Top Posts Tagged with #magicshopsgate

Project Dream Girl | JHS

Pairings: Hobi x Reader

Rating: 18+ / Mature / Explicit

Synopsis: For all four years of high school, they watched Hobi watching you from afar, listening to him going on and on about how you smile, or the way you toss your hair. For one semester, they went through hell, scheming and planning ways to get Hobi anywhere in your magical orbit. But it’s only now, a decade later, during a visit home for Christmas, that you’ve finally noticed him. There’s no doubt about it. There’s only one way for Hobi to win you once and for all. It’s time to resurrect Project Dream Girl. But is it too late, now that Hobi’s engaged?

Word Count: ~35k | read on ao3

Genres, Content Warnings, & Themes: Christmas fic, childhood friends, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, pining, angst, slow burn, eventual smut (oral sex [m and f giving and receiving], edging, rough sex, unprotected sex, penetrative sex)

Author’s Note: A late Christmas present for you all! Based on this incredible ask and the story that came with it! Really hope you enjoy this soft, precious Hobi, and that you all have a very happy holiday season! Submitted to @ficscafe ’s #ficscafe holidays event!

Permanent Taglist (add yourself here): @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld @greezenini @missbickerbocker @dearbambideer @helenazbmrskai @morti13 @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @imaginativedreams @dreamamubarak @m-yg93 @elyte @awinkies @yuugehn

Also Tagging: @dvalitaes @pinkleopard3 @holdingontomythoughts and @xjoonchildx — hope it’s OK that I tagged you 😬 I ended up writing it after all, and I hope it makes you smile!

The drive in was as treacherous as ever, the threat of spinning out on black ice making the back of your neck cold and clammy, and forcing your fingernails into the pulp of your own palm as you gripped the steering wheel both out of fear, and as a buoy.

It’s not just the winter storm aftermath that’s got you frazzled, though. Five empty coffee cups are stacked into a cupholder meant for just two, and this is the second cupholder’s first day on the job. You have a latte every day, not an espresso for every hour on the road.

A shame, too. The road is usually such a good friend, spending all that time with you, preserving your honeymoon phase by still thrilling you with surprises at every turn. But its current, frosty demeanor is repugnant, especially as the uneasy, more-than-just-bitter-caffeine-hitting-your-stomach feeling that, for some reason, grows with every additional childhood landmark takes up more of your windshield.

Your legs were shaking when your darling parents threw their arms around you. “Cold?” your mother asked. When you shook your head no, she asked, “Tired?”

“Let’s let her settle in,” your father replied, smiling good-naturedly and patting your mother on the shoulder.

“Just need the bathroom,” you chuckled. “Had a lot to drink. Need to go to the store after that, though.” You feel the same zing in your brain that you felt when you remembered on the drive, when you scratched your arm and felt those weird bumps that seem to appear out of nowhere from time to time. “Forgot lotion.” You feel another echoed zing, this one bringing along with it the experience of getting out of the car. You turn your calf to the side to show your parents the run. “And I got caught on the door. Need a new pair of stockings.”

When your parents let you go, you scamper quickly to the first floor powder room, with the chip in the mirror from the time you accidentally bashed the ladder into the glass while you and your mother were repainting the walls.

“Is there anything I can pick up while I’m there?” you call back to them, shifting your hip left to avoid the stair banister that you always knock your elbow on at some point, making sure you have full use of your icy cold fingers to undo the buttons on your trench coat.

“Maybe your dad’s blood pressure medication?” You softly snort at your mother’s sweetly hopeful lilt, just like eyelashes batting, as you reach the powder room and flip on the light switch.

“Let’s let her settle in!” your father repeats, as you close the door behind you and smile fondly about the man of so few words that he’ll squeeze the juice out of each of them.

The sense of a sort of mission adds to your frazzled state by clouding your mind. You’ve typed the list on your phone, complete with checkboxes to click along the way. Still, as you whirl into the store where you got your first cashier job, you keep muttering to yourself: “Lotion. Stockings. Pills. Lotion. Stockings. Pills.”

This is how you find yourself struggling to remember Hobi’s name while you’re at the pharmacy, waiting to pick up the last item on your list, standing in line behind Min Yoongi.

“It’s kinda short for Hoseok,” Yoongi explains.

“Hoseok!” you exclaim, his smile beaming back into your mind. “Oh my god! That’s right.” You mimic the voice you first heard it with. “Hobi to us. His friends.”

Yoongi brightens at your spot-on impression of him, and you smile happily as you bask in the glow.

“So you do remember him,” he replies, as you nod.

“I remember your version of him,” you tease. “Hobi this, and Hobi that.” Yoongi’s low purr comes so easily to you. “Oh, uh, I don’t know if you heard, but Hobi got dance captain in the musical this year. He’s really good. You should come check it out.” You giggle in your own voice before returning to his. “Hey, uh, did you see Hobi went to the tennis regionals and won? It was really cool. You could drive down to the finals with us if you want to watch.”

The corners of his mouth stretch down and out. “Ha. Right.”

“Are you all back in town for the holidays?” you ask, still grinning.

Yoongi clears his throat before mirroring your grin. “Yeah,” he says, “though Hobi never really left.” He blinks a few times. Quite quickly. And he speaks in a sudden, uncharacteristic blast. As if he can’t get the thought out fast enough. “In fact, uh, we were all gonna get together at Hobi’s for dinner tonight! You should join us!”

You furrow your brow a little. The line shuffles forward, but you’ve still got a little while before you’re served.

“Oh, well… that’s very kind…”

You look down at the lotion and stockings that you’re holding with your over-confident hands, wishing you had a basketful of things to use to cobble some sort of excuse together.

“C’mon, it’ll be, uh, fun,” Yoongi tries again, looking down at your hands with you.

Your gazes meet again when you look up.

“Isn’t it a little last minute?” you ask.

“Hobi tends to do things a little last minute,” Yoongi replies, though you aren’t sure why he’s trying to hold in a laugh.

“What kind of dinner is this? Are there place settings and stuff?” you say clumsily. “I wasn’t part of the plan, so—”

“You’re always part of the plan,” Yoongi tells you.

It’s your turn to blink quickly. “Huh?”

“What I meant is, uh, you’re always welcome to join us,” Yoongi says nervously, flinching when he notices the line moving forward.

“Oh.”

Yoongi watches your face and realizes something. Something crucial. It had never occurred to him before, but maybe you’re unsure about the why. Why you should join them. So, as the next three people get their prescriptions filled, he lists out all the reasons.

“C’mon. Uh, all the guys will be there. We can take a trip down memory lane.” Then again, you so rarely accepted their invitations. Memory lane might be more of a dead end. “And we can catch each other up on life since then.” So many aspects to a dinner, Yoongi realizes. “The food will be, uh… there will be lots of food.” Though you haven’t really eaten much with them. “And we can make or bring different stuff, so let me know if you have any dietary restrictions or preferences.” What else could possibly keep you from dinner? “Plus, it’ll be at Hobi’s house, so you don’t have to worry about crowds or waiters or anything.”

“Just Hobi and his friends,” you repeat, chuckling.

Your still sort-of-puzzled expression makes so much more sense to Yoongi now. It feels silly, making that realization here and now, next in line at the pharmacy. But, always quick to be fair, especially to himself, Yoongi remembers that all the other invitations were made a decade and change ago. When none of your brains were fully formed. When all Hobi had to guide him was his heart.

“I mean, we’re all friends,” Yoongi replies. “Aren’t we?”

Dinner with friends. How long has it been since you last had dinner with friends? How long has it been since you last had friends? Does it count if they’re technically someone else’s friends? Wait, is Yoongi your friend? How does their group work? If you’re friends with one, are you friends with them all? Was that how it always was?

“Sure,” you say, smiling uneasily.

“Cool! Let me give you the address,” Yoongi says quickly, before your obviously thinking-twice brain thinks too many more times.

The person in front of Yoongi leaves the line with their prescription and veers off into the aisle that now houses chips and dips but used to house simple office supplies and stationery back when you worked there.

“Next,” the tired pharmacy tech calls out, eyeing the gap between Yoongi and the counter.

“Hang on,” Yoongi tells you, before whirling around and sorting out whatever he’s in line for.

It’s a quick transaction, one that Yoongi mutters through as he pulls out his phone from his coat pocket and texts, chin wrinkling as he scrolls through his screen.

Yoongi grabs the small, white paper bag that the tech had placed on the counter, eyes still downcast and confusion still looming.

He looks up at you as you approach the counter.

The pharmacy tech’s eyes dart from you to Yoongi. “Sir, can you leave the counter?” the pharmacy tech asks him. “Patient privacy.”

“What’s your number?” Yoongi asks you.

Startled, the pharmacy tech continues, “Sir, I just said—”

“It’s OK,” you say. “It’s not— We’re just—” You point to Yoongi, and then to yourself, finger bouncing back and forth. “We’re friends. Sorta.” You shake your head. “Anyway.”

You turn to Yoongi and give him your number quickly, before turning back to the pharmacy tech and asking for your father’s medication.

Yoongi’s eyes glimmer with some recognition.

“How’s he doing, by the way?” he asks, watching the pharmacy tech going to get your order. “Your father? He was in the hospital a few years ago, wasn’t he?”

You smile, genuinely touched by his concern. “We are friends, aren’t we, Yoongles?” you ask fondly.

Yoongi’s chin unwrinkles as he juts it out proudly. He’s seventeen all over again.

“He’s doing well,” you say happily. “It was a minor stroke, and his recovery went as well as it could have. He’s doing better about taking things a little slower, though he’s as stubborn as ever.” You tilt your head. “How’d you even know about his stroke?” As Yoongi presses something on his phone and then shoves it into his pocket, you hear a quiet ding! from inside of your purse. “Not like you had my number.”

“Hobi told me, actually,” Yoongi says, his eyes widening. “He visited him at the hospital.”

“What?” you ask, surprised.

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, smiling. “Ask your father.”

You and Yoongi chat a little more as you move from the pharmacy to the general check-out area, your twin, introverted souls scanning and sacking the rest of your purchases in the otherwise empty self-service kiosks.

You walk outside and linger by the doors for a bit, checking your phone to make sure that the text you received was, indeed, Yoongi’s. The address sounds a little familiar. You wonder how many times you’d seen or heard it for it to be familiar. You’ve never actually been.

“Swing by around 8,” Yoongi tells you.

You smile. “See you then.”

He throws up a wave and a smirk, as you get in your car and head home.

Once you disappear into the vanishing point on the horizon, Yoongi races to his car, throwing his new toothbrushes, toothpaste, floss, and vitamin D supplements into the passenger seat before summoning the council, blowing into the conch shell that is the camera-shaped icon in the top right corner of the group chat.

They assemble like they always do. Namjoon picking up on the first call, concerned that something terrible has happened. Jin complaining about being interrupted, when really, he’s excited for some attention. Hobi busting in with a shrill, “AAYYYYYYY!” that makes everybody grumble about how loud he is. Jimin smirking, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, ready for a mug of tea, and equally ready to leave if it isn’t served piping hot. Taehyung checking himself out on his own screen while absent-mindedly greeting everyone. And Jungkook pouting about how the video call made his clan lose their round.

Voices overlap eagerly and heatedly, making Yoongi squinch his eyes and pull the screen away from so close to his face.

Still, despite the chaos, he doesn’t miss a detail. He even remembers your preferred brand of lotion, and that the stockings that you bought were fishnets.

That sets off another explosion of voices, but Jimin’s voice slashes through, just as your car door slashed through your stockings and gave you a reason to come to the store in the first place.

“Hey! Guys!” he exclaims. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we did this in person?”

“We don’t need to be doing anything at all!” Hobi butts in. “Because, again, for the millionth time, I’m engaged! To be married!”

“So?” Yoongi moves his phone closer to his face again. “What about me?? I didn’t listen to all your whining and simping, or embarass myself by asking all your Dream Girl questions—”

Jin cackles, as everyone but Hobi and Yoongi soften fondly at the term. “Aaah, Dream Girl!”

“—during our group project work, only for you NOT to get closure on this!”

Hobi shakes his head sadly. “I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Namjoon’s voice of reason lands the conversation back onto the ground. “Hobi’s right. We’re not kids anymore. Our decisions have consequences.”

Hobi echoes, “Exactly.”

“And permanence,” Taehyung agrees.

Hobi smiles and chirps, “Thank you!”

“So you should take this opportunity for an out from your engagement to that mean, snooty, and, frankly, boring woman, and ask Dream Girl out,” Jin argues.

Hobi’s face disappears from the screen as his neck goes limp, unable to hold this conversation up anymore. “Guys—”

“Why the long face?” Jungkook teases.

“Don’t start with the horse jokes.”

“Thought you’d be happy to see Dream Girl again.”

Hobi’s head sinks lower, completely out of frame.

“She still look the same?” Jungkook asks in sing-song. “That sweet, heart-shaped face?” He giggles. “She still smell like bubble gum?”

Jimin laughs and, with a glint in his eye, adds, “She still do that thing where she scratches her head and leans her neck before flipping her hair?”

They all mimic the motion, Jimin reveling in the feel of it, Jungkook focusing on getting it exactly accurate, Taehyung folding it into his own preening, Jin conveying the drama, Namjoon conveying the appeal, and all of them copying Hobi’s moaning, rabid reaction.

This time, Hobi’s empty screen instead moans, “STOP!”

“She’s still all that, and more,” Yoongi replies. “And she’s here for a whole month.”

“A month?” Despite Hobi’s resolve and composure, a twinge in Hobi’s voice, and the shaking of Hobi’s barely perceptible cowlick in frame, indicates that he’s at least a little nervous, and suddenly so. He raises his head to rejoin the conversation. “What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Yoongi says. “I’m asking.” He smirks. “I’m asking if Project Dream Girl is finally a go.”

“No!” Hobi exclaims. “Shut it down!”

Amongst murmurs, Yoongi replies, “How quickly you forget.” He smirks. “This is a democracy. We are seven. Let the people speak.”

Hobi’s voice keeps catching on his tonsils. “Wha— How— Democra— What do you mean by—”

“Everyone cast your votes now,” Jin says, Yoongi’s smirk spreading onto his face. “I vote Yea.”

“Yea,” Jimin seconds with a wink right into the camera, intended for Hobi’s square, and seemingly hitting its target perfectly, given the way the corner of Hobi’s mouth angle down.

“Yaaaaaay!” Jungkook echoes, which narrows Hobi’s eyes.

More of Hobi’s face disappears, but Yoongi’s lips part more and more happily with each additional “Yea”, said in Namjoon’s rumbling warmth, and Taehyung’s whispery, floaty cloud.

“Hobi?” Jin asks. “Last chance to change your vote.”

“Nay!” Hobi desperately screeches, his face coming back to vivid, angry life.

“Neeeeiiiighhh!” Jungkook teases, making the rest of the boys laugh.

Hobi huffs through puffed cheeks and flapping lips, which doesn’t help the annoyingly unshakeable comparison, as Jin cheerily proclaims, “The Yeas have it!”

Everyone cheers.

But Jimin’s voice cuts through again, like a whistling kettle. “Alright, where do we start??”

Yoongi hums with such self-satisfaction. “Tonight. I invited her to dinner.”

From the way Hobi clomps up the stairs to the attic, Yeong-ja can already tell that he’s upset. When she sees his phone jostling in his front t-shirt pocket, Yeong-ja knows that a video chat with the boys is what has upset him. But she still doesn’t know why he’s entering the formal dining room while clutching the long, oak, dining table extender in his strained arms, and carefully setting it down in the corner — especially now that she has already finished arranging the napkins for five out of the eight place settings.

Yeong-ja’s voice always has a bit of an edge in it, but it’s particularly apparent when she asks, “Wait. Why do you have that?”

“Someone else is coming to dinner,” he says.

He says it quietly.

Unnervingly quietly.

