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doublure d’argent | l.ty

Pairing: Lee Taeyong x reader

Genre: strangers to co-workers to lovers, fashion designer!reader, magazine columnist!Taeyong, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, PG-15

Warnings: profanity, slow burn, ANGST, mc is the classic bitch-turned-agreeable kinda character, Taeyong is kinda shallow at first, allusions to sex (nothing explicit), mc has hair long enough to tie up, sexual innuendos, kissing, toxic behaviour from aHEM certain individuals, inaccurate depictions of the fashion industry, food and alcohol consumption, Taeyong shirtless at times

Word count: 48.3k

Synopsis: You’re the renowned founder and fashion designer of Argent, the luxury fashion label known best for its one too many silver linings across the world’s hottest runways. With New York Fashion Week around the corner and your latest collections fresh on the racks, you’re certain to have buyers grovelling at your star-studded heels. But when fake news spreads like a wildfire and your top model pulls out at the last minute, you’re left with no choice but to hire a wide-eyed stranger with an unusual penchant for toast.

a/n: so this was supposed to be 17k...aNYWAYS, four long months and it finally dropped *claps everywhere* !! this fic is laced with all forms of angst so please excuse the sheer amount of it! A huge thank you to @intotheneozone for beta-reading it in its initial stages (even though she barely knew me at the time, god bless)!!! Also just as a heads up CFDA stands for Council of Fashion Designers of America. I really hope you enjoy the fic, and I worked super duper hard on it so feedback would be greatly appreciated :))

I. …boyfriend?

Some people say you’re the embodiment of magic, able to mastermind a rough image into the finest cashmere sweater, turn a quick sketch into flowing spools of chiffon. Some say you’re the world’s next Coco Chanel, with high-end collections wooing the fancy of every rehearsed critic sitting at the foot of the catwalk; the cat that never fails to catch their tongues and stun them speechless. And some people may just call you a stubborn bitch – actually, most do; uncompromising to all forces of the universe so long as your expensive little stilettos are able to carry all that heavy rage.

It’s a real wonder how you’ve only managed to break two pairs so far…or perhaps a third now, as you sit in the back seat of your car, Louboutins jabbing furious holes into the mat beneath them as your jaw spasms in anger.

“What do you mean, the seams came undone? If they came undone, fix them!” you snap frustratedly at your executive assistant, thumb and forefinger digging at your temples as he delivers the horrifying news over the phone.

“Y/n, listen-”

“No, Ten, you listen to me. That coat is Argent’s signature for the fall collection. I want those seams fixed and spotless by six o’clock sharp, and if the tailor can’t do that, fire him and find someone who can.”

Ten sighs over the line, your stern voice stunning him to a silence.

“Don’t waste my time again,” you leave him no room to answer, cutting the call.

What a joke. Can’t even fix a simple seam slip.

You eye the Rolex watch on your wrist, deflating into the leather seat. You sink in so deep that the stillness of the car’s engine becomes all too noticeable among the raucous honking outside. Your nose scrunches at the pungent odour of diesel that floats around the air, head turning towards the tinted window that tucks you safely away from the bustling streets of New York Times Square, a place where time remains static, but the world never ceases.

“Charlie, how much longer now?” you speak impatiently to your driver, eyes narrowing at the heavy traffic ahead, cursing all the motionless cars that widen the distance between you and your destination. You’re going to be late for your Harper’s Bazaar photoshoot, and you’re not an ounce bit pleased about it.

He respectfully meets your eyes through the rear-view mirror. “Not long now, miss. Fifteen minutes if the traffic pulls through.”

His words have you pinching the bridge of your nose, teeth grinding together as you attempt to breathe in slowly, hoping the gesture dampens the temper bubbling at your throat. “Do try and hurry up,” you strain out.

“Yes, Miss.”

If there was one thing everyone ought to know about you, it’s that whatever you say is whatever goes. It’s a simple rule, a power you’ve come to possess as director and head designer of your world-class fashion label, Argent.

Things haven’t always been this smooth, however. What the world doesn’t realise is that the person they see – the person you show them – is merely the glistening tip of a cold, submerged iceberg.

It was years ago when you’d left your expensive home, when you’d escaped the vile clutches of what most people would call family. Yours was the textbook definition of everything your friends ever wanted but everything you could never stand. Your family wasn’t a family at all, but a lost cause. Comprised of a runaway father, and a controlling cougar of a mother, whose cheap excuses did nothing but blind her conscience from the blatant fact that she couldn’t do the one job all mothers are supposed to do right.

Paris. You’d taken a one-way ticket into its pulsing heart. It had welcomed you warmly, was there for you when you’d stepped off that plane with two suitcases and a pocket full of cash. While your parents chose neglect, Paris chose you; helped you find your footing among the scrappy sequins and calloused muslin.

From there, you’d clawed your way up the viperous ladders of the fashion industry, one fine sketch at a time, until New York beckoned you with its ritzy finger.

Recognition was never an easy feat, and critics never ceased with their petty down-talk. But none of it ever compared to your mother. You’d taken the harsh blows and dealt with all the world’s criticisms that told you to give up and that you’d never make it. Hard work eventually bred success and before you knew it, you had indeed, made it. You had built Argent from the ground up, gained fame and fortune through its name and earned your rightful place in the industry. Now, you’re prowess personified. A bat of your eye has your employees cowering in fear, every trend-setting design has your competitors green with envy, and every hand-stitched item has expensive bidders falling to their knees in front of you.

So yes, people may call you a bitch.

But you’re the bitch that keeps the fashion world turning.

“We’ve arrived, Miss Y/l/n.” The car comes to a halt outside a lavish stone building with HB spelt in bold, black letters. You eye the structure from above the frame of your sunglasses with a smile, always impressed by the certain statement exuding through its walls. But your smile only lasts so long – and you’re sure to have aged five full years – as your gaze travels to the horde of blinding cameras that begin to flash from meters always.

You sigh at the sight, muttering an offhand, “Wish me luck, Charlie,” before stepping out onto the sidewalk with the help of a security guard, hand rising to shield yourself from the bright flashing and frantic yelling of your name coming from every which direction.

Being a celebrity fashion designer has always meant fame and fortune come at both name and face value. The paparazzi doesn’t faze you however – by now, you’ve all but harboured their constant buzzing into your daily routine – but they are a royal pain in the ass, tailing your every move to fulfil their quota of shots.

Oh, the perils of being famous.

With one hand wrapped around your Céline handbag and the other tucked fashionably into the pocket of your Burberry trench, you strut right ahead, the security guard tailing behind as you mentally rehearse the drill you’re all too accustomed to by now: straight posture, head down, ignore the questions, smile for every sixth camera, and don’t. Stop. No matter. What.

You follow the drill until the air once more smells clean and your heels echo loudly against the polished lobby tiles, the yelling and flashes another memory held off by the glass doors. You send the security guard a thankful nod before ripping off your sunglasses and scanning the reception area. The pathway from there to the dressing room falls nothing short of memory as you head straight for the elevators to the twelfth floor.

When the doors ding open, you’re greeted with the busy scene of HB staff setting up the photoshoot area; stylists pushing racks of designer clothing in and out of doors, while photographers position their cameras and softboxes around a white paper backdrop.

Now, this is more like it.

You smile as you see Seulgi, the head photographer, approaching from across the room with a large, expensive camera strapped around her neck. “Miss Y/l/n, happy new year! It’s a pleasure to have you back! How are you?” She greets you with two formal pecks.

“Happy new year. I’ve been well, thank you for inviting me again. And please, call me Y/n.”

She nods politely, leading you past all the chatter and commotion, picking up a bright red suit along the way with a sparkly silver strip along one of the blazer’s lapels.

They did their research, you think inwardly.

Silver lines are your signature emblem; every article of haute cotour produced by Argent has at least one visible strip of silver on a given part.

You’d first thought of the idea after hearing your French mentor speak the words ‘chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent’; the French counterpart for the common saying every cloud has a silver lining.

Ever since then, you’d adopted the saying in every aspect of your life, went as far as naming your brand after the phrase – argent being the French word for silver – and added your own little twist to it. Now, every cloth has a silver lining. And though you still can’t pinpoint exactly why you were originally so smitten by the phrase, one thing you’re sure of is the comfort that blooms when you speak it aloud; a comfort that can’t be brought by anything or anyone else. A comfort that radiates a certain hope when all feels lost.

As your eyes travel down the sparkly silver line along the red suit, that feeling washes over you like a warm shower on a cold winter’s day.

“The makeup team is ready when you are.” Seulgi stops in front of a black door at the far end of the room, handing the suit over as you enter.

You hook it on clothing rack inside, taking a moment to absorb the soft cream walls and the vinyl flooring beneath you.

“Gosh, it’s been a while,” you murmur aloud.

This is the first photoshoot you’ve had in four months, having been buried neck-deep in preparations for New York Fashion Week. If you had it your way, you’d be the only designer on your team. But as the universe would have it, running a world-class fashion label requires hundreds upon hundreds of workers – other designers, fabric researchers, tailors, seamstresses, retail marketers; the whole damn lot. As the head of Argent, it has been your number one priority in these formative months to ensure that every item of clothing – every little stitch and work of embroidery – is perfectly pristine for the runway.

New York Fashion Week is no walk in the park, so imaginably, this is always the busiest time of year for you. But luckily enough, Argent only hires the best of the best in all fields, so majority of the preparations have gone rather smoothly, with your fall and winter collections fast approaching the green light. Now, with less than five weeks remaining until D-day, you’ve finally been able to pick one of the many magazine invites that had been collecting dust in your mailbox.

After changing and having the hair and make-up team work their magic on you, you’re soon posing in front of the white backdrop under Seulgi’s direction.

“Shoulders back a little…tilt your head just a bit…okay, that’s great!” She bends slightly, clicking a few shots the new angle while striking up small talk. “So, how’s work been treating you lately?”

“Stressfully so,” you sigh with a breathy chuckle.

“Hmm, I can tell.”

You give her a questioning look. You don’t really care much for the stress; it comes with the job. But when people outside your company walls can tell you’re stressed, that’s where it becomes a real issue.

“You look tense.” Seulgi lowers the camera to look straight at you. “Try and loosen up a little. Think of something nice.” She snaps another picture. “Like your boyfriend.”

You freeze.

Boyfriend?

What boyfriend?

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” you ask, posture slagging with your incredulous expression.

Needless to say, you don’t have a boyfriend. Hell, you can barely fit in time for yourself, let alone a man who wants to eat up the precious minutes of your day. Your career is far more important to you – it’s the sum of your life’s efforts – and a boyfriend would only be an obstacle in your way. Not to mention your public image would be in shambles if the tabloids ever heard of a romantic connection.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” You clarify rather rudely, still confused as to how Seulgi came to that conclusion.

It’s then that her expression drops. “Oh no.”

“What?” you spit out dubiously, eyes narrowing as she motions to another staff member, who hands her a magazine. “What is it?”

You find yourself suspiciously beckoned by the gaudy paper in her hands, cautiously stepping closer and snatching it from her fingers to read over glossy front page with horrified eyes.

EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS: THE CATWALK’S HOTTEST NEW ITEM! Y/N Y/L/N SPOTTED COSYING UP TO TOP MODEL JUNG JAEHYUN OVER PASTA AND PINOT. IS THIS THE COUPLE WE’VE ALL SECRETLY BEEN WAITING FOR? Read more on page 26

As if on instinct, you feel the harsh grind of teeth behind your red lips, jaw locking as your eyebrows furrow, scanning over the words one, two, three times over.

What the fuck is this?

You turn to Seulgi who visibly shrinks in fear at your piercing gaze. “What is this?”

“It’s all over the tabloids,” she replies nervously.

The room is silent, save for the crisp crumpling of the page in your tightening fist. You inhale deeply, try to maintain your rapidly exhausting composure in front of the dozens of people around you. “It’s fake news,” you grit out, eyeing each and every one of them with an expression that screams and don’t you dare believe otherwise.

You turn back to Seulgi. “I need to leave.”

She nods anxiously, absentmindedly fiddling with her camera. “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

You reply with a firm nod, rushing to change back into your previous clothes and hastily making your way to the elevator. The floors seem to go by slower than ever as you impatiently call your driver to pull up outside the building, head running a mile a minute with your disordered thoughts. You don’t have half the mind to care about the cameras as you charge through them seconds later, slamming the car door shut as soon as you sit inside. The traffic outside has died down since earlier; something you couldn’t be more thankful for as you urge Charlie to speed off while hurriedly dialling Ten’s number.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Ten, arrange an urgent board meeting for this evening. Make sure Jaehyun and his agent are there too.”

“But you have a model inspection durin-”

“NOW!”

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

“What the hell is this?”

The conference room pulses with the anger coursing through your veins as you glare at the dozen frightened heads seated in front of you, tossing the five magazines in your hands across the long, polished table.

If becoming a fashion designer was your first tribulation, this comes close second.

A scandal.

Seulgi wasn’t wrong when she said the rumour had made it all over the tabloids. Us Weekly, Hello, People, Grazia; you’re plastered on the front cover of every celebrity gossip magazine.

Having witnessed your fair share of celebrity guises gone wrong, you’ve long determined that your reputation precedes you before anything else does. As such, up until this point you’ve managed to keep a clean slate with the public eye, always cautious not to be seen with anyone in a romantic light or speculated to have engaged in risky behaviours. And if for whatever reason you were, your public relations team has always been prompt in striking deals with the press before the release of any absurd articles.

So, where the fuck were public relations this time?

“Did you know about this?” You turn your hard gaze to Jaehyun, who sits at the other end of the table with his agent, arms crossed over his chest as he shakes his head in confusion.

Jung Jaehyun is the highest ranking male model of SM Agency – one of the most elite modelling agencies in the world. He’s also the representative model of Argent, the face of your advertisements and the finale walker at all runway events. After you, he’s Argent’s attention-grabber, and if your judgement sits correct, that’s precisely the reason the scandal is blowing up so vastly.

A relationship between a designer and her top model is one of the biggest taboos in the industry. It isn’t something unheard of, but it does cast a shameful light of ineptitude on even the most talented of people – though you have to admit you would also be disgusted at yourself if the rumours were true.

Which they aren’t.

You had simply met up with Jaehyun the day before to discuss some outfit alterations over dinner. And though you are friendly with each other, that dinner was strictly business. No romantic feelings whatsoever.

“May I suggest suing?” your public relations advisor, Doyoung, suggests from beside you, inspecting the magazines laid out in front of him with slitted eyes.

You pause at his words, the idea sounding a little too tempting. Even more so considering you’re more than capable of making it happen.

“And how do you propose we do that?” Irene, Jaehyun’s agent, speaks up from across the room. “The writer remains anonymous, and we don’t know the original publisher. On another note, the rumours would only appear true if we started suing every gossip magazine out there.” She looks between the two of you, eyes pointed and snake-like. “Both of your reputations are on the line here. We can’t risk making matters worse by feeding theatrics. Especially not right before NYFS,” she turns to you.

By this point you’re just about ready to pick up the leather chair in front of you and launch it at the windows, but instead, you take a seat on it to dampen the urge, shaking your head in disbelief. What the hell were you supposed to do in a situation like this? Speaking against the press would falsely push the rumours to the affirmative, and remaining silent would do the exact same…or perhaps even worse.

Doyoung huffs frustratedly beside you, tossing down the magazines with a loud smack and eyeing Irene seriously. “What else would you suggest then?”

You look up expectantly, feeling the ripples of anxiety in your chest descend into tidal waves, waiting to crash over you as you wish for Irene to announce an oh-holy solution to this mess. You’ve seen the consequences that come with such rumours, watched other designers undergo merciless removal from fashion shows and even their place in the CFDA. But you’ve worked far too hard, stayed up endless nights in your office and on calls – planning, altering, reviewing, discussing the fate of your fall-winter collections. If you’re removed from New York Fashion Week, you can kiss your precious reputation goodbye along with all of Argent’s high-paying bidders. Now all you can hope is the defamation dies down as quickly as it had come.

“I think I should pull out from the show.”

The tidal wave crashes over you, drenching every fibre in your body with the abrupt snap of your neck towards Jaehyun.

“Excuse me?” you sputter out, the shock of his words cascading through you as he clasps his fingers on the table.

“The rumours started when we were seen together. It’s more likely than not they’ll die down if I distance myself from Argent…at least until after the show.” He looks to his agent. “Irene?”

“He’s right.” Her nod of approval brings down with it a heavy air that expands throughout the suffocating silence of the room. You feel it grabbing at your throat as you turn towards Ten and Doyoung, who to your dismay, both nod back warily.

“But he’s my top model.” Your tightly collected knot slips with the loud slam of your hands against the table, voice raising in a shroud of panic. “He’s the final walker of the show, he’s supposed to end-”

“Well, there won’t be any show if this escalates any further,” Irene interrupts, the loud echo of her voice strumming at the nerves growing deep inside you. “It’ll only be temporary. We’ll have to release a public statement in the coming weeks, and until then not a word should get out to the press.”

You back down, sighing heavily, head shoving into the cold heels of your palms, searching for any form of comfort as it dawns on you that for the first time in your years at the top of the fashion chain, you’re feeling absolutely helpless.

“Is there no other way?” You want to rebuke yourself for the way you look around the room with a new state of vulnerability swirling through your eyes. These are the people you’re supposed to be bossing around, not searching hopelessly for a solution to save your backside. But somewhere in your mind, you know that throwing a temper-tantrum would only push you towards wrong side of the spectrum. You’re the victim here; you’re the one in need of help. But when nobody answers your desperate plea, all you’re left to do is stand from your seat, gulping down the worry with a deep breath.

Losing your top model is better than losing a year’s worth of effort. It isn’t something you suppose, but rather something you’re forced to accept as you look toward Jaehyun with a final sigh. “Jung Jaehyun, you are temporarily dismissed.”

II. The Grand Toast

Lee Taeyong is a simple man.

He has all but three passions in life; money, writing and toast. And though he’ll never admit it, these three passions are also his three greatest weaknesses, stemming all the way back from his humble beginnings.

Taeyong had lived most of his life in uncertainty, grew up in a little rustic household along the outskirts of New York. Money was always the biggest scarcity; the biggest if that plagued his juvenile mind in times of solitude. He still remembers living pay cheque to pay cheque, watching his mother wake at the crack of dawn to work four tireless jobs; wondering whether or not she’d go to bed with a full stomach that night.

Taeyong remembers seeing the colour drain from his father’s eyes day by day. His old man was a struggling journalist, who spent his tireful days sitting at his old wooden desk surrounded by more piles of crumpled paper than profitable works.

“Don’t ever be a writer, son. You’ll waste your life away.” Taeyong’s father had often spoke these words to him. They were well-meaning in nature, this much Taeyong knew. But nothing could have stopped him from falling in love with the wonderful world of writing and pop culture.

As a child, Taeyong was never granted the luxury of scuffing classroom floors with the spiffy sneakers all his friends wore. He never had the chance to dine at fancy restaurants or drive the hottest wheels, rather learning to enjoy such indulgences through the tall stack of out-seasoned comics and magazines that laid in corner of his room.

Typewrite somehow possessed a certain magic that material possessions never could.

Each night, with delicate hands, Taeyong would dive into each page – every one of them; not a single page went overlooked. And while his body rested in the corner of his room on his twin-sized bed, his mind would drift wild through the boundless limits of his imagination. If he was lucky, his mother would be home early. She’d lull Taeyong from his daydreams with a soft kiss to his temple, and hand him a cool plate with warm slice of buttered toast. This was the most affordable gesture of love he had ever known.

But to this day, his father’s words still linger in the back of his mind every now again.

You’ll waste your life away.

Taeyong tips back the glass flute that now rests between his warm fingers, hissing contentedly at the sweet tingle of pinot that lingers on his tastebuds. He finds a certain comfort in the velvet chair beneath him in this moment, feeling blithe amidst the pleasant murmur of other patrons and the smooth jazz that dampens the tinkling cutlery around the restaurant.

Sorry dad, he thinks to himself, a wry smile forming at his lips.

He had found his calling in journalism years ago, mastering his skills to the point of being offered a columnist job at Luxe, one of New York’s most infamous magazine editorial firms. Since then, he’d expanded his horizons, pitching in on articles in all imaginable sections of a magazine, including – but not limited to – news headlines, home and leisure segments, entertainment issues and even gossip columns.

And with his gracious salary, money no longer became an incessant worry, but a prize for Taeyong; a prize he’d stop at nothing for, so long as it kept filling in his bank account.

“Everyone, I’d like to make a toast.” Taeyong turns a relaxed gaze to his boss, Heechul, who stands in the dim lighting of the restaurant, clinking a dessert fork to the wine glass in his hands and eagerly glancing around the large table that seats the Luxe editorial team. Grinning widely, he raises his glass in Taeyong’s direction. “A toast to the one and only, Mr Lee Taeyong.”

The table erupts in a loud fit of cheers and whistles at the mention of the name, bursting through the once soft ambience of the restaurant. Taeyong smiles, bowing his head bashfully at the pats and nudges he receives from his colleagues.

This isn’t the kind of toast his mother would make him, but it’s a toast, nonetheless.

“This man,” Heechul gestures to him, “is the anonymous genius behind the recent exposé of Y/n Y/l/n and Jung Jaehyun. His article has broken Luxe’s weekly advertisement and subscription records by three, and I repeat, three full times our average sales.” He sets his glass down, shaking his head dramatically. “Give him a round of applause, everyone.”

Taeyong covers his ears, laughing along as the hollers grow almost deafening among the resonating claps that bounce around through the shiny glassware. The article is the first he’s ever published about fashion figures, and he can’t be prouder of himself than to have broken records with it.

The notion embraces him with the one thing he’s always been dreaming of: certainty. Certainty of his job and abilities, certainty of his money, certainty of his life.

“Why don’t you say a few words, eh?” Heechul sits down as the cheering quietens.

Taeyong nods respectfully, reluctantly pushing out his chair to stand up. “Well, uh,” He clears his throat. “I guess I’ll start by saying a huge thank you to every single person here for their endless support and encouragement on this segment. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass…a lot of the time,” he snorts with a small laugh, earning a few chuckles around the table, “but yes, once again, I couldn’t have done it without our amazing editorial team, so thank you all very much.” Taeyong presses his hands together in thanks, bowing and sitting back down in his seat.

The spotlight sure feels warm now that it shines brightly on his perky cheeks.

As he goes to reach for the wine bottle across the table, Heechul grabs it before him, pouring the dark red liquor into his own glass. “Who knew Y/n would stoop so low as to date her cover model?”

Taeyong doesn’t reply. He doesn’t feel the need to. By now the whole world knows of the fact; other magazines have been prickling with envy for being seconds too late from publishing the news.

Instead, Taeyong nods with a smile, allowing his boss to now fill his flute. Heechul holds his own glass up, which Taeyong gratefully clinks, once again welcoming the burn of pinot as he lifts the heavy glass to his lips.

Ten stands outside one of Argent’s largest alteration rooms, anxiously peeking through the small crack of the door, watching the way you arrange an extravagant taffeta bow on a model wearing a grey runway dress.

He realises those dead-set features of yours haven’t changed a single bit in the years he’s known you; you’ve always worked with a certain passion in your eyes, a magician’s touch in those fingertips. And though you’ve always been quite the intimidating figure, even the world’s harshest critic would be a fool not to admire the dedication and loyalty you put into every one of your creations.

That is, if you had your main model to promote them all.

He feels himself gulping at the notion, eyeing the piece of paper resting all too serenely on the clipboard clutched in his hands. You had given him the task of finding a model to replace Jaehyun for NYFW, but it was proving to be more difficult than anticipated. Every competent name Ten had racked his brains for sits with a bright red line of ink running straight through it. Now he’s trying to come up with a way to break the news to you.

Without losing his job.

“Quit dallying, Ten, I know you’re outside.”

He quietly gasps at your impassive voice behind the door, gingerly nudging it open just enough to slip through. You can almost feel the tension radiating off your assistant as he steps inside, and it doesn’t take genius to know that something is wrong…well, more wrong than the events of the last week.

“Turn around,” you instruct the model in front of you, taking the fabric clamp resting between your teeth and clipping a pleat together. You glance up at Ten with a sigh. “What’s the issue.” He hasn’t uttered a word, but it’s a given for you to assume the worst by this point.

Jaehyun’s departure a week ago had the opposite effect than intended, only fuelling rumours further; bullshit claims such as ‘it’s all an act to hide the relationship’ and whatnot.

“All the listed models declined.” Ten stands meters away, a hesitant cloud of air floating about his being as he continues, “We don’t have a replacement for Jaehyun, Y/n.”

You feel the energy leaching from you before he even finishes his sentence, stepping back a few feet and dropping into your chair, hands dragging over your face with a groan.

Are you surprised? No, not particularly; at this point, it’s almost as if the universe is making a fortune from your tumbling misery.

Every cloud has a silver lining, every cloud has a silver lining, every cloud has a silver lining.

The phrase does little to alleviate the tension settling in your brows. You wave the model out of the room with a stressed flick of the wrist, waiting until the click of the door resounds before directing hopeless eyes to Ten.

“No one?”

He shakes his head with pursed lips.

“Not even after offering them double salary?”

“No,” he shakes his head again. “They’re all under contract with other labels. No one’s ready to join Argent…especially not after the sca-” You raise a hand before he speaks the word that had all but tipped your perfect world upside-down in the span of a week. And, as you sit here, wrapped in the suffocating turmoil of this word, you feel yourself slipping into a pit of desperation.

You can’t do without a main model. You need a main model for the show.

“Honestly, Ten,” you chuckle dryly, thoroughly amused by your ever-growing list of shortcomings, “We might as well just pluck someone right off the streets at this point.”

III. Goodbye, World

“What the hell am I doing here?” Taeyong mutters to himself quietly, eyes anxiously flickering around the modern looking room he currently sits in. It’s at least four times the size of his office at Luxe; an immaculate interior space with high-rise ceilings and polished surfaces that reflect his wary expression in every which direction.

If someone were to ask him why he’s currently sitting in this architectural masterpiece, staring ahead at the silver letters that spell Argent, he wouldn’t be able to come up with a logical answer. One thing he could tell them though, is that he’s scared for his ass.

His eyes flicker to the half-eaten slice of bread pinched between his buttery fingers.

Darn toast.

***

The rich aroma of ground coffee beans and burnt caramel wafts through the chilly city air, warming its way through Taeyong’s lungs as he breathes in the sweet atmosphere around him. He stands in the café’s queue outside, body naturally leaning towards the warmth that radiates from the steaming swirls of creamer beyond the counter, eager to grab his own cup to soothe the frost prickling at his fingertips.

“Excuse me, sir?”

A voice sounds from behind him, fingers lightly tapping at his shoulder as he turns to face a clean-cut man with honey-toned skin and feline features. Taeyong raises his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

The man clears his throat, tugging his scarf looser. “I apologise if this seems abrupt, but I’m looking to scout a male model,” he extends a hand with a formal smile.

“Uhhh, okay.” Taeyong furrows his eyebrows, offering his own cautious hand out of courtesy, though still unsure why this stranger has decided to approach him during his precious lunch break. “But why are you telling me thi-”

“You satisfy our physical standards.” The man’s tone of voice seems almost rushed and frantic, but somehow maintains a baseline elegance to it as he pushes on. “My name is Ten Lee, my company is desperate, and you seem to look the part,” he sighs heavily, pretentious aura deflating with his hunching back. He stares at Taeyong, a pitifully desperate expression glazing over his features, hands pressing together in front of his face. “Please. It’ll just be for the next month or so…I promise this isn’t a scam.”

Taeyong can only frown in confusion, not a damn clue how to respond to this desperate stranger’s plea. It’s not everyday he gets approached by a strange man to model for a company, but everything about the offer seems to be floating in mid-air; no binding conditions, no mention of a contract, nothing.

And besides, what is this Ten guy even expecting of Taeyong? For him to just drop everything and-

“We’ll pay you double your current salary, I can guarantee it!”

Taeyong perks up at the words, tilting his head to the side in curiosity.

