a simple thing - two bedrooms with a terrace overlooking olive groves that slope down to the sea. Junhui stands on the terrace now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, nursing a cup of coffee from the beans you'd found in Chora. You watch him from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, still wearing the faded linen dress you'd thrown on after your morning swim.

He glances over his shoulder and catches you staring. A smile curves his mouth, the same one he used to give you at flashy New York City parties.

"What are you staring at?" He asks.

"My very beautiful husband." You step closer, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, cheek pressed to the warm plane between his shoulder blades. "You know the ladies in Chora love you?"

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "Do the ladies in Chora know I am desperately in love with my wife? And also that she could kill them without a second thought if she got jealous?"

Junhui turns in your arms, careful not to spill the coffee on you as he sets it down on the railing. He cups your face with both of his hands, warm from the mug. The callouses on his hands are the same calllouses you've always known, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.

"I'm retired," you tell him, squeezing him tighter. "No more killing for me." You pause. "Unless they keep staring at you, then perhaps."

He kisses you, tasting like salt and coffee.

Jun lounges out on the couch like he’s posing for temptation itself; his eyes are half-lidded, and his delicious lips are curved with mischief. His legs are spread out in the typical man's way, and his wrist is draped casually over the backrest, but nothing about him feels casual. You’re on the floor between his knees, facing the TV, but you’re barely registering it between the alcohol and the man behind you. You can feel his intense stare burn down your spine, and when he says, “Truth or dare?” your mouth goes dry.

“Truth,” you say, already regretting it. Jun smirks, a slow curl of his lips that makes your stomach flutter and your pulse quickens. “What’s something you’ve imagined me doing to you... But you’ve never said out loud?”

Your skin flushes immediately, and your pulse quickens. You should lie. You should laugh it off. But you don’t. Instead, you look over your shoulder, meeting his eyes in the process. “I’ve imagined your mouth on me,” you say, quiet but certain. “Until I can’t think.”

There’s a pause, then, a small intake of breath from Jun. Then: “Get on the couch.”

You blink. “What?”

“Now.” His voice doesn’t rise like he’s yelling at you, but instead it lowers into something that’s deep, smooth and somewhat commanding. “Lie back on the couch, and let me make that fantasy real.”

You don’t hesitate this time, especially not with the way he’s looking at you. You crawl up onto the couch, lying back until you are settled deep into the cushions, your legs instinctively parting. Your breath catches when Jun immediately kneels between them, his hands sliding up your calves, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers higher. “Were you hoping I’d figure it out eventually?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t have to. The way your thighs clench and your hips shift says everything. Jun smiles again, that goddamn stupid smile that screams all sin, no mercy. He leans down and presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and firm, then another, and another, until he’s moving closer, but he’s never where you need him. You squirm, one hand desperately gripping at the couch, the other tangled in your own hair.

“Already impatient,” he says, his breath ghosting over your centre. “But I haven’t even tasted you yet.”

When his mouth finally closes around you, it’s devastating. His tongue licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your folds, and you jerk upwards with a gasp. He hums low in his throat, satisfied, and grips your thighs to keep you open.

He doesn’t rush. Jun eats you like he’s starving, but is in no hurry to be fed; each motion of his tongue and lips carefully placed, teasing you right on the edge of release. Your back arches as your hand reaches down, now clutching mindlessly at his hair, and he groans into you, the vibration making your thighs tremble.

“Jun—”

“Louder,” he murmurs, lips brushing your clit with a feather-light touch. “I told you, I want to hear you.”

You moan, helpless and raw, as his tongue circles again, but this time it’s firmer and faster. He slips a finger inside you, curling up perfectly, and then another, building a steady rhythm with a control that’s maddening. Your hips buck, your whole body straining toward something just out of reach. He doesn’t stop, not even when your legs start to shake, and not even when you cry out loudly,  your eyes squeezing shut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, his smirk growing wider by the minute. “Let go for me.”

You fall apart on his tongue, hands gripping at his shoulders, and your head thrown back as pleasure crashes over you in waves. He works you through it, licking until you twitch from oversensitivity, until you’re gasping and limp, and well and truly melted into the cushions.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth is wet and his lips swollen, and his eyes are blown wide with lust.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he says, voice wrecked.

You reach for him immediately, dragging him up by the collar of his shirt, crashing your mouth into his. You taste yourself on his lips, it’s something salty, sweet, and utterly raw, and it only fuels the fire already raging in your gut.

His body is solid and lean against yours, as well as hot and heavy. You grind up into him, feeling just how hard he is through his jeans. You fumble dumbly with the button and the zipper of his jeans until he finally shucks them off, with his boxers following right behind.

“You always been this confident?” you whisper against his mouth. “With you?” He pushes your panties to the side, lining himself up with your soaked entrance. “Always.”

He thrusts into you in one deep stroke while you cry out, freshly manicured nails digging deeply into his shoulder blades. He hisses through his teeth, his head dropping to your neck as he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you feel…” He doesn’t finish, he just pulls himself out slowly and thrusts into you again, harder this time. The couch creaks sadly under the rhythm he sets, with deep, grinding strokes that make you see stars. Your thighs wrap around him, your heels pressing into his lower back to pull him closer and deeper.

His name tumbles from your lips again and again, and his grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You feel so good,” he groans, voice breathless. “So fucking tight.”

Your hands roam mindlessly and desperately over his back and arms, and end up in his hair, almost clinging, anchoring, and most definitely memorising. His forehead presses to yours in an almost sweet action as he drives into you, sweat beginning to slick his skin.

“I want to see you when you cum,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t look away.”

You don’t. You can’t. He shifts himself and you until he’s tilting your hips just right, and suddenly every thrust hits that perfect spot. You gasp, your eyes wide and lips parted as the tension builds impossibly fast.

“Jun- God, please!”

“Let me feel it. Let me have all of it.”

The second orgasm hits harder than the first, your whole body arching and twitching wildly under him. You cry out his name, nails dragging down his back again as he keeps moving you through it, his orgasm impending. He’s desperate now, his hips stuttering. He groans your name as he follows you, thrusting one last time before he shudders, pulsing inside you, his forehead buried in your shoulder.

Silence falls over the two of you, minus your breathing, which is still quick and uneven, and the occasional creak of the couch as you shift. He doesn’t pull away from you immediately. He stays wrapped around you, still inside you, with his hand cradling your jaw, and his thumb brushing your cheek.

“That,” he says, voice hoarse, “was not part of the game.”

You laugh, breathless. “Then what was it?”

Jun kisses you, slow and sweet now. A different kind of heat, wrapped in a promise.

“No rules tonight.”

You're still catching your breath when Jun finally shifts off of you, only to pull you onto his chest a moment later. His skin is slightly damp, his heartbeat still pounding beneath your ear, but he’s smiling, and this smile is one that is smug and sweet in equal measure. You trace lazy circles on his toned stomach, still tangled together on the couch, and the air around you is heavy with heat and satisfaction. Your legs are sore, your body feels completely boneless. 

You should be done, but you’re not, and he feels it too. You feel it in the way his fingers start drifting again, they’re tracing down your back, over the curve of your ass, and brushing the inside of your thigh. His fingers are still light, as if he were testing the waters.

“Again?” you whisper against his collarbone.

Jun hums, signature smirk filling his face again. “Didn’t say I was finished with you.”

You look up and meet his gaze. There’s a flicker there, the hunger is returning, but this time it’s deeper, laced with something rougher. Without warning, he flips you over so you’re straddling his lap, your legs bracketing his hips. You gasp, hands landing on his chest.

“You’re not tired?” you ask, but the way his cock is already hardening again beneath you answers that question before he does. “I’m … inspired,” he says, dragging his hands up your thighs. “And pretty greedy.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow at first, then rougher, teeth catching your bottom lip as he pulls it into his mouth. You roll your hips experimentally, grinding down against him, and he groans into your mouth.

“You keep doing that,” he mutters, “and I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Jun grins and then grabs your hips and lifts you just enough to line himself up again. He slides himself in slowly this time, deeper somehow in this angle, and you moan, your head falling forward onto his shoulder.

“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your ear. “Still open and still fucking perfect.”

You move together, finding a rhythm that’s different from before; it’s much slower and deeper, far more intimate than mere minutes ago. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorise you all over again: the slope of your back, the curve of your waist, the way your breasts bounce when you grind your hips just right.

“Look at you,” he whispers, voice tight with restraint. “Riding me like you were made for it.”

You’re too far gone to be embarrassed. Your hands slide up into his hair again as you roll your hips again and again, chasing friction, chasing more. He thrusts up into you in tandem now, meeting you halfway each time, the slap of skin loud in the otherwise quiet room.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly, low and rough. “Let me see you fall apart.”

You don’t hesitate. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit as you ride him, your body flushed and trembling. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and intense, his lips parted in awe.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes. “Fucking unreal.”

You moan louder now, no longer holding back any sounds or care, the pressure mounting fast. He feels it, and lets his hands dig into your hips, his rhythm falters slightly as he feels you tighten around him.

“Come for me,” he commands, voice ragged. “Just like that.”

he's also thee best comforter during exam season omg!!!

more than willing to stay up all night studying with you if it makes you feel better

he knows how u spiral into panic if you're left on ur own, so the closer it gets to exams, he starts showering u with even MOREE affection than before

and you know he'll be showering u with kisses once exams r FINALLY out of the way as a congratulations 😙

always leaves snacks in your bag and little post-its with cat faces drawn on them to reminder you to drink water bc he KNOWS that you're so bad at taking care of urself when you're fully locked in

"hey junnie, you know you can just text me, right?" / "are you saying you don't like my cat drawings :((" / "whAT NO I WOULD NEVER—"

also just bc he's a broke college student does nawwt mean you'll ever catch him slacking as ur bf !!

gives you little gifts whenever possible, is always showing up at ur dorm with flowers, buys you books + clothes + stationary + groceries + whatever he can to show he cares

one thing he won't do, though, is catch bugs for you.

nuh uh. that is a no-go.

who cares that he's literally 600000x bigger than the spider? the spider is still WAYY scarier than he'll EVER be so he is NOT touching that no thank you.

the two of you stay glued to one corner of the library till ur friend arrives and scares the spider off

but junhui makes up for his bug-related uselessness by being useful in literally every other area of ur life

hungry? he'll cook for you. sick? he'll take care of you. stuck on an essay? he'll help you, even if he's not studying anything remotely related to ur major

he could be in the throes of finishing his dissertation, bags under his eyes and the world on his shoulders but he'll still drop everything to help you

what can he say? he's in love with u.

and what makes it even better is he knows, he knows that you'd do the exact same thing for him too

you're so full of love, so kind and wonderful that he can't help but do all of this in return, just to try and give an ounce of that same love back

it's the least you deserve, he thinks.

(and don't tell anyone, but right after graduation, he's thinking of getting you a promise ring and taking u to visit china with him b4 u go to ur respective internships.)

(and then, further down the line... he's really hoping to marry you one day. you know. because he really does love you a lot. hopefully you love him just as much too.)

You didn’t seem too keen on sharing a stage with any of them, your eyes raking over nimble fingers and carefully shaped nails, bulging biceps and deliciously thick thighs almost bursting through bedazzled tights. You seemingly didn’t feel anything for the people you dismissed with a wave of your pen, leaving behind a trio of men – a trio that includes him.  

And he kind of likes the way indifference floats off you. It’s like you’re just like him.  

One in blue (27), one in white (82) and one in black, him.  

Number 1. The first to arrive, early that Tuesday morning.  

“We won’t get an understudy if you’re this picky, sweetheart.”  

He can hear the injured trapezist soft laughter from behind you, something rich in it settling into his bones – he thinks his name is Infinite, he’d seen him on a poster on Canal and Mercer. You let a smirk tug at the corner of your lips as a woman next to him clears her throat, before walking backwards towards them; the tassels of your leotard swinging with your every move. You set your clipboard down on the chair you’d been sitting on when all the auditionees had filed in, before folding your hands behind your back and giving them an award-winning smile; all teeth and ruby red lipstick.  

“Welcome to the Skyline Soirée.” You speak confidently, your eyes darting to the man in blue rolling his. Your smile drops to a much gentler one, a hint of cynicism in the back of your eyes, “you can go, 27.”  

“Are you serious?”   “Out.”  

“She’s ruthless.” He hears another man speak, joining the pair behind you; the loud, unmistakable crunch of an apple sounding in the ring. You roll your eyes, setting your shoulders back before looking at him and the other man in front of you. You tilt your head at them, and it would’ve been cute if there wasn’t that emptiness filling the back of your eyes.  

It makes him a little giddy.  

“As I was saying, welcome to the Skyline Soirée. Our circus has been the longest standing trapeze-centered circus in Manhattan since 1902, and been passed down through four generations. Much like there is history to trapeze, there is history to our circus. Our first ringmaster was Park Hyoseop, who built this empire centered around trapeze. He was succeeded by Park Minhyuk, and Park Hyunjin. Finally, we’ve been handed over to our very first female ringmaster, Park Jihyo.”  

Jihyo raises her coffee cup with a small smile on her lips, and he gives her a curt nod back before returning his attention to you. You’re pacing in front of them, your hair cascading down your back before you sharply turn to a stop.  

“I will preface this audition with the fact that you will not be the star of the show. You are merely an accessory, a background character...”  

You point at a poster on one of the circus pillars, your smiling face plastered on it with a sparkly leotard in candy apple red. His eyes scan the poster, taking in the way the color really brought out your eyes – before you point to another across the room. Still you, posed perfectly in your seemingly trusty gold hoop, in a white leotard with angel wings: the face of the Skyline Soirée.  

The star of the Skyline Soirée.  

Being in your presence made his skin prickle.  

“Should you pass this audition, you will become a temporary trapeze artist with the Skyline Soirée for the next eight weeks. After eight weeks, we will revisit your contract with us, as we expect Minghao to be performance ready by then.” You set your shoulders back again, your dark green leotard twinkling in the low light as you point at the injured trapezist. “Should we like you, you could become one of eight trapeze artists and continue within our circus as a permanent member of the team. If you get that opportunity, I recommend you stay in my good graces.”  

He feels his teeth ache at your demand for respect.  

He hears the wheels that hold the sandbags start turning, and he glances over your shoulder to see the apple-eating man starting to move things around. You smile inwardly, before turning back to the men as he stares at you with wide eyes. There’s a tick in your brow as you make eye contact with him, trailing your gaze down his frame before turning on your heel.  

His cheeks feel hot as you walk away.  

“I will be performing a basic routine once, so pay attention. You’ll have to recreate this, and it’s really quite simple. Couple spins, couple suspensions...if you know what you’re doing, you’ll get it done.” You shrug, seemingly disinterested in any excuses as you walk backwards. He and No.82 clear the ring out; the sound of the spotlights being clunked on making you visibly excited. You grab the thick rope in one hand, giving it a hard yank as Middle of The Night by Elley Duhé starts to play throughout the arena. You seemingly can’t help the smile that tugs on your lips; likely habit from over a decade of performances as you’re pulled up by the rope.  

Of course, he knows you’ve been with the Skyline Soirée for twenty-one years. He knows all about you and your gold hoop. He does his research, what kind of man would he be if he didn’t?  

He watches calmly as your body contorts around the rope, wrapping your ankle in the tied noose as you’re swung around the arena. The momentum blows your hair back as you spin in tight circles, your eyes trained for what he assumes is the familiar gleam of your gold hoop as it is swung your way by the quick-footed man tossing it to you. You grab it, twisting your body into the curve of the swing, flipping in and out of it with a grace only mastered by years of dedication. He’s sure you can feel the eyes on you all around the arena, he’s sure you feel at home as you grab yet another rope being swung at you – wrapping it around your thighs with ease and fully flipping yourself upside down. You narrowly miss him, your fingertips just barely grazing the sequins of his leotard as you swing past him.  

You seem to feel free, as you grab another hoop being thrown at you, and he can practically feel the sting of the rope burning into your bare thigh as you flip yourself onto the cool metal. You fold your legs around the hoop; the metal tucked behind your knees and the curve of your ribcage almost identical to that of the hoop as you spin in tight circles to the middle of the ring. The song comes to an end as you’re suspended a few feet above the ground, your smile dropping as you position yourself to be pulled off the hoop by the same man; strong hands gingerly pulling you off the hoop.  

He’d overheard a few of the other auditionees talk about that. That you were a princess to this circus, that Jihyo once said you were too valuable to jump down from any distance. One wrong move meant metatarsal fractures, sprained ankles, even dislocated knees.  

It wasn’t worth the risk.  

You thank him softly, the gleam in his eyes making your shoulders soften as his fingers squeeze you gently before he slips away.  

He feels his stomach tighten, his body moving before his mind as he brings his hands together in a soft clap; your brows raising as you look over at him, his head nodding curtly. More clapping fills the room from your teammates, and you look flustered as you clear your throat, hearing snickering from Minghao’s general direction before he stops and tucks his hands behind his back.  

You turn to face him and the other auditionee.  

“Easy, right? Who wants to go first?” You smile brightly, resting your hands on your hips as the man in white winces.  

“I think I’ll have to forfeit. I was told this would be flying trapeze, not static. I apologize for wasting your time.” He speaks carefully, and your eyes widen slightly as he picks up his bag and gives a quick bow. You don’t even get a chance to speak before he’s out the double flaps, where a few children peer in to get a glimpse of the auditions. You wave, and they squeal lightly before sprinting away.  

“They must really like you around these parts,” he says gently, moving to fold his hands in front of him. You tilt your head, hearing the spin of metal on metal as the rope is thrown to you from behind.   

“Let’s see if we like you, huh?” You hold it out to him, and he only smiles softly; taking the rope gingerly before stepping carefully into the ring. He steps to where you started, give or take an inch – and he hears the man who helped you get down rustle around before the music starts again. With a quick thwip of his wrist, he’s in the air – and you move back to watch him glide expertly through the air.  

He catches the man’s throws with a finesse that would make anyone’s skin litter with goosebumps, curling through your trusty hoop with poise. He can feel the bated breath surrounded him as he nails each of your twists, your figure moving backwards to follow him around the arena before your thigh bumps Minghao’s arm. His hand grabs it, squeezing the plush flesh as you furrow your brows in concentration.  

He swings past you smoothly, his hand gracing your cheek ever so slightly; your eyes averting as he shoots you a wink. He notes the quick scowl in your face, the tick in your jaw as you shift your weight as he splays himself across the second hoop. He feels the heat of your gaze trail the curve of his hip, tonguing your cheek as the scattered sequins of his leotard catch the low light.  

He’s suspended above the ground just as you were, but he flips out of the hoop and faces Jihyo, Minghao, an openly impressed unnamed man, and you.  

“Thank you for the opportunity.” He speaks softly, demurely, even; bending at the waist carefully as his chest heaves up and down in steady breaths. He catches the way a smile tugs at the corner of Jihyo’s lips, Minghao’s hidden by his hand yielding a lit cigarette. You circle him like a dog does before lunging in for a bite, raking your eyes over him as you observe the elegance in his posture.  

“Good shoulders,” you murmur, clicking your tongue three times as you stand in front of him. You splay your hands on your hips, before glimpsing over your shoulder; his eyes following the soft slope of your neck. Minghao gives you a smirk, a shrug of one shoulder as you look back, your eyes catching the sliver of the thin gold chain beneath his leotard. You push his shoulder suddenly, watching his sturdy form as he hardly wobbles.  

Your lips curl into an oddly impressed frown, and you circle him again – pushing the center of his back with the tips of your fingers, humming as he doesn’t budge. You gently nudge the back of his knee with your foot, smirking inwardly as he glimpses over his shoulder at you with an amused look playing in his eyes. You shrug, folding your hands behind your back with a sly smile as you carefully slide over to Minghao.  

“You like him?” You ask, loud enough for him to hear as you lean against the chair. Minghao takes a quick drag of his cigarette, his arm wrapping loosely around your waist as he blows the smoke away from your face. He watches Minghao’s fingers dig into your hip gently, annoyance settling in the pit of his stomach.  

“Good posture, firm shoulders. Sturdy...sexy.” Minghao shrugs, making you nod as you slither over to Jihyo. The ringmaster rolls her eyes with a smile as you wrap your arms around her neck and smush your cheek to hers as he folds his hands in front of himself. The unnamed man from before bumps his hip to yours, planting a quick kiss to your hairline.  

“I second the decision.” Jihyo shrugs, “he seems...able. Great physique, we’ll do a physical to make sure he’s in good health.”  

“It’s up to you, though, babe. It’s your domain, after all.” Minghao clears his throat. You tilt your head as you meet his eyes across the ring, patting Jihyo’s shoulder as you run your tongue over your teeth.  

“You got a name, hotshot?” You ask, leaning your forearms on the back of what was originally your chair – one that now the unnamed man occupies. Your fingers brush his bare shoulders, pinching the skin playfully as he tugs his sleeves over them with a pout.  

“Junhui. Wen Junhui.”   “Where are you from, Wen Junhui?”  

“Boston, Mass.” He states clearly, and he remains stoic as he notices the way you all stiffen, a chill running through your bodies simultaneously.  

The Boston Extravaganza had been dismantled from the roots just three weeks prior – the ringleader, Kang Minseok, murdered after his first Sunday in the spot. The investigation is pending, but he’s sure it’ll close. 

Just like all the others. 

Performers had fled into the depths of Manhattan, seeking refuge from their now broken home. To his knowledge, Jihyo had been gracious enough to take in a few performers, but nothing too major. She’d made calls all over, sending people all around the Northeast with the promise of work – should they arrive safely.   

If he was anyone else, he would agree that it is painful – to see fellow performers lose their touch as they navigated the streets of your city in search of work. Performers retired the sparkling leotards for brown aprons, espresso machines and thumbing through tip jars for their share of the feed.  

He knew that Jihyo hadn’t intended to take in another trapeze artist, he’d been floating around the circus long enough to know exactly what the weaknesses were – though it seemed Jihyo ran quite a strong ship. Minghao, as if right on Junhui’s schedule, broke his foot last weekend – falling from the hoop at four feet of suspension, and you’d been left to swing through your carefully practiced routine alone. Junhui had watched every performance from the stands, hidden behind cheering families and bored teenagers; chewing on salted caramel taffy and taking notes in his phone.  

Jihyo had enough with what she called her Lucky 7...which was pioneered by you.  

The brightest star of them all: the final performance to seal the night. The one who led the ending bow and wore hand-bedazzled leotards made by Jihyo. You stood in the middle of the performers; your shoulders set back in confidence as you thanked the city of New York for joining you for yet another glorious performance.  

He’d heard Jihyo joke that her ownership of the Skyline Soirée was just for show.  

Of course, it wasn’t. He’d heard a lot about her in particular – she was kind, smart, confident. A creative businesswoman who did not let anything get between the success of her and her circus. She saw potential in everything and everyone, never once giving up in the face of adversity – even when one by one, circuses across the country were destroyed from their sturdy foundations.  

“I was part of the–”   “We know.”  

Jihyo nods carefully, and his eyes catch your hand running through your hair as you trill your lips. You nudge the unnamed man, “Mingyu, where’s my clipboard?”  

Mingyu.  

“Well, welcome to the team. Eight weeks, Wen. Then we’ll see if we keep you on board. Sounds good?” Mingyu raises a brow, pulling the clipboard from under his meaty thigh and flipping the page to the contract that would bound Junhui to the Skyline Soirée for two months.   

“We have three days of practice, and four performance nights. No breaks aside from the nine hours of sleep we’ve allotted in the schedule. It’s important that we are well rested.” You say pointedly, before grabbing the clipboard and clicking the sparkly pink pen. You wave him over with a flair of disinterest, your eyes bored as he makes his way over and takes the pen from your fingers. Jihyo stands, taking the clipboard and gesturing around.  

“Sign here, and here. Initial here, here, here and here. You’ll have to consent to a physical examination over on Canal and Mercer with Dr. Hong and Dr. Yoon, they're our primary care providers for the Skyline Soirée. They’ll take good care of you.” She nods as Junhui takes the clipboard gingerly, scribbling his life away. “You will also have to meet all the other members of our team, but you report to Y/N and Mingyu every morning. They’re your team directors. Think of it like we’re corporate and they’re your managers.”  

Mingyu disappears into the shadows of the arena, and Jihyo talks shop for what feels like an hour – but Junhui’s eyes drift to you and Minghao. You seem relatively close; Minghao’s hand nestled on your upper thigh, fingers kneading the flesh gently as you whisper amongst yourselves. You talk with your hands a lot, gesticulating at the open air and tracing shapes that Minghao understands seamlessly; your brows furrowing as you repeatedly hit the side of your hand to your palm, pointing at something Junhui can’t see at the top of the circus arena.  

“...And Y/N will introduce you to everyone. We’ll get you a handbook and a physical appointment before Wednesday.” Jihyo nods, Mingyu walking forward with a thin book; the circus name plastered across the front with a picture of the main cast on the cover. He holds it out to Junhui, and only then does he notice the pink bookmark already sticking out from the middle of it.  

“You’ll have to go over this before Wednesday, because you have more documents to sign. Y/N will introduce you to everyone and show you to your trailer. Welcome to the Skyline Soirée, Junhui.” Jihyo holds her hand out, and Junhui smiles brightly, taking her hand gingerly and giving it a firm shake. She smiles in return, bowing slightly before dropping her hand, “now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to get back to. Make yourself at home.”  

“I will, thank you.”  

Mingyu watches Jihyo walk away with his arms crossed, and you and Minghao do the same. There’s a blanket of silence that falls over the four of you, before Minghao taps the ash off his cigarette, taking a final drag before putting it out on the ashtray on his thigh.   

“So,” he blows the smoke out, making you scrunch your nose as you wave it away from your face. “You’re from Boston?”  

“Not technically, but that’s where I came from.” Junhui shrugs, mindlessly rifling the pages of the handbook. “I was part of that circus the longest, so I guess I just got used to saying that.”  

“Where are you from originally?” Mingyu asks next to him, making Junhui’s lip tug up into a lopsided smile that screams pity.  

“Washington.”  

You stiffen visibly but clear your throat as Minghao glances up at you with a look of concern on his features. You give him a pained smile, before clasping your hands in front of you.  

“I think it’s time we introduce Junhui to the rest of our cast, hm? Mingyu, Minghao?” Your eyes and voice are pointed in a way that you don’t want Junhui to understand, but he rolls his eyes as he folds his hands behind his back. “Come, you’ll want to meet everyone before we take you to your trailer.”  

“Ah, ah! Jihyo said you have to introduce and take him home. There was no we in that.” Minghao retorts next to you, before flashing a mischievous smile at Junhui, “enjoy your stay, Junhui. I’m glad to see someone as skilled as you taking my place for the time being.”  

“I hope you feel better soon, Minghao.” He nods gently, before Mingyu makes his way over and helps the man up, the crutches leaning against one of the pillars being picked up in one hand as he practically throws Minghao over his back. Both men give him a quick wave and a smile, before snickering to themselves as you huff, your hands curling into fists at your side as Junhui takes long, silent strides to settle at your side.  

You seem startled as you glance over and see him next to you, your eyes flashing with a veil of disinterest before you tongue your cheek.  

“Hi.” He says softly, before holding his hand out. You glance down at it, “I don’t shake hands. You already know who I am.”  

“Do I?” He tilts his head, dropping his hand to his side before you press your red lips into a thin line. “It’s nice to meet you.”  

“Pleasure.” You cross your arms on your chest, “first things first, we are not friends.”  

“I didn’t assume we would be,” Junhui smiles, “but I get you. Strictly business.”  

You let your eyes scan him shamelessly, before turning your nose up and clicking your tongue.  

“Minghao is my long-term partner, but I’ve done trapeze with everyone on the Lucky 7. You’ll have to show that you can work well with them before we can even consider you to be a part of the team permanently.” Your voice is level, but you sound bored as you raise a brow at him, “but if you don’t get along with me, it won’t happen for you, anyway. What I say goes.”  

You don’t give him a chance to respond, opting to walk away. He follows silently, watching you carefully step over the edge of the ring and duck behind the curtains. He’s met with a mess of people prepping – some people are stretching, others are being laced up into costumes, Jihyo is carefully holding three pins in her lip as she holds a tape measure to a girl’s waist. No one cares to look up as you make your way through – their eyes glued to their own projects as you stop in front of a frosted glass door, your knuckles rapping on the frame in a memorized pattern.  

The door opens, a bright-eyed man smiling almost instantly as he sees you.  

“Y/N!” His plump cheeks almost hide his eyes entirely as he throws his arms around you, pulling you into an embrace. You’re slightly stiff before your arms wrap around his waist, the man not noticing Junhui standing behind you until you clear your throat.  

“Hosh, we’ve got company.” Your voice is muffled against his shirt, and the man’s smile drops before his eyes find Junhui. He waves lightly, the man straightening and letting you go as he tilts his head.  

“Minghao’s replacement?”   “He has a name, Hoshi.”  

You roll your eyes, pushing past the man. Junhui holds his hand out instinctively, the man taking it firmly as a whistle is heard in the room.  

“Junhui. From Boston.”   “...Hoshi. Jersey City.”  

“Nice to meet you, Hoshi. Is that a stage name?” Junhui asks as Hoshi drops his hand gingerly, earning a shrug.  

“No one goes by names here, really. It’s all stage presence unless you’re Y/N. She’s who she is in and out of the ring.” He flips a sign next to the door to say In Session before moving to the side to let Junhui into the room. He ducks inside, Hoshi following and closing the door as what seems like a barre dance studio comes into view. The walls are lined with mirrors, with a trio of men scattered across the room. You’re standing at the far-right corner, aggressively moving through a rack of sparkling leotards and skirts. There is a desk covered in first aid supplies, a half-filled kit sprawled open, and a roll of dressing strewn everywhere.   

Minghao sits in the desk chair, with Mingyu carefully wrapping his foot as the smell of Tiger Balm fills the room.   

Your shoulders are tense as you thumb at the sleeve of an orange leotard, your fingers visible through a torn hole as you scowl. You turn on your heel, clearing your throat and gathering the attention of everyone. The men seemingly scramble to stand in a line; their shoulders taught and backs straight as you step in front of them; Hoshi and Mingyu joining the lineup without a second thought. Junhui watches as you settle against the bar, crossing your arms on your chest.  

“Gentlemen, we’ve got a new addition to our team.” You speak clearly, but their eyes don’t avert to Junhui as you click your tongue. “Wen Junhui from Boston. He will be taking Minghao’s place for the next eight weeks, should he pass his physical exam. You are all to remain attentive in your routines, and I will be taking someone on as an understudy should Junhui or I get injured or fail to perform up to the Skyline standards. I expect you all to be on your best behavior, and I know you won’t disappoint me. Do I make myself clear?”  

“Yes, ma’am.” The men sound off almost robotically, before your shoulders relax slightly.   