The edge in Yeong-ja’s voice gets just that much sharper, like one crisp rake of the knife across a diamond stone.

“Who?” she asks, shifting in her seat at the head of the table.

Hobi moves from one side of the table to the other, unlocking hidden latches as he goes.

The last time Hobi’s ever had to think of you feels so far away. And yet. He still knows. He still knows that there aren’t enough words. There just can’t be. There can’t be enough words in any language, or all the languages, to sum up the reason why he is now sliding Yeong-ja’s perfect place settings to one end of the fancy dinner table. So, he goes for the bare acceptable minimum, which just happens to be, “Someone Yoongi had a class with in high school.”

Yeong-ja eyes her festive, now-misaligned placemats, plates, silverware, and napkins.

“Yeobo,” she says, “the table already sat eight.”

“And now, it’s going to seat nine.”

Yeong-ja blinks at the odd number. “Well, technically, it’s going to seat ten. Are they at least bringing a date?”

Hobi simply shrugs, his back facing Yeong-ja as he walks over to the corner against which the table extender is resting. He guesses no, especially if Yoongi has started plotting, but hiding his face completely is his best bet in keeping secret the concern that he hadn’t thought to ask Yoongi if you were bringing a date; his worry that if he asks Yoongi to ask you now, that you might bring one; and his ultimate fear that after all these years, he’s realized that he still doesn’t want you to have one at all.

Hobi only looks dutiful as he turns around and sets the extender in the middle of the table.

The wooden plank locks into place with a bright, happy sound.

Yeong-ja frowns at it.

“What?” Hobi asks.

“Did the table always look like this?” Yeong-ja asks. “I don’t remember it feeling too big when we bought it.”

Hobi reaches for the first of Yeong-ja’s place settings, talking through his thoughts.

“Well, we’re almost never in this room.”

Hobi sets the golden charger plate down a little too roughly, making the porcelain plates on top, and the holly-decorated napkin ring, jostle and clang.

“And when we are in this room, it’s usually just when your parents are in town. Or the guys.”

Hobi sets the second golden charger plate down even more roughly, to where the napkin ring almost rolls off and onto the floor.

“In fact, I wonder why we even bought this table when entertaining people is usually more trouble than it’s worth.”

Hobi reaches for a third place setting, but Yeong-ja stands quickly.

“Let me do that,” she interrupts, annoyed. “You’ll chip a plate if you keep going.” When Hobi moves to protest, she adds, “Why don’t you just go back to the attic and get the two spare chairs?”

Hobi sighs and heads back toward the attic.

“…Yeobo?”

Hobi pauses, placing his hands on his hips before turning around to face her, hoping that by some miracle, his too soft heart hasn’t crept onto his face.

“Yeah?”

Yeong-ja tilts her head. “Why are you so… mad… about it?”

Hobi relents, shoulders finally falling. “Oh, yeobo. I’m sorry. I’m not mad.” He flashes her a smile. Something more recognizable. “Just… annoyed at the last minute addition.”

He’s careful not to clomp up the stairs this time. Years together, and he still forgets that living with a person inevitably makes them a barometer. Eyes and ears that take in the atmosphere. That read things. Read you.

He shuffles into the attic and eyes the extra chairs, fit together like L-shaped Tetris pieces, balanced on each other like yin and yang. The upholstery is a little dusty, but when Hobi runs his hand over the fabric, he sees glimmers of gold that have dulled in the matching floral patterns of the chairs downstairs.

He looks around to see what else has been weirdly but perfectly preserved.

Heavy, ornate trunks hold Yeong-ja’s family heirlooms. Jewelry. Instruments. Her grandmother’s wedding dress, received just earlier that month.

Hobi steers clear for now.

Simple boxes hold memories of his own, pushed farther back into the attic. Further back into time.

The same dust from the chairs collects at his knees as he rummages through his keepsakes. Vinyls. Trophies. Photo albums.

Yearbooks.

He plucks your high school class’s senior yearbook from the stack and chuckles softly as he flips through the pages, pausing longer on the ones that he dog-eared, and grinning to himself when he finds the reasons for those dog ears. They’re mostly photos of the guys. One of Yoongi mid-jump shot. One of Namjoon on stage with the debate team, a mic in his hand. Jimin and Taehyung playing ping pong. Jin and Jungkook wrestling. A group shot, with Hobi in the center, holding his tennis singles first place state trophy, its gleam slightly dimmer than his proud smile.

Hobi runs his fingers down the right edges of the pages, noticing that there is one more dog-eared page in the back.

Yeong-ja’s voice calls him back to the present. “Yeobo!”

Hobi lingers on that folded corner, fingers teasing the bend. “Yes?”

“Yoongi’s here!”

You lift your knee a little to see how your new stockings look on you. It’s a tighter pattern. Conservative. More herringbone than a true fishnet, actually. Your dress probably looks fine without them, but you hate having bare legs, especially in the winter.

When you step out of the en suite bathroom where your mother marked your height in the doorjamb until you were about fifteen, you find your mother standing there with the same light in her eyes.

You stumble backwards, nearly tripping over your unshoed heel. “Eomma! You scared me!”

She rolls her eyes and uses her index finger to pick up the three hanger hooks that she had just set down on your bed.

“Eomma!”

“You haven’t had time to unpack,” she observes, “so I pulled a couple of my old dresses—”

“Eomma,” you chide, striding over to her and frowning.

“They’re not that old-fashioned!” she insists. “And it’s better than showing up to dinner in the same thing you’ve been wearing for twelve hours straight.”

You sigh and take the first dress from her, holding up the hanger so that the neckline of the dress sits next to yours. Where her dress stops, your torso and legs keep going, and going, and going.

“I’m a full five inches taller than you!”

“You’re overexaggerating.”

You gesture to the markings in the doorjamb. “Care to measure?”

A smile breaks through your mother’s determined face. “I’m just trying to help you look your best.” She cups your cheek lovingly as you tilt into her soft, warm palm. “You’re such a star. Let yourself shine.”

You sigh and acknowledge that, yes, perhaps it would be better if you wore something that didn’t reek of corporate life. But that doesn’t change the fact that the three dresses that your mother pulled for you hang more like t-shirts on your frame.

“Then help me pick something out from my closet,” you say, taking your mother’s hand and dragging her over to the other end of the room.

You flip through some outfits and even consider a pantsuit that you’d forgotten about, one that you accidentally left the last time you were home. However, once your darling mother’s eyes settle on a gray cocktail dress with a silver, beaded belt, you know the search is over.

“I wish I still had my figure,” your mother sighs wistfully as you quickly slip out of your dress and into its replacement.

“Eomma.”

“I know I’ve still got remnants of it somewhere in here.” She pokes and prods her softer curves, made rounder by family, love, and time. She smiles proudly at you once you’ve reappeared through the dress’s neckline. “I’m glad you’ve put your inheritance to good use, though.”

Before you walk back to your bathroom to have a look in the mirror, you place a kiss on your mother’s cheek.

She sits on the edge of your bed, giving you small tips here and there. Like that you should go with a berry lipstick rather than your usual dull maroon. And don’t be shy about using the shimmery eyeshadows rather than the matte neutrals you usually dust on. Actually, there might also be a berry pump in the back of her closet that you can borrow.

“Eomma, my feet are two sizes bigger than yours!” you call out to her, as you finish your eyeliner.

“Meet you downstairs!” she calls back.

As you make your way to the living room, stately black kitten heels defiantly in hand, your father smiles up at you from the couch.

“You look great!” he exclaims, his remote control-holding arm lowering slightly.

“Thanks, Appa,” you say, walking over to him and pressing a careful kiss to his temple.

You have a seat with him, on the other end of the couch, strapping yourself into your shoes before your mother can say anything.

“Fancy.” Your father watches your fingers work the buckle. “Where are you going again?”

“Not too far,” you say. “I’ll probably walk.” You grin to yourself, thinking about how you used to walk the few miles to school.

“I can drive you if you’re tired,” your father offers.

“No, I think the walk will do me some good,” you say. “And these shoes are better than high heels for walking.”

“Alright.” Your father smiles as you sigh and sit up, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Who are you seeing again?”

“Some guys I knew from high school,” you answer. And then Yoongi’s voice comes back to you, that low purr equal parts cautious and attention-grabbing as it delivers a small detail. “You might still one of them, I think,” you say. “Jung Hoseok?”

With lifting recognition, your father’s eyes alight, eyebrows tent, forehead wrinkles, hairline shifts back. “Ah, yes! Hoseok! He’s a kind person.” Your father leans forward and places his remote on the table. “He visited me after I had my stroke.”

The word doesn’t feel so heavy now. Not when your father can flip through channels to find his shows. Not when your father can offer to drive you. Not when your father is able to form complete sentences, with just a hint of a delay that only you and your mother notice. You almost miss his explanation because you’re too busy thanking whatever force it is that’s out there that gave you this second chance. This extra time.

“He came to visit me quite often, actually.” Your father smiles, and words interestingly start to flow out of him. “Brought some of his friends with him from time to time. It was nice to have people pass the time with. Gave Eomma a breather. Watched some games.”

You should be happy. But a lightning bolt of guilt threatens to rip your stomach from the inner wall of your skin.

“Now, don’t pout,” your father says gently, reaching for your hand and squeezing it.

“I would’ve flown home that night,” you tell him, like you’ve told him over and over again in the days and months and years since.

“And lost your job?” Your father pats your hand as he releases it and leans back in his seat. “Then where would we be?”

You’re glad that your generous paycheck was enough to keep your retired parents more than afloat. It kept the medical bills at bay, with plenty of buffer to spare. It kept the foreclosure sign from being hammered into your lawn. It also kept you from being able to see your father until months later, when the worst of it was over. But maybe it also kept you from falling apart after seeing him go through that worst bit. At least, that’s what your father is saying to you. What your mother always reminds you. What you tell yourself.

“I’m glad you had some pleasant company,” you try, a tooth here and there peeking out from your pout.

Your father grins, coaxing the rest of them out from behind your lips.

“There we go,” he says, eyes laughing. And then he stands suddenly, like he so beautifully and thankfully can. “I haven’t seen Hoseok in a long, long while. Why don’t you bring him something from my collection?”

As he scampers off, your mother shuffles down the stairs, taking some of the extra time you’ve all been gifted for her right knee.

You join her near the bottom stair, which is just a little higher than the rest. You hold your hand out to help her.

“I’m fine,” she insists, hiding her right knee behind her left, as if that will solve anything. “You were right about the heels. They’re too small for you. But look!”

She opens her palm to show you two rose earrings, stained the same deep berry as your somehow still intact lipstick.

“You always borrowed these for picture days!” your mother chuckles, already brushing your hair back.

Her fingers are cold against the back of your ear. You roll your eyes as she replaces your standard gold studs. “Eomma, it’s been so long since then.”

“Whisky should be good, right?” Your father reappears in your rolled eyes’ periphery, clutching a fancy bottle. “Take this with you.”

“OK, OK, I’m not a doll, I’m a human, that’s enough accessorizing,” you say, as your mother’s hands fall away and threaten to re-fluff your hair one more time. “Thank you for the earrings.” You turn to your father and take the bottle. “And thank you for the whisky. I’m sure they’ll love it.”

“Tell the boys hi,” your father says, as he and your mother move like one being toward the door to see you off.

“And sweetie!” your mother chirps, as you start down the porch steps.

You turn around and look up at them, face softly illuminated by the lamps that it took your father double the time to install because he screwed them in upside down by accident at first.

Your mother’s eyes glow in their light. “Have some fun,” she says, meaningfully.

“It’s uncanny.” Yoongi shakes his head a little. “She looks exactly the same.”

“We all look exactly the same,” Taehyung says lazily. “It’s only been a few years.”

“Ten,” Namjoon corrects. “More than.”

“So what’s ten years? It’s not fifty,” Taehyung points out. “Did you think we’d all be gray by now? Have hip replacements? We’re only in our 30s for god’s sake.”

“You might’ve been blessed with a baby face, but we aren’t all as lucky,” Hobi laments.

Jin and Jimin protest in chorus. “Who says??”

“Don’t get all self-conscious now,” Jungkook replies, poking Hobi’s cheek before adjusting Hobi’s lapel. Jungkook smiles at the soft and expensive feel of Hobi’s plaid suit jacket, brown in hue and accented with lines of berry and navy, all placed on top of the white sweater he was originally wearing by itself. “You look great, especially with that jacket on, and your face hasn’t collected so much as a freckle.”

Hobi grins. “You think so?”

Yeong-ja’s voice whips through the air, as loud in the living room as it is in the kitchen. “Alright, boys, it’s 8:02 and the table is set, but I don’t see butts in those seats!”

Yoongi scowls, meeting everyone else’s similarly scowling eyes.

“Don’t start,” Hobi warns in a whisper.

Another swell washes in. “Boys!!”

“Does she have to be so…” Jungkook squinches his eyes, frowns, and wiggles around while keeping his upper body tight and restrained.

“I know,” Hobi replies, “but she—”

“And she’s kinda…” Jimin rolls his eyes like he rolls his head, dramatic and all-encompassing.

Hobi huffs. “She can be, but we all have our—”

“Then there’s the…” Jin widens his eyes and makes stabbing motions with an invisible knife in his pained fist.

A golden gowned Yeong-ja makes her fanciful way into the living room and misses Jin’s motions, instead startled at the sight of Hobi in his new outfit.

“Yeobo! You changed after all!” she says, smiling fondly. “You look pretty decent!”

Hobi blushes, and then he blushes at the fact that he’s not blushing for her.

“What’s this?” Yeong-ja asks, gesturing to the yearbook that Yoongi is flipping through.

“Oh,” Hobi mutters, “uh—”

“Found it in the attic,” Yoongi pipes up, technically not a lie. “Thought it might be fun to look through together.”

“I’ve never seen you guys so excited to run into anyone from high school,” Yeong-ja comments, leaning on the back of the couch behind Hobi and circling her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “From the way you talk about it, high school seemed like a hellhole.”

“Pretty familiar with hellholes?” Jin scoffs.

“Yeah, they’re like all your weird jokes,” Yeong-ja complains.

Before Jin can respond, Hobi takes Yeong-ja’s hand and kisses her wrist. “Thanks for making dinner for all of us, yeobo.” He eyes each member of the gang pointedly. “I’m glad. We can. All spend. Some time. Over the holidays. Together.”

The gang begrudgingly gets his point.

“Yeah, thanks for having us, Yeong-ja,” Yoongi mumbles.

“Been a while,” Namjoon replies.

“Means a lot,” Jimin adds.

“Very kind of you,” Taehyung admits.

“Looking forward to the meal,” Jungkook says.

“Can’t wait to get into that roast,” Jin laughs uneasily, just in case Yeong-ja had seen his invisible knife.

Yeong-ja smiles happily, kissing Hobi’s head before standing up straight. “Well, if you all can keep the weird jokes to a minimum, and if your friend shows up sooner rather than later, I’m sure tonight’s dinner will be wonderful.”

Before the group starts up again, she eyes the yearbook in Yoongi’s curled fingers.

“Show me some pictures,” Yeong-ja replies, walking over to Yoongi.

“Uh, have you not seen our yearbooks before?” Hobi asks, as Yoongi quickly shuffles to a page with a group shot.

“I don’t think so,” Yeong-ja remarks, sitting on the arm of Yoongi’s chair. “I’ve only seen your grad pics.” She frowns. “You were so plastered.”

The guys start to laugh, as Yeong-ja yoink!s the yearbook out of Yoongi’s fingers, though he’s quick enough to catch the folded notebook pages that fall from the back cover.

He stashes them in his pocket as she smooths her hand over the page with the photo of Hobi’s tennis win. “Aw,” Yeong-ja gushes. “Look at you. So happy.”

“So proud,” Jungkook laughs. “See how his chest is puffed out?”

“He looks like a goofy peacock, gloating like that!” Yeong-ja jokes.