Being paid double his current salary sounds like a dream. He stands there, biting the inside of his cheek in thought, hypnotised like a snake to its charmer at the notion of all that extra cash. He thinks back to his job at Luxe; he’d have to take leave were he to accept the offer.

Taeyong sets aside the better part of his conscience that warns him of all the red flags, waffling over his inexperience in fashion magazine culture. He’s only ever written one article on the topic after all, and given that his job stands on the very basis of experience, he supposes the offer may also be a learning opportunity for his writing in the future.

In a way he’d still technically be doing his job.

“And this…isn’t a scam?” He folds his arms, reluctantly stepping out of queue with a raised eyebrow.

“Absolutely not!” Ten swipes his hands in front of his face to emphasise his point.

“Okay, keep talking,” Taeyong nods, a suspicious lilt in his voice. It’s almost as if his words electrocute Ten with the wide smile that breaks across his face and the extravagant gestures of his revived limbs.

“Okay, so I’ll give you the address right now and we can-”

“Wait, now?” Taeyong interrupts. “Like, right now?”

Ten simply blinks. “Yes.”

Taeyong sighs to himself, looking longingly towards the café. The same smell of coffee and caramel tugs invitingly at the growing hunger in his stomach as he turns back to Ten.

“You do realise you’re interrupting my lunch right now.”

Ten’s smile only widens. “No problem, uh…” he trails off, silently giving the blonde man an opening.

“Taeyong,” Taeyong chimes in.

“No problem, Mr Taeyong! we can get you anything you wish to eat at the company.”

Taeyong finds himself interested once again, a tilt to his head as a small grin twitching at his lips.

“Even toast?”

“Even toast.”

***

So here he now sits, beloved toast in hand, the silver logo in front of him glinting like the devil as he ruminates what a damn fool he was for following Ten straight to the building of Argent Fashion Labels…the very company whose head designer falls victim to this year’s biggest celebrity scandal.

The scandal that Taeyong is equally responsible as he is liable for.

He’s all but convinced now, that Argent had somehow come to know about his writer’s identity. There was no plausible explanation other than someone from Luxe must have ratted his ass out in exchange for a handsome reward. After all, the people Taeyong worked with were exactly like him: money-minded and even more so, money-blinded.

He’s sure of it, that Ten’s previous offer must have been a planned façade to lure him in for interrogation and God knows what else.

Shit, I’m done for.

Taeyong regrets it; not writing the article – he somehow can’t bring himself to regret that one thing among this imminent doom. But he regrets not having thought about the consequences before and after the article’s publishing. Not to mention his inferior position against a world-class fashion company. Taeyong regrets not having realised how he might’ve ended up shooting himself in the foot while chasing the loot at the end of the rainbow. Now all he can see are the rain clouds growing darker and darker along the way, counting down the seconds until he’s homeless on the streets.

It’s only a matter of time, now.

The thought only draws Taeyong’s attention to the massive silver clock that ticks loudly on the left wall. He frustratedly tosses his toast back onto the plate on the coffee table in front of him, foot tapping anxiously against the shiny marble tiles.

Bloody hell, why is everything in this place silver?

He jumps in surprise as the door behind him opens, sending a cool wave of air fanning over the back of his neck. Immediately standing up, he turns around to be met with none other than you, Y/n Y/l/n, striding in his direction; an utterly unreadable expression on your face as Ten follows punctually behind. Everything about you excludes a certain power, from the way your heels click loudly against the tiles beneath you, to your blouse that flows with every intimidating step taken forward. You’re breathtaking. Literally; Taeyong almost forgets to breathe, gulping as you sit at the desk in front of him, Ten standing beside you. It doesn’t take him long to know his place in the room.

“Mr Lee Taeyong.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he promptly replies.

This is it, goodbye, world

“I understand you’ve agreed to model under Argent for the next month.” You clasp your hands on the table, eyeing the man who sits in front of you. You’re almost compelled to scrunch your nose at the faint scent of butter that lingers around your office, noticing a small plate on the coffee table with a half-eaten piece of toast sitting in it.

It takes Taeyong a few seconds too long to process what you say, and he’s not sure whether it’s because of the nerves that bounce around inside his chest, or because he’s distracted by the way your voice wraps around his name so exquisitely.

He finally nods.

But as you look at him, you can’t help but feel that something isn’t right. He’s quite attractive if you’d say so yourself; wide eyes, pale skin, slim physique; he could very probably measure up to Jaehyun in visual regard. But despite this, everything else about the man has you questioning his competency for the job. Taeyong’s very appearance has you wondering exactly how experienced he is. For starters, all of his clothes are out-seasoned – not a single designer item in sight – and his dirty blonde hair appears as if he’d simply ran a hand through it and called it a day.

“May I ask which modelling agency you’ve come from?”

Taeyong furrows his eyebrows at the seemingly candid tone in your voice, wondering if it’s all just an act to catch him in his own trap. Your own eyebrows knit together upon seeing his puzzled state, growing suspicious as you clear your throat for him to answer. He looks up in a panic, the words spilling from his mouth before he’s able to control them.

“I-I didn’t come from a modelling agency.”

“Is that so?” You turn to look at Ten with narrowed eyes, tongue poking your cheek menacingly as you tilt your head in question. Said man only looks at you innocently.

You glance back at Taeyong. “I’m sorry, could you give us a moment?”

He nods as you drag Ten out of the office, making sure to close the doors on your way (without slamming them, as hard as the task fares).

“Why do I have a clueless imbecile sitting in my office?” you hiss, voice stone-cold and harsh, accompanied by the tapping of your impatient foot as your arms cross over your chest.

“We were desperate, and he fits the standards,” Ten snaps back, jutting his head forcefully in the direction of the door. “What more do you want?”

You scoff, pointing a rigid finger toward him.

“You said you’d hire an experienced model-”

“You said we should pick someone off the streets!”

“Oh my god, Ten!” You stand stupefied out of your skin, grip over your dwindling sanity loosening as your fists instead begin to clutch at the air in frustration. “I didn’t mean it literally!” you screech out as quietly as possible so Taeyong doesn’t hear from inside. You suck in sharp breath through your nose and release it with an exasperated sob, head hanging heavy with the exhaustion that piles on top of all your existing woes.

“I have half the mind to fire you right now.” You lean back against the cold wall, the words slip out quietly against your better judgement, though you know you don’t mean them, and you know Ten knows it too.

“We don’t have anyone else right now, Y/n,” he voices out defeatedly. “We’re lucky this guy even agreed on such short notice.”

You close your eyes, cursing the writer of that godforsaken article a thousand times more before sighing and speaking up, “Have you done a background check?”

“He’s all clear.”

“So that’s it, you’re just going to leave Luxe?” Heechul sits down in his chair, disbelief warping a tensed display over his conventionally relaxed features.

“Only until after New York Fashion Week,” Taeyong mutters half-heartedly, eyes sauntering around Heechul’s office for perhaps the thousandth time, distracted by the way the room suddenly seems inappreciable compared to your office at Argent.

Every corner of his desk is covered either with cover plans, or untidy notebooks filled with gaudy page markers that stick out in every which direction. The tall shelves behind hold an array of old, weathered books, untouched and probably collecting dust along their thick spines. The office is not a mess in its entirety per say, just highly unorganised; a factor that diminishes the modern touch the room had once possessed years ago.

Your office, by contrast, was a lot cleaner and shinier and spacious than this.

“Taeyong, you’re our best writer. You can’t expect me to just let you go like this for a month,” Heechul sighs.

“Heechul,” Taeyong moves to the edge of his seat in hopes to convince his boss. “I’m just going for the journalist experience. Nothing more, nothing less.”

It’s partly the truth, he thinks to himself. Heechul didn’t need to know about the money side of the job; it’s not his business to. Besides, what’s a little white lie worth in the grand scheme of things?

Heechul eyes Taeyong sceptically. “And they don't know about the article?”

“Not as far as I know,” Taeyong smirks, leaning back in his seat once again, watching as Heechul’s conflicted expression morphs into one of defeat.

“Okay.”

Taeyong nods enthusiastically, thrusting himself out of his seat with a widening grin

“But on one condition.”

Heechul’s words stop him in his tracks, earning a questioning look from him.

Conditions are never good news.

He watches as a sly smile stretches on Heechul’s face. “You go undercover into Argent building and write a debunking article by the end of the month.”

Undercover?

Taeyong narrows his eyes at the man, almost swearing he sees a sinister glint swirling somewhere around the black of his pupils. Writing is Taeyong’s forte; the condition just seems all too convenient given he’s single-handedly resigning from his job for a month. He wonders if he’s reading too much into the situation, something which Heechul seems to take notice of. “Oh, come on, I bet there’s a lot of scum behind those silver doors. We already got a glimpse of it...” he trails of suggestively.

He’s got a point, Taeyong ponders. It’ll be easy money.

“Will I get paid for it?” he asks.

“Sure will,” Heechul links his hands across his scattered papers, the same devious expression on his face. Something about him in this moment feels unnerving to Taeyong, but he just can’t tell what, so instead he decides to cut his losses and bite the bullet.

“Consider it done.”

IV. Depraved Little Devil

“You’re late.”

“It’s six thirty-eight in the morning!” Taeyong chokes out in disbelief. He was all but expecting to be greeted with a lovely ‘good morning, thank you for your time’, but this is what he gets?

“Yes,” you finally tear your gaze away from the papers, straightening in your seat with a dazzlingly professional smile to mask the annoyance in your voice. “And that makes you eight minutes off mark.”

Taeyong scoffs internally. Debunk point number one: mistreatment of employees.

He slumps down into the black couch opposite you, eyeing the way you sit there, hair in a tight bun, twirling a pen between your fingers as if you’ve just attended three back-to-back meetings and opened a new fashion line in the process.

“I didn’t even have breakfast,” he mumbles aloud, an obnoxious yawn leaving his lips. Frustrated fingers scoop through his dishevelled hair, tugging lightly at the roots while he regrettably hopes this isn’t the life he’s obliged himself to for the next month.

“That’s not my problem, Mr Lee.” You pick up the schedule Ten had made from the corner of your desk, eyeing over the long list of jobs with a deep sigh.

The whole scouting process was usually fairly simple. You’ve rarely needed to worry about training your models as most have been hired from prestigious agencies with plenty of experience. But given Taeyong’s complete lack thereof, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be his mentor – at least for the first week or so. And though it’s a huge inconvenience to say the least, it’s something you’ve long decided must be done if Argent is to keep its name in the fashion industry.

“Well,” you stand, schedule clutched tightly. “We’ve a long day ahead of us, so please follow me.” You walk to your office door, holding it open for the man who doesn’t even have the decency to budge from his seat. “Promptly, Mr Lee,” you articulate the words loudly, piquing with irritation and forcing your eyes shut to prevent burning holes in the back of his head. There are only so many hours in a day, and it’s last thing you need for him to be uncooperative given the constraints.

“Please, it’s Taeyong.”

There's a certain lilt in his voice that compels you to open your eyes, somehow warning you of your ‘do-or-die’ predicament. He turns around, still sitting all too comfortably on the sofa, meeting your eyes with his own raised eyebrows.

“And Miss Y/l/n, are you really going to make me work on an empty stomach?”

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

“Yeah, this one will need a lot of work.”

You turn to your Models Manager, Johnny, who stands beside you shaking his head at the scene before him.

“You think so?” you mumble anxiously, following Johnny’s gaze to Taeyong who humours himself with one of the stylists across the studio, happily munching away at the buttery piece of toast he’d coaxed earlier.

“Oh, honey, I know so,” Johnny clicks his tongue, crossing his arms while examining the man in front of him.

“Yeah, me too I guess,” you sigh in vanquish, the gravity of the situation weighing down heavily on your shoulders. Taeyong is proving to be more of an intricate piece of work by the minute, and it’s going to take an unconventional amount of effort to make a worthy prototype of him.

“Height is going to be an issue too.” Johnny taps at his chin, eyes slitted as he turns to you. “Jaehyun’s a real asshole for leaving you on the edge like this.”

You sigh, eyes fixating on a silver spool of satin resting in the far corner of the room.

“He had reason to.”

“Well, that’s a load of crap,” Johnny snorts. “He can’t just leave and expect everything to be normal again. That’s not how showbiz works, Y/n, I mean see for yourself, the rumours have only grown since then.”

I know, goddamnit!

You want to scream the words out loud, let them grab at Johnny’s throat and shut him up. But of course, they remain at the back of your own throat, stuck alongside the anxious lump that manifested a week ago. The words are there, but only for you and your racing mind to hear each time you swallow them down.

“But,” Johnny drawls out, nudging your side before suddenly retracting in fear as you send an icy gaze to him. It seems not just him, but even your other employees have been getting a little too comfortable around you in the past week. Suffice to say, you’re not the least bit impressed by the informality.

“Out of turn,” you voice sternly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Johnny nods immediately.

“Continue.” You turn back to Taeyong who now sifts through a rack of clothing with another stylist, grimacing at the thought of his greasy fingers staining the fabric. Just as you’re preparing to march straight ahead and grab Taeyong by the ears, Johnny speaks up.

“I was saying,” He stops you in your tracks. “Every cloud has a silver lining. Right?”

And just like clockwork, the words don’t allow you to take another step forward, clearing away the hot steam pelting up inside you with a fresh, cool air. You feel your fingers uncurl from their place in your palms – not having realised they were fisted so tight in the first place – and sigh once more, nodding to Johnny.

“You’re right.” The phrase sits bitter on your tongue. It’s not something you’re accustomed to voicing aloud, but it seems just about everyone except you is right these days – either that, or you’re just always a couple steps behind, and it’s something you’re not all that thrilled about.

“This guy’s a tough one, but don’t you worry.” Johnny sends you a sympathetic smile. “We’ll make a star out of him yet.” He side-steps past you with three loud claps echoing around the high white ceilings of the room, walking toward Taeyong. “Alright mister, hands off the racks, we’re not at that stage yet.”

You watch the comical way Taeyong jumps at Johnny’s sudden intrusion, almost amused by the way he blinks up like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed with cheeks slightly puffed out with the last few chews of bread. He tilts his head past Johnny’s figure, sending you a questioning look.

“We’re affiliated with SM Agency, but our models are all trained here at Argent as we have specific requirements.” You step forward, gesturing to the tall man beside you. “This is Johnny. He’ll be your personal manager, trainer and agent for the coming weeks.”

“My personal manager?” Taeyong raises his eyebrows in surprise, not remotely used to the prospect of having his own personal manager. A columnist assistant is the best he’s ever gotten with his job at Luxe – and that too on the luckiest of days.

“You betcha,” Johnny clicks his tongue with a bright smile.

Neat and gaudy; these are the first two words that come to mind as Taeyong scans Johnny from head to toe. The man is neat in the way his neck-length hair is pushed back with just enough gel to keep it looking fluffy but still elegant. His outfit is what makes him look so gaudy; a fitted white suit with a red silk shirt. Both items of clothing are far too bright, blinding even, as Taeyong blinks away to save his poor eyes.

“Shall we?” You turn to Johnny who nods.

“Let’s.”

“Let’s what?” Taeyong shifts his eyes between you and Johnny and back again, watching as you hail the two stylists from earlier.

“We’re going to take some measurements,” the words barely leave Johnny’s freakishly heart-shaped lips as the stylists step forward.

Taeyong’s personal bubble is all but reduced to a vanquished nothingness as the ladies pull the measuring tapes from their necks and slide them around either one of his wrists. The strips of silver glint and sparkle under the scintillate lighting from above, catching Taeyong’s startled gaze as the stylists make quick work of wrapping them around every inch of his arms. Stunned as he may be, he can’t help the small laughs that leave his lips at the tickle of the plastic on his skin. A ghost of the sensation lingers as the frantic scene stands still every few seconds, filled with scratches of lead on small notepads that record the numbers, before continuing until the tingles vibrate all the way to the top of his arms – wrists to forearms to elbows to biceps. The ladies then abruptly step back, much to Taeyong’s confusion.

“Sir, we need to measure the torso,” one of them speaks, a sort of pinkness washing over her cheeks.

“Okay,” he nonchalantly raises his arms out to his sides, shivering slightly at the cool air that wafts into his shirt. But the stylists don’t step forward, planted still in their spots, causing Taeyong eyebrows to knit tighter together.

“Take your shirt off, Taeyong, we don’t have all day,” Johnny’s voice echoes from a couple metres away.

“Huh?” Taeyong’s eyes blow wide in shock.

“Damn, he really doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Johnny mutters through his smile, and you have to purse your lips to repress your own smile before it denounces your self-possession.

Taeyong almost humbles himself at Johnny’s gesture to get on with it. He feels a confliction gripping at his wrists as his fingers toy with the hem of his shirt. He’s not typically the self-conscious type, but he doesn’t know how else to describe the feeling that creeps up his spine as all the eyes fixed on him in this moment become a little too apparent.

Paycheque, whispers the depraved little devil in Taeyong’s mind, and it’s almost appalling to him how quickly his fingers proceed to tug off the flimsy fabric. He leaves himself to his own devices, exposed on an ephemeral whim that forces him to stomach a small pit of regret in its wake. However, time and task leave no room for awkward silences as the measuring tape passes around the tender of Taeyong’s waist. He stiffens at the cold sensation, trying his best not to retract with every tickle, thanking the third entity that once again revives the bustling conversation around him. He allows the stylists to have their way, opting to distract himself along the clean lines and edges of the studio.

You, on another hand, stand meters away observing Taeyong with equal amounts of confusion and curiosity lacing through your features, realising that Ten’s judgement had indeed hit the bullseye days ago when he’d first brought Taeyong to Argent. Taeyong’s proportions are almost idyllic for a man who apparently survives off butter and bread; just enough muscle in his arms and stomach to show off beneath a lace top, just the perfect amount of slender appeal to fashion a suit and tie. It puzzles you to no end. Most rookies have to be given strict diet and exercise plans to meet Argent’s requirements.

Perhaps this is the silver lining Johnny was talking about earlier; not having to issue health monitoring for the next few weeks.

“His body makes up for expertise, I guess,” Johnny mutters in surprise.

You wonder if he’d read your mind, but your arrogance doesn’t allow the silence to drag on too long, replying with a complacent, “Like you said, height is an issue.”

He shrugs. “Nothing a good old pair of insoles can’t fix.”

“He’s on the skinnier side.”

“And yet you’re still staring.”

Johnny’s words catch you off-guard, and it’s when your eyes stop at Taeyong’s elbow that you realise the statement lingers blatantly true in the air; you are, indeed, staring at him. But it’s too late to deny the fact, so you rather turn to Johnny, concealing any shock with a stubbornly unamused expression.

“It’s my job to stare.”

“It’s your job to stare at clothes,” Johnny counters with a quirked eyebrow, “which he’s not wearing any of.”

“He’s wearing pants-”

“You’re staring at his pants?” Johnny raises an eyebrow, an insolent smirk finding his face.

Your lips part slightly before you’re able to help it, an unsolicited warmness filling your cheeks as your eyebrows furrow in a mix of anger and embarrassment.

“No,” you avert your gaze to the whiteness of the walls, “I’m not.”

You have every right to fire Johnny for implying something so absurd, but the notion that only he can help transform the shirtless nobody in front of you into a piece of art, stops you. It’s your duty to make sure Taeyong is well-trained for NYWF, and you’re going to make a star of him even if it’s the last thing you do.

There’s only a handful of things Taeyong gravely lacks in, and fashion – and anything remotely related to the word – is one of them. It has always been an otherworldly concept to him, a foreign language he couldn’t even begin to make sense of, let alone articulate for himself.

Four days into the new job have shown him the sleek work ethic of Argent and its employees. Everything about the place has been far beyond his means; all much too different to the usual job he’d grown passionately accustomed to over the years. He’s seen enough vibrant mood boards and fabric spools to last him through his next lifetime, peeked through and scattered a few too many fingerprints on the many polished windows of miscellaneous rooms.

Today, the job brings Taeyong to his first fashion shoot.

He blinks at the fool of a man that stares back at him in the full-length mirror, wearing a velvet turquoise suit with silvered cuffs, a grey vest of some unnamed exotic fabric inside of the suit, and a pair of yellow-tinted…ski goggles?

The entire look is offbeat; eccentric in colour and much too flashy with the strips of silver running down each leg of the pants. It’s a drastic change from the plain black jeans and shirt Taeyong had picked from his closet that same morning. He eyes himself, vision slightly obscured by the yellow filter of the goggles. It makes everything appear a couple decades older as if it were part of a picture snapped in the 80’s.

When his eyes flick to your reflection in the mirror, he pauses. Even you look a few decades back-dated with your pencil skirt and tucked-in sweater. In Taeyong’s eyes, you could almost pass for a timeless fashion icon; famed and fawned over in an era far behind you. All you needed now were a pair of satin gloves, sunglasses and a round-brimmed hat. He’s surprised to see that your expression appears moderately impressed as you eye his outfit – a stark contrast from the louring grimace he’d expected to find. In the time he’s known you, he can’t recall having seen you smile even once.

Not that you’re smiling right now, just not frowning.

“Okay, not bad,” you nod, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. You’d originally designed the suit with Jaehyun in mind; as unconventional as it is, Jaehyun was the only model that was certain to wear it well. But of course, you haven’t had the chance to see him wear it given the circumstances, so there’s a certain comfort in know Taeyong is able to fashion it nicely in his stead.

“How do people even pay money for this?” The words roll off Taeyong’s tongue with a genuine incredulity that doesn’t quite sit well with your temperament. Any hint of appreciation on your face is torn away by the scowl that settles in place, annoyed as ever at his remark.

“Clearly, you’re lacking knowledge to throw about thoughtless questions like that,” you announce, walking forward and turning him around to face you. Your fingers automatically pinch at the lapels, folding them the right way and flattening the fabric around Taeyong’s neck and shoulders. Nothing bugs you more than an unfixed collar.

“Well, I won’t deny it,” he replies nonchalantly.

There’s something about him that is so infuriating, and you’re not sure whether it’s the assured way he speaks that irks a certain displeasure in you, or the fact that he’s your last resort for the biggest show of the year. It’s still unfathomable how you’re going to survive the next month with him, and that too in the name of saving not only your company but also your backside.

However, as hard as the task stands, today is about finding Taeyong’s flattering angles, not his trying faults.

When you both make your way into the shooting room, you push your frustrations aside, deciding wasting energy is futile in any case; blissful ignorance would the best way to go from here on out.

You watch with intent as the photographers guide Taeyong to a stool in front of the grey backdrop set up in the middle of the back wall. All it takes is a few instructions from them before softboxes begin their blinding light shows, flashing with every click of the cameras. Amidst it all, you stand surprised at how well Taeyong poses for the camera; chin up, eyes sharp and lips parted. You eye the way he repositions himself on the stool, can’t help but take note of a certain poise that exudes in his movements as he shifts a foot to the ground; a suave flow that over the years you’ve ascertained only ever came naturally to a person, or never at all.

“Did you practice your expressions?” you ask, referring to the list of facial expressions Johnny had given Taeyong to rehearse a couple days prior. However, your question is left suspended in the air as Taeyong turns to you. His eyes meet your own with the same intensity he’d shown to the camera, lips curling up into a devious smirk that pulls you back from the indifference you’d sworn on yourself minutes prior.

“Why? Are they good?” The words pull one corners of his lips slightly higher.

You’re not given the chance to reply with a “surprisingly so,” as a loud ringing from behind interrupts you. You turn to the refreshments table and pick up the phone, eyebrows furrowing at the caller ID.

Kim Heechul

The name sits familiar in your mind somewhere, though you’re not able to place an exact finger on where you’ve seen it before.

“Who is it?” Taeyong calls.

“Kim…Heechul?” The words leave your mouth in a question.

You watch the way Taeyong’s eyes widen and abruptly drop, as if to hide the obvious tension that fills him from head to toe. His once-soft features harden in a split second, shoes echoing loudly against the tiles as he steps off the stool, almost knocking it over while hastily making his way to you. He snatches the phone from your grasp, sending nothing but a hesitant glance your way, leaving you to stare in bewilderment at the double doors that swing with the phantom of his hard shove through them.

“Y/n?”

You turn to the photographers who stand with equally puzzled faces.

“Give him a minute, he’ll be back.”

And when he does walk in minutes later, the tension seems to hang even heavier from his limbs as he stiffly places the phone back on the refreshments table, lips pursed, hands fidgeting and ears tinted slightly red.

Stringent as you may be, you feel a genuine worry somewhere inside you at his suddenly bothered state, feeling an intrinsic need to ask him:

“Is everything okay?”

When he turns around, you decide he must either be a really good actor, or a master at hiding his emotions, as all ounce of malaise seems to have evaporated from his face, replaced with his signature smile that voices the words:

“More than okay.”

Taeyong leans back in his chair, groaning into the heel of his palms. His laptop glares back at him in the darkness of his home office, a full page of words typed skilfully on the white document taunting him in the brimming silence of what most people would call a mind blank.

“Shit, what was it?” His eyes squeeze shut, fingers pressing into his temple in attempt to recall the idea his memory had lost while trying to note down his previous points.

It has been a week since the day Ten had snatched Taeyong from his lunch break and thrust him into the curious world of Argent Fashion Labels. Everything in between then and now has been a hectic whirlwind of ridiculous outfits, blinding cameras and boundless strips of spangly silver; each passing day bringing with it a multitude of new experiences, and each new experience bringing tasks and trials galore…oh, and some fabulous points for his debunking article.

As it turns out, modelling for a world-class fashion label is a lot harder than Taeyong had originally anticipated. He can’t recall a time his solace has ebbed and flowed as much as it has in the past week.

Unsurprisingly, his problems all seem to stem from a single entity within Argent’s walls.

You.

You, with your ridiculously hefty standards. You, with your unbearable personality. You, with those sharp eyes; the same pair Taeyong would call beautiful, were it not for the scrutiny they hold every time they meet his own from across the room.

That certainly isn’t to say there haven’t been some decent experiences. For starters, he’s had the chance to wear clothes worth more than his entire wardrobe, and as ridiculous as they look, they are invaluable in every sense of the word. He’s also been able to acquire some basic knowledge of the fashion industry in general, which could prove to help him in his future writing endeavours. He is grateful for these things, of course, but the only thing that really keeps him around is the dough that awaits at the end of the month.

Money always takes precedence, and if his next article becomes a hit…

***

The doors swing heavily behind, sending a surge of cool air fanning Taeyong’s back as his feet carry him a safe distance away from the shooting room.

Man, that was close.

He thumbs at the answer button on his phone, pressing his ear to the speaker as the ringer dies down. “Hello?”

“Ahh, Taeyong, how are things going so far at Argent?”

The voice over the line only draws a sigh from Taeyong as he murmurs back an apathetic, “Heechul, now’s not a good time.”

The man chuckles. “No problem. I Just wanted to make sure you haven’t forgotten our deal.”

“Yeah, the article, I know,” he hurriedly answers, cautiously eyeing his surroundings for potential listeners.

“The debunking article,” Heechul emphasises.

Taeyong doesn’t reply, rather biting at the inside of his cheek, anticipation finding his tensed features as he distractedly scans every corner of the ceiling for security cameras.

“You’re getting paid for this, remember. Don’t make me regret sending you to Argent.”

***

The article must be an immaculate work of art, this much Taeyong is certain of.

He sits in pensive silence for minutes on end, willing for the fog to clear his mind. But it doesn’t take long to realise the futility in trying to overcome writer’s block at half twelve in the morning, so with a heavy-lidded gaze, he shuts his laptop, rolling his neck and shoulders with a small wince. If there’s one thing all these years in journalism have taught Taeyong, it’s that writing and back pain are an uncompromising package deal.

He eyes the magazine that rests beside his laptop, reaching over to scan over the glossed paper with a deep grimace.

HANDSOME IN CHEEK, ANONYMOUS IN THE STREET Meet the new mystery stunner of Argent Fashion Labe-

Taeyong closes his eyes with a snort, saving himself the effort of further reading. He can’t help but shake a bang at those ridiculous words, even more so, at the picture of himself seated on the same stool from days ago, wearing the same turquoise suit with the same grey turtleneck, and those godforsaken yellow goggles.

