#leoish

chapter 2 - Lara fucking Raj

tw: mild violence, graphic descriptions of violence (broken nose)

By the eighth unanswered call from Mary, Sam was tempted to eat all the food out of spite. 

He could turn around and go home, because he did tell Mary to wait for him downstairs. But if Mary was stuck in rehearsal with her ex Dumb Ryan in charge, she was already having a bad enough day. Plus, if they’ve been at it since this morning, the girls must also be pretty burnt out. 

He could leave the food with the security guard downstairs. But his friend isn’t on shift; the other guard is. Carl, the one who always asks for ID twice or frowns more than usual if Sam hasn’t shaved his beard. Sam is too tired for that today. 

And maybe he is too, since he hasn’t tapped on his window to ask why Sam’s been sitting in the car longer than their unwritten twenty-five-minute accord. 

He calls a ninth time. He waits long enough that the container on top isn’t warm anymore, the plastic lid fogged with tiny droplets. He rolls his eyes. “Die With a Smile” starts playing on the radio for the fifth time, and he briefly thinks about staying in the car with the engine running. 

Sam knows he should go up. He knows how exhausting it is to have assholes for coaches and schedules that are probably not fully legal. Mary has talked about the girls so much that he feels adjacently responsible enough. They’re hungry, tired, and, well, under the all-familiar pressure he knows too well. Fuck. 

It would be nice to see Sophia again. 

“Screw it,” he mutters to himself. He turns off the car and slams his door hard enough to make it clear to Carl that he is not in the mood for his bullshit. But Carl must really not care (not with Sam’s very intimidating Cars Crocs, dobok loose at the waist, and plastic bags cutting into his arms) because he gets up from his deck to wait for Sam at the door. 

“Choi,” he looks annoyed. Great. “Do you have a badge?” 

“Do you?” 

Carl just rolls his eyes and seems to decide to let it go. Sam eyes him warily as Carl calls for the elevator and waits awkwardly next to him. 

“Second floor, take the hallway to your left and the first door to the right.” Carl doesn’t leave room for Sam to give a sarcastic comeback, just slides his badge over the pad and presses the button “2.” 

The elevator is glass. Everything in the building seems to be all glass, really. Call it Korean modernism or an eerie warning that you’re always being watched. It’s enough to distract Sam until the elevator dings again and he thinks about it. He’s already inside. Maybe he could share the food with Carl? 

“Don’t be stupid,” and he’s talking to himself again. Great. 

He follows Carl’s instructions, and suddenly he’s frozen in front of the door that says ‘KATSEYE’S Rehearsal Room 1’ because of course there are others. When was the last time he was in a studio? He can hear a piano running scales-- E Major, he thinks to himself-- and voices trying for a perfect harmony. He peeks his head in the window and tries to find Mary but only notices Sophia, who is standing near the piano, back straight and eyes tired. 

She stops abruptly the second their eyes meet. He watches her lips go “Oh my God, oh my God,” and Dumb Ryan’s hands stop on the piano, his dumb head turning to see him on the door. They probably roll their eyes at the same time. 

Sophia opens the door for him, shrieks his name, and almost topples them both over—food and everything. She wraps her arms around him, and he kind of forgets about his annoyance. He missed her. 

As soon as she lets go of him, she punches his arm. Hard. “That’s for not taking so long.” She punches his other arm before he can move. “And that’s for not visiting me once.” 

“Damn, Sophie. I missed you too.” 

Sam places the bags on the nearest table, mostly to avoid Sophia's turns, and claps once, loud enough to shift the room. “Guys, this is Sam. My bestie since we were, like, twelve.” 

The girls turn toward him in near-unison, and for half a second it seems automatic, the way they smile and wave like it’s a fan meeting. The muscle memory of meeting strangers when you’re running on empty. 

Sam recognizes that face. The fan-meeting face. He hates that he recognizes it. 

Sam bows, and Sophia introduces them one by one, and it’s more remembering for Sam because Mary sometimes sleeps with their merch. Rants about every live the girls do and “Can you believe they said…” followed by something that would have had Sam grounded for a month. There’s posters too big to match the aesthetic of the penthouse so they just rest against random walls. 

So, sure, he knows who Lara fucking Raj is. 

But when Sophia says, “This is Lara” and uselessly points her out, it’s like Sam’s seeing her for the first time. Because oh. 

There’s no fireworks or butterflies or love at first sight. It’s this sudden, violent absence of noise. Like someone finally reached into his skull and turned off the months-long static he wasn’t even aware of. 

Lara Raj looks tired. Like she’s been doing runs and choreo since 9 a.m., retouched her makeup every other hour, and put on a smile because there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. Standing there like someone who knows they belong here. 

The girls thank him for the food; he knows that. But he only smiles, bows suddenly remembering his manners when Lara says, “Oh my God, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Mary talks about you all the time.” 

Mary? Right, Mary. His sister. What, sister? He nods once, because words are temporarily unavailable, and watches Lara start unpacking the food.

Manon is giving him a look, like she’s trying to access his thoughts, which would be scary if he had any right now. Daniela smiles briefly before stuffing her mouth with a breadstick, Megan waves from where her face is way too close to the microwave --why is there a kitchen in the rehearsal room?-- and Yoonchae looks at him with bright eyes. She opens her mouth to speak when Dumb Ryan’s voice snaps him back to the room. 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Ryan claps once, like it’s supposed to mean much. “You can eat after rehearsal. Let’s get back to work.” 