Jungkook’s smile settles into a thin line. “Well, I mean, he kinda just won state and broke a record doing it, so…”

Yeong-ja flips to another page, one of Hobi leading Jimin and a whole squad of dancers in rehearsal. “Yeobo, you look ridiculous in this picture!” she giggles. She peers down at the text accompanying the photo. “Dance captain??” she questions. “This must have been in an alternate universe!”

Jimin frowns. “The musical actually won awards for dance that year,” he points out. “Hobi choreographed the whole thing.”

“He did?” Yeong-ja eyes Hobi, throws her head back, and laughs. “We got kicked out of our dance class because of his two left feet!”

“Maybe he was tripping over yours,” Jimin grumbles.

Yeong-ja senses the slight, narrowing her eyes at Jimin and preparing something else to say, until Jin smirks and tells her, “Turn the page.”

Hobi realizes that Yeong-ja’s nearing the last dog-eared page of the book, and as the spine cracks a little wider, he knows it’s too late to tell her to stop.

“Wait, which picture…”

Yeong-ja’s eyes fall to the picture in the center. A shot of Hobi handing you a carnation. Yeong-ja didn’t know cameras could capture that soft look in Hobi’s eyes. And she didn’t know that look could look so soft.

She finds herself growing softer as she looks at your face, so pleasant and happy.

Simple.

Simply drawing you in with how warm and inviting it is. Beautiful, yes. But more than that. Special in some way.

Even though she catches your name in the caption, she quietly asks, “Who’s that?”

“That’s who’s coming to dinner,” Jin says, turning to Hobi with a smug grin.

Two polite knocks tap the door, and Taehyung jumps to his feet. “Ah, she’s here!” he says, striding over, the rest of the group at his heels, save for Hobi and Yeong-ja planted in their seats.

You laugh as the guys welcome you into the front room, handshakes turning into warm hugs as they greet you. Thankfully, you don’t need many cues to help you remember, and it’s oddly satisfying at how quickly it all comes flooding back. Jin was always this funny. Yoongi was always this smooth. Namjoon was always this courteous. Jimin was always this giggly. Taehyung was always this charming. Jungkook was always this sweet. And they were all always this handsome.

“Hobi and his fiancée Yeong-ja are in there.”

As the swarm around you clears, Yoongi directs your gaze into the adjacent living room.

Hobi takes a breath and swivels around, clutching onto the back of the couch as an anchor.

You stand before him, backlit and sparkling, the silver of your belt just noticeable enough to match the silver in your eyes. So many questions bubble up to his lips. Wait, are you wearing those rose earrings you loved so much? Do you still wear them for special occasions? Hang on, hang on, maybe he should start with — how are you? Yes, how are you? How are things? How is life? Is it treating you well? He hopes it’s treating you well. And how exactly is it that you are standing here, now, in front of him, as if it weren’t an absolute miracle?

“Hi!” you greet happily.

Hobi stands, vocal cords gripped by an ocean of time.

Until Yeong-ja’s undercurrent moves her to rise and say, “You look exactly the same.”

“What?” you laugh.

Hobi clears his throat. “The same, like, uh—”

He walks over to Yeong-ja and takes the yearbook from her suddenly limp hands. “We were reminiscing,” Hobi explains sheepishly, holding up the yearbook and wrapping his arm around Yeong-ja’s waist.

“Well, I mean, we all look the same,” you laugh. “We’re only in our 30s.” You smile at the guys around you. “And you’re all as handsome as ever.”

Taehyung shares a gloating grin with the others.

Hobi leads Yeong-ja to the front room, where she finally attempts a smile. “Anyway, I’m Yeong-ja,” she says, extending her hand. “Like Yoongi said, I’m Hobi’s fiancée.”

Hobi firmly shoves the yearbook back into Yoongi’s hands.

“Nice to meet you,” you say through Yeong-ja’s handshake, shivering in her ice-cold grip, and raising your eyebrows a little at the unexpected feeling. “I’m—”

“A little late,” Yeong-ja points out.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” you say. “I got distracted on my walk…” As you let go of Yeong-ja’s icicle for a hand and igloo blocks for words, the weight in your other hand suddenly feels heavier. “Um, but maybe this will make up for it?” You hold up your father’s gifted whisky and try a contrite grin.

“Fuck, now we’ve got ourselves a party!” Jin exclaims, taking the bottle and whirling over to the drink cart set up in the fancy dining room, with Jimin, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon whooping and celebrating along.

Yeong-ja scowls at Jin’s cursing. “It won’t go with the meal, unfortunately,” she points out, redirecting her gaze at you. “I’ve already picked out a great bottle of merlot.”

Yoongi stands next to you, frowning at Yeong-ja. “Whisky goes with everything,” he says. “And we all hate merlot.”

“We’ll have both, then. The merlot during, and the whisky after,” Hobi replies, squeezing Yeong-ja closer to his side and catching her gaze as she turns to him. “Love your eye for detail, yeobo,” he adds, giving her a smooch on the cheek.

Yeong-ja smiles, satisfied.

She turns back to you and sees Yoongi hovering at your side, a little like Hobi is hovering at hers. Her eyes linger on the yearbook in his hands. Her smile grows bigger. And she finally softens. “Well, hurry up now. Give me your coat so that we can get this so-called party started.”

“Uh, thanks,” you say, quickly shrugging off your trench coat and offering it to Yeong-ja.

The hall lights catch the sparkles in the rest of the silver of your dress, and it seems like the room brightens in your glow.

Yeong-ja sours slightly, until she catches Yoongi biting his lip and staring at a politely smiling Hobi.

When she turns to the hall closet, and you follow, both of you miss how Yoongi’s bite turns into a smile, and Hobi’s smile turns into him chewing his lip as if that were his dinner.

Yeong-ja leads the rest of you into the formal dining room, smelling of food, and, overpoweringly, of cinnamon, from the tall, red candles sitting on the china display case in back. The table is, admittedly, impeccably set and adorably decorated. The roast looks delicious, accompanied by all the typical side dishes, potatoes and bread and other roots and carbs to help fill you up, and all sorts of salads to cut the fat and grease. There are even some banchan scattered in the mix, recipes no doubt passed down from previous generations, for a sense of familiarity and tradition.

“Yeong-ja, this is wonderful,” you say, as you join the group, placing a hand on a chair at the end of the table.

“Thanks,” Yeong-ja replies. “Took some time to prepare, but it turned out great!” She eyes your hand on the chair closest to you. “But, uh, that’s actually my seat.”

“We’re really doing assigned seats,” Jimin says dully, pulling out the chair.

“Come sit here,” Yoongi replies quickly, gesturing for you to join him at the other side of the table.

“I think we were planning for you to sit in the middle,” Yeong-ja attempts, eyeing the hastily wrapped napkin just a little more wrinkled than the others, placed atop the table extender. She hasn’t forgotten the comments about the merlot, and her frustrated glare has already caught Jungkook reaching for the wrong spoon to start. Her shoulders shift toward your intended spot, desperately hoping to keep things from going too far off the rails.

“This is middle enough, right?” Yoongi asks, sitting one away from Hobi, and motioning for you to sit in the chair between them.

Hobi frowns at Yoongi, but Yeong-ja seems to soften at the look on Yoongi’s face. “That works,” she says, suddenly smiling at Yoongi, who frowns at her in confusion.

You make your way toward Yoongi. “Well, uh, Yeong-ja, Hobi, and, well, Yoongi, I guess, thanks again for inviting me—” Yoongi nods as he pulls your chair out for you and helps you into your seat. “I didn’t expect to have any plans while home for the holidays. Haven’t really stayed in touch with anyone since graduation, so it’s a nice surprise to get to see you all.”

You look back up to Yeong-ja, who is still standing and assessing everyone’s movements at the table.

“Yeong-ja, your dress is gorgeous,” you offer.

When she snaps her head up at the compliment, everyone else lets out little sighs of relief. “Thanks!” she chirps. “I actually changed it after Hobi spilled some food on the other dress I had on. I told him to make sure to carry the serving platters at a perfect 90-degree angle, but—”

“M’lady,” Jin says, suddenly appearing at your side and handing you a glass of your father’s whisky.

“Oh, thanks Jin,” you say, “but I think we were going to have the merlot—”

“We all hate merlot,” Jin repeats absent-mindedly, continuing to pour everyone glasses of whisky.

You catch Yeong-ja’s annoyed stare and insist, “I’d actually like to have some merlot, if that’s OK?”

Jin nods quickly. “Sure! But uh, hang onto this. For after.” He leans forward and whispers into your ear, “You’re going to need it. Trust me.” He sets your glass of whisky down before reassuming his place at the drink cart.

After more shuffling and chatting, everyone finally gets seated at the table at 8:27, all of them (save you, Yeong-ja, and Hobi) stubbornly holding their full glasses of whisky.

Namjoon stands, and snapshots of a younger version of him start to come back to you. Instead of a brandy, he should have a mic in his hand.

“A toast,” he begins. “To friendship, and to love.”

“To friendship and love,” everyone echoes, though Hobi sounds a little stiff when he says it, and Yeong-ja stumbles over her words so badly that she bails on joining the cheer.

“Our gang rarely gets time together,” Namjoon pushes on.

“Except for the group chat, and the daily video calls,” Yeong-ja snorts.

You smile brightly, but you nix the giggle as the rest of the gang furrow their brows at her.

“But thankfully,” Namjoon goes on, as if uninterrupted, “we’re able to see each other now, and, in one happy surprise, even get to pick up where we left off.” He smiles at you, and you feel your heart grow. And then he looks at the group fondly. “Coming home for the holidays always reminds me of the bond that we have. The home that tethers us. And the love that comes from friendship. The love that I hope continues to grow.”

He smiles at Hobi, who just pushes his lips out.

“Cheers to that!” Jimin exclaims, bringing his glass to his lips.

Everyone follows suit, though you and Hobi grimace a little at the bland taste of merlot on your tongues. He catches your eye for a moment, and you share smirks — his, thankful, and yours, understanding.

Always so understanding.

“Let’s dig in!” Yeong-ja calls. Her voice is a little strange. More like an instruction rather than an invitation.

The guys start to clamor for the side dishes, fighting over the bowls with the smallest portions.

“Does anybody want to carve?” Yeong-ja asks expectantly. Her eyes fall to Jin. “What about you? You were so excited a second ago.”

Jin grunts unhappily.

“What, are you already too drunk to help?” she prods.

“No,” he mumbles, getting up and taking the handle of the carving knife into his fingers, focusing on the roast so that he doesn’t accidentally carve anything else.

He cuts the roast into perfect slices, so you’re not sure why he’s wincing. As everyone passes their plates to him, you notice that everyone else is wincing as well.

You brace yourself as you dig in.

It’s worse than you hoped.

Though there’s seemingly nothing for there to clash, the rawness of the roast does not mix well with the blandness of the merlot.

“Mmmmmmm,” you force out, trying to use your teeth to separate raw meat from the little that is cooked.

“Good?” Yeong-ja asks the group happily.

Slight murmurs buzz around the table, which seem to please her for the moment. You reach for your napkin, but it’s too lovely for you to spit the raw meat into. You’ll have to chipmunk it, eyes quickly scanning for somewhere to deposit what you gather by the end of the meal.

Yoongi slips something into your hand under the table.

A sliver of paper towel.

You quickly fold the paper towel into your napkin, bring the napkin to your lips, and covertly spit everything out. You shoot a look of gratitude to Yoongi, one that he complements with a gummy smile, showing you that he’s done the same, and showing you the way forward as he spoons some potatoes onto your plate.

“So, when was the last time you were home?” Yeong-ja asks, eyes wide open as she takes you both in.

“Well, I honestly haven’t been back much since I left,” you answer. “And I—”

“That was graduation, right?” Yeong-ja asks, leaning forward in her seat.

“Oh, yes,” you answer. “When I went to college, I—”

“Funny, the guys haven’t really mentioned you before,” Yeong-ja asks.

“Jeez, Yeong-ja, didn’t know you were so good at grilling,” Taehyung says flatly, making Jin snort-laugh into his brandy.

“It’s true, though,” Yeong-ja goes on, the zinger flying over her head. “Yeobo found your senior yearbook when he was going out of his way to get the extra chairs for you out of the attic—”

Hobi closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.

“—but I really only saw one picture of you anywhere near the guys.” She smiles, canines looking sharper, pupils looking narrower. “Yeobo was giving you a flower?”

The bright red carnation pops into your mind, its stem carrying with it Yoongi’s name and a simple message: “This flower is already dying. Down with capitalism.”

You laugh expecting to be the only one laughing, but brightening when the rest of the guys start to snicker.

As you turn to Yoongi fondly, you share, “Y’know, yours was the only carnation I ever got for Valentine’s Day.”

“No shit?” Yoongi remarks, the rest of the guys just as befuddled as he is. “As popular as you were?”

“Popular?” you cackle. “Please. You were winning all the prizes—” Namjoon’s dimples are your prize for the compliment. “Awards—” You smile at Jimin and Taehyung. “And trophies,” you finish, looking at Jin, Jungkook, Yoongi, and then, Hobi.

“And still, nobody knew who we were,” Hobi chases. “They misspelled my name three different times in the yearbook. Class valedictorian, however—”

“Wait, back up. Yoongi gave you the flower?” Yeong-ja actually looks happy when she speaks this time. And relieved. A bomb defused. Or even better. Hers is the smile that lips form when a bomb doesn’t go off at all.

You move some raw meat around on your plate. “Yoongi and I were in Economics together our senior year,” you explain. “We didn’t even really talk until we were put in the same group for our final project.” You look around at the group. “I didn’t really hang out much with anyone, let alone you guys.” You smile. “It was nice, getting to know you all a little. Made the end of senior year fun.”

The rest of the group piles on with more memories. Study periods spent chatting in whispers. Ping pong at the rec center. Volunteering at the animal shelter. All the basketball games and wrestling matches you started attending, now that you sort of had friends to cheer for.

“Catching Hobi’s breathtaking win at state was amazing,” you say.

“Hobi was down sets in every match, until he would go on to rally,” Yoongi points out. He turns to Hobi and grins. “But the final was the best rally of them all.” He turns to you. “You got there a set before the winning shot, right?”

You sigh. “Ah. I missed most of the matches that day because I had my tutoring job, but, oof, that final was a real—”

When you casually turn to Hobi, he’s somehow smiling softly at you from two points in time: here and now at this admittedly weird dinner, and from the center of the tennis court, as he drops his racquet, having just scored a beautiful ace that sliced through the night air like a falling star, the camera flashes accompanying it like more galaxies in the distance.

You always found it strange that his eyes chose to land on you to celebrate that amazing moment.

Strange, but… stirring.

“A real what?” Yeong-ja asks, furrowing her brow, and lowering her voice.

She’s clearly sensing danger of some sort, but you don’t know what it is that you’re sensing. And you don’t know what the guys are sensing either, as they watch you and Hobi awkwardly tumble back into the present.

“Um, a real nailbiter,” you say.

You lean back in your seat as Hobi leans back in his.

When did either of you lean forward?

“So that carnation,” Yeong-ja circles back. “It wasn’t from yeobo?”

You look back over to Yoongi, who’s rolling his eyes.

“I was just delivering them,” Hobi finally explains. “Volunteering with student council. The carnations were our school tradition for Valentine’s Day.” He looks over at Yoongi, who’s now reaching for his whisky. His voice is quieter when he says, “I was just delivering Yoongi’s message.”

Yeong-ja finally sits back in her own seat. “Hmm.”

As the raw roast dinner turns into a burnt pie and watery coffee dessert, Jin reaches for his fourth whisky. “This is so good,” he announces to the table. “You just had this on-hand?”

“Oh!” you smile happily and fold your napkin carefully on your lap. “It’s actually from my father’s collection!”

Fond looks appear on the guys’ faces as they clamor for some updates, and you’re excited to report that he’s doing very, very well.