“You will all have time to introduce yourselves later, but this is just something quick to get it out of the way. I’m going to show Junhui to his trailer, and I expect you all to have picked out lunch by the time I get back.” You run a hand over your face lightly, before pointing directly at Hoshi, “no more disco fries. You’ll get sick like you did last time and then I can’t have you understudy because Jihyo will make you sit out.”  

“You’re such a party pooper.” Hoshi pouts, making you snicker inwardly before you call a break with a clap of your hands. The men huddle together; several phones being pulled out as Junhui watches you push off the barre. You don’t bother looking at him, making your way to the door with a wave of your hand for him to follow you. He does just that, opening the door for you and earning a purse of your lips as you slip out.  

“You sure run this team like the Navy.” He comments gently; that gets him a sliver of a smile as you shake your head.  

“No, I don’t. They just know what they need to do.” You reply, “they’ll introduce themselves to you during lunch. Or after, or whatever. It’s up to them; they don’t owe you anything.”  

Junhui doesn’t respond, keeping his eyes trained on the sway of your leotard tassels. Your body is fluid, no tension carried anywhere but you’ve seemed to have trained yourself to keep it together. Like you’ve got your own demons, several skeletons in your own closet – but none strong enough or big enough to show the effects of them on your face. You carry yourself with your shoulders set back, your chin tilted up; poised, confident, brave.  

Strong.  

You stop in front of a door, the blaring red sign above it reads EXIT.   

“You’ll get a keycard that lets you in and out of the building. Hansol should get it to you before sundown, but since Jihyo stuck you with me for the time being, we’ll use mine. You only get one before Hansol makes you fork over ten bucks, so most of us just leave it hanging here.” You gesture at the wall, keycards hanging from a hook on different colored lanyards. You grab the first one off the hook, flipping it over to see the name Dahyun in blue permanent marker, “if you have any technical problems, you go to Hansol. If you have any wardrobe problems, you go to Hansol.”  

“I assume I’ll meet Hansol soon, right?” He watches you nod as you push the door open, and dozens of trailers come into view. They are sectioned off behind chain fences, seemingly in teams – Lucky 7, Clown Alley, Arson Avenue, Staffing Street.  

“Arson Avenue?”   “It’s for the fire artists. They’re further back because they practice outside, and we can’t let anything catch on fire.”  

You push the gate open on the Lucky 7 set, the trailers lining the fence with four on each side, with a bigger one lining the back of the lot. You beeline for it, typing the code into the door before glancing over your shoulder.  

“Wait here. I have to get your keys.”   “Is this—”   “This is my trailer.”  

You say nothing else, slipping inside the pink door and disappearing inside. Junhui rocks on his heels, trilling his lips as he looks around. Everyone’s names are plastered on their trailers and decorated accordingly, it seemed; Hoshi, DK, Mingyu, Seungkwan, Infinite, Dino. There is one empty trailer next to yours, stark white and plain as opposed to the plethora of colors around the sector.  

“Okay, found them.” You slink back out of your trailer, holding a set of keys in your hand. “You’ll have keys for the next eight weeks, and we’ll get someone out here to give you a keypad if you end up signing on permanently. In the meantime, don’t lose these; Jihyo hates the locksmith, he’s difficult.”  

You roll your eyes but make your way over to the empty trailer. His eyes catch the gold foil stars on the sides of your white trapeze boots in the high noon sun, your leotard twinkling in the light as you yank the door to the trailer open. You feel around the side for the light switch, flicking it on before beckoning him forward.  

“I know that the Boston Extravaganza had you set up in dorms, but Jihyo really wanted us to be more like a community rather that roommates. Roommates can have tension, which can cause issues in the ring and then we’re all messed up. So, this will be yours for the time being.” You nod curtly, “you’ve got a kitchenette, closet, bathroom, shower. The couch is a futon, but if you’re here longer, you can get a bigger trailer, and we’ll switch it out with a bed. Of course, no one stays all that long, so...good luck.”   

You lack a bit of empathy as he steps inside, “we’ll arrange Seungcheol or Jaebeom to give you a lift back to your hotel room so you can get your belongings. We run a strict schedule around here, so lights out by ten. You don’t have to sleep, that’s your prerogative. We’re up by six in the morning, breakfast at seven and arena by seven-thirty. Lunch is at one, dinner is at six-thirty, and we have cast-wide dinners once a week. Any questions?”  

You’re apathetic as you blink at him, eyes tired as your arms cross against your chest. He tilts his head at you, before holding his hand out. Your brows furrow, “I don’t shake hands.”  

“My keys, sweetheart.”  

If you’re embarrassed, you’re good at masking it – shrugging your shoulders before holding his keys out to him by the ring. He takes them gently, spinning them on his fingertip before clasping his hand around them.  

“How long have you been with the circus?”   “Since I was six.”   “Do you like it?”  

“It’s everything to me.” You say plainly, “it’s all I know. Do you have any questions about this? Because I’d like to get back for lunch.”  

“You’re not very welcoming, are you?” He raises a brow, and you stiffen slightly; tonguing your lower lip before sighing.  

“I don’t warm up to newcomers. I know better, and so should you. Now, if you don’t have questions, I’d like to get a move on.” You give him a pointed look, making a show of exiting the trailer as he sets the handbook down on his counter. He watches as you inch away from the trailer, flipping the page to the pink bookmark.  

Across the top of the page, in bold Times New Roman is exactly what he thought would be there.  

ANTI-FRATERNIZATION POLICY.  

“Bingo.” He mutters to himself, running his eyes over the page quickly before tossing the entire book across the trailer onto the futon. He’d look over it later; tucking his keys into his palm before slipping back out. You’re halfway across the lot, and he moves like molasses before smirking at himself when you look over your shoulder with an annoyed expression.  

“Junhui! Move it!”   “I’m coming, I’m coming.”  

 Lunch moved fast. The team practically inhales their food, and you perched on the edge of the desk and shared chips with Minghao; shy smiles and his fingers tracing shapes into your bare thighs. He gets introduced to everyone and quickly learns that yes, while stage names were mostly used – he could quickly get used to calling everyone by their real names. DK was Seokmin, Dino was Chan and Hoshi was in fact, Soonyoung.   

He also quickly learns that not everyone on the trapeze team is from New York and New Jersey aside from Soonyoung, Minghao from Syracuse and Seungkwan, who is from Hoboken – Seokmin is from Chicago, Mingyu is from Kapolei, and Chan is from Atlanta.   

You’re from Manhattan, born and raised. You grew up here with Jihyo, Minghao and Hansol, lost everyone and won everything back almost immediately. He learns just that, no context – in hushed whispers, from Hoshi.  

“She’s sweet,” he had said, shoveling the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “She just doesn’t trust new people. Let her warm up to you, it’ll happen eventually.”  

You made no effort to do so for the remainder of the day.   

Junhui was introduced to both Jaebeom and Seungcheol right after lunch, because Jihyo had called them during lunch to inform them that Junhui had been signed on. The pair drove him to his hotel to help him gather his things before letting him know he had an appointment the next day with Dr. Yoon – before driving him back and helping him get settled in the trailer.  

“How’d you get on with Y/N? Was she nice?” Seungcheol asked gently, and Jaebeom had a seemingly knowing look in his eyes as he smirked inwardly. When Junhui answered unsurely, they shared a pointed glance before Jaebeom spoke up.  

“She’s a bit cold right off the bat, but she’ll get better. She just doesn’t know you yet.”   

It seemed as though everyone tried vouching for you to comfort him – like it wasn’t his fault that you were standoffish, but he’d certainly be subjected to your behavior because he had no choice. You were the star, and you were going to stay the star; your behavior was to be tolerated, you were to be respected and you were held in high regard no matter his opinions about your rightfully earned position, his opinions about the cast that enabled your behavior, or his opinions about you.  

He would have to tolerate it, to tolerate you – whether he liked it or not.  

Junhui can’t imagine a mystery more enticing.  

He spent the rest of the night in his trailer. He showered, the water pressure shittier than it had been in Boston but he was no one to complain. He draped himself across the futon, legs covered in black sweatpants and donning his dark green zip-up – and he cracked open the Skyline Soirée Cast Member Handbook right back to the pink bookmark.  

“Anti-fraternization policy,” he reads, rolling his eyes with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “What, can’t bang the star of the show?”  

Apparently, it’s just that: he literally can’t – it’s right there in black and white.  

The Skyline Soirée prohibits the ideation, intention or execution of any romantic advances or relationships between employees. This includes staff members, ringmasters and performers; should employees engage each other in romantic or flirtatious advances, it is heavily recommended that both (if not multiple) parties keep their relationship at work strictly professional. This policy has been implemented since November 19th of 1989, during the second generation of the Skyline Soirée legacy.  

Beneath the paragraph is your name.  

LUCKY STAR CLAUSE – ANTI-FRATERNIZATION POLICY, SUBSECTION B-2.  

An edit has been made to the original 1989 anti-fraternization policy following the Midnight Menagerie murders. Whoever is considered the star of the show (‘Lucky Star’) is not to be romantically linked with anyone involved in the cast, staff or outsourced providers. If said relationships are established, Lucky Star contracts with the Skyline Soirée are to be ceased immediately. This clause has been implemented since May 26th, 2015, in order to protect the Lucky Stars of the Skyline Soirée – of whom since have only been Sidney Kim (1997-2013, b. 1982) and Y/N Lee (2013-present, b. 1997.) This clause to be updated every time a ‘Lucky Star’ is voted into rotation.  

“Midnight Menagerie murders...” he murmurs to himself, running a hand through his damp hair. “What does a romantic relationship have to do with any of that?”  

He scoffs, turning the page with a tick in his jaw – only to see an introductory journal-like page. There is a smiling portrait of you in the top right corner that looks recent; your eyes bright and your red-lipped smile wide as you looked into the camera like you were absolutely enamored. There are more photos – you in 2002, holding onto a little girl that looks a lot like Jihyo. You in 2009, sat in front of a birthday cake. You, in 2015 – your high school senior photos taken inside the circus arena, wearing your graduation cap and gown while perched on your hoop and dressed in a pink mock neck leotard with matching aerial boots that had gold glitter stars on either side.  

You in 2019, holding three silver trophies and a lopsided crown atop your mussed hair – captioned Jules Léotard Trapeze ‘19 Champion, Y/N Lee.  

LUCKY STAR – Y/N LEE.   

"If you’re reading this, you’ve joined the Skyline Soiree. I hope you’ve received a warm welcome,” Junhui reads aloud, before blowing air out of the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t say warm, but it was certainly something.”   

He trills his lips lightly, resting his cheek on his knuckles as he reads across the page. You joined the circus at six years old, with Jihyo’s family taking you in after your parents were murdered on Christmas Day in 2001; your mother a reporter for the Garden City News, your father a detective for the NYPD. You’d long loved the circus, hence probably why you got the starring role – and something about it made Junhui’s chest hurt.   

He felt a few tears sting his eyes as he kept reading your story; how you dedicated your entire life to the circus and skipped out on graduation because it was a Saturday evening, and you were set to perform with Minghao. You talked about how you learned to drive in a 1975 Vista Cruiser in Rochester one summer, and how Halloween being your favorite holiday. Summer is your favorite season, your favorite color is green, and you talk about how much Jihyo loved celebrating your birthday.  

And you never mentioned Christmas again.  

“I hope you love the Skyline Soirée as much as I do. Maybe we’ll perform together! This is from 2019 Y/N, so if you’re reading this again: maybe you’ll win another JLT! Skyline Stars, we're brighter together!”  

Junhui sighs, clicking his tongue before turning the page once more. A page full of Jihyo, followed by pages full of the rest of the cast and crew: Hoshi, Tzuyu, Mingyu...  

Minghao.  

“Boyfriend. Against the Lucky Star Clause...that’s a Lucky Star boyfriend. Cute.” He mutters, sucking his teeth before reading across the page. Nothing catches his eye much – trapeze artist since the age of sixteen and joined Skyline a year before you became the star of the show. He spent his childhood split between Syracuse and Manhattan, spending the summers in upstate. He mentions you twice – how you helped him learn, and how honored he was to be your right hand.  

The yearbook of sorts ends with Jihyo. She talks about the legacy of the Skyline Soirée and how much pressure it is to be the head of it all – but she mentions you, and how easy you make being the star look. How easily you soar through the air and how much hope it gives her – how much hope you give the entire cast.  

Junhui wonders if Jihyo really is the Ringmaster she says she is.  

He tosses the handbook to the side, his eyes catching the clock hanging above the kitchenette. 8:45 PM.  

“Lights out by ten...I have time.” He pushes himself off the futon, grabbing his cap off the dinner table – trading it for his phone, which he powers off and slides onto the hardwood. He tucks his hair under the cap, taking his keys and flicking all the lights off with the switch by the door. He cracks it open, hearing a laugh ring through the air as he slips out and locks it behind him. He sees the twinkle of your leotard in the moonlight, your face lit by Minghao holding a lighter to the end of a cigarette between your lips. Your hair is tied up, the slope of your neck speckled with glitter from your outfit.  

You’re sitting on the steps of Minghao’s trailer, and you’re both seemingly trying to ignore the ruckus coming from Mingyu’s trailer – until you glance up, your eyes bright even in the dark lot.  

“Where’re you going, hotshot?” You don’t sound very interested, but there’s a look on your face that says you’re suspicious. Minghao is sat on a folding chair, his injured leg rested across your knees with your hand holding his shin.  

“Out.” He replies, shrugging his shoulders as your brows furrow.  

“It’s almost lights out.”   “Key word, almost. Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”   

He gives you a quick smile, before shoving his hands into his pockets and making his way out of the lot. He skirts out of the back gate, spotting a neon bar sign a block away.  

“Perfect.”  

IT’S SIX IN THE MORNING WHEN YOU HEAR RUSTLING OUTSIDE.  

You’re lying in Minghao’s bed, your eyes burning as you peel them open. Minghao’s face is buried in your neck, his hand tucked under your sleep shirt as you tilt your head back to peer out his window. The sun is bleeding in as your fingers fumble with the blinds, making Minghao stir before feeling him bury his face deeper into the slope of your neck.  

You can barely make out who you assume to be Junhui – wearing a zip-up hoodie and the cap he wore last night was now backwards on his head. You squint slightly, as if it’d make it better – only to watch him flick the lights of his trailer on and slip inside.   

You tongue your cheek, dropping your hand from the blinds and wrapping your arm around Minghao’s shoulders. He presses a chaste kiss to your skin, before his voice fills your ears.   

“You worry too much.”  

You roll your eyes, feeling his hand slide higher up your back as he drums his fingers against your skin.  

“I do not worry.”   “I can practically hear the gears turning in your head. He’s new, he’s not a psycho killer.”  

“You don’t know that.” You mutter, draping your leg over Minghao’s hip and feeling his lips curve into a smile. “He could be. We don’t know anything about him. He could be a Scorpio.”  

“I’m a Scorpio.”   “Yeah, and you’re evil.”   “Not psycho killer evil. And don’t forget you asked to be edged, I didn’t do that on my own.”  

“God forbid a girl try new things with her boyfriend. And shut up, we said we wouldn’t talk about that after we broke up. Keep the boundaries, man.” You roll your eyes, but your smirk gives you away as he snickers against you.   

Your relationship with Minghao was...intriguing, to say the least.  

Sure, you’d known better than to ever let anyone outside of Mingyu know that the two of you were more than friends – and he only knew because he caught the two of you at an ice cream parlor when you were eighteen. The two of you had been dating for a year at that point, and there was no point in denying it when you were very much holding hands under the table.  

Forced proximity is bound to stir up some feelings.  

You broke up after four years. Neither of you were too sure as to why, but something between you changed. You mutually ended things three months after the JLT Awards, but the two of you remained close – the best of friends, almost.  

With some benefits sprinkled in.  

Neither of you had to mourn the loss of the relationship all that much, and Minghao didn’t really extend his affections to anyone else. The casual touching, sharing a bed, comforting you when you were (rarely) feeling out of your element – it was all reserved for you, but Minghao certainly slept with other people, as did you.  

Minghao and Jihyo were truly the only ones that saw you out of work-mode. Jihyo had known you your entire lives, and they were also the only two that truly knew what happened to your parents.  

You weren’t there when it happened. You were much too young to know any of it, really – but you learned as you got older that your parents had made too many enemies and too quickly. Jihyo’s mother was your father’s partner on the force, and they both worked for the 9th Precinct. Your parents were close to the Parks, and you’d been put into her care for the night so your parents could make the trip up to your aunt’s house in Syracuse and bring her and your cousin down for the New Year.   

They never made it – your father took a wrong turn in Washington Heights and subsequently sent the 34th Precinct into a frenzy. You found out through the nightly news that your parents were stopped at a red light on W. 170th Street after having missed their turn on W. 165th Street on their way to the NY-9A. Pitch black at 11pm on a Tuesday was perfect for an ambush – and you try not to think about the holidays all that much anymore.  

Truth be told, you found solace in the Park family. You felt good knowing that Jihyo was your best friend, to know that her family legacy continued through her for being the first-born niece and that she considered you, at this point, her sister. You felt good finding a sense of belonging, and you ignored the sinking feeling in your chest every time Christmas fell on a Tuesday – 2007, 2012, 2018...  

It would be a while before another in 2029.  

It wasn’t like the holidays were all that easy for you, anyway. You hated the way that everyone walked on eggshells around you, as if you were going to snap at any moment. As if it wasn’t already twenty-two years ago, and you were fine. Everything was fine, and you were moving on. You had to move on.  

“Do you think he’ll be good? Actually?” You murmur as Minghao rests his forehead against your clavicle. He hums, before leaning back slightly, “why? You don’t?”  

You purse your lips, letting out a defeated sigh.  

“I’m just worried about the entire ordeal of onboarding someone new. Jihyo wants a chemistry run before the end of the day, but he has to get his physical with Jeonghan this morning. I need to get Hansol to call Orbit Studio so they can get his headshots so we can print him onto the weekend posters, there’s just so much to do that I can’t worry about whether he’s good.” You bury your nose in his soft hair, “and then you’ve got that checkup today, right? To see if you need surgery?”  

“Will you stop worrying? Everything will be okay. Jeonghan and Joshua have Junhui at nine, so we’ll run a routine with Soonyoung until he gets back at eleven. We’ll run the routine with him until lunch, then I’ll be out from two-thirty onward. I’ll keep you updated, and we both know that if I get surgery, I’m going to be just down at the clinic for rehabilitation. I’m not going to disappear, and you can’t let this situation get you out of sorts.”  

Minghao’s voice is stern as he speaks, and you jut your lip out as he rolls his eyes.  

“Don’t pout at me.”   “I can do whatever I want.”  

He mimics you, his hand beneath your shirt squeezing your hip as he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.  

“What time is it?” He sighs, rolling onto his back with a pained groan that makes you scramble up. You fix the pillow that goes under his ankle, feeling his hand trailing your thigh soothingly before his fingers squeeze the back of your knee. “Babe.”  

“Uh...six-fifteen. I’ve gotta get ready,” you mutter, swinging your leg over his hips and pressing a quick kiss to his nose. “I’ll see you out there, right? Mingyu should be barging in here soon.”  

He peers up at you through tired eyes, his hands sliding up your thighs before his fingers dig into the soft flesh.   

“I miss you.”   “I’m right here, Hao.”   “That’s not what I mean, and you know that.”  

You sigh, “I’ve just been busy. Things are so crazy right now, and you know I have to help plan the Horror Nights with Jihyo and Hansol. I’m still here.”  

“It’s like I can still hear her...” Minghao feigns distress, snickering to himself as you scoff, shoving his shoulder lightly. He sticks his tongue out at you, his fingers toying with the hem of your underwear as you lean down slightly.   

“What if the new guy—”   “We’re not playing this game. You won’t like it.”  

His tone is warning, making your skin prickle under his hands as you smirk. You press a kiss to his lips, nipping at his lower lip before patting his shoulder.  

“We’ll see. I’ll leave the door unlocked for Mingyu, and I’ll make your plate if I get there first.” You say softly, earning another kiss from your ex-boyfriend as you slide off his lap and slip your house shoes. You don’t bother grabbing the robe that you left on his couch last night, simply pulling his door open and sliding out with a mischievous grin.  

You cross your arms on your chest, shivering slightly at the cool autumn air as you hop off the trailer steps. Mingyu is stretching in front of his trailer as you make your way to yours, only to hear a wolf whistle from the direction of Soonyoung’s trailer, the unsoiled hinges of his door making you scowl.  

“Shut up!” You yell, hearing a giggle as you climb the steps to your trailer. You punch in your code, stretching an arm over your head as you pull the door open and step inside. Your rack of leotards comes into view, and you make your way over.  

It doesn’t take you long to get ready – and you can hear the ruckus of the boys horsing around in the lot as you swipe on your second layer of lipstick. You chose your candy apple red leotard, the matching aerial boots laying unlaced across the foot of your bed – your stomach churning slightly as hunger begins to set in, mixed with an unsettling feeling.  

You hated this feeling.   

“What’s the worst that could happen?” You mutter to yourself, pushing yourself away from the vanity and grabbing your boots and keycard off your bed, beelining for the door. You push it open, sitting on the edge of the steps as Mingyu manages to pin Soonyoung to the concrete.   

“I said I fucking yield!” Soonyoung’s voice is slightly choked as you smile inwardly, tucking your chin to your chest as Mingyu lets go of Soonyoung’s arm that he was holding against his back. “God, you’re such a fucking tool! It’s not like Tzuyu’s ever gonna look your way.”  

“She did once, and she’ll do it again. Ye of little faith, my man.” Mingyu huffs, nudging Soonyoung’s rib with his foot and earning a scowl. “Plus, it’s not like she’d look at you instead of me. She loved me once.”  

“Key word, loved. Past tense, dipshit.” Chan calls from the door of his trailer, stretching his arms over his head. You tongue your cheek to stop yourself from laughing, lacing the back of your boot up before Seokmin and Seungkwan duck out of their trailers with sweatpants low on their hips and mussed hair. They don’t bother greeting each other as they meet in the middle of the lot, linking pinkies and making their way out of the lot to the tent for breakfast.  

Mingyu flashes you a quick smile as he makes his way to Minghao’s trailer, punching the code into the keypad as you give him one back. You stand up, instinctively wiping your backside of any dust or rubble before Chan and Soonyoung start making their way to the tent with their arms linked.  

“You go ahead, superstar. I’ll get him there.” Mingyu calls over his shoulder, likely feeling the tension radiating off your muscles. “Don’t forget to check in with Jihyo.”  

“Yes, Dad. I got it, Dad. Anything else, Dad?” You scoff, smiling as he sticks his tongue out at you. You clasp your hands behind your back, forcing a skip in your step as your bare toes touch the cool concrete. You make it halfway across the lot before hearing the creak of Junhui’s trailer door opening, making your body come to an abrupt halt as you spin on your heel.   

He’s dressed in a black long sleeve, scrunched where the hem meets the waistband of his sweatpants. He’s wrapping his wrists in oxide tape, catching your eye as he tears the edge of the tape off with his teeth and smooths it over. He raises a brow, maintaining eye contact as he rolls out another piece.  

“Good morning.”  

His voice is gravelly, and you purse your lips as he stops next to you. You glance at his hands as he wraps his other wrist, before you clear your throat. He smiles softly as you tilt your head, clicking your tongue with feigned disinterest as you turn back to face the lot.  

“Good morning, Junhui.”  

He chuckles as you start moving forward again, following behind you in silence. Your shoulders grow rigid as you feel the heat of his gaze settle on them, and you clasp your hands behind your back to have an excuse to roll them back. You hear the sharp tear of the tape as he finishes the wrap, and you merely glance over your shoulder as you reach the gate.  

“How was your first night?”  

He smiles inwardly, tucking the tape into his pocket as he unlocks the gate and holds it open for you.  

“You and I both know I got back an hour ago, don’t play coy.”  

You feel a heat grow in your chest, the skin of your arms prickling as you raise a brow, “where were you?”  

“Are you my keeper, Y/N?”   “In a sense.”   “Cute. I went out. Easy.”  

You crinkle your nose at him, crossing your arms on your chest, “first of all, don’t call me cute.”  

“I’m not calling you cute,” he says pointedly, shrugging. “I’m calling the fact that you think you can boss me around cute. You might run this show, but I’m just visiting. Act like it.”  

Your eyes widen slightly, his eyes running over you as he gives another shrug of his shoulders. He slides past you, a scoff falling from your lips as he waits for you to step out of the lot. He shoves his hands into his pockets as you fall into lockstep with him, before turning to you just as you both reach the back door of the arena.   

“I won’t be here from nine to eleven. I’ve got my physical, and Jihyo told me to let you know?” His voice holds curiosity as you roll your eyes, nodding as you hold your keycard in between your fingers.  

“We’ll be running a chemistry read when you get back. Do you know if you’re getting blood drawn? We’ll have to run it tomorrow if you are, and that could set us back for the Thursday show.”   

“I figured I was, so I was wondering if you’d run a routine with me now instead?” He asks gently, your shoulders stiff as you look up at him, “just before I leave. It’ll probably only get two runs, because I have to leave by eight-thirty.”  

You trill your lips, “I think we’d have to get Hoshi in on it, he’s usually the one who choreographs our routines. Unless you have something prepared, you’ll have to wait until after breakfast. Is that cool?”  

He nods, and you press your lips into a thin line as you nod; your hand holding the keycard to the door and hearing the buzz of it unlocking. He pulls it open, letting you walk inside first. The gaggle of cast members comes into view – and everyone is comfortably serving themselves breakfast off the table, their hair in all sorts of disarray and half of them still in their pajamas. You look across the fruit tray to see Nayeon chewing with her eyes closed as Dahyun limply gels her hair back, making you smile inwardly as you see Soonyoung and Chan sitting on one of the bigger beanbags with their backs pressed to one another.  

“You guys really are like a family.” You hear Junhui murmur behind you, and you glance over your shoulder to see him trailing everyone around the room. His eyes stop at Tzuyu, watching the way she’s taping her ankles as Seungkwan holds a piece of melon to her lips. “You even feed each other.”  

“If you consider that family,” you shrug, grabbing three plates to serve yourself, Mingyu and Minghao. You let Junhui look around, feeling the heat of the cast members’ gazes on your back. You quickly shovel food across plates and balance the three of them on your arms before beelining for the usual table you occupied with your ex-boyfriend and your second longest friend. Junhui gets waved over by Soonyoung, so you part ways without feeling any sort of guilt.  

Breakfast goes by rather quickly. Mingyu and Minghao are the last ones to trail in after Jackson and Jinyoung, apologetic looks on their faces as they near your table. The three of you eat in mumbled whispers, with Minghao asking what Junhui stopped you about. You don’t bother responding, gesticulating to the air as you chewed around a piece of bread.  

The show gets on the road soon after breakfast – you offer to help clean up, gathering plates and cups when Hansol gives you a deadpan look. He takes the items from your hands, pointing to the arena behind you as you huff.  

“I was just trying to help.”   “I know, doll. But this isn’t your job. Go be our neighborhood friendly Spider-Man.”  

Junhui is already talking shop with Soonyoung by the time you, Minghao and Mingyu make it to the ring. Everyone else has scattered to their respective practice areas, and Junhui is spinning one of Nayeon’s balls on his fingertip as he gestures at the air. He’s saying things you can’t quite make out, but his eyes are bright and cheery as you set out a chair for Minghao to sit in.  

“Wipe that look off your face. Everyone is going to think you don’t want to be here, and you’re the one who sets the mood. Lighten up.” Minghao’s voice is warning as Mingyu helps him into the seat, making you scowl as you cross your arms on your chest. You lean against the side of Minghao’s chair, watching the way Soonyoung and Junhui get on.  

“They’re friendly for having just met.” You mutter, only to hear Mingyu snort next to you before he talks over his shoulder as he makes his way up the steps.  

“You’re the only one who doesn’t warm up to strangers. We’re running a business here; we have to be nice to each other.”  

“Nice to each other doesn’t mean being buddy-buddy.” Your nose is scrunched as Minghao gently pinches your thigh, your hand moving back to swat at it. “Stop it.”  

“You look nice.” He murmurs, “I like the red.”  

“I know you like the red, Hao.”   “You’re a tease.”   “You know it, babe.”  

“Y/N, can you get over here? I think we’ve figured something out!” Soonyoung calls, and you quickly plaster a smile on your face before turning to walk backwards. You point at Minghao, “don’t leave for your check-up without telling me, alright?”  

“Yeah, yeah. Go be a superstar without me.” He fakes a pout, making you shake your head as you step into the ring. Junhui tosses the ball towards the bleachers set up around the sides, stretching his arms over his head.  

“I thought of this with Chan last night, so we’re going to have to work out the tweaks as we go. Mingyu already knows most of it, so don’t worry about hoop cues. Cool?” Soonyoung looks eager to get started as Chan fiddles around with the stereo, his fingers typing rapidly into his phone before calling over his shoulder.  

“You want Iris or No Ordinary Love?”   

Your eyes widen, and you turn to look at Soonyoung, “Hosh, those are love songs.”  

“Hardly,” he brushes you off, but you see Junhui’s eyes as wide as yours as he opens his mouth to speak – only to get cut off by Soonyoung replying to Chan with Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls. He calls out to Mingyu to toss one of the ropes, before looking at you and Junhui with a smile as wide as the Cheshire cat, “you ready? Let’s go.”  

“Time check, seven-fifty!” Minghao announces from his seat, crossing his legs at the knee as he clicks his pen. Junhui nods, grabbing the rope as Mingyu throws it and holding it out to Soonyoung, who glances at the phone Minghao holds up.  

"Okay, we have to move fast.”  

“We can just learn it tomorrow,” you try, and Soonyoung gives you an odd look.  

“No,” he shakes his head slowly, “if you learn it tomorrow, he won’t be in the Thursday show. We’ve already started advertising a new face, Y/N.”  

“I’m worried about the time crunch.” You’re making excuses, and Soonyoung can tell as he scoffs, “Y/N, it’s one run. You’ll never get comfortable if you dig your heels in every time we have a new cast member.”  

You feel your cheeks hot as Junhui gives you a pitying look, but he clears his throat and taps Soonyoung’s shoulder.  

“If she wants to run it alone first, we can do that. I learn fast, it’s not a big deal.”   “No, Junhui. This is a duo routine, not a single. I’m going to run it with Chan once, and then you’ll get as far into it as you can before you have to leave.”  

You feel a bit of annoyance settle in the back of your throat as Soonyoung shakes his head at you. He takes the rope from Junhui, tugging at it with a quick flick of his wrist as Chan runs into the arena, handing his phone to Minghao before stepping into the ring. He flashes you an understanding smile as a hoop is tossed down from Mingyu, and he grabs it gingerly.  

“Don’t worry, Y/N. It’s not super romantic or anything, but we’ll have to run it by Jihyo tomorrow so she can give her input. You have to focus on me, though, because I’m doing the part you would take over. Soonyoung is doing Junhui’s.” He nods, before perching into the metal of the hoop as Soonyoung yells a start cue.  