“Ryan, it’s 5 p.m. They’ve been here since this morning.” 

Ryan does that thing that has always annoyed Sam since the moment Mary introduced him as her boyfriend four months ago. That little breathy laugh at nothing, not even a full laugh—just huh through the nose. Like your presence is amusing enough. “Choi, you can’t walk into my rehearsal and tell me how to run it.” 

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Sam says evenly. “I’m just saying, being humane can’t hurt you that much?” 

Ryan turns to sit again, like that’s that. “Let’s run again.” 

Sam watches the girls swallow before they managed to grab, eyes flickering to Sam and then Sophia. They get back to running harmonies like nothing happened, but Sam sees the way their eye flicker to the clock and the bags on the table. 

He should leave, logically, he knows that. He should probably find where the hell Mary is. But Dumb Ryan gets on his nerves again. “No, no--” his voice is sharp. “That pitch is flat. You’re pushing from your throat, Megan, come on.” 

Sam does the mature thing and leans close to Ryan, reading the sheet music with his head almost on Ryan’s shoulder. He hears one of the girls snort. “Can I help you?” 

“That’s not a pitch issue,” Sam says. “It’s breath support. Maybe don’t ask them to sustain without reset. They’re tired.” 

Really, Sam isn’t usually like this. He’s polite, mostly. Too Korean to be a brat. But Dumb Ryan always brought the worst of him, and he’s particularly not fond of people who justify a poor attitude with whatever made-up title they think gives them power. 

“Sam, please,” Ryan says, smile thin. “I didn’t ask for a Broadway dropout to assist my sessions.” 

“Then maybe don’t run your sessions like you want them to drop out too.” 

Sophia calls his name, raises an eyebrow he’s familiar with: behave. 

Ryan’s nose flares, and he looks around to check who’s witnessing his humiliation. Sam tightens the black belt around his waist, a thoughtless tug, muscle memory recall of technique. Maybe that’s what sets Ryan off. 

Some unconscious, animal thing. Posturing without meaning to. 

Sam doesn’t see the punch coming. 

It’s fast and sloppy-- all shoulder and ego. Sam briefly thinks about poor technique. Then there’s the dull crack-- wet, like knuckles hitting cartilage instead of bone. Pressure caves his face inward, familiar and sharp, and everything is a mess of heat and tears and red. 

He’s taken enough kicks to the face to know better than to panic. Tastes like iron. Feels it warm against his upper lip, already dripping. He laughs once—disbelieving, mostly-- even as his eyes burn with tears.

If he were Ryan, and his hand probably wasn’t broken, he’d swing again just for that. 

Ryan swears loudly, clutching his hand. 

Sophia is between them instantly, one hand on Sam’s chest, the other trying to look at his nose. “Jesus—Sam—”

He lets her see because he’s ruined her day enough as it is. She tilts his head back and the blood falls on his mouth. He feels it when he grins at Ryan. “Hey, you good?”

Dumb Ryan glares. 

“Because,” Sam adds lightly. “I think you broke your hand.” 

note: fun one to write, hope you like it!!

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Chapter eight — can't they just send me the page?

Lara's iPad: YouTube

Sam's iPhone.

He absolutely has a predetermined iPhone background. He's too chronically offline to spend time personalizing his phone. He also keeps people by their full name, until the kats see that and steal his phone and change all their names.

Gmail notification

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note: shorter chapter because someone decided to spend a ridiculous amount of hours on Photoshop editing Lara's YouTube home page LMAO.

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Chapter 3 - heaven's light

See also: Mary's ongoing thread, Day X of teaching my brother how to thug it out.

The infirmary makes Sam feel like a kid. 

Not because he’d get in trouble as a kid. On the contrary, he spent some lunch breaks hanging out with the school staff whenever he was annoyed at the other kids. 

But because his feet aren’t touching the ground and Nurse Josh keeps frowning at him when he tries to raise his eyebrows or flare his nostrils. 

“So, hypothetically,” Sam starts.

“Try not to talk, Sam.” 

He reaches for his phone instead, thumbs flying as he types. His nose is throbbing, and he’s sitting there still in his dobok that looks like pajamas. He wants to make a joke when he notices a drop of blood in the white of his sleeve, but maybe Nurse Josh senses it because he presses too hard and makes him hiss. 

The door swings open hard enough to rattle the frame. 

“Sam” 

Sam actually winces. 

Mary storms in like the force of nature she is-- jaw tight, eyes sharp, and a rolled stack of papers like she’d already smacked someone with it. Sophia comes in right behind her, clearly breathless from trying to keep up, and Sam sees the way she scans his face.

It occurs to him then that for all the shit he gives Mary for being short, Sophia stands slightly shorter than her. Maybe not the most pertinent thought, really, when he remembers they both look equal parts pissed and concerned. 

“Before you start—” 

Nurse Josh doesn’t give Sam a chance to explain and presses his finger to his lips, securing a steri-strip on the bridge of his nose. “He’s fine,” he tells Mary. “I’m the one suffering.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not that bad.” 

“He took a good hit, but nothing major. Noses bleed easily. Whoever hit him did it wrong. If anything’s broken, it’s probably the other guy’s hand.”