“He remembers that you all visited him in the hospital,” you tell them. Your eyes land on Hobi again, like they so often have been doing as the night has progressed. “You really cheered him up while he was there.”

“That man from a few years ago?” Yeong-ja asks, looking across the table at Hobi. “You said he was a friend?”

“He is a friend,” Hobi says happily.

“Well, he’d love to see you,” you say. “All of you. It really took his mind off things. He’s grateful for the time you spent with him.” You smile meaningfully. “And I’m grateful.”

“Hospitals can be pretty miserable places,” Hobi agrees. “Talking with him and your mother took my mind off of things, too.”

Yeong-ja’s lips thin even more as she mashes them together.

“Speaking of which, I should go,” you say, sudden awareness creeping in, your stomach somehow feeling how much the time has shifted. “I’d like to catch my parents while they’re still up. Say goodnight. Spend some time with them.”

“I can give you a ride!” Jin offers eagerly, though you suspect it’s less out of chivalry and more for the chance at an escape.

You chuckle. “Are you even able to drive?” You look at the rest of the group. “Are any of you able to drive?”

“Generally? Yes. Tonight? Well…” Jin says, looking over at an already asleep Jungkook and Taehyung.

“I liked walking anyway,” you say, glad that your scenery isn’t chock-full of skyscrapers or bumper-to-bumper traffic or gaudy airport lounges. “The air here feels good in my lungs.”

“A walk sounds nice,” Yoongi replies. “Let’s all walk with you.”

“Does she need a whole procession?” Yeong-ja scoffs. “And of idiots, no less?”

“You can stay,” Jimin says, somehow a little too directly, and still, given the hit, a little too nicely.

Yeong-ja huffs and stands. “No, why don’t you boys go escort our lovely guest home, and I’ll just put everything away by myself. I’m more than used to it.”

Hobi’s sudden defense startles even her. “Yeobo. We always offer to help you. With everything.”

You feel more than just the passing of time in your stomach. You feel a knot forming, and so do the rest of the guys, that strange air starting to seep back into the room.

Yeong-ja’s eyes narrow at Hobi. “Yeah, but you and your stooges always do it wrong.”

“If you’re gonna make such a big deal about it, then we’ll stay and help clean up,” Hobi says firmly.

You, Jin, Jimin, and Yoongi start to stack your dishes, the piles uneven due to how full of food they still are.

“No,” Yeong-ja says firmly. She turns to you. “Since we’ve stolen so much time from you and your parents, why don’t you go on and head home?”

Yoongi sighs and turns to you. “Here, why don’t I walk with—”

Yeong-ja tucks her chair in, the arms knocking against the underside of the table. “Hobi here can cool off by escorting her home,” she says, with venom. “You can even say hi to your friend.” She stands. “In fact, take the rest of the pie. And the rest of you, do your best to help me with these dishes without breaking anything. Taehyung, Jungkook—” She walks over and shakes them awake. “Time to clean up.”

Jin downs another swig of whisky as everyone starts following her orders.

As you stand, Yoongi secretly grabs your folded napkin from your lap and gives you a small smile. “Please tell your father hi from all of us,” he requests. “We’ll try to see him while we’re in town.”

Nervous and apologetic smiles. Half-hearted thank-yous for dinner. And then, you’re left to walk into the front room alone, listening to the rest of the group snipe at each other as they clear the table.

It’s a lot to take in, especially when paired with the look of annoyance on Hobi’s face, as he exits the kitchen with the pie tin and walks toward the closet for your coats.

He doesn’t miss the look of consternation on your face, either. “Fun hang,” he says sarcastically.

You chuckle, and with the warmest voice you can muster, you say, “Always, with this group.”

Hobi’s hand lingers on the closet doorknob. You think you see a reflection of his smile.

He opens the closet and starts to sort through all the wool, leather, and fleece. Your idle eyes take in the front room, and you notice the yearbook on the hallway table.

You wonder where yours is.

Hobi startles you when he pops up at your side, offering both your trench coat and the pie tin.

You awkwardly go for the pie tin first, and then change your mind and go for the coat, until Hobi laughs at his own ineptness. “Sorry, that was— I didn’t mean to— haha, um— here!”

He extends the pie tin to you.

After you take it, you both look at your trench coat, still in Hobi’s hands.

“And, uh, here, let me,” he offers clumsily.

Your trench coat magically open, lining out, shoulders perfectly even with yours, fabric billowing out in one sweeping, matador-like motion. You smile to yourself as you think about Hobi’s graceful tennis serve. The fluidity to his dancing. It’s something to appreciate. A person better with movements than with words.

“Thanks,” you reply, turning your back to him and moving your hair over your shoulder.

He knows it’s a mistake the minute he offers, but he follows-through, helping you slip the coat on, smiling to himself as you place your free arm in one sleeve, and transfer the pie tin to free up the other. He watches the back of your exposed rose earring catch the light as you move. “I remember those,” he says quietly.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

You aren’t sure why you’re blushing, but you feel your cheeks glow when you feel Hobi reach for your hair, gathering it to straighten your collar, and letting it fall back over your trench coat.

You turn around and face him.

“Remember what?” you ask, beaming unexpectedly.

“Those earrings,” he tells you, matching your smile watt for watt. “You used to wear them for, like, special things.”

“How did you know?” you ask, surprised.

Hobi smiles and bites his lip, as if eager to share a secret. He blinks a couple of times to think, and then he sees the yearbook you were just flipping through. He reaches over for it and turns to one of the first dog-eared pages. He points out the row that contains your senior picture, hair tucked behind your ears, both rose earrings on full display.

You click your teeth at the thought of your sweet mother as you run a finger over your picture.

And then you look up at him.

You linger.

“Ah, my coat!” he says suddenly.

He turns around and walks back over to the closet.

And you choke down the strange question that you were going to ask.

Why that page was dog-eared, when his senior picture was on the page before it.

Hobi insists on carrying the pie tin after all, needing something in his hands to occupy himself. There’s no telling where they might be otherwise. In his pockets, sweating. Bumping against yours awkwardly as you walk. Yearning to grab your right in his left.

You clear his thoughts away for a moment when you ask, “You guys get to see each other often?”

“We still talk all the time,” he starts, weirdly nervously, “but everyone’s always away and working.”

He shares the details that you thought you’d get over dinner. Namjoon you already know a little about, having seen him on political commentary shows while waiting to board flights. Hobi’s details for the others start to fill your fuzzy sketches with rich color. Jin can hold more than his fair share of whisky, with a sommelier’s palate like his. Jungkook’s perceptive eyes and freestyle wrestling career have led to a buzzing career in sports production. Taehyung can technically work from anywhere given the right setup, but he feels his best voice acting happens in his favorite booth at the studio. Jimin’s clothing boutique is getting ready to open a third location, and while the expansion is exciting, it’s also nerve-wracking. And Yoongi started his non-profit organization years ago, but it’s only now that he and his traveling troupe of traditional dancers and musicians have received the kind of grants and donations that allow them to share stories on a broad scale.

“They always make it home for the holidays, though,” Hobi adds, smiling.

He takes the pie tin in his left hand and crouches a little to clear some snow-weighted branches, placing his right forearm over your head so that nothing falls on you.

You wonder what having that forearm around is like on a more regular basis. Would your stockings have ripped if, instead of you kicking it to hold it open, Hobi had been there to hold your car door open for you?

His right hand snaps back onto the pie tin. “Everyone was glad to see you,” he goes on.

“Yeah?” you laugh.

“Yeah,” Hobi admits, “Yoongi mentioned the whole thing at the pharmacy in the group chat.” He looks at you thoughtfully. “How does it feel to be home?”

“It’s strange,” you say, wondering if your brain is a little obsessed with that word tonight. “Like…” You look over to Hobi, unable to place him anywhere except this town. “Well, have you traveled much?”

“Not really.” He raises his eyebrows. “We did go south to the coast to visit my parents earlier this year for a long weekend.”

“OK then,” you nod, “maybe you know what I mean. How it’s kind of like you’re in a parallel universe.” You feel your new stockings on your legs. “Nothing gets lost in translation, but their local brand names and store chains feel odd on your tongue when you say them.”

“Same but different.” Hobi smiles. “Parallel universes.” So that’s where you’ve been, he thinks. Exploring galaxies.

“Wait—” Your elbow juts out and taps his, and he feels confetti explode all around him. “Where are your parents now?”

“Oh, uh.” Hobi clears the squeak from his throat. “They usually come back to the house for the holidays, but this year, they’re overseas for a few months visiting my sister and her family…” Hobi sees in his mind’s eye Yeong-ja and Ji-woo louring at each other over a dinner not unlike the one you’ve just had. “We decided to chill here. Have a bit of a quiet holiday for a change.” He pushes his lips out again. “Or, at least, that was the plan.”

He shakes his head and lets the winter air wash out more of the brandy-fogged thoughts from his brain. When he does, he remembers something you said earlier, and it warms him more than the brandy did. Almost burns him. He had forgotten how simultaneously thrilling and exhausting it is to remember everything you say.

“Anyway, you just got in today?” He dares to turn to you. “You said you got distracted on your way here?”

Your eyes grow with excitement, beautiful and happy. “Yeah! I— I actually think it’s around this corner…”

You quicken your pace a little and look around the bend.

“There!”

You point over to a mural painted on the side of an old brick store. It might have been a clothing store or a bookstore when you were growing up, but now, it’s probably something else.

Hobi smiles, watching you take it in. “Wanna see it up close?”

The two of you look both ways to cross the street, even though the roads have long been empty for the evening. And you scamper over, even though the sidewalk is more ice than concrete during this time of year.

The mural depicts the main square of the town, including city hall, the smattering of surrounding restaurants and shops, and the sun rising brilliantly in the distance, bathing the town in purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows, so much like the scenes you saw on your peaceful, solitary, early morning walks to school.

“I hadn’t seen this before,” you say, pressing a hand to the brick.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been back,” Hobi remarks.

You glance over at him and grin.

“I mean, y-y’know, like you said. And this mural has been here for a while, so, like, of course you haven’t seen it…” Hobi uneasily kicks at some snow, the toggles at the bottom of his coat bouncing.

The shell of him is a dapper, considerate gentleman, but so many of the boyish wisps of the younger Hobi you knew still seem to be there. His cheeks even puff up the same way when his lips pull together to grin happily at your warm gaze.

And his cheeks fall when yours suddenly do.

“Yeah, I’ve… I’ve been a little overwhelmed at work,” you confess. “I couldn’t even get home to see my father until months after his stroke. And I only stayed for a week.” You turn to Hobi. “I, uh, work in finance. I don’t know if I said.”

“You didn’t really get the chance to,” Hobi says bitterly. His eyes grow shallow, and he takes a breath, letting the air, your air, fill his lungs. “But you didn’t have to, though. Your father bragged about you,” he laughs. “To everyone in the hospital. To everyone in the town. He still does. Fancy schmancy Economics degree.” His cheeks puff up again, with your reflected starlight from all the galaxies you’ve been visiting. “Is it really bragging when we all knew you’d go on to do such amazing things?”

You lower your eyes and kick at some snow yourself, the guilt starting to feel less like a weight on your shoulders and more like the town’s overly positive murmurs, hidden in their quick, surprised-to-see-you glances.

“What’s amazing?” you ask. “Crazy hours? No time with family? It’s not as big of a deal as it sounds, believe me.” Your eyes settle back on Hobi. “Let’s talk more about you. What do you do?” You laugh nervously. “God, that sounds so cringey. I’m sorry. I can’t believe I don’t know.”

Hobi shrugs. “Not much to know. Just data entry. For the city.” He walks over to city hall on the mural, pointing to the west side. “My office is somewhere in here.” He smiles. “But I also volunteer on the community board. We’re the ones who painted this mural, actually.”

“Really?” you ask brightly. You think of Hobi volunteering with the student council. Always helping. “Well, it’s absolutely gorgeous. You captured everything just the way I remembered it. It felt like a portal to the past. I couldn’t stop staring.”

When you finally tear your eyes away, you find Hobi gazing at you.

Your eyes lock for a time.

Why do your lips feel tingly?

Maybe it’s because you feel like there are other things that Hobi wants to say.

What he chooses is, “Well, let’s get you home.”

The pie tin crinkles as Hobi grips it tighter and slowly starts back toward the path to your house.

You kind of wish he’d stay put.

Maybe that’s the sort of thing you have to navigate when you’re with someone who’s better with movements than with words.

Walking wordlessly with Hobi isn’t terrible, though. It’s been years, and you don’t really know him all that well. Whatever you did know kind of eroded with time. Yet, there’s a certain comfort that he brings. A comfort in somehow knowing. You don’t care how he knows the path to your house. You’re just thankful that he knows it, turning a blind eye when you momentarily doubt yourself on whether to go right or left at any given moment.

You see that your parents left the porch lights on for you, but you can tell that the TV is still on in the living room.

“Good thing,” you say to the blue and white shadows dancing on the window that you and your cousin broke when you were kicking the soccer ball around.

“Huh?” Hobi asks.

“I don’t have my own set of keys,” you laugh. “It’s a good thing my parents are still awake.”

Hobi chuckles, watching you snake up the clear side of the walkway, covered by a short ledge jutting out from the roof, and climbing the porch steps.

He mimics your steps, but he’s perfectly happy standing in the ankle-deep snow, just before the bottom step.

You knock on the front door, polite even at your own home, and your parents are there in seconds, throwing it open and hugging you just like when you had first arrived into town.

Your father’s eyes catch Hobi just behind you.

“Hey! Hoseok!” your father exclaims.

Hobi smiles and gives a little wave.

“Come up here,” you invite, extending your hand out.

Hobi waits for a moment, and then nods. He’s never come this far before. He wants to remember every detail. How the wood of your porch steps feel under his feet. How much snow shakes off with his weight. How warm it must be inside your house, given the wave washing over him through the still-open front door. How your hands are never ice cold, even when they’re reaching out to brush some snow that had fallen from the overhang of that ledge gutter and onto his neck.

“You OK?” you laugh, as your mother extends her similarly warm hand as well.

“I’m fine,” he chuckles, as you both brush him off. His eyes find your father’s. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

“Good to see you, too,” your father cheers, clapping a hand on Hobi’s shoulder.

Hobi is so overwhelmed that he just shoves the pie tin toward your father, who looks at you, amused, but confused.

“Hobi was kind enough to walk me home and bring us some pie,” you explain, as your father accepts the gift.

“A thank you for the whisky,” Hobi replies, tasting some of it on his tongue.

“You finish the whole bottle?” your father asks.

“More or less,” Hobi admits, worried.

Your father turns to you and smiles. “Good!”

Hobi finally starts to relax when your mother takes the pie tin from your father and adds, “You’ll have to join us for dinner some time, then.”

Both your and Hobi’s stomachs growl at the prospect of any dinner, though yours growls stronger, knowing how good of a cook she is.

Dinner reminds Hobi of duty, though, and it starts to call him back. “I’ll let my fiancee know,” he’s sure to say.

“Are the boys still in town?” your father asks. “Maybe we can find a time before they leave? Open up another bottle in my collection?” You’ve never seen him so jovial.

“They’d absolutely love to see you.” Hobi extends his hand for a handshake, and he finds your father’s hands to be the warmest. He smiles happily. “I’ll round them up.” He turns to your mother and smiles gratefully, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he nods toward you. “Thanks for sparing her for a night.”

Your mother chuckles, charmed. “Thanks for the pie. We’ll go put this inside,” she says, holding up the tin and placing a guiding hand on your father’s shoulder.

When left alone, you and Hobi lock eyes again. The cold is so bitter. You wonder if he feels it, too. Curious things, his eyes. Bright, yet sad.

Yours, too, Hobi thinks. The way you gravitated toward the mural and its sunnier, warmer days. He wonders what else might’ve tumbled out, had you both kept talking. Maybe that means leaving right there and then was for the better.