Absolutely ridiculous.

The Vogue issue resting idly in his hands is one of the many that were released earlier in the week. Taeyong has garnered an unprecedented amount of attention since then; despite merely being an unnamed face on the cover of a magazine the number of young women noticing him on the street has been growing by day.

A sly smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a finger tapping rhythmically at his chin.

“Perhaps I could get used to this.”

Crazy.

She must be crazy.

“I’m walking the final runway at New York Fashion Week?” The words sputter haphazardly from Taeyong’s mouth, finger jabbing painfully into his sternum as he stares dumbfoundedly at your seated figure across the room. “What about Jaehyun? Doesn’t he usually do it?”

Taeyong watches the way you tentatively sip at the steaming cup of green tea in your hands. Your appearance is no different than usual, prim and proper in your black work dress, hair tied high in a tight, formal bun, and eyes still filled with that same stunning contempt.

What he doesn’t see, however, is the panic that lies hidden behind the deep creases of your demeanour; the way your pulse quickens in apprehension of having to fully explain your situation to him. You can only attempt to gather the scattered traces of solace from deep within you, sighing in defeat.

“Look, I’m sure you’re aware of the article that was released just over a week ago.”

Taeyong makes a genuine display of himself, nodding in faux conviction as your voice grazes his hears.

If only she knew.

“Well, to put it lightly, whoever wrote it was gravely misinformed.” You avert your gaze to your office windows, a deep sigh pushing past your lips.

“Wait you’re…” Taeyong’s eyebrows knitting together in confusion, a small sinking feeling whirling in the depths of his chest, “you’re not dating Jaehyun?”

“No,” you reply.

Taeyong watches the way a sorrowful smile pulls your lips up, your eyes trained somewhere along the bustling city streets outside. “Jaehyun is taking a break from Argent, and…” Your words weigh heavily in your own mind, though you can no longer bring yourself to show any more anger for them. You’ve long decided that it is what it is, and the situation can’t be helped; that the punches are either to be copped in the gut or rolled with, and that the latter option fared best in the grand scheme of things.

Your eyes find themselves to Taeyong’s.

“…you’re really our only hope for the show, Taeyong.”

Taeyong sits opposite you in a state of confused conflict, wrapped up in a harsh turmoil as he realises his horrible mistake.

You and Jung Jaehyun are not a couple.

He hadn’t thought about the very possible fact when he’d written the article. It hadn’t even once crossed his mind when he’d sent it in for publishing. But at the same time, it wasn’t right for you to have withheld the information that his only business at Argent was to be Jaehyun’s makeshift replacement...

“Please.”

Now, there’s something new swirling in your eyes, something Taeyong has never seen or heard before in your voice. He’s not sure how to respond, brows furrowing from not hearing the usual malice along your words, guilt sinking through his skin as they hang unadulterated in the air. It’s his fault you’re sitting here pleading him to help you out, his own carelessness that has now labelled him ‘Argent’s new handsome model’, his own greed that has every magazine plastered with his face on the front cover.

But regardless of the fact, Taeyong has gotten himself into this mess and there’s no way he can back out of it now.

Three small nods come from the man in front of you, and you’re not sure you’ve ever felt such a relief ripple through your being before this very moment.

V. Teach Me How to Walk

“Have a good night, Joy, I’ll call you back for a final fitting. A week or so, tops,” you bid your model goodbye with a smile, turning to hang a green houndstooth two-piece on the clothing rack beside a box of assorted fabrics.

“Thank you, Y/n, have a good night yourself,” she smiles before stepping out, the click of the door the only static company left in the large alteration room. You flop down into the swivel chair behind the sewing table, eyes crossing to the loose strand of hair that tickles across your cheeks. You blow at it once, twice, three times, eventually thumbing it away to save it from landing in your eye again.

“All in a day’s work,” the words whisper past your chapped lips in a deep sigh as you toy with a loose strip of silver satin, wrist rising to face view.

9:18 PM

You’ve gone overtime by an hour and eighteen minutes, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you relish in the first solitary silence of the day, absentmindedly weaving the satin through your fingers, gaze trained on the clothing racks. Your eyes flick from hanger to hanger, inspecting the numerous outfits that brush up against each other – some with their silver linings peeking out, other with them concealed between laces and fine cottons.

It’s now that you realise your smile is still bright and prevalent on your face, feeling a little light and airy in your seat.

There’s only two weeks to go until the show and things are finally beginning to look up. As it turns out, recruiting Taeyong might have been your best decision yet – a silver lining to the cloud, if you will. Since his Vogue debut the week before the scandal rumours have narrowed down tenfold, and the paparazzi, shallow as they ever be, now distractedly hover over ‘Argent’s new mystery model’. As per some genius advice from Doyoung, you’d purposely kept things discreet by only revealing Taeyong’s face to the public eye; no name, no personality, just a few head and body shots. It’ll save the audience a heart attack on show day, Doyoung had said. Discretion had also proven to be an excellent marketing strategy as bidding offers once again pile high and heavy. To top it all off, your clothing lines are on their final inspection rounds, and today has been a highly productive day for you, all much to your delight.

You hum contentedly, pushing up from your seat to grab your coat and handbag. You take the satin that still rests limp and gorgeous in your hand, tying it loosely around a handle of your bag and walking to the door. You turn back to the room with a final grin. On a normal day, you’d have frowned at the scattered fabrics on the tables, but right now, the mess seems brilliant to you, painting the room vibrantly with potential of becoming something remarkable given a few clean stitches.

With a hand reaching out to flick the lights off, you step out, only to immediately pause at the sound of muffled music from the other end of the dimmed hallway.

Strange, you wonder, everyone should have gone home by now.

The music grows less and less obscure with every step you take forward, eventually bringing you outside a room you like the call ‘The Walkway’. With a hand pressing gently against the door, you peer inside, surprised to find Taeyong’s blonde mop of hair strutting up and down the long platform with exaggerated effort. It’s only your duty to note he’s not doing the finest job at it, but the determined pout on his concentrated features strikes down all your criticisms like a bowling ball. Somewhere in their stead blooms an unforeseen fondness for his efforts, shining bright as the narrow beam of light glowing upon on your smile through the crack of the door.

You watch as Taeyong groans in frustration, a small giggle leaving your lips only to be immediately covered by the slap of your hands, eyes wide in shock at yourself.

What is this? Why were you giggling like twelve-year-old at a grown-ass man struggling to walk?

The answer to your question lies in another unsuppressed laugh from your own lips, flowing freely with the music that surrounds Taeyong tripping over himself on the other side. You realise you’re giggling because it’s actually funny – endearing even, though you’re not able to conjure the thought as your feet push forward on their own accord, carefully leading you inside until the light of the room bathes you with its glow.

“Hey,” you voice out, trying to catch Taeyong’s attention amidst the music. Though, it’s apparently a futile effort given his lack of reaction.

“Taeyong.”

Still no response.

With a huff, you grab the speaker remote secured to the wall, silence resounding in a tumultuous wave as you the hit pause button. Taeyong whips his head around, frustration ever-evident in his face, only to melt away in the second he catches you standing to the side.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt you, I was just on my way to grab some popcorn,” you jab a thumb behind your shoulder, amusement strung high in your eyebrows and in the curl of your lips.

Taeyong rolls his eyes, traces of sweat glistening on his neck as he takes a swing of the bottle resting on a chair at the edge of the platform.

“And she smiles, folks.”

You set your things down and take a seat, grin somehow widening though without the slightest effort of restraint.

“Mm, and you should consider yourself lucky to see it,”

“Mmmm, I do,” Taeyong hums back, imitating you with a fascination strewn to his brows. He’d like to think that among other things, your reins had loosened a little since the day you clarified the scandal to him. Formal talk has all but reduced to trivial bantering and back-and-forths between the two of you, which, according to Taeyong’s books, is progress at the very least. It was almost as if each passing day was peeling away the layers of stubborn temperament that made you, and beneath each unearthed layer was a beautiful set of lips that seemed to tug close and closer to your eyes every time, emerging a little brighter in the mornings and lasting vibrantly well into the evenings. It was contagious, your smile; something Taeyong was only just realising with the witty lilt and small mischief that often quirked around its soft creases.

“What are you doing here so late?” you ask, though the answer is plastered blatantly in every corner of the room and in the sweat that lines Taeyong’s forehead. He huffs as he sits in the seat beside you, expression falling at the drop of a hat. His last few days had consisted of making efforts to channel his guilt into honing his modelling skills, and much to his surprise, things had been fairly simple once he’d set his mind to them. But there’s just one thing he still can’t seem to get.

“The walk,” Taeyong combs a hand through his hair frustratedly, “I just can’t get it down.”

“I’d honestly be surprised if you did,” you hum, the soft haze to your voice catching Taeyong miles off guard, plainly evident in his dumbstruck features. It draws a chuckle from you, watching his otherwise round eyes expand further before softening at the genuine melody that comes from your throat. “You’ve only had, like – what – two weeks? It can take the average model months to perfect.”

“This must be your first non-attack on my ego,” he mutters, ruffling another hand through his hair.

You really can’t seem to figure out how your mouth manoeuvres itself into yet another upturned stretch, but it seems you’re not in any rush to as your voice too leaves you at its own grant.

“Would you like a hand?”

Taeyong raises his eyebrows, very clearly surprised at your offer.

“In walking? Aren’t you a fashion designer?”

“No,” you simply state, earning a quizzical look from him as you stand and walk to the large platform in the middle, turning around to with a sly expression painting your features, “I’m a jack of all trades. Fashion design is just my royal flush.”

“So you’ve modelled before?”

“I’ve had my fair share of walking time.”

And it isn’t a lie. It was almost a piety for all the best fashion designers to take modelling classes as part of their early training to understand the scope of their clients.

Your nonchalant shrug renders Taeyong thoroughly impressed as he follows your path to the empty catwalk, nodding in approval. “For once I feel like listening to you,” he crosses his arms with a small tilt to his head, “Funny.”

“Very,” you deadpan.

“Fine, then. Teach me how to walk.”

It still sounds absolutely ridiculous to Taeyong; having to have someone to teach him how to walk of all things. He’s never had to think about the way he walks before. It was just another absent-minded task in the daily turnover of his life; writing didn’t require walking as a trained qualification, the only walking he needed to do was from his own office to the bathroom and back.

He makes his way to the back end of the platform. You follow his path, a warm tightness igniting in your chest at the therapeutic click of your heels with every step as you count along the rows of chairs neatly lined on either side. They’re black; unfilled by bustling guests, soundless amid the white walls that edge them. You turn back around to the empty room, nostalgia blanketing the forefront of your mind. You suppose to the third person, it would simply look like any other empty catwalk, the plainest of scenes with a pretentious prospect. But to you, the ceilings echo high with years of vibrant memories, from Argent’s first fashion show within these very walls, to the numerous others you’d hosted in between. You can almost hear the clacking of cameras, see their flashes clear in the crisp silence as it warmly embraces you. That is, of course, until Taeyong cuts through it all.

“Any time now would be great, thanks,” he mithers, tapping on your shoulder.

Suffice to say, the idiot is lucky you’re having a good day.

You ignore him with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, instead standing tall and dignified, announcing, “Cat walking is simple. Half of it is in the mindset, and the other half is in the posture. Here.” You reach out to his arm and drag him closer a little too quickly for your mind to keep up, leaving you no choice but to ignore the split-second warmth of his skin under your palm before your hands retract back again. “Don’t overthink anything too much. Just keep your shoulders back, but still relaxed.” You follow the direction of your own words, shoulders rolling to a neutral position. “Head straight.” You raise your head up. “Gaze focused.” You point a finger forward, focusing your eyes on the clock hanging on the far wall. “Don’t sway your hips, and most importantly, try to make it look natural.” You turn to Taeyong. “Watch me.”

And he does exactly that as you walk forward, every mentioned benchmark maintained flawlessly in the poise of your ankles as they carry you through his gaze. Your arms flow naturally with the fabric of your blouse, a new sort of purpose in the smooth strides of your legs as you turn around with ease, daring to look Taeyong in the eye while approaching back.

“Now you try.”

He nods firmly, the same concentrated expression sewn through his pursed lips and sharp eyes, striding forward with intent.

Your bottom lip immediately finds a home between your teeth as you struggle to hold in your laugh at Taeyong’s stiff steps, accidentally snorting out loud as a hand flies to your mouth in attempt to cover it up. If he was an awkward mess before, he’s all but the complete opposite of that now; way too rigid for anyone’s good, chest pushed animatedly forward, and a little (a lot) too much swing in his arms.

“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Taeyong snaps frustratedly, turning around, looking just about ready to stomp a heavy foot down and throw a temper tantrum right there on the glossy platform.

“I…” you trail off, trying to find the right words so as to not hurt the precious little pride he apparently thrives from, “…appreciate the effort.” It comes out with a nod and little snicker at the end, pursed lips doing their best to sequester the giggle at the back of your throat. All jokes aside, you really do appreciate his initiative of staying back late just to practice his walk, finding a newfound respect for his willingness to improve. It had been a massive shift from the dynamic of the past week and you’re not going to let it slip if it’s the last thing you do.

“But seriously, what has Johnny been teaching you this whole time?” you ask, genuinely curious how all those extra hours of practice with Johnny hadn’t seemed to avail Taeyong’s technique in the way you’d expected it to.

“The best angle to take a selfie?” he offers, walking back with a pitiful sulk on his face.

“You don’t say,” you grumble under your breath.

“I mean, he’s been doing a pretty good job at that, at least.” Taeyong chimes in, shrugging with an impressed pout.

“Well, soon he might not have a job at all,” you muse, eyes narrowing in scrutiny of the thought, before shaking your head briefly at turning back to Taeyong. “Anyway, from what I gather, it looks like you’re trying too hard.”

He snorts, “Look who’s talking–”

“Would you just listen for a second?” you snap, dwindling patience echoing with your voice in the ensuing silence, Taeyong staring half-surprised at the outburst.

“Yes ma’am,” he concedes, a playful raise to his eyebrows.

“Thank you,” you sigh deeply. “Remember how I said half of the walk is in the mind?”

Taeyong nods.

“Well, your mind is on overdrive. You need to relax.”

“Okay, and how do you propose I do that? Do you have some kind of–”

“Just...” you interrupt him, stepping forward, hands finding their way to the tense planes of his shoulders “...relax.”

Your touch must have come with something of a magic as Taeyong feels the tension in his muscles evaporate with the ticklish sensation of your fingertips. The snarky comment he’d prepared moments before dies on the tip of his tongue as he eyes you from the shortened distance between your bodies, your hands emanating something warm and wonderful that pricks the hairs up on his arms. He’s quiet, swears he hears your breaths fall slightly laboured as your hands smooth over the angle of his shoulders down to his arms. It’s not something you’re unaccustomed to, having assisted a plethora of other models with this exact motion of your hands. But with Taeyong, it feels like a foolish act of impulse, something that was perhaps best not to have done in the first instance. You can’t seem to evade the gulp that gathers in your throat as your fingers delicately brush over the hard muscle that lies under the soft fabric of his shirt, and it dawns on you that beyond the lanky body and the wide shimmer of his pupils, this man is much sturdier than you could have ever foreseen. Warm too; his skin tingling pleasantly under the cool air conditioning that frosts at your own fingertips.

You glance up at him, and oh, the fool you are for getting caught up in his gaze and the little scar that you notice sits right beside it, something you’ve only just taken note of from seeing him up so close.

“Why so quiet?”

Your question quietly lingers between the two of you for Taeyong to answer, but it’s almost as if you are asking yourself the same thing, searching for an immediate explanation to the sudden cascade of…whatever this is. Why are you being so quiet? Why is your pulse growing higher by the second, and why – just why – can’t you take your eyes off this man all of a sudden?

“I’m relaxed,” Taeyong murmurs, gaze suddenly preoccupied with tracing the curvature of your lips, every little crease beneath the layer of long-faded lipstick, a little dry but still somehow enchanting.

You simply blink up at him, wondering if his words parallel the answer you’re also searching for. You’re not bothered by the wisp of hair that falls into his half-lidded eyes, and you can’t even bring yourself to be surprised about your apathy. Not when you’re distracted by the way his eyelashes shift each strand ever so slightly with every blink. Perhaps even an unfixed collar would look perfect on him in this moment-

No.

Your hands drop from his arms as you take a quick step back, quiet breaths the only tell-tale sign of your faltering front as you avert your eyes elsewhere.

“Okay then,” you clear your throat, attempting with much effort to set aside whatever twisted emotion that whirls in the pit of your stomach, gesturing haphazardly to the platform ahead. “Try walking now.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong shakes the bangs out of his face, much to your concealed disappointment. “Yeah, okay.”

You feel a certain shift in the cool air that brushes your skin as he strides ahead, all warmth clinging tightly onto him as single minutes bleed into dozens, ebbing and flowing to and fro as you watch Taeyong’s figure from your place. You keep a safe distance from him, but the trance from earlier seems to weave itself in a taut string between the two of you, growing all the more prominent as the night progresses in a stretched-out silence filled only by the echo of his shoes and your small purls of praise. His walk turns out to be a lot better, still imperfect in many ways, but better, nonetheless; shoulders liberated from the rigidity of before, a more natural essence to the placement of his feet. And it leaves you mussed and tangled in your thoughts, unable to shake the new light under which he walks.

What had happened earlier, and just when did the silence become so deafening through all the blatant banter?

Neither you, nor Taeyong have an answer. Not now, and not among the quiet rustling of coats when you eventually decide to call it a night. He steals a glance your way, catches sight of your wary expression, and turns back to the floor, a minuscule, little heat radiating on the smooth of face as if your hands now cup his cheeks as they previously did his arms.

What would that truly feel like? He wonders, holding the door open for you as the lights die down in a hushed flicker. You brush past him with a small thanks, the door clicking shut as he too steps out into the hallways. The windows in the corridors don’t glow with the natural light of the day, simply reflecting yours and Taeyong’s blurry figures as you walk side-by-side toward the elevator. You press the button and wait patiently, relieved that the spike of your heels stops the idiot inside you from rocking back and forth on her feet.

“Can I ask you something?”

You almost jump as Taeyong utters the words beside you, the elevator doors welcoming you into its small, shiny box as you nod.

“Why silver?”

He eyes the silver fabric tied loosely around your handbag, glancing up when you don’t speak, only to be met with a small tilt of your head and a confused frown that has his own lips pursing if only to keep his smile at bay.

“I mean, why not gold? What’s the reason everything in Argent is silver.”

“Chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent.” The phrase slips past your lips without much thought, something natural and warm to accompany the flutter in your chest from the elevator’s descent.

“Italian?” Taeyong asks, charmed by the faraway look in your eyes and the wistful smile that stretches just underneath them.

“French.” You glance at him, a rush of goosebumps decorating your arms under the thick layer of your coat as one side of his mouth quirks into an endearing grin. “It means every cloud has a silver lining.” Your smile widens fondly, the memory of your mentor in Paris replaying clear as day in the canvas of your mind. “I named Argent after the phrase; it literally means ‘silver’ in French,” you chuckle with a small shake of your head. It all sounds a little too ridiculous now that you stand here in hindsight, so surreal that you almost feel like bursting out in a fit of uncontrolled laughter at your impulsive, juvenile decision all those years ago.

But to Taeyong, it only makes you a little more human to know you’d named the biggest fashion brand in the world after a cliché little phrase.

You walk out moments later into the nocturnal buzz of overfed zebra-crossings, moving billboards in the distance, and all else that comprises the faithful oath of New York City. There’s a chill in the air and perhaps that’s why Taeyong finds himself stepping a little closer beside you, studying your features bit by bit as the wind whips your hair from atop your head. The smell of New York gasoline tingles at his nose, but it seems to fade with the relaxed grin that adorns your lips.

Taeyong suddenly stops in his tracks, and you turn back, watching as he digs a hand into his satchel, pulling it out in a loose fist which he brings up to you. His fingers uncurl, revealing a small circular box sitting in his palm.

“Here.”

“Lip balm?” you question, eyebrows furrowing as you glance up at his insisting gaze.

“You need it more than I do.” His smile seems genuine, not a sarcastic lilt to his voice, no intention to offend as he places the lip balm in your hand and closes your fingers around the cool plastic. Absentmindedly licking your lips, you feel a dryness on the skin – a likely result from nervous chewing and the dry chill of the season. Realising the truth in his words, you turn back to Taeyong, noticing a rosy hue beginning to bloom around his pale cheeks, his blonde hair once again fanning through his eyelashes to the waves of the cool wind.

For a set of very simple and obvious reasons, you wouldn’t normally accept lip balm from anyone other than…well, yourself. So, the soft “thank you,” that glides forth from the back of your throat takes you by surprise as you slip the small box into your handbag.

You bid Taeyong goodnight, and he acknowledges you with a two-fingered salute and a small smile. His eyes sparkle with something indiscernible, and as you make the slow, dazed walk to your car, you realise you’re in no rush to understand anything except the sureness of his smile, and the tingle in your chest that had somehow become a default response to it that evening.

Taeyong doesn’t move from his place on the concrete, hands warmed snugly by his pockets, watching your silhouette fade into the night with a strange sort of affection fledging somewhere inside him.

As he readies himself for the journey to his own car, something catches his eye on the sidewalk from metres away, glinting under the streetlights. He squints ahead at the object, walking forward and picking up a small piece of cloth before the wind carries it elsewhere. It sits cool in his palm, silver and shimmery and peculiarly delicate, its corners flapping incessantly with the wind and its middle warming up soothingly beneath the secure curl of his fingers.

He lifts his head, catching the last flail of your coat in the breeze as your silhouette turns the corner at the end of the street, and smiles, tucking the silver fabric into his coat pocket before turning around and strolling to his car.

The darkness of your ceiling greets you with its usual stolid silence as you sink deeper into the plush embrace of your duvet, reaching to pull it up over your shoulders. Your hair tickles the skin of your cheeks, now liberated from its tight up-do and splayed freely along the whiteness of your pillow. Sleep had long brushed its feathery touch along your eyelids, but they still somehow blink vacantly into your dark bedroom.

Never before had you been an insomniac. You should have been asleep by now – you would have been asleep by now, were it not for the bright smile behind your eyes that jerks you awake every time they flutter shut.

A deep crease forms between your brows as you turn frustratedly onto your side, huffing out a sigh of contemplation and confusion, trying to figure out why the thorn in your side now presents himself as a dream just waiting to happen. You know it’s not right for Taeyong to be running through your mind like this. The sole fact that he’s your model-in-training should have made it very, very wrong in the first instance. You should be ashamed, mortified even.

So, where the hell is the remorse?

It’s nowhere to be found. You’ve tried searching for it, hoping to find the slightest little remnant of guilt deep within you, but it seems you’ve emerged with something else instead. Something that came in the form of flushed cheeks and warm hands, awkward silences and, most surprisingly, a smile.

Contempt? Petty frustration? It’s all gone just like that, and goodness, is it jarring to suddenly feel emotion in such a peculiar way.

Perhaps calling Taeyong into your office days ago and practically begging on your knees for him to stay wasn’t your brightest move – hell, it had all but knocked your pride down a few pegs and you weren’t liking it at all. But at the same time, it seemed to have pulled a few improvements on Taeyong’s end…but then there’s this new side of him that has you fluttery and warm, mulling over the mental snapshot of his smile and the way his hair flows with the wind and-

“Ughhh,” you groan out loud, pulling your pillow over your head in attempt to halt your spiralling thoughts. “Go. To. Sleep.” You accentuate your muffled voice with three hard thumps of your fist on the mattress, before jerking up to the sound of a notification on your phone.

You wonder who in their right mind would be texting you at such a late hour as you reach to your nightstand and pick the device up. You squint down at the blue light that illuminates your face in the dark, eyes scanning over the slightly hazy typewrite on the screen that says:

Taeyong [12:47am]: Goodnight :)

You simply sit there, half-wrapped in your duvet with eyes wide, blinking over the nine letters and emoticon that sit so brazenly under Taeyong’s name. It’s outlandish from all the previous exchanges you’ve had – your last message being from a week ago, reprimanding him for being late to the job yet again. He hadn’t replied to that text, and it had once bothered you to all ends that he hadn’t. But right now you can’t find it in you to care as you stare down at this text, very much typed out by him, wishing you a ‘goodnight’ (never mind the fact that it really should have been two words instead of one).

You bring a hand to your cheek, massaging circles into the bone hoping to relive the ache of another smile that forms on your lips.

God, what is wrong me?

You feel your worries lifted by the darkness around you as you think back to everything from hours earlier. Taeyong’s flawed walk and the pout on his lips, the warmth of his skin and the firm muscle hidden beneath it. The bangs in his eyes and flicker of lashes in the wind, the little box he’d rolled into your palm and the odd comfort of his fingers as he did. It makes you become all too aware of the small, rounded silhouette sitting amongst the shadows on your nightstand. You’d accepted it less than two hours ago, and that too without a single fuss, but you still hadn’t taken the liberty of using it yet.

You find yourself tracing a finger along your still very dry lips, grimacing at the thought of what they must have looked like to Taeyong earlier, and decide that there really isn’t any other time like the present to reach over grab it. You unscrew the lid of the box and bring it to your nose, the fragrance of artificial strawberries wafting through your senses as you swirl a finger through it and dab at your lips. You catch the faintest taste of strawberry sweetness as you purse them, and it suddenly dawns on you that Taeyong must have used this exact lip balm numerous times before…on his own set of lips…

“What the fuck, Y/n,” you whisper aloud, halting all absurdities from taking over your thoughts, placing the box back on your nightstand and flopping back onto your pillow, sheets pulled all the way up to your chin.

Nothing good ever came from being awake at such an hour – not even on the pages of your design book – so, with a final sigh, you close your eyes once more.

Perhaps it was Taeyong’s message, perhaps it’s his lip balm, or it might even be his annoying little smile that still paints itself on the back of your eyelids. Whatever it may be, it lulls you easily into the sleep your eyes so crave, brushes you softly and leaves you with another smile to last through the night.

VI. The Loved and The Lost

The morning welcomes you with a slap to the face – or to the ears, rather – as the shrill ring of your phone jolts you from whatever petty dream you must have been having.

You groan into your pillow. This was far from the way you’d planned to start your first weekend off in months, but, alas, the world seems to care less and less of your plans with each passing day, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise.

Rolling onto your side, you reach for your phone to see Ten’s name, thumbing at the answer button.

“Ten,” you mumble with a groggy voice, fingers rubbing the light into your eyes, “you know it’s my day off work-”

“I’m sorry Y/n, but you need to check the news.” His voice is frantic on the other side of the line, almost as if he’s jogging as he speaks, but it doesn’t fully register as you stretch your limbs under the safety of your covers, yawning out a lazy, “Why?”

“Just do it! Now!”

The urgency in his raised voice has you sitting up abruptly, ear pressing in harshly to your phone screen as you scramble out of bed balancing it on your shoulder, almost tripping over the sheets as your ankles catch on them while rushing to the living room.

“Okay, okay, but what’s wrong? Is everything alri-” Your words die in your throat as you switch your television on, the news channel opening straight away to…

Jaehyun?

He’s at what looks like a press conference, sporting a relaxed smile while answering questions from reporters in the audience. Your eyebrows furrow at the headline on the bottom of the screen.

SM AGENCY SUPERMODEL JUNG JAEHYUN TO SIGN CONTRACT WITH QI FASHION LABELS

“What…” you whisper out confusedly to Ten on the other side, a frown settling deep on your features.

“Listen!” Ten urges, and you turn up the volume of the television, a horrible feeling settling in your chest as you lean forward and watch anxiously.

“Jaehyun, is it true that you are no longer contracted under Argent Fashion Labels?”

The voice speaks from the audience, accompanied by the occasional clicks and flashes of cameras that capture Jaehyun as he leans toward the microphone in front of him.

“Excluding all technicalities, yes, it’s true.”