You and Junhui share a quick glance before grimacing, and you cross your arms on your chest as you back out of the ring and sit on one of the bleachers. Junhui follows, albeit standing off to the side of you instead of sitting. Iris starts pouring through the arena, and you fix your eyes on Chan as he’s swung around the arena.  

The men are fluid as they spin around in tune with one another, curling their bodies around the metal of the hoops Mingyu is expertly gliding into their hands. Soonyoung is holding onto Chan tightly with every twist of their bodies – Chan is flipping through hoops and Soonyoung is catching him by the hips, at one point, his ankle as Chan glides through the air. It’s almost like a dance of will they, won’t they; the routine ending with Chan’s back curved around the inside edge of the hoop, his legs crossed at the knee as he suspends Soonyoung with one hand. The older man lets go of Chan’s hand and falling to his knees into the sand-filled ring with a soft thud as the song ends.  

“And we’d cut the lights all dramatic like the moment Junhui lets go of your hand!” Chan calls from the swinging hoop, making you press your lips into a thin line at his bright smile. He flips out of the hoop the way Jihyo always scolds you for, dusting his hands of sand as he helps Soonyoung up. “What do you think? Anything you want to tweak?”   

“You want me to perform a love lost with a man I just met?” You raise a brow, a scoff bubbling past your lips as you shake your head. “Sure. Why not?”  

“Don’t make me hurt your feelings.” Soonyoung rolls his eyes, “be what you are. A star, but above all, professional. Knock it off.”  

Something you’ve never liked about Soonyoung is how little wiggle room he gives you to be a brat. He’s stern and serious, hardworking even when the situation begets a bit of silliness – but you can’t say it hasn’t kept you in line. He’s been witness to many breakdowns, snot-faced sobbing, and his is the loving hand that swipes arnica on your bruises before making you run the routine again.  

No star without the sky, they say.  

“Tape your wrists, let’s get this show on the road.” Junhui gently tosses a roll of tape at you, and you barely catch it as he moves to talk to Soonyoung. Chan gives you a soft frown, resting his chin on your shoulder as you grit your teeth.  

“You won’t always be able to work with people you know,” Chan’s voice is soft, and you feel a squeeze of his fingers on your shoulder as you turn slightly to look at him. You sigh as he bores his eyes into your face, “you look pretty, by the way.”  

“Thanks.” You close your eyes, pressing a quick kiss to his sweaty forehead. “You’ll spot us, right? Mingyu didn’t put the net out this morning.”   

“Junhui is good, he won’t drop you or anything. He was in here this morning, Jihyo told us.”   

Your brow furrows – you were sure Junhui arrived at the lot right as the sun rose. Tonguing your cheek, you nod anyway; quickly wrapping your wrists and handing the tape to Chan gingerly.  

“Well, let’s get it started.”  

Chan had been right about Junhui.  

He didn’t drop you, not once – much less did you have a moment where he wasn’t touching you. Professionally, of course, but something about the way his fingers were warm around your hips made your face hot. He moved you gracefully – catching you with every flip, every twist, maintaining a searing eye contact that makes your skin prickle. He glanced once at your lips – even leaning forward slightly in a way that made your stomach flutter, but you knew it was all for show. You caught glimpses of Minghao filming the routine before Jihyo came to collect Junhui after the third time you ran through it – and you didn’t bother thanking him before moving out of his way.  

He didn’t seem peeved in the slightest.  

And you don’t like how it bothers you.  

Minghao left shortly after lunchtime, giving the back of your head a quick kiss when Jaebeom came to get him. You swallowed your worry, along with the lunch that was threatening to come back up – but you told yourself you were worrying over nothing. Minghao would be back in his trailer tonight and you’d be nestled into his side just like old times.  

You don’t explain to Chan why your hands are shaking as you retape them for the second time, and you don’t say anything when Junhui makes his return from the clinic with his arm bandaged and a sucker in his mouth. You simply grab the rope as Mingyu throws it to you, chewing on your cheek before letting an annoyed breath out and tugging on the rope.  

Soonyoung’s voice is like the buzz of a dying fly in your ear – and you actively ignore it by swinging around with Chan like he’s not even there. You feel Chan’s fingers dig into your waist, into your legs as usual, but nothing out of the ordinary happens until you miss a hoop cue – and you meet the ground faster than a New York Minute.  

You don’t hear anything for a moment, your ears ringing – your body limp against the sand in the ring. You’re crowded almost immediately, your cheeks burning in embarrassment as you push yourself to your feet quickly. Your eyes meet Mingyu’s concerned ones, but you can’t hear what he’s saying as you wipe yourself of the sand sticking to your skin.  

“Y/N.” Seungkwan's hands grab your shoulders, and you feel your nose burn as humiliated tears fill your eyes. His face immediately softens, “does anything hurt?”  

“No.” Your voice is thick as you push his hands off your shoulders, holding them to his chest. You take a wobbly step back from the group of men huddled around you, Seokmin’s face full of misplaced guilt as you clear your throat. “I’m good. Really. Just...missed the hoop.”  

“Y/N, are you –”   

You cut Mingyu off with a wave of your hand, “let’s run it again. I’m just going to get a drink of water. Uh, break.”   

You give them a thumbs up, pushing past them as the first tears trickle down your face. You hear them talking within themselves as you make your way out of the tent, grateful to be met with an empty room backstage as you run a hand over your face. Your shoulders hurt from the impact, but you’d know if something was wrong. You always know.  

“So fucking embarrassing.” You mutter inwardly, running your hands over your bare arms in an attempt to self-soothe. Your hip hurts as you pace like a caged animal, before you force yourself to stand in front of the fountain and hold the push bars to let the water come out of the spout. You can hardly bring yourself to drink any more than to soothe the burn of humiliation in your throat, your fingers gripping the sides of the basin to ground yourself.  

You’ve fallen before. It’s not a big deal.  

“She’s just distracted. So many things are happening around her, I’d be distracted too. Give her a minute, she’ll get back on her feet. Y/N always gets back up; there’s a reason she’s the star.” You can hear Seokmin's voice from your spot in the backroom, your eyes squeezing shut at the sound of your name.  

Y/N always gets back up; there’s a reason she’s the star.  

You’ve always loved the spotlight. You worked hard for it; you’d rightfully earned it.  

But it feels like a burden at times.  

Shaking yourself off, you nibble on your lip as you pull the tape off and reach for a new roll off one of the carts. You wrap your wrists carefully, tearing the end of the tape off with your teeth before tossing the roll back onto the cart. You wipe at your eyes carefully, sniffling inwardly before rolling your shoulders back and making your way back into the tent. Soonyoung looks at you first, rushing out of the ring towards you but you just give him a pointed look as you move past him.  

“Don’t baby me,” you call over your shoulder, stretching your arms over your head as the rest of the men disperse to the bleachers. Junhui gives you a soft glance that makes your brow furrow, but you keep walking as Mingyu makes his way back up the stairs and Chan timidly stands in the middle of the ring.  

“Any updates from Minghao?” You say in Seungkwan’s direction, only to be met with a thumbs down as he picks up the hoops he’s polishing. You nod grimly, your eyes catching a bruise forming on the skin of your left arm where you’d landed. “Thanks.”  

The rest of your allotted practice goes horribly – everyone is walking on eggshells as they correct your moves, as Chan makes it a point to hold you even tighter than necessary, so you don’t have another slip. It bothers you down to the bones, even if you know they’re doing the best they can with what you’d allow.  

You don’t get hurt. You’re the star. It’s not allowed.  

You run the routine so many times you’ve lost count and you’re almost certain you could do it in your sleep – but Soonyoung still looks dissatisfied as Chan helps you off the hoop. He opens his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by Mingyu’s hand covering his face as the taller man smiles brightly.  

“It’s dinner time, and I think we should call it a night. I’ll see you and Junhui here tomorrow morning, before breakfast. Think you can stomach that?” Mingyu uncaps his pen with his teeth, scribbling across Soonyoung’s clipboard as the lot of you huddle around them. You pat Chan’s back gently as he pants, sweat dripping off his face as he crouches. “Y/N, ice that shoulder, will you? I don’t want to hear any complaints.”  

“My shoulder is fine, Gyu,” you roll your eyes, only to feel Soonyoung’s fingers tug at the sleeve of your leotard to show the bruise bloomed across your skin. You swat his hand away, sticking your tongue out as you reach for a water bottle off the cart Seokmin had wheeled in after your fall. “That’s a wrap, team. Eat up, we’ve got a busy weekend ahead of us.”  

You excuse yourself without another word, beelining for your trailer. You avoid interactions with anyone else, grabbing a random keycard off the hook by the door and feeling your skin prickle at the cold air. You grimace, crossing your arms on your chest as you jog into the lot and punch your code into the trailer door.  

You tug your clothes off without much thought, fiddling with the showerhead annoyedly. The water is scalding against your back but soothing to your muscles. Your hair feels heavy on your head as the water soaks it, and you wrap your arms around yourself to feel a warmth that not even the hottest of water could bring.  

You feel your chest fill with worry as you think of Minghao. He would’ve called by now or come back if it was nothing. He would’ve at least sent a text, but you’d left your phone in the trailer so you wouldn’t be distracted by the incessant need to check on him.  

You finish in the shower quickly; haphazardly drying your hair before grabbing your phone off the dresser while still in your towel. You scroll through the notifications before seeing three missed calls from Minghao — timestamped four hours ago each.  

You immediately press the button to call him back. The line rings once, twice – before Jihyo picks up.  

“Hey, Y/N.” She sighs on the other side, and your chest tightens as you sit up quickly.   

“Hey, Jihyo. Is he –”   “He’s in surgery. They said they had to do it today or he’d risk permanent damage. Though, I don’t know how this isn’t medically permanent damage, too.”  

“Fuck,” you squeeze your eyes shut, running your hand over your face as they prick with tears. “Is he almost out? Can I go see him? Have you eaten anything?”  

“He just went under twenty minutes ago. He’ll be out soon, they said it only takes two hours. You can come see him tomorrow, because he’s gonna have to stay in the recovery ward for the next six weeks. And yes, I’ve eaten, so you can’t use that as an excuse to come up here. I’ll tell them not to let you in, so don’t try it.” Jihyo says sternly, your eyes rolling as tears spill out. You sniffle lightly, hearing her sigh on the other end.   

“He’ll be alright. You know Hao, he’s a trooper.” She shifts, likely uncomfortable in the hard plastic chairs at the hospital. “How was practice? Junhui got blood drawn, so I hope you guys didn’t tag him in.”  

“I fell,” you admit quietly, tears rolling down the side of your face as you lean your head back, “missed a hoop cue.”  

“Level one to ten?” Jihyo is tired, and you let out a limp chuckle, “just a few bruises. My ego took the brunt of it; I was so embarrassed.”  

“Y/N, people fall all the time.”   “Not me, Jihyo. I don’t fall, ever.”   “Bullshit, you fell three times last year.”  

“You get what I mean,” you mutter. You pick at your nails, “Soonyoung’s been hard on me today. Says I need to be professional and not treat Junhui like a stranger.”  

“He’s right, babe.” Jihyo laughs, clicking her tongue. “Junhui’s nice. He and I chatted a bit on the way to his physical, he’s very sweet. It’d do you well to get to know him.”  

You scoff, “no way. Who’s to say that he even stays with Skyline? I know better than to get attached.”  

Jihyo snorts on the other end of the line, “eat dinner, crazy girl. Get an ice cream cone, if you want. You need one for that bruised ego.”   

“You’re supposed to comfort me! My best friend is in surgery, I fell during practice and you’re laughing at me!” You whine like a child, only to hear her laugh slightly harder.  

“Babe, you’ll be alright. Go get some ice cream with the guys, take the card. It’s in your wallet. I’ve gotta go, I’m halfway through the episode where Ted gets dumped at the altar. Be good.”   

Jihyo hangs up before you get a chance to say anything else, and you let out a frustrated sigh as you get a glimpse of yourself in the vanity mirror. The bruise spanning your shoulder isn’t very big but it’s painful to look at as you reach for your moisturizer. You run through your night routine, slathering cream down the slope of your neck and rubbing deodorant on before tugging on a sweatshirt and sleep shorts. You pull on a pair of thick socks, shoving your phone and wallet into the pocket of your sweatshirt before tugging on a pair of sneakers.   

You don’t bother entertaining the prickle of your skin in the cold air as you step outside of your trailer – only to see Junhui ducking out of his with his cap pulled over his head.  

You don’t say anything as he clambers down his steps, pulling the bill of his cap lower before he glances up and locks eyes with you. He stops, making you raise a brow as you trail your eyes over his attire. Sweatpants and the same sweatshirt he was wearing the night before.  

“Going somewhere, hotshot?”   “Out.”  

He shrugs casually, tucking his hands into his pockets as he tilts his head at you. You slowly take the steps down, “where?”  

“What’s it to you, princess?”   “Maybe I wanna tag along.”   “Not an invitation.”  

You tilt your head at him before shrugging your shoulders, “well, I’m looking for company, anyway. What says you ditch your plans and join me?”  

He tongues his cheek, clearly fighting back a smile as he pulls his hand from his pocket, swinging his keys around his finger.   

“Depends on what you’re doing.”   “Going out, hotshot.”   “You’re cute.”  

“I know,” you roll your eyes, before turning on your heel. “Feel free to follow along or go about your own plans. Just know you’re missing out on a sick ice cream run if it’s the latter.”  

You get a few feet ahead before hearing him chuckle lightly, almost in defeat as he moves forward. He falls into lockstep with you, reaching up to flip his cap backwards as he opens the lot gate for you to slide through. You shake your head as you do so, walking through the darker alley that leads to the trailers, sealed off by yet another gate. You push it open, holding it wider for him as he tucks his hands into his pockets.  

“How’s Minghao?” He asks gently, and you sigh.  

“He’s in surgery.” You nod slowly, pursing your lips as you feel him move you to the inner part of the sidewalk as he takes the street-facing side. Your hips bump with every step, “he’ll be out for the next six weeks. I’m going to go see him tomorrow during breakfast.”  

He hums in response, “and ice cream makes you feel better?”  

“I always get ice cream when I have a weird day.” You admit, and it feels like driving a knife into your chest as you do so. “Things just feel weird. I’ll get over it.”  

“Being vulnerable isn’t supposed to be scary, you know. I’m not going to hurt you.”   “I don’t know that.”  

Your response is quick and quipped, earning a raise of his brow as he presses the button to cross the street. You stuff your hands in your pocket, the wind biting at your legs keeping you grounded.  

“Sorry.”   “No, don’t be. I get it.”   “Do you?”  

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurt by the things they love.” His voice is gentle, and he instinctively takes your elbow in his hand as you both cross the street. “In this case, by those you’re supposed to trust. I don’t blame you, because we’re just coworkers. But if you knew me, even a little bit...you’d know I’m just as loyal as everyone else on your team. I just won’t let you treat me like an option, especially when I was onboarded specifically for you.”  

You don’t respond, opting to glance at his hand on your elbow as you reach the other side of the street. He drops his hand, tucking it into the pocket of his sweatpants as you keep your gaze on the ground. You don’t say anything for the next two blocks, silently kicking gravel and giving strangers a curt nod – and Junhui keeps his hands tucked in his pockets unless he’s pressing the crosswalk buttons.  

“You said you’re from Washington, right?” You mumble as you spot the ice cream parlor a block and a half away, the pink neon light that says Momo’s flickering in your line of vision. He hums, nodding before looking at you with a raised brow.  

“What of it?”   “What made you move to Boston?”  

He sighs, clicking his tongue as he shrugs, “just like you have your secrets, I have mine.”  

“Oh, come on.”  

He chuckles inwardly as you both stop in front of the parlor, and he reaches for the door handle with a one-shouldered shrug, “eye for an eye.”  

You roll your eyes as you duck inside the warm shop, your eyes meeting the owner’s as she aggressively wipes at the counter with a damp rag. She smiles brightly, dropping the rag and wiping her hands on her pink apron before shoving open the ice cream case.  

“Y/N! Chocolate almond, yes?” She grabs the scoop out of the warm water, her eyes sparkling as she glances over your shoulder at Junhui. Her smile turns into a smirk, and she expertly flips the scoop in her hand before glancing back at you, “you brought company. He’s cute.”   

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t gas him up about it, it’ll get to his head.” You wave her off teasingly, before pointing your thumb at him, “Junhui, this is Momo. Momo, this is Junhui. He’s my partner while Hao’s out.”  

“Nice to meet you,” Momo reaches her hand over the ice cream case, “Momo Hirai. I own this parlor and another in Newark, if you’re ever in the area.”  

“Wen Junhui, it’s a pleasure. I’ve been to your place in Newark; I was part of a circus there before I moved to Boston. And then, well, here.” He shakes her hand politely, and her eyes flash with something you don’t quite recognize before she smiles again.  

“Boston, you say? Were you part of the Extravaganza?” She asks, grabbing a cup from the stack to her left and dipping her scoop in the warm water again before she pushes the case open. Her hand dips into the chocolate almond tub as Junhui nods, “yeah. I can’t believe that things got so insane. I lost a few friends to the...incident.”  

Junhui’s voice turns a bit bitter as he glances at his shoes, and Momo frowns as she drops the perfect scoop of ice cream into the cup for you. She slides it over the case and sticks a spoon into the cup, “I’m sorry to hear that. Have they got any updates?”  

“Nothing that I’ve heard of, but the detectives made it a point to keep us out of the loop. They questioned us for a few weeks and now it seems like they’ve just dropped the case. It feels like a load of bullshit, pardon my French.” Junhui rolls his eyes, digging the toe of his sneakers into the brilliant white tile. Momo’s eyes soften, “I hope you hear something soon, Junhui. Can I interest you in a scoop? On the house.”  

“Nah, I’m alright.” He shakes his head, and you clear your throat softly, digging in your pocket and pulling out your wallet. You take out a ticket that you keep for emergencies, holding it out to Momo.  

“You should come see us tomorrow. It’ll be his first performance with Skyline; I’m sure some support would be great.” You smile softly as she takes the ticket between her fingers and pins it on the corkboard next to her register.  

“I’ll do my best to get out there. Shop’s been slow anyway, what with the weather. You’re the only one crazy enough to get here and in those shorts, Y/N. God, what have I told you about wearing shorts when it’s cold!?” She scolds you, only for you to elbow Junhui lightly as you spin on your heel.  

“I’ll listen about my shorts when you listen about your skirts. And your tops, and your shoes—”   “I’m a business owner, I have to match the aesthetic of my shop. Even if it means a pink miniskirt in October!”  

“Love you, Momo.” There’s a lilt to your voice as you wink at her, pushing the door open with your body as she rolls her eyes and waves. Junhui mirrors her with an amused smile as you skip out, holding the spoon with a nibble of ice cream flat against your tongue. He chuckles as he falls into lockstep with you, fixing his cap before pressing the crosswalk button.  

“It’s nice to see you relaxed.” He hints, “you’re so...professional.”  

“Consider that Momo is my friend of many years.”   “Consider that maybe I need a friend, have mercy. I’ve lost mine along the way.”  

You can tell the joke feels cynical to him as he scrunches his nose, and you look over your shoulder at him, “did you, actually?”  

“Of course, I did. I was there for a year. You’re bound to make some friends.” He shrugs, leaning against the pole as he looks at you with a pointed look. “I’m not saying we have to be friends. We don’t. I’m just saying that you don’t have to warm up to me, because it’s unlikely I’ll warm up to you. I’m a man scorned, and too many times at that.”  

“Then why are you so nice?”   “Why would I be mean to you, when the entire point of our relationship is to build trust? We can’t work together if you don’t trust me, it’ll affect the performance and the chemistry we have in the ring. It’d be a slap in the face to Skyline for me to be a douche to you after you’ve all given me a chance to start anew, even if my heart isn’t ready to be here.”  

Your mouth opens to say something, but you’re cut off by the light changing. He gives you a quick smile before pushing off the pole and beckoning you forward as he starts to cross the street. You follow along, your hip bumping his before his hand on your shoulder moves you in front of him just as the light turns green again.  

“Gotta move faster, princess. Can’t replace the star of the show that quickly.”   “You’re sick and twisted.”  

He snickers as you gape, “if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry and then I’m really fucked. Perspective.”  

You’re both silent for the next block, Junhui’s eyes roaming the buildings and shops lining the neighborhood around you.   

“You grew up here?” He asks, and you nod as you spoon your ice cream into your mouth. “Your whole life?”  

“Yep. Born in Kips Bay and moved to East Harlem when I was six. Been in the circus ever since.” You nod slowly, before glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “You read the handbook, right? You know why.”   

“Knowing why versus wanting to get to know you outside of that are two different things. I’m sure you’re tired of people walking on eggshells around you because of that. You won’t get that with me.” He shrugs, clicking his tongue. “Not that I don’t care, I do. I just...don’t want to be babied about my loss, so I assume you don’t, either.”  

“Agreed.” You mumble, running your teeth over your tongue before tossing the rest of the ice cream in a nearby trashcan.   

You pull your hood over your head, shoving your hands in your pockets before sighing, “can I ask what your plans were for tonight?”  

“Same thing they were yesterday.”   “Which was?”  

He smiles inwardly, tonguing his cheek, “I mustn't say, it’s not appropriate to share my moonlight activities with a lady of your...stature.”  

“Oh, come on! You act like you’re so mysterious, but I know, deep down, you wanna tell me.” You turn your nose up at him as he laughs inwardly, shaking his head as you huff. “Junhui!”  

“I’m doing what any guy does when he’s single and coping,” he sucks his teeth, “I get a drink and take a cute girl back to her apartment, maybe freak it. Maybe not.”  

“You get laid?” Your voice is incredulous, and it makes his brows raise in surprise, a laugh of disbelief falling from his lips as he looks at you.  

“Why is that so surprising? You think you’re the only person I have chemistry with?”   “This is not about me.”   “Trust me, one of us gets laid enough and it’s certainly not you.”  

“How presumptuous of you, Mr. Wen.” You scoff, your cheeks hot as he bumps your arm. “And how inappropriate! I am your coworker! One could even say I’m your boss!”  

“Mmh, I love a woman in power.”   “Ew!”  

He bites back his smile as you scrunch your nose, “don’t flirt with me.”  

“You think that’s flirting?” He raises a brow, but you’ve both reached the alley gate as you put your hands on your hips. He punches the code into the pad, giving you a quick glance as he speaks, “you’ve never lived if you think that’s flirting.”  

“Okay, virgin.”   “We both know that’s not true.”  

You make a face of disgust, only earning another laugh from him as he opens the gate to let you in. He doesn’t follow, instead leaning against it and tilting his head at you. You raise a brow at him, crossing your arms on your chest as he sighs.  

“Earlier, when you fell,” he starts, your shoulders going rigid as he clicks his tongue, “you’re not hurt, are you? Genuinely?”  

“No. I’m fine.” You mutter, “plus, I don’t get hurt. That doesn’t happen to me.”   

“You’re not indestructible.”   “And you’re not my dad, so don’t act like you care.”  

You swallow the immediate regret that lays flat on your tongue as he looks slightly taken aback. He brushes it off quickly with a nod, sucking his teeth as he pushes off the gate.  

“Well,” his voice is level, “just thought I’d check. Forgive me for caring, princess.”  

“Stop calling me that.”   “I will, when you stop acting like the world revolves around you.”  

He smiles gently, drumming against the gate with his fingers, “now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got somewhere to be.”  

The gate shuts in your face before you can reply, and you can hear his shoes against the graveled pavement walking away. You scoff, tonguing your cheek as you turn on your heel and make your way back to the lot.  

You ignore the twist in your stomach, focusing instead on the warm glow of the fire artists still practicing in their section. You follow it to your own lot, seeing the majority of your team filing into it for the night. A sigh falls from your lips as you tuck your hands into your pockets, calling out to them.  

“Guys! Wait up!”  

JUNHUI NOTICES THE ROCKING OF YOUR TRAILER AS HE STOPS AT THE LOT GATE.  

It’s been two weeks since he arrived at the circus. Your practices together have been rigid, but the chemistry is still there and Jihyo commends it. Soonyoung has repeatedly told you to let loose, to relax, but you’re stiff in Junhui’s presence and you blame it on Minghao’s absence – but Junhui sees right through you.  

And something about the way you act around him – distant but like you’re searching for something...it makes his chest warm. Not in a way he’d ever expected, either – and it’s distracting him from the whole reason he even joined Skyline.  

Your first performance together, however, was a huge success. You hid your insecurities behind the bright smile you wore, the sparkle of your custom leotards, the bounce of your hair. You touched him enough to sell it, enough to make everyone believe there was something there – but only he felt the tremble of your fingers and the way your breath hitched with every movement against one another.   

You were the star everyone talked about, and the star everyone loved. You spoke loud and clear, your voice never wavering even as your hands trembled behind you. You entertained families who wanted pictures, posing cutely and answering questions about Minghao’s absence vaguely. Your body was rigid at the mention of him, but you quickly played it off and invited the families to return next week for more performances and whatever special treat the concessions stand would have that weekend. You spent your time smiling until your cheeks hurt and Junhui saw the way Jihyo massaged the back of your neck after every performance despite you telling her you didn’t need it.   

Junhui, on the other hand – spent his time studying you and the way you acted around everyone, sans Lucky Star Boyfriend (formerly known as Xu Minghao.) You were more reserved with the fire artists, but you got along swell with the clowns. Tzuyu, the tightrope walker, often enjoyed conversations with you – only for her eyes to travel to Mingyu, who would already be looking at her.  

That was another person of interest for Junhui – Kim Mingyu. Tall, smart, sweet. Flirty.  

Too close to you for his comfort. There was an undeniable chemistry between the two of you, but not of coworkers – one of past lovers. One of people who have seen each other bare it all, one of people who have smelled the sweat off each other’s bodies and instead of turning away, licked it off.  

One of people who have sealed wounds with their tongues, instead of leaving the other to die.  

Despite that very visible chemistry, you had no interest in Mingyu, and he had none in you. You worked together well; you egged him on when you caught him watching Tzuyu practice her routine. He teased you back, he talked about her excitedly and you were just as excited to entertain his rants about her. The two of you were glued at the hip, and it was clearly something that happened once – perhaps to get it out of your systems, or just to get the curiosity of it out.  

However, your chemistry with Soonyoung was palpable. The two of you bickered and bitched at each other like lovers in a quarrel only for Soonyoung to pull you into a hug at the end of practice and kiss your cheek. He’d ask if you’re alright, if you need anything; he’d sweep your hair off your sweaty face while holding you close to him with an arm around your waist. He’d squeeze your hip, your lips planting on his cheek before swatting him away.  

Almost like the moment Minghao turns his back, you’ve got someone to take care of you.  

None of the other men have this chemistry with you. Seokmin and Seungkwan are very respectful, but in the same way best friends are. They tease you and make fun of you, but they take their role in your life and on your team very seriously. They practice with you diligently and prove time and time again (over the last weeks, at least) that they are not replaceable.   

Chan...has a bit of yearn to him. He watches you with puppy eyes that say he’s absolutely enamored with you, that say he’s waiting for his turn in your arms, in your mind...  

In your bed.  

Chan looks at you like you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, like he’ll never know anything better. He does trapeze with you like he’s trying to prove something, like he wants you to know he should be the next person that wins your heart. He holds you tenderly, and Junhui notices the way he blushes beet red every time a routine has his face close to yours and the way he can’t even hold eye contact when you smile.   

Junhui notices the way that no one else has managed to spot this. The way that Chan immediately looks away if Junhui catches him staring at you, or how he rubs his neck awkwardly when you’re stretching in the barre room. Junhui notices the way Chan saves the blueberry yoghurt cups in case they’re running low because they’re your favorite and the way that Chan cannot stand his spot next to you at the trapeze table being taken by Soonyoung.  

He’s a tortured soul, Lee Chan.  

A part of Junhui hopes that the reason behind your trailer rocking is that you’ve finally given the poor guy a chance – but instead, the door slams open to you kicking Soonyoung, Seungkwan and Seokmin out with drenched hair and pajamas.  

“Don’t you ever wake me up like that again! I was just starting to fall asleep!” You throw a grey bucket out with them, the plastic thunking against the back of Soonyoung’s head as he scowls. You’re fuming on the steps, looking at your soaked pajamas that are clinging to your body as Seungkwan and Seokmin bolt for the lot gate. Junhui barely manages to move out of the way before they skirt past him, and you’re still yelling at Soonyoung – who is yelling back that he wasn’t even there when they dumped the bucket on you.  

“What’re they yelling about?” Mingyu’s voice makes Junhui jump, the younger man’s canines peeking through his bitten smile. Junhui scowls, holding a hand to his chest as Mingyu brings a cup to his lips, World’s Best Dad worn across the ceramic.  

“Someone threw water on Y/N while she was asleep. She threw the bucket at Hoshi’s head.” Junhui’s voice is almost bored as he explains, crossing his arms on his chest as Mingyu snickers.  

“Yeah, that sounds about right. We saw Minghao last night and he said he wants us to keep her on her toes, but I don’t think he meant like this. Especially when Y/N has trouble sleeping at night.” Mingyu shrugs, and Junhui peers over his shoulder at him. “What?”  

“Since when?”   “Since when, what?”   “Since when does Y/N have issues sleeping?”  

“Oh, pft. As long as I’ve known her.” He shrugs, “even longer, most likely. She’s always shared a bed with Jihyo or Minghao, so I just assume it was a difficult transition. We shared a bed once when we went up to Rochester two summers ago, she went to bed early and tossed and turned for ages until I turned in. Fell asleep the moment I got under the covers.”  

“Huh,” Junhui clicks his tongue, and Mingyu only shrugs again as you and Soonyoung keep yelling at each other. You’re in his face now, and Soonyoung is eagerly feeding the fire when Junhui looks at Mingyu, “should we stop them?”  

“We could, or we could let Y/N tire herself out.”   “...I’m kind of fearing for Hoshi’s safety.”   “If she beats his ass, it’s been long coming. You’ve only been here a week, but he pisses her off like no other. Not even I get on her nerves that bad.”  

Junhui lets a snicker fall from his lips as you pull your wet shirt off your body and throw it in Soonyoung’s face, the cloth landing on his chest with a wet plop. Your own is covered by an equally soaked tank top, the peaks of your nipples prominent as Junhui shields his eyes.  

“And you can re-choreograph today’s routine by yourself!” You screech, before the slam of the metal door to your trailer is heard. Mingyu sucks his teeth, and Junhui peeks through his fingers to see Soonyoung clutching your wet shirt in his hand as he runs the other over his face. He bends at the waist, grabbing the bucket and tossing the shirt into it.  

“You walk in to ask if she wants to get ice cream and are met with a wet shirt to the face.” He grumbles as he walks past Junhui and Mingyu. Mingyu sighs before turning on his heel, following behind Soonyoung as Junhui stares at your trailer.   

The lot is empty now, and the moonlight is bright against the tops of the trailers.  