He holds out his hand. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “It was fun catching up.”

“It was.” You tilt your head at Hobi’s hand. Instead of taking it, you look up at him and ask, “Am I gonna see you again?” The way it sounds coming out of your mouth. You’re getting flustered. “I mean, the gang?” You feel yourself blushing. “Before whatever my mother plans for dinner?”

Hobi’s hand slowly falls back to his side. “Oh. Um, I don’t know.” His lips wrinkle, and his teeth start chewing nimbly, as if stripping flesh from fishbone, needing to be delicate and careful lest he get cut. “The community board has a lot of projects leading up to Christmas, so I’ll be sorta busy.” His eyes deepen as he tacks on, “But it’d be cool if we did get to see each other again at some point.”

“Cool,” you say, nodding. “Um, well… night.”

And then, you do the unexpected. The unthinkable.

You hug him.

You wrap your arms around him and actually hold him close to you.

And he holds you in return. Bodies pressed up against each other.

Strange.

Stirring.

You pull away, transformed.

But Hobi somehow looks the same. He looks the same as he’s always looked. And he looks at you the same way he did from the center of the tennis court. He looks at you the way he’s always looked at you.

“Night,” he says quietly.

He turns on his heel in one exquisite motion and heads down your porch steps, leaving the way you both came.

As you walk inside and close the door behind you, you stare at the empty hallway, hearing your parents digging into the apple pie, and then subsequently commenting disappointedly that it’s over-baked. Between their verdict and the clatter of their spoons in the sink, you take a moment to climb the stairs and look around your room and see more than just the new bedspread that your mother prepared for you, or the suitcase you dragged along with you. You see all the things that made it your room.

Including your senior yearbook.

You walk over to your bookshelf. You don’t know what tells you to look at the inside of the back cover, but you do.

Taehyung told you to have a great summer. Jin signed his name in huge, looping letters. Jungkook drew your school mascot giving you the finger. Jimin signed his name and decorated it with little stars and silly, smiley faces. Namjoon wrote a long and touching message about how heartwarming and meaningful it is that you both got to share time together in this journey called life. And, given your choice of major, Yoongi drew a picture of Karl Marx frowning disapprovingly and telling you, “Booooooo”.

But written there, in small, uneven handwriting, sitting like a whisper in the bottom corner, is a message from Hobi that reads, “Wishing that all your dreams come true.”

Your parents call down for you, asking if you want any coffee.

But before you can answer, you mumble a quiet, simple, surprised, “…Huh.”

Just as Hobi is turning the second corner that completely hides your house from sight, staring down and following his ice-cold feet while whispering to himself, “…Shit.”

Your mother’s smiling face greets you happily.

Too happily.

“Don’t you love this bedspread?” she sighs. “400-count thread. And it’s bamboo!”

“Early,” you croak, rolling over in bed and hiding from the sun. “Loud.”

“You have a visitor,” she whispers, pulling your arm out from under the covers.

“Tell them to come back later!” you groan, snapping your arm back inside. You all may still look relatively like your teenage selves, but hangovers in your 30s are a million times worse.

“Hurry up!” your mother insists. “It’s one of the boys! That cute, shrewd, little one! He’s been waiting!”

You try to make yourself as presentable as possible, tying your hair up as you waddle down the stairs and startle to find a catastrophic-looking Yoongi leaning in your front doorway.

“You remembered?” you ask sleepily.

Yoongi tries not to lean too hard on the double meaning when he answers, “Project.”

You start to remember, too. During the last semester of your senior year, Yoongi spent a few Saturdays walking to your house, sitting at your kitchen table, and fighting you on every paragraph and slide in your Economics project, as he ate the taquitos and pizza bagels your mother would make for you.

“Saw your dad a minute ago,” Yoongi mumbles, his voice rumbling from his chest and scraping everything upwards along with it. As painful as it sounds for him to speak, his voice is still smooth and pleasant to your ears. “He looks well.”

“Mmhmm,” you say, offering a bit of a smile as you scratch your shoulder and open your mouth wide.

Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut at your ensuing yawn, the force of all of your tired muscles jam-packed into one fierce wall of sound. As you force the rest out in a breath through rounded lips, the top of the bridge of his nose crinkles.

Wincing, you whisper, “Sorry.”

“Nope,” he winces. “Me. I’m sorry. To wake you.”

When Yoongi opens his eyes again, you offer more of a smile, now that your face can handle it. “I’m happy to see you,” you reassure him. More of your thoughts threaten to spill out, but you grab them just before they leap off the tip of your tongue. Instead of asking how Hobi is, or where he is, or why he’s not there with him, you manage to say, “Had fun last night. Thanks for inviting me.”

Yoongi’s eyes give you a skeptical once over, a look that sends you right back into your classroom, when your teacher preached on the benefits of trickle-down economics.

“You know why I invited you to that awkward as fuck dinner, right?” he asks.

Is that what this is? An attempt at an explanation of some sort? If an explanation is needed, it definitely doesn’t need to come from Yoongi, and it certainly doesn’t need to be delivered to you. “I mean,” you begin to point out, “it’s not your fault that dinner was awkward as fuck.”

“But do you know why I invited you?” he asks. “And why it was awkward to begin with?”

You blink heavily to clear your eyes and get a better look at him. He leans forward a little, slumping around your wall, shoulders hunched and neck bending this way and that to see if your parents are around.

“Really,” Yoongi sighs as he straightens and mulls things over. “So we’re doing this.”

Yoongi always was a master of intrigue.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

He seems aggravated. “I’ve got another invitation for you,” he says. “Come have breakfast with us at the diner by city hall. We were planning on just walking around town and shooting the shit.” Yoongi grimaces. “Nurse our hangovers together.”

“OK,” you say, nodding your head at the prospect of bacon, bread, and Bloody Marys.

You reach for your trench coat on the hook and wrap it around you, fingers too sleepy or lazy to worry about buttons, clumsy fists saving them by tying your belt tight around your waist.

You’re pretty sure Yoongi’s stride wasn’t like this in high school. Was it always this fast? Aside from his time on the court, your memories of him contain more of a lackadaisical, almost comical, mosey. Yet, on this morning, flames might as well be melting the snow in Yoongi’s wake.

“Can we— Can slow down?” you gently ask, your breath fogging, and your eyes squinting to keep the sunlight out.

“Actually, can you speed up?” Yoongi asks, burdened.

You stop in your tracks, on the same part of the sidewalk where you liked to draw your hopscotch squares. “I’m sorry, are you annoyed with me?” You frown. “You don’t have to feel obligated to invite me to things just because we knew each other forever ago.”

Yoongi sighs and whirls around, marching back to you and huffing.

“You mean you’re not just playing dumb given the circumstances?” he demands. “You really don’t know?”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve whatever this is,” you challenge.

Yoongi slumps. He scratches his head. “Ah, OK, I’m sorry… It’s just that…”

In all the time that it took to get to you that morning — the shower he took, the shave he had, the headache, and the groaning, and the stumbling over his friends’ sleeping bodies, and the finding clothes to borrow, and the painful, cold walk to your house — Yoongi still hadn’t decided whether he was going to tell you, but here it comes, thoughts spilling out of his mouth rather than yours.

“Hobi was really glad to see you,” he says, in the softer voice that you’re more familiar with.

You stiffen at the mention of Hobi’s name. “Well, that’s good,” you manage to squeak.

“No, but he was, like, really glad to see you.” Yoongi watches as the muscles in your cheeks, where the yeonji gonji might go, tighten and dimple happily. “And it seems like you were really glad to see him, too.”

You take back the smile and force a frown.

Yoongi narrows his eyes back at you.

But then you surrender.

“My mother said you were shrewd,” you admit.

Yoongi’s eyes stay narrow, but that smug smirk makes its first of what will likely be a million appearances for the day.

“As are you,” he says. “So forgive me for being so frustrated to find out that after all of these years, you have never so much as suspected that Hobi was, and still is, madly in love with you.”

Hobi sneaks his fingers behind his round, black frames and rubs his eyes in insistent circles. Everything is still way too blurry.

Jimin rolls his eyes and leans forward, snatching the glasses from their perch on Hobi’s nose. He pushes two, throaty, open-mouth breaths that condense on the lenses and starts wiping them down using the soft hem of a borrowed tennis team sweatshirt.

“Aw, now my sweatshirt is gonna have stains on it,” Hobi groans.

Namjoon leans forward to reach for the cream and sugar at the end of the table, but the collision with Jungkook’s elbow spills syrup on both of their borrowed musical show shirts, remnants splashing onto the text denoting Hobi’s dance captain status on Namjoon’s version. Immediately after impact, Namjoon blinks at Jungkook, and then they blink at Hobi.

“Why are you all even wearing my stuff??” Hobi complains, as Namjoon and Jungkook reach for napkins, and Hobi yanks off his baseball cap, scratching his head in annoyance before replacing it higher on the crown of his head. Presumably to vent more of the angry fumes.

“We needed to change,” Taehyung says innocently, wide-eyed and soft-voiced, banana chocolate chip muffin bites clumped in his left cheek, and banana chocolate chip muffin crumbs falling onto the stitching of the borrowed Senior Class of 2006 shirt.

“So you went into my attic?!” Hobi grunts with aggravation. “You have clothes! At your houses!”

Jimin nods along, handing Hobi his glasses back. “Yeah, and we crashed at your house, so—”

“We’re getting distracted!” Jin snaps, rolling up the sleeves of Hobi’s student council hoodie and leaning forward. He meets Hobi’s eyes and furrows his brow. “Tell us again what events you’re volunteering for so that we get the schedule exactly right.”

“I ask you every year if you want to volunteer, and you all always bail,” Hobi says.

Jimin pushes a plate of bacon towards him. “We definitely want to help this year,” he says, with an earnest, knowing grin. “Promise.”

Hobi sighs, relenting at the smell of that crispy, applewood bacon, sourced ethically and locally from the nearby farm. “Fine.” He reaches for a strip and chews on it as he talks. “It’s really just the three big ones that need the most volunteers: the winter carnival tonight, carol singing tomorrow for Christmas Eve, and the play on Christmas Day.”

Jimin looks like he immediately regrets being so earnest.

“What do you need us to do?” Namjoon asks, as Jungkook clumps their syrupy napkins together.

Hobi tilts his head toward the square outside, where people are already starting to set up. “Well, there are still a few carnival booths that don’t have back-up support. We want two people at each station so that people can take breaks or manage bigger crowds. Especially for the hot chocolate booth.”

“OK, so we’ll manage the remaining booths,” Jin says, nodding. “What about the carol singing?”

“Just want more people to join,” Hobi says. “All your usual standards. No practice or anything.” He smiles a little, just for himself. “We’ll be singing by the mural.”

“Done,” Jin continues. “And the play?”

“Need people to be around to help out generally,” Hobi answers. “Hand people props. Make sure kids don’t fall off the stage.” He slumps a little. “Spread the word, so that there’s actually an audience.”

“Is it The Twelve Days of Christmas?” Jungkook asks eagerly.

“It’s always The Twelve Days of Christmas,” Taehyung yawns.

Jungkook hums happily and wiggles side-to-side in his seat.

“Where’s Yoongi?” Hobi wonders suddenly. “I don’t want to rattle off all these details again just for him to put it to a vote.”

Jimin grins again, that same knowing smile. “Oh, don’t worry, Hobi. You know how good he is with plans.”

You usually like walking in complete silence, but you’ve never walked in complete silence with someone before. You’ve only traveled a couple of miles, but you almost expect to look over and see your empty apartment rather than the diner edging into view.

Suddenly, you find yourself bursting with questions.

“Love?”

“Love.”

Yoongi stares straight ahead, hearing Hobi’s voice listing every single thing that he loves about you. He echoes each sentence, starting with the little things, like how Hobi loves the way your smile widens first at your right cheek, and then at your left, and ending with the big things, like how Hobi wishes that you’d be a little looser. That, if you’d let your ultimately petty anxieties and frustrations go, maybe you’d feel lighter.

“H-he knows that about me?” you stutter.

“There’s a power to his observations, isn’t there?” Yoongi says with reverence.

You almost feel Hobi’s gaze on you now. Warming you. Protecting you from the odd arctic blast shuffling through the vent in your trench coat, or through the strands of Yoongi’s hair.

“But why me?” you mumble.

Yoongi searches through the responses that he’d memorized over the years, from the high school admiration to the off-hand mentions of you throughout the years since. “Because you’re his Dream Girl,” Yoongi finishes, simply shrugging.

How you could be anybody’s Dream Girl is beyond you.

“He’s in there?” you ask nervously. “Right now?”

Yoongi just nods, though you see that his smirk is still in full effect.

“He told you how he felt?”

“I just gave you the CliffsNotes.”

Even with Yoongi rattling off the proof, you ask, “And he still feels this way?”

Yoongi’s head exaggeratedly rolls around with a furiatingly mocking circumference. “Oh yeah.”

“He told you that he still feels this way?” you clarify.

After years of clutch free-throws and three-pointers, Yoongi’s long been able to mask his flinches expertly, reincorporating them into the motion he wants, which at this point, is an elegant turn, as he faces you and walks backwards.

“Can’t you tell?” he asks.

You finally let yourself smile, your heart filling and threatening to overflow. But the tap shuts off. You’re the one who turns the knob.

“But… it’s too late,” you say quietly. The strange energy with which Hobi sent you into the sky must dissipate somewhere, and you suspect that Yeong-ja isn’t exactly welcoming the blast.

Yoongi’s eyes meet yours. “This kind of thing is unshakeable. I’ve never seen someone more in love, and he just happens to be in love with you.”

You sigh. “What’s the point of bringing this all up now?” you ask, tamping down the erratic pulse in your veins. “This is an impossible situation. I feel guilty even entertaining any sort of thought that—” You shake your head. “I don’t even want to talk about this anymore.”

As Yoongi swivels his hips to cross the main street with you, a self-assured “OK” falls from his lips, which then form a grin. “But I’m telling you. I don’t think this is the end of it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Bet?”

“Against an economist?”

Yoongi’s nostrils flare. “Scared to put your reputation on the line?”

You glower. “Bet.”

“I guess we’ll see, then.” Yoongi chuckles. “Dream Girl.”

Eyes narrowing, you spit out, “You know, my mother also calls you the little one.”

“Not little in the ways that count.” Yoongi’s confidence is magnificently enticing. “That’s not all your mom said, though, is it?”

You roll your eyes.

Yoongi reaches out for the handle and holds the diner door open for you.

“Go on. What else does she say about me?” he teases.

You sigh, unable to help it. “That you’re cute,” you mumble.

As you walk inside, he serves you a toothy, gummy grin, with a side of a winningly arched eyebrow.

You feel Hobi’s eyes on you as soon as you clear the booth wall by the entrance.

Hobi’s head swivels toward the group, and all of their heads lean into the center of the table.

“What is she doing here??” Hobi whispers. “If Yeong-ja so much as sniffs her anywhere on me—”

“Who said she’d be on you?” Jin teases, making Hobi turn scarlet. “Besides. After last night, we felt that we owed her a decent meal.”

You miss all of this as Yoongi chats with you, leading you to their favorite table.

“Have a seat. Anywhere you like,” Jimin offers, as Yoongi pulls out the two chairs closest to you, and you smile at the subtle dig.

“Oh, that’s OK,” you hesitate. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“We ordered for 8,” Taehyung insists, as Jungkook nods, his mouth full of pancakes. “And there’s more coming.”

Jungkook tries to say something, bits of pancake fluff sticking out of his mouth.

You look at him, quizzically charmed.

“We got one of everything,” Taehyung translates, as Jimin laughs softly and rubs the crown of Jungkook’s head with his hand.

As you take a seat next to Yoongi, you grin at the entire group, unable to tell whether you’re really seeing them, or flipping through more pictures from your yearbook. “Hang on. Why are you all wearing Hobi’s high school stuff?”