Sophia actually snorts. “You got that right.” 

“OK, you--” Mary pinches the bridge of her nose. And yeah, it’s Sam’s nose that’s palpitating, but she’s probably having a worse day than he is. She nods, releases a deep breath and Sam knows it’s rehearsed and says, “Thank you, Josh.” 

Josh gives Sam a look that says good luck, buddy and steps away, throwing out the bloodied gauzes. 

As soon as Mary turns back to Sam, he rushes to explain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—like, I wasn’t trying to cause anything, I swear. I know you had a bad day and I didn’t want to add stress but he--” 

Mary smacks his arm. Not hard, not gentle either. 

“Ow,” Sam frowns. Sophia seems pleased with that. 

Mary points at him.  “That’s for scaring me.” 

She takes another deep breath and rubs her face with both hands. There’s a tightness to her shoulders, and Sam feels an old but familiar nasty feeling. That unsettling churning in his gut when he knew his presence was making Mary’s day worse. 

Maybe Mary sees it in his eyes, the frown when he turns his head down to make eye contact with Lightning McQueen on his Crocs. “Hey, I’m not mad, okay? Not at you anyway.” 

Sam looks back up.

“I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” she mutters. “I leave you alone for twenty minutes and you’re bleeding in a HYBE infirmary.” 

“In my defense,” Sam starts, careful to not move his nose. “I tried calling you several times. You didn’t pick up, so I went upstairs to drop off the food. You know, like you asked.”

Mary shoots him a look, and Sam could swear she blushes. Oh. “I was busy.” 

Then, immediately: “Don’t change the subject. Why did Ryan punch you?”

Sophia—bless her—takes this as the right time to interfere. “Can I tell the story?” 

Mary crosses her arms and leans on the bench next to Sam. “Be my guest.” 

“Okay—so—Sam comes in with the food. Like, literally just walks in with the bags. He’s polite—” 

“--I knocked.” 

“You did,” Sophia nods. “I introduce him to the girls properly. He says hi and bows. And everything’s fine for, like, thirty seconds.” 

Mary looks annoyed at how into it Sophia seems to be. 

“And then Ryan starts being an ass--again-- and he’s all pissy. Like immediately. Because Sam interrupted rehearsal.” 

“But we were all tired, like exhausted. And Sam’s like--,” Sophia deepns her voice, exaggerated, “‘Hey, maybe let them eat? They’ve been going for hours.’”

Mary snorts and Sam is about to interrupt but Sophia presses her hand over his mouth and goes on. “Anyway. Ryan goes-- ‘You don’t tell me how run my rehearsal.’ All stick up his ass--” 

“--Language.” 

“Sorry,” Sophia isn’t sorry. “Ryan ignores him and tries to go on with the rehearsal, but he was rude to Megan. So Sam gets all in his space and then Ryan goes ‘I didn’t ask a Broadway dropout to assist my session.’” 

Mary rubs her temples. “God.” 

“And Sam’s just standing there, being Sam-- which I guess is enough to piss some people off-- and he thightens his belt and Ryan gets super red-- and just,” Sophia punches her palm in a very graceful imitation of Dumb Ryan’s hand meeting Sam’s nose. 

Mary looks up. “That’s it?”

“That’s literally it,” Sophia says. “Sam didn’t even punch back.” 

Sam adds quietly, “I might’ve smiled.” 

Sophia looks childlike, really, nodding along. “He did smile. That didn’t help.” 

“Oh! And,” Sophia grabs Sam’s forearm and smiles in a way that shouldn’t match her next sentence. “He breaks his own hand.” 

Mary actually lets out a sharp laugh. 

“I’m honestly impressed you didn’t drop him,” Mary adds, looking at Sam.” 

“And then security comes in,” Sophia finishes. “Megan’s yelling at Sam to swing back, Dani’s asking if she can hit him next, and Manon’s bent over laughing. It’s chaos.” 

Nurse Josh snorts from the corner of the room.

She looks back at Sam-- really looks at him now. Bruised, tired, and apologetic when he shouldn’t be. 

“You didn’t start this.” 

Sam hesitates, out of habit. “I didn’t try to stop it either.”

Mary sighs. “You can be annoying,” she says. “You can be mouthy--

“--A smartass,” Sophia adds. “A bit insensitive, really.” 

“Hey--” Sam starts, but Mary interrupts them both.

“Point being,” she sighs. “That doesn’t mean anyone gets to put their hands on you.” 

There’s silence. 

For a second, Mary looks at him like a big sister picking up her baby brother from a mess. And, sure, that’s what it is. But it’s so new to Sam, this being taken care of in a way that isn’t conditional, that it throws him off. Or distracts him enough that when Mary’s phone pings loudly, he startles. 

“It’s Rachel,” Mary says. Her boss. “She wants to talk to me.”

“Oh.” Sam frowns. Sophia tries to get a glance at Mary’s phone. 

“She’s asking if you can come too.” 

Sam has always been smart. Too smart for his own good. Like right now. Because he knew this would happen, that in the five short months Sam has been in L.A., the only thing more persistent than traffic was Rachel Park. 

The woman who happened to watch Sam on stage once and decided that he was exactly what HYBE had been missing. 

It started harmlessly enough. The usual you’re incredible in that voice people in the industry have-- half compliment, half mouseketool they’ll save for later. 