Your jaw loosens in a shocked mix of confusion and anger, your chest rising and falling heavily as you try to figure out what the fuck was happening all of a sudden.

“And what does Y/n have to say about this?”

Nothing. You had absolutely nothing to say about anything that was happening at this moment, no say whatsoever. You weren’t given the chance to step into the picture at all, rather watching in shock from behind your television screen.

“Well, it’s always tough to let a loved one go.”

The grin that stretches widely across Jaehyun’s face pulls a nauseating ache into your chest, as if your stomach were being folded in on itself. What the hell was Jaehyun trying to imply?

“So, you don’t deny the dating rumours?” The question echoes from another reporter, followed by a silence that lasts a second too long.

“No.”

You glare at the flatness of the screen in front of you, fists curling into your palms as the rest of the conversation drowns out behind a red curtain that seems to draw itself around you.

“Y/n?” Ten’s voice asks worriedly through the speaker.

You stand, jaw locking as you switch the tv off, voice as stone-cold and emotionless as the deepening scowl on your face. “Contact public relations immediately and schedule an appraisal meeting for this afternoon. I’ll handle the rest.”

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

The roots of your hair yank painfully at your scalp, tugged up in a bun so high and tight it’s almost the only thing that seems to hold your flaring temper together.

Almost.

“Miss Y/l/n, what are you doin-”

“Give me a fucking break,” you seethe through clenched teeth, charging like a storm past a receptionist that calls out from the desk, sitting right beneath the audacious letters SMA.

It’s ironic really, to be voicing these very words on the day that was actually supposed to be your break. You’d initially hoped to spend it well – perhaps wake up at noon and lose yourself in one of your neglected paperbacks, or take a dip in a rose-infused bath with a soothing glass of wine-spice, or both. But it was all a story of lost hope now, buried beneath the heavy breathing and pounding of your chest as you skip the steps two-at-a-time all the way up to the sixth floor of this godforsaken building. You didn’t want to take the elevator, didn’t care if you snapped a heel and had to limp the rest of the way up. Etiquette is now a notion of the past as you stride past each pretentious pair of eyes, uncaring of their whispers as a single phrase repeats itself incessantly in your mind:

Jung Jaehyun is fucking dead.

It’s frustrating how the route to his office is ingrained so deeply into your memory as if it were the route to your own, all rhyme and reason relinquished as you launch yourself through its doors, blowing your blazing fuse the second it slams shut behind you.

“What is wrong with you?” you roar out into the white walls of his office, bristling with fury to see Jaehyun still dressed in the same outfit as press conference; the suit that isn’t one of your own designs, but one of QI Fashion Labels’ instead.

“Oh, you saw it.” It isn’t a question that apathetically slides from Jaehyun’s tongue, just an insolent flatness to his voice that tugs your eyebrows taut, so infuriating it has you slamming a hard hand on his desk.

“The whole damn world saw it, Jaehyun. What the hell happened to our agreement?”

“Qi offered me a better one. So, I took it.” He doesn’t spare you a glance, eyes focused on an editorial magazine he obnoxiously flicks between his thumbs. “I’m a top model, Y/n, but that means jack shit if I can’t do my job.”

“Nobody took your job away from you, Jaehyun, you brought this upon yourself!” You point a finger at him, maddened with his insinuation. “You were the one who pulled out of the show last minute. You were the one who left me to deal with all of this just to save your own backside-”

“I did it for you too!” He stands, leveling himself with you.

“Did you?” Your voice lowers to a threatening murmur before erupting in the next moment. “THEN WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AT THAT CONFERENCE?"

“IT WAS A PUBLICITY STUNT, Y/N, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO SAY?” he yells over you, “‘I’m sorry? Will you forgive me?’ Is that what you want?”

You simply stand there, jaw falling unhinged, stunted to an unforeseen silence from the disdain that tumbles through his words. You feel a surge of blood rushing to your face in a twisted combination of anger and humiliation, trying to maintain the little composure that dwindles within you.

This feels so different.

Nobody has ever looked at you the way Jaehyun does now, with so much contempt and derision. You were supposed to be at the top. You were always the one to satisfy, to gain respect from. But now, it seems you’re the single mockery of everything around you, frailed and muted with your entire world bared as it crashes head-first into the ground.

“How dare you,” you spit. “You had no right.”

“This is showbiz, Y/n,” Jaehyun deadpans. “People come and people go, and the world still keeps turning.”

“Well, what about my world, Jaehyun?” You step forward, glaring right into his eyes. “What. About. Mine?”

“Oh, stop with the fucking act. You’re the worldwide fashion designer and founder of Argent, you’re Y/n Y/l/n! The world revolves around you!” He violently throws his hands up. “Okay, I walked out. But the second I did, you snatched some new guy right off the streets. What does it matter then? You’ve got everything you need-”

“He’s here for a month, Jaehyun. A month! And you were supposed to be back right after that.”

You pause. So does he. No words meet the air, just heavy breaths filled with clamorous intention. You try to gather your thoughts, every cogent piece of dialogue, anything that will change Jaehyun’s mind. But it all seems to slip from your grasp the second your mouth opens without your mind to wisely follow.

“I gave you everything.”

“Sure. You did.” Jaehyun nods, but you’re only left to kick yourself in the face as a sinister look sweeps across his features as naturally as the oxygen spills from your lungs. “But you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. I was the first and only person willing to take you up on your offer all those years ago, when you had nothing except your sketchbook going for you. You only gave me everything because I gave it all to you first, Y/n.” Jaehyun leans in with a threatening tilt to his head, smirk only growing more scornful with the sharp breath that leaves him. “I made you.”

His words sting you somewhere deep inside, all your futile shields arming in an instant to protect yourself.

“You did not make me.” You feel dizzy with the harsh grind of teeth behind your chapped lips, breath growing deeper in attempt to control the tears threatening to terrorize your eyes. “I worked my ass off to get where I am now, and if I didn’t have you, you best believe, Jung Jaehyun, I would’ve had someone better.”

Jaehyun leans back, pride clearly stabbed and bleeding from the heart, though he does a much better job at hiding it than you with the twitch of his lips into yet another spiteful smirk.

“You know why people don’t like you?”

Enlighten me. You want so badly for these words to tear through your throat. But they don’t, held back by your last wavering nerve.

“Because you’re a bitch. A stubborn, cold-hearted bitch.”

And that’s it. You back down with nothing more to say and nothing more to lose, eyes shifting around the floor, your shields defeated and conquered with that one word.

Bitch.

It wasn’t anything new – perhaps occupying third place on the long list of bywords copped under your name over the years. But never before had it burned as much as it does now.

Your fingers tighten into their customary fists; not out of anger, but rather in search of a warmth somewhere in the gulf your palms. You gulp, lips pursed and dry with the caution of tears, not once looking Jaehyun in the eyes as you turn around and walk to the door. With shaky breaths and shaky fingers, you pull the door handle only to pause and turn back once more, daring yourself to meet Jaehyun’s eyes despite all your efforts not to.

His face still holds the same comely features as the day you’d first found him kicking rocks outside of Vogue building. It all flashes clear in your mind; him as a fresh-faced rookie with a freshly rejected application balled in his fist. You’d just made your move to the Big Apple back then and that boy had once been a Godsend. He was polite and charming. Heck, you’d even started out with a small crush on him, awed like anything that he was willing to throw all caution to the wind alongside you. Jaehyun had signed your self-made contract and had his shot at showbiz. He had been a huge contributor to Argent’s growth in the industry; that much stood true among his harsh words of the present and you couldn’t discredit him for his work in that regard. As Argent grew, luck had smiled upon him in the form of an SMA recruitment officer knocking at his door at the wee hours of one fine morning, whisking both him and his name fresh into the celebrity scene to gain the recognition that he had rightfully deserved.

That he had once deserved.

Not anymore.

“Go to hell, you bastard.”

He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t need to, the tightening of his jaw confirming everything words couldn’t begin to explain. And there’s nothing more heart-shattering than the realisation that hits you in this moment:

You’ve lost Jaehyun. You’ve lost a partner. And worst of all, you’ve lost a friend.

You step out of Jaehyun’s office, slamming the door shut, tears burning furiously in your eyes as the distance between you and him grows wider and wider with every hasty step.

You try to pick apart all the layers in your mind, try to separate all your rights from all of Jaehyun’s wrongs. But in the grand scheme of things, you realise there really isn’t much to separate at all. You’d both started out together, two parallels of the same temperament, chasing a fame and fortune that was destined to become yours someday. And here you both are now, a world-class bitch and a two-faced asshole, both sitting high and mighty in your thrones. The only visible difference now, is your preserved integrity and his tilted crown.

It was always so easy to be wronged in the cruellest way imaginable, especially when all started to seem perfect. Wasn’t it just yesterday you were floating in the clouds, and shimmering with a rose-tinted glow?

But here you are today, refusing to shed violent tears and buried beneath the rubble of misplaced trust.

It must have been so easy for him to push you down. And it had all happened in the unsuspecting blink of an eye.

“-with a high of sixty-three, and an eighty percent chance of widespread thunderstorms all throughout New Yor-”

You groan out loud, thumbing the television off and tossing the remote to the side.

“No Karen, I don’t want to know about widespread thunderstorms,” you grumble, slumping into the leather of your sofa with a sulky pout. Since when had cable television soured up so much?

From what you can remember, it had always been something to look forward to in your younger years, an escape from reality. But now all that’s decent to watch is the news, and that has been completely off-limits as per the PR meeting that had happened a day ago (and you’d broken that rule, obviously).

The news about Jaehyun’s departure has understandably been a secret to no one, having been circulated in every magazine during the very hour of your last brawl with him. It had all taken its toll on you, even you conceded to that very sure fact. But what you absolutely did not concede, was the three days’ worth of exile the board had forced upon you thereafter. Three full days! It was absurd in all sense of the word. You still find it ridiculous that they, your employees, had taken the liberty to order you, their boss, to take a break a fortnight before the biggest fashion show of the year.

You wouldn’t have listened to them, of course, not when with all the end-phase preparations and a multitude more fittings to cram in the short time left. But as it turns out, it isn’t exactly an easy task to escape being held at gunpoint by your own stellar employees.

A fashion designer always had a project to work on; always something to start, finish, improve or fix, no matter the quality of their predicament. You’d call yourself a refractory to the system as of recent, currently sunken halfway into your couch with more than your fill of malaise-induced boredom to accompany you, contemplating whether a Netflix subscription would be a sensible investment for the next few days.

You look to the mannequin stand in the corner of the room, frowning. On it is Argent’s final runway item for New York Fashion Week; an item you’d taken the liberty to smuggle home in hopes of finishing. But you haven’t gathered the tenacity to do so, the workaholic itch in your fingers seeming to have tired itself out with the sole fact that the outfit was originally Jaehyun’s to wear.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of your phone on the coffee table, lethargy weighing heavily on your limbs as you reach forward to pick it up.

Ten [3:18pm]: Wendy, Joy and Winter’s final fittings have been reviewed and completed

Ten [3:18pm]: how are you going?

You sigh in relief, happy to have not received any bad news from Ten yet. Receiving regular updates was the compromise for your agreement in being cooped up inside your apartment, but the very act of picking up your phone always feels like a gamble, given all the unpredicted mishaps of the last month.

Y/n [3:19pm]: that’s great, keep up the good work!

Y/n [3:19pm]: going as fine as I can without anything to do

Y/n [3:20pm]: oh, could you also make sure the white boot-coat set is finished and reviewed?

Ten [3:20pm]: already been done

The smile that pricks at your lips feels almost unnatural after days of consistent frowning. Though it’s not a typical trait of yours, you’ve always favoured the idea of realising the worth of your possessions – or rather, persons – before their eventual disappearance from your life. So, it comes as a quiet sort of surprise as you realise that Ten Lee is worth so much more to you than you could ever have expressed.

Now that you really think about it, he’s probably the person you’d entrusted the most personal information with through the entirety of your career, and if it wasn’t for your stiff-necked pride, you’d even call yourself lucky to be able to call him your executive assistant. In all honesty, you’re not quite sure what you would have done – where you would have been, how you would have survived – if you didn’t have Ten to help you through it all. Prompt in his actions, justified in his reasoning, astute in the mind; Ten really is the best of the best.

Another vibration of your phone draws you back to the screen, though it’s not the name you expect to find.

Taeyong [3:25pm]: hey, you busy?

You scoff at the message, muttering a blasé, “Am I busy. Of course, I’m not busy, what a stupid thing to-”

Taeyong [3:25pm]: that was a joke in case you didn’t get it

Taeyong [3:25pm]: I know you’re bored out of your mind right now

Your indifferent gaze drops to a scowl. You try to convince yourself it’s root cause is the infuriating man on the other side of your phone, but you know deep down it’s just your petty temperament; annoyed that you weren’t able to catch onto his little joke…if one could even call it that.

Y/n [2:25pm] yeah whatever, how’s your walk going mr happy feet

Taeyong [3:26pm]: happy feet 🤨

Taeyong [3:26pm]: is that my compliment for the day?

You can’t help but snicker at his reply, glad that you don’t have to suppress the atypical expression on your face while in the safety of your apartment walls. Perhaps there was some advantage to being stuck at home, after all.

Y/n [3:26pm]: take it or leave it, it’s up to you🤷‍♀️

That’s another thing you’ve learnt to use in the last day: emojis. It was stupid, really, something so out of the ordinary for you. The whole point of using a small picture in a texting app never really made sense to you; it’s called a text for a reason. But that was until Taeyong had dared you the day before to text only in emojis. It hadn’t been the easiest task, but you’d survived, and as a bonus, taken a liking to some of the mini yellow figures – just enough to use them around Taeyong at the very most.

Taeyong [3:26pm]: hmm I’ll take it

Taeyong [3:26pm]: only because it’s as rare as this 😊

There was that infuriating tingle in your chest, nestling inside you in some tucked away in a corner and seeming to only emerge at the thought of Taeyong. It’s something unexplainable and uncontrollable, never before felt in the way you’ve been feeling it lately.

Was he thinking about your smile? If so, how long had been thinking about it? Since when? And why?

You glance to your arm, noticing goosebumps arise on the smooth skin as the question comes to mind. Your thumbs hover over the screen, unsure how to respond to both Taeyong and the giddy, ticklish feeling inside you.

Taeyong [3:27pm]: anyway Charlie’s on his way for you

Taeyong [3:27pm]: I’ll see you soon

You hum in confusion, eyebrows knitting at his text, wondering if you’ve been granted an early exemption from your impending two days of exile.

Taeyong [3:27pm]: oh also don’t wear anything too expensive

VII. Tell Me

You had started from somewhere familiar, grounded by the undying rumble of city-goers and loud tumble of traffic in every which direction. You had started with the all the colours of the rainbow reflecting in your eyes from moving billboards, weathered yellow taxis and sun-lit windows; with your head angled high, glimpsing up towards the concrete jungle that made up your every dream and every struggle and everything else in between.

At least a couple dozen minutes later you sit in the same backseat, looking out of the same window, but the only vehicle that seems to be on the road is the one that Charlie drives you in. Gone now are those ever-known gaudy hues of the city, now replaced with the flaring expanse of green rolling hills, natural in height and pure in tone, and a divine sky peeking out to capture it all in its blooming embrace. Your ears ring with the nigh echo of road-rage-infested honks, almost as if searching for the sound somewhere in the low buzz of 90’s classics scratching on the radio. There isn’t an ounce of man-made construct to behold, no shine of metals under the clouds, nor a single slab of greyed concrete to dampen the vibrant blades of grass that seem to grow an inch or two taller with every quarter mile. Pleasant would be the word to describe it all; perhaps even beautiful, were it not for the very sure fact that this was definitely not the way to work as you’d originally thought it to be.

As the car rolls to a stop, you peek out once more to the same emerald scape, still no building or vehicle or even person in sight to bale your suspicion.

“Charlie, what is this? Where are we?” You sit forward, resolute in searching for, at the very least, a barn house hidden somewhere amongst the grass and sparsely scattered trees.

“Mr Lee asked for you to be dropped here, miss. I can’t say anything more.”

“Oh, so you take orders from him now. I guess I just don’t get a say in anything anymore,” you mutter childishly, slumping back into the leather seat and fishing out your sunglasses from your purse. “Can you at least tell me where I can find Taeyong in all of this-” you glance out “-grass?”

“He told me,” Charlie raises his fingers in air-quotations, “‘she’ll find me once she gets out.’ I don’t have any further information, miss.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” you huff, opening the door handle and stepping a foot out before pausing and turning back to your driver. “Please don’t bypass me next time.”

“Yes, miss.”

You narrow your eyes at his jolly smile, fully stepping out and closing the door and grimacing at the scratchy grind of your boots in the dry dirt of the road. You take a step toward the field, but the revving of the car behind you doesn’t allow you to breathe in the fresh air as you turn around wide-eyed to see it leaving faded tracks in its wake.

“Hey!” you screech, arms flailing like a maniac. “Charlie, come back!”

It’s futile in any case as you watch the black Jaguar speed off into the distance, your last speck of familiarly becoming one with your memory of the city as you stand there, handbag falling from your shoulder to your elbow, body deflating with literal abandonment.

Note to self: must fire Charlie.

You look around at the place anxiously, spotting a single car parked metres ahead, before turning to the countryside and standing on the balls of your toes. You scan through the maze of tall, gangly grass and tiny yellow flowers, hoping to find a certain blonde-haired hooligan traipsing somewhere between it, praying that the car belongs to him and not some other hooligan waiting to kidnap you and God knows what else. But you don’t see Taeyong anywhere, instead deciding to try your luck by stepping into tall grass, squinting as the gradually waning sun glints warmly through the top of your sunglasses, catching your lashes as they continue to flicker across the field.

It’s almost ironic for a scene earthed so deeply within nature to feel so unnatural, as if you were the most fabricated facet to roam this quiet part of the world. Walking through a field, being carried further with a cool breeze stirring through your locks and a land of serenity to call your own; it was such a simple act. It feels effortless to just exist in such a place, for your lungs to expand to their fullest capacity and welcome the refreshing change of milieu. For your arms to sway with no particular intention except that of a freedom which you had no idea you’d craved so deeply at all.

It’s a rare sight to see your own shadow rippling beside you, cast by the gentle fall of the sun beyond the field in absence of all the city’s tall buildings and metropolitan smog. It felt almost otherworldly to feel the tingling sensation of grass pricking at your fingertips, welcoming you in sweet greeting with every soft crunch beneath your feet.

“Wasn’t it supposed to rain?” you wonder aloud, head tilting up and catching sight of white tufts of clouds scattered infrequently through the sky, no foresight of said stormy weather in the seemingly perfect view. It doesn’t seem to matter either way as you sigh in genuine content, embracing the soft tickle of stray hairs against your cheeks, the warmth gleam of the sun, and strokes of grass at the exposed skin of your ankles.

“Figured you needed the fresh air.”

You abruptly turn around to a faint voice that comes from behind you, puzzled to see a dark-haired man sitting metres away, his pale skin obscured by the grass. The wind carries his hair in the same way it does yours, soft looking antennas waving you ‘hello’ from atop his head. Squinting forward, your gaze scans through the tall green lines and yellow petals, finding a familiar pair of eyes staring right back at your own.

“Taeyong?”

You step towards him with the warm shine of the sun on your back, wondering how you had missed him in your previous surveillance of the area. The grass brushes past your calves with such ease, as if parting to create a pathway just for you to walk along. Taeyong pats the clear stump of earth beside him, lips tugging into an uneven little smile as you sit down on the long of your coat, placing your bag in your lap.

“Hey,” he offers.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

You furrow your eyebrows at your own question, surprised at your own unseemly dialogue for the current setting.

Gosh, I really do need this break.

Taeyong only chuckles quietly, more than accustomed to this little habit of yours.

“Don’t worry, I’m done for the day.”

Your lips part, ready to question how on earth he could be ‘done for the day’ – since no one at Argent was ever done before sundown at the very least. But you stop yourself just as the words graze your tongue, rather opting to fall distracted with the hair that you only just realise now matches the tone of Taeyong’s eyebrows.

“What did you do to your hair?”

He looks up to the curtain of hair on his forehead, realisation striking his features as if he’d forgotten about the change of look altogether. “Oh yeah,” he scoops it back with a casual hand, the smooth complexion of his face glowing under the hue of the falling sun. “I dyed it yesterday; Johnny suggested a more natural colour.”

“It must be the best thing he’s done this month,” you mutter with a small snort, freezing on the spot as Taeyong turns to you in surprise, the meaning of your words settling down on you with the flushed heat that gathers at your neck. “I-I mean-”

“You like it?” he asks, voice falling soft and almost anxious as if hoping for your approval. Though it was all in your job to evaluate his appearance, you just can’t push aside the feeling that this – the goosebumps painting your arms in erratic waves, the hopeful eagerness sparkling in his eyes – was different to all the other times.

He tilts his head with a small smile, and it somehow does wonders to muddle up your thoughts as you nod wordlessly in response to his question, unable to trust your own voice. Your eyes focus on the soft shadows of swaying grass that dance across his cheeks, overcome with a certain urge to reach out and catch one with the tip of your thumb.

Your gaze doesn’t go unnoticed by Taeyong as he turns back to the sun, his smile never once faltering as he watches it fall lower and lower in the sky with each passing second. His eyes flicker to his periphery every now and again, happy to see that his intention for bringing you to this place is running its course. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure whether it would work, whether you would be able find the same contentment in this field as he always has. But as he watches it all once again – the grass, a little taller than the last time he’d visited, the sun and it’s softening hues – he supposes it must be impossible not to fall for the magical charms of such a green expanse.

***

Taeyong’s school shirt beats wildly with the wind against his stomach, the white fabric riddled with so many unkempt creases, he was sure to earn an earful from his dad once he returned home.

The school day couldn’t have gone by any faster, and while all of his friends were attending their extra-curriculars – Yuta at soccer training, Mark at basketball practice and Kun at his piano lessons – Taeyong finds himself all alone, riding his bike in solitude down an isolated country road with nothing but the rhythmic huffing and puffing of his chest to accompany his fast-peddling feet. His backpack hangs heavy with the weight of the many comic books stacked inside, its straps sliding down his shoulders before being shrugged back into place every dozen seconds or so.

Come on, come oooon, almost there! He ushers to himself. The thought manifests with an electric buzz of excitement, his wrist lifting from the handles to shield his face from the sun as it glints its orange rays in his periphery. Taeyong smiles, allowing himself to turn towards it and bask in its warmth, the greenery just below it swaying peacefully in the same way as the tousled hair against his forehead.

He cranes his neck in search for the familiar patch of flattened grass, for the little raw pathway he’d paved from his frequent visits to the field. It wasn’t too far now, just a couple dozen metres and he’d be right-

“Aahhh.”

The front tyre of Taeyong’s bike catches a loose rock on the ground, sending him toppling to the ground as he loses his balance, landing on his side with the loud crash of his bike beside him.

He groans, sitting up, lungs expanding and deflating heavily, a juvenile shock leeching into his features as he takes a few moments to process the fall. He feels a sudden sting on side of his face, expression twisting into a pained frown as he reaches up and dabs at a wet spot at his temple, flinching with a quiet sob at the shooting pain.

“Ow,” Taeyong whimpers, tears pooling at his eyes, though he refuses to let them stain his cheeks. He holds onto his grazed arm, gathering all his strength to pick himself off the ground and dust off his shirt. He feels his heart shatter as he looks down to his bike, taking in its now-dented frame and punctured tyre. Reaching for a tissue from his backpack, he holds it to the wound, hissing at the sting while looking either side of the desolate road.

There isn’t a single car, nor a house in sight. The emptiness of the place wasn’t really something he had paid much attention to until this moment, an inkling of regret seeping into his conscience from not having listened to his parents’ warnings not to go riding outside by himself. Sighing in defeat, Taeyong shoves the blood-stained tissue into his pocket, picking up his bike, slinging on his backpack once again, and opting to continue his journey; he’d gotten this far, so he saw no reason to turn back now, not unless he wanted to fast-track his inevitable scolding…which he certainly doesn’t.

Relief washes over Taeyong as he no sooner finds the notched pathway among the thick mane of grass. He sets down his bike at the edge of the field and strolls along the beaten trail, tall sedges stroking either side of his legs and leading him toward the same little patch of stubbly grass he’d made routine of greeting day by day. He drops his backpack to the ground, planting himself criss-cross applesauce right beside it and eagerly hauling out his comic books with a small grunt. Balancing his fancied print on a single knee, he once again dabs the bloody tissue on his wound, trying his best to ignore its persistent sting.

A yellow flower sits flattened on the page, a withered replica of those that dance around his head, marking the page he’d left off the night before. He pulls it out and delicately sets it down in the grass, allowing the wind to carry its petals somewhere far, far away along with all his seven-year-old worries as he bows his head and loses himself between the pages in his fingers.

Just for a while.

While Yuta kicks a black-and-white ball across a field, Taeyong douses himself in the zestful war of good versus evil, heated air painting his forehead with tiny beads of water that trickle down to cool his neck. While Kun perfects his trills and tenutos on ivory keys, Taeyong revels in the crescendo of action and dooming plot twists. And while Mark practices his three-pointers on the court – though it’d take him years to actually shoot a clean hoop – Taeyong embraces the final defeat of the vengeful villain, triumphing alongside the hero just as the sun brandishes its last smile for the day.

And at the end of it all, he plucks another flower from a tall stem somewhere nearby and presses it neatly between the last read pages of his nth comic, before returning home with a heart ever so heavy and saddened, bidding the field yet another inevitable goodbye.

***

A placebo. That’s what the field had been back then. And as Taeyong looks at you now, notices the relaxed lilt to your otherwise stiff posture and the small flicker of a smile on your now not-so-chapped lips, he realises that the placebo still holds strong and true.

And it indeed does, as you allow the knots in your face to relax for the first time in what feels like years. All of this was a rarity at best, with most of your evenings spent under the bright lights of your office, faced with vivacious reds and purples and silvers, all wrapped in the constant buzz of central air conditioning. And while you still haven’t a definite answer to why Taeyong had brought you to this field in the first place, you feel privileged enough that he did. Privileged to be able to bathe in the seeping warmth of the sun and breathe the soothing rustle of grass against the wind. It serves to elicit a sort of epiphany in your mind; that amidst it all, the world of fashion and fame feels so absolutely worthless.

‘Natural beauty’ is a term you’ve always chosen to steer clear from in your very fabricated life. You’ve heard it used in various contexts, thrown around in offhand and meaningless ways that never really seemed natural or beautiful at all. But the phrase seems to take on an entirely new meaning here, somehow more tangible and definite than you have ever known. This – where you are now – is a beauty coined by nature itself. No fabrications, no impressionable colours, nothing to be stitched or sewn or cut or styled just to breach the bracket of perfection. Even the clouds that seemed to have accumulated up above only play their just part of looking beautiful, and for the first time in a long, long time, you understand exactly what you need.

This.

This is what you need.

Your smile drops to a frown in an instant, eyes flickering down to your lap as your mind spirals back to your last conversation with Jaehyun from days ago.

But this is exactly what I can’t have.

Your next words fall from your lips before you’re able to help yourself, voice quiet but still so loud in the silence.

“Taeyong, do you think I’m a bitch?”

Guilt tugs itself taught in your chest at the thought, and you suddenly feel like a fraud for so much as sitting here and allowing yourself to enjoy every small wonder of this field. None of it was ever yours to enjoy in the first place. You belong in the tumbling noise of the city, amid the streets of towering skyscrapers, wrapped in eternal sheets of expensive fabrics, under the blaring flashes of fame.

Taeyong turns to you with a questioning look, eyebrows riddling with confusion upon seeing the frown on the same pair of lips that were smiling so contentedly the last minute he’d seen them. It isn’t the same frown he’s grown so used to over the preceding weeks, but one that now bares a genuine sadness to it.

He can only sigh, fingertips tingling with an unsolicited urge to reach out and tilt your chin his way as he mulls over his own thoughts. He can’t tell exactly which place your question had come from, but he’s sure he wouldn’t be too far off if he took a wild guess.