Hobi has been gazing at you this entire time, a soft smile on his lips. When you turn to him for an answer, he looks startled.

“Oh, uh,” he garbles, sitting up and blinking.

“Suffice to say we’re all still hungover,” Jin replies, nodding insistently at Hobi. “In fact, Hobi was just asking why you were here.” Jin bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. “Right?”

“Uh, y-yeah, I just was… well I was asking because I didn’t expect you to see you here because, uh…” Hobi looks at you so worriedly that you can’t help but smile again. He settles into his body, knees no longer bouncing, speech no longer rushed. “I mean, we walked home kinda late. And we had all that whisky. So I thought you might want to sleep in.”

He gazes at you, and you feel the whisky in your veins.

“Did you sleep OK?” he asks.

A hush falls over the group as they wait for your response.

You let yourself gaze back only for a moment when you say, “I did.” You look at the rest of the group to make sure you don’t cross any boundaries. “I was basically out as soon as my head hit the pillow.” You yawn and push out the rest of your sentence. “Thanks for inviting me to breakfast. Even though I didn’t get the memo about the dress code.”

“Aw, you look great,” Hobi says softly. “Like always.”

Your head automatically turns to him, and your lips automatically smile gratefully. “Well, that’s…”

You catch Yoongi wiggling his eyebrows at you in your periphery, and you crinkle your nose. “That’s very nice of you to say, Hobi. But I definitely don’t.” You laugh sheepishly. Self-deprecation is only making you cuter. “I haven’t even showered yet! So gross!”

Your neck stretches out from your trench coat’s collar as you take your hair down, shaking it free, and back, away from the table.

“See? So greasy!”

You scratch your head and lean your neck to your left to give it a stretch before flipping your hair the other way to re-do your bun. The stretch feels so good that a little bit of a satisfied hum comes through your pressed lips.

The guys watch you with rapt attention.

And then they all slowly turn to Hobi, barely able to contain themselves.

Flushed, Hobi jumps to his feet, his knees hitting the underside of the table and rattling everyone’s plates. “Cool, well, I’ve gotta go!” he says suddenly, dragging his voice up from the floor with a struggle. “We, uh, have a project—”

The guys start snickering.

“A community project, uh meeting,” Hobi spits out.

“Hobi just recruited us to volunteer at the winter carnival tonight,” Namjoon tells you. He grins evilly. “Would you wanna join us?”

The group falls over themselves, trying to get you to say yes, even starting to chant “Yes”, as Jungkook slowly choo-choo-trains a plate of blueberry waffles across the table toward you.

Laughing, and even though you catch Yoongi’s smug face again, you say, “Uh… sure?”

Hobi’s eyes widen.

There’s a chance butterflies might escape as you look up at Hobi and open your mouth to ask, “What do you need volunteers for?”

Before Hobi can backpedal, Namjoon says, “Wanna sling hot chocolate with me?”

Feeling safe knowing that you’ll be with Namjoon all evening, you nod and say, “Hot chocolate sounds perfect. We’ll be able to stay warm.”

Namjoon looks back at Hobi. “So warm.”

“Alright, well, sort the rest of the booths out amongst yourself, and I’ll see you all tonight!” Hobi says quickly, shoving his hand into his back pocket. He pulls out some indeterminate amount of cash and hands it to Jin angrily.

Jin’s high-pitched giggles chase Hobi as he rushes out of the diner. As he arranges the bills into a neat stack in his hands, Jin turns back to you and says, “Well, looks like breakfast is on him. Wanna order anything else?”

“No, I think I’ll just get some coffee to go,” you reply. “Bring some back for my parents.” You turn to Namjoon. “I’ll meet you at the stand tonight?”

Namjoon gives you a dimple, and you laugh softly.

Jungkook nudges the blueberry waffles even closer to you. You stare at it a little, and then look at the six grinning faces around you. You take one and laugh lightly.

You place your other hand on Yoongi’s shoulder as you stand. Your eyes say, Nice try.

His eyes keep saying, We’ll see.

You get up and walk to the counter to order your coffee.

Unbeknownst to you, the guys watch as you munch on your blueberry waffle and fall in line, and then, when they’re absolutely sure you’re out of earshot, they crowd together, more of Hobi’s clothes getting sugar and coffee and syrup and butter on them.

“You got the schedule?” Yoongi asks solemnly.

“Carnival tonight, carol singing tomorrow night, The Twelve Days of Christmas the night after that,” Jin answers.

Yoongi pulls out the piece of notebook paper that he was able to save the night before.

The piece of notebook paper that will hopefully save their Hobi.

“Project Dream Girl 2.0 has to right its predecessors’ wrongs if we have any chance of success,” he states firmly.

“The last plan was a semester long, and we failed. You really think we can do it in the next three days?” Taehyung asks.

“We’ve just gotta focus the energy,” Yoongi says. “And I think everyone can tell there’s a lot of energy.”

The group murmurs in agreement as he unfolds the paper, their collective writing, and some of Jungkook and Jimin’s doodling, further bridging the gap in time.

Yoongi taps on the main three points of the first project. “Obviously, the Valentine’s Day carnation thing was too subtle,” he says. “We played it too safe, or maybe we were trying to be too clever, pretending the message was from me. This won’t work if we don’t force more straightforward, direct interactions between Hobi and Dream Girl over there.”

They all glance your way, but you’re too busy finishing your waffle and catching up with the diner owner as you place and wait for your coffee order.

“We’ve gotta run interference,” Yoongi replies. “We have to keep Yeong-ja away at all times.”

“Ugh,” Jimin remarks. “Annoying.”

“But it makes sense,” Namjoon adds.

Yoongi moves onto the next bullet point. “Just asking her to attend the musical didn’t work either. She only went to one show, and she kept getting accosted by all of our teachers asking her about her college plans. So we’ve gotta make sure she stays engaged. Participates.”

“Got it,” Jungkook replies dutifully, as Taehyung crosses his arms and gives one, curt nod.

“We got the closest with the tennis match. That one came down to bad timing,” Yoongi replies. He mumbles the next words with zero remorse. “That tutoring job. Those stupid kids.” He takes a deep breath. “Hobi clearly needs help moving things along. We can help give context to things. Direct the conversation a bit. Get him to express himself more.” Yoongi smiles at Jin. “What you did earlier. Getting him to talk. All that saccharine shit that came out after. That was masterful.”

As Jimin mimics you tossing your hair again, and Jungkook gazes at him with hearts in his eyes, everyone laughs, and Jin smiles proudly. But definitely not humbly.

“So that’s it? That’s why we failed? It all came down to a lack of focus, and poor timing?” Taehyung asks. “Isn’t there anything else we can do?”

“Project Dream Girl’s biggest weakness wasn’t the timeline, or the strategy,” Yoongi says. “It was that Dream Girl wasn’t in on it.” He smiles. “And now, she kinda is.”

The group’s eyes find you again, starting to scoop up your three coffees, and turning to glance out the bay window, watching Hobi head toward city hall.

“Will they have hot toddies?” your father asks. “I like hot toddies. I even like the name. ‘Toddies’?” He sniffs.

“You just like the whisky,” your mother points out.

Your father’s train of thought keeps chugging. “Like, attractive, tiny guys named Todd?”

“Have you already had some today?” you ask from the backseat, making both of your parents laugh heartily.

Your father finds non-snow-covered-tree parking pretty easily, swooping into a spot not too far from the entrance to the carnival. They both get out of the car, but you frown and struggle with your door handle. “Appa!” you call out. “Eomma!” You knock on the glass window. “The child locks are on??”

“Ah, sorry,” your father apologizes before they walk too far. He walks back to the driver’s side and opens the door, pressing the button on the panel that will free you.

You step out of the car, looking much more presentable, and comfortable, in your jeans, sweater, puffy coat, and boots, the added shimmer of your highlighter and eyeshadow making you pop against the night sky, dotted with winter stars, and all sorts of Christmas twinkle and tea lights.

“Really?” you ask with a pout. “The child locks were still on when you dropped me off at school.”

Your father swings an arm around you and kisses the top of your head as the three of you head toward the carnival.

“After we get your hot toddy, we’d better get a head start on the food,” your mother replies excitedly, eyes widening. “Mrs. Park said she’d be making bungeo-ppang. And Mr. Gwan’s nearly perfected his new hodugwaja recipe.”

“He still runs the bakery?” you ask.

Your mother nods and runs a tongue across her lips in anticipation. She turns to your father. “If it’s as good as he was bragging about last week, I might leave you for him.”

“Hell, I might leave you for him,” your father says, raising his eyebrows and licking his lips as well.

“Well, you two have fun,” you laugh. “I’m gonna go find Namjoon.”

“Save us some hot chocolate for later!” your mother calls to you, as your father lovingly pokes her stomach and wonders aloud whether or not they’ll even have room for it by then.

It’s easy enough to navigate through the small crowd, and tall, broad, plaid button-upped and puffy-vested Namjoon isn’t exactly hard to miss, even while sitting down and hunched over the table at the hot chocolate booth.

“Hey,” you say, as you approach him.

He keeps his eyes on his laptop for a moment before scooting forward and pausing the video he is watching on his laptop. Turning to you and smiling happily, he says, “Oh, hey!” He turns into mush. “You look so pretty. Hobi’s gonna think so.”

You blush. “Huh?”

He stares at you with a goofy smile for a full minute before you slip your hands into the back pockets of your jeans, rise up on your tiptoes, look around awkwardly, and say, “Sooo…”

Namjoon startles and clears his throat. “Sorry! So, uh, where are your parents?”

“Walking around and checking things out,” you answer. “Getting food.”

“They’d better get to Mr. Gwan’s first,” Namjoon remarks. “He’s already about to run out, and the huge crowd hasn’t even hit yet.”

“Oh snap.” You pull your phone out from your coat pocket and text your mother quickly.

Luckily, she sends you a picture of her and your father in line, as Mr. Gwan happily prepares their order.

“They’ve secured the bag,” you say, grinning and showing Namjoon the adorable photo.

As Namjoon takes your phone from you and gushes at your parents, you put your phone back in your pocket and look around. The booth is fully stocked with twin, large, professional, metal hot chocolate dispensers, whipped cream cans, and big bowls of marshmallows, graham cracker dust, candy canes and peppermint shavings, and other toppings.

“Seems like this was an easy enough setup,” you comment, as Namjoon hands you back your phone.

“I didn’t do a thing, actually,” he admits. “And, apparently, all we have to do now is, uh… keep putting out cups, and make sure nobody steals anything, and, uh…” He looks up at the sky. “Uh… call the community board leader when we run out of hot chocolate, and… there was one more thing Jimin and I were supposed to do…”

You smile, raising your eyebrows slightly. “You OK there, Namjoon?”

“Oh, yeah! I’m goooood. I was just watching a movie. I thought we could watch something Christmas-y while working the booth.”

It’s only then, when Namjoon’s eyes snap back to yours, that you see how red his eyes are. He leans into you urgently. “OK, also? Full disclosure: my sister and I got high before we came here.” His wide eyes blink just once. “Please don’t be mad.”

“Mad?” You crack up laughing. “You got anymore?” you ask, wiggling your eyebrows.

Namjoon scratches the back of his head. “Ah, fuck, I’m sorry. We smoked the entire blunt.”

“Alright,” you joke, playfully rolling your eyes, “I won’t be mad if you save some for me next time.”

“You’re so much cooler than Yeong-ja,” Namjoon sighs contentedly.

You let the weird comment hang in the air, dodging it as you walk around the table and take the seat next to him. “Well then, what are we watching?” you ask.

Namjoon’s eyes light up. “It’s a series called Extreme Engineering Catastrophes!” he says excitedly.

“Very Christmas-y,” you comment.

“Well, I was watching one of those cheesy holiday movies a little while ago, but I got kinda bored,” he admits.

You chuckle as Namjoon unpauses the video, turns up the volume, catches you up on the current catastrophe, and fills in the details with his own notes, providing historical background that led to all the mayhem. Political influence. Labor protests. Forced shortcuts.

And Namjoon finds it refreshing that you actually ask questions. Usually, the guys literally leave him to his own devices.

You’re so absorbed that you don’t realize how quiet your stand has grown until someone asks, “Are there more cups?”

You and Namjoon look up and see Jimin, in one of his red, signature boutique sweaters, staring at Namjoon’s forehead, and tapping the bare table.

“Ah, right, more cups,” Namjoon says quickly.

“I think a shipment has just arrived,” Jimin tells him. “Maybe we can go, uh, get some.”

“Oh, I’ll go with you,” you offer.

“No, I’ll go,” Namjoon says, standing. “They might be heavy.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Paper cups?”

“Can you just hang out here in case anybody comes?”

“But… there aren’t any cups?” you point out.

“We can’t leave the booth unattended,” Namjoon dutifully recites. “I’ll be right back!”

Jimin leans over and does something with some strands of your hair, slightly moving them out of your face, and gives you a little wave before grabbing Namjoon by the elbow and talking quickly into his ear, the two of them scampering off into the thickening crowd.

You furrow your brow and look around your stand. There are unopened boxes of extra graham crackers, candy canes, and whipped cream cans. So there must be other things there, too.

You reach for the tablecloth and lift it up to check.

There are four boxes of 500-count paper cups under the table.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

You look back up and see Hobi standing there, frowning.

“He and Jimin went to go look for more cups, but…”

You bend over, top half disappearing under the table, missing the way Hobi’s eyes widen at the sight of your ass poking out and wiggling. You remerge with an already-opened box, just half of one sleeve of cups having been used, and hold it up, confused.

“…They’re right here?”

“Ugh,” Hobi sighs. “And Jimin was here, too? He went missing ages ago!”

He pulls out his phone to post a warning in the group chat.

Hobi (7:42 PM): If your two assholes don’t get back to your booths, I’m going to kill you!

Taehyung (7:42 PM): Who are you talking to?

Yoongi (7:42 PM): Whichever one of us has two assholes.

Jin (7:42 PM): 🤣

“Dammit!” Hobi exclaims suddenly. “They promised they were going to— All the booths are supposed to—”

Hobi runs through all the details he had covered that morning, anger starting to build in places of promises dismantled, an engineering disaster all its own.

But you soften him with one reassuring smile.

You rip open the rest of the sleeve of cups that you had pulled and start setting them out. At the sight of more cups, people start to head your way and make their own drinks.

“All the booths are supposed to what?” you ask, fanning out the accompanying paper cup holders.

Hobi huffs. “All the booths are supposed to have two people. Those idiots. I swear.”

You look at him, and for some reason, think of Yoongi’s smug grin.

Hobi sighs and joins you on the other side, grabbing another sleeve of cups and hastily setting them down.

“I’ll just hang here until he gets back, I guess,” he mumbles, looking around for snippy community board officials.

“Don’t let me keep you,” you insist.

“No, I…” Hobi trails off, when he sees your golden eyeshadow. “Um, I mean… I don’t… I don’t want to leave you…”

You tilt your head, the light shimmering off of your lids as you move.

“Alone!” Hobi adds quickly. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

You stand next to each other. Hovering. Smiling. Watching as people make their hot chocolate. Some stick with marshmallows, while others reach for the whipped cream. Some dump in everything but. One empties their flask first.

When the crowd dissipates, you turn to Hobi curiously and grin. “How do you make hot chocolate?” you ask.

Hobi rubs his eye behind his glasses, the top of his yellow beanie flitting back and forth. “Me?”

“Yeah,” you say. “What kind of toppings do you like to put on?”

“I’m a purist,” Hobi says defiantly.

“What!” You shake your head. “No. That won’t do.”

“Oh, it won’t?” Hobi laughs.

“Listen,” you say, reaching for two cups, “I get it.” You pour them three-fourths full, and then you center them between you. “I was a purist once. Didn’t even like the milk chocolate mixes. Only made it with 80% cacao.” You reach for the whipped cream cans and spiral two perfect clouds on top. “But there’s nothing wrong with having a little fun every once in a while, right?” you ask innocently, giving Hobi a wink.