At Mary’s Secret Santa, Rachel asked him questions his fans asked on Twitter. What he was working on. If he missed performing. If he ever thought about coming back. 

By Mary’s birthday in January, Rachel had moved on to suggestions. Some demo tracks she’d love his opinion on. People who’d love to meet him. No pressure, of course. Just options.  

And at the staff cookout last month, completely out of place between paper plates and beer, she’d finally spelled it out. Not a contract. Not even an offer, really. Just a quiet I know there’s so much you can give to music, Sam. 

Like she knew exactly which buttons to push, damn her. 

So he smiled and moved on to the next topic. That was the part he hated most—the way it was never a demand. Never a push. Just an expectation that eventually, he’d stop saying no.

He sees the way Mary is staring at him, flipping her phone between her hands like that might steady her nerves, waiting for him to say no like he always does, despite how badly she wishes he didn’t. He’s seen that look before. 

The look whenever she gets home from work and finds there’s still a sheet draped over the grand piano in the living room, when Sophia asks to hang out, or when his agent calls with an offer. The look she gave him when he gave her his Tony and told her to hide it. 

Sam wants to say no; it’s at the tip of his tongue. But he knows Mary is hopeful that maybe this will get him out of his depression. He knows that Sophia’s eyes aren’t twinkling because of the white lights but because of the chance that her best friend might finally come back into her life and stop hiding from himself. 

Sam should say no because this industry can’t be much different. Because Mary comes home stressed and annoyed when there’s a meeting about the way the girls dress or talk. When she worries if this rumor will be the one that breaks them. 

Sam doesn’t say no, because giving Rachel a chance doesn’t bind him to anything. 

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll go with you.”

Even Nosy Nurse Josh seems surprised.

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Chapter Twelve— the word was tree??

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note: i spent a ridiculous amount of hours on Photoshop just to prove Papa Raj would stalk Sam.

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chapter 1 - i'm flirting with your mom next

note: hope you like a little bit of parasocial chaos, just to show the general perception before we meet our guy haha. lemme know what you think and thank you for reading!

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@solarzbeam, @daysareslow

Chapter Ten: Part One - Re: Stacks

The next few weeks are enough to take Sam’s mind off the upcoming trip to Korea. 

Between recording vocals, preparing for the Gnarly music video, and the slow build toward promo week, his days blur into rehearsal rooms and meeting notes he pretends not to read.

The girls are impossible to contain. They try, around Sam, to tone down the excitement over the trip—but they’ve been rehearsing nonstop for weeks, and as Megan puts it, they’re finally being reintroduced to society.

Rachel attempts to corner Sam into a meeting with management. Sam retaliates by scheduling vocal training at a park thirty minutes away, with the girls doing laps between scales. When they revolt, he deploys his most powerful weapon: begging Mary to give them the rest of the day off.

Still, there are four moments that stay with Sam. 

The day after the meeting, it’s the last Saturday of March. Which means the crew is coming to the penthouse to hang out. Which also means Sam is on cooking duty, mostly because that keeps him off karaoke and Sohey’s annoying runs on songs he can’t actually sing. Or, at the very least, Sam is counting on Sohey being knowledgeable on the principle that you don’t fuck with the person in charge of your food. 

Rachel arrives first, as she always does. 

She’s wearing a dress shirt and jeans. Sam looks up as she comes in, momentarily distracted by the sound of her bangles as she fidgets with them. Fidgets. 

He has to lift himself onto the counter to see all the way into the foyer, careful not to put his hands on the chopping board, and the sight confuses him even more. Mary and Rachel stand awkwardly by the door—closer than anyone should be to their boss, really-- and if the sound of her fidgets wasn’t strange enough for him, the shy tuck of hair behind her ear makes it worse. 

Mary mirrors her. 

Idiots. 

The living room is full by three in the afternoon, with the crew filtering in and dropping by the kitchen to say hi to Sam before they write their names on the karaoke list Rachel seems to be guarding. Aiden, one of the dancers, brings a can of Lays as he always does. “For the chef,” he says solemnly. “I was told offerings improve survival rates.”

Missy drops onto one of the stools and keeps Sam company until she downs her first beer, which always loosens her up just in time to have the patience to join Mary and Sohey arguing over the microphone. 

Grant, who just got back from holidays, enters through the service door with a box that covers his face. Sam’s reaching for it before Grant can stumble against the counter. “Sam, my love. How I’ve missed you.” 

He has this way of saying things, a tilt to his voice that makes it feel like he’s always teasing, but his face is genuine. He blows Sam a kiss, mindful of his thing about personal space, and starts unpacking multiple bottles of alcohol from the box. Grant is always the bartender.  

“I hear,” he starts. “You finally agreed to join us. How did Rachel get you?” 

Sam snorts, “Come on, I’m sure Sohey told you the story.” 

“Well, he said something about Ryan punching you, but your face looks as gorgeous as ever.” 

Sam laughs, sharp and helpless, and Grant grins like he’s won something.

Josh, the girls’ main stylist, gives Sam a wave from the door. Most of the dance crew sits on the same couch, and there are also some of the guys from marketing and the social media manager.

By the time karaoke officially starts, Sam’s just finished in the kitchen—or finished enough that the oven can take over for him. The meat’s still roasting for whoever insists; the rest is laid out neatly. He wipes his hands on a towel and steps into the living room, scanning for an empty spot on the couch.