He can see you moving around the trailer through the windows, and he keeps his head down as he crosses the lot to gently knock on your door. Any rustling inside stops, a low muttering heard as you throw the door open. It hits his shoulder, your scowl immediately dropping as you put your hands up. You’ve already changed into another set of pajamas, but your hair is sectioned off and still damp.  

“Shit, I’m sorry. I thought you were Hoshi, are you alright?” You wince like you’re the one in pain, but Junhui just brushes it off and glances at you with concern.  

“Are you? You looked like you were about to pop a blood vessel when you were yelling at him.” Junhui crosses his arms, but your brows are furrowed.  

“I’m fine. Go to bed.” You move to close the door, but still momentarily. “Why do you care?”  

He only smiles, tucking his hands into his pockets as he shrugs.  

“See you.”   “Junhui.”   “Be sure to stretch for me, princess. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”  

“Ugh!” You make a face as he clambers down the steps, “what is with all of you today?! Why do you all hate me?!”  

You almost manage to slam the door, but Junhui’s faster – he grabs the door before it closes, gently pulling it open as he leans against the frame. Your eyes are riddled with fatigue, and you open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off.  

“You must be so tired, hm?”  

“Yes, I am,” you mutter pointedly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to get to bed.”  

“Why, so you can toss and turn for a few hours and give us hell when you get up tomorrow?” Junhui raises a brow, “why don’t you just admit you’re having trouble? Did no one ever teach you how to ask for help?”  

For the first time, Junhui sees defeat cross your features. You nibble on your lip, sighing before your shoulders lose their tension and you turn into the trailer. Junhui takes the chance to poke his head into it – the walls powder blue and everything organized in an almost torturous way. Your leotards are set in rainbow order, all your boots clipped to the hangers. A black couch that looks almost cloud-like lines the back wall, facing a heavily stocked vanity with hot hair tools and makeup neatly slotted away aside from one fuchsia blow dryer sitting on the table.  

You slump in the black vanity chair, crossing your arms on your chest before your head lolls to the side. You blink at him, gesturing at the blow dryer.  

“Do you know how to work this? My shoulders hurt.” You admit quietly, and Junhui nods silently, toeing his shoes off and leaving them outside before stepping into the trailer. You move forward to plug it in, but he taps the back of your chair to stop you as he does it himself. “Lowest setting, please. Too much heat will make my head hurt.”  

Junhui stands behind you, watching the way your eyelids grow heavy as he silently dries your hair. You make eye contact several times through the mirror, only for them to fall shut at the feeling of Junhui’s fingers against your scalp.   

“How’s Minghao? You got a chance to check on him yesterday, right?”  

“He was too tired to talk to me. I just sat with him until he fell asleep,” your voice is almost tender, but you click your tongue. “Mingyu and Hosh got him in the morning, and I got stuck rehearsing with you for Jihyo.”  

“Hey, I said you could leave.”   “I didn’t want to. I don’t need to let anyone down. Work first, feel later.”  

Your admission is whispered, barely audible over the sound of the dryer. Something in Junhui’s chest sinks as he peers at your tired face, the way your body is slumped against the cozy chair and he sighs.  

“You’d never let me down.” He rakes his fingers through your hair, before turning off the dryer and unplugging it. He wraps the cable around it, sliding it into the empty slot on your vanity before looking over his shoulder at you.  

“It’s not just about you.”   “I know, but I am part of the ‘everyone’ you speak of. At least, for now.”  

“Are you going out tonight?” You ask, blinking up at him slowly as he lies on instinct – shaking his head before thinking. You tilt your head back, the slope of your neck visible to his eyes as you sigh, “can you keep me company until I fall asleep?”  

He only nods, pushing down his subtle annoyance as he takes off his cap and hangs it on the hook by your door. He shrugs off his sweatshirt, “how long?”  

“You don’t have to.”   “I want to, but I need to sleep too, you know.”   “Bullshit, you’re out until four in the morning.”  

“I love that you keep tabs on me, princess. Makes me feel wanted.” He teases, watching you roll your eyes as you slide off the chair, stretching your arms over your head as you let out a soft groan. You roll your shoulders before gesturing at the light switch, “turn it off and come with me.”  

He does as you ask, his eyes catching the tension in your calves as you make your way to the door that separates your bedroom from the living area. He follows behind quickly, watching the way you gather the sheets you’d taken off the bed and stuff them into the hamper at the end of your bed.  

“They’re such jerks,” you mumble inwardly, “they know I can’t sleep well without Minghao.”  

“Just Minghao?”   “I don’t remember the last time I slept in here alone.”  

“Where do you want me?” He ignores the drop in his stomach as he watches you pull the duvet back, hearing you let out an exhausted laugh that makes your shoulders shake.  

“Are we fucking or something? Just lie down, man.”   “We cou—”   “Shut up.”  

Junhui bites back his laugh as he approaches the side of the bed, before you flop onto your back on the left side, “don’t worry about any water patches, it mostly soaked into the mattress topper. So just lay wherever.”  

You look pained as you stretch your legs, and Junhui perches on the edge of your bed before reaching over gently and squeezing your calf, “do you not stretch before bed?”  

“I’m too tired to stretch right now.” You sigh, your shoulders sinking into the mattress, “and Minghao usually helps me before I go to bed, anyway.”  

“Minghao not being here is not a reason to neglect your muscles. You’ll get hurt and then we’re all screwed.” Junhui says pointedly, and you raise a brow, sitting up on your elbows.   

“Minghao usually–”   “Minghao isn’t here, princess. So just let me help you.”  

You huff, but Junhui’s gaze is pointed and you roll your eyes as you lay back down again. Stretching isn’t intimate, perse – but you can’t make eye contact as Junhui’s fingers dig into your thighs and calves as he moves your body around. You wince here and there, murmured apologies spilling from Junhui’s lips before he eventually stops, kneading the muscle of your calf before sighing.  

“What’s your deal?” He asks, and you peel an eye open to look down at him. He squeezes your leg, making you lazily swat at him before resting your hand on your stomach. He lays on his beside you, holding himself up on his elbows as he peers at your face. You close your eye again, “elaborate.”  

“Why are you so uptight?”   “That’s certainly one way to ask me why I’m so hardworking and dedicated.”   “Well, no.”  

You snort, your lips curling into a soft smile as you shrug, “I have a lot of weight on my shoulders, but it’s nothing I don’t love. Ice cream with the team or alone is usually the only way I get out of here. I don’t have hobbies or vices because I don’t have time, but I love trapeze so much that sometimes, I think it doesn’t matter.”  

You grimace as you turn on your side, tucking your arm under your pillow and bringing it lower against your chest. Your cheek smushes against the pillow, but you open your eyes to look at him, “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”  

“You work too hard.”   “It’s all I have, don’t take it from me.”  

Your voice is soft, almost pitiful as you look at him through your lashes.  

“It’s not all you have. You’re someone outside of the circus, too.” Junhui tries, but you shake your head, letting your eyes fall closed. He takes the opportunity to take you in – soft lips, pouted from the way your cheek is squished by the pillow. Full lashes lining your eyes, your hair in disarray and your earrings twinkling in the low light of your bedroom. He sighs, clicking his tongue before reaching over your head and turning the lights off. You tense slightly at the proximity, your skin prickling as he rolls his eyes, opening his mouth but you mumble before he can say anything.  

“Lie down.”   “Don’t rush me.”   

He pulls the duvet over you, before letting his head hit the pillow as he turns onto his back. He stares at the ceiling – seeing an array of rock music posters, several Polaroids of you holding trophies and posing provocatively in Halloween costumes before shows, and glow-in-the-dark stars scattered about.   

“You’ve lived a whole life with Skyline, haven’t you?” He murmurs, but you don’t reply – your lashes kissing your cheeks as you breathe softly, sound asleep. His chest warms oddly, but he allows it to seep into him as he rakes his eyes over your sleeping face. “Goodnight, princess.”  

You’ve been awake for exactly seven minutes, just staring at the alarm clock on your windowsill. The red numbers mock you; the hard shell covered in faded stickers from years past. You don’t dare move, feeling Junhui’s steady breathing against the back of your neck – his arm wrapped warmly around your waist, pulling you into his chest and keeping you there against your better judgment.  

You can feel your skin prickling at the proximity, but your cheeks are hot at the feeling of his hips pressing into yours unknowingly. Nothing is happening, he’s not sporting a boner or anything – you just feel...warm. Too warm, and worry sinks into your bones as you feel him nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck.  

Your voice is caught in your throat as you open and close your mouth, but the hitch in your breath is enough that you feel his arm tighten around you. He stirs behind you, and you quickly squeeze your eyes shut before feeling him lean over to look at you.  

“Stop pretending you’re asleep.”   “I’m not pretending. I’m asleep. Shut up.”  

Your scowl is useless as he half-laughs, pressing you into the mattress as he reaches over and tilts the clock to look at it – three-fifty-six in the morning glares back at him. He grunts, shoving the clock away before falling back into place behind you. He doesn’t put his arm back around you, instead laying on his back with a groan.   

“I should go back to my trailer.” He mumbles, “why is your bed so soft? That’s so unfair...”  

He trails off with a puff of air from his lips, wiggling around behind you as you lamely clear your throat.  

“If you want.”   “Do you?”   “Doesn’t matter what I want.”  

He scoffs, propping himself up on his elbow and leaning over you. His chest is warm against your back, and you make the mistake of turning your head to look at him, the quirk in your brow faltering as you realize how close he is. His eyes purposely scan your face, stopping at your lips for what feels like forever before they flicker back up to your eyes.  

“May I speak freely?” He cocks his head slightly, and you find the courage to roll your eyes as you move back to your original position, snuggling your face into your pillow, “no, Junhui. Go back to sleep.”  

“Would it kill you to be nice to me?”   “I’d certainly kill you; I don’t know about being nice.”   “...Oh, I get it.”  

You still, your hand gripping the hem of the duvet to pull it over your shoulder, “get what, Junhui? You’re gonna get your ass handed to you if you don’t shut your ass up.”  

“You don’t want to get close to me or treat me decently because you’re worried that you’ll fall for my charm.”  

You choke on your spit, your fist hitting your chest quickly as you sit up – only to see Junhui sporting a shit-eating grin as he looks up at you. You inhale deeply, coughing lightly before lying back down with a huff. He peers down at you smugly, “I’m right, aren’t I?”  

“You’re annoying, is what you are.” You mutter, turning back on your side to face away from him. “It’d do you well to shut the fuck up sometimes.”  

“You’re kind of catty, you know that?”   “It’s part of my charm, and unless you want me to get really catty...shut up.”  

He doesn’t dignify you with a response – instead giving a soft snort before laying back down. He keeps a safe distance between you and him. The loss of warmth is palpable, but you only pull the duvet higher on your body as you close your eyes.  

It feels like an hour passes by – your eyes burning with fatigue as you peel them back open to see only ten minutes have passed. You groan internally, moving to turn around when you’re met with the expanse of Junhui’s back in your face as he’s turned away from you. He's relaxed; the fit of his shirt stretched against the broad expanse of his shoulders but looser at his slim waist. You allow yourself to ogle him, a sigh falling from your lips as you close your eyes again.  

“Can’t fall asleep?” His voice is low, but there’s a hint of teasing in it. You roll your eyes even though he can’t see them, making a noise of affirmation soft enough to be confused with another sigh – your pride not able to handle confirming your troubles to him. “How can I help?”  

“Just...lay there.” You mutter back, and he lets out a defeated sound before turning around again to face you. You don’t bother opening your eyes, but you can feel his arms brush yours as he crosses them in front of him and adjusts into the mattress. A moment passes, the words slipping from your lips like an admission of sin – full of guilt and you regret them almost immediately.  

“Minghao usually holds me.”   “Does he kiss your forehead goodnight, too, princess?”  

You scoff, burying your chin into your chest, “you fucking asked.”   

He says nothing, only extending his arm under your head and shuffling closer. You stiffen at the contact, before feeling him pull your leg over his hip. His hand is cool against your thigh, barely breaching your pajama shorts before he quickly pulls it away. He rests it around your waist, his fingertips tracing patterns into your back as his other hand brings the extra pillow behind you  

“Just relax.”   “I’m relaxed.”   “You’re stiff as a board.”  

You feel your cheeks hot as you attempt to loosen up, every hair on your body standing up at the proximity. You peel an eye open to look at him, his own closed as he speaks again, “you won’t fall asleep looking at me.”  

“Do you really think I’m uptight?” You whisper, and he raises a brow before opening his eyes.  

“You’re worried about that at...four-twelve in the morning?”   “I’m always worried about how I'm perceived.”  

You nibble on your lip, earning a soft sigh from him as he pats your back gently. Almost awkwardly, before he gives you a pointed look.  

“My first impression of you still stands, if that’s of any comfort.” He says carefully, and you must look confused because he shrugs as much as he can before clicking his tongue. “After everything happened in Boston, I came to Manhattan because I was hoping Jihyo would take a chance on me. Everywhere I walked in this neighborhood, I saw posters of you and followed them here. I thought, if a trapezist is the face of this circus, the routines must be out of this world. And I was right, because I watched everyone perform for an entire weekend two weeks before Minghao got hurt and I saw just how much chemistry the two of you had in the ring...but you were absolutely captivating. The leotards, the expressions, the movements. You really, truly are a star out there. You’re a great performer, and you’re beautiful...in and out of your element.”  

You can’t look at him as he sighs, clicking his tongue.  

“But you prove time and time again that you have no idea who you are if you’re not performing. You have no idea who you are without Minghao, or Jihyo, or the circus. That’s why you think this is all you have, that’s why you have certain types of chemistry with different people on the team that you don’t have with others. Just like you don’t shy away from anyone the way you do with me, and it’s not because you’re not used to new people, either.”  

“I know who I am,” you whisper, staring at his chest. Your voice is small, but his hand squeezes your hip gently before he shakes his head, “no, you don’t. Your whole life is this place...you said it yourself.”  

“What kind of chemistry do I have with the others?” You ask, wanting to change the subject quickly. You can tell he catches on as he drums his fingers against your hip, humming slightly.  

“You and Minghao have an undeniable connection, but it’s definitely waned over the years and went from one type of connection to another. You and Soonyoung are like a constant lover’s quarrel, and you and Mingyu are like a divorced couple that mutually agreed it was time to end things.” He shrugs, “which is why I'm not surprised that all of you have history in some way or another. It’s not hard to realize when two people have slept together, you know. It just takes a little observation.”  

“You’re presumptuous.”  “And I’m right.” 

“What makes you think that I’ve slept with them?” You mutter, your tone almost bitter as he pats your hip.  

“The fact that you’re not refuting it, but also that Minghao is so comfortable touching you and you allow it. I had to hold you for practice yesterday and you almost bit my head off.” He says plainly, “do you just not trust me?”  

“I do.” You pick at your nails, holding your hands between your bodies as he lets out a weak laugh, “I do, Junhui. I swear. I just...I’m not used to you.”  

“I’ve known you for fifteen days and I’m already in your bed. I’d say you’re pretty used to me.”   “Did you just call me easy?”   “You’re a lot of things, but easy isn’t one of them. Trust me, I know easy.”  

“That makes you sound like you’re easy.” Your voice is annoyed, only for him to chuckle as he shrugs.  

“Why would I play hard to get when I want it just as much? Seems like a waste.”  

You suck your teeth, peering up at him through your lashes, “what else have you observed about me?”  

He shifts, “not much.”  

“Bullshit.”   “Yeah.”  

He smiles cheekily as you roll your eyes, limply hitting your fist against his shoulder, “Junhui, come on.”  

“Mmh, I don’t know. You get goosebumps when we’re too close to each other. You bumped into me the other day during the team meeting and didn’t apologize, but you didn’t look like you could speak, either.” He purses his lips, letting out a low whistle, “you don’t hold eye contact with me, so I avoid making it because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”  

“Do you really sleep with a new girl every time you go out?” You blurt, earning a lopsided smirk as he shakes his head.  

“No. Sometimes I just want a drink, or I go out to clear my head.”   “Then why are you out until four in the morning?”   “Clearing my head of you takes time, princess.”  

He closes his eyes, seemingly closing the floor for conversation – but you ask anyway.  

“Me?”   “Yes. You. Go to sleep.”   “But I–”  

He leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your hairline before resting his chin lightly on your head, “go to sleep, pretty girl. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”  

The room falls silent as he pulls you closer, and you hate how the heat of his body against yours makes you feel fuzzy. You hate how you can feel his lips against your skin and how you don’t mind it, how you wouldn’t mind him kissing you again – but with intent, and preferably, lower.  

“Goodnight, princess.”   “...Goodnight, Junhui.”  

There is a shift between you and Junhui the next morning, and he can tell. 

You’re quiet – you hand him things off the breakfast table without asking, things he likes. The peach yoghurt, the string cheese, you move quickly and with purpose as you make your plate and Mingyu’s, who is actively trying to fight you for it. Your hands hover over Minghao’s favorites, only to pull them away and grab utensils before moving away. Mingyu manages to take both plates from you at the end of the breakfast table, and you follow him without a word. 

You keep the wall up throughout the morning. Mingyu asks you on several occasions if you’re alright, even Soonyoung presses his hand to your forehead before you swat him away and insist that you’re fine. Chan’s eyes are focused as he watches the two of you run a routine he’d choreographed to Feel Something by Jaymes Young a few months back – admittedly, with you and Minghao in mind. 

Junhui wonders if he’ll ever measure up. 

He stops wondering just as fast – holding you close to him while you’re both suspended in the air, your fingernails digging into his shoulders in a way that feels sinful. Your breathing is ragged against him as you move through the routine, ending with your knees wrapped around the upper part of the hoop and him curved on the inside of the hoop – your faces millimeters away from each other, so close he can feel your breath on his lips. 

Soonyoung taunts you both for a kiss – only for Junhui to feel an odd twist in his stomach when you seem to consider it as the song ends. Your eyes trail his face, but you roll them just as quickly; opting to stare at the ring below you. 

You don’t look at him as you both reach the ground, only muttering a soft thank you when he pulls you off the hoop carefully. You rub at your knees vigorously, the tape peeling back from your hand as you do so. 

“That’s lunch.” Mingyu calls over his shoulder, but Junhui watches as you ignore him and plop down on the bleachers. Your chest heaves with deep breaths as you peel the ripped tape off your hands, eyes watching everyone file out. Junhui lingers at the end of the line, letting the door close in front of him and leaning against the frame as you reach for the tape left behind by Seungkwan on the bleachers. You rip the end up, wrapping your wrists quickly and tearing the end off with your teeth – stretching your arms over your head with a pained grunt and rolling your shoulders back twice.  

He’s not sure you can see him – the edges of the arena dim and he’s dressed in all black. He uses the shadows to his advantage as he leans into them, the frustration radiating off your body practically tangible as you grab one of the ropes and tug on it harshly. You let it pull you into the air, your hand grabbing a hoop and flipping through it – curling your knees around the metal and letting it glide you around the arena, your eyes closed as you swung upside down. The creak of the hoop hinges at the top of the arena are the only sound aside from the thwip of your movements – and Junhui finds himself biting back a smile as you flip back into the hoop, wrapping your arms and gripping the metal tightly as you spun like a top on your descend. 

You let out a loud sigh as you slowed to a stop, almost a sound of relief to Junhui’s ears. You lolled your head back, crossing your ankles before carefully unwrapping yourself from the hoop and hopping down. You run a hand through your hair, dropping it to settle both on your hips as you walk back to the bleachers, a sway in your hips reeking of subtle satisfaction. 

“Sidney Kim, right?” 

You jump, your eyes wide as a hand flies to your chest – looking around when Junhui decides to step back into the light. Huffing, your hand drops and you sit on the bleachers with furrowed brows. You bring your hand to your mouth, tearing the tape with your teeth and peeling it off. 

“Or is it Nina Jeanine? 1992 Cirque du Lune, right?”  “What are you doing here?”  “Wondering why you’re not eating lunch.” 

“Stop worrying about me, it’d do you well.” You reply, tossing the scraps of tape into the garbage back at the end of the bleachers. You roll your wrists, and Junhui only steps closer, leaning against the opposite railing of the bleachers when you look up at him, “why aren’t you eating lunch?” 

“Practice what you preach.”  “It’s my job to worry about you.” 

He smiles, “no it isn’t.” 

Silence settles in the arena as you stare at each other – almost like two cats sizing each other up. You falter first, opting to look away as you grab for the tape again, “Nina Jeanine.” 

“Figured.”  “What are you really doing here?” 

“What I said I was, princess. Wondering why you’re beating yourself up in here instead of eating lunch, of which we now have only forty minutes left of.” He points at the clock on the wall. Your shoulders stiffen, “I’m just blowing off some steam. Go ahead, I’ll catch up.” 

“Blowing off steam...for what? We’re on track with everything. Ticket sales are at an all-time high. We could practically do the routine in our sleep...what is there to blow off steam for?” Junhui raises a brow as you seemingly bristle, your fingernail picking at the roll of tape before you set it down and stand up. You cross your arms on your chest as you plaster on a smile, “let’s go. Lunch awaits us.” 

Junhui sucks his teeth as you walk past him, his hand darting out and grabbing your elbow gently. You don’t stiffen, limply allowing him to pull you back and sit you down on the bleachers. He moves to kneel in front of you, his hands settling on either side of you as he looks at your face. Stress is weaved between your brows, the pad of his thumb coming to rub between them. 

“I’m fine.”  “You’re a shit liar. Add that to my list of impressions about you.” 

You tongue your cheek, swatting his hand away from your face. Your hands are clasped in your lap, but you pick at your fingernails as Junhui drums his fingers against your knees. He takes his time to look at you, gingerly placing his hands over yours to stop your fidgeting – and you meet his eyes, your own full of stress. 

“Is it because Soonyo—”  “He’s so fucking annoying. I don’t have to kiss everyone I do a routine with. Then I’m just the Lucky Star with an emphasis on lucky.” 

Junhui bites back his smile, the pout on your lips full of frustration as you huff, “he wants to act like he knows something, when he doesn’t. I don’t need the entire city of Manhattan to see me kiss someone, just for ratings and applause. It feels fake, and I’m no phony.” 

“We could kiss now.” 

You roll your eyes, “shut the fuck up.” 

“We could, though.” Junhui shrugs, gesturing to the room around you both. “It’s just you and me. No lights, no audience...no pressure. And no one has to know, just us.” 

Your lips are pressed into a thin line, raking your eyes over his face, “that’s not fair to Minghao.” 

“You’re not dating Minghao.”  “You don’t know that.” 

“I know a lot of things, princess. You and Minghao broke up years ago.” Junhui speaks pointedly, his hands cupping your knees with a soft pat, “think about it, because it doesn’t sound like you’re all that against actually kissing me.” 

He leans forward a bit, watching the way you furrow your brows deeper as his nose brushes yours, “I’d kiss you, if you wanted. Just like this.” 

The air is thick around the two of you, his eyes scanning your face and the way you’re considering it. The way you’re thinking about it – before you shake your head. 

“I can’t do that to Minghao.”  “Of course, princess. Just putting it out there.” 

He smiles, patting your knees again, “lunch. Now.” 

He stands up, dusting his knees as you do the same, folding your hands behind your back. You walk in front of him, your pace slow and deliberate as you glance over your shoulder – looking directly at the hoop hanging in the middle of the ring. 

“It’s too intimate.” You say suddenly, facing him with a quick turn of your heel. “It’s too intimate, to kiss someone I work with and know that I have a hard time separating business and pleasure.” 

“It doesn’t have to be more.” 

“That’s the problem,” you click your tongue, shaking your head before turning back on your heel. “You’re right about a lot of things, Wen Junhui. I’ve never thought I’d admit to that.” 

“Like?” 

“I don’t know who I am when I’m not performing.” You reach the door, shaking your head as he stands behind you. Almost too close, it seems – and you confirm it when you turn around as you cross your arms on your chest. He can barely see your face in the dimness, but there’s a sparkle in your eye that wasn’t there earlier, and something about it makes him giddy. 

“I can fix that.” He leans slightly closer, before feeling your hands ghost over his chest. He tilts his head at you, the warmth of your breath hitting his throat as he looks down. “What else?” 

“I’m not here to feed your ego.”  “Mmh, but you wanna.”  “Shut up.”  

He thinks you roll your eyes, turning around and moving to push the door when he snakes his arm around your waist. You easily give, letting him pull your back into his chest – the smell of your perfume, warm and citrusy, filling his nose as he pins you against the door. You lean your head back, the gloss of your eyes visible in the dim lighting. 

“Don’t tell me you’re falling for me, princess.” His voice is low in your ear, his fingers lightly digging into your hip as you huff out a humorless laugh. You splay your hand over his, “no, I don’t swoon easily. Took Minghao a year to even get in my good graces, and another to be my boyfriend.” 

“So, you did date him.”  “Don’t give up hope, hotshot.” 

“Just say you want me. It won’t kill you.” Junhui whispers as you twist out of his hold, your hands pushing against the door but not enough to open it as you peer up at him. 

“I do.” You seemingly shrug, a stream of light bleeding in from the way you crack the door open, “but I love my job more than I’ll ever want you...so let’s stay out of each other’s way. Cool?” 

You don’t give him a chance to respond – but it’s a challenge. You mean it as one; he can tell as you smile brightly at everyone, leaving Junhui in the shadows as the door closes in front of him. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, peering over his shoulder at the barely swinging hoop. “Cool.” 

If you had a dollar for every exasperated sigh you’ve let out during this seemingly never-ending phone call with your mother, you’d be able to pay off your student loans in an instant. Though the frustration is palpable to you, causing your already elevated blood pressure to spike further, it’s invisible to her. 

Or worse, inconsequential.

“I’m just saying!” She offers, as if this takes the edge off. As if she’s ever said anything just to say it. “It wouldn’t kill you to give Mika another chance. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”

The next time you hear her voice, it doesn’t come from the phone pinched between your ear and shoulder; it materializes in the back of your brain and lingers like a poltergeist.

Don’t roll your eyes like that unless you want them to get stuck that way.

Across the counter, the person subbing in for your usual barista shoots you an impatient glare, then flicks his gaze to the growing line behind you.

“Mom, I have to —”

“— You really should return her calls, dove. Bitterness causes premature wrinkles, and you can’t afford —”

At this, the thread you’re dangling by snaps. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try your best to keep your voice down. “I don’t have time for this. I’ll talk to you later.”

When you hang up on her, the forceful tap against your phone’s screen sounds more like a rock against a window. Already wind-bitten from the walk here, your cheeks burn even more harshly when you note the multiple pairs of eyes watching you with poorly disguised interest. 

Not wanting to make an even bigger spectacle out of yourself, you hurriedly shove your phone in your pocket and accept the drink being handed to you, even though you can tell by the blatant lack of ice that it’s wrong.

“Thank you,” you mutter with a curt nod.

The second-string barista doesn’t acknowledge that you’ve spoken. That said, the throbbing vein in his temple disappears the second you back away from his counter.

With the americano you didn’t order burning a hole through your palm, you turn swiftly and head for the door. You barely make it two steps before your phone starts screaming from the inside of your coat pocket.

Leaning hard against the glass door, you force it open with your body alone and use your spare hand to instead grasp the source of all your morning’s problems. The pressure of that godforsaken brick shoves the post of your earring painfully into your neck. 

You growl, “When I said later, I didn’t mean by thirty seconds.”

A voice that is distinctly not your mother’s stammers, “Um — hello — This is Tom from Amato, Shapiro, and Santi.”

Never have you ever encountered a firm of assholes so aptly named.

He waits a beat, no doubt expecting you to apologize for your rude non-greeting, but you don’t. In fact, he could wait forever and still not get a mea culpa. 

It’s only fair, you think. 

Just last month, the serial sex pest he represents escaped liability for harassing your client, due in large part to Tom’s bullshit antics. If that poor woman couldn’t even get an apology for what she went through, Tom certainly won’t now.

“Yes, I know where you work, Tom.” 

You roll your eyes again. It’s a reckless decision, given how furiously you’re charging down the sidewalk. A dog-walker scrambles to get both himself and his tiny, white dog out of your way. 

“Do you need something? I don’t chat for free.”

The shitty little laugh you get in response makes your skin crawl. He doesn’t drag it out, though, immediately simpering, “But do you make use of the time you bill for?”

“What are you — ?” You begin to ask.

Tom cuts you off, his tone jovial and no less fake than his back alley Gucci loafers. “I’m inquiring about your witness and exhibit lists for the Qian divorce in two weeks. Really waiting until the last minute, huh? Trying to keep me on my toes?”

Though he can’t see you do it, you shake your head with a patronizing smile. 

“Nice try, Tom,” you sigh. “Judge Ito continued that to May. She’s the keynote speaker for that cancerous children charity gala, or whatever.”

You weave through two old women with a muttered apology. Both are too busy gossiping about their grandsons to hear you, which is no surprise. They didn’t notice the queue of pissed-off pedestrians stuck behind their roadblock, either.

“No,” Tom corrects you. “She issued an entry a month ago, advising the parties that the conflict was no longer conflicting; and the original trial date would stand.”

The block heel of your boot catches in a divot in the sidewalk. Although you don’t trip, you may as well have. The coffee you didn’t want sloshes violently, goaded by your sudden, harsh squeeze of its cup; and it splatters all over your top, burning your chest through sticky, soaked fabric. 

Because why not, you rue, the heel that did you in clatters separately to wet concrete when you lift your foot, having ripped itself from your sole.

Rather than lie down on the concrete and wait for death in the way you crave, you swallow hard and choke out, “I never got that entry.”

“It sounds like you never got competent support staff.” He laughs too loudly, making your blood boil. “Ultimately, it’s up to you which is more pressing: cleaning house or the Rules of Civil Procedure.”

Your mouth opens instinctively to tell him all the million ways he can fuck off and die. He cuts you off again before you can start: 

“Just know that I will make it a problem if you can’t get your shit together in time for court. My client is sick of yours dragging this out. Frankly, so am I.”

And without another word, Tom hangs up on you. 

Whatever.

Anything else he might’ve said would’ve been drowned out by the hammering pulse in your ears, anyway. What you did hear loops through your brain with every uneven step you take down the warpath, bringing your office building closer and closer into view.

Trial in two weeks.

Competent support staff.

As much as you hate to admit it, Tom has a point. You’ve been making excuses for your paralegal, Dev, for months, but this kind of fuck-up can’t be overlooked. No matter how endearing he is, Dev’s a goddamn disaster. Put simply, you can’t keep sticking your neck out for him only to have it trampled, time and again.

Dread churns in your stomach for the remainder of your commute, although the full-blown nausea doesn’t hit you until you exit the elevator and wobble out into your firm’s waiting area. A deep breath in through your nose is followed by a shaky exhale through your mouth. 

Neither helps. 

You make a mental note to tell your therapist that she was wrong, then another one to actually schedule an appointment.