Hobi wonders what it would be like to be able to freeze a moment. Not just take a picture of one. Actually freeze a moment. He wishes he could make it happen right then, when your eyelids shut, and your tongue separates your teeth with that right-cheek-led smile.

Some people approach you and make their own cups as you talk.

You reach for one of the spoons in the peppermint shavings and sprinkle some into the whipped cream. Next comes the graham cracker dust, matching your golden eyes.

“No marshmallows?” Hobi asks, laughing.

“With the whipped cream?” you ask. “That would be overkill. And marshmallows don’t give a firm enough canvas to paint on.”

He laughs again, and you pick up the two colorful cups, handing one to him.

“Shall we?” you ask, gesturing to the empty chairs behind you.

Hobi nods, and you both take your seats.

He eyes the laptop screen. It’s paused on a shot of someone in glasses and a blazer, mid-sentence.

“What are you watching?” he asks.

“Oh, this is Namjoon’s,” you reply.

“Please don’t tell me that it’s one of his documentaries,” Hobi says flatly.

“It’s about, like, bridge disasters?” you laugh, as you reach over and unpause the video.

“OK?” he chuckles. “Odd, but OK.”

“It actually is kinda interesting,” you muse. “We watched, like, five of these horrible accidents, and it always comes down to some design flaw, and, like, people taking shortcuts, or columns not being reinforced by steel or something.”

“Hey, now. Spoilers.”

You giggle and turn back to the screen, as Hobi brings his cup of hot chocolate to his lips and steals one more glance at you.

“The Almö bridge was supported by an arch, which, at the time, was the longest arch in the world,” the host narrates. Then, B-roll plays of a thin man wearing frameless glasses walking intently toward the camera while looking over his shoulder at a harbour.

“Ooh, I bet this guy knows a ton about arches,” you joke, at the sight of him.

Hobi chokes into his hot chocolate, whipped cream dolloping on his chin, and peppermint shards and cocoa spilling out and onto his hoodie, threatening to widen to puddles when diagrams of arches show up all over the screen, as the thin man keeps making arches with his hands while talking.

“Ahhh, I’m sorry,” you laugh, reaching over to the coffee table for some napkins and leaning over to dab the droplets. “Haha, that was dumb.”

As you reach up to wipe his face, Hobi grins, just happily looking up at you, until you slowly realize what you’re doing.

“Sorry,” you say again stiffly. You sit back and hand Hobi the napkin instead.

“You’re…” Hobi just watches you, bewildered by how simple it all is. “You’re incredible.”

Usually, your chest is tight with anxiety. Hard deadlines, huge ledgers, and a revolving door of co-workers who are meaner and more inept than those that came before them. But now, your chest tightens due to warmth. A different kind of anxiety. The kind that tells you that you’re playing with fire.

“Hobi,” you say, unsure. “I… I don’t want to make things, like, weird, or anything, but… I’ve been…”

You clear your throat and take a breath.

“I’ve been—”

“I’ve been looking for you!”

You feel your hot chocolate slosh around in your cup when you and Hobi, startled, whip around to find Yeong-ja dragging Namjoon and Jimin up to your both with her.

“Yeobo!” she says through a grit-toothed smile. “Didn’t you get my texts? Calls?”

“Sorry, we were just…” Hobi gestures to the rest of the crowd by the booth. “Y’know.”

From the look on her face, Yeong-ja doesn’t know.

“Working,” Hobi answers.

“This is a self-service booth,” she points out. She glances at you before adding, “Why are you even here? You said you were helping with the horse carriage rides.”

“It’s my fault,” Namjoon pipes up. “I was, uh, looking for cups.”

Yeong-ja points to the cups on the table. “These cups?”

“Wow,” Namjoon says, placing his hand on his chin. “Isn’t it funny how the things we search for are often right in front of us, all along?”

Hobi scowls.

“Save it for the political pundits,” Yeong-ja says. “God knows how you tend to go on and on and on.”

“But we were having such a great conversation!” Jimin insists. “Namjoon did so great on that show!” Though Jimin slaps Namjoon on the back, Jimin is the one who winces. “Absolutely riveting!”

“What was the topic I was speaking on?” Namjoon asks dubiously.

Jimin ignores the question and pulls on his sweater. “And I was telling you both about how I’m almost sold out of all my Christmas designs—”

“Honestly, Jimin, I’m surprised you’re opening another location because those cheap sweaters look like they shrink in the wash,” Yeong-ja says quickly. She ignores Jimin’s death stare and whispered curses as she turns back to Hobi.

“Mr. Gwan ran out of hodugwaja. I was waiting for you.”

“Yeobo, I was working,” Hobi replies. “Speaking of which, Jimin, can you please go back to the ring toss game? Jin’s starting to rig it so that nobody beats his high score.”

Jimin gladly takes the chance to scurry away.

“This isn’t work. You’re volunteering to be here.” Yeong-ja eyes you. “Either way, I’m sure you’ve done enough to earn yourself a visit to the hot toddy stand, at least?” she asks, turning back to Hobi. “We’ll get just one. A virgin. To share.” Her eyebrows knit. “No more alcohol for you. You looked like absolute shit this morning.”

Hobi’s eyes set into thin lines. “Then I guess I’ll stick with this hot chocolate.”

Yeong-ja looks apoplectic.

“Relax, I’m going with you,” Hobi replies begrudgingly.

He rounds the table and joins Yeong-ja at his rightful place on her hip.

“Nice to see you again,” she unnecessarily lies to you.

“Cheers,” you say with a smirk, holding up your hot chocolate at eye-level.

She smiles too broadly before she whisks Hobi away. And Hobi sinks when he turns back and watches you making Namjoon his own serving of your perfect hot chocolate.

The only drink in the world that matters.

“What’s with you lately?” Yeong-ja asks.

But Hobi genuinely doesn’t hear her. He’s too busy thinking of his own question. And it hurts that he can’t seem to answer it.

He just can’t remember the last time he and Yeong-ja laughed together.

You set two cups of somehow still piping hot chocolate down on the kitchen table, next to a small bag of somehow still crispy hodugwaja.

The winter carnival always did work its magic, blanketing the town in an ultra-festive spirit.

“I had to hide those in my bra,” your mother giggles. Her eyes widen suddenly and seriously. “People were getting combative.”

“Tell me about it,” you mumble as you slip off your jacket and hang it on the back of your chair.

“We saw the rest of the boys,” your father tells you, as he washes his hands in the kitchen sink. “Yoongi gave me a run for my money at the free throw game.” He moves to dry his hands on the towel hanging off the oven door. “But we didn’t see Hobi.”

“He was busy,” you choose to say, unsure if you’d be able to explain things even if you thought it was worth it to do so.

“He does so much for this town,” your mother observes, joining you at the table. She opens the bag of hodugwaja as you push her marshmallow and graham cracker dusted hot chocolate towards her. “Always volunteering. Making things nice. Making things better.”

“Cheering people up,” your father adds, standing next to you for a moment and plucking his cup of hot chocolate from the table. You smile as you watch him drink. He’s a purist, too.

Your father smiles back at you as he sips. He lowers the cup from his lips and says, “If I may, he seems to cheer you up quite a bit.”

“He does,” your mother laughs. “It’s nice, seeing you smile.”

You ignore the knot in your stomach that has continued to tangle since the previous evening, and you choose to focus on the entire reason you’re back home in the first place.

“He cheers you up even more,” you say, as your father sits next to you, forgoing his seat at the head of the table. “You really like those guys.”

“I do,” he laughs. “They remind me of me and my friends.”

“It was kind of them to visit you in the hospital,” you say. You lean forward and rest your head in your hands. “Hobi just happened to know you were there?”

“He said was there for some other appointment, and he said he recognized our name on the nurses’ station board,” your father answers. “He knocked on the door to say hi. And then he just kept visiting after that. Just chit-chattin’.”

“What kind of stuff did you talk about?”

“Well, mostly you,” your father begins. “Your work. How much you’ve accomplished. How little you’ve changed. How proud we are of you.” He beams. “Hobi had so many questions about you. How you were doing. When you’d be back in town next.” And then he straightens, as he sets down his cup. “Wait, you haven’t talked about this with him?”

You shake your head. “Not in detail. We haven’t talked since high school.”

“But I gave him your number,” your father says.

“What?”

“I hope that’s OK,” your father says, eyes growing.

“That’s fine,” you reassure him. “But… well, he never called.”

“Huh.” Your father shrugs. “Well, maybe he remembered that you were really busy. We told him about how lonely you found the city. How stressed you were. How hard you’ve been working.”

“You did?” you ask, a little embarrassed.

“He seemed so concerned,” your mother interjects. “Almost like he wanted to drive or fly up to see you.”

You melt.

“He said all this at the hospital?” you ask.

“Do we have to keep talking about the hospital?” your father asks. “This is supposed to be a happy time, and you’re supposed to be on vacation.” He grins. “So, are you going to be hanging out with them more?”

It’s probably best to drop it for now. “Apparently,” you answer. “Namjoon said something about caroling tomorrow.”

“Wonderful!” your mother sighs. “You have such a beautiful voice, and it’s been so long since we’ve gotten to hear you sing.”

“I just don’t have a lot of green things,” you say, almost apologetically.

“Guess you’ve missed two dress code memos, then,” Jimin jokes, smoothing the fabric at your waist.

Jimin’s flagship store brings more life to that little corner of town than the hardware store before it, or the arts and crafts store before that, and it’s bringing more life to you now. The emerald green dress that he’s picked out for you hugs your curves nicely. You particularly like how it accentuates your quirks, like your strong thighs and calves, and your broader shoulders. You think of all the dresses you’ve had to squeeze into for work events in the past. How they felt more like cages rather than stages.

“This is definitely the one,” Jimin anoints, taking your hand and slowly spinning you to show you off to Jin and Jungkook.

You can’t help but peacock a little, with the way they all smile and gaze. Jungkook even raises his phone to snap a picture.

“Make sure it doesn’t shrink in the wash,” Jin jokes from the nearby couch, wiggling his feet on the armrest as he lazily flips through a catalog.

“You heard about that?” you ask.

“Yeah. Ugh. What a bitch,” Jin says outright.

You gasp. “Jin!”

“It’s true, though,” Jimin replies, eyes deepening as he relives the hit. “Yeong-ja’s trash.”

“OK, I don’t want this to turn into anything other than me getting something suitable to wear for this caroling thing,” you warn.

Jimin takes a few steps back, standing next to a texting Jungkook, checking your silhouette at different angles and in different light. “Unclench that tight ass. Yoongi already told us that he told you,” Jimin says, as if this whole Dream Girl revelation is nothing.

“Stop complimenting me!” You wish you could stop your cheeks from blushing or your frantic eyes giving you away.

“Aw, the green brightens a little when you do that!” Jimin giggles excitedly.

You step off the platform and away from the mirror. “The dress was already fantastic enough to make the sale,” you say. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Jimin says, chasing you, “and I mean it. But, hey, maybe you wear the dress to a work event next year? Drop my name to another name that could—” He nudges his elbow into your side. “—make some things happen?”

“You’re incredible,” Jungkook says to Jimin, shaking his head and making you think of Hobi’s gentle, hot chocolate-covered words.

You hear two notification ding!s, and Jin and Jimin have to do everything in their power not to reach for their phones while you’re staring all three of them down.

Yoongi’s stories swim in your mind. “Stop. Plotting.” You narrow your eyes. “I mean it.”

Jungkook just grins.

“Shoes,” Jimin says suddenly, moving to the far wall to scavenge for the answer. “No offense, Dream Girl, but those kitten heels are awful.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Do you even know their story?” Jin presses on.

“No,” you say. “And I don’t really want to—”

“They met through Hobi’s sister,” Jin says. “They were college friends.”

You frown. “Were?”

Jin grins at your seeming interest.

“Whatever.” You dismissively wave him off. “Jimin, you said something about shoes?”

“Ever since they got serious, though, Ji-woo noticed that Hobi would change in little ways,” Jin shares. “He got even quieter and shier. Including with us!” Jin eyes widen. “And you know he’s not like that with us.”

Jimin walks over to you with a pair of pointed toe black flats. “There’s still a bit of a heel to them,” he explains, showing you the soles. “Gives you more support.”

You’re grateful for it as the four of you walk the seven or eight blocks over to the mural.

“Ji-woo and Hobi don’t even talk anymore,” Jin continues. “And it’s not because of any issue between the two of them. Yeong-ja just doesn’t want Hobi to talk to anybody outside of her and their family.” He shakes his head. “You see how thrilled she is whenever we come home,” he laments. “It’s this weird, insular, control thing.”

“It all sounds very tough, but honestly, I just don’t feel comfortable not hearing this from Hobi,” you say, adding quickly, before Jin can grin at you again, “not that I need to hear it at all!”

“Just trying to break the ice a bit,” Jin offers. “Give you some, uh, context. Hobi wouldn’t have had any other way to share it.”

You feel a pang in your gut and see Hobi’s smiling face, lit by the twinkle lights at the hot chocolate booth.

“But he did,” you say sadly. “My father gave Hobi my number, but he never called.”

The guys stop walking and turn to you, surrounding you with questioning faces.

“He told me last night,” you say. “He gave Hobi my number when Hobi went to visit him at the hospital.”

Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook exchange confused glances.

“What?” you ask.

Jin’s eyebrows crinkle slightly.

“That was around the time they got engaged.”

“Please,” Hobi begs.

“Hmm?” Taehyung asks.

“Just… please don’t?” Hobi asks.

“Thought I was doing you a favor,” Taehyung says.

Hobi allows himself one more look at the picture that Jungkook snapped of you, not in the actual text of the group chat, but as the new group chat icon.

“She’s like our little mascot,” Taehyung says affectionately, grinning at your face.

“Yeong-ja’s gonna be here any minute,” Hobi whispers. “It’s all fun and games until Christmas is ruined.”

“She’s ruined Christmas plenty enough,” Yoongi grumbles, as Namjoon nods along. “I mean, you’ve been so miserable.” Yoongi looks into Hobi’s eyes, letting the project plans and everything else fall away for a moment. “Why are you even fighting for her?”

Hobi is speechless. Not just because he can’t come up with an answer right away. But because you, Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook are walking up to the mural, and he can’t believe how little Jungkook’s camera was able to capture of you. How cruel it was to flatten you into two dimensions. How impossible it was to force you into a bubble as small as a lens. You shouldn’t be measured in pixels. You can only be measured in the galaxies you’ve traveled.

“Hi,” you say, a little awkwardly.

Everyone chirps their excited greetings and fawning compliments.

And Hobi just smiles.

One of the community board leaders kicks things off by thanking all the volunteers. “Loving this sea of green!” they cheer in a happy, bright voice. “We know you all are so busy with your own celebrations, so thank you for sharing your time for our little tradition.”

It’s a sweet tradition, one you remember from childhood. It’s very simple. The color scheme is a relatively new addition, but everything else is the same. Nothing too fancy. Just a group of people who like to sing, and some sheet music, speaker, and an old set of risers borrowed from the high school.

“In about twenty minutes, the crowd is expected to start gathering. When they do, I’ll share a quick, holiday message, and then we’ll kick things off. First up is Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, then Silver Bells, then Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and finally, Sleigh Ride,” the community board leader explains. “All you need to do is sing and have fun!”

“See?” Yoongi whispers over to Hobi. “Sing and have fun.”

Hobi rolls his eyes.

“For now, just hang tight and let any of the people in red know if you’d like some water or tea,” the community board leader adds. “We’ll warm up in a few minutes. Excited to get to sing with you all!”

As the group of carolers starts to mill about, Hobi leads you all to the risers.