Mary stands up, no announcement, and Sam moves to take her spot just to be annoying. Which is the only reason he thinks nothing when she sets her glass down and heads for the door like she’s been expecting a delivery. 

Sam clocks it a second too late. “Are we—?”

He doesn’t get to finish.

There’s laughter coming from the foyer. Laughter he knows better than his own by now, overlapping and uncontained, the kind that bounces perfectly in the huge apartment.  Yoonchae calls Sam’s name. Someone shushes her and immediately fails.

Sam freezes.

“What—” he starts, quietly, mostly to himself.

Dani first, mid-sentence, loudly indignant about something no one here has context for. Megan right behind her, already laughing. Sophia clocks Sam immediately and breaks off with a delighted, “Oh my God,” like she’s just spotted her favorite person in a crowd. Lara slips in with her usual ease, eyes flicking to Sam for half a second too long. Manon follows, a box under her arm. Yoonchae brings up the rear, hugging Mary last.

“Sohey,” Megan says flatly, scanning the crew, mostly unperturbed by their arrival. “I told you, I never forget.” 

Sohey lifts his hands. “It’s not like we were purposefully blacklisting y’all—” 

“I was deeply offended,” Megan continues, pointing at him. “Deeply.”

Sam’s still standing there, stuck somewhere between shocked and amused, relief sneaking up on him before he can stop it. He lets out a laugh before he realizes he’s doing it.

Sophia reaches Sam and wraps her arms around him without hesitation, tight and familiar. Mandatory. He exhales into it before he can stop himself.

“There you are,” she says into his shoulder, like she was worried he might not be.

Yoonchae takes the box from Manon and waves it excitedly. “We brought the Wicked Monopoly.”

Sam looks around—at the crew, at Mary by the door with a look that says don’t start, at the girls already settling in like this was always the plan—and laughs, short and disbelieving.

“Wow,” he says. “Okay.”

“We’ve collectively decided to forgive you all for having these hangouts without us,” Megan informs him. 

Manon adds, “Rude.”

“And exclusionary,” Lara says lightly, still looking at him.

Sam shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Welcome,” he says, finally. “I guess.”

The night drags on far longer than it usually does. They eat—everyone has seconds. “Compliments to the chef.” Sohey kisses Sam on the cheek and Sam lets him because who cares. Karaoke stretches into hours, and even the girls join. Sam can tell Sophia is dying to sing with him, but she never asks: instead, she settles for dueting with Dani. 

It’s loud and endless and a little unhinged, and Sam really doesn’t mind for once.

He laughs so hard his stomach hurts, the ache in his cheeks unfamiliar in a way that startles him. 

At some point, Lara ends up next to him on the arm of the couch. She leans in, not quite touching, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her shoulder.

“You know,” she says quietly, like it’s a secret just for him, “you’re way more fun than you pretend to be.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “I don’t pretend.”

She hums, unconvinced, and nudges her knee against his. Just once. Like punctuation.

It’s late—really late—when they end up in Sam’s room.

Mary stays downstairs with Rachel to clean up, insists on it, and the girls take the stairs two at a time. Someone stops short in the doorway. “This is… very you,” Daniela says carefully.

“Minimalist,” Manon offers.

“Serial killer chic,” Megan decides.

Sam snorts. “You’re all welcome to leave.”

They don’t. They ask before sitting on his bed—actually ask—and somehow end up everywhere anyway: sprawled on the floor, Dani on Sophia’s lap on his desk chair, and Yoonchae already setting up Wicked Monopoly like it’s sacred. Sam sits cross-legged on the carpet, back against the bed, watching them fill the space like it’s always belonged to them.

He’s had this before, technically. Sophia, years ago, when she visited and they were still kids and the world hadn’t narrowed yet. But never like this. Never a room full of people choosing to be here, choosing him, turning something ordinary into something that feels rare.

It’s stupid, maybe, how much it gets to him. How normal it is. How normal it should be for people his age—the kind of night teenagers have all the time. 

How he wants to hold onto it anyway.

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note: part one of two because i wrote like 3K words of this ☠️

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Chapter Thirteen - i'm hungry

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Foolishly, Sam expected the girls to be drained by the time the plane landed. 

They were anything but. 

Yoonchae—who had slept through most of the flight—burst into Incheon like she’d been released from captivity, buzzing around the airport like a child on Christmas morning who’d also been told that homework had been outlawed and every meal would consist exclusively of ice cream.

Going through customs was its own kind of surreal. 

Of the three people holding dark blue Korean passports, only one of them looked like someone returning home. Yoonchae moved through the process with ease, language and posture settling into place as if nothing had changed. Mary and Sam, meanwhile, stood shoulder to shoulder feeling like impostors—two people who technically belonged but had missed some invisible checkpoint years ago and never quite made it back.

The rest of the girls had clearly crossed into what Sam could only describe as airport delirium.

Megan kept losing her passport and then finding it in increasingly alarming places (check: Sam’s carry-on, Manon’s headphone case, Sophia’s purse). Dani had decided that this was the ideal moment to narrate everyone’s internal monologue. Sophia laughed at absolutely everything, including nothing at all. Manon leaned against her suitcase, trying—and failing—not to tip over every time she laughed.