“You want my honest opinion?” Taeyong breathes out, and you can’t help but curl your knees to your chest at the thought of what’s to come.

You don’t want his honest opinion. You really don’t.

But perhaps it’s something you need.

So, you allow yourself to nod, giving him the okay to speak freely. He nods back, blinking a few times before sucking in a deep breath.

“Yeah, I think you are a bitch.”

Your head hangs low under the heavy weight of reality as it sinks deeper than you’d ever allowed it to before, and with a sorrowful nod, you allow yourself to crumble a little on the inside with Taeyong’s words. You’re not sure what you were really expecting from him with your question; you knew better than to bank on a free shower of compliments, but you certainly weren’t expecting his answer to bite and burn as much as it does now. But you suppose that in the end, he only recites the very insult you’ve been brushing off for years. But it’s only now that it truly feels justified, as if you can no longer brush it away without slipping further into its unforgiving throes, forced to accept it as it is with no sure-fire excuse to walk away.

“But I also think underneath it all – underneath the whole façade – that you’re a very likeable person.”

Taeyong hasn’t even a clue what he’s saying, the words simply leaving his mouth as naturally as his own breath mingles with the wind.

You turn to him, a bout of hesitancy in the slow blink of your eyes as you search his gaze for even just the smallest shard of deceit. You don’t find any, though it doesn’t stop your attempts to convince yourself he’d only said the latter out of pity.

“I don’t know,” you release a shallow sigh, bitter with the new sensation of complete and utter defeat. “Everyone else begs to differ.”

Taeyong eyes you sceptically.

“Everyone else, as in Jaehyun?”

“Especially him.”

“He’s an asshole, Y/n.” He shakes his head, almost annoyed at you for still allowing that cheap excuse of a man to mess with your head, even after he’d taken the liberty of opening Argent’s doors and showing his own way out.

You chuckle resentfully.

“That asshole is one of my only friends…was…my only friend.”

“Well, last time I remember, friends don’t abandon you and clype you out on national tv.”

You pause upon hearing Taeyong’s words, realising the blatant truth in them. No friend would do such a thing if they truly were a friend, and the fact that Jaehyun had done exactly what a good friend shouldn’t have…

It couldn’t have felt any more scary than it does now.

And it leaves you wondering if any of it – if any of the friendship you thought you and Jaehyun had harboured through the years – had been real in any essence. Perhaps it had been real, even just for a short while. Perhaps it had been lost in translation somewhere along the dividing paths of your careers. But it certainly doesn’t feel that way in hindsight, and friendship or not, it certainly doesn’t exist anymore.

Taeyong doesn’t avert his eyes from you, doesn’t care that the sun had finally kissed the green horizon up ahead, rather focusing on the turmoil brewing so evidently through your features.

“Tell me,” he voices out softly, not a second thought to the sureness of his words.

“What?” you ask.

“Whatever’s on your mind.” He resists the urge to reach forward and take your hand in his own, looking deeply into your eyes and finding a need somewhere deep down. A need to know the full story of you, to understand you. “Tell me whatever you want. About yourself, about Argent; everything. I’ll listen.”

You find yourself staring up at Taeyong in bewilderment, your hair batting against your cheeks, though never a bother, as you try to formulate a response to his offer, realising that this is the first time someone has asked you to share your thoughts freely. This is the first time someone truly seemed to care about something other than your fame or your fortune or every other profitable prospect in between.

This is the first time someone is willing to listen.

So, maybe it’s the soft prickle of grass at your ankles, or your vulnerability that’s now borne far beyond redemption; perhaps it’s the faint scent of flowers all around, or maybe even be the brown-haired man sitting right in the middle of them. Whatever it is – whether a combination of everything, or nothing all – it causes you to smile, yielding away your defences and bursting all your dams free for a short while.

Taeyong feels his heart swell as you begin to speak out every little thought that comes to mind. And just as he’d said, he listens. Not only to your words, but to every subtle inflection of your voice, to the rise and fall of new emotion that even you didn’t think you could express.

You’d planned to loosen the restraints just slightly, but wind up releasing the reins altogether, indulging in Taeyong’s attentive nods and hums as you paint him a vivid picture of the past he never could have imagined you to have lived.

He discovers a lot; of your father’s departure when you were merely eight years old, and the childhood you’d spent under ceaseless scrutiny thereafter. He finds out how everything from the friends you had to the clothes you wore, had been controlled under your mother’s dreadful custody. How you’d fled home at the young age of seventeen and found yourself in the city of love with not an ounce of love to give. Even less to keep.

“It was always just me, myself and I. And I hated it.” You blink ahead at the orange and pink hues among the gathered clouds, the sun now. “I guess I just wanted to break free from that trap, and I did it through fashion. And it did work. It worked wonders,” you sigh, pausing to gather your thoughts before continuing with a smile. “Opening Argent had been a fantasy come true. I’ve achieved…so much; things that were once merely a figment of my wildest dreams. I have a cupboard full of awards. Invites from Tokyo, London, Italy, Shanghai, you name it.” You find your words falling short on your tongue, replaced with a dry chuckle and a small shake of your head. “But isn’t it just so funny how years of control can spiral out in the span of a day? How everything can suddenly turn in on itself as if none of it really mattered?”

Your eyes are wistful and faraway, as is the prevailing smile on your lips, and while Taeyong wishes so badly to reciprocate the expression, he just can’t bring himself to do so. His spirits plummet ten feet underground as everything seems to click in his mind, now envisioning you in a new kind of light; something a little softer, subdued, not nearly as blinding as the spotlight you lived under.

“I don’t know, maybe I’m just being dramatic. This is showbiz after all,” you deadpan, recalling Jaehyun’s words with a sigh.

All the fame and wealth that you now have. All the esteem and praise and acclamation. You once seemed to have everything he could have only ever dreamt of; everything anyone could have ever dreamt of. A world-class fashion label and a famous title should have been enough. Designer clothing and expensive buyers, the spotlights and privilege of being ‘the world’s best and most renowned’; all of it should have been enough. But after listening to everything you had to say, Taeyong realises it never would be. That material possessions are worth nothing without the emotional sentiment that was supposed to come with them; that it’s all meaningless without someone to share and celebrate and enjoy them with. He wonders what exactly your motive had been when choosing to walk into this hectic world alone, unwilling to believe that you’d come with the intention of ending up where you are now.

Taeyong pictures a different version of you, someone written in the pages of your past, years younger than you are now. He sees a young girl with fiery passions and enough quirks to back every one of those passions with. She wasn’t perfect in the least, had many flaws to take in her stride, but she shone brighter than all the silvers in the world. She sought her dream through perseverance, never once allowing a frown to so much as grace the smile that had once sat so naturally on her face. She had so much to gain from life.

So how could she be sitting right here with a handful of losses and a shattered heart?

Taeyong wonders what exactly you had done to end up in this position but can’t seem to find an answer. You hadn’t done anything wrong. It strikes him that perhaps it was because of people like him, that people like you could never truly live the lives you’d originally planned for yourselves; perhaps it wouldn’t have been all that bad had he been more careful with his sources.

His pensive silence feels a little too tense and prolonged, causing you to grow conscious of every little confession you’d shared moments prior. You want to know what Taeyong is thinking, whether his respect for you falls any fickler in his mind now that your heart lies bared on your sleeve.

“Well, I’ve opened my gaping scars,” you announce quietly, watching him from the corner of your eye, “don’t think you’ll get away without opening yours.”

“I don’t know if I can compete with you, really,” he answers solemnly, realising the value of his own fulfilling childhood despite the downfalls.

“Well, what about that one?”

Taeyong flinches back in surprise, his thoughts interrupted by the finger you point right next to his eye.

“Sorry,” you mutter, retracting your hand back in embarrassment.

He accepts your apology with a small wave and shake of his head, amused by your sudden awkwardness as his own hand lifts to trace the scar beside his eye that you’d pointed at.

“This?” he asks, and you watch a small nostalgic smile grace his lips, nodding in response. Taeyong’s scar is something you’ve been curious about since your evening together in the Walkway Hall, and sitting so close to him once again has only served to remind you of its unique intricacy – almost as if it were there for a specific reason, carved into his skin in a sort of poetic way that only seemed fitting enough for him.

“I got this when I was really young, actually. Seven, I think?” He pouts in thought, and you don’t think he could have looked more endearing in this moment. “I was riding my bike and wasn’t looking where I was going and-”

“And you fell.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, hand lifting to sheepishly rub at the nape of his neck. “It was somewhere around this field, actually. Somewhere along the road.” He turns back briefly, pointing an aimless finger along the path of the road.

“Oh, you’ve been here before?” you ask, eyes lighting up with genuine curiosity as you sit straight, eager to know more about him.

“More times than I can count.” Taeyong’s his smile grows wider in fond recollection, and you feel another bout of goosebumps rise on your skin as if you too can somehow feel the strength of the memory that so clearly flashes through his mind. “Comic books were my religion,” he chuckles, “and this field was my second home. I used to come here almost every day and just read until sundown.”

How nice it must have been, you wonder to yourself, eyes sparkling with mental image of a seven-year-old boy sitting in solitude among the grass with a book in his hands. You almost wish you could have met him all those years ago, talked with him until the sun no longer smiled down upon you.

“In fact, it was when the sun was setting that…” his voice fades away as he turns his head to you, a soft pang flaring in his chest as he watches your eyes glint with little remaining arch of the sun, your skin aglow with a hue of warm orange. You turn to him with a bright smile, and it’s only now that he realises the erratic beating of his heart beneath his ribcage, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I was…distracted by the sunset. That’s how I fell that day.”

“I can understand why,” you mumble, turning back to the field and allowing yourself to breathe in the final golden glow before it settles below the grass. “It’s stunning.”

“Always has been,” Taeyong croons, gaze still trained on your soft eyes, trailing down to the natural curvature of your lips, wondering if they’d feel as soft as they now look.

He finds himself overcome with emotion, wanting to inch closer to you, to embrace you in his arms and slide the cool tips of his fingers between the warm gaps of yours. He wants so badly to be able to rest his chin on your shoulder, nuzzle his nose into your neck and listen to the perfect melody of your voice for hours, to read and make sense of all your thoughts like his very own fascinating comic from all those years ago.

God, he wants to kiss you.

Right here, among the soft whispering of the wind, Taeyong wants to hold you tight and stroke your cheek and let you know everything will be alright.

He sighs, wondering if you feel the same way, if you’ve ever felt an inkling of what he’s feeling in this moment, watching as you tilt your head up to the sky.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” you sigh, blinking up and following the clouds as they glide swiftly into one another among the turquoise of the sky. They’re a lot larger now, darker too in combination of the lacking sun and a natural greyness. “We should go.”

“Wait,” Taeyong catches your wrist momentarily, preventing you from standing as he reaches another hand into his pocket.

He pulls out a familiar-looking strip of silver fabric, pinching it by the ends and holding it up to the sky. You eye him, confused, eyebrows furrowing at his bizarre gesture before squinting up at the fabric. You tilt your head watching it curiously as it stands out brightly among the dull clouds, trying to make sense of its significance up in the sky. But a faint rumble of thunder has your eyes widening in realisation, the meaning of his actions striking you as brashly as the following clap of thunder.

Chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent. Every cloud has a silver lining.

You turn to Taeyong with a look of shimmering wonder, beaming along with the warm sensation that flowers in your chest as he regards you with all the world’s sincerity in his eyes.

“Don’t ever forget it,” he murmurs softly, compelling you never to leave his eyes, hoping his words hug you as warmly as his body aches to do so in this moment, unknowing that you feel his overwhelming comfort with every heavy breath that leaves you. He uncurls your palm and places the fabric on your hand, smiling at your curious gaze. “It’s yours. You dropped it last week, so I kept it safe for you.”

You nod, suddenly jolting in place as the sky suddenly resounds with another roar of thunder, the wind angrily whisking through the grass and picking up your hair in its path.

“Okay, but we really should get going before it starts to pour.” Taeyong scrambles to his feet, offering you his hand which you gratefully take. Your mind spins astir as he doesn’t let go of your palm, leading you to the car you’d seen parked on the roadside earlier and opening the passenger door with a nod of his head for you to sit inside.

“Oh no, it’s okay, I’ll just wait for Charlie to come and take me home.” You step back with a polite shake of your head, digging around your bag for your phone to contact said man.

Taeyong clicks his tongue, hips leaning back into the cool metal of his car, an amused grin tugging at one side of his mouth as he watches your triumphant expression upon finding your phone.

“Charlie’s not coming,” he declares, hands crossing over his chest.

“What do you mean, he’s not coming?” you eye him suspiciously.

“I mean,” Taeyong leans forward, “that he’s not coming.”

“So, what? Do you plan on taking me home? In your own car?” you ask, puzzled by the cocky raise of his eyebrows.

“Ten only arranged a ride for you to get here, so yes, I do plan on taking you home. In my own car. You got a problem with that, miss fashion fabulous?” Taeyong tilts is head to the side and you huff in response, the nickname causing your eyes to once again find their customary place at the back of your skull.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Well,” he pushes himself off the car, taking a step forward, “I’m your only way home right now, so either you get in my car, or…” he pauses and looks up, your gaze following his to find a growing realm of angry, ashen clouds rumbling with the profession of their next intentions, bouts of white electricity flashing between their overlapping shadows.

And with that, you don’t utter another word, helping yourself inside the passenger seat of Taeyong’s car and snatching the door from his grip to slam it shut. You have no intention of being left alone in the middle of nowhere to be soaked in the rain, that’s for sure.

Taeyong only chuckles to himself with a fond shake of his head, jogging around and finding his place in the driver’s seat just as the first drizzles of rain adorn themselves delicately through his hair.

Y/n [8:06pm]: thank you for today

Y/n [8:06pm]: the field was nice

Y/n [8:06pm]: the sunset too

Taeyong [8:07pm]: what’s your take on Ferris wheels?

Y/n [8:07pm]: ???

Y/n [8:07pm]: that’s not random at all

Taeyong [8:07pm]: for educational purposes :D

Y/n [8:07pm]: I don’t know

Y/n [8:07pm]: I’ve never been on a Ferris wheel before

Taeyong [8:07pm]: 😱😱😱

Taeyong [8:07pm]: the disrespect

Y/n [8:08pm]: I was trying to thank you for today but I guess I’ll take it back or something 🙄

Taeyong [8:08pm]: you’re welcome

Y/n [8:08pm]: too late, Sonic

Taeyong [8:08pm]: you underestimate my speed

Y/n [8:08pm]: is that so?

Taeyong [8:08pm]: tomorrow 7pm, be ready

Taeyong [8:08pm]: weren’t expecting that now were you 😏

Y/n [8:08pm]: you’re not slick :/

Y/n [8:09pm]: but why? What’s happening tomorrow?

Taeyong [8:09pm]: curious, are we?

Y/n [8:09pm]: I think I made that abundantly clear

Taeyong [8:09pm]: well…

Y/n [8:09pm]: well…?

Taeyong [8:09pm]: I guess you’ll have to wait and see~~

VIII. A *Bit* of Fun

You had tried with all your might, must have spent a good hour the previous night mulling and fussing over where exactly Taeyong was to take you this time. After having taken you to the field, you had decided that this man was as whimsical and unpredictable as they ever came. In the end, you were left clueless, tossing and turning through your muss of bedsheets with a little too much to lick your lips over (and use Taeyong’s lip balm to soothe the dryness thereafter). You had not a clue as to where you were expecting to end up the next day. All the of New York’s most prized attractions graced your mind, but none of those locations seemed to be remotely feasible for two of the industry’s most well-known faces to be seen together in.

So, it certainly came as a huge surprise when you’d found yourself standing in front of a dart-throwing stall in the middle of a fairground, with what feels like half the world’s population ambling around you in every which direction.

“Of all places,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything else, voice muffled by the mask that Taeyong had previously handed you in the car – your public incognito, as per his exact words. You adjust the scratchy material on your face, still absorbing the exorbitant glow of tube lights all around you and the indistinct conversation buzzing through the night air with the occasional rumble of roller coaster tracks in the distance.

“You do realise we have a fashion show to attend in eight days,” you turn to Taeyong, unable to gauge his expression save for the crinkle beside his eyes, absentmindedly following as he strides closer to the stall, “the biggest one of the season, may I add.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you have anything better to do locked indoors?” he deadpans, his scar glowing with the golden light as he glances up to the pricing board before turning to you.

“I could have for all you know,” you bite back, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a child, unwilling to admit your petty defeat in this argument.

“I don’t think a pity party for one counts, love. We’ll take ten, please.” Taeyong doesn’t spare you a glance, rather handing a five-dollar bill to the stall vendor in exchange for a handful of darts. You stare at him in disbelief, the nickname burning holes in your mind with the flush that burns your cheeks, and you couldn’t be more thankful for the mask to hide it away from the world.

“Taeyong, I swear if we get caught-”

“We won’t,” he interrupts, tapping a deliberate finger at his mask. “Besides, I think you deserve to have a little fun before the show,” he plucks a dart from the pile in his hand and holds it out to you with a tilt of his head, “Don’t you?”

You don’t reply, eyeing the pointed object with scepticism drawn between your brows. In plain honesty, you’ve never touched a dart in your life. The only sharps you’ve ever had to handle have come in the form of sewing needles, fabric clamps or garment pins; never darts.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to throw a dart?” Taeyong’s eyes widen with incredulity.

“Of course I know how to throw a dart,” you scoff, eyes mimicking his own while snatching the dart from his hand, refusing to back down in the face of yet another one-up from him. Of all the things you’ve accomplished thus far in life, this surely couldn’t be such a hard feat to strive for.

Taeyong grabs you by the shoulders, turning you to the rows of balloons beyond the counter.

“If you pop more than eight balloons, you get a prize.”

You nod resolutely, eyes narrowing in on a red balloon in the middle of the board while lifting the dart in front of your eyes. Angling your wrist meticulously, you draw a mental beeline from the dart to the balloon, pulling your wrist back and launching it forward. Your keen expression falls as fast as the dart as you watch it plunge into the ground, turning grouchily to one very amused Taeyong who snickers all too blatantly at your expense.

“That was a practice run,” you shoot him a your most convincing scowl (which probably isn’t very convincing at all under the mask), holding a palm out for another dart which he gives you all too happily. You take a deep breath, lungs filling with the heady aroma of sweet and salty popcorn from the stall just across, lifting your hand once again and this time angling your wrist a little lower than before. Why exactly you feel the need to show your strongest mettle in such a measly little game is beyond you, but if there’s one thing you’d commend yourself on, it’s your determination, and you’re not lacking an ounce of it in this moment.

You throw the dart, huffing as it ricochets off board and lands once again on the ground with a flat thud. Taeyong’s laughter follows even louder this time, incredibly melodious yet so very extremely infuriating at the same time.

“Alright then, if you’re so good, why don’t you go ahead and try?”

“My pleasure,” he chuckles, crinkles still decorating the side of his eyes as he takes a dart, lifts his wrist and throws it forward, all while maintaining eye contact with you as if it were the easiest thing to do in the world.

You’re left to watch the way his cheeks rise under the mask as the damn balloon bursts, your own jaw pulled down in confused shock.

“How-”

“It’s called practice.”

You can’t see Taeyong’s face, but you’re positive if you reached forward and pulled down his mask, that smug grin would be stretched wide across it – in fact, there’s no need to pull it down when you’re practically able to imagine it there yourself.

“I can help you if you want…” he trails off, a suggestive lilt to his voice that rubs your stubborn temperament the wrong way, prompting an adamant shake of your head and as you once again hold out your hand. “Another one please.”

The next six turns are spent with a gradually diminishing morale accompanied by defensive utterances to excuse your clear ineptitude for the game. In the end, you manage to score three balloons, one of which had burst purely by some inexplicable coincidence. Taeyong on the other hand enjoys himself all too thoroughly, delighting so much in your concentrated stares and irked huffs, that when you turn to him wide-eyed with a hand emptied of darts, he can’t help but present you with another bundle of ten.

No wonder she made it this far, he thinks to himself, admiring the drive that came in the form of your cinched eyebrows and stolid posture, unwavering as you still somehow continue to miss your newly appointed blue target.

“You know, you always go on about how I’m so stiff, but have you ever realised how stiff you are?” he muses aloud, testing the waters while stepping slightly closer to you.

“I’m stiff because I have to be stiff, it’s my job,” you mutter back inattentively with one eye winking shut in focus, far too absorbed in reacquiring your target.

“We’re at a fair, Y/n.”

You gasp, unsure whether it’s from the fact that Taeyong had just spoken your name in public, or from the coolness of his fingers wrapping around the dorsal of your hand. You’re unable to control the goosebumps that flourish over your skin as his other hand cups your shoulder, your breath hitching as he lowers his head beside your own, so close that you can feel his stray hairs tickling your temple with every puff of the cool breeze.

“You don’t have to be stiff here.”

He’s so close that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you, his hand sliding down to the exposed skin of your wrist, pressing softly into the bone.

“Loosen up.”

You can only pray that your mask doesn’t make your shaky breaths more noticeable as you gulp down the sudden urge to turn your head toward Taeyong, far too afraid of diving head-first into something far beyond your boundaries.

You suddenly blink as a loud pop resounds from ahead, eyes shifting to find the dart no longer secured between your thumb and forefinger, the balloon now nothing but a limp scatter of blue latex shards on the ground.

“See? Simple, right?” Perhaps it was the loud burst that makes Taeyong’s voice sound softer than before, or perhaps he really had lowered his voice. You can’t tell either way over your growing pulse under his still grip on your wrist. When he lets go and stands straight, your eyes fall shut for a second, a silent breath of relief leaving your lips and warming your cheeks.

You don’t allow your mind the liberty to drown in your growing whirlpool of thoughts, questions and emotions, hands rather working by themselves to grasp another dart and flippantly fling it forward with no particular drive. To your surprise, it strikes a yellow balloon square in the middle with the loud, refreshing pop.

You snap your neck to Taeyong, eyes growing wide with a newfound excitement as he claps loudly, a wide smile taking over his features.

“I didn’t even try!” you shriek out in joy, arms moving in animatedly haphazard gestures, and Taeyong swears this is the first time he’s heard a real giggle from you. You throw another dart, still paying no attention whatsoever to the angle of your wrist or the position of your feet, yelping loudly as another balloon pops. “Hah! Did you see that? Two in a row!”

Taeyong laughs at the little bounce in the balls of your feet as you continue with the rest of the darts, eyes dancing affectionately over the image that is you.

Truly you.

It feels so surreal to him, having the privilege of witnessing the unfolding of such guiltless excitement, finally unearthed from deep within the person he’d once sworn was far too stuck-up to feel any emotions at all. He finds it so peculiar and endearing all at once that such a small achievement could bring the light to your eyes like nothing else in the world; that it really doesn’t take much to make you happy, and all you really need is a little freedom from the image the world makes you out to be.

You wind up with a grand total of eight clean balloon strikes, a little too gratified when picking out the largest purple teddy bear – that isn’t really as large as it sounds. Far too high in the clouds, you waste no time in dragging Taeyong to almost every stall in the fairground as if you were the one who left him hanging by a thread the night before.

And if there’s one thing that Taeyong realises while watching you fish for rubber ducks in a makeshift pond, it’s that you look extremely pretty when you work, but you look even prettier when you’re having fun. He also realises that you’re among the lucky ones when it comes to rigged carnival games….and that you’d wholeheartedly fight the world just to get your hands on the last scoop of green tea ice cream (thankfully there was no bloodshed since the child standing in front of you decided to change her mind to rainbow fairy floss in the end).

Being able to walk around in public without a bodyguard to tag closely behind, or the constant buzz of paparazzi and their blinding cameras; it felt absolutely divine. Like a breath of fresh air that everyone deserves to experience at least once in their lives. But as the universe would have it, peacefully indulging in an ice cream is a code red situation that not even the shrewdest of celebrities could ploy their way around. So as per Taeyong’s admittedly genius idea, you find yourself standing in the queue of the Ferris wheel with napkins painted in sticky swirls of green and brown (he opted for chocolate; a very predictable choice, you think), distracted by the squeals of children sliding down the Helter Skelter on the far right.

“So, this is why you asked me about my take on Ferris wheels yesterday,” you hum, head tipped back to welcome the bright shimmer of the multicoloured carriage lights bringing life to the navy-tipped sky.

“A speedy observation indeed,” Taeyong teases, nodding for you to enter a newly emptied carriage before climbing in himself and thanking the operator who secures it shut.

You sigh contentedly as the carriage rises and stops for the next few passengers, allowing yourself to embrace the butterflies that flit beneath your ribcage with an exhilarated sort of nervousness. You pull the mask off your face, relieved to be concealed in a dark enough space from the rest of the world, left alone for a while with the soft strokes of evening air cupping your cheeks and a nice scoop of your favourite ice cream to melt on your tongue.

You’re unable to control the small smile that tugs at your lips as you catch Taeyong’s gaze from across you. The stupid grin slapped across his face causes yours to widen, followed by a small giggle, which Taeyong tops with his own frivolous laughter, and soon enough you’re both surrounded by the echoes of your own fit of hysterics, no rhyme or reason to the wide smiles and slitted eyes.

“Why are you laughing?” you ask between giggles.

“I don’t know, why are you laughing?” Taeyong titters back.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, hunching over to compose yourself with a hand pressed to your chest, taking a deep breath and turning to the view from your newly heightened angle. You have never really understood why people would willingly come to such places. Why would one allow themselves to be enticed by futile prizes at the cost of an absurd amount of money and by-chance luck?

But as you look down now, you see a multitude of familial relationships gone right, illuminated by the golden glow of scattered lighting around the fairground. You see couples with entwined fingers, swaying together in queues and proudly pecking each other’s cheeks at game stalls. You see children, starstruck and ever-dazed by the very prospect of thrill rides, tugging at their parents’ sleeves and bestowed with peerless amounts of benign love. Everything seems to make a lot more sense as you realise all of this is done for the experience between people; friends, families, partners and lovers. For the emotion and the connections and all the combined energy to present itself in the form of love and laughter.

“So…” You almost miss Taeyong’s voice as it somehow blends in fluidly with the white noise beyond your little sky cubby. “This was…fun. You had fun, right?”

“Hmm,” you hum playfully, eyes trained upwards in ingenuine thought.

“Oh, don’t even lie to yourself,” Taeyong scoffs.

You smile, taking a pensive bite of your cone. “I guess I had a bit of fun.”

“Uh huh,” he murmurs, eyes fixated on the tote bag beside you overflowing with prized plushies and miscellaneous stuffed animals you’d both ruthlessly won.

“Okay, maybe I had quite a bit of fun,” you chuckle, taking another bite of your ice cream.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he smiles, eyes peering unwaveringly into your own, and it’s only now that you grow conscious to the sensation of his knees softly brushing your own, his head resting back against the glass, and a dazed expression that finds a muse somewhere deep within your being.

You mirror Taeyong with a contended sigh, relishing in the tickle of his knees while finishing off the remainder of your ice cream. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, the lights beyond casting a shifting pageant of shadows over his velvety features, silvering the soft ends of his windswept hair. In this moment, you think Taeyong looks like a piece of art, some rare specimen that you’d only expect to find in a gallery; something you’d approach and have no choice but to fall hypnotised by, placated and inspired to the fine point of no return.

You realise it’s starting to become increasingly hard to evade the blithe air that engulfs you whenever in Taeyong’s presence. It would simply be an act of pettiness to deny something so apparent to both you and him. You can’t recall the last time you’d had even an ounce of the fun you’ve had collecting horrifyingly lurid plushies this very evening, or the last time your cheeks had ached from smiling so naturally in the span of a few hours.

You tilt your head in thought, eyes shifting once more to Taeyong’s hair, lips twitching up at the bright outline of it.

You’ve brought your silver linings to the world through Argent, always made sure that every stitch was perfect to a fault, that the sky was clear of clouds wherever you dared set foot.