Despite your unflinching exterior — and the profession you’ve willingly chosen for reasons still unknown to you — the simple fact remains that you don’t seek out confrontation. Nothing ruins your day quite like having to ruin someone else’s. Unfortunately for Dev, you don’t have a choice not to go nuclear. Likewise, you don’t have much time left to get your shit together prior to trial. All you seem to have is an ultimatum to present him for consideration:

Stay late with me tonight to clean up this mess, or be out of the job by the end of business hours.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself as you make a beeline for your personal office. 

There, somewhere amidst the out-of-date statutory reference books and evidence boxes, you’ve got at least one pair of spare Chelsea boots hidden for circumstances like these. 

Well, that’s not quite true. 

You’ve planned ahead for sudden court appearances or shitty weather, not for the abysmally bad luck you’ve experienced so far this morning. Regardless of why you have this contingency plan locked down, you’re grateful that you do. If nothing else, it will allow you to obtain some semblance of balance before potentially kicking Dev to the curb.

Upon hobbling into your office, you close the door behind you and immediately kick off your current shoes so violently that the broken boot flies somewhere out of sight. It takes several minutes’ worth of sock-footed scurrying to find their replacements. Eventually, you locate them in a far more reasonable spot than you expected: tucked neatly underneath the far edge of your L-shaped desk.

You drop yourself into your desk chair, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of your burdens against your shoulders, and begin to unceremoniously shove your feet into your boots.

It all just fucking figures, doesn’t it?

For as far back as you can remember, every Valentine’s Day you’ve experienced has been hellish. Comically cruel, like the showrunners in charge of your narrative are trying to maintain viewership, season after season; and they’re upping the ante as they go.

Last year, Mika couldn’t be bothered to remember your relationship, let alone the holiday. She spent it underneath someone else in your bed. Before that, the “first date” you had to be talked into in the first place ended the same way it started: with you sitting alone at a bar in a crowd of perfect pairs. The pattern started in undergrad, though the memories thankfully get foggier the further back you look.

By staying away from romance entirely for the last few months, you’d made yourself so sure that you’d cracked the code — that, for once, you’d make it through the fourteenth unscathed.

And yet, here you are, suffering immensely before your day even starts.

When your therapist’s bullshit breathing technique does nothing to soothe you, you close your eyes and mutter to yourself, “It cannot get worse. It will not get worse. Bad things have happened, but it is not a bad day.”

Whether the sudden sense of calm you feel is the byproduct of mindfulness or delusion, you can’t say. Whatever the source is, you’ll take it. You cling to that shred of perspective, push yourself to your feet with a grunt, and head back in the direction you just came from.

Outside your door, the hallway gives you two options: the waiting area, which you stomped through to get where you currently are, and the office shared by your firm’s two current paralegals. 

Tsia, the more senior of the two, is currently on maternity leave, which means that you’ll be able to dangle Dev off the ledge without an audience. That tiny piece of consolation is enough to get you moving in his direction, although the serenity you just barely managed to scrounge up starts evaporating more and more with every step you take.

“Dev?” You call out as you approach his closed door.

This, you note, is unlike him. He’s never been productive enough to need to shut out distractions; and he’s never been shameful enough to hide the fact that he spends most days scrolling through TikTok — without headphones, no less.

“Dev?” You try again, attempting to sound much more pleasant than you feel. “Are you on the phone?”

Hearing no response, you reach for the knob and turn it slowly, offering him some additional time to at least pretend to be busy. After counting to five, you push the door open. Then, you freeze.

Dev and his blasted cell phone are nowhere to be seen. His work laptop is on, which might have suggested that he simply stepped away, but the backlit sheet of paper taped to it says otherwise. You cross to his desk and snatch the note from his screen, eyes scanning quickly through his shockingly neat script and widening with horror at every word.

Boss,

Please consider this my resignation letter. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you in advance, but everything came about so suddenly that I haven’t had much time to wrap my brain around it. My partner’s business trip to Malta turned into a relocation offer, and now the two of us are going to –

Without bothering to finish that sentence, you crush the paper within your white-knuckled fist and squeeze your eyes shut tightly enough to sting. 

FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK.

Unable to scream out loud, you slam that same fist down onto his desk with force. The smack of your hand against the wood doesn’t distract from the panic swelling in your chest, but it does bring his laptop back to life. The sudden appearance of his desktop is especially surprising, considering you told him no fewer than ten times to password-protect his shit.

Because the hits simply will not stop coming, you see two things at once that make you want to vomit. 

The desktop wallpaper is an adorable photo of Dev and his partner. Both are smiling, holding one another closely on a beach somewhere, as if the world isn’t capable of crashing down around them. 

At the bottom of the screen, below sand-covered feet, is a growing list of push notifications on his minimized Outlook application.

It’s the last thing in the world you want to do, but you can’t help it; damage control is impossible if you can’t properly triage the problem. Swallowing down bile, you click on the icon and bring up your firm’s primary email inbox, which Tsia and Dev are jointly responsible for manning. Of the hundreds of untouched messages, more than half are from either local Clerks of Court or Tom fucking Santi.

Just above the notice of your now-upcoming trial, you find the only January emails that Dev did read, confirming one-way plane tickets to Malta and the booking of international movers. That motherfucker not only lied in his quote-unquote resignation letter about the amount of notice he could give you but also about the billable hours he burned, planning his escape.

All at once, you feel your internal systems crashing out. Your eyes swim, your head reels, and your stomach lurches. You don’t know whether you want to scream, sob, or send yourself flying out of the nearby window. All of them — preferably at once.

The only reason you don’t do any of these things, no matter how strong the urges are, is the fact that your professional reputation is at stake. Your abject refusal to appear incompetent kicks you into overdrive. It kicks you so far, in fact, that you find yourself in your co-worker’s office with no real memory of walking there in the first place.

Yuki jolts when she looks up from her monitors and finds you looming over her with your eyes too wide to be normal. She gets up immediately and gestures for you to sit on the plush loveseat underneath her window. You don’t – rather, can’t – move, so she places her hands on your shoulders and ushers you onto a cushion herself.

“Dear god,” she mutters. “Are you okay?”

She should know by now that this is the worst possible question to ask you under circumstances like this. Of course, you weren’t okay when you barged in here to begin with. You’re even worse off now because your weakness is being perceived. 

Embarrassment and self-loathing bubbles under the surface of your skin, making you hot. Both threaten to leak out through your eyes. 

You don’t want to have to ask for help, period, but you’re out of options; and Yuki is the only person here who’s allowed to see you anywhere near a breakdown. That, and you’re certain she’d be available. Having drafted the shared parenting agreement for her and her ex-boyfriend, you know for a fact that their daughter will be with him tonight.

“If I buy you takeout, would you be willing to stay for a while after work to help with some last minute trial prep?” You can’t even bring yourself to meet her eyes when you explain, “Dev bailed, and I’m so, so, so fucked now.”

Yuki grabs your hand from your lap and squeezes. For a split second, you feel relieved. Then, you hear her sigh, and your hopes are dashed just as quickly as they were raised.

“Kimiko’s kindergarten class is having a daddy-daughter dance for Valentine’s Day tonight,” she starts.

The pained look on her face tells you everything you need to know. Nevertheless, she continues, “Ty flaked, as usual. I had to be the one to decide what would be more humiliating for her — being the only kid there with their mom, or the only kid who doesn’t get to go at all.”

“I’m so sorry, Yuki.”

You mean it, wholeheartedly. The only victim of your shitty love life is you. Yuki, on the other hand, has a six-year-old to protect from becoming collateral damage. 

She simply shrugs, too used to this sort of letdown to let it ruin her day. “Kimiko bounced back fairly quickly, which is pretty sad, in and of itself. She asked if we could wear matching outfits.”

You crack a smile for the first time all day. Gesturing to her entirely black, incredibly chic outfit, you tease, “Is she dressing for a funeral, too?”

“I wish!” Yuki throws her head back and whines, “The vibes tonight are tragically bright pink, and I have to leave early to shop before the dance starts.”

“Well…” You give her hand a squeeze, then let it go entirely. “I’m sending you thoughts and prayers, buddy.”

She swats at you, tells you kindly to fuck off, and then wishes you good luck while you head back out her door.

As you trudge back towards your office, you run through your list of contingency plans. 

The firm’s owners, Zavier and Jaein, are both out of the question. If they’re not spending the night with their respective spouses, they’ll be continuing their not-so-secret affair with one another. Even if they weren’t, you’d rather stand in front of an oncoming train than give them any reason to doubt your abilities. 

Next.

With Yuki out of commission, there are three other associate attorneys left for you to consider. 

Dani is engaged and definitely has plans with his smoke-show of a fiancé; there’s no point in asking him for help. You’d never hear the end of it if you did, anyway. He’s so committed to his one-sided rivalry with you that he’d probably make a plaque to commemorate your failings. 

Pass.

Sana and her wife are on a cruise somewhere far more pleasant than here, so she’s out. Thank god. Beating your head against a wall would be preferable to spending several hours in a room alone with her. Sana’s only personality trait is married, and she’s entirely incapable of talking about anything else. 

Hard pass.

The relatively new hire, Junhui, is still an unknown factor. In the few months he’s worked here, you’ve met him exactly once that you can recall. It was a brief encounter in the break room; and his mouth was so full of whatever he’d brought for lunch that he couldn’t respond beyond simply waving when you’d introduced yourself.

He seemed perfectly nice — and from what you hear, he’s perfectly competent — but yours is far too big a burden to shove onto a virtual stranger.

Besides, there’s simply no way that someone who looks like that doesn’t have better places to be tonight.

Junhui doesn’t realize that he’d nodded off until his bleary eyes travel down from his half-finished report and spot the time in the bottom corner of his screen. Apparently, it’s already a quarter to six. If he hadn’t fallen asleep at some point in the recent past, he’d be stepping off the train home by now. 

Of course, he isn’t. Now, with all the other commuters flooding public transit, the trip home will be at least twice as long.

Damn it.

He scrubs his hands over his face in an attempt to get the exhaustion off of it, though he doesn’t manage without yawning into his palms. 

Figuring that he’s already behind schedule, he slowly rises to his feet and stretches his arms over his head with a groan, dreaming all the while of the caffeine he can down before heading out. With no one left in the office, he’ll be able to fail his way through this acquisition without anyone knowing how completely inept he is at using the firm’s espresso machine.

As expected, Junhui’s walk to the conference room is lonely. Each of his colleagues’ doors are closed, making it clear that they all bolted the second they could. Even the cleaning staff managed to come and go without him noticing; all the trash and recycling bins have been emptied. 

Thankfully, he notes, someone forgot to turn off the conference room light before they dipped. If they hadn’t, all his steps would be taken in total darkness — because, even after three months of working here, he still doesn’t have a clue where the switches are.

As soon as he crosses the threshold into that sole, lit room, Junhui stops. The massive table that normally occupies the center of it has been shoved up against the interior wall, along with all its chairs. In its place, evidence boxes form a haphazard little fairy circle on the rug. You sit cross-legged in the middle, nose all but buried in a case file, wearing leggings and a crewneck instead of the suit you likely came here in.

“You look comfortable,” he muses.

It becomes abundantly clear very quickly that you, too, thought you were here alone. You jolt at the sound of his voice. All the papers you were holding drop and scatter, both across your lap and the floor you’re monopolizing.

Junhui’s hands fly up. “Whoa, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The look on your face is far from startled, though. Even from a few meters away, he can see how tightly your jaw is clenched. If he listens closely, he’d likely hear your teeth grinding one another into dust. 

He can also sense how stiff your posture is, now that you feel his eyes on you. His gaze shifts to the piles of paper near your knotted limbs; and he tells himself that he’s averting his eyes out of respect, not the tiny tremble of intimidation he feels working its way down his spine.

At this point, Junhui knows you by reputation only. He’s rarely at any of the courthouses you frequent, and his specific line of work keeps him out of the office, more often than not. Whenever he is here, you’re not — too busy with that massive caseload of yours to catch much of a breather.

The two of you may be passing ships in the night, but you have a lot of people in common. He can’t say that he’s made much of an impression on them so far. You, on the other hand, are both widely known and discussed. 

So far, anyone that’s ever mentioned you to him speaks about you as if they’re describing a force of nature. It’s the kind of awe people usually save for something fearsome yet worthy of respect, like a tsunami — with the sole exception being that sanctimonious cunt, Tom Santi, who most recently described you as a nightmare bitch from hell.

Of course, Junhui has no firsthand knowledge to back any of these claims up, but he figures it can’t be that far out of character for you to be here now, working too hard. For all he knows, it could also be on-brand for you to snap his neck for distracting you.

“Do you…?”

One of your eyebrows arches quizzically. His question dies on his tongue, halfway finished, because he doesn’t know where it was headed in the first place. Just the same, he can’t tell if that expression on your face is due to stress, annoyance at being interrupted, or some secret, third thing.

…Want me to leave?

Junhui points awkwardly to the espresso machine in the corner, which you’ve unintentionally barricaded behind the conference room table. Like a fucking buffoon, all he says is: “Espresso?”

Your face scrunches a tiny bit. For the second time, he finds himself completely unable to read you. Is it disgust? Suspicion?

No, he realizes, it’s neither. He sees the tiniest flicker of it when the corner of your lips twitch: amusement. While the smile doesn’t overtake your mouth, there’s a glimmer of it in your eyes. It’s reason enough for Junhui to breathe for the first time since he walked in.

“Yes, I do espresso.” You nod with your lips bitten between your teeth, like you’re seconds away from laughing. 

Too eagerly, Junhui nods, too. “Right. Got it. Order up.”

Order up?

Running away isn’t an option; and he can’t dig a hole to hide in without a shovel. All he has left to do is shuffle over towards the corner and slink through the obstacle course you’ve built. With what he feels is impressive agility, he makes it all the way to the machine before pausing suddenly. 

Under his breath, he curses, “Fuck.”

The jig is up now. Junhui has no idea which buttons to press, or even where the espresso beans are. Unfortunately for both of you, the only way for him to find out is to interrupt you further. 

Whoever handles his eulogy better leave out how little time it took him to provoke you into killing him.

Bracing himself for impact, he squeezes his eyes shut and smiles sheepishly. “Do you happen to know how to… use this?”

There’s a groan from the center of the room. Junhui cracks one eye open and searches for the fist coming his way. Instead, he finds you on your feet, twisting at the waist and stretching.

While twisting, you lock eyes — well, eye — with him, then you freeze with your torso still rotated in his direction. Your hinged arms stay where they are, held up at your sides.

“I’ve been sitting here like a goblin for too long,” you explain, tone self-conscious. “If you just heard every joint in my body pop…. no, you didn’t.”

Before Junhui can think of a quip in response — he’s capable of coherent speech, he swears — you step over the shoes you’ve discarded and make your way over to him, patterned socks clashing with the neutral carpet below. He steps back on instinct, although there isn’t really anywhere left for him to go. 

You either don’t notice how close you get to him, or you don’t care. Entirely unfazed, you set to work, grinding and tamping like it’s all second nature to you.

Junhui knows he should use this time to observe your processes carefully, but he doesn’t. That’s not to say the learning opportunity is entirely squandered, though. 

And he’s a quick study.

In less than a minute, he learns more about you than he has in the last three months. His first discovery is that you’re wearing a watch on your dominant wrist, which is weird as hell — until he spots the small tattoo hiding beneath it. He catches the very faint notes of patchouli at the base of your perfume, too, underneath the cassis and freesia.

It’s nice, he thinks, even better than the overwhelming scent of coffee that swoops in to drown it out.

“This goes here —”

The silver piece in your hand twists into place with a click, drawing his attention back to where it should’ve been all along. 

Fuck. 

Have you been talking this entire time?

“— and then you press the start button to release the hot water.”

You glance up at him then to confirm that he understood you. Junhui blinks, buffering while he tries to play this out.

“You’re good at this,” he improvises, although he admittedly has no idea if this is true. 

“No compliments until you survive drinking it.” You offer him a wry smile to go with the drink you’ve made him. “I’ve quite literally never touched this thing before in my life.”

With your vaguely expectant eyes on him, he takes a small sip, then he murmurs with his lips still hidden behind the glass, “I don’t think I believe that.”

“Why?” You smirk and tilt your head to the side. “Because it’s just that good?”

No, in fact, it’s terrible, but you don’t need to know that.

Junhui nods his head towards the center of the room. His reply is simple, and despite not being the full truth, it’s not a lie: “I’d expect more practice from someone who seems to live here.”

For the first time since he walked in, you offer a full reaction — not just a hint of one. He would’ve preferred a laugh, or even a genuine smile; however, that’s not what he gets. Instead, your face becomes pinched.

“Fucking Dev.”

Whatever thought you might have had about making your own shitty drink disappears. You stalk back over to your shrine of documents and drop once again to the floor, legs knitted. In the split second you’re not looking at him, Junhui spits out the bean shards you missed while grinding and tosses them in the nearby trash can.

Although he’s curious, he hesitates to ask what it is you’re working on. Clearly, whatever it is has got you stressed to the point that caffeine is no longer a priority. Based on personal experience, that’s a bad sign.

Still, Junhui can’t seem to stop talking to you, even though he’s sure it’s a bother. He takes a second look at the sheer amount of paper surrounding you and ventures a guess: “Class-action suit?”

“That would honestly be preferable,” you mutter, looking up from your notes long enough to glance over your shoulder at him.

He takes this as a sign that his presence isn’t entirely unwelcome. At least, it’s a good enough omen to draw him closer. He skirts back around the mess of chairs until he’s standing across from where you sit, and then he leans back against the table.

You look back down again, leaving Junhui to wonder if he made the wrong call. For what it’s worth, he also wonders what it really is about you that’s making him act so awkwardly all of the sudden.

“What are you still here for?”

His heart drops into his stomach, which is about ready to fall right out of his ass. His mouth opens, though nothing comes out.

Sensing the way he’s quietly spiraling, you look up at him. “In the office, I mean,” you amend quickly with a shake of your head. “We don’t really run into each other during business hours, so I didn’t expect to see you here after, you know?”

Ah, fuck.

Junhui swallows. 

The truth — that he’s only here because he dozed off on the clock — is offensive, even to him. Here you are, working hard enough for two people; and in stomps the clown whose tasks bored him right to sleep. While he doesn’t want anyone to know about his unprofessional little snooze, the thought of admitting it to you feels…

Nope. 

He’s not going to unpack this, not now. It doesn’t matter if it’s a desire to not look dumb in front of a colleague or one to be a little more impressive to you, specifically.

“I was working on an investigatory report,” he eventually says, conveniently leaving out the fact that his impromptu nap kept him from finishing it.

You arch an eyebrow again, which he’s beginning to believe is an unconscious tell of yours. Yet another quiet invitation.

“Investigatory report? Is that… common?”

The two of you look at each other. Now, he’s confused.

“You do immigration law, don’t you?” You gesture over his shoulder, out the door. “You’ve got five different name plates outside your office, written in as many different alphabets —”

Oh.

“— I kind of just assumed —”

Junhui laughs, which causes your other eyebrow to rise up and join the other. “I mean, I dabble. It’s all soul-crushing, though, so I try not to take those cases unless they’re, like, dire.”

Too many of them are.

You hum in acknowledgment. “So, what do you do?” 

“Guardian ad Litem work, mostly,” he replies with a shrug. “The name plates are —“

He gestures vaguely, but then all that suppressed, systemic frustration starts to bubble up, unbidden. He’s never been great at withholding his little rants, so he starts talking a little too quickly, a little too loudly. 

“There are a lot of immigrant families in the area, right? Whether or not they should, a lot of them wind up court-involved, especially where their kids are concerned.” 

As aware as he is that his hands are moving too much with each word, he’s unable to stop. 

“I noticed that absolutely nobody on the local courts’ appointment lists was multilingual, which is just fucking negligent —”

When you finally speak, it’s with your head tilted and eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Sounds to me like someone found their calling.”

And against his better judgment, Junhui takes his balled up fist, extends his thumb and pinky finger, and holds it up to his ear. “Might have been a wrong number, but it’s worked out well enough so far.”

And you laugh, sincerely and squeakily in a way that nearly makes him laugh, too.

“You’re weird. You know that, right? Like weird weird.” You grin as you say this, leading him to believe it’s a compliment of the highest order. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Junhui looks at you, looking at him, and he feels the charge your shitty espresso couldn’t muster. He feels bolder. Gesturing to your mountain of documents, he finally brings himself to ask why you’re still here. The second he does, he regrets it; he watches you deflate in real time, smile warping downwards.

“It’s a clusterfuck.” 

You take your eyes off of him and plant them back on the file in your hands. 

“I found out that a nasty trial of mine is taking place in two weeks, rather than twelve, and I have to get shit together tonight or I’m fucked – genuinely, irrevocably fucked. I can’t file a Witness and Exhibit List until I get through all of this discovery–” 

You shift your extended left leg to give one of the boxes a half-hearted kick. 

“– and if I don’t submit that for electronic filing by midnight, all my shit will be excluded.”

Junhui nods his understanding, then pushes himself off the table he’s been leaning on. You watch him carefully, waiting for him to excuse himself and walk out the door, but that was never his intention. Instead, he sits cross-legged on the floor across from you and grabs a packet of exhibit stickers off one of the nearby boxes’ lids.

“Letters or numbers?” He asks, holding the packet aloft.

You blink before you splutter, “Oh, wait, no. No, you really don’t have to. I couldn’t ask you to –”

“Letters or numbers?” Junhui repeats himself, softer but no less seriously.

“You seriously don’t have other plans?”

Now, it’s his turn to balk. Unlike you, his shock is entirely manufactured. “On a work night? In this economy?”

“On Valentine’s Day,” you correct him with emphasis.

Rather than feigned horror, it’s earnest embarrassment that floods his face. The tips of his ears start burning, too, in a matter of seconds. Smiling sheepishly, he admits, “Guess I forgot. Don’t really have much to celebrate, you know?”

You raise the manila folder in your hand and reach over to tap it against the packet of stickers in his.

“Cheers to that,” you scoff.

Junhui, it turns out, is even more productive than you are. He falls into lockstep with you the moment he sits down, and other than asking him to hand you things that are closer to him than to you, you don’t need to direct him.

Better still, he anticipates. Every time you finish reviewing one exhibit, he’s holding another one out to you – pre-marked – with a packet of post-it tabs for you to mark especially relevant pages. Though you certainly didn’t ask him to, the tabs he gives you follow a color-scheme, creating a key for easier reference.

Green for financial records, red for social media posts and other electronic communications, blue for your clients’ extensive medical and therapy records.

In only a handful of hours, you comb through everything you need to in order to truly start preparing. The sinkhole that’s been occupying your stomach since this morning disappears. In its place, all that’s left is a void of a different kind.

“I’m starving,” you announce suddenly and dramatically, flopping onto your back with your arm flung over your forehead. “Are you?”

When you don’t get a response, you pull your arm away from your face and crack one eye open in the face of the overhead fluorescents. If your vision wasn’t already blurry from all the time spent reading, this stupid decision likely would’ve blinded you. Thankfully, your eyes still work well enough to look over at Junhui.

Where Junhui was, rather.

You blink, dumbfounded. You didn’t see or hear him leave, which begs the question: were you too locked-in to hear his goodbye, or did he slip past you like Casper the Selflessly Helpful Ghost? You don’t know when it was that he even left, or why it is that you’re frowning now for the first time in six hours.

You reach for your phone to text him and ask. It’s in your hand before you realize that you don’t have his number and back in your pocket before you feel yourself truly start to pout. Although he was putting in unpaid labor on your behalf, you’d gotten the impression that he was enjoying himself. You were, anyway.

Deciding that you can manage lonely better than hungry, you force yourself to sit up, then to your feet. Without bothering to put your shoes back on, you step over the paper fortress you’ve spent all night building and shuffle off with heavy eyelids towards the door.

Someone in this office has to have snacks, whether they’d be okay with you sniping some or not. You cross your fingers while you head for the breakroom and hope for a nice, unexpired yogurt, at the very least. Maybe a leftover packet of oyster crackers if you’re lucky – ones that aren’t stale if you’re especially so.

Before you can step foot into the breakroom, a sudden, muffled shout snaps you out of your famished, fugue state.

“Hot!”

Your gaze snaps from the floor to Junhui, who stands in front of you with both of his hands full. His eyebrows now occupy the space immediately below his hairline; his eyes are wider than you would’ve previously thought humanly possible. Relief splashes over you. If you’re being honest, it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the two steaming bowls of buldak ramen you just narrowly avoided crashing into.

With two, paper-wrapped pairs of chopsticks held between his teeth, Junhui can’t say much of anything. That doesn’t stop him from trying, though. “Ih ooh mih meh?”

“What?” You snort.

Realizing how truly useless that question is, you reach up and carefully pluck the chopsticks from his mouth. A heart-shaped smile takes their place.

“I asked if you missed me,” he simpers. “I told you I’d be right back.”

You blink twice, quickly. 

Did he?

He jerks his head in the direction of the conference room. “C’mon. You’re hungry, and I’m burning through my epidermis.” 

As soon as you side-step out of his way, Junhui takes off at a laughable pace, footsteps measured and careful to avoid sloshing hot soup as he goes. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from telling him how much he looks like those sprint-walkers turning laps at the local mall. All he needs is a tracksuit.

When you finally catch up to him, you find that he’s already set both bowls onto the table and pulled up a chair. One chair. You open your mouth to ask him about this, but he senses your question coming and waves it away with his hand.

“There’s only ten minutes left to file your Witness and Exhibit List,” he points out. 

You don’t doubt him enough to check your watch, but you’re surprised to learn that he’s kept track of your deadline, even when you haven’t. Both of you move at once, nearly colliding a second time on your respective routes to your laptop.

Oh.

That single chair is for you.

“Seriously, eat,” Junhui urges. “I’ve got this.”

He sits down on the floor and hauls your computer into his lap without another word. You can’t seem to move, though. You simply stand there, watching him, and try to fight the very unexpected urge you suddenly feel to cry.

In fact, you’re still standing there when he calls out to you without looking up. “Case parties and who else?”

“The fertility –” You swallow thickly then clear your throat. “The fertility doctor, Eve Nguyen. She’s testifying to the in vitro hell my client put herself through while her husband was withholding the truth about his vasectomy from her.”

Junhui types furiously as you talk, face scrunching up in disgust without turning away from your screen. 

“Her therapist, too: Phoebe Miller. She’ll testify to the impact of the hormone treatments on Ms. Al-Hamin’s mental health, and the sheer amount of time she spent sobbing on Ms. Miller’s couch when she finally found out about her shitbag husband’s useless balls.”

“Eat,” Junhui urges again, more emphatically this time. He gestures with his head to the table, where the ramen he made for you is still waiting. “I mean it. I’ll figure out a more court-appropriate way to phrase shitbag husband’s useless balls.”

You do as he says and sink down into the chair he pulled out for you, pulling the food toward you eagerly. Thankfully, he doesn’t glance over at you to confirm that you are in fact eating. Though you’ve bonded quickly in this little trench of yours, he doesn’t yet have the kind of security clearance a person would need to see you scarf down noodles with reckless abandon. 

Maybe eventually the two of you will get to a point where he can perceive you unhinge your jaw like a snake just to devour a meal. 

Today is not that day.

Without needing to be asked, Junhui switches his focus to the stack of numbered exhibits to his left. As he thumbs through them, he adds each one to your Exhibit List in order, then quickly shuffles the one he’s identified to the bottom of the stack. He does it all so effortlessly that he finishes that task before you’ve finished your food. 

Unfortunately for you, that means he looks up in time to see the massive, final bite you stuff into your gaping maw. It’s not disgust that you’re met with, though. It’s something soft, a smile that’s entirely present in his eyes. You freeze and thaw at the same time, not giving a shit that those things should be mutually exclusive.

“Do you want to look this over before I e-file it?” 

You shake your head, mouth too full to tell him that you trust him. Setting the empty cardboard bowl down on the tabletop, you offer him a thumbs up instead, which makes him laugh; then a finger-heart, which makes him laugh harder.

Although he could, Junhui doesn’t stand up right away. He goes right back to typing, throwing you for a loop. 

“Hey,” you say. When he doesn’t stop, you do your best to mimic his softly commanding voice. “Eat.”

He shakes his head. When he speaks, he sounds a thousand miles away; too focused to be fully present. “I’m already over here. I might as well file these subpoenas.”

Now, you really want to cry.

“I don’t even know how to thank you.” You laugh to hide how close to tears you are. “Seriously. I don’t think I’m the kind of person who’d stay this late to help someone, let alone someone I hardly know.”

Junhui presses down on the trackpad, definitively hitting submit on the last of your work for the night. He closes your laptop, sets it back down on the box to his left, then turns to you.

“I think you would,” he disagrees with a gentle shake of his head. “Besides, I can’t say that I hardly know you anymore. I got paid for my labor with lore.”

You snort out a laugh. The buldak sauce lingering in your throat burns your sinuses, prompting you to close your eyes tightly and laugh even harder. When you reopen your eyes, it’s impossible to tell whether the tears on your lash line are steeped in mirth, spice, or bone-deep gratitude.

“Don’t say that like it’s just compensation,” you warn.

Junhui tilts his head to the side, his stare innocent and not at all challenging. “Isn’t it?”

Outwardly, you roll your eyes. Inwardly, there’s a war amidst the butterflies in your stomach; the majority love the way he looks at you when he’s perplexed, while the rest scream not to fall into the same old trap for the millionth year in a row.

You force a change in subject lest you start to choke on all the honey dripping from your eyes. 

“How about you actually eat this ramen you made while I clean up the mess I made of this room?”

Junhui sighs like he’s truly put-upon. Nevertheless, he holds one hand out to you, silently requesting that you haul him to his feet. Figuring it’s the very least you can do, you oblige. He’s towering over you in no time, shooting you a tiny, thankful smile that sends your brain into a tailspin.

He eats, and you busy yourself with the numerous trip hazards around him: first, shuffling your case files and boxes to the side of the room, then wheeling both Junhui and his chair back where the latter belongs. He protests all the while — not because you scoot him without his consent, but because you wave off every single suggestion he makes about waiting until he’s done so he can help.

“You’ve done enough!” You grunt as you forcibly drag the table back into place. “There’s above and beyond, and then there’s you — way past that.”

His cheeks go pink while he goes quiet. You bravely decline to stare at that dusty rose color and instead hop foot to foot while you tug your boots back on.

“I feel awful that you’re going to get, like, five hours of sleep before you have to come back here. Do you have —”

You lose your balance and the rest of that sentence, but you gain Junhui’s hands on your upper arms, preventing you from falling over entirely.

“— court in the morning?” You supply breathlessly, a little too shocked by his quick reflexes and concerned eyes to function.

Junhui waits for you to let go of the back of your boot and regain your footing before peeling his hands off you and shoving them quickly into the pockets of his coat. His response comes a bit clumsily, though you don’t have much room to talk.

“Nope,” he says, shaking his head and shrugging. “My schedule is pretty light this month, actually.” Then, he smiles sheepishly. “Especially compared to yours.”