And Lara. 

Lara kept blurting out random lyrics, loud enough enough for the girls to catch on. Within seconds, they were harmonizing in the otherwise quiet terminal, instinctive and full of laughter.

Sam wasn’t oblivious to the way they kept looking at him.

Mary’s headcounts lingered on him a second too long each time, her gaze searching his face like she might still decide this had been a mistake—that they should turn around, get back on the plane, undo the last twelve hours. Sophia insisted on sharing her earbuds, nudging him gently every time a joke landed, as if checking that he was still with them.

Lara didn’t pretend.

She looked at him, held his gaze like she was waiting for something he couldn’t name, and then, when it didn’t come, she turned back to the girls and sang.

Sam felt it settle under his skin. 

The drive to the hotel barely registered. The city slid past the windows in fragments: streets he’d grown up on, buildings lit like nothing had changed. He searched for something unfamiliar—anything—to ground himself, and came up empty.

The only thing he didn’t recognize was himself.

The hotel was too close to home. Literally.

From the Hangang Bridge, he could see the slope of Yongsan Park, the familiar cluster of buildings beyond it. He wondered if his parents were home. If they were asleep. If they were even in Korea at all. It struck him, suddenly and unpleasantly, that this was the closest he’d been to them in six months.

If they were even in Korea.

He snaps out of it when Mary taps his thigh. She’s frowning, her hand hovering like she’s unsure whether to touch him again.

“I’m okay,” Sam says, mostly so he doesn’t lose the habit.

Sam helps Mary with check-in before she even asks. He catches the red tint creeping up her cheeks as she talks to the manager, the way he switches to English at her careful Korean.

She didn’t need to explain. Sam didn’t need her to explain, because he got the general idea: the not wanting to be the Korean girl who left too early and came back sounding like a guest in her own home.

The give out the keycards, and Mary sighs in a way that sounds like tradition, “Dani. Manon. You only have two. Please. I beg you. Don’t lose them.”

The girls disappear into the elevators with their bags, voices echoing even after the doors slide shut.

Sam exhales. Mary rubs her temple like she’s already tired of tomorrow.

Not even five minutes later, while Sam and Mary are going over tomorrow’s arrangements with the driver, the elevator dings again. 

The girls pile out, some more layers of anything thrown over their same clothes. They looked ridiculous, frankly. Face masks and sunglasses and even caps, all except for Yoonchae. Sam snorted at that, because she couldn’t bother to warn them that they didn’t have to hide here, because fans weren’t as intrusive as in America. 

Mary blinks. “What are you doing?”

“We were thinking,” Dani starts, already smiling like she knows this is a losing battle but plans to enjoy it anyway.

“No,” Mary says immediately.

“We just want to walk,” Sophia says.

“Around the block,” Dani adds.

“Or several blocks,” Lara says.

“Stretch our legs,” Manon says and she can barely keep the laugh off her face. “Reorient.”

“Reclaim our circadian rhythms,” Megan offers.

Mary pinches the bridge of her nose. “You start promo tomorrow. Early.”

“But the sun hasn’t even fully set,” Yoonchae says, gesturing dramatically toward the glass doors. “It feels illegal to sleep.”

“We lost a whole day,” Manon says, nodding along like this is serious. “My body thinks it’s noon.”

Mary looks at them. Really looks. She wants to say no. Sam can see it—the calculation, the fight between responsibility and the knowledge that even if she says no, none of them are sleeping anytime soon.

It was the night-before feeling. The kind that sat in their chests and refused to settle, even when their bodies begged for sleep.

Gnarly dropped tomorrow.

Tomorrow, everything might change.

Mary sighs.

“What do you want to do?”

-

That’s how they end up back in the van not even ten minutes later. Everyone’s talking over each other, knees tucked up on seats, shoes kicked off. Yoonchae calls her parents to let them know they’ve arrived, and they suggest going to a market. 

The van hasn’t even merged onto the main road and Yoonchae is already halfway out of her seat.

“We’re really going,” she says, like she needs to convince herself. “My mom just texted again. She sent a picture. She’s already buying food.”

“Already?” Lara squints. “We just left the hotel.”

“My mom does that,” Yoonchae says proudly. “She’s early to everything.”

Sam smiles from the seat across from her. “That tracks.”

Sophia leans forward between them. “Wait—Mangwon Market, right? Is that near where you grew up?”

Yoonchae nods. “Yes! Mapo-gu. I used to walk past it every day to school.”

“Oh my God, Yoonchae,” Lara uses that lilt to her voice, the fondness whenever she speaks to her girls. “You have to show us where you went to school.” 

“Is it like a mall?” Dani asks. 

“No,” Yoonchae says, smiling. “Like—real food. Stalls. Aunties yelling at you. The best tteokbokki in my life.”

Yoonchae’s talking with her hands now, too excited to sit still, explaining which entrance smells like fish cakes and which one always has the longest line. The girls are half-lost, half-hypnotized.

Sam and Mary sit on the first row, and Sam catches Mary’s smile at their conversation.  She rests her head against the back of the seat, like this is the most calming sound in her life. Sam thinks of doing the same, until someone taps his shoulder and he’s tipping his head back to find Yoonchae’s face hovering over his. 

“What about you? You grew up here too, right? Which area?”

Sam hesitates just a beat. “Uh—Yongsan. Hannam-dong.”