In the one time when your world had taken a dark turn – the one moment you needed a silver lining to guide you through the rough – Taeyong had stepped in and shed a warm light to the other side. Perhaps he was that silver lining you needed all along, and all it had taken was you walking right under those dark clouds to realise it.

“Come to my place after this.” Your words slip under command of a momentary whim, your mind suddenly alight with a new kind of motivation.

“Come to your what?” Taeyong chokes out, surprised by your unexpected statement.

“My apartment,” you nod resolutely, moving to secure your mask back on your face as the carriage approaches the ground once again.

“For what?” he asks, securing his own mask too, the genuine perplexity in both his voice and expression rather amusing to you now as you simply smile back.

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

IX. Give Yourself a Break

When you said you’d take Taeyong to your apartment, the last thing he’d expected was to be standing in the middle of your living room among a flurry of smooth jazz, wearing the very outfit he was to show off to the world in eight days. But to his pleasant surprise, the ensemble consists of the most comfortable set of fabrics he’d ever worn – and probably the most abundant too, he realises, as beads of sweat bloom at the roots of his hair.

On the very inside, Taeyong wears a thin dark blue turtleneck woven from the finest organic cotton money could buy. On top of it is a crisp, white oversized dress shirt held together by a matching navy tie. And on top of that is a navy jacket complete with a matching set of pants; greens, oranges and ceruleans seeping into the navy cloth, hand-painted so strategically that the third person would assume it to have been tie-dyed. Argent’s logo decorates every free space in a black paint that shimmers hypnotizingly under the scintillate lighting above. To top it all off, is the signature strip of silver running down the right sleeve of the jacket and the left leg of the pants.

“You’d think your shoulders would be smaller than Jaehyun’s,” you mutter, examining the two-and-a-half extra centimetres on the measuring tape held across Taeyong’s shoulders, before hanging it back around your neck, “I guess not.” You take the initiative to slip the jacket from his shoulders, clearly in your working element as you walk back to your dining table and remeasure the material, “thank goodness I started with a few extra centimetres of fabric.”

Taeyong doesn’t know whether to be offended or flattered by your offhand comments, but he quite frankly can’t bring himself to care, far too distracted by the sheer magnificence of your penthouse despite having spent the last hour inside of it. He’s still awed by the modern lighting that hangs high from ceilings, stunned by the roof-length windows that present a panorama of New York City at its prime hour, the fresh downpour beyond the glass bathing his ears in its soothing rumbles.

He takes a sip of the wine you’d poured for him, its sour tingle and sweet taste a perfect complement to the comforting ambience, eyes relaxed and travelling to the empty cardboard take-out boxes scattered across the dining table.

That was yet another unexpected turn of the evening; being wined by the world’s greatest fashion designer who apparently also likes to dine at the local Chinese take-away from across the street.

He then allows his eyes to fall on you, the most awestriking object in this room.

He watches you – every part of you – and doesn’t let himself look away, committing you into his memory like never before. He’s seen you work at Argent; steadfast in your movements, perfect posture, never a crease in your brow. But now, it feels as if a barrier has been torn down between that version of you and the person that sits before him now; your hands moving with a certain delicacy as you fold the material, not a single care in the world for the slight hunch in your back, and a very unfettered crease in your brow as you blow away stray hairs from your bun.

Yes, Taeyong had once wondered why you had chosen the life you currently live, but it’s no longer a question in his mind now; a statement rather, for which all evidence is presented in the very subject of his gaze.

“Great! I think we’re just about finished.”

Taeyong shifts his eyes as you walk back brightly, handing him the jacket for a final trial, which he slips on easily.

“Good?”

“Perfect,” he smiles back, relishing in the relieved expression that washes over you as you dust your hands in accomplishment. “But wasn’t this supposed to be your break period?” Taeyong pointedly raises an eyebrow.

“Listen, I’ve been breaking,” you lift your fingers in quotation marks, “for the last two days, and that’s more than enough time for me to slowly go insane.” You accentuate your point with a long, hard swing of your wine, gulping it down to its last drop and finishing with a hiss. “See? Who drinks wine like that? A madwoman, that’s who.” You cross your arms over your chest, your stubborn pout melting into a smile with the swarm of butterflies the erupt in your chest as you watch Taeyong hunch over in boisterous laughter, hypnotised by the dazzle of his smile along with the shimmer of the suit.

“You’re insane,” he snickers, sighing as his laughter dies down.

And you’re beautiful, you think back, not a single question to pose against the decided fact, though you try your best to conceal the epiphany with your nonchalant words. “Yeah, and the whole world knows it. Now go change before you crease the fabric.”

Taeyong snorts out loud, sauntering down the hallway with a small shake of his head and a hand ruffling through his hair – which you had previously tried your best to style to somewhat match the outfit (though it’s not your forte to put it lightly). Taeyong pushes his way into the bathroom, still not yet acquainted to its colossal size and the absolute shine of the marbled floor tiles. The view of city had seemed to follow him there, still twinkling in all its nocturnal glory through the tall glass window behind the jacuzzi tub upon which his clothes hang.

It’s all but a sight for sore eyes, but Taeyong doesn’t allow himself to admire it for a second longer, abruptly turning to the mirror, fingers clutching the edge of the counter as he properly examines himself, awestricken at the man that stares back at him. Never before had he thought an outfit could suit him so well, and you are the only person he can accredit for that. He softly smiles to himself, appreciating the sheer talent of a being that you are, so committed to anything and everything you set your mind you – even a game as small as darts would light the match within you ablaze with passion.

But his smile falls in an instant as his eyes drop to the dual sinks – one surrounded with various lotions, perfumes and a make-up accessories, while the other is completely empty; surrounded by nothing but unused space, all covered in a thin layer of dust. The contrast is simply far too existent to ignore, and it frustrates Taeyong to all uncontrollable ends, his frown deepening sorely as his eyes close with a shake of his head.

No wonder she’s so lonely, he thinks. Working all day on designer clothes, cooped up from twilight until dusk in her office, feared to the bone by her employees and framed for all the wrong reasons. And all of that, only to come home to this: a dual sink that only can’t serve its true purpose. A bottle of wine that only she can pop open and pour into a glass. And yet she somehow still keeps going. Even on her break.

Taeyong meets his own eyes in the mirror, jaw clenching with a certain overcoming power, not wasting a single moment before lurching himself toward the door. His eyebrows furrow as he steps out into the hallway, bathed in a newfound darkness that now blankets the entirety of the apartment. He steps forward, wondering if you’ve already gone to bed, though the jazz music that still floats gently by his ears testifies against the notion.

Taeyong turns into the living room, stopped in his tracks by the silhouette standing before the glass that separates her from the world beyond.

You stand at the edge of the glass, fingertip pressed to the top of the highest building, eyes alit with the glimmer of the infamous Big Apple showered in a dazzling patter of rain. The view had caught your eye moments before, compelling you to close the lights and awe before it.

It has truly been a while since you had admired it to its full extent, inhaled the breathtaking kaleidoscope of skyscrapers at their glorious heights and the sparkling lights of the streets. The last time you had properly smiled at this view was years ago, with your elbow slipping dazedly from the window ledge of your tiny studio apartment, if one could even call it that. You’d sat by that window, having just shaken hands with a crestfallen model outside of Vogue building, and an assistant who went by the curious name of a number. You’d watched this view every day from a distance that was much further away than now, when it all seemed like a mere prospect, as did your character.

Purchasing the penthouse you stand in now had brought you all too close to the city, you’ve realised. This view had somehow become a routine part of your daily life, lost somewhere between the absentminded glances and fatigued muscles after a long workday, brushed aside along the way and forgotten as easily as every bright flash of a camera on the street.

You’re happy to find the same previous contentment in this view from up so close. Perhaps it isn’t even remotely the same. But it is still contentment, nonetheless.

“Aren’t you tired?”

The glass fogs slightly as you release a breathy chuckle in response to the low murmur behind you.

“Do you usually go to bed this early?”

“No, Y/n,” there’s a quiet pause, filled only with a soothing piano and quiet footsteps approaching forward, “I mean…aren’t you exhausted with your life?”

Head turning to the side, you see Taeyong’s silhouette standing in your periphery, silent and expectant of your answer. You gulp involuntarily, all too heedful of the single affirmation that should have fallen from your mouth, though you don’t allow yourself to speak it.

“Excuse me?” you reply, voice hesitant and breathy. The music evaporates in an instant, leaving the air void with a jarring silence, still among the heavy sigh that leaves Taeyong. You stiffen as you feel his presence behind you, electricity shooting through your body as his warm fingers brush your own from behind. You attempt to turn around, but the squeeze of his hand around your palm stops you, thawing your frosted skin and holding you in place as if to say, “it’s okay, be still.”

Your breath leaves you in trembling exhales, chest rising and falling heavily with a boundless rush of goosebumps, butterflies thrashing violently in your chest as your heart rate rises.

“Locking yourself in your office morning to night. Always being the perfect one in the crowd. Building all these walls around yourself, confining your entire personality inside them. It must be so exhausting.” Taeyong’s voice just above a whisper, your eyes training on the brightest window you can find among the galaxy of them twinkling in the city, if only to drown his voice out with the soft murmur of the rain.

“I’ve worked too hard to be tired now,” you reply, voice just as silent as his.

“You need to give yourself a break.”

“I’m already on a break.”

“And yet, here I am wearing one of your hand stitched coats.”

You don’t respond to him. You’re not sure how to respond, when all that that leaves Taeyong’s lips is an irrefutable fact, causing you to gulp once more as you realise that he’s right.

And you’re very wrong.

“Here you are,” he breathes, “still worrying about that godforsaken fashion show.”

You lips part, all but ready to deny Taeyong’s words, though you don’t have the chance to as his voice falls to a whisper.

“With this godforsaken bun.”

You feel the tightness at your scalp loosen suddenly, chest rising shakily as your hair cascades down the flushed skin of your cheeks. You’re left light-headed and faint with the sharp exhale that leaves you as you turn around to face Taeyong only to stumble back, startled by the sheer proximity between you and him. His fingers only tighten around your own, your other hand pressing behind you into the cool glass, sending a throttling shiver through you that feels all but electrifying as you meet Taeyong’s eyes.

They sparkle so beautifully in the dark; a mesmerising mirror reflecting the bright lights behind your shoulders, so alluring you would foolishly relinquish every part of yourself if only to stare into them for an eternity longer. Allow yourself to drown in them, along with the heady scent of pinot that heavily fans your cheeks.

“What are you…” you whisper, lost of your words while looking down to your hands as Taeyong’s fingers push through their gaps, his palm pressing firmly, warmly, against yours. “What are you doing, Taeyong?” You look back up, nose brushing softly against his.

“You look gorgeous like this,” he ignores you. “With your hair down.” His other hand lifts to your hair, knuckles softly stroking along your locks. “You look beautiful when you’re playing darts…and tossing bean bags…and eating ice cream. When you’re not constantly worrying.” You feel the warmth of his forehead against yours, his hair tickling your cheeks as they find comfort in the slide of his palm against your blooming skin.

“I-”

“Just stop,” he breathes, the phantom of his lips finding yours in a sweet tickle, “stop worrying.”

You want to process the moment, you want to understand why it’s becoming increasingly hard to stay level in the time and space of this moment. But your inhibitions fall away as you close your eyes, a whispered profession of “okay” falling short with the press of Taeyong’s lips to yours.

He exhales and you blossom under his soft touch, finally relinquishing every fibre of your being to the man you’d never thought would accept it. Taeyong’s lips are gentle, a perfect match for yours, reassuring and tantalising all at once. His hand slides to the curve of your back and yours to his cheek, his fingers burning through the fabric of your blouse and yours cool and refreshing on his skin, tracing the scar by his eye as he pulls you closer. Impossibly closer. So close that you feel it all once more; the sturdy plain of muscle in his arms, his chest, his shoulders. The protection of his embrace and the inebriating balm of his cologne, the blazing slip of his hand under your shirt; you allow yourself to feel it all at once.

All sensation of worry is lost in Taeyong’s lips, fading with every whispered profession that follows you to the pathway of your bedroom. He shows you how wonderful it can be to forget the world for a while, to lose yourself in the softness of his hair and in every newly discovered tattoo etched into smooth of his skin. He calls you beautiful more times than you’d ever heard before, admires every part of you with in all five senses until you both find yourself wrapped under the warm, white covers of your duvet, foreheads pressed together and eyes once again falling shy of each other’s gaze.

“It looks like a rose,” you murmur into the silence, the cotton of Taeyong’s shirt comforting against your skin, rain still beating soothingly against the windows as your fingers once more trace along Taeyong’s scar.

“Yeah?” he hums, eyes hooded and soft on your own, a corner of those pretty lips turning up in a small smile, “I never thought of it that way.”

Am I in love with him?

You furrow your eyebrows as the thought graces your mind unexpectedly, so sudden – almost as if it were natural – that your smile falls in an instant with the all-consuming, fluttery pang in your chest. Your cheeks feel warm and florid against pillow as you watch Taeyong frown in question toward you.

“You okay?” he asks worriedly, hand brushing the hair from your cheek, replaced with soft pad of his thumb that only strokes a fresh layer of heat into your skin.

“Yeah,” you shake your head, eyes blinking rapidly in a mix of nerves and giddiness, “yeah just…thirsty, I guess.”

“Well now that you mention it, so am I,” Taeyong muses, lifting the covers from himself and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“It’s okay, I can get it-”

“I’m already halfway there, babe.” He looks back to you with a smirk, before turning and leaving you to watch him sauntering out the door, cheeks so hot you swear you might be coming down with a fever or something.

“Babe?” you whisper to yourself, an idiotic smile tugging your cheeks so uncontrollably high, you’re forced to pull the covers all the way up to your nose to suppress the small giggle that leaves you. “My god.” You lift your hands to cover your face, the giddy smile refusing to escape you at any cost, praying that Taeyong somehow gets lost along the way if only to buy you more time to calm yourself before he returns.

Embarrassingly enough, he had somehow found himself in the utility room before finding your kitchen, squinting as his hands finally reach for the very inconveniently located light switch. He’s beginning to realise that everything in your penthouse is either four times larger or four times more expensive than the average apartment. Unsurprisingly, your kitchen checks full-clear in both departments, and it leaves him scratching his head as to which drawer to begin scavenging for two pathetic little glasses.

Luck finds him with the sixth handle he pulls back. He plucks out two shiny, clear glasses and fills them at the sink, noticing two of the very same glasses sitting prettily in the dish rack beside it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, closing the tap and lifting the filled glasses. He perks up at the sound of a notification bell in the distance.

It must be important if they’re texting so late at night, he thinks to himself, setting down the glasses and walking to the living room where the sound had come from. He finds his phone on the sofa, the small device emitting its blue light into the darkness of the room as he picks it up, squinting down at the message.

Kim Heechul

6 Text Messages

Taeyong feels his heart sink upon seeing the man’s name, chest pulled taught with a foreboding tension as he reluctantly unlocks the phone. His pupils shrink further and further with every letter that meets them, Adam’s apple catching in his neck.

Heechul [12:02am]: I see you’ve earned yourself a fanbase

Heechul [12:02am]: Though I don’t recall fame ever being part of our deal

“Fuck,” Taeyong breathes out, collapsing onto the couch with a hand scooping back his unkempt locks, his mind beginning to cloud with a suffocating bout of anxiety.

Heechul [12:02am]: One week, Taeyong, that’s all you’ve got before the show

Heechul [12:03am]: I expect that article to be on my desk ready for publishing the day after

Heechul [12:03am]: The money is only yours if the job is done right

Heechul [12:03am]: Do not forget your place

Taeyong sighs heavily, another whispered curse leaving him as his eyes fall shut with the prickling throb taking over his chest. It seems he truly had forgotten his place.

He hasn’t laid a finger on the article in the last fortnight, his laptop all but a forgotten clunk of metal in the corner of his room after he’d plunged himself neck-deep in all the preparations and practice for Argent’s segment at New York Fashion Week. A page and a half of quarter-truths and impulsive spleens is all the article had made itself to be thus far; nowhere close to the usual quota of words, and even further away from the reality of all mentioned points.

“I thought you were getting water.”

Taeyong hurriedly clicks his phone off, turning to see you standing in the hallway, cruel guilt dousing through his entire being as he tries not to lose himself in the stunning image of you wearing his white button-up shirt.

“What are you doing here? The kitchen is that way,” you ask, an endearingly confused expression twisting through your features as you point a finger over your shoulder.

“I, uhhh,” he blinks, mind falling blank as he scans the room for an excuse, “the city,” he points to the windows, “I got distracted.”

It pains him to see the way your eyes momentarily fall shut with a light chuckle, how your feet patter lightly across the floor toward him along with the rain, the way your hand softens the frustrated tousle of his hair.

“That wine sure got to your head, didn’t it?” you giggle softly, sighing at the velvety tickle of his hair.

How can it be so soft, you wonder, cloud nine far surpassed, and for the time being you’re all but willing to let your head rest up high amongst the bliss of here and now, unbeknownst of the monsters that gnaw at Taeyong’s every thought.

She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve this at all.

“Maybe you got to my head.” Taeyong lifts his head to gaze up at you, your hand slipping naturally to his cheek in slow, soothing circles as you lean down closer to him, his nose tickling your own.

“Oh, and what if I said you got to mine?”

Taeyong doesn’t answer you, instead allowing himself to drown in the halo of city stars glowing around the shimmering wisps of your messed hair. He feels the plunge of his heart growing faster, deeper, as your soft lips press forward onto his own, the familiar strawberry balm finding his tastebuds in a torturously aching dulce.

And your smile. Your beautiful smile.

It lifts perfectly against his mouth, lost in the feeling of him without a single worry to snatch it away, and it’s in this moment that Taeyong decides he cannot let that smile fall. He can’t bring himself to do such a thing to you. Not yet.

He wraps his arms around you, as strong and true as they can possibly be in a moment as false as this. Pushing the spiralling disquietude away from his mind, Taeyong pulls you closer to himself instead, relishing in your scent and the soft tickle of your hair on his temples. He allows his mind to fade away with every impartment of candour gifted from the tips of your fingers to his own, a final thought bleeding through the white of his conscience as it slowly slips from his grasp.

Not yet.

X. Who Am I Really Kidding?

Your three days of incarceration couldn’t have flown past you any quicker. Well, perhaps incarceration isn’t the word that immediately springs to mind now – perhaps a personal rejuvenation scheme would best describe it – as you once again immerse yourself in the lively chorus of frantic questions and invigorating scraping of hangers on and off clothing racks. It was well-deserved too, considering you haven’t felt more alive than you do in this very moment; empowered by the fresh click of your own heels against Argent’s floors, and the adrenaline flowing freely through every vessel in your body.

Preparations for the show are at an all-time high, fast, and furious and seemingly never-ending as the hours roll swiftly into gainful days. Your stresses now stem solely from Ten’s ghastly reports of seam slips and ill-fitting clothes on models (yes, sizes magically change at the last minute, and, no, you still haven’t cracked that case yet.). But it’s something you secretly couldn’t be more thankful for, having decided to cut ties with all your other worries from the past month.

And Jaehyun?

Ugh, fuck him and his two-faced ass.

Your only goal now is to keep everything on track for the next six days. There simply isn’t any time to waste. A smooth finale is the best finale, after all. And the best finale is the result of practice session after tireless practice session, ensuring not a single flaw in things as subtle as the very flow of a model’s outfit.

“Come on people, this is the sixth test run today and I haven’t felt a single ounce of pizzazz from any of you!” Johnny yells over the techno-EDM track playing overhead, gesturing animatedly beside the models who sashay along The Walkway. “Give me some more passion, some zest, some zeal, c’mon you gotta give me something!” He claps his hands rhythmically, eyes ferociously scanning the models as they pose and turn at the foot of the catwalk.

Johnny’s work ethic has been all but ablaze as of late. If there’s one thing you’ve learnt about him through the years, it’s that the man is always up for fun and games until the last fortnight before any show. He somehow always manages to get the job done well and right by one hand or another, and it’s part of the reason why you keep him around despite the trillions of times you’ve been compelled to fire him on the spot.

“I think it’s going okay, actually,” you muse as Johnny approaches you at the very front of the catwalk with an irked huff.

“Yeah, sweet joke,” he scoffs sarcastically, eyes still trained on the models strutting froward. “In what universe does Y/n Y/l/n ever settle for okay?”

“Hmm.” Your eyebrows furrow together as you ponder over his question, unable to formulate a definitive answer yourself. “I have no idea.”

“Well on the plus si-” Johnny interrupts himself with a sharp sigh, shaking his head at the model who turns the bend, before directing his attention to you. “On the plus side, Argent received a few extra bidders while you were gone. A certain Mr Butter Fingers to thank for that; got a little more famous over the last week.”

“Is that so?” You nod to yourself, the hint of a grin seeping onto your features, though you’re unsure whether it’s from the pleasure of regaining success, or the ravishing man behind Johnny’s stingy pet name.

But who are you really kidding, anyway?

“Speaking of the devil,” Johnny mutters, arms folding over his chest, his gaze morphing swiftly into one of pride as Taeyong turns the corner from behind the back wall.

You look up all too eagerly, eyes readily falling on the man who wears Argent’s most prized set of the season. Tracing a slow, invisible path from the heel of his boots all the way to the very fine tips of his hair, you allow yourself to indulge in the very being of Taeyong; in the stoic expression that you know would melt into that gorgeous smile as soon as he steps back inside; in the long, lithe strides of his legs, and in the airy sway of his arms beside them.

“Not entirely perfect yet, but I told you we’d make a star out of him,” Johnny smiles proudly beside you and, for what seems like the first time in your life, you’re wholly unable to argue back with the man.

Taeyong’s overall improvement on the catwalk is remarkable to describe in simple terms, complete with a certain poise so subtle you could only ever associate it with him. A month ago, you would have laughed in the face of they who told you Taeyong would make it this far with the minimal experience he had. But now, watching it all come together from afar, there’s not a doubt in your mind that Lee Taeyong has indeed become a star.

In this moment, you can’t imagine any other person in such a position; you don’t want to. The outfit is simply too perfect like this, draped over and around every part Taeyong; so exquisite as if it were a poem made specifically in the shape of him, accentuating his glow with every step he takes forward.

His eyes fall on you, faltering not once in his movements while you fall besottedly into his gaze for the hundredth time like the lovesick little girl you’ve somehow allowed yourself to become since your…intimate engagements from a couple nights ago.

Taeyong pauses at the foot of the platform, feet planted with a split-second of assured glamour, his lips quirking almost imperceptibly as he sends a playful wink your way before turning back around. You have no choice but to bow your head, bashful and unable to contain the shy smile that embellishes the pinkening blooms on your cheeks.

Johnny watches the whole ordeal dumbfoundedly, eyes flickering between the receding man and the demure subject of a woman standing right beside him. “What is going o-” He pauses as a hand catches his shoulder from behind. He turns to see Ten standing there, his emblematic black clipboard cradled in the crook of his arm, spectacles cast low over his nose. Ten shakes his head subtly, a small beam gracing his features as Johnny raises his brows and turns back around, catching the hint not to continue with his question.

Ten regards you in his periphery, a fond expression twinkling in warmth of his gaze at your tucked chin and down-set gaze. His smile begins to replicate your own as it grows wider with every passing second.

Despite all your tussles, he has always regarded you as his own family. You were like a sister to him, and your happiness was a great source of his own; always a refreshing sight to behold and never failing to foster with it an oddly comforting sentiment. The whole world smiled when you smiled, and Ten couldn’t be more thankful that Taeyong was the idiot to bring that smile back to you when you needed it the most.

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

You step inside your office before Taeyong, both your shoes echoing alongside the soft click of the door as you head straight for the papers strewn in haphazard piles on your desk.

Being ‘messy’ has never quite sat right with you in any case, but in your every defence, keeping a tidy workspace in the formative days of any fashion show – let alone New York Fashion Week – is always a feat close to impossible. There are far too many things to preoccupy yourself with: the guest and rsvp lists, the show schedule, making sure Argent receives a suitable time slot (preferably around dusk hours for peak outdoor lighting and publicity).

You pick up a cream-coloured card that you assume Ten must have placed on your desk while you were gone, realising that it’s the revised schedule for the entirety of New York Fashion Week.

FRI | 02 | 06 … 7PM: Tom Ford 8PM: Argent 9PM: Michael Kors …

You grin at the line-up, satisfied with both Argent’s time slot as well as the two other world-class labels flanking it. Both male designers are well-known acquaintances of yours, and the very fact of being sandwiched between them at the world’s biggest fashion event is gratifying beyond all means. It serves to remind you just how far you’ve come; that you’ve really made your living worthwhile despite every defected sideshow.

“So…” Taeyong’s voice echoes through the room, and you think there couldn’t have been a better melody to accompany the moment.

“So,” you echo back, a dazed smile growing on your features as you turn to him, hips leaning back against your desk.

“How was I this time?” Taeyong looks at you with a sort of anticipation swirling about his eyes and hope saturating his every spoken word. You watch as his thumbs fidget with the ringer of his phone, his teeth sunken anxiously into his bottom lip while awaiting your answer. You’ve never seen him quite so nervous until now, and it only serves to ignite a ticklish flutter in your chest and a warm smile on your face. Of course, it may just be the fact that he’s featuring in NYFW in less than a week, but the very thought of your opinion being so valued by him brings so much unsolicited joy to you.

“You did well,” you answer, the flutter increasing tenfold with the bright smile that adorns Taeyong’s face in response, his eyes shimmering like diamonds as he brings a hand to his heart dramatically.

“I thought this day would never come,” he sighs heavily, earning a small laugh from you.

“I’m glad you can finally walk now,” you snort, “can’t have my frontline model tripping up on stage.”

“What was that?” Taeyong brings a hand to his ear, taking a step closer to you. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over my raging ego right now.”

You shake your head at the cocky smirk that overcomes his freakishly handsome features, though immediately freezing as he steps even closer and plants both palms on your desk either side of you, his eyes finding your own as he leans forward with a quirk to his eyebrow.

“Your fault, baby, not mine.”

You’ve decided that Taeyong is beyond irresistible at this point, and it bothers you to no end how affected you are, a tell-tale red growing warm on your cheeks as you rebuke yourself for being so unabashedly pliant in his presence.

And, bloody hell, all these nicknames.

A refutation is far from palpable in the hazy fog of your mind, so you resort to the next best response, leaning forward without a single forethought, unable to hold back the outrageously long kiss you press to his lips. Taeyong hums in satisfaction, a hand finding your waist all too swiftly that you’d be compelled to roll your eyes if they were open. This is exactly the reaction he had wanted out of you, and here you are, more than willing to give him exactly that.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

A split-second awareness of the steady clock ticking behind you is all it takes for you to pull away from Taeyong, though not quite far enough to evade the tickle of his perfectly styled hair.

“How unprofessional of you, Miss Y/l/n,” he gasps quietly, faux shock rippling through his face, only to be tugged away with that infuriating smirk and those lazy, hooded eyes.

“Remind me why you followed me here again,” you murmur, eyes glued to the creases of his lips – though not for much longer.

“Oh, so I guess you need another demonstration.” Taeyong doesn’t allow you a second to process his words, his other hand sliding to your jaw and pulling your mouth to his once again in a searing kiss. “This is why,” he mumbles against your lips, and you can’t help but blaze under the soft sensation of him, every inch of you melting naturally as ice under a heated summer sky…that is, until reality dawns on you once again, and you take it upon yourself to stomp a hard heel to Taeyong’s foot.

He pulls away placidly, head tilting in amusement. “You really think that hurt?” He raises an eyebrow, watching your own furrow on your forehead as you look down to his shoes, face falling in realisation. Goddamn you and your perfectly robust shoe designs.

“That’s cute,” Taeyong mumbles ardently, resisting the urge to kiss away the small pout on your face.

“Thank you, now get back to work,” you huff out in embarrassment, unsure how to handle the heat radiating from your surely pinkening cheeks as Taeyong chuckles and takes a step away to walk toward the door. Despite your words, you merely find yourself wishing he’d stay by your side for a little longer, close enough to hold your hands and kindle their warmth even further, unafraid to burn under the very whisper of his presence. But he only turns to blow a kiss your away, exchanging it with a smile of yours to etch in the back of his mind as he exits your office.