Eyes narrowing playfully, you snip, “Don’t brag, Wen Junhui. It’s uncouth.”

He pauses for a second then asks, “Is it couth with you if I walk you out?” 

Your jaw damn near drops. His response is so stupid, so hopelessly devoid of rizz despite the beat he took to think of it, and yet you’re powerless in the face of it. 

This man is a loser; and even though there are a million Human Resource-related reasons why you shouldn’t, you kind of want him.

No, you do want him.

Badly.

You swallow that burgeoning need like a shot, then you let out a measured, cooling breath. 

“I’ll allow it,” you sniff.

The subsequent walk to the elevator, as well as the ride down, aren’t quiet. You’re grateful, but you can’t take credit; Junhui keeps the conversation going easily, notwithstanding your distinct lack of input. 

If he notices how quiet you’ve gone, it doesn’t seem to bother him. Just the same, if he notices how intently you watch him while he talks, he gives you the benefit of the doubt.

Before tonight, it never really occurred to you how pretty he is. Of course, you haven’t been blind. Your few passing encounters clued in you in that he was good-looking, at least from a distance, but he’s something else entirely when he stands as close to you as he is now. You can’t even pretend to look anywhere else.

No matter how many sharp angles he has — the high bridge of his nose, the L-shape of his jaw, and the peaks of his cheekbones — there’s softness to balance it out. You see it in the heart-shaped curve of his mouth when he smiles; the faint freckle directly above it; and the cat-like, slow blink when he occasionally glances down at you. It’s present in the almost breathy tone of his voice, the one that makes it sound like he’s reaching you through some dreamlike haze.

But then you realize how fucking stupid it is for you to look at anyone the way you currently are, let alone a co-worker.

You made a pact with yourself after breaking up with Mika to keep to yourself for the foreseeable future — to protect yourself from the series of unfortunate romantic events you can’t otherwise seem to avoid. For eight months, you’ve stuck to it, even though you’re lonely. It’s been working, too. Nobody’s been able to shatter you because you haven’t given anyone the hammer or the opportunity.

And your avoidance isn’t just for your own good, either. Something about you either draws shittiness out of people or grows it where none existed before. Everyone you’ve dated in recent years was fine until they got too close; they all seem to be better off now that they’ve gotten away from you. In fact, if your social media creeping has taught you anything, it’s that Mika is the only one of your exes not happily in a relationship.

The pattern is too significant at this point to be a coincidence, and though you try to pass it all off as shitty luck, you’re the common denominator amidst all these disasters.

Shouldn’t you be held accountable for that?

“Look alive, sunshine.”

You snap back to attention with a jolt.

Junhui stands in the opening of the elevator with his hand on the frame, actively preventing the door from closing on you. You didn’t hear the bell go off when it opened; you have no idea how long you’ve been standing there, zoned-out stare fixated on the floor.

He sees what must be a bewildered expression on your face and laughs. “Did you fall asleep with your eyes open? I apparently do that sometimes, too.”

“No, I —” You shake your head while you start to explain, but then your brain stops buffering. “I’m sorry, you what?”

“I didn’t say anything. Out you come!”

You let Junhui usher you out of the elevator, but as you do, you crane your neck to look up at him with unabashed wonder. “Like a prey animal?”

He holds his left index finger up to his lips to silence you, then goes as far as actually shushing you. The tips of his ears peek out from his wavy hair, bright red against the dark.

“Like a little bunny?” You tease, tugging at the hem of his coat.

He rolls his eyes, though no part of him seems annoyed in the slightest. He doesn’t even move away from you. Instead, he rebuts you while lingering at your side, “No.”

You take your fist and rest it on top of your head with your middle and index fingers extended upward, smiling brattishly while you wait for Junhui to look back over at you.

His gaze is locked on the door ahead, however. He raises his arm and points, drawing your attention. “What is that?”

The second you see it, you drop your head back and groan with everything you’ve got. “Fuuuuuuck.”

That would be the security gate, which the building security staff lowers over the front doors when they leave for the night. It’s electronic and can be easily opened with a passcode — which you don’t have.

“Oh, my god.” You shove your face into your palms. “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about the fucking gate. I don’t even know what time they close it.”

“There’s a pin pad over there.”

You can’t see him, but you’re sure he’s pointing.

“You’ve worked here for a while. They gave you the code, right?”

You will yourself to shrink, to turn into a speck of dirt on the floor and be promptly kicked away. If he can’t see you, he can’t hate you for getting him locked in the goddamn building after donating hours of his time to help you.

Oh, you fucking clown.

Swallowing harshly, you whisper, “I’ve never stayed late enough to need it. I’m seriously so sorry. Technically, we can get out through the emergency fire exit, but that will —”

“— Set off all the alarms and sprinklers,” Junhui correctly assumes, prompting you to nod with your head still buried in your hands.

Silence creeps in then and settles over the two of you, suffocatingly thick like a fire blanket. It’s fitting, given how badly embarrassment burns your cheeks. You want nothing more than to curl up and die — right here, where security can find you in the morning and atone on their knees for trapping you like a rat.

But then Junhui laughs — really, truly, deeply laughs — so hard that you feel him momentarily double over at your side.

You part your fingers and peek over at him through the gaps. With his eyes screwed shut, the mirthful tears have nowhere to go except the far corners of his eyes. They streak down his temples, glowing a hazy shade of blue due to the colored security lamps overhead. 

“I’m sorry.” His apology comes out squeaky on the tail of a wheezing laugh. “No one should have to spend this many consecutive hours with me. God, you were so close to freedom.”

You buy into the bit, rather than admit to the tiny thrill spinning dizzy circles in your brain. “It is a tremendous burden, yes. Of all today’s trials and tribulations, you will be my undoing.”

Junhui wipes his cheek, then glances over his shoulder at the elevator. He stares at it thoughtfully for a moment, gears turning, before he turns back to you with his head tilted sideways. 

“If I can bother you for a little while longer, I think I have a way to pass the time.”

In the far corner of the conference room sits a bar cart, weighted down with more bottles and glasses than is even remotely necessary for a place of business. Artfully curated for trial and settlement victories, it boasts at least six different kinds of liquor. Each one is more expensive than the last.

“You sure this is a good idea?” You ask, gesturing to the bottle of gin in Junhui’s hand.

He can’t make heads or tails of your hesitation. You strike him as the type to apologize later, rather than seek permission first. Even if his assessment of you is wrong, he knows without a doubt that neither Zavier nor Jaein would ever draw a sword on their most objectively successful associate. 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He asks, tone laden with amusement. “You’re the reason we have this cart in the first place.”

You shoot him a warning look that lacks heat. He hopes you don’t intend to rebut him; there’s no need to be humble, especially when what he said is true. Without you, there’d be a hell of a lot less to celebrate around here. 

Come to think of it, the only thing more impressive than your trial record is the long list of happy client reviews that come up in internet searches.

Not that Junhui has Googled you.

Okay, not that he’s Googled you more than twice.

He twists the cap off the bottle and pours matching amounts in two glasses, keeping his eyes focused on his ministrations instead of on you. 

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of getting in trouble. What would Tom Santi think?”

Two seconds after he adds a splash of tonic, your hand appears from his peripheral vision and grabs the nearest glass from its spot on the edge of the cart. When Junhui’s eyes travel down the length of your arm and up to your face, he spots the innocent, bewildered way you’re blinking back at him.

Cotton-candy sweet, you lilt, “I’m just worried that you can’t keep up.”

You tilt your glass — a silent cheers — before taking a sip, a devilish smile appearing as soon as the cup leaves your lips.

His stomach flips excitedly even though he’s aware that it shouldn’t. There’s a fence of red tape building a perimeter around you, and it’s dotted with hundreds of warning signs: off-limits, trespassers will be prosecuted, etc. 

He needs to get a grip — quickly. Entertaining the idea of you finding him attractive, too, is idiotic in more ways than one, and he knows it. Not only are you astronomically out of his league, but you’re also his colleague. 

Assuming for the sake of argument that you did stoop to his level, you’d eventually come to your senses and realize that he’s nowhere near your caliber. When that inevitably happens, Junhui will still have to work down the hall from you. He doesn’t have the confidence to bounce back from something like that, not since his ex put his self-image in a blender half a year ago.

“Did you fall asleep with your eyes open again, bunny?”

He blinks rapidly, and you come back into focus. You’ve moved from his side since he zoned out. Now, you sit on the edge of the conference room table with your legs knotted, not unlike the way he found you on the floor several hours ago. Though you tease, there’s a distinct hint of concern in your narrowed eyes while you assess him.

Junhui’s instinct isn’t like a prey animal’s at all, but he knows better than to act on it, so he finishes pouring his own drink and recaps the bottle. Rather than put it down, he keeps it in his hand, grabs his drink with the other, and heads off for the door.

“Come with me,” he tells you.

You follow without question, footfalls sounding off quietly behind him as he leads you through the dark back to his office. Before you can get the wrong impression — or the right one, if the circumstances themselves weren’t wrong — he flicks on the lamp near the door and ushers you inside.

You’ve never been in his workspace, just like he’s never been in yours. Your office, he imagines, is as immaculately organized as you seem to be. That said, he wouldn’t be surprised if you had opposing counsels’ severed heads mounted on the wall.

His office, however, has a wildly different vibe. It seems to surprise you, so much so that you freeze halfway inside with wide eyes and a partially open mouth.

“You have kids?”

Apparently, it’s Junhui’s turn to be surprised. He glances over to where you’re pointing and laughs. 

On the wall directly behind his desk is a full collage of drawings and handwritten notes, most of which were done by kids under the age of ten. Though their backgrounds, ages, and abilities vary significantly, they all have one thing in common: they all got really attached to their court-appointed Guardian ad Litem, Wen Junhui.

He shakes his head, although you don’t see him do it. You have your back to him, too focused on reading the various letters to react when he finally speaks. 

“In a way, they’re kind of mine, just not… literally.”

You maintain your respectful silence, as if you’re wandering through a museum exhibit. He watches while you lift a hand and let your fingertips run gently overtop an especially artful tribute from a six-year-old named Iseul.

“Big fan of glitter and googly eyes, that one,” he muses, chuckling softly. “You have no idea how long it took me to clean up the visitation room at the community center when our meeting was over.”

You point to three stick figures, who hold hands in front of a large, grey building. Above them, a gigantic sun fills the corner of the page. It wears black sunglasses, the irony of which seemingly didn’t occur to Iseul.

“Who are they?” You ask.

Junhui points to each person as he explains:

“The — uh —  wonky-looking one with what seems like a bloody neck is me in a red tie. In the middle is the artist herself, Iseul. She took some liberties; in reality, she has all ten fingers and isn’t known to wear a crown. To her right, that’s her foster mom, who she calls ‘grandma’, even though she’s only 45.”

“Is she still with grandma?”

“Yeah, actually.” He grins, unable to help it. “That stately, grey blob behind us is the probate court. We finalized her adoption last month.”

“Cute. I wish my clients would send me celebratory masterpieces,” you hum.

Junhui snorts. “Are you sure you want that?”

He can’t even imagine what kind of shit newly-divorced adults would send you. Nothing cute, he’s sure.

“No, actually. I take that back.” You shake your head and laugh. “I just want them to pay their legal fees on time.”

“You’re really asking for the world, aren’t you?”

You take another sip of your drink, then shrug, smiling impishly. “A nightmare bitch from hell’s gotta do what a nightmare bitch from hell’s gotta do.”

Before he can start ranting about Tom fucking Santi and his shitty opinions, you change focus again and begin to drift towards the bookshelf on the opposite wall. The top half of it is lined with statutory volumes, while the lower half has books and activities for the kids who occasionally come with their parents and caregivers to meet with him here.

You grab a deck of cards off one of the shelves and turn back to him with a vaguely menacing look. 

“You brought me in here so I could beat you, didn’t you?”

“I brought you in here so I could beat you,” he rebuts. 

In the time it takes Junhui to cross over to you, you drop your work bag to the floor, move the two child-sized chairs out of the way, and sit directly on the floor without a second thought. He sits on the other side of the small table and reaches for the deck only for you to shake your head vehemently at him.

“Nope,” you state emphatically, popping the second consonant. “I don’t trust you to shuffle these. You have clearly stated ulterior motives.”

He opens his mouth to argue otherwise but is shut down.

“Despicable,” you tut.

Once again, he tries to defend himself. “Excuse me? Your intentions aren’t any better —”

But you block him, grinning wickedly.

“— I’m a guest here and will not have my ambition questioned, thank you! Now, would you prefer to be destroyed by luck or skill?”

He has the feeling you’re going to destroy him in any and every way, so he says, “Dealer’s choice”, and takes a pointed swig of gin.

You think on this while you shuffle, making a big show out of it with your eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip pinched between your teeth. Then your eyes light up to broadcast that an idea has come to you. 

Dutifully, you split the deck between you, doling out one card at a time to ensure the numbers even out. You slide your half over to you, face down, and gesture with feigned impatience for Junhui to do the same.

When he obeys, you look him dead in the eye. “I declare War.”

Four games and three drinks later, all your laughter finally catches up with you. With your abdominal muscles aching and eyes swimming, you tip over backwards and land on your back with a muffled thump.

“Okay, that’s bad, but I still think I can top it,” Junhui states with a shake of his head.

Your head lolls to the side so you can squint up at him properly. Once you catch his eye, you petulantly insist, “No way.”

There’s a flash in his eyes that says challenge accepted. 

You like it.

In fact, you like this side of him: the version that isn’t intimidated by you, that isn’t afraid to be bold. Neither of you is drunk by any means, but your respective masks are off now, and you have gin to thank for introducing you properly.

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this out loud, on purpose,” he starts, then takes a deep breath. “This is perhaps the stupidest way anyone’s relationship has ever ended.”

He sits cross-legged next to you on the floor, perfectly within range. Without sitting up, you swat his knee. “Stop stalling! I don’t have all night.”

You do, but that’s neither here nor there.

“So, the last girl I dated had this… kink, I guess? Where she wanted to tell me she loved me during sex. We’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks at that point, but I figured, why not? What’s the harm?”

Your eyes widen. “Famous last words.”

“See?” He snaps his finger and points at you, grateful to be understood. “That’s the thing. She dumped me not long after that because things were —” The reveal comes with air quotes. “— moving too fast.”

You set your glass down somewhere above your head. Even though it’s empty of liquor, melted ice spills onto the carpet. You ignore the mess you’ve made and throw out both fists, thumbs down. “Boo!”

“Thank god I didn’t like her much,” he sighs.

“You dog.”

Junhui levels you with a playful glare, so you withhold further jokes and simply ask, “What was wrong with her, other than the attachment issues?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. In fact, he takes his time in finishing the last few sips of his drink, then he sets the empty glass down on the table. Unburdened, he lowers himself onto his back next to you with one bent arm underneath his head. From there, he concentrates on the ceiling above.

“It wasn’t her so much as us.”

“Oh?”

Junhui heaves a sigh. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like there needs to be some sort of announcement during law school about how fucking hard it is to practice law and date.”

He’s not wrong. 

Your career has impacted every single one of your relationships, no matter how hard you try to keep them separate. You’ve never figured out how to manage it — to split yourself successfully between two spheres, both of which demand one-hundred percent of you. 

None of your other attorney friends have ever brought this up, though, leaving you to feel like the broken one.

Still staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, he fills the silence you’ve left. “I don’t think most people get it, you know? Not that they should have to — nobody should accept something they’re not comfortable with — It’s just hard to make things work with someone who doesn’t understand what this is like. What it costs.”

You’re well acquainted with that massive fucking toll.

The struggle to find community in an inherently adversarial system, the second-hand trauma that comes with managing the worst moments of people’s lives, the burnout, and all the shitty coping mechanisms these things lead to if you’re not careful.

You don’t need to speak on any of this now, though. For the first time in an abysmally long time, you’re sitting with someone who doesn’t need an explanation.

Junhui, however, seems to interpret your silence as discomfort. You don’t blame him. He still hasn’t noticed the heart-eyes you’ve been staring at him with since he started talking, so he has no idea

“Ah, nuts. I’ve made things too serious.” He screws his eyes shut then yells, “Aaaah!” 

You crack up, fully and immediately, which only prompts him to do the same. Never has there ever been a loser so endearing. 

Turning his head now to look at you, he urges with a grin, “Quick, say something stupid!”

And goddamn, if the first thing that comes to mind isn’t exactly that…

“Kiss me.”

Junhui doesn’t react, save for the grin slowly disappearing off his face. He doesn’t even speak. For a moment, all he does is stare right back at you, straight through the full-body cringe you’re experiencing.

Fuck.

Maybe now’s the time to use that emergency exit, fire alarms and sprinklers be damned. 

You open your mouth, armed and ready to explode into awkward apologies; and you suck in the breath needed to do so, but not a fucking word comes out.

His gaze shifts from your eyes, to your lips, then back again. The expression he wears all the while looks something akin to tortured — but you’re clearly batshit insane, so your judgment is questionable at best.

A beat passes again in silence. You’re ready to crawl out of your skin, an urge that only grows when he finally murmurs, “It’s a bad idea, isn’t it?”

Terrible. 

Perhaps the worst you’ve ever had, second only to you blurting it out just now. 

You have nothing better to say now, but that’s not what keeps your big mouth shut. It’s the fact that his question doesn’t seem to be directed at you at all. 

Something about that tone of his comes across as rhetorical, like he’s got to work this shit out separately from you.

But he doesn’t stay separate. The hand not being used to prop up his head reaches out and gently encapsulates your chin between his thumb and index finger. His thoughtful eyes narrow, searching yours. 

“Why doesn’t that make me want to any less?”

All at once, your heart skips; your breath hitches. You don’t have an answer to his question, just an inkling that you have as much to gain as you stand to lose. That cost-benefit analysis, coupled with the insatiable need you have to be kissed before you fucking expire, make you reckless.

Leaping past the point of no return, you grab him by the tie and pull him along for the ride.

Any timidness he showed you earlier is forgotten in an instant, replaced entirely by an assertiveness you didn’t know to expect from him. He gets you on your back without resistance, then settles himself above you with his weight balanced on a single hand beside your head and his knees on either side of your thighs. 

His other hand slips to the nape of your neck, deepening the kiss and keeping you where he wants you: well beyond the professional boundaries you’ve both crossed to get here.

You could be embarrassed by how quickly you melt, seep, spill, but your better judgment is discarded alongside your sweatshirt without a second thought. Junhui’s jacket, button-up, and tie are tossed into that same void, not long after.  

Absolutely fucking none of them are missed.

Lost under the warmth of his bare skin on yours, your brain is far too occupied to worry about which articles of clothing ended up where. All you're capable of caring about is his mouth on your throat; his hand between your thighs, slick fingers dragging you slowly out of your mind.

The orgasm his hand steals from you leaves you half-dead, but that doesn’t stop you from clinging tightly to him, begging for more, please, everything.

And that’s precisely what you get, though you shouldn’t be surprised. If this day has taught you anything, it’s that Junhui is synonymous with acts of service.

“Kiss me,” he commands breathlessly with his tip waiting at your entrance. 

You do, eagerly, unaware at first that this is an act of service, too — a distraction, more specifically, to take your mind off of the stretch he brings. Nails pressed into his back, you whimper against his lips and let that pressure melt into something perfect. 

“I can’t tell if you’re sleeping or not,” you whisper.

His eyelids may feel like lead, and you look like a dream, but Junhui is wide awake, laying half-dressed at your side. 

Of course, you knew this when you asked. You keep opening your eyes to look at him secretly only to find him watching you, amusement growing each time he catches you.

Even though his voice is rough from exhaustion, he musters the strength to tease you, “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“My co-worker dicked me down to hell and back, and I’m recovering, obviously.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t keep up your nonchalance for long. You bury it, along with your face, into his shoulder. When you finally tell the whole truth, it comes out rushed, as well as muffled.

“I spent most of the day wishing it was over. It was nightmarish, right from the jump. All I have to do is fall asleep, and it will be over…” Your shoulders sag under the weight of your sigh, which is delivered warmly against his skin. “But I don’t want that anymore.”

Junhui hums in acknowledgement. He pauses for a moment to consider what to say next, then decides to take a page out of your book. He’s an attorney, after all; he doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t already know the answers to.

“What changed?”

A lot.

“My co-worker dicked me down to hell and back, and I’m recovering,” you repeat. 

Your laugh makes his body move, too. Just the same, the smile he feels forming against his bicep mimics the one on his own mouth. “You know, you keep saying that, but it doesn’t seem accurate.”

This prompts you to pull away from him, prop yourself up on your elbow, and stare at him incredulously. “Excuse me? Need I remind you how many times you just made me cum?”

He makes a big show of counting on his fingers until you swat at him. Then, he gets back to the point: 

“What I meant was, is it co-worker or Valentine?”

You blink, no doubt stunned that someone was finally able to catch you off guard. Junhui doubts that this happens often. If that’s the case, he’ll keep this image of you, surprised into silence, in his back pocket for later.

“I’ll concede that those things aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive,” you eventually demur with a haughty shake of your head.

Junhui grabs your hand, pulls it to his mouth, and kisses the back of it. “Your concession is noted for the record.”

So he's a gentleman? You've always thought he might be. He certainly has always spoken to you more kindly than a lot of the other players. Not that the bar is high.

"That's 80 percent of what you talk about, Cheol." And that's Jeonghan.

"Guys—" It takes you a little longer to recognize his voice. Because you rarely hear it at a normal volume. The male cheerleader with the megaphone. His regular tone is far less aggressive. It's almost soft. "I don't think—"

"Of course I fucked her."

Well, miracles don't really happen all that much. Besides, you told your roommate, so this is practically the same thing—

"Why? I mean, were there curves under that big t-shirt and jeans she always wears?" Joshua. You knew he didn't like you. It was only the tone of his voice, but you knew.

"I know Wen wouldn't care either way, but I only fucked her to be sure she had a pussy!"

The laughter is boisterous, loud and piercing.

Oh.

You'd turn around and leave if you could, but you came here for a reason. An errand the coach sent you on even though he could do it himself if he had a mind to.

You wait for the laughter to subside before entering. The silence is almost louder than the hilarity was a second ago.

"Choi," you begin, eyes forward to the empty lockers. It's only the four of them. The showers are occupied with the rest of the players. Small favors. "Coach wants to see you and Hong. To discuss today's game."

You dare to look at them then. Captain, his comrades Joshua and Jeonghan, usually up to mischief. Joshua looks a bit abashed, Jeonghan is holding back laughter, but that's hardly surprising.

The cheerleader is on the other side of you, and you refuse to look at him. Why would you care about his opinion? He's not even a part of the team. Barely.

Seungcheol nods at your summons, smirk curling at his lips as Joshua passes by you toward the offices. Your one night stand pauses next to you, saying your name low and tantalizing. Or it would be if you hadn't overheard what you'd overheard.

"Good to see you."

You raise your eyes to his (he's stupid tall). You might want to yell or even cry, but you haven't spent most of your life around men who think they know more about baseball than you to not hide your feelings successfullly.

And your blank expression is your absolute best weapon.

He falters for a second before following Joshua down the hall and away from you. When you go to pick up a discarded helmet and bat (you think it's Vernon because it usually is), you mistakenly look over to Jun who is seated on the bench, eyes on you. When your eyes meet, he tentatively smiles at you.

Does he think you're amused by all this?

Your eyes narrow (so much for the blank expression) and you quickly leave the locker room with your head held high.

You remember the first game. It felt like years since you watched a game live without being on staff. You weren't working with the team yet, your advisor was still trying to convince the athetic director that it contributed to your study and help to offset your tuition (your mom was grateful for that even if she never said so directly).

You bring along Binna, who isn't enthusiastic. Your new roommate prefers the theatre department, and spends most of her time in the art studio (you have no idea why she paired with you), but she likes going out and trying things.

A baseball game is one of them.

"I'm going to be so annoying," she prempts as you sit. "I know nothing about how this works."

You laugh. "It's okay. I know too much, so you'll probably be annoyed at me for explaining too much."

The game hasn't begun yet, but you're bringing a plate of dumplings and sodas for you and Binna to split. You glance to see that the cheerleaders have made their way to the top of the dugout. The image barely makes an impact on you, two female cheerleaders and a male leader (complete with megaphone), starting with chants and cheers to get the crowd revved up for the game.

You can't imagine that it's easy to do that with college kids. Especially on a hot nearly summer day.

"I know that guy," Binna says the moment to plop back down beside her.

"Hmm?" You offer her the plate of dumplings and she grabs one.

"The cheerleader guy…he's a second year. He's…um, he's besties I think with the TA in my Drawing I class."

"The hot one?" You're quoting her because you were not enrolled in any art class, so had never seen an Art TA, let alone an attractive one.

"Shut up. Yes." She squints at the cheerleaders. "That's definitely him. Jin or Jun or something. He's modeled for us."

"Naked?"

"No." She hits your arm, laughing. "Not yet."

You shake your head, eating a dumpling and settling in to watch the game. You occasionally look away from the field to the cheerleaders, but despite doing more than chants and call-and-response (he does a backflip and you're impressed), you dismiss them as pretty and on-rhythm.

It took some finagling but after producing a letter of reference (and a phone call that you begged your high school's baseball coach to make), you found yourself as a freshman, working alongside the equipment manager for the university's baseball team (mascot!!).

Nang Duho showed you the ropes reluctantly. You sensed the lack of enthusiasm and general distrust (because you were a girl? because you were young? because you wanted to do this kind of work?), but it wasn't the first time you'd run into the attitude.

You'd survived high school after all.

Once Nang realized you were authentically interested, he warmed to you. You think he liked being called seonsaengnim, especially since the players more often than not called him 'ahjussi' or just Nang-nim. It didn't take long for him to give you the bulk of the maintenance, the bats, the gloves, the cleats. You preferred that over laundry, even though you couldn't avoid that, especially when his back acted up.

You remember how the players watched you on your first day. Similar distrust and skepticism. You pushed the rolling laundry cart while each player dropped in his uniform. They seemed to be waiting for you to blush or avert your eyes at the exposed skin. You didn't stare, but you didn't blush either. Granted that you could appreciate eye candy, you weren't that flustered with naked torsos or legs. After years of putting up with high school players, you were pretty much desensitized.

"Oh…I do my own."

It's a soft voice. Not quiet persay, but it makes you think of a stuffed animal, snuggly and huggable.

Strange thought about a voice.

"You do your own…" you trail off as you look at him, and his uniform. He's handsome, most of the guys seem to be, but like his voice, his good looks seem softer. Warm brown hair, wavy and striking eyes.

"Jun's our resident cheerleader," the player next to him says cheerfully, knocking shoulders with Jun (?). Jun smiles, bright like the sun, nearly matching the player next to him.

You look at the long pants and top, same colors as the baseball uniforms. "Does it need special treatment?"

The cheerleader shakes his head. "No, but—"

"Toss it in. It's fine."

He blinks at you, as if he thinks you'll change your mind.

"Thank you," and tosses it with the rest of the uniforms. He turns back to his nook, giving you a glance at a small tattoo along his right shoulder blade. You can't distinguish it (something with whirls and script - pretty) and you've already stared too long.

You continue.

When you stop the cart by a senior player, Park someone, he says something oh so clever about laundry and the fact that you're female. You blink at him before pushing the cart toward the other side of the locker room. There's some guffaws and snickers.

It's not new. You don't like it, but it's not new.

"It's only because Park can't do his own laundry and still has to go home on the weekends so his Eomma can do it for him."

You snap your head to the new voice. Handsome, deep-set brown eyes, messy black hair. He's smiling with unbelievably rosy lips.

"Seungcheol," he says to you.

You nod, unsure how to respond other than to give your name. The broad-chested player, shirtless, drops his uniform into the cart before winking at you.

He repeats your name. "Pretty."

It's a miracle that you get out of that locker room without flushing (but it happens the moment you're safe.)

If you didn't love baseball so much, you might have quit after that eavesdropping experience from hell. But not even Choi Seungcheol, current captain in your second year of university, can dull the beauty of watching a baseball streak past the fence, or Chan's incredible catch in left field against NCT's hardest hitter Mark Lee.

You love the game. Your mom told you that your father had often played the game on the radio, holding up the speaker right next to your mom's swollen womb. She'd found out she was pregnant when the Korean Series was in Game Seven, and your father was convinced it was a sign of future greatness.

Was there disappointment when you were born a girl? A little. But Korea had a fantastic women's softball team, so you weren't out of the running as of yet.

However.

When you were six and had been 'playing' tee ball for two years, you didn't need your father to break the news to you that it was a delusion to hope to play in high school, college, or professionally. You knew it by your coach's expression every time you swung and missed for the tenth time, every time you tried to steal a base (not allowed in tee ball), every time you threw your cap to the ground to 'discuss' the ref's call with the ref. You knew that even at age six, you should do better, that your motor skills should have better capabilities.

You knew.

Perhaps someone else would have chosen a new direction, a new sport, hobby or passion. Your mom took you to dance lessons, sat you with a piano teacher, started you early on cram school.

You tolerated these deviations a little. You weren't exactly a rebellious child. But you were stubborn. You indulged your mother but you always ended up back where you belonged.

Baseball.

By the time you were at university, you had cemented your career path into the realm of sports management. The advisor stuck with you brought up several other options, based on your exam scores, but you denied, politely, each one.

"Why did you take it?"

"I thought Poetry would be easy. I mean, they're short, not long novels, right?" You know it's a dumb excuse, but you really didn't think it'd be this impossible. Having a 200 level literature class required for your minor in communications is heresy in your opinion. But your academic advisor shows you no mercy.

Not that you expected it, but one can hope.

Binna (you're still surprised that she wants to keep rooming with you after first year) shakes her head at you.

"You can't drop it."

"I know. They lulled me into a false sense of security starting with Robert Frost and Yun Dongju at the beginning."

"Go to the tutoring cener, they probably can help you."

"Ugh," you groan and let your head thump onto your dorm desk. "I hate looking stupid."

"You don't look stupid. Your grades say you are stupid."

You throw a pencil at her as she laughs.

When you enter the Art building, you do so with caution. You pass fellow students, some probably your age and year, and yet there is nothing in common. Their style, the way they talk, how they carry a sketchpad and fancy pencil in hand…nothing like you with your one bag that carries your laptop and musculoskeletal text book (because taking classes for sports medicine was also a terrific idea on your part).

Binna had wanted to go get a bite together and study after her painting class, so here you were. In unfamiliar and terrifying territory.

Class should be over, but you don't see your gregarious roommate anywhere. You pop your head into the studio to see the back of her head, in front of someone you don't know. But the way you can tell how fast she's talking and general vibrating of her body, you can guess who it is.

Minghao, the gorgeous art TA.

"Binna?" You take one timid step into the room, the smells of paint and some kind of cleaner accosting your nose. You sneeze then furtively look around to see if anyone is offended by your unbelonging presence.

Your roommate hears your sneeze, not her name (figures) and turns before grinning.