There’s a pause, mostly because Yoonchae pauses and the rest of the girls don’t know what that’s supposed to meet. 

“…Oh,” Yoonchae says slowly.

Which is just met with a bunch of: “‘Oh’ what?” and “Why was that an oh?” plus Dani’s very helpful, “Is that bad? Is that good?” and Manon’s, “What’s a Hot-Damn-Dong?” 

Yoonchae doesn’t take her eyes off Sam, who’s fully turned around now, but she points out the window and the girls turn. They’re not sure what they’re looking for but they get the idea. It’s right there. 

Yoonchae presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “UN Village?”

Sam nods once.

Manon lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what that means but it sounds expensive.”

“It is,” Yoonchae says gently.

Sam sighs, because he knows how this goes. The slight surprise when people hear where he grew up and the appraisal that follows. 

​​“You went to YISS,” Yoonchae doesn’t really ask.

Sam turns to her. “How did you—”

“You live in Hannam-dong,” she says, shrugging. “Probably an international school kid.”

Dani gasps. “WAIT. So he’s actually rich?”

“I never said that,” Sam points at her.

Mary, eyes closed, laughs. “You didn’t have to.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Sam mutters. 

Manon taps his head like he’s a dog. “Who knew HYBE would hire a trust fund baby to train us.” 

Mary snorts and the hesitation that follows just sinks him more, because all the girls look at him like they expect him to defend himself. But he can’t.

“There’s no way you’re actually a trust fund baby.” 

“…Yes,” he admits. “But it’s supervised.”

It’s probably the wrong thing to say. 

“Supervised by WHO?” “Your accountant?” “A butler?”

“My mom,” Sam mutters.

There’s another wave of laughter, louder this time, and Sam leans back into the seat and lets it take him.

-

Mangwon Market feels like it’s exhaling when they arrive. 

Half the stalls are still lit—warm yellow bulbs, a little flicker here and there—but others are already dark, metal shutters halfway down like sleepy eyelids. There’s vendors counting bills, wiping stainless-steel counters, stacking plastic stools. The crowd has thinned into singles and pairs, not clusters. A couple of students with tote bags. An ajumma carrying dinner home. No pushing, no gridlock—space to actually look.

So piling out of a van with six loud girls, a tired twenty-six year old and whatever Sam classifies as definitely gets them some attention. 

That’s how they spot Yoonchae’s parents, anyway. 

Her mom waves first, already smiling, already crying. Yoonchae doesn’t even hesitate—she breaks into a run, purse bouncing, and collides with them in the middle of the sidewalk. Her dad folds her into his chest; her mom cups her face, kissing her hair, her cheeks, everywhere she can reach.

Yoonchae laughs and cries all at once.

Sophia and Megan look like they are about to cry. Dani might cry if they do. 

Sam just watches the whole thing from behind. He watches the way they hold her, like they’re afraid she might disappear again. The way her mom keeps a hand on her shoulder even after they pull apart, like a tether.

He looks away.

Same city, he thinks. Different lives.

He can’t remember if anyone hugged him like that.

Yoonchae’s parents move down the line, greeting the girls one by one, even Mary herself, and it’s familiar and easy—inside jokes, exaggerated compliments. Sam keeps his hands in his pockets, shoulders tight.

Then Yoonchae turns back, glowing.

“엄마, 아빠—this is Sam.”

Sam straightens instantly, bowing without thinking. They bow back, just as quickly.

Her mom’s face softens. “Ah,” she says, smiling. “You’re that Sam.”

He blinks. “I—sorry?”

“Yoonchae talks about you all the time,” she says, squeezing his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

Something in his chest loosens. Just a fraction.

Mary links an arm through Sam’s before he can step back.

-

There’s no proper amount of time to train the girls on what is acceptable here so Yoonchae just hurries them along some stores, “Don’t linger so long if you’re not going to buy.” and keeps them walking. 

Mary and Yoonchae’s parents linger behind the group, speaking Korean in the same softer way the girls do when Yoonchae is struggling to keep up with her English.

It all works well enough for a while, until they stop at this antique store with the most random assortment of display items: a tiny ceramic frog wearing a straw hat, holding a fishing pole; a stack of vintage postcards with borderline aggressive cheerful captions and a porcelain doll that is 60% adorable, 40% haunted. There’s a sign on the window that says VERY OLD. VERY CHEAP. 

Which is apparently enough to get the girls’ attention and Yoonchae doesn’t really try to stop Dani from shrieking before Sophia’s following her in, Megan dragging Lara behind her. He realizes he’s become his sister when he’s doing his mental headcount and one is missing. 

He turns to find Manon trying to buy her second tteokbokki from a vendor across the street, so Sam goes to help her. 

She sees him and half-laughs, lifting a finger. “No, no—hold on. Let me lock in. I got this.”

She turns back to the ajumma and says, all confidence, I’m hungry. Which Manon seems to be pleased with but Sam exchanges glance with the ajumma and she just blinks at the two of them.

Manon gestures at the tteokbokki, then at herself, then—somehow—at the air. “Uh. One. More. The… red one. Please.” She bows a little too much.

The ajumma says something rapid and cheerful.

Manon freezes.

She smiles. “Yes?”

Sam can’t help but snorts and steps in. “I’m sorry,” he says in Korean, already reaching for his wallet.