You’re left airy and still in the echo of the room, resisting the urge to sway this way and that with every warm wave of joy coating your mind.

“Right, the documents,” you shake your head, eyes flickering before scurrying to your chair. “Focus, Y/n,” you tap your cheek twice, collecting the strewn-out papers into a neat pile before fingering through each one, signing your name wherever required and eyeing through the RSVP list, just to make sure Ten hadn’t approved of any unwanted guests – namely anyone whose credentials align with Qi Fashion Labels.

You jump in surprise at the loud ringing of a phone at the far end of your desk, humming in a second of confusion at the unfamiliar ringtone – though you’re only left to assume the device belongs to Taeyong given his track record of forgetting his belongings in his every wake. With a roll of your eyes, you decide upon ignoring it, allowing the caller to exhaust all futile hope for an answer, continuing to your papers. The ringing ceases after a while, but silence only lasts so long, as it’s shrill cries once again echo through the glass of the room, rattling through your final nerves. With a groan, you reach out to the phone, eyes scanning over the caller ID to find a familiar name once again displayed on the screen.

Kim Heechul

“A friend, perhaps?” you wonder aloud, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek as you internally tussle with the thought of whether or not to answer the call.

What if it’s something serious, you reason with yourself, considering that the average caller would merely ring and hang up unless there was an urgent matter at hand. If a few weeks ago was any indication, this Heechul person seemed to have some kind of pull with Taeyong. And though you’re never one to trespass on the private matters of others, you think it would only be right to put the caller’s mind to ease by letting him know that Taeyong would be sure to ring him back sometime later. So, without another second to spare, your thumb finds the green button and the phone finds itself at the cusp of your ear.

“Hel-”

The Walkway’s tube lights flickering to a silent darkness has grown onto Taeyong as something of a delicate sound; as if in the next second, he could expect fireflies to appear with the beckoning tinkle of the bulbs. It’s almost embarrassing to admit that time and again, Taeyong has actually spent that extra second waiting for small glowing specs to appear, but every time, he has left only with his own shadow to greet him a final farewell for the evening.

The same routine emulates today. Taeyong steps out of the room, but this time his silhouette stands a mere sidepiece of the night, his eyes rather much too eagerly finding the screen of his phone, hoping to finally see your name in his notifications.

No Older Notifications

He frowns in confusion, unlocking his phone to find the blue bubble he’d sent that morning still unaccompanied by a reply from you. His frown only deepens, as he turns his head in the direction of your office at the far end of the hallway, a streak of worry convening in the growing creases of his brows at blackness emulating through the glass.

It was a strange and rare occurrence for you to have left work at such an early hour of the evening; so much so, that if you did, one could only conclude that something was gravely wrong.

Taeyong thinks back to the nature of the last two days; all the times you were in the same room but never so much as spared him a glance, the numerous photoshoots you weren’t present for despite having scheduled them in yourself, not to mention your complete absence in all the mock-runways. It really wouldn’t be an understatement to say that things have been rather odd on your end – tense, now that Taeyong really thinks about it. You always seemed to be in all the places he wasn’t and he’s unable to formulate a logical reason why.

It then occurs to Taeyong that neither you, nor him had taken the time to label the relationship you’ve harboured in the past week; there simply was none in the first place. But all of it – the secret handholding, the trivial gestures and texts – he’s positive it’s all come from some romantic facet within you.

Taeyong’s mind sifts through a million thoughts a minute. He can’t help wondering if he’d made you uncomfortable in any way, or if you were just stressed and felt the need to withdraw for a while or maybe you just-

“Done for the day?”

There was that voice that, among the tumble and wave of the last month, had remained solitary and constant. A voice that remained dutiful and obliging, belonging to an equally hospitable man who now steps out of his office with his black clipboard and silver spectacles.

“Yeah, I finished early,” Taeyong replies with a small smile, though Ten only raises an eyebrow as Taeyong’s eyes stray once more to your office behind his shoulder.

“So did Y/n,” Ten states, the metallic scrape of his keys resounding harshly as he twists one in the lock. “She left perhaps an hour or so ago.”

“Oh, do you know if she’s unwell or…”

“She didn’t mention anything specific, but I’d assume so, considering she’s not usually one to leave without some life-altering reason,” Ten chuckles, shrugging on his trench coat and slinging a satchel over his shoulder.

“She’s probably just tired from all the work that’s been going on lately. Burnout isn’t exactly unheard of during this time of year.” Taeyong only nods, earning a pat on the back from Ten. “Well, I’m also heading off early to review the venue with our performance artist. Good work today, Taeyong. Take some rest yourself. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you, have a good evening,” Taeyong answers, exchanging a small bow with Ten and watching as his perfectly styled hair enters the elevator on the other side of the hall. A small vibration casts Taeyong’s eyes once again to the palm of his hand, his phone briefly aglow with the name he’d longed to see for hours now.

Y/n [5:48pm]: Come out to the field

Y/n [5:48pm]: I’ll be waiting

Taeyong exclaims in surprise, a small grin forming at his lips as his worries thaw slightly at the thought of you inviting him to his own favourite place; the thought of you waiting there in the grass for him as if it were something of fate taken straight from a poet’s diary.

Perhaps nothing was really wrong at all.

Perhaps all you needed was a clean breath of air.

XI. Once, Betrayed. Twice, A Damned Fool

It was one thing to watch the sky fade from blue to orange through the mirrored windows of a skyscraper, but it was something else entirely to view it from this position in the field. The sky was not simply blue when you’d set yourself down once again among the bed of itchy grass and ticklish flowers. There’s no one way to describe the colour you had seen, but it somehow felt…deep.

Deeper in colour, deeper in meaning, deeper in intent and in sorrow.

That deepness only grew as evening began its mingling commute with daylight, silently reaching forth its palm and convening a colour far intangibly ardent than orange, all of it accented quite perfectly by the large ball of fire in its routine fall.

You can’t recall another time when the sun had ever felt so blistering among the bittered February air. And, it was rather amusing to you, really, that of all possible days, today is when the clouds had chosen not to shade you. There hadn’t been even a speck of white or grey to dampen the sizzle on your face.

Or in your heart.

You tug your coat tighter around yourself, head tilting as you watch the head of a yellow flower being tugged this way and that by harsh gale. It too doesn’t simply feel yellow – well, not in this moment, at least. Its bud looks wilted, slightly browned as if to preserve what little charming dignity it had once possessed. Such a naïve thing it was. Handing itself over to the forces of nature, blossoming, thriving, living in artless denial, and never once stopping to think it would one day end up bowing down in regret for ever committing such a profitless sin.

There really is more than meets the eye in all conceivable forms of life, you’ve come to realise. But only those cunning enough to blind their abetter are able see right through each facade.

The harsh crunching of grass behind you almost beckons you to turn, but you stop yourself if only to prevent your hair from covering your eyes.

Taeyong simply smiles to himself, your free locks a perfect accessory to the panorama in front of him. He sits down beside you and you dare to glimpse at him in your periphery.

“Hey,” he speaks so delicately. So quietly and softly as if to blend in with the wind and its every hidden sentiment.

“Hi,” you reply, eyes still trained on the yellow flower, and it’s when you refuse to smile or even look at Taeyong that he begins to frown, the worry of earlier finding its place within him.

“Y/n, is something wrong-”

“Did I ever tell you,” you interrupt him, pausing to take a shaky breath as the wind bites at the burning skin of your neck, “about when I was nineteen?”

Confusion settles at Taeyong’s brows, though curiosity swirls through his eyes as they peer at you. The last time you were here with him, you’d given something of general overview of your life as a child and progressions as a designer, but never specifically anything about when you were nineteen. Taeyong shakes his head.

“I lived in a box apartment – at tiny little thing at the edge of the city, just trying to make ends meet. Ten and Jaehyun were the only people I had at the time. Nobody else.” If your voice holds a single mite of sentiment, it’s all but imperceptible to Taeyong, as is any emotion in your distant eyes which still refuse to meet his own.

“Nothing was working out for us in that year; all we really had was a handsome rookie, a jobless assistant and my notebook of drawings. Every company we approached had shunned us in less than a day. We were left broke, desperate, hopeless. I, for one, was ready to give up everything.” The memory plays in your mind as a series of blurred motions, your jaw clenching and chin raising slightly to keep a composed front. “But they both kept me going. They told me to never give up, no matter what. That-”

“Every cloud has a silver lining.”

It’s almost funny to hear those words falling from Taeyong’s mouth so naturally, but you nod, nonetheless.

“I had no choice but to keep moving forward; I couldn’t let them down so horribly. So, every night, by routine, I would sit by my window in my little box, and look out to Manhattan City, just hoping – praying – I’d make it there some day. Somehow.” You pause for a moment, taking another deep breath and gulping down the growing tightness in your throat.

“Look where I am now. It seems like I truly have made it…especially considering my own models are writing fake news behind my back.”

***

“Hel-”

“We just keep hitting those milestones, my friend. Luxe just received a retail offer we can’t deny! The biggest department store in the country wants to show your work off to the world!”

The voice that echoes from the speaker sounds awfully cheerful; an inflection belonging to a middle-aged man, though that’s all you’re able to gather as you mind draws question marks at his peculiar words. You’re quick to remind yourself that Taeyong must have, in fact, had a job prior to the one you’d given him, and assume that this Heechul guy must be one of his colleagues or associates of some kind.

You open your mouth to speak, but the man beats you to it.

“Taeyong, I’m gonna need you to make sure this article is as snappy as your Y/l/n-Jung scandal – no, even better than that.”

Your face contorts in bewilderment, eyebrows cinching tightly together and jaw falling ajar as a wave of anxious goosebumps shroud the skin of your arms. “What,” you whisper, just quiet enough for it pass as a breath of air as a tight pain begins to flare up like a wildfire in your chest.

Y/l/n-Jung scandal?

Taeyong’s…Y/l/n-Jung scandal?

“Boy, is Argent going to be in for a treat. And right before New York Fashion Week, too!”

Your heart plummets with a trembling exhale as the man guffaws heartily, your eyes growing wide and haphazard, flickering to every shiny surface of your office as if to search for some form of an honest, untainted truth.

“Remember, I want it finished by-”

You cut the call and the phone slips through your fingers, clattering loudly – threateningly – against the documents on your desk.

***

“It was you, wasn’t it?” You finally turn to face Taeyong, almost turning back straight away. “You wrote that article last month.”

The brown-haired man shifts sharply beside you in the grass, the sound akin to the harsh tearing of a paper while the sun burns its last blister into sky. You do nothing but view it through the blurring, wet sheen of your eyes, waiting and watching as it falls down and down and down, until all that testifies its existence are the furious scabs of pinks and oranges twisting among the deep azure.

“Y/n, I-” he starts, though his mouth falls dry of any placating words, unable to formulate a single coherent thought from underneath the growing thickness of his breath as you refuse to let a single emotion permeate through those clouded eyes.

“It makes me wonder just how foolish I’ve been all along,” you turn back to the field and force a hard, focused gaze back to the flower, unable to keep a seconds’ longer gaze on Taeyong without an impetuous tear slipping from your eye. “All that time, and all that energy…” And all that vulnerability. And all that trust. And all that love. “…wasted on a shameless man like you.”

It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but your cheeks begin to ache and burn with the salty streaks of water. You can’t seem to care for them being so openly on display. Taeyong has taken everything from you. What more are a few tears?

Taeyong follows the trail of water down your cheek. All he can do is turn away as that harrowing guilt sequestered deep within himself over the last few weeks, finally emerges at the surface, violent and strong and more forceful than ever. It peels at every nerve inside, eats away at all the confusion and the worry and every other emotion in between. It leaves nothing. Nothing but a dark, empty, shameful feeling in its wake.

This is the first time he has seen you this way. And it’s all his fault.

“How dare you defame me. How dare you take Jaehyun away from me, and how dare you have the nerve to show your face in my building and take advantage of my company. How dare you, Lee Taeyong.” Your words fall lifeless and heavy between the growing bile in your throat and endless glisten of water against your skin.

Two days of processing couldn’t possibly have prepared you for this moment.

You’d spent the first day mulling over what you’d heard from the call; there must surely have been some error on your part to hear such a shockingly absurd thing from Heechul. The second day was spent in worry; it was simply unfathomable that Taeyong – the very toast addict you’d hired all those weeks ago – could possibly have written such a false scandal. But it wasn’t until this very morning you’d found yourself as the fool who hadn’t bothered to check his employment history.

Journalist at Luxe Magazine LTD

And since then, you had only been hoping for a miracle. That Taeyong would show up to this field with his comforting presence, hold your hand in earnest, look you in the eye and fully deny your accusation because it’s simply too hasty and completely absurd.

But you realise now that it simply isn’t. That miracles are not an asset to be acquired so easily. Taeyong doesn’t hold your hand, and he doesn’t look you in the eye, and worst of all, he doesn’t make even the weakest, most deficient attempt to deny any one of your words.

So, you decide against speaking any more, allowing your hair to cling to the tear streaks along your neck and cheeks as you rise above the grass into a shifting halo of wind.

“Y/n-”

“Your money will be transacted after the show.”

You turn and the grass waves you farewell, clinging to your ankles in its ticklish murmur until you step out to the road where Charlie stands, his gloved hand clutching the open car door as you hide yourself inside. Regret eats away at you more and more ravenously as you silently view the brown head among the grass, watching with every choked gulp as it bows down into the green horizon.

You didn’t say everything you wanted to say.

You didn’t even say half of it.

Taeyong’s business at Argent was merely the tip of the iceberg. You should have yelled and screamed like your chest was aching you to. You should have told Taeyong exactly what he did, and exactly how he’d hurt you, regardless of anything else. How much pain you’re in to know that while you would have trusted him with every fibre in your being, he had slashed a gaping scar right where it would bleed the most, as if it were child’s play to him.

How you had loved him and how he had thrown it all away.

Betrayal is a fickle thing; a notion always just as deceiving as the betrayer themselves – or perhaps even more. Because in its very essence, betrayal is always supposed to feel like the worst wrong of a lifetime; the worst possible pain one can experience for years to come.

A week ago, Jaehyun was your betrayer, and that betrayal had felt so excruciating, you couldn’t have imagined anything worse than it.

Today, Taeyong stands in that betrayer’s place. Today, Jaehyun’s betrayal feels like nothing. Because today…

Today you had experienced the worst wrong of your lifetime.

The small stain on your coat grows larger by the second as your eyes blink in the shifting scenery, body welcoming the transition of rough road to smooth in the low buzz of 90’s classics scratching on the radio.

And you finally make your leave back to where you had started.

Toward loud tumble of city traffic and all the same vivid colours of moving billboards and weathered yellow taxies. Back to the place where you angle your head high and glimpse once more at the concrete jungle that once made up your every dream, every struggle and everything else in between.

XII. Omniscient Point of View

One fractured soul stands outside Argent building the next morning.

She arrives during the dark of the day, before the city rouses and catches its first glimpse of dawn, before the first light beyond the glass door has been lit. She tilts her head back and allows the wind to beat down against her skin, gaze trying to find the very tip of the building, but alas, the colossal structure seems to fade into the morning sable beyond the ninth storey or so.

This fractured soul plays her role in unlocking the polished doors – for, it must have been weeks since she’d last done so – and switching on the first light of the day to the empty silence of the lobby, her heels click once again for her own ears and nobody else’s. There isn’t a single hair to stray from her tight, unrelenting bun, its roots burning her scalp as if to deserve such a punishment for her lunacy.

She sits at her desk and buries her mind with yet another hoard of preparatory paperwork, an eye flickering to the clothing racks of assorted hues and silver every once in a while, as the first sun finds itself a halo on her cheeks. She watches it rise upon skyscrapers from the sweet haven of those four office walls, her stone-cold nature once again making its home in her heart, numbing her face and every other foolishly torn down wall.

Ten knocks at her door around midmorning for a clothing assessment. He knows of the day before’s happenings; she’d told him as soon as her bare feet met the cold tiles of her apartment floor. But he offers no words of solace, for he himself is at a loss, with a few too many unanswered questions roaming the inches of his mind. Ten doesn’t prod, rather watches her as she works.

Her hands hold the same magic, her voice is loud and clear as ever before, but she has seemed to have lost her spark – the very element that had set her aside from all others, the very reason he’d pushed her to never give up all those years ago. Today, she works a dull day in a robotic cadence, her eyes are blurred with the world’s darkest clouds, refusing to let the thunder clap, refusing to let any semblance of water fall.

Weakness is not her strength, Ten has long understood, and her strength might just as well be her biggest weakness. Feelings weren’t a feasible option if the next four days were to be a successful feat, and that is all she can remind herself of.

Perhaps a couple hours later, another soul finds himself standing outside Argent building the same morning, ashamed and afraid to step foot inside at all, for, crossing the glass threshold would only aggravate within him the blaring flame of all-consuming guilt and regret and shame.

He hadn’t expected to be standing here at all after the happenings of the day before, yet here he is, carrying his frame with an hours’ worth of stew-infested sleep. For, when Ten had called him this morning with a voice full of vacancy telling him to find his way back to Argent, this shameful soul knew it would only be another cruel and selfish act for him to walk away with only four days remaining before the show. Ousting was no feasible option.

He steps inside and readies himself for every constrained stare, every secretive whisper, all the tuts and silent taunts to mar the silvered walls. But he receives none; nothing except warm smiles and welcome eyes, amiable manner, and polite conversation.

She hadn’t told a single other person.

He catches but a glimpse of her in the corner of his eye, but doesn’t find the courage to do anything else. He regards her in the same way as Ten and finds her all too the same; rigid, lifeless, focused and unemotive in all senses. And it’s just like that – among the cheer of small accomplishments and Johnny’s at-last nods of approval – this shameful soul finds himself in a bout of repent, a slippery groove even the most agile-minded may never leave as soon as the hole was dug.

The distance between him and her is growing wider and wider with each minute; he can feel it. He feels it in her touch as she forces herself, one day, to adjust the cuff of his suit after another classical seam-slip; in the way her fingertips feel so foreign as they meet the skin of his wrist in detached brushes. He sees it in her averted gaze while fixing his collar once again. He feels it in her very absence of all other rooms he stands within.

But in the end of it all, he knows much too well that this – all of this; everything – is his own doing. He departs with this very notion at the cusp of sun fall, while she remains within the building, watching the growing darkness through her window, later turning off the final few lights and stepping out into the late hours of night.

Early morning, afternoon, evening, late night, the cycle continues as so for both of these souls; repeating, and repeating, and repeating, as if they knew no better than to let it continue in such a way.

They return to their dwellings each night only to find themselves stuck in the dark. With breaths heavy and eyes tired, their fluffed pillows encase their heads as they search for some way – any way – to find a single merciful speck of clarity among the blinding black. Left with themselves and a mere thought of the other, their minds prickle and prod with each one of their mistakes and each one of their utter regrets.

XIII. Nothing. Nothing At All.

“Y/n!”

Straight posture.

“Miss Y/l/n, look over here!”

Head down.

“Did Jaehyun really leave Argent for Qi Fashion Labels?”

Ignore the questions.

“Just one picture for us!”

Smile for every sixth camera.

“Tell us the name of your new model.”

And don’t. Stop. No matter. What.

Suits and ties – crisp and clean in nature – lavish gowns, cross-dressing trailblazers, scarves and sequins and diamonds and lipsticks of every size, make, shape and colour; here, was one of eight splendid evenings that confounded all the worlds’ fashion partisans to their very cores. Every new trend, whether vogue or wholly obsolete, every essence of haute cotoure and high-style, it was all birthed under and could be traced back to the single most grand title: New York Fashion Week. A beautifully elaborate and gaudy scene to breathe in among the ever-putrefying air of this city; to bear the hollers of shutterbugs alongside the rageful honking of cabs behind one’s shoulder.

Your feet fall heavy beneath the cool satin of your floor-length dress. One in front of the next, they step forward like clockwork along the red carpet that daubs the concrete pavement of the New Yorker Hotel, the very destination of tonight’s mystique. Your head rests level upon your shoulders, a kind of reserved smile adorning the gloss of your mouth. Violent flashes of camera lenses burn your skin aglow as you walk the familiar pathway between paparazzi who spill over the barricades on either side; blustering, clawing, and pushing each other in brutal competition, their hefty hunks of metal held ablaze if only to catch a mere glance of the spectacle that you are…or the spectacle that you appear to be in this very moment.

The epitome of talent, the very pinnacle of grace and beauty; compliments are thrown your way, left, right and centre, suspended around your frame that exudes its confident and assured glow to everyone except you.

Three steps, pose. Two steps, wave. One step, smile.

Oh, little do they know how deceiving such a smile could be. A time of such high regard merely jars you with the harsh anxieties and fretful sentiments of ‘what if?’.

Nervous. You feel terrifyingly nervous, and never had you felt such a thing since at least four full seasons ago, and it’s embittering to realise how shallowed your vigour has become over something as everchanging and facile as the media – even worse that you’d once sworn never to let such a thing happen.

Ten waits for you at the end of the red pathway, his hair sleeked, his body suited to a fault for the occasion, and his very being the only form of consolation among the anxious glamour enrapturing the venue. He smiles warmly as you approach him, cameras finally bygone in exchange for his assuring hand that guides you inside the hotel.

“Some crowd tonight,” he mutters, patting down the lapels of his blazer.

“Thank God.” A hefty breath escapes your lungs, relieved to find yourself under the roof of fresh lobby air that you now share with many other high-end designers – some well-known and some on the rise to their pedestals.

“We should probably make some rounds before heading inside to the catwalk. You know, chat it up with some other designers. Maybe Tom since he’s right before Argent.” Ten suggests, strolling mindlessly with you around the moderate bustle of celebrities, nodding politely to those who smile your way. “It might just make you feel better to have some company within your element.

“Who said I’m not already feeling better?” is your sharp riposte, followed by a momentary glance to Ten’s dubious glare.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow, holding a grand set of double doors open for you both to enter.

“Yes.” You raise your chin high, eyes sparkling in the shadowed lighting of the room and shimmering torches decorating the walls. “I am absolutely fine, and as my assistant, it’s in your very best interest to keep it that way. End of discussion.”

You glance around at the seating; half-filled with chattering patrons of neutral-toned clothing. Some hold small notebooks clasped between their hands that rest firmly on their crossed legs.

Critics.

“Okay, then,” Ten replies nonchalantly, tugging you toward a circle of A-list celebutantes surrounding a man in a sleek, black suit who holds a glass of bubbling champagne, “I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I just-hello, Mr Ford! It is an utmost pleasure to meet you again.” Ten reaches a respectful hand out to the man, sparking a welcoming dialogue which you’re left to watch with a fake smile plastered to your face. “Now, I just need to head backstage for show prep; same old routine, you know how it goes. You wouldn’t mind entertaining this gorgeous handful for a minute, would you?”

You’re unsure whether an irked scowl or grateful thanks would be a suitable response to Ten pulling you forward, instead opting for a few clueless blinks and a slack jaw as he no sooner disappears behind a large black curtain at the far end of the large room.

Conversation nonetheless ensues smoothly with Tom, starting off with a congratulations and praise for each other’s work. It really turns out to be no surprise why this man is so successful and admired. Everything from his gesturing, his conduct and his fashion intellect falls nothing short of laudable. A few other designers join and leave the loop, and like Ten said, you do indeed find yourself significantly more relaxed to be in their like-minded company.

As the lights later dim for the Tom Ford segment, you bid farewell to the designers, deciding to break away backstage through the same black curtain, behind which the atmosphere takes a drastic turn. It’s nothing all that unexpected, really; simply the normal pandemonium of various models with perfected figures and faces – and a shoe too less, or some form of missing accessory – scurrying around with backstage assistants in tow. You walk down a hallway, dodging as much chaos as possible before finding a door pasted with Argent’s logo and pushing inside.

The chaos remains perhaps even to a higher degree as you watch the bustle of your models, subordinate designers, and make-up artists racing around the room. The clothing racks are almost empty, and it’s something that makes your heart swell with pride as the gravity of the moment begins to fully sink in.

“Oh, good, you’re here. I need a final assessment on some of these outfits, now hurry!” Johnny – quite the image with his hair a fluttered mess and his suit slightly rumpled – rushes over to you, grabbing your shoulders and leading you to a row of your models wearing their finalised ensemble of silvers, silks and cervelts. You remain surprisingly calm through it all, assisting wherever you’re needed and doing your best to settle nerves.

A loud knock no sooner echoes amidst the noise and a woman in a black uniform, donning an intercom headset and black clipboard appears at the dressing room doors.

“Argent Fashion Labels? Ten minutes until your segment. Please navigate all runway walkers backstage for the catwalk.”

The commotion grows louder as you send her a nod from across the room, a new kind of buzz arousing excited jitters and whooping as the models begin to file toward her. You stand on your toes, neck craned upward, watching all the extravagant outfits – your extravagant outfits – exit the door one by one. A small smile begins to form at your lips, only to be immediately torn away as a head turns back to meet your eyes from among the crowd.

And just like that, it’s as if all the cheering and clapping around you is suddenly zipped away from the world, the rapid thrumming of your heart now the only sound ringing loud and clear in your eardrums. There’s something indiscernible in the look that passes through his features, a split-second of…something, though you’re unable to tell exactly what. It always seemed to have been that way, you’ve slowly come to realise.

You gulp thickly, daring to hold his gaze for a second longer before averting your eyes elsewhere. And still, you can’t help but look back once again, but this time, Taeyong is gone with the crowd, somewhere along the bend with the lasting image of your desolate face engraved into his mind.

“Come on.”

You turn as a hand cups your shoulder from behind, met with Ten’s reassuring nod as he guides you out of the room and behind the wall of the catwalk.

“This is it,” you voice out quietly, eyes flickering to the first model, Karina, who stands just behind the runway entrance breathing in and out with closed eyes. She turns her head to you, smiling nervously, and you only smile back. But this time your smile finds you widely – hopingly, encouragingly. You whisper out a quiet, ‘you got this’, and in return her smile too, grows.

And then she’s off.

Freely and fleetingly, her feet land on the platform with self-assured glamour, the outfit from your sketchbook never having suited another person more than it does her in this very moment. She walks in time with the techno music; hips level, arms loose, expression poised, she stops, poses, turns, and finds her way back to the very head of the stage. As does the next model, and the next, and the next.

You watch it all tucked away behind the wall; every single one of your creations of the last year springing to a mirthful, beautiful life with every blink of the eye, click of a heel, drop of a beat. Some models walk with skilfully pocketed hands, some carry a bag on their shoulder, and some on their elbows. Every model has at least one form of nuance to them, but every single one of them wears a line of silver. One by one, they breeze out and in, past the devotees and the critics, through the feverish nerves and the anxious excitement. One by one, they make it through, there and back until only a final one remains to do them all their justice.

Taeyong doesn’t meet your eyes as he stands at the edge. He knows he wouldn’t be able to step out onto that shiny platform if he so much as took another selfish glimpse.

And he couldn’t do that to you.

It happens too fast; all too suddenly, much too overwhelmingly. So much so that it feels wrong that every one of your painstaking efforts – every sleepless night, every endured loss – amount so simply to the thirty seconds Taeyong spends on stage.

That was supposed to be Jaehyun.

Jaehyun should have been wearing that outfit, with his hair styled in the same gelled coif, walking on that long platform with camera shutters lighting up on his smooth complexion. Jaehyun should have been the one to halt at the foot and clench his jaw if only to maintain what little of his composure he had left. Jaehyun should have been the one to walk back and finally look you in the eye with all the world’s anguish and remorse, hoping to see an ounce of emotion in those eyes of yours, only to find nothing.

Nothing at all.

And when you later walk out onto that long, star-studded stage for your lasting impression, you suddenly find yourself confused and unwilling to concede all at once. You link arms with the models on either side of you and take your well-deserved bow for the audience, knowing full well that this is where another season meets its close.