"Hey!" She waves you over and you wonder why people feel the need to include you in conversations when you have nothing to contribute. She loops her arm once you're in striking distance. "Minghao, this is my roommate."

The TA nods at you, face not really welcoming, but not repulsed either.

"Wait, that reminds me. She's failing Poetry and I was wondering if you knew anyone who might wanna help her out?"

You might kill Binna.

"I'm not failing," you mutter.

"Close enough. Most of your friends are humanties and arts, right?" Binna is solely focused on Minghao and you can't fault her for making use of anything to keep talking to her crush. You just wish it wasn't you and your lack of academic prowess.

Minghao tilts his head to the side as though pondering Binna's uncalled-for request.

"Actually…" he trails off when someone comes from the other side of the room. You had only noticed the easels, the visual cacophony donning the walls of current and past students' artistic expressions. But there's a curtain that separates the main part of the classroom from what looks like an alcove, an office space perhaps for the professor.

But it's not the professor pushes aside the curtain and walks out.

It's the cheerleader, Jun.

You glance away, embarrassed to be a part of this conversation now with someone from your baseball world. Even if you and he rarely interact or speak. He always says thank you when you gather his uniform, but there's no reason for the assistant equipment manager to make conversation with the cheer team.

If you had to tell the truth, you were intimidated by Jun, Raon and Dohee (his counterparts). People that pretty tended to be unwelcoming to people like you, so you avoided as a precaution. Raon and Dohee never left their uniforms for you to launder and you never sought them out to offer.

And you've never forgotten that laughter.

"I was gonna say that Jun's solidly a Literature major. He likes poetry."

"It's a minor," Jun says, wrapping his arm around Minghao's shoulders casually.

"Not the way you take each and every class offered."

"They're fun." Jun smiles winsomely at his friend who huffs at him, but it's goodnatured, you can tell. There's an ease between them that tells of years of friendship, even if they're both only third years.

"Sure they are," Minghao answers easily. Jun winks at him, coy and flirtatious before turning to you.

"Hi there."

You wave, like an idiot.

"You two know each other?" Minghao asks.

"She's on staff. With the team."

Minghao nods and you wonder, as an artsy person, what he thinks of your sports bent. You also appreciate that Jun says nothing about you doing his laundry. You do much more (equipment manager includes all matter of bats, gloves, helmets etc), but it seems that's the only thing the players ever say about you (That's a bit unfair to several members of the team, but for generalization purposes, a laundress is basically what half or more of the team sees you as).

"I can help…if you want. I took that class and the prof likes me." Jun is smiling at you, practically the same smile he uses on his friend.

Why?

"Uh…I wouldn't want to put you out."

Binna pinches your side and heavens favored, you do not externally show the jolt it gives you.

"She'd be so grateful. As would I, who has to hear her tangents about how none of it makes sense more often than you'd expect."

You think about pinching her back, but she would not handle it gracefully and bring about all the attention to your 'abuse.'

"It's not problem." He slips his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans that hang on for dear life. You force your eyes from the sliver of skin showing between hem and waistband. "Give me your number, I'll text and we can set up a time. What poem are you working on now?"

You shrug because you do not remember, handling his phone so you don't get your fingerprints on it (you feel grubby next to these three: Binna in her wrap dress that should seem too formal for class but her painted shoes make it work, Minghao in black ripped jeans and a t-shirt, but with a bandana tied in a belt loop and long hair pulled-half back—he looks like a sixties beatnik artist, and Jun in those low hanging jeans and t-shirt that looks like it shrunk in the dryer). You type your number in, hoping no one notices that you delete a couple times, highly anxious so you can't remember your number. They're all chatting about something that you can't follow when you hand his phone back.

"Thanks," you manage to get out. Jun's smile widens and except for when he's leading the chants, you've never seen him like this. In the locker room, he's subdued, quiet, almost unnoticeable among the larger personalities (and egos) of the players.

It's a nice smile.

"It'll be fun."

"Yeah, Jun loves to share all his useless knowledge."

Jun laughs before clacking heads with Minghao who gives him an unimpressed look (but his eyes are amused).

You tug on Binna's arm, hoping you can make a quick getaway. Your roommate is staring with big ole heart eyes at her TA.

Subtlety is not Cho Binna.

"We'll, uh, see you guys," you mutter, again pulling, this time harder, on Binna's arm.

"Yeah, see ya. Thanks again Minghao, Jun," she effuses, finally coming with you.

You wait until you're way out of earshot:

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"You used my failures as a student to talk more with your crush."

"I did. And I would support you if you did the same." She is unbothered.

"I don't have any crushes."

"Yes, well, that's your issue. Not mine."

After your last crush, you took a firm hold on yourself and decided not to crush again. Certainly not anyone related to baseball.

"I don't even know Jun, he could be a jerk." He probably is.

"He is not a jerk. I've drawn him twice now, and he's really sweet."

You pull up short. "Naked?"

Binna's haughty expression is a facade, you know it, but it still makes you roll your eyes.

"Why would it matter? It's art, not porn."

"It's just weird. If you've seen my soon to be poetry tutor without clothes."

"Would rather see Minghao—" She cuts off laughing when you break away and jog several steps in front of her, effectively ending that line of conversation.

You tap your pencil against the open page of your poetry textbook (still expensive and weighty despite poetry being a 'short' medium), half-looking across the lawn for the baseball cheerleader/poetry tutor.

He'd texted you that very evening about a good time to meet. He was well aware of when baseball practice was, so you couldn't really use that as a fake excuse.

You don't have to like him and he doesn't have to like you for the tutoring to be successful. As long as you don't say anything about that conversation and he doesn't, well, then, it's old news. You just need to pass this class.

Your brain meanders off of your impending tutoring session and onto duties for tomorrow's practice. Mingyu, true to form, stumbled into the only muddy puddle on the field after the rain days ago. You've treated his uniform, but are doubtful that it'll come clean when you wash it.

"Hi!"

You jump (observational skills lacking today it seems) at the super close voice. You barely noticed the shadow he cast across the table you'd commandeered in the quad.

Jun is holding two takeaway cups.

"I got two drinks; a flat white and a pumpkin spice. I like both, so I figure one of those could be your type of coffee."

You're staring at him with your mouth partially open, like a buffoon. It's not entirely your fault. The pink of his tshirt is the brightest pink you've ever encountered outside of the Barbie doll aisle at the toy store. Possibly brighter.

"Do you drink coffee?" he asks, sitting down across from you with grace you envy. Especially with a bag slung over one shoulder and a cup in each hand. "I just assumed—"

"I do, um, thank you. I'll take the pumpkin spice if you're sure."

He sets (presumably the pumpkin spice one) in front of your text book.

"It's completely fine. I promise." His smile's brightness matches his shirt's and you wish you'd thought to bring sunglasses.

"Thanks again. For doing this. I feel like Binna kind of bullied you into it."

"She strikes me as someone who is very…proactive when she wants something," he says easily, sipping his coffee and letting out a satisfied sigh. "Caffeine, nectar of the gods."

"That's Binna. Very…forthright."

Jun's smile turns mischievous. "And she wants Hao."

It takes you a second to realize who he's talking about, Binna only every calls him by his full first name.

"Oh, um…" You don't exactly want to out her if she prefers not to have the rejection option. For all you know, Jun and Minghao might be more than just friends.

"It's not hard to see."

"Does—he know?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Jun chuckles. "He moves as fast as a glacier in personal matters. All he cares about is art, classes, his family, and his friends. In that order." He points to your textbook. "Ready then?"

"I guess." You open the textbook to the most recent poem that you have a quiz on tomorrow. "I appreciate you doing this. I imagine you have enough to do with cheering, the art class modeling, and your own classes."

"We're all busy, arent we?" he says, brushing off your 'thank you.' "You just have to make time. Besides, we're…kinda teammates."

You blink at him. "I suppose. I don't really do much for you or Raon and Dohee."

"You wash my uniform every time."

"That's not impressive." You look down at the poem, eyes going over the words again like it'll make sense.

"I've always admired you."

Your head snaps up from the anthology. You imagine the dumbest expression is on your face, but you can't help it. You never expected to hear that from anyone, let alone him.

"You do? I mean, did?"

"I do." He leans forward, not in a seductive way, but like he enjoys being closer to you. "A lot of people wouldn't want your job. It's not exactly glamorous."

You roll your eyes. "I don't think even glamorous jobs are all that glamorous."

He laughs, a light and breezy thing. It's unfamiliar to your ear. "You have to do their laundry. I know what they smell like after a game. All too well. It's beyond disgusting."

You can't help wrinkling your nose. "I always want to plug my nose with something. I'm kinda desensitized, but some days it's bad."

"But you still do it."

You rest your arms on the open book, half-covering Tennyson. "The uniforms, the bats, the balls, the gloves…all of it needs to be in the best condition."

"So they won't complain? Or blame a bad hit on you?"

You know who he's talking about. It makes you shift in your seat. Early in your time, one of the seniors, now gone, definitely blamed the care of his glove for a fumbled catch.

It hadn't been your fault, but you'd still taken the criticism because sometimes it's easier.

"It's not about them."

"It's not?"

"It's about the game."

He rests his chin in his hand, eyes direct. It's disconcerting how focused he can get. "You really love it?"

No one usually questions this. You're surrounded by baseball players and coaches and staff. Your long-suffering roommate doesn't get it, but has never asked. She assumes it's about the players.

It can be, but not in the way she's thinking.

You nod to his most likely rhetorical question.

"Why?" Okay, so not rhetorical.

"Why?"

"I mean…I get enjoying sports, but you don't really seem interested in our football team or even our state-winning volleyball team."

"I went to a match last year," you mumble. Freshman year had had you attempting to do social things. The campus was full of opportunities to meet people, try new things, and in general be someone new.

The attempt didn't last fall semester.

He's smiling at you, not patronizing or condescending. Like he enjoys whatever you're saying.

"I just like what I like."

He taps your textbook. "And you don't like this?"

You know you're pouting, but you can't help it. "I don't see what this…war poem has to do with me. Or anything I will ever encounter in my life."

"Well," he begins, finally leaning back, but stretching way up revealing more inches of his torso. It's not chilly yet, it's summer's last gasp, but you already anticipate the impending briskness with your baggy long-sleeve sweatshirt. "It is about a battle. But it's more than that." He returns to touching the poem in your textbook. "Look at the numbers. You're good with numbers, right?"

You nod, still skeptical, as you reread about whatever a light brigade is. He hands you a highlighter. It's neon pink.

"Doesn't seem to fit the vibe of the poem."

"I bet Tennyson loved pink," he says easily. "Mark each mention of numbers. What do you notice?"

"It's only 'six hundred'."

"Now look at the words around each mention."

You do so, lips twisted with mild distaste.

"'Left of the six hundred,'" he quotes. "They didn't all make it."

"So?"

"So….how often do you go into a situation, already knowing you're gonna lose?"

"That's stupid."

"Is it? Or is it brave?"

"Stupid."

"So don't play another team that's so much better than yours?"

You sit back and cross your arms. "Playing a better team usually makes you better. But this is war. People die..and…that's stupid."

He doesn't say anything immediately, head tilted to the side, like a cat judging you. "Okay." He points to another line. "Sabres…you know what those are?"

"I'm not stupid. Swords."

"I don't think you're stupid," he says quickly. "Soonyoung would have said it was a tiger."

You laugh, knowing that's exactly what the shortstop would think. "Are you close with the team? I know you have to use their locker room, but I never see you with them other than that."

His smile freezes before dropping. "I wouldn't say close. Some of them are friendlier than others."

"Soonyoung."

"Obviously." He grins, some of the light in his dark eyes returning. "Mingyu. Chan. They're nice."

You hear a lot in the silence. "Not any of the others?"

He meets your eyes. "Sabres…swords, as you correctly named them. Swords against gunners." He indicates line 29.

"Wait, what?" you look back at your textbook. "They didn't have guns?"

"No."

"That's…more stupid."

"That was their orders."

"Screw their orders. They should have ran…um, retreated." You follow toward the end of the poem.

"They do. See the repeated 'Cannon' lines?" He continues when you nod. "Notice the change in directions."

"They're leaving." You huff a sigh. "How'd-you know all this?"

"Well, I've taken this class before. But also…" he pauses, thinking. "I like them? I mean, it just takes time and thought to figure out what's going on. I like doing that. Like a puzzle, or scavenger game. I like trying to figure stuff out, especially when it's not obvious."

"Weird."

His smile is a flash, but it strikes you that it's not as happy as it should be. "I guess."

You want to say something, that 'weird' isn't a bad thing, that you appreciate that he is good at this because you are definitely better off than an hour ago with this poem before he sat down.

But you don't because he's moved on to talking about the last stanza. But you think about the dropped smile after he's left and you're still sitting at the table in the quad. You watched him walk away in those jeans and short hot pink t-shirt for longer than you'd care to admit.

And how his laugh didn't sound like any of the laughter you heard in the locker room that day.

"The words…" you groan. "The words are…not words."

"They absolutely are words. Just not the ones we use now." Jun is laughing at you. You can't blame him because you are being petulant to the extreme. "You know what, just listen, okay? I bet you understand more than you think."

And so he begins to read the fourteen lines by one John Keats. You try to focus, but you zone out a bit. Jun's voice is nice to listen to, not bracing or strident, or combative. It rolls like waves, gentle.

"What do you notice?"

"It rhymes."

He half-grins. "Yeah. What's the scheme?"

"Alternating lines. every four then it changes." You pause, looking over it. "Except the last six?"

"Exactly, which goes against the rhyme scheme for a sonnet."

"Okay, yeah, fourteen lines."

"Other than the title spelling it out, what do you think it's about?"

You stare at it for a lot of seconds. "Honestly? If it wasn't called 'To Sleep' I'd think it was about death. I mean…the whole final line—'casket'."

He nods. "You know Keats died at twenty-five years old?"

"I think I read that in the introduction."

"He also, through his letters, seemed to think he would die young. A lot of his family died of the same disease, tuberculosis. So…maybe it is about death and not sleep. What else makes you think that?"

"Embalmer."

"Good. What about poppy?"

"What about it? It's a flower."

"It's the flower that makes opium, which they used to treat sickness back then."

You stare at him. "That's…that's horrible."

"Yeah, it was the only way they knew how to mitigate the pain." He stares back. "Opium is a downer, meaning is slows things down, whereas something like cocaine is a upper, speeds things up. So opium and sleep and death…"

"All peaceful, but not."

He cocks his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Well, opium might make you slow down, but its deadly, right?"

"Certainly can be and is addictive which doesn't help."

"Sleep can be peaceful, but often not. People have nightmares, night terrors, tossing and turning, just can't rest."

"And death?"

"Its not peaceful. Even if someone goes 'peacefully.'" You even do the air quotation marks with your fingers. "It's not peaceful. It's still loss. And that rips a hole into those who are left."

You don't notice how he watches you while you close the textbook and recap your highlighter (he brought you your own this session, a beautiful serene blue) and start to pack up.

"You okay?" he asks after a moment.

"Yeah. I just…I remembered I need to take care of some stuff." You finally meet his eyes. "Thank you for your help. I think I'll be okay on the quiz next week."

"I think you'll be just fine."

You shouldn't have told Binna that you passed that quiz because now she's got your phone, texting Jun about it and that has somehow elicited an invitation to go out with he, Dohee, Raon, Minghao, and some guys named Seungkwan and Seokmin. All artsy students to your understanding.

"No fucking way."

"Come on. You never hang out with my friends."

"I don't hang out with anyone. Except you."

"Yeah, that's for your therapist to dive into."

"I don't have—"

"But you could," she says and goes to her closet. "Come on. I've been to one party with the baseball team." You wince even though she doesn't mean anything by it. But it was that night. even though that was this past spring, it still haunts you.

Probably because the last sex you had was disappointing and…unfulfilling.

"Wear this." She tosses something at you and you grab it because you don't want to argue, or maybe you want something different.

Who knows?

The bar that you ride to, in an Uber with Binna, is one you don't know, which is unsurprising as you're not a big drinker, even less when it costs you money, but still you've heard enough from classmates and the team to be familiar with names of the local watering holes.

But Cheers doesn't sound like a place anyone of your age would readily spend time socially.

"It's great. It's where most of the art students hang out. I've been hoping for an invite."

"I won't fit in."

"Enough alcohol, everyone belongs."

True words.

Binna easily gets a pass from the bouncer who doesn't seem to even care that you might not be of age (you are, but still). Inside are splashes of color, music you've never heard (but it's nice and not too overpowering), and people.

So many people, but despite that, it's not impossible to keep up with Binna who heads to the bar. She orders two shots of something. You try to decline, but she isn't dissuaded. You knock it back and ask the bartender for a lemonade as she gets something you've never heard of. When it comes out, you take a sniff since she offers you a sip and you think the alcoholic fumes singe your eyebrows.

Binna plans to party.

"I'll stick to the lemonade."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't protest. She grabs your hand and drags you away from the bar. You see some familiar faces, or are they just familiar from the alcohol burning in your stomach and through your body, in the flashing lights? You don't know but you're happy to let Binna lead this race.

"Found you!"

Jun jumps up to hug Binna; a tight, real hug before he turns to you.

You have no idea how she found them. Maybe she does have Minghao radar because there he is, leaning against the wall, looking oh so artsy and broody. He's listening to a guy you don't know, jabber on about something, incredibly expressive. You see Raon and Dohee sitting on a couch with another unknown guy, all laughing.

It shouldn't be intimidating, but you are tempted to run home.

"Hi."

You look up at Jun, decked in long sleeve shirt, the neck of it defines the word 'plunging'. His hair, that you've never considered long, is half pulled up and he's wearing glasses.

"Hi," you remember to reply. He's grinning widely at you. You wonder if he's drunk to be so happy to see you.

"I knew you'd do well."

What? Oh the quiz. Binna's excuse for all this.

"I wouldn't have without your help."

He leans closer and you repeat your words. You're sure the flush on his face is from alcohol and the warm room, not your gratitude.

"You look nice," he says, glancing at the skirt and top Binna forced on you. It's by no means too revealing, but as you live in work out clothes, or your staff uniform, it's practically a costume.

"Binna," you explain.

He grins again and clinks plastic cups with you.

"You look good, too," you blurt out, unable to look away from all the collarbone you can see. Why is that more affecting than those cropped t-shirts you see him in so much? "You always do," you add in case he takes offense.

"I do? Thank you," he hugs you to his side. If he notices how you freeze at his touch, he doesn't show it. "Come, meet everyone."

You recover though he hasn't let go of you, moving his arm from your waist to over your shoulders. You remind yourself that you've seen him do this with Minghao.

You wave awkwardly at Raon and Dohee, who wave back far more gracefully and excitedly than you did.

"It's so fun to see you out!" Dohee says loudly to be heard above the din of people and music. You shrug in response, unsure of what to say.

"That's Seokmin, he's a theatre major," Jun says, mouth so close to your ear (presumably so that you can hear him) that his breath tickles. You shiver and he tightens his hold. "You won't be cold long," he says before introducing the other guy. "Seungkwan who is Mass Communications and basically never shuts up."

"Fuck you, Wen." Accompanied by a corresponding hand gesture, and a big smile.

Jun blows him a kiss. "If you ever want to meet people, just tag along with him."

"So never do that, got it."

He chuckles at your retort as you sip your lemonade. "Come on…" He leads you to sit at the small table in front of his co-cheerleaders and Seokmin. You're fairly content to stay there, listening to them chat about the university's theatre department (possibly more drama than the baseball team, so that's affirming). Jun doesn't leave your side, seated next to you, arm brushing yours every time he moves or gestures to add to the conversation.

At some point, he taps your empty cup. "I'll get you another. What is it?"

"Just lemonade," you say. "And you don't—"

"Just lemonade." He smiles. "Not a drinker?"

"Not if Binna is going hard." You point toward your roommate who has somehow convinced both Seungkwan and Minghao to go and dance with her on the dance floor. "Seems safer to not."

"Lemonade it is." He takes your cup and walks back toward the bar. You watch him go before turning back to see three sets of eyes on you.

"What? Why…why are we looking at me?" You stutter at the sudden attention.

"Jun was very excited you decided to come tonight," Raon says, smile all-knowing.

"Oh. I mean, I did do well on the quiz because of him."

"That's not it," Dohee interjects. "He likes you."

Seokmin starts to cough. "You just fucking outed him, Hee. Why would you do that?"

"It's so obvious," she laughs. "And it's cute. Like he's the sweetest guy to ever exist—"

"Hey!" But Seokmin's protest is ignored.

"And you're like the most normal person he's ever been into."

"Normal?"

"Yeah, like not high-maintenance, or drama-ful or anything like that." Dohee reaches over and squeezes your knee, casual and reassuring. "You are so much better to have around than Nang-nim. Chan loves you."

Jun plops down at that, holding out the lemonade. You take it and try not to look at him. His friends could be wrong after all.

"Chan loves who?" he asks, offer the other cups of alcohol he purchased.

"Our impressive assistant equipment manager," Raon singles you out.

"That's because you helped him with his batting stance, right? That's why he's hitting better."

You can't help but stare at him now. "How…how did you know that?"

His grin and eyes are too warm. "I was checking something with where we stand on top of the dugout. RaRa nearly tripped and fell off the last time, so I was making sure the maintenance request was actually carried out. Saw you two out there. You were instructing him, weren't you?"

RaRa is such a cute nickname is your first thought. Your second is that you had no idea anyone knew of your impromptu coaching session with Chan when he'd first joined the team. He was a first year, eager to impress, but while his fielding skills were terrific, he lacked at bat.

You noticed, you don't know why no one else seemed to. So one day, when you were searching for a missing glove (Mingyu or Vernon, you can't remember) after practice, you found Chan out in the batting cage, swinging and hitting, but the ball not going as far as you're sure he wanted. So you wandered over and made a suggestion about how he stood. He listened. And he hit better.

It wasn't rocket science.

"I'm not…players aren't supposed to be coached by anyone else. Please don't—" You can't lose your job. What would you do at university if you didn't work on the team?

Study only?

Jun regards you for several moments, eyes dark in the minimal light. You want to look away because he is almost too pretty to look at for long, but you don't; hoping he understands how important it is.

"Lips are sealed."

You let out the breath you were holding. "Thank you."

"Enough talk, we're here for a good time, right?" Raon speaks up, breaking the gaze that Jun has on you. Raon grabs Seokmin by the wrist. "Dancing, darling."

He rolls his eyes but follows her, grabbing Dohee's hand to drag her out as well. Dohee in turn, tries to grab for Jun, but he dodges her hands.

"Finishing this," he shouts as they disappear toward the crowd that writhes and gyrates. He turns to you once they're gone. "Wanna dance?" He sips his drink, eyes lasered on you.

"I…I'm not exactly coordinated. I was a pretty poor tee-ball player." You gulp more of your lemonade.

"Well, that has nothing to do with dancing," he says casually. "Dancing is about looking ridiculous and doing it confidently."

"Confidence is also not my best attribute."

"Bullshit," he retorts, setting down his mostly empty cup to lean closer. You swallow more lemonade. "You walk through that locker room with the carriage of a queen. You are more confident than the rest of us."

"A facade." Maybe that one shot was more tongue-loosening than you thought.

"Fake it till you make it, huh?" His eyes drop once before he stands and offers his hand. "One dance. In celebration of your successful quiz."

"A celebration of your tutoring skills."

He shrugs one shoulder. "I'll dance to that." He takes your hand even as you're standing, about to find a good excuse (restroom maybe?), and leads you away from the safety of the couch and table. You stumble to keep up with his long legs, your eyes dropping to how his pants fit and then you chastise yourself.

You've seen him in less than this even if you weren't meaning to. The locker room was a veritable menu of male bodies of various types and sizes. You've never thought about him like that. Ever.

It's definitely that one shot Binna made you drink.

Your nose wrinkles at the smell of so many people and perfumes, but Jun spins you so you're in a small circle with the people you know. Your eyes find Binna's, who is sporting some moves with Seungkwan, while Minghao watches her passively (or interestedly, it's really impossible to tell with him). Binna is drunk enough that she doesn't seem surprised at your presence in a dance circle (more almond-shaped really).

Seokmin is happily sandwiched between Raon and Dohee, though you'd argue his moves are more impressive than theirs. You didn't know men could move their hips like that.

Jun's hands fall to your shoulders, paused as though waiting. You don't shrug him off, so his hands slide down your arms to your fingers. He takes one and spins you back round to face him.

"I'm really not good at this," you tell him again.

He taps your forehead with his index finger. "Stop worrying and thinking so much. Close your eyes." The last sentence, his mouth is at your ear so you can hear him above the music. You nod and do just that because not looking at him seems like a much better idea than looking at him so close. He lifts your hands to drape them around his neck, his own falling to your hips.

It is easier to move to the thumping bass with your eyes closed. It's easier not to worry about how you might look if you can't see anyone watching.

He says your name, his mouth touching your ear again; you shiver. "You're better coordinated than you think."

You risk opening your eyes to look up at him. The glitter around his eyes and on his cheekbones catch the strobing lights and he looks otherworldly. You forget what he's just said and stare at him for much too long. His smile turns embarrassed and you quickly move in his arms to face the group.

Binna mouths something at you, and you don't really know what she says, but you know you'll hear about it later (you do and it's all about how Jun's hands were on your hips and waist, and how perfect you two looked together; but Binna is drunker than you've seen her so you chalk her observations up to alcohol). The song morphs into another and you move away from the group, miming that you need water. Jun is reluctantly to let of your hand and once you're away from them, from him, you let out a deep breath.

You are never telling Binna that being near Jun makes it hard to breathe.

Can't meet today

everything okay?

sick

You look at your messages for several seconds. Binna pokes you with her bottle of nail polish.

"What's up?"

"Jun's sick."

"Oh that sucks."

You text back: I'm so sorry. Do you need anything?

you're sweet. i'm good. hao fed me.

"Are Minghao and Jun roommates?"

"Yes. Since they were first years. I think the school thought putting two exchange students together would help with the transition to Korean Uni." Binna blows on a polished nail.

"Do you know where they live?"

"Why?" She raises her eyebrows. "Why do you think I'd know that?"

"Really?"

She laughs effortlessly. When you grow up, you hope to be as carefree as Binna seems to be.

"I thought I could bring him some soup. Or something."

Binna stares at you for a few seconds.

"What?"

"Do you like him?"

"What? No. He's…kind of a teammate."

"So you'd do this for anyone?"

"Well…anyone I've exchanged more than five words with."

"Valid." She still doesn't look away. "I do know where they live."

"Of course you do."

When you knock on the door, you have to set down one of the two bags you're carrying. You're actually bending down to pick it up when the door opens and there stands Minghao, bottom half of his face covered with a mask.

"Hi."

He raises an eyebrow. "You here for Jun?"

"Yeah, I figured you couldn't cook for him every meal, so I brought um…soup and other stuff."

You're pretty sure Minghao doesn't hate you, or even dislikes you. You probably don't even enter his mind unless you're right in front of him. But his resting face (mostly eyes and eyebrows due to the mask) is blank with a touch of annoyance. Binna thinks it's HOTTT, but you realize that you like when you can see what a person is thinking or feeling.

Someone who smiles.

"Come in," Minghao steps back and then grabs from a stack on the little table in the entryway. "Wear a mask. No idea what he's come down with, but better safe than sorry."

You take the mask and slip it on as you set your hoarde of 'get better' items on the kitchen counter. It's more a suite than a regular dorm room and you hope you get lucky as an upperclassroom to have an actual kitchenette and living area, tiny as they are.

"He's um…if he's asleep, I can just leave…"

One of the doors past the sagging couch opens and Jun is standing there, looking the most un-Jun-like you've ever seen him. There's a lack of pink, minus his nose being quite red. He's wearing baggy orange sweats that look like they belong to someone taller and wider than him, and a threadbare faded green tshirt.

He says your name, and it's hoarse though delighted.

"Go back to bed, you moron," Minghao monotones. "You'll hate yourself if you get her sick."

"Hey Jun," you begin, walking over with your two bags. "I grabbed some medicine for you, ginger chicken soup, and lots of cough drops. I didn't know what kind you liked, so I got a couple."

He's still leaning on the doorframe, less like a male lead in a romance, and more like someone who might collapse if they let go.

"You…" he starts coughing and you back away from the coffee table and sofa. He leans his head on his arm. He looks miserable.

"I'm guessing you won't make tomorrow's game."

He makes a face, but doesn't speak. He's probably wanting to avoid a coughing fit.

"Will Raon and Dohee be okay without you?"

He shrugs before texting on his phone. Yours pings a second later.

can you watch out for them? sometimes ppl are shit at away games.

"Of course." You watch him a few seconds longer, how his hair is matted to his forehead, damp from sweat and you feel for him.

It's not fun to be sick. Especially away from home. And he is really far from home.

"Feel better…and you know, message me if you need anything else."

He smiles the smallest smile. It's happy, as much as he can be feeling like he does. But it makes something tug in your chest to see it.

He mouths thank you before stumbling back into his bedroom, the door not closing all the way, so you see him flop on his bed, his feet covered in pink socks.

How odd that you've danced, club-danced with him, but seeing his pink socks feels more intimate.

When you turn around to leave, Minghao is watching you.

"Um, if you need anything for him, like if you get stuck here or whatever…uh, let me know? Or Binna?"

He nods slowly, eyes not moving away.

"Okay, see you," you hurriedly say and open the door to leave.

"See you," and he says your name, which you realize is probably the very first time he has. Why does that feel like you have received his approval?

You see out Raon and Dohee once you arrive at the away team locker rooms. Dohee laughs when she opens the door for you.

"You know you don't have to knock. You are one of us."

You know she means your gender, but the 'one of us' phrasing feels especially kind.

"That…I wouldn't want to assume."

She laughs again as you walk in to see Raon straightening her top.

"I just wanted to see if you guys were okay. Without Jun?"

"It's annoying. Neither one of us likes having to used the megaphone, but…" Raon shrugs. "Hao said he was pretty sick."

"I saw him yesterday, he looks like the least Jun-like I've ever seen him."

Dohee and Raon share a look before turning back to you.

"You saw him yesterday?"

"Uh, I went by. We were supposed to have a tutoring session, but he said he was sick."

"So you just went by?"

All of a sudden you feel like you're in a courtroom, on the witness stand. You half-expect to hear 'objection'.

"I brought some stuff…" You feel unequiped to continue. "He asked that I look out for you guys. So…that's all."

They look at each other then at you again and it's inevitable, like an anvil falling in a Looney Tunes episode. You should never have walked in here.

When Jun wakes much much later, there's a number of texts and notifications on his phone. He squints at it for a few seconds, assessing how he's feeling and if looking at a screen will induce any nausea (as it did yesterday).

Honestly, he feels pretty good. Not like, run a lap or two (like he's even want to do that), but not like 'fall across his bed like a fainting Regency woman' either.

He'll call it a win.

There's a knock on his door, but it opens before he can croak out a 'come in'. Hao peers in, still masked.