Manon groans softly, dropping her head against his shoulder. “I was doing so good.”

“You were,” he says, smiling. “For about six seconds.”

They’ve walked for so long that they’re on the street side of the market, with most vendors shutting their stalls for the night as others chat under their neon signs. 

Manon waits for her tteokbokki, the hum of the water heater as the ajumma prepares it. Mary and Yoonchae’s parents are leaning against the half wall a few meters from where Sam is. Their voices are soft, not quite whispering but losing itself to the otherwise quiet night. 

Sam can see the girls through the window, grabbing anything that’s slightly cute to show to the girl that’s closest. The vendor is leaning against the counter, looking mildly annoyed. Sam smiles when Lara grabs this tiny plushie and shoves it in Yoonchae’s face until she pays attention to her. 

There’s a high chance Dani made a sex joke judging from the way Lara and Megan burst out laughing, and Sophia slaps her shoulder playfully trying not to laugh. Yoonchae clearly doesn’t get it. 

Sam doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Manon materializes beside him and says it. “That’s the first time you’ve smiled all trip.” 

He looks at her, blowing air onto a garae-tteok with a surprisingly good grip on her chopsticks. She’s not looking at Sam, but she’s close enough that her presence feels intentional, steady. Real. 

“Well, they’re funny to watch.” 

Manon looks up then, and her eyes follow the same scene Sam sees. Lara’s head tilted back in laughter, the way her mouth opens, teeth showing and her cheeks lifting hard enough that her eyes narrow just slightly. It’s warm, but also confident as she always is. Not apologetic or shy, the kind of laugh that makes other people laugh but also a little undone. 

Sam doesn’t look away. 

Manon exhales, like she’s thinking out loud.

“Huh. You always get quiet when she laughs.”

It takes Sam a few seconds to process what she’s said, and he turns so fast he nearly pushes off the wall.. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Manon blinks at him and it’s the first time in Sam’s life that someone looks at him like he’s stupid. Fondly, but still stupid. She just shrugs. “Nothing bad,” she takes another bite, chews.

“Just… you blank out a bit, I guess.” 

He’s not sure what to do with that information. 

Just then, Lara’s voice cuts through the night. 

“Sam!” She waves him over, already smiling. “You have to see this.” 

He’s moving before he realizes it. Inside the store, Lara grabs his wrist for just a second—enough to steer him, enough to register—then lets go. Sam has barely recovered when he’s standing at the counter.

There’s a small wooden box on top.

It’s an instrument that breathes instead of sings, meant to hold a single, steady note. Sam knows what it is in theory, but seeing it like this, it’s smaller than he imagined. Simple. Bellows folded inward like an accordion at rest. Something you have to work with your hands, air pushed into resonance, a just meant to sit beneath everything else and make the rest possible.

“No way,” Sam murmurs, lifting it carefully.

Lara’s hands curl and uncurl at her sides, like she doesn’t know where to put them. She’s watching him, not the box.

“I know!” 

“It’s a shruti box, right?”

The smile that breaks across her face is immediate—bright, unguarded. Her eyes shine, like she’d hoped and hadn’t quite let herself expect it. “Yes, I knew you’d get it.” 

It does something weird to Sam to know that she thought of him. Expected something of him and he didn’t disappoint. He flips the box to check the price and before he can second guess it he’s pulling out his wallet. 

Lara’s hand stops him. “What are you doing?” 

“I thought you liked it?” 

He says it like it’s simple, because it is, so why does Lara look so stunned? 

“I do but,” she laughed, startled. “No—Sam, I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” he said easily. “You like it.”

She hesitated. Not long. Just enough for the moment to register. Enough to realize how natural it had been for him. How little he’d thought about it.

“I mean, I do,” she said, softer now. “But you don’t have to—”

“I know.” He met her eyes, calm, certain. “It’s a gift.”

For a second, Lara just looks at him.

Sam becomes aware, dimly, of how quiet it’s gotten.

He glances over his shoulder. Megan, Dani, and Yoonchae are clustered by the end of the aisle, pretending very badly to be interested in keychains. Megan’s eyebrows are somewhere near her hairline. Dani presses her lips together like she’s physically restraining herself. Sophia just smiles. Soft. Knowing.

Manon looks at Sam like he has just proved a point he’s not aware of. 

Lara lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re—” She stops herself, shakes her head, then reaches out and takes the box from his hands carefully, like it might break if she doesn’t. “Thank you.”

Sam nods, already turning toward the counter before his brain can catch up. The vendor looks between them and raises an eyebrow that transcends the language barrier of what he just witnessed. Sam feels like he’s paying him off to be quiet. 

When he turns back, Lara’s still holding the shruti box against her chest.

“Hey,” Dani calls lightly as they head for the door, grin sharp but not unkind. “Should we… give you guys a minute or—?”

Lara flips her off without looking. Sophia laughs. The tension breaks just enough to breathe.

Outside, the night air is cooler. The street hums back into place. Sam walks beside Lara, hands in his pockets, exhausted in a way that feels almost peaceful.

She bumps her shoulder into his. Gentle. Intentional.

“I really do love it,” she says.

Sam nods, smiling at her smile “I know.”

And —not to be dramatic or anything— but when Lara smiles at him, Sam feels at home for the first time since getting off that damn jet.

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