You take in the standing ovation with a vacantly present smile, but you don’t breathe in any of it like you once remember doing. You look at the cameras and the reluctant simpering of critics, but you don’t truly see them in the way that you once you did. You walk off that stage and wish a congratulations to every person you couldn’t have done this all without. But every praise, every compliment; it all falls from an empty place within you.

In Ten’s suggestion of “keeping face,” you find yourself standing at the cusp of midnight at the venue of the after party. You’re in an entirely different place with a flute of sparkling champagne poured by none other than Alex Wang himself resting in the tips of your fingers. Only, the flute remains unkissed, no lipstick stain to fashion on the shiny glassware.

In somewhat of a stupor, you watch the world as it revolves around you in a kaleidoscope of slow and fast motions, standing amidst the glitzed lights, lost in the place you’d once always called paradise. The place you were supposed to know like the back of your hand. Multitudes of bodies blur and manifest before your eyes, shifting like phantoms in disguise. Doused in glitter and endless waves of net, every celebrity stands anew in their dresses and suits - not nearly as casually unwearable as the pieces from the catwalk, but still extravagant nonetheless - all perfectly suited for a night of folly amid the pounding music and blaring lasers.

Still as a robot, you smile at your conversationalists as if it were programmed into your muscles. You smile until it stops hurting, until you feel numb and until you just can’t take it anymore.

And when you leave and you later lay yourself down on the soft mattress of your bed, ridden of any blinding lights or fabricated clothing; as you blink once again at the empty ceiling of your apartment, you can’t help but feel completely, and utterly alone.

You’d sworn it would feel exhilarating. You’d sworn to make it exhilarating for yourself. But the truth finally surrenders in the form of all the uncontrolled tears that roll agonisingly down your cheeks, staining your neck and expanding the chill on your pillow.

This was not how anything was supposed to happen. Nothing was supposed to turn out this way.

But you were aching and there was nothing you could do about it except finally, finally, allow yourself to cry. To let every pent-up emotion out of your tired system. And nothing could have felt more natural than doing so while being stuck amid the motions of such a false and fabricated world.

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

Taeyong looks down to the little scruff of paper with a ten-digit number scrawled in haste and the words ‘call me’ sitting right beside them. He doesn’t know how or when the paper had found itself in the sweaty creases of his palm, but he has no intention of investigating further, ripping it up once, twice, three times, and watching it fall to the ground with the shiny confetti that flutters around his throbbing head.

A glass bottle – perhaps his fourth of the late hour – sits loosely in his other hand, ready to drop and shatter as its contents sit bitterly in his mouth, burning his throat with each heavy gulp. Crowds of models brush suggestively at his sides, some subtle and others not as much, but their efforts fall futile as the dark-haired man of interest simply blinks out to some faraway place at the after-party venue. As if searching for the one he truly wished to find among the crowd.

When he’s convinced that you’re not there hidden somewhere among the shadows, Taeyong simply turns around, back turned to the blinding disco lights, and exits the party. His business there and everywhere else in the damned industry was done; he’d walked the runway, finished his job, and there simply was nothing more left for him to do now.

He leaves with weighted limbs and a fogged mind, no knowledge of how he later ends up seated in the chair of his home office. He still wears the same suit he’d shown off to the world mere hours ago, but his make-up is now smudged, hair a dishevelled muss, breaths heavily intoxicated and eyes shallowed and heavy as he opens his laptop, glaring at the document that had sent everything crashing to the ground.

Taeyong doesn’t think twice – doesn’t care for the wall clock that reads an atrocious hour of the AM – as his fingers firmly clutch his phone, dialling a number he should have dialled much too long ago.

It takes no less than three rings for a groggy voice to emerge from the speaker, but he cuts it off immediately with a breathy whisper of:

“I can’t do it.”

The words are as quiet as the dark room around him, as still as the cool air.

“Heechul, I can’t submit the article.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” Heechul scoffs quietly – threateningly – though there seems to be some form of panic to his voice. “Do you even realise what this means for you? What this means for your money-”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE FUCKING MONEY ANYMORE!” Taeyong roars into the speaker, every ounce of composure lost with the furious rise and fall of his chest, tears of anger beginning to blur his vision. “This is her career we’re putting on the line! Her entire life. Everything she’s worked for. And for what? Another godforsaken article to tear it all down?”

It’s almost as if Taeyong speaks to himself through the phone; finally voicing the truth as it so blatantly exists.

“I don’t care-” His voice drops to a broken sob, “-about the money anymore. I just-I can’t do it.”

A heavy pause welcomes the hot trickle of water to his cheeks, a pathway glistening with the blue light in front of him.

“You really are your father’s son,” comes Heechul’s cold voice in the dark. “Always getting too caught up in your subjects. Too personal. Weak and cowardly.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Taeyong seethes, teeth and jaw clenching furiously.

“How do you think he ended up with your mother of all people?”

The venom in Heechul’s voice is clear and his words all too obviously spiteful. For what reason, Taeyong doesn’t know, nor does he have any desire to as his thumb cuts the call without another lasting word.

His eyes, wet with dark streaks of flecked eyeliner, flicker back to his laptop; to the words he’d forced onto the white page that had breached and bled onto his dignity. His hands find his mouse, and he clicks down, dragging the cursor through the words, line by line, every letter drowning in a blue highlight only to disappear with a single press of the backspace button.

A blank document was where it all started, and a black document is where it all ends.

His eyes fall shut with this final thought, only opening to the bright halo of mid-afternoon sun the next day, head resting sideways on a stiff elbow. He hauls his body up, downs a pill for his headache and accepts the pelting water from the nozzle of his shower, all accompanied by the numbing nothingness of his mind. A coat, a scarf, a beanie, and a tinkling pair of keys are all that accompany Taeyong as he later steps outside his apartment, down the streets and among the noise of the city. He buries his face in the warm fabric around his neck and pulls his hat atop the tips of his ears, glancing out to the pedestrians and vehicles along the roads, the billboards and the buskers and everything else that he hadn’t before taken the time of day to notice and appreciate. It wasn’t often that he’d found himself walking on his own two feet among this tall wilderness of glass and concrete; it wasn’t particularly his of choice of scene. But now, with the icy wind flowing through his lashes, Taeyong feels a sort of silent beauty amid the stereotypical chaos. It’s something subdued, almost impalpable, present in the artwork hidden in the coolness of alleyways, the sky’s reflection upon the buildings, and in the simple workings of the city itself.

Somewhere along his solitary way, he passes a newsagency flanked at its front with rows and rows of glossed booklets. Some display you, Y/n Y/l/n, Head of Argent Fashion Labels, bowing at the show from the previous night.

Many others display him, but no longer just his face.

MEET LEE TAEYONG, THE FASHION FRAUD OF THE DECADE Argent Fashion Labels’ new model exposed as the anonymous writer behind the Y/l/n-Jung scandal

Taeyong picks up the magazine and inspects every inch of the paper, spotting Kim Heechul in a tiny font just beneath the bold typewrite. He doesn’t turn a single page, just eyes the man on the front cover with a longing so painful and deep, wishing that man hadn’t been so blind and foolish. If only not merely for his own sake, but for everything he had put you through since the day you’d first locked eyes.

Taeyong places the magazine back down, not bothering to pay for a copy, and decides to return home. As he once again seats himself at his desk, he feels a sort of enlightenment, as if he were now free of some form of a suffocation that he hadn’t realised had been there all along.

He opens his laptop to be met with the same blank document from the night before, fingers brushing lightly over the keys.

XIV. Okay?

It’s almost laughable how often the past repeats itself. Recycling old scenarios, emotions, and situations all for meticulous use in the present.

Ten finds himself the subject of such a phenomenon once again; standing outside your large office doors and peeking through the tiny crack, watching you in your current preoccupations of planning out Argent’s spring-summer line for the next season. A sudden wave of déjà vu reminds him that those dead-set features of yours really haven’t changed in the long time he’s known you. Still so passionate, and still so mystical. But there was now something different about you.

The weather had slowly begun to bleed into the supple hands of spring and with it, you too seemed to have thawed on the outside; now less austere in manner and more permissive to those around you. A month had come and gone since the success that was New York Fashion Week, and the tabloids – though ever-present in Argent’s business – were once again beginning to mute themselves for the time being. Now that the heavy preparations were over and the competition was down, you’d found a well-recommended model by the name of Lee Jeno, and he’d taken over the top model position with much fulfilling ease. He was almost too perfect for the job, things seemed to have settled back into a comforting routine, and much to everyone’s surprise, you often smiled.

But Ten could see past it, knowing all too well it was all just another façade of yours; that while each of your smiles came from a well-intended place, they did not resonate with you at all. He knew that from within, you only grew more fervently frigid and harsh with yourself, if only to never again commit the mistakes that you had in the early months of the year. Ten knows that all along you’ve been hurt by someone you’d invested far too much trust in. That along the way, you’d lost a certain part of yourself to a man that had made you feel alive in a way you’d never felt before.

He looks down nervously now to the clipboard held to his chest, jumping as your voice comes from behind the door.

“What is it, Ten?”

Sighing, he pushes forward into your office, gnawing at the inside of his cheek while eyeing you nervously. He can see just how much of an affect Taeyong has had on you, even now. How you’d picked up on those little habits of his and adopted them as your own, from the slight humour in your witty remarks, to the quirk that now seems to find your eyebrow. You weren’t even aware of it, but it seemed that Taeyong was now an unshakeable force in your life.

“What?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Oh, please don’t tell me there’s another delay in the fabric delivery. I spent three hours on the phone with them yesterday just to make sure that-”

“Y/n,” Ten interrupts you, taking a deep breath and stepping closer to you.

“What?” You snap, impatient and confused by his sudden anxiousness.

“This,” he unclips a magazine from his clipboard and places it on your desk, sliding it in front of you, “just got published today.”

You pick up the book with an apathetic expression and scan over the front cover, only for your brows to crease while reading over the bold text.

JOURNALIST LEE TAEYONG FINALLY EMERGES FROM THE DARK-

“No,” you hold the magazine out to Ten and look away, refusing to read any further. “I don’t want to see it.”

“Y/n-”

“No, Ten.”

“Just read it, for God’s sake!” he yells, slamming the magazine down on your desk and opening it to a double page.

Your eyes widen at you look up at Ten, blinking in shock of his furrowed expression and angry tone. It was rare for him to raise his voice with you unless the matter was urgent, so you find yourself in a bout of hesitation.

“Why?” Comes your voice in the tense silence. “Why should I read this?”

“You just have to trust me when I say you’ll want to,” Ten replies, now soft again.

You take in a deep breath through your nose, unsure what to expect from the article given the sincerity in Ten’s voice, and hesitantly look down to the spread pages.

~

There is no short or easy way for me to say this, but it must be said.

I do not write this letter for the appeasement of anyone, nor for any sympathy, and I do not expect or wish for anybody to take my side. My side is unjustifiable. I write this letter in hopes of delivering the truth, and the truth only, regarding my recent involvement with Y/n Y/l/n and Argent Fashion Labels.

My name is Lee Taeyong. Most of you now know me as the anonymous writer of the Y/l/n-Jung scandal, or the fraudulent model who entered Argent Fashion Labels as a gossip spy. Perhaps even both. These claims are not wrong, and I am here to address them in their utmost verity.

The truth is, I am no model. I am a journalist who, in the past, worked under the editorial division of Luxe Magazines LTD in Manhattan city. In my job, I was well-approved, highly acclaimed and lucrative to the firm. These were unfortunately the materialistic qualities under which I thrived. In the event of being offered a celebrity scandal headline, I jumped without rational thought, and wrote a false and misleading article about a non-existent love affair between Y/n Y/l/n and Jung Jaehyun.

I must clarify that they were not, in any way, intimately involved with each other. I did not check the hard facts, and for this I am deeply sorry to them both. I must further clarify that Jung Jaehyun is innocent, and I take full responsibility for his departure from Argent Fashion Labels, as well as the losses suffered by both parties as a result of this.

Regarding my temporary employment under Argent; there are no words that can justify my actions. It has taken me a great deal of disillusionment and self-reflection to understand the gravity of my intentions when entering the position. It is not Argent’s fault in scouting me, but mine for accepting the offer and intruding on my rights and responsibilities.

I will be transparent in saying I was to write another article; this time to ‘debunk’ Argent as a whole company. Initially, I thought it would be an easy task. And while I must concede that there were external forces at play, I was in no case, justified to continue with knowledge of the consequences.

But in wake of all this, I cannot bring myself to regret the time I had spent at Argent. I had thrust myself into a new environment; it was a dizzying and expeditious experience at first. I was ready to quit the job as soon as I started.

But dare I say, I’m glad I didn’t quit, because it was these experiences, the people, the friendly faces all working toward a common goal and the connections I had made through them. All of it changed who I am and what I stand for. Everything at Argent was a massive challenge. I would have expected no less from a world-class fashion label. But it changed me.

In the end, I had chosen not to publish the second article, because I no longer cared for all my previous qualities. It didn’t matter to me how well-approved or highly acclaimed or lucrative of a person I was.

But I was too late in realising this. Consequently, I have wronged many people; in doing so, relinquished the trust they had in me, and for this, I will forever repent. I was a coward who chose to sacrifice not only his own honour, but the honour of Y/n Y/l/n.

I am at fault, and she is not. She is innocent in all regards.

I am so, so sorry for all the trouble I put her through. I am very deeply sorry for all the effort and the time, all the hours and all the energy she had spent in me.

To the tabloids, the paparazzi and all celebrity gossip agencies out there: Y/n Y/l/n is not the person you think she is. She isn’t the fashion industry’s monster. She isn’t a hot-headed, unappeasable snob. And she is certainly not a bitch.

Once again, I am not looking for approval or sympathy from the public eye. But please, if there is anybody to target for the matters discussed, it is only me.

With each of these words, I need nobody to believe me except one person.

I am sorry.

~

Your lips part as your eyes read over the last three words over and over again, gulping through the emerging mixture of emotions that gather in your mind.

“He didn’t accept the transaction,” Ten murmurs softly, now seated on one of the sofas.

You can’t seem to do anything else but blink, breaths growing shallow. “He…he…” you try to formulate words, though they don’t come out, “why didn’t he-”

“I think you know why,” Ten whispers, a solemn look in his eyes.

Why?

Was it because Taeyong had taken pity on you? Or was it because he decided to take the moral high road? Was it because he wanted to save his own face? Or was he truly, deeply sorry?

“I-” You stand up abruptly, “I need to go see him, Ten.”

You really hope he is truly, deeply sorry, and you have no choice but to find out.

Ten stands up with you, surprise evident on his features. “Wait, what-now?”

“Yes, now!” You look around frantically, before pausing. “Wait but…where would he be?”

“Are you really asking me that right now?” Ten raises his eyebrow.

“Ten, this is serious, tell me!”

“Well, I don’t know!” He throws his hands up in the air, starting to panic along with you. “Like, his house, or-or the field maybe, or-”

You gasp quietly.

“What?” Ten asks, oblivious.

“Ten,” you call to him softly, grabbing your purse and walking to the couches.

“What-oh.” He asks again, only for you to lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you,” you give him a small smile, “for everything.”

He blinks. “O-okay.”

With a single nod, you turn on your heel and scurry toward your door.

“Wait, woman, your coat!” Ten yells, jogging to your coat hanger and tossing your trench to you.

“Thank you!” you yell back, leaving Ten standing in your office among the silent echo of the doors that swing shut behind you, stunned with his hand still holding the cheek that you’d somehow kissed.

“Uhhh, okay,” he speaks to himself, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. “Okay,” Ten chuckles once again, reaching back for his clipboard before clearing his throat with a curt nod.

“Okay,” he says once more, before exiting your office with a growing smile.

XV. Une Doublure D'argent

The world truly is a lonely, lonely place. You ought to have learnt exactly that, if nothing else in amongst the tumultuous waves that make you up. Now, it is not the barren, desolate land that you compare to the city, but the solitary nature of your surroundings that reminds you of it. In the end, you realise that everything stands for itself. Each blade of grass is merely its own blade of grass. Each skyscraper is, in itself, its own skyscraper.

The notion finds you as you once again make the journey from the city to the countryside, this time in your own car, with the wheel sliding under each palm of your hands. From where such an epiphany had suddenly manifested, you have absolutely no idea. You simply allow your mind to drift in whichever direction, feeling the enormous space all around you as the road cuts into broad, green plains beneath the cloudy sky.

It seems all the radios know how to play these days are renditions of the same smooth jazz, but you let the speakers echo as they please, too busy with looking around and trying to remember the exact place you’d sat in among this maze of greenery.

Now that you really think about it, what you’re doing right now is absolutely ridiculous; something your past self never would have envisioned you doing in the future, because why would he be here of all places?

“A mess,” you mutter to yourself, “I’m just a big, fat me-”

Your foot slams down on the breaks as a dark head of hair emerges from the thick bed of grass on your left, yet another solitary figure hidden among the scene before you. Parking the car, you merely sit behind your window and watch him for a minute, noting the familiar way his locks shift in the breeze, some straying from the rest. And contrary to what you’d anticipated, such a view is oddly settling to take in. When the head disappears among the field again, you sigh, retrieving your bag and exiting the car to find a bicycle laying down outside the entrance of the same beaten down dirt path. You once again walk through it, welcomed ever so delicately by the pasture flanking its sides.

You reach into your bag, pulling out the magazine spread and approach the man lying down on his coat.

“What is this?” You make no haste in voicing your words, holding the article over Taeyong’s face and forcing yourself to ignore the flutter of goosebumps that arise on your skin as his eyes flutter open...

And then flutter back shut again.

“Excuse me?” You tilt your head, scoffing in disbelief. This was anything but the reaction you had been expecting.

“Hello?”

Still no response.

“Taeyon-”

“I thought you were smart, Y/n.”

His words catch you off-guard, eyebrows scrunching.

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

He simply hums in apathy, bringing a forearm to cover his still closed eyes to which you scowl in frustration, suddenly compelled to jab your boot into his side.

“Ow! What do you-”

“Taeyong, what is this?” you repeat yourself, shaking the magazine in your hand. “Tell me clearly what this is.”

He sighs, sitting up with a quiet rustle and combing a hand through his hair.

“Well, did you read the headline, or…”

You simply scoff once again, an irked smile finding your face as you turn around to leave.

“Wait.”

Taeyong catches your wrist from his spot on the ground, stopping you before you can take another step away from him, and you curse under your breath for the shiver that trickles through your body. His grip is so tight and unrelenting that you have no choice but to evade all thought of trying to shake it off. Reluctantly, you turn back to him, trying to level your breathing as his eyes meet your own.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he speaks softly, the wind carrying his voice with its echo as he peers up at you. “I couldn’t just leave without telling the truth…even if it had to be after a month.”

You take in his words with a growing frown, and just like that, everything you had planned to tell him – every single rehearsed sentence from your monologue of emotions – fades from the tip of your tongue, forgotten in the dry of your throat as you gulp, and without another thought, step forward and lower yourself down to the ground beside him. Minutes are spent thereafter in the silence of the outside, looking out to the grey sky with empty eyes. But within your mind roam a tangled, blundering string of ineffable thoughts, none of which you can seem to comprehend yourself.

“What are you doing here, Y/n?” Taeyong asks defeatedly.

“I’m giving you two minutes to explain everything that happened – and I mean, everything,” you blurt out, refusing to look at him until everything had been laid out properly in the open. You need all the answers before you can make any drastic considerations.

Taeyong sighs and you catch a small nod from him in your periphery. He begins with the first scandal, repeating everything he had written in the article that rests in your hand; how he’d genuinely believed it to be true, and failed to check the truth behind the dating rumours. Next came his modelling proposal, how, back in January, he’d accepted Ten’s offer at his frequented coffee shop and later found out it was a job for Argent. Then he explained Heechul’s offer of going undercover.

“Heechul,” you interrupt Taeyong, now all too familiar with the name. “He’s your boss?”

“Not anymore,” Taeyong sighs.

“You left your job?”

“More like I was fired, but I guess you could put it that way.”

“So, Heechul is the one who asked you to write another article? To debunk Argent?” you continue, “and you agreed?”

“Yes,” Taeyong replies, a hesitancy in his voice, unsure of what to expect from your reaction.

“Okay,” you nod, spurning any emotion from seeping into your features, “continue.”

And he does. And his words exceed far longer than the two-minute time slot you’d initially granted him, but you don’t move from your spot, nor do you attempt to stop Taeyong as the whole truth finally spills from his lips with the blooming emergence of dusk.

You gather that he’d written the majority of the debunking article in the first week or so of employment at Argent.

“…but when you told me the truth about the dating scandal, I was ready to drop everything and leave,” he pauses. “But then again, I couldn’t just do that to you. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I left, you’d have no model and I’d feel guilty. If I stayed, I’d still feel guilty, but I figured that the least I could do in that situation was help you…as ironic as it sounds.”

You sigh in deep vanquish, unsure what to make of his words or how to feel about his overall intentions.

“I actually forgot about the article after that day because I genuinely took on the role,” Taeyong adds with a small voice, and it only serves to muddle your thoughts up even more. On one hand, he’d defamed you, driven Jaehyun to leave Argent and join another fashion label, and then proceeded to romance you all while writing another article behind your back. But on the other hand, instead of leaving, Taeyong had stayed with you for an entire month, kept up with his modelling duties, walked the runway at New York Fashion Week, and maybe – just maybe – given you a sense of enjoyment while doing so.

“I deleted the article on the night of the show and called Heechul to tell him I couldn’t submit it. Then he fired me and released an exposé article the next day.”

“And you didn’t accept the money either,” you murmur from beside Taeyong and he shakes his head. “And then you released this article a month later,” you hold up the magazine, “just out of the blue.”

And he nods.

And you nod back.

And then, looking out once again toward the silence of the field, your brows furrow with a lingering thought.

“Why did you do it in public?” you ask quietly, a spark of anger beginning to brew inside you. “Why did you have to release an article in the first place? Why couldn’t you have just come to me yourself?”

“I already told you, I had to tell the truth-”

“But why didn’t you come to me?”

Trying your hardest to stabilise your breathing, you turn to Taeyong, immediately shivering with another unsolicited prickle of goosebumps at the mere sight of him. You’re adamant on knowing the reasoning behind his drastic actions, unwilling to believe that everything that you had built with him – everything he’d done with you – was simply just an act.

Taeyong has to pause at your question, expression tensing as he inhales deeply, searching for the answer which is surprisingly hard to pinpoint.

“I couldn’t-” he sighs sharply, “I couldn’t bear to face you after everything I did. I was ashamed.”

“And you weren’t ashamed that night?” you dare to ask, facing forward again with a shaky breath.

Taeyong knows exactly which night you’re referring to. He’d gone through a month of deep rumination, but nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared him for the striking pain in his chest when he finally turns to your downcast figure staring toward the sky with a doleful look in your beautiful, but incredibly sorrowful features. The only other time he’d seen you in such a genuine sadness was the very first time he’d taken you out to this place; when you’d voiced every one of your worries and he’d listened to them all. When he’d let you believe that you had his trust.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more ashamed in my life,” he whispers, turning to face his lap, completely heartbroken to have brought this all upon you.

“I just needed you to say something back then; anything…” you begin, voice breaking without any idea of where your mind is leading it, “…but you just disappeared without a word.”

You turn back to him, your own heart breaking at the genuine remorse present in every inch of his expression. In the drained depths of his eyes, and the shadowed bags just beneath them. In every crack on the pink of his lips and the very wilt of its frown.

“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he whispers, his helpless gaze focused right on your own, “I’m so, so sorry.”

You’re forced to close your eyes with a pained, shaky breath.

It truly is a lonely, lonely world. You haven’t always had someone to lean on in every moment of needful solitude, but you had just so happened to find Taeyong months ago, in one of your biggest moments of need yet.

It doesn’t seem to matter under which context he’d come; all that matters now is the fact that he’d been there for you. And it dawns on you just how much your life had been riding on this man after you’d met him. No matter your feelings toward the notion, because for once, you didn’t have control, and it didn’t matter whether you liked it or not. Your input had not a single ounce of weightage in the grand picture when you were around Taeyong.

In his presence, things had felt as natural as this field, and as effortless as merely existing here in the tall grass. You’d found yourself caring less and less for inhibitions, letting go, turning away from all the nasty what-ifs that make up everything the world hates about you. Slipping up here and there…it had started to feel okay. And it was all because of him.

He was your anchor in a time of great need.

The fact still remains that his initial motives were flawed and his silent departure equally as painful. And it still hurts that you’ve had to find him yourself even now, hidden in this field without any direction or prospect for his future.

But all of that pain dulls in comparison to the pain you feel while looking into his eyes right now.

This has all been painful for you. But it must have also been so painful for him.

You’ve searched within the confines of your thawing heart and found something of a crackling hope amid the fire of betrayal, thinking that maybe Taeyong deserves the benefit of the doubt. That maybe somewhere along the way, his original motives had lost their significance. That it couldn’t have been easy for him to write that letter about himself. That he wouldn’t have put himself through the trouble of public scrutiny were he not a changed person.

Maybe you’re a fool for thinking that way, maybe you’re just selfish. But you can’t face the other way now, and there’s only one apparent reason why.

“It’s not okay,” finally comes your reply, voice as airy and soft as the wind. “And I thought I needed more from you, because you really, really hurt me, Taeyong. And I wish so much that I could hate you for it but,” you pause, lifting a hand to cup his face, “but all I needed was an apology, because that’s all anyone ever needs from the person they love.”

You really thought you needed more from him.

But you love him.

You love Lee Taeyong.

And all you really needed was a sincere apology.

You feel Taeyong’s cold hand find your own face, warming against your skin. He brings your forehead to gently meet his own, soft whispers of “I’m sorry” melting repeatedly against your cheeks, soothed by the feathered stroke of his thumb. “I love you too, Y/n, I’m so sorry,”

You pull back just enough to find his eyes once again.

“I forgive you.”

And Taeyong pulls you back to him, your body now encased in the haven of his arms like never before as his face finds a home in the warmth of your neck, refusing to let you go when he hears the soft sniffles on his shoulder.

“Don’t cry,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “Please don’t cry, Y/n.”

“You don’t think I’m a bitch,” you mumble into his coat.

“Of course you’re not.” Taeyong unwinds his arms from you, gently wiping your tears while looking you in the eye. “God, fuck no.” His words pull a small chuckle from you and Taeyong doesn’t think anything has ever sounded as sweet as your smile, nothing has ever felt as nice as your fingers in his own, or as comforting as the mere thought that you were here with him once again. That you loved him despite all his flaws and mistakes.

“I have something for you,” you untuck yourself from his arms and reach back into your handbag, lifting your hand back out in a fist and bringing it in front of Taeyong. He eyes you with something of a knowing smile and slowly uncurls your fingers, revealing the round box of strawberry lip balm he’d given you months ago.

“But it’s yours,” he mumbles as you slide the box into his hand.

“You need it more than I do,” you grin coyly, and Taeyong can only shake his head in adoration while unscrewing the lid to find it half empty since the last time he’d used it, applying the balm to his lips as you once again reach back into your bag.

He looks up as a loud rumble resounds throughout the sky, the grey clouds having grown darker with the evening, shifting and whispering among each other with a newfound purpose ready to be fulfilled.

You raise your hands up to the sky from beside him, and Taeyong turns to you curiously, his gaze following your arm to the silver strip of fabric pinched between your fingers, shimmering with infinite hope in front of the looming clouds. You turn to Taeyong, a soft smile forming at your lips as you regard him with all the world’s sincerity in your eyes; the one thing so certain in his greatest moment of uncertainty.

A silver lining to his darkest clouds.

“Don’t forget it.”

Reaching out to him, you hold Taeyong’s hand tightly with the fabric clasped warmly between both of your palms. And as you bring his hand to your mouth and plant a gentle kiss to his skin, Taeyong finds a certain comfort in the softness of your lips; how they’re no longer chapped as they once were, and how they beam up at him so beautifully.

“Don’t ever forget it.”

finis

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