"Alive?"

"More so than yesterday."

"Did you get the video?"

After being friends with Hao since first year of uni, Jun believes he can read the enigmatic man decently well. It's harder with a mask covering half his face, but the sparkle, slight but there, in his eyes warns Jun that something good or terrible has happened (honestly, knowing Hao for over two years, as roommates, does so little to uncover what the man is thinking).

"Video?" Jun's voice is on par with a life-long smoker's at this point.

Hao plops on his bed, opens his phone and places it right in front of Jun's eyes.

It takes many seconds (his brain is foggy with remnants of illness and medications) for Jun to understand the scene playing out on his roommate's phone. He immediately clocks Dohee and Raon, standing on top the dugout, dressed in their away game uniforms; the motions and choreo so familiar to him. The person to the right of Dohee is Mingyu, who is on the injured list currently for a possible concussion (it didn't happen during the last game, but in the locker room after practice when Mingyu decided to try and film the most recent TikTok dance challenge and failed miserably due to a bench, discarded cleats and Chan doing the dance better; this all occurred before Jun contracted the plague), standing with his arms crossed, staring down the patrons in the seats.

While Mingyu is new to the cheer lineup, that is not the change that shocks Jun the most. No, it's the person in the middle, his normal spot when he's not dying. This person is wearing his uniform top, though the trousers are definitely not his.

"Is that—"

"I got a message from Dohee, you probably have one too, though you've been sleeping."

"I'm in recovery right now."

"Sure," Hao takes his phone back, presumably looking for the message while Jun stumbles to opne his phone and see his notifications.

"It's on the team's instagram page?" Jun says hoarsely. "They never put us on there, or rarely at least."

"Hey Hao, wake up Junnie and tell him his girlfriend might just take his place. She isn't quite the peppy sort, but she does the cheers really well," Hao reads then plays the video again, this time with sound.

Jun's rarely heard you speak loudly, or yell or shout. Sometimes you raise your voice in the locker room to be heard because it's chaos in there, but it's barely more than a normal speaking voice volume.

The megaphone amplifies, obviously, but you are doing really really well. Your movements are stilted, though he doubts you even got the chance to learn them prior to participating in this. But by the end of the video, which has been spliced to include most of the cheers, probably cutting down two hours of footage to a minute, you move much more naturally, showing a little of the rhythm he saw in you the night at the club.

And you're smiling.

At first, it's a forced smile. One he's seen many times. But, probably with the infectious silliness of being flanked by Dohee and Raon, your smile grows, both warmer and in size.

It must be the medication, but he thinks he likes you wearing his uniform top despite it not fitting you in the slightest.

"Why did…" Jun coughs, covering his mouth and rolling in the opposite direction from where Hao sits.

"Why did she fill in your spot? I dunno. Guess you'll have to talk to her." Hao starts out of the room before pausing at the door. "I ordered some chicken and ginger congee from the place in the city."

Jun pushes himself up. "You are the perfect man, Xu."

"Fuck off."

When you walk into the locker room before practice after the away game, the room turns silent. Which never happens, not since you were introduced back in the beginning.

"Um, here to check on any last minute equipment issues? Something we might have missed." You always do this. Come in before practice or a game, a secondary check that even in your and Nang's meticulous surveying the items needed for the players, something could be missed. Sometimes there is nothing. Sometimes a player sees a crack or dent or missing cleat. It's never hostile.

The atmosphere feels hostile today.

"You know we lost," Seungcheol begins, breaking the brittle quiet.

You nod. You might not have been going back and forth with bats and gloves, but you were still very aware of the score and its resolution.

"Why do you think that is?"

You want to answer. You're know that the Boyz were a stronger and younger team, primarily made of up underclassmen who had a lot to prove. Also, the team had been without Mingyu due to the incident with his head and the bench, and that loss would make the team struggle.

But you rightly assumed that the captain's question was rhetorical.

"Because you decided you didn't need to be doing the job you were brought on for. No, you're up in the stands, playing at cheerleader. What the fuck?"

You hear a couple grumbles, echoing his statement.

"Nang-nim was there—"

"Shut it, first year!"

You move instinctively between Seungcheol and Chan who had spoken up. It hasn't escaped your notice that the captain is hard on the baby of the team, who shows immense promise and works so hard. You also know that Chan has the making of being a leader in his own right, leading by example.

He is also, exceptionally more talented than Seungcheol is. You guess the captain probably knows this.

"I cleared my absence from game duties with both the coach and seonsaengnim. I don't see how my not being there contributes at all to the final score."

Seungcheol laughs; and unsurprisingly, Jeonghan and Joshua do as well. It's a mean, mean-spirited laugh; full of poisoned barbs.

"You don't think I couldn't tell the gloves hadn't been properly oiled? My cleats were weak? Were you so excited to be seen as a girl that you forgot your actual responsibilities for the team?" He scoffs. "You're like the worst kind of cleat chaser. In it for the nearness, but can't even offer something in return."

It feels like a punch to the gut. The very idea that anyone would compare you to a baseball groupie. You know that isn't true. You know that most of the team knows that isn't true. You know this, but it hurts anyway.

You are trying to come up with the right response, when you hear someone else come in the locker room.

"Wen, you're back!" Soonyoung would always misread the room and signals, but his happy reaction to Jun returning does distract you for a moment. You turn to see Jun, looking far more healthy than the last time you saw him, though still a bit peaked.

He doesn't go to his cubby but walks up to you, and something in his face tells you that he isn't unaware of the words just pronounced in this space.

"So…captain," Jun begins, standing next to you calmly. "You admit that you need her, but accuse her of being just a 'cleat chaser' when all she does is clean up after all of us, makes sure that you have what you need for every practice, every game. Doesn't make a lot of sense. Did you get hit on the head or something? Might need the team physician to check you out."

"This isn't your business, Wen. This is about the team."

"Oh, okay, so now she's a part of the team."

You can see Seungcheol's frustration at how Jun undoes his poorly constructed argument.

"She's staff and—"

"So not a cleat chaser. Man, you really have to get your story right."

The moment Seungcheol lurches forward, as though to hit Jun, or you, who knows at this point; Mingyu, Chan and even Soonyoung break in between, stopping Seungcheol's intention. He looks more surprised than angry at this point, though the narrowing of his eyes returns when he realizes that he's being blocked, by part of his own team.

Neither Jun nor you are physically intimidating, but Mingyu's height and build, Chan's wiry muscle, and Soonyoung's chaotic energy…all of it is enough to be threatening.

It doesn't hurt that the coaches enter right then to get the players on the diamond for practice. The entire team all trudges out; your little protective squad last to go. Chan squeezes your shoulder as he passes.

You fall to the nearest bench when all that remains is you and Jun.

"You okay?" he asks softly, moving to sit next to you. "I only caught the last bit, but—"

"I'm okay." You look at him, your heart slowly down as your body realizes it doesn't need to fight or flee. "Are you? You were really sick."

"I'm better." He clears his throat, betraying that he's not totally healed.

"You look better."

He says your name. "Are you really okay? That was…that was aggressive."

"I'm sort of numb, I guess," the words slip out before you can hold them back. " I've heard a version of that probably most of my life, though usually not so directly. That the only reason I do what I do is because of guys." You straighten your shoulders. "I appreciate the back up, but you have to spend more time with them in here. I don't want you to—"

He leans forward, his forehead knocking yours, but lingering there. "Stop worrying about me, I'm fine. I didn't grow up doing Wushu for nothing." He lifts his head.

Your expression shares your confusion.

"Martial arts." He flexes a bicep. "This isn't just from my nights at clubs or cheering."

It pulls a smile from you. "Noted."

He lets his arm fall before reaching to cover your hand. "He's an asshole."

"Yeah."

"He always has been, he just hides it better than others."

"I really have shit taste in men, huh."

You both freeze as you realize it's the first time you've acknowledged that you slept with Seungcheol to anyone other than Binna.

"No. If you had shit taste, you'd still be into him…you aren't still into him, are you?" Jun's been looking at your hands, his still holding yours. He looks up at the end of his question, eyes betraying the answer he wants to hear.

"No." You laugh, drawing your hand away, feeling horribly embarrassed by the entire turn of conversation. "I have my issues, but I'm not masochistic."

"Good." He straightens up and looks around the empty locker room. "Speaking of…that day that you walked in on him…talking about you."

You turn on the bench, shaking your head. "It's nothing. It's not surprising."

"I should have said something. I should have defended you. I'm so sorry I didn't."

You look back at him, surprised. "You didn't laugh."

"No, of course I didn't, but I didn't speak up—"

"You didn't laugh. I thought you did. Because I didn't know your laugh then. But I do now. And you didn't laugh. Thank you."

He shakes his head, looking at his lap. "Don't thank me. I should thanking you…and asking why you filled in for me at the game? One of them could have done the megaphone part."

You feel your face heat so fast you imagine you look like a cartoon character with smoke rising from your skin.

"It was Raon and Dohee. Their decisiion, they were adamant at having me fill in. I didn't want to, I did a terrible job and…we are all happy you're back."

"I'm not mad. I was just surprised. You seem like someone who permanently likes to stay in the background."

"I do. I will not be repeating that experience. So do not get sick again."

He laughs before coughing a bit, turning his face away from you. "Okay. But you weren't bad at all. You were pretty cute."

Can your face get hotter?

"I was not."

He makes a face at you, disbelieving. "I saw the video…videos, actually. I stand by my statement."

You stand up, hands fidgety because you don't know why he's saying things like this. "I should…go to practice. I am happy to see you, less pale and ill-looking."

He stands as well, tucking the cardigan around himself like he's cold. He looks soft and far less sparkling. More glowing like a single candle over fireworks.

"Me too. Happy to see you." He looks over at his cubby. "Can we meet later? I need to make up the tutoring session we missed."

"Jun, you don't have to—"

"Sure I do. It's still Romanticism, isn't it?"

You shrug. Like you have a clue.

"I'll text you."

"Okay," you whisper and hurry out the door.

It turns out to be easy to reschedule, because the Carats do not make the playoffs. The final loss, which has nothing to do with you because you are back in your regular position, doing the things you always do, clinches the 'out of the running' for the team. It's your second season with them, first time full season, and you forget how much time you have when you're not at the ball field every free minute.

Seungcheol, Joshua and Jeonghan, all seniors, are quiet and sulky when the locker room is on final clean up. You watch all the players trod out, taking their personal things with them, leaving the team properties behind.

Chan turns to grin at you and wave.

You'll place money that he'll be captain by his junior year.

Clean up is well, gross, as a season's worth of sweat and dirt and general man has built up, but it's a nice thing to have done, especially when everything is inventoried and put up for the off-season. The players will still hit the gym to keep up with their health regimens, but you're no longer needed.

Unfortunately, poetry class is not over, not yet.

"It's all death," you claim, your voice more shrill than you prefer to keep it. But you've just read the poem for this week—there is another but this one is effing long—and you are over it. "Every single freakin poem is about death."

"Most art is? I mean, literature is about sex or death…usually. That's a freebie, when you take the exam and maybe get stuck; write about sex or death."

"But this is…stupid. It's long and wordy and stupid."

He chuckles. "So you don't like American romanticism, so noted."

"'Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,  / Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed  / By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,  / Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch  / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams'," you read monotonously. "Like I said with the Keats poem, death is not peaceful, or calm or pleasant!"

You realize you are almost yelling and even though it's not the library, but the common area in the student union, you still attract attention. You hunch over and frown.

"Did you read the other poem?"

"No. This one took me forever to get through."

"Here, let's go through the other one." He stands up, leaning over to flip the pages in your textbook, apparently able to read upside down. You look up at him, some of your ire fading at his proximity. He's finally given into the approaching winter; wearing a long-sleeve shirt, another cardigan, and corduroy trousers. His hair is messy from the wind outside and he looks fully back to healthy, cheeks rosy from the same outside zephyr.

"Jun?"

He sits back down, nodding to the pages. "Read it."

You don't say anything, not entirely sure what you would have said anyway. Your eyes scan the poem, catching the rhyme first, then the repetition, then—

"Wait, what is 'the good night'?"

"Take a guess."

Well, it's been pretty much the same theme, so you apply death to 'the good night.'

"It was the poet to his father. When he was dying."

You mouth the words of the final line, also a repeated line, "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"

"It's also called a villanelle, which is a really specific poem structure, and really hard to do and—" He cuts off and says your name. "What's wrong?"

You wipe your eyes, aware now that you're leaking tears. "Nothing."

He reaches out, hand over yours. "Tell me."

"I don't—"

He looks around, how public this all is, and scoops up your book and bag, along with his. He tugs on your scarf, still around your neck and you follow him outside.

It's blustery, leaves dancing in circles around the quad. His hair dances in sync with the leaves, and he leads you to a copse of trees where the wind is slightly blocked. He slides your book and pen in your bag before pulling out a small package of tissues.

You wipe your face, trying to not think about what you're thinking about, but it's impossible. You keep seeing the words of the poem.

Jun doesn't say anything. He leans against a tree, waiting and watching.

"My dad loved baseball," you say slowly. "Like…loved it. Knew every member of every team, coaches, and why teams did well and why they didn't. He knew everything."

"Is that where you get it?"

You nod.

"I figured he wanted his only kid to play, but I'm not good. I'm really not good. So I did the next best thing. I learned everything about it. Statistics, the players, the trades, the fact that if someone would just plant his foot a little to the left, he'd swing so much better." You sniff and look out across the quad, feeling the wind play with your hair. "He died. When I was ten."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. He never properly got to be traumatized by teenaged me." You laugh, but it's hollow. "He refused an experimental drug. After chemo, he was tired and so sick. It wasn't guaranteed, nothing is in a hospital, but he could have tried. Even if it didn't work. Even if all the possible side-effects, like memory loss or no appetite happened." You force yourself to look at Jun. "I wanted him to fight more, but he didn't want to." You swallow the lump in your throat. "We…I wasn't enough for him to try and stay."

He doesn't ask, and you're glad because you would have said no, but he pulls you in for a hug, tight. He rests his chin on top of your head.

"I doubt that."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe he didn't want you to see him worse?"

You look up at him, surprised to see his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

"Maybe the drug could have made him worse, um, his body, or his mind."

"Like the memory loss, like not recognize us?"

"Yeah."

"Wouldn't that be worth the risk if you got to stay alive?"

You realize he's still holding you, but he's warm and his cardigan is really soft. You don't move.

"I can't speak for your dad. I've never been in that situation. But if…if it meant possibly losing memories of those I loved? I think I might have considered not taking the drug." He kisses your forehead and you freeze. "Maybe he wanted to keep those memories and that love for as long as he could."

Your eyes well up again, and he tightens his hold.

"I'll mess up your shirt."

"And I'll survive that," he replies, so you bury your face in his chest, tears flowing. He rubs your back as you do, seems unbothered that you're gripping him like you might collapse without him.

You miss your dad. You always miss him.

When you finally let go, Jun relaxes his hold on you, but doesn't let you detach completely.

"Wanna go get ramyeon? My treat."

Later that evening, after you're both so full of noodles and broth, and talked about baseball, cheering (he got into it because someone he liked in high school was one and they had an opening for a male cheerleader; he got the position but that someone never returned his feelings —'honestly, they were kinda a horrible person, so maybe you're not the only one with bad taste in romantic partners') and poetry, he walks you back to your dormitory.

"Thank you, Jun. With the class, and just…you know, being a really nice person."

He grins. "It's not hard to be nice to you."

"Oh please." You wrinkle your nose. "I was definitely not friendly to you in the beginning."

"You weren't?"

"I never understood why baseball needed cheerleaders, so no, I wasn't exactly amicable."

He's still laughing. "But you still offered to wash my uniform. And you still always nodded at me when you saw me. Besides, cheerleading isn't a needed thing. It's a joyous thing, to be encouraged, to join together as a group, to lift up and not bring down."

He stops where the sidewalk intersects with the path to your dorm. You look at him in the light of the streetlamps. He still is exceptionally pretty; bright smile and bright eyes, hair messy from the day.

You're wrung out from all the emotions, so you can't be held totally responsible when you raise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Maybe the forehead kiss gave you permission, or you've gone crazy.

But it feels like saying 'thank you' isn't quite enough.

When you land back on your feet, he's staring at you.

"Sorry if that—"

"Can I kiss you?"

Perhaps you shouldn't be surprised. Not after the way Dohee and Raon talked at the club that night, or how Binna has teased you about bringing him soup when he was sick.

But you still are.

"Yes."

He leans down, cupping your cheek in his hand. You're frozen, unsure all of a sudden how kisses work. He doesn't kiss you immediately, just sort of breathes you in, his nose brushing along yours before fitting his lips to your lips. It's incredibly soft and warm, like him. And you find yourself leaning into it, mouth opening for a taste. He returns taste for taste, teasing and igniting heat in you.

It doesn't go very far, only enough for you to miss him the moment he breaks the kiss.

"So…we'll have to revisit that," he says, his face even more rosy post-kiss.

"You mean, not on a day that I dump my entire childhood trauma on you?"

He catches your smile and leans in for another kiss, this one quick. "Next time, I'll share mine." He straightens up. "And in case it wasn't obvious, I like you."

Shouldn't really be surprising, but somehow hearing it is marveling to you.

"I like you too."

"Oh, that's good. Be weird otherwise."

You laugh, outright laugh after crying only hours earlier. "Just a little bit."

He nods toward your dorm. "You go in. You have a quiz and soon final exam to study for."

"I have a really good tutor."

His blush, even apparent in the bad street lighting, is so cute.

"Good night."

"Good night, Jun."

poems mentioned:

"Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"To Sleep" by John Keats

"Thanatopsis" by William Cullen Bryant

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas

Jun hadn’t changed since he wore a wedding ring, but you couldn’t help but feel different. Maybe it was because he had this strange idea in his head that he had to shower you with twice as much love now that he was your husband. And today was your wedding anniversary. He was bad at pretending that he didn’t have the entire day planned ahead, but you went along with it like you didn’t notice anything. 

He brought you breakfast in bed, showering you with kisses and staying by your side while you ate. He almost wanted to hold your hand, but you told him with a giggle that you still had to eat. So he sat by you and made due with brushing your hair out of your face and playing with it. 

Jun’s face had lit up when he realised that your first wedding anniversary was on a Saturday. It meant that you couldn’t be called into work since you had a nine-to-five and he could go ahead with whatever he set his mind to. 

You had an angel and devil on your shoulder. The angel told you that you should leave your husband be and go along. He obviously wanted to surprise you and went above and beyond to ensure that. The devil whispered in your ear to nag him until he caved. He looked like he was on the verge of spoiling your day anyway, might as well give him a final push. 

Although you liked listening to the devil to chase Jun up the wall, you agreed with the angel this time. It was obvious that he was putting in the effort to keep you in the dark. Curiosity killed the cat, your mother would say. She had to deal with your impatience a lot of times.

You wanted to clean up after yourself but Jun took the tray from you and walked out of the bedroom, leaving you behind with a smile plastered on your face. 

Yep. He was extra secretive today. 

He returned and hovered over you, pressing his lips to yours. “Take your time to get ready, baby. We have the entire day ahead of us.”

You looked at him, a grin playing at your lips. “Any special requests for the King?” 

“I wanted to say something that makes you look pretty, but that is everything,” he responded with a hum and rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. I like you in everything.” 

You chuckled. “God, how awful it must be to be you right now.”

“It is.” He plopped down with a sigh. “Too many options because you have the audacity to look good in everything.”

“How dare I?” 

Jun himself wore a linen white blouse with a sandy jacket and matching pants. It was a loose fit like he often did, something you often expressed your love towards. His hair was usually parted in the middle, but the strands that made that possible now fell in front of his eyes like bangs. 

Just like you loved it on him. 

“I think I know,” you announced. 

His eyes twinkled in excitement, but you sent him out of the room before he could ask about it. Like the universe had understood what you were up to, his phone started buzzing and his attention was elsewhere. When you closed the door, you heard him switch to Chinese and you assumed that Minghao finally got a hold of him or he was talking to family. 

Though, Minghao was practically his family, having grown up next door to each other. 

You remembered your days in college, where hanging out with Jun meant Minghao was there, too. He only backed off when you got romantically involved, but he became a good friend of yours. It was inevitable. Minghao was quiet, still learning the language when you all ended up on the same campus. So was Jun, but he was outgoing and it was only a matter of time before he was fluent. 

It wouldn’t surprise you if they were scheming together. Minghao had known about the engagement, too. He didn’t know about your surprise, though, but you had your own family-like friend for that. 

You slid off the bed and went to your closet. You pulled out a grey pants and a white off the shoulder top, tying your hair in a low bun while leaving out the strands that framed your face and curling them. You slid on the necklaces that you got from him on your five-year-anniversary and that you religiously wore daily. You slid into a pair of sneakers that were a gift from Jun. You’d been eying them for ages and couldn’t find them anywhere. Then he came home with them on your birthday. It wasn’t his original gift, but he found them when he was on his way from work. 

Jun lit up when you walked out of the bedroom. He grabbed your hand and twirled you around. “You look gorgeous, darling.”

“As do you,” you complimented him and stood on your tippy toes, brushing his hair. “Your hair is so cute this way.”

“Just how you like it, ma’am.” He bowed. 

You giggled softly, unable to help yourself. You’d been together for over a decade and he could still make you feel like you were a schoolgirl in love with her first crush. 

Jun handed your coat and slid into his own. “Shall we go for a walk? And I was thinking about grabbing lunch after.”

You swung your purse over your shoulder when you had your coat on. “I don’t know what kind of walk you have planned that you’re already thinking about lunch afterwards.”

“A very long one.”

You looked at him, the corners of your mouth curving into a smile. “I see. Well, lead the way.”

He returned your smile and grabbed the keys from the counter, opening the door for you. He followed and closed it behind you, lacing your fingers together when you left the driveway. “Around this time one year ago, I was imagining what you looked like when you’d walk down the altar, you know that?”

“Did you make the right prediction for my dress?” You asked him, to which he shook his head. 

“I couldn’t properly think about it because I would start crying.” 

You nudged him. “You did cry a lot that day.”

“I married the love of my life and was able to celebrate it with everyone I care about.”

“And then you drank at the afterparty and it got worse.” 

You enjoyed seeing Jun protesting against your teasing. You doubled down on it. 

“You cried too,” he defended himself. “You also cry when you’re drunk and you were pretty drunk at the afterparty.”

With a chuckle, you reassured him that you were just joking and let the conversation die out, switching it out for the next one. “And now we’re here celebrating that we survived the first year of marriage.”

He pumped his fist in the air, making you laugh. 

You made your way through the neighbourhood and where you usually took a right towards the lake, Jun steered you left. You cocked an eyebrow, but followed his lead. All you knew was that you were going towards the city centre. 

He was definitely planning something and you were growing too curious to not ask about it, but you refrained yourself. He navigated through the streets that took you towards the centre and turned onto the path into the forest. 

Huh. If he wanted to take you there, he should’ve walked in the opposite direction when you left your house.

The forest café appeared on the horizon and suddenly it dawned on you why he took this route. It was on the edge of the forest and the easiest way to get there if you didn’t feel like taking a walk through the woods was at the city side. 

And it started dawning on you why he took you there. 

You walked in, the warmth of the hearth wrapping around you like a blanket. A table was reserved with your names on it and you followed Jun. 

“This is where we had our first date,” you noted. “At this very table.”

“Yep!” He beamed at you. “I made sure they reserved it for us today.” 

You slid into your seat across from him, smiling at him. “That is so sweet, Jun. Thank you.”

Jun grabbed your hand and kissed it, making the warmth spread through your chest. He held it, caressing it with his thumb as you ordered drinks, just like you did on your first date. 

It was raining and you were wrapped in the warmth of the café, sipping on a latte while your stomach tingled in excitement. You’d liked Jun for a while and you were thrilled that he asked you for a cup of coffee. At the time, you grounded yourself in the fact that he just wanted to spend one-on-one time with you as friends to get through it. Jun walked you back to your dorm and he kissed your cheek before he left. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the week, smiling like an idiot. Whenever Jun was around, you tried to contain yourself and play it cool, but Jun wasn’t. In fact, he was very upright about being interested in you, flirting with you when all of your friends were around. He’d never been shy about it. 

“You were so cute,” Jun told you when your tea arrived. “It’s still one of my favourite dates.”

The heat spread to your cheeks. You’d talked about this numerous times but the topic never failed to entertain you. “I was so nervous, though.”

He doubled down on his previous statement with a smile. “Adorable.”

You leaned on your hand as you stirred your fresh mint tea. “Would you have believed yourself from today if he was able to travel back to that time and tell that Jun that we would be sitting here today?”

Jun hummed. “That’s a very good question, actually.” He fell silent for a while before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. Just because you never know where life leads you and we’re talking about ten years ago. We were still young.”

“My mother didn’t call it puppy love for nothing,” you said with a chuckle. “I was eighteen, you were nineteen. She has digressed since then, though.”

“I hope so. We’re married now.” 

You nodded with a smile. “We have a bright future ahead, our plans are coming into fruition one by one.”

“You’re making plans to start your own company and I’m on my first producer job. We’re doing a good job.”

It went right over his head, just like you planned. 

You rubbed his hand with an even wider smile. “We are, baby.”

When you finished your drinks, you went on your way again. Jun took you into the city for a round of shopping – you expected nothing less of him – and treated you to everything. Despite heavy protests, you let him. It was his day as much as it was yours and if he was happy paying for your new outfits, you had peace with that. 

You stopped in front of a restaurant and Jun turned to you. 

You looked up at the sign and your lips twisted into a smile. “I know this one.”

“Good, I hope you didn’t forget where I asked you to be my girlfriend.”

You followed him inside. “Technically, you asked me on campus but this was the date leading up to it.” 

“It was very obvious what was going to happen,” Jun added and you agreed with a soft laugh. He pulled your chair back and motioned for you to sit. “Maybe this Jun has less trouble believing that you sit across from me as my wife right now.”

You chuckled and laid a hand on your stomach, flipping through the menu with the other. You decided on a warm sandwich with brie, walnuts and honey while Jun went for a carpaccio salad. You ordered the same drink, a fresh mint tea as he settled for another cup of coffee. 

You wrapped your hands around the cup with a smile. “What?”

“You’re in a tea mood today,” Jun observed with a smile. “I haven’t seen you drink tea in ages.”

“It surprised me too,” you said with a chuckle. “I saw it on the menu and I had to drink a cup.”

“You had an entire phase where the only thing you wanted to drink was tea. You swore off caffeine for like, three weeks until you reverted back to your lattes.” He flashed a grin at you. “You like coffee too much to swear it off forever.”

Which is why you struggled to not grab a cup in the morning.

“I kind of do,” you gave in and stirred the golden spoon. “Did we eat here for dinner when you asked me?”

“All three courses,” Jun said as he munched on a cookie. “My stomach was about to explode when we got to dessert, but that lava cake looked too delicious to miss out on.” 

You sighed nostalgically. “Yeah, it looked delicious.”

“It’s still on the menu.” 

Your eyes shot up at Jun, whose mouth hung open. You chuckled. “Yeah, of course it is. I wouldn’t pull my best-selling dessert off the menu either. .”

“Oh, we should definitely grab a piece after lunch. Ode to us from ten years ago.”

You raised your tea glass to it, clinging it against his coffee cup. The rest of your lunch you spent retrieving memories from the first couple of years of your relationship, about how Minghao almost spoiled that your birthday present was a key when you were together for four years and that you got stuck in the elevator with him and your mother when there was an outage in your building. It was an interesting combination of people to be stuck with. 

You talked about the gift he got you when you turned twenty-five, a year before your engagement. He bought you a Nintendo Switch with one of your favourite childhood games already on it, something you’d thought had been out of the running for a very long time. It turned out that the game was available on the Switch and Jun got it for you. 

He knew you so well that he didn’t need to think twice about what to give you. It was too perfect to be true sometimes, but he really was true. He was yours and he had been for a decade. 

You were strolling in the park, your arms swinging back and forth as your fingers were laced together. 

“Can you already imagine that we can take our future children here?” You asked. “They can run around until they’re exhausted and we can watch them sleep on the way home.”

“I can’t wait, darling,” Jun said, his lips twisting into a bright smile. “Sharing the experience of parenthood with you? I’ve dreamt of it since we got engaged, before even.” 

Your heart melted hearing him say that. 

Once out of the park, you walked back towards the forest. You were on the other side close to your house and assumed that you were heading there. Like your gut feeling told you, Jun turned onto the path and you were glad you decided to wear sneakers this morning. 

The leaves ruffled underneath your feet and the fall coloured the trees in a warm palette of red, yellow and brown. Walking through the forest this time of year was your favourite. Everyone would be bored strolling over the same paths, but not you. If you weren’t at home or at work, you were found there in your favourite spot. 

“The lake!” You called out excitedly, pulling your husband along with you. 

Jun made it even more special when he proposed to you there two years ago, in the fall. And again today, by taking you here on a trip down memory lane on your wedding anniversary. 

He stood behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and your heart skipped a beat. “All I can think about when I’m here is your face when I went down on one knee.”

You nearly pulled him back up, in complete disbelief that he wanted to propose. With your whole heart, you said yes and afterwards, your loved ones were waiting in the forest café to celebrate your engagement. 

“Are we going full circle and back to the forest café or didn’t you plan that far ahead?” 

Jun’s laugh filled your chest with warmth. “I wanted to take you home after this and out for sushi tonight.”

You froze, but smiled through it. “Oh, that’s nice. I love sushi.”

Before his entire plan would fall apart, you had to give him your present. 

“I know we promised to do this tonight at dinner, but I can’t wait anymore.” You rummaged in your purse and fished out a small box. “I have to give you this.” 

He took it from you with a frown, but opened it anyway. Your heart thumped in your throat as you watched him take the small picture out. He had to turn it around for him to see what was on the front and he observed it carefully. 

His eyes widened. “Holy shit.” They darted towards you. “Are you…” 

You nodded, your lips curving into a wide smile. 

Jun lifted you from the ground and twirled you around, laughter echoing through the forest. He put you back down, his hands on your hips. “This is amazing! How long have you known?”

“This is the first echo, which is taken after a month,” you told him. “I found out last week and the echo was yesterday so this was all very last minute.” 

He embraced you tightly. “This is the best present I could ever wish for, baby.” His eyes twinkled brightly. “I’m so excited!” 

“Good, but we have to eat dinner elsewhere because I can’t eat raw meat.”

Jun’s eyes widened. “Fuck, you’re right.” He shrugged not much later. “We’ll think of something.”

You smiled and caressed his cheek. “See? Another plan coming to fruition.”

“The best plan ever.” He pressed a kiss to your lips and took you back home. You cuddled on the couch and he already talked about ‘the three of you’. You thanked yourself from ten years ago for sitting through the most nerve wrecking date you’d ever had in your life. That very boy that made your heart beat faster was now your husband and the father of your first baby. 

A better life you couldn’t have wished for.