Your group aims for the front middle, chatting aimlessly as you do. But every time you try to sit down, the guys shuffle around, jostling you a bit, or changing their minds about who they want to stand next to, until you and Hobi are surrounded by them, Yoongi and Jin pushing you side-by-side.

Hobi clears his throat nervously. “Hi,” he whispers to you.

Your automatic smile is getting harder to fight. “Hi.” Your words are getting harder to fight, too. “Green really suits you. I like how it brings out the brown in your hair. Some of the brown in your eyes as well.” Your eyes widen too late. “Um, I mean, if that’s OK to say.”

“You…” Hobi clears his throat again. “You look…”

He doesn’t know what is or isn’t OK to say. He can barely say anything.

“Great, as always?” you joke.

Hobi grins sheepishly.

“Jimin did a great job on this design,” you say.

Hobi raises his eyebrows. “Jimin?”

“Yeah,” Jin chimes in. “We were at his boutique, finding green things to wear.” He leans forward so that you can see him from Hobi’s other side. “We were just talking about your parents, right? Your dad?”

“Oh,” you say, feeling a little regretful. “Um, yes.”

“Did they enjoy the carnival?” Hobi asks hopefully. He starts talking too fast. “I asked Mr. Gwan to make sure to save your family some hodugwaja, since you hadn’t been home for so long, and because your mother likes walnuts. I was wondering if your dad liked the hot toddies? Tried to suggest a whisky he might like, but I never found out if they went for it. Oh! And I’m glad that they positioned the free throw game a little closer to the entrance like I asked, y’know, so that he wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the far end of the square—”

Your heart fills with every tiny detail of how Hobi tried to make things nice. Make things better. For your parents.

For you.

“They loved it,” you say. “Really.”

“Good.” He smiles, relieved. “Good.” He sighs, his breath forming a little cloud. “Your dad didn’t get too tired?”

“No,” you share. “Actually, we all stayed up pretty late, just snacking and hanging out. He told me more about your, um, visit.” You glance at Hobi. “More of what you, uh, talked about.”

Hobi’s mouth shrinks into a small circle. “Oh?”

Sensing a shift in tone, Yoongi taps your upper arm with the corner of a bright red folder.

You look over and see that more people have joined you on the risers, and people are starting to pass out sheet music and lyrics.

Yoongi hands you the whole stack of folders.

“Don’t you need one?” you ask.

“I’ll be over there.” Yoongi motions to the keyboard off to the side.

“Cool,” you say, grinning. “Given your work, I should’ve put two and two together.”

You take a red folder off the top of the stack before passing the stack to Hobi.

Your hands touch for a moment, and you kind of forget where you are.

But then you remember what you wanted to ask.

“Yeah,” you pick up with Hobi, “he mentioned something that I wanted to talk to you about—”

The community board leader starts to walk toward the front of the risers, and Yoongi jumps to his feet.

“I think we’re about to start warming up,” Yoongi says brightly. “Save those voices for the show, you two.”

Yoongi takes his place at the piano, and the community board leader invites you all to stand and sing the first few lines of each song to warm up.

Your group grins at Yoongi jauntily playing the start of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, his head twitching this way and that, and Jungkook sneaking a picture of him, much to the community board leader’s dismay. But they can’t do a thing about it, raising their arms to cue you into the song.

It’s not long before you start the real thing. You search the growing crowd for your parents, nervous when you don’t see them at the very beginning. But Hobi soothes you by tapping the back of his hand against yours and giving you a small smile.

As you sing, you and Hobi turn to each other in surprise.

His voice is pleasant and full, stronger than you thought it might be, given how soft-spoken he’s always been with you. He sings, low and simple, almost as if he’s always singing just underneath the surface. And he sees every single note through, crescendoing each phrase gently, and closing each phrase safely.

Your voice sounds easy and light. Like everything you do, it just seems so effortless, floating rather than resonating. But you work hard to sustain and support, mindful of your breaths and making sure that the lines sound more like full conversations rather than fragments. Regardless, each note has your undeniable sparkle.

It matches the sparkle in Hobi’s eyes when he hears you. The sparkle in your eyes when you see him.

And it matches the sparkle in your parents’ eyes when they see or hear you do anything. They give you silly waves when you see them walk up to join the now very full crowd, and you happily wave back, the back of your hand grazing Hobi’s and making him chuckle through the last, “won’t you guide my sleigh tonight”.

Everything mixes into a wonderfully spirited afternoon. You hear the silver bells. You feel the anticipation of Santa Claus’ arrival. And the wind on your face feels like air rushing past on the most invigorating sleigh ride of your life.

As your group breaks off to greet their parents, friends, and family members, you look over at Hobi and smile.

“That was really nice,” you say.

“We had a great turnout!” Hobi cheers excitedly. He points over to an elderly woman in a wheelchair, accompanied by someone in scrubs. “That’s Mrs. Yoon. I was especially hoping to see her here. She really loves this tradition. She shows up every year, even with how hard it is for her to get out of bed.” He smiles at you. “Wanna come say hi?”

You catch your parents speaking with Taehyung and the Kims before turning back to Hobi and saying, “Sure.”

You follow him over to Mrs. Yoon, who smiles brightly once Hobi is close enough for her to see and recognize him.

“Ah, Hoseok,” she says warmly. “Another wonderful performance.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Yoon,” he says. “You enjoyed it?”

“Yes!” she cheers. “It really feels like Christmas Eve!” Her eyes fall to you. “Yeong-ja?” she asks, adjusting her glasses. “You look so great! I didn’t even recognize you!”

You bite your lip as Hobi corrects her, even pointing your parents out in the crowd, though she most likely can’t see that far. Her ears, however, perk up at the mention of your father.

“How is he doing?” she asks.

You nod. “Very well. Thank you for asking.”

“Good.” Mrs. Yoon turns to Hobi. “I’m sorry that I, uh… Don’t, uh, don’t tell Yeong-ja I said—”

“No worries, Mrs. Yoon,” Hobi says, leaning down to hug her.

She pats his back and whispers something in Hobi’s ear that makes him blush fiercely red upon standing.

Her aide moves behind her and grips her wheelchair. “I think that’s my cue,” Mrs. Yoon replies, making her aide chuckle. “Merry Christmas!

“Merry Christmas,” you and Hobi both greet, as she takes her leave.

You turn to Hobi. “Speaking of, though,” you say, “where is Yeong-ja?”

Hobi shrugs. “I didn’t see her. She would’ve walked straight over to me if she were here.” He says that last part with a bit of an edge.

“Well…” You take a deep breath. “Wanna come say hi to my parents again? Check in with the Kims?”

“Sure,” Hobi says. “I’m right behind you.”

You nod and linger for a moment, before walking toward the burst of laughter coming from your parents and the Kims.

Hobi pulls out his phone and checks for any missed calls or messages. When he sees none, he presses “Yeobo” in his contacts.

“Everything OK?” Yeong-ja asks.

“Just about to ask you the same question,” Hobi replies. “Where are you?”

“At home, getting ready.”

“Getting ready?” Hobi shakes his head. “The show just finished.”

“Huh?” There’s a pause. “Ugh, that motherfucker!”

“What??”

“Jimin!” She sighs. “He texted me that you were starting an hour late!”

The story behind Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer has grown on you over time. What started out as a simple tale with a hidden moral now feels like a reaffirmation of what’s actually happening in your life. A message about amazing things being hidden in plain sight. And those amazing things being able to guide you.

After pouring your coffee, you look around the kitchen, and into the rest of the house, wondering how you can keep the Christmas cheer going.

The front door opens, and you see your father shuffling in with a snow shovel.

“Appa!” you exclaim. “Did you shovel the rest of the walkway?”

“What if people come to visit?”

“Who?” you ask quizzically. “And if it bothers you that much, we can get someone else to do it!”

“Who else would do it?” he asks, shaking snow off of his coat. “I meant to get to it earlier this morning, but—”

“We can just walk under the ledge on the roof, like always!” you exclaim. “And you really shouldn’t be putting your body under such physical stress—”

“The stroke was years ago,” your father reassures you, “and I’m fine now.”

“I know that.” You raise your eyebrows at him. “But, please, don’t do anything else for the rest of the day? Or tomorrow, either?”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he chuckles. “Just pour me some coffee.”

You mix in two tablespoons of cream. No sugar. Exactly like he likes.

The mugs lead you into the living room, where your father is sitting back on the couch and turning on the TV. He smiles happily when you hand him his mug, and he finishes his long gulp with a satisfied, “Ahhhhhhhh.”

“Tastes good?” you ask.

“Tastes even better when someone else makes it for you,” he jokes, going in for another sip.

You shake your head and take a sip of your own.

“Where’s Eomma?”

“She went out to get pineapple rings, and cherries.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “For the ham she made. She said it looks too naked without the decoration.”

Now you understand the faint smell of brown sugar in the kitchen. You should have known. Ham is another Christmas Eve tradition that your family has never broken.

But you realize something else.

“Why didn’t we decorate this year?” you ask, looking around your living room. Your mind fills with childhood memories of knick-knacks and bobbles, Santas and angels and reindeer and snowmen, sprinkled through the entire house, and essentially t-shirt cannoned onto your gaudy, tall, technicolored Christmas tree.

“We haven’t decorated for a few years now,” your father admits. “Everything’s up in the attic.”

You start to stand. “Well, why don’t I bring some things down, and—”

“For one day?” your father asks. “All that mess? You told me not to do anything for the rest of the day, or tomorrow either.”

“I’m going to do it,” you clarify, setting your mug on the coffee table.

“No, don’t,” your father tells you. “Everything’s so cluttered and disorganized. Let’s just keep our Christmas quiet and do presents after our ham dinner.”

You like that you open presents on Christmas Eve. You used to do it at midnight, a holdover from your mother’s family’s traditions. But with your parents getting a little older, you’ve adjusted that time. And with all of you getting a little older, your presents look less like huge boxes under the tree, and more like small, meaningful things. Tiny boxes of expensive trinkets. Cards with gift certificates and checks. Things easily sent by courier.

“I got you a necklace,” your father tells you.

You laugh. “Appa!”

“What?” he asks playfully.

You smile. “Well, I got you a watch.”

“Ooh!” he squeals. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“I got Eomma a scarf and a small clutch.”

“Small clutch means big name,” he mentions, as you look at your feet and smile humbly. “I got her a diamond ring.”

You brighten and grin at your father. He’s always had such wonderful taste in jewelry.

“I wonder what she got us,” you say.

You both pause for a moment.

“Silk tie,” your father guesses.

“Shoes,” you guess. “Especially after the stockings, and that whole kitten heels thing.” You sigh. “She’s probably gotten me something dressy but practical. Maybe something I can wear when I have to give presentations at work.”

Your father nods. And then he gazes at you. You think there might be tears in his eyes.

“It’s really good to have you home,” he says

“You’ve had her number?”

Yoongi could throttle him.

“You’ve had her number this whole time?”

Yoongi could throttle him, or slap him, or punch him, but his hands are too busy gripping the handle of the dolly, keeping it steady while waiting for Hobi to finish unloading the last of the risers that they had folded up just the day before.

Hobi shoves the last of the folded up metal off the ramp and onto the wooden platform of the dolly with a thunk! and straightens, dusting his hands off, and then wiping his palms on the sides of his jeans.

He lazily holds the far side of the dolly handle and walks at Yoongi’s meandering pace, through the same double doors you started and ended four years of your life with. The sports trophies are still there. The banners from shows and events past hang in the alum hallway leading to the auditorium. On the stage, remnants of the criss-crossing tape Xs are still in the same spots where he did six back-to-back sauté fouettés to crazed applause during the big number. Your eyes lit up when you saw him fly.

Yoongi stops on one of those Xs now, parking and locking the dolly in place.

“It’s been years, Hobi.”

“I know.”

“And we’re still having this goddamn conversation.”

Yoongi feels like the point lands harder when he blinks at Hobi’s chosen jacket for today: the letterman jacket that Yoongi had found in the attic.

Your high school even smells the same.

There’s a faint tinge of floor polish, a whisper of bleach, a waft of mechanical metal, and cold. Just cold.

“I made my choices.”

“I just don’t understand them.”

“You don’t need to.”

They lift with their legs, which makes it a little harder for Yoongi to make sure the risers sit level, so Hobi crouches down a little.

“Your back.”

“It’s fine.”

They set the risers down and click all the latches into position, the last one coinciding with a burst of laughter echoing from backstage.

Hobi looks over and sees the door to the ensemble room hanging open, kids giggling as they practice their lines with their teacher and some watchful, happy parents.

“Cute.”

Yoongi frowns at him. “You can understand why I’m annoyed, right?”

Hobi sits on the bottom step, and Yoongi joins him, both of them resting their elbows on their spread knees.

“Look, Yeong-ja and I have been arguing since the carnival,” Hobi says, exasperated. “I know Jimin said he got the times mixed up, but—”

“He didn’t,” Yoongi replies bluntly. “That was just phase 2 of Project Dream Girl.”

Hobi buries his head in his hands. “Yoongi.”

“Don’t Yoongi me.” He glares at Hobi and shakes his head. Everything really is the same. “You love her. We’re getting you to her. I don’t know why you’re so frustrated.”

Hobi nearly rips his hair out as he jumps to his feet. “I’m marrying her!” he exclaims. “Deal with it!”

“Are you telling me that, or yourself?” Yoongi challenges, watching Hobi pacing across the stage. “You still haven’t answered my questions. Why are you fighting for Yeong-ja? Why are you marrying her in the first place?” His eyes catch the light. “Why didn’t you call??”

“I did call!” Hobi booms. “I called, and I texted! For months! ‘Hi, it’s Hoseok from high school! Saw your dad at the hospital!’ ‘Hobi again! Just reaching out to see if you’re OK!’ ‘Wanted to see if we could catch up!’ ‘When are you in town next?’” His arms stretch out to his sides. “Nothing!” His wingspan is intimidating. It’s a lot of nothing.

Yoongi narrows his eyes. “Nothing?”

“No response.” Hobi shakes his head. “Not one.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “That doesn’t seem right.” He looks up at Hobi. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

Hobi mutters, “You would know better than I would.”

Yoongi’s never seen a resentful Hobi before. Probably because there’s nothing else in his life that he would feel resentful about.

Hobi comes to a stop, stage left. “She’s clearly just being nice to me. Maybe for the holidays. Maybe so that she has something to do during her vacation. But not because she actually feels anything.”

A long, drawn-out sigh streams out of Yoongi’s mouth. “She does.”

Hobi shakes his head. “I know you’re trying not to hurt my feelings, but—”

“I talked to her.” Yoongi blinks once. “I talked to her on our way to the diner. She knows. And after learning about the hospital… seeing how you’ve been with her parents… how you are when you’re with her…” Yoongi holds his gaze steady. “She’s starting to have feelings for you, too.”

Hobi isn’t sure what is happening. Yoongi’s face is getting fuzzy. Kind of melting. Gone. In fact, all lines, curves, and edges are gone. Everything is soft. Too soft.

“Please stop with this Project Dream Girl nonsense,” Hobi pleads. “I have a shot at being with someone who cares enough to fight with me. Who cares enough to answer me back.”

“Hobi.” Yoongi looks disappointed. “That’s not what you think love is.”

“It’s the closest I’ll ever get.”

“Bullshit.” Yoongi stands and walks over to Hobi slowly, his stride matching the length of each sentence. “Why suggest the whisky?” he challenges. “Why move the free throw game? The hodugwaja?” He points his toes at Hobi’s toes, facing him dead on. “And why do you think she keeps showing up?”

Hobi furrows his brow.

They both reach down to their pockets when their phones chirp and vibrate and learn that the guys are on their way to the school, the last of the props and costumes in tow.

“Just stop it,” Hobi says weakly. “Get it through your head. It’s done. I’m done.”

He walks to the edge of the stage and hops down, heading through the back doors to meet the guys.

Yoongi soon follows.

Silence is nice, but overrated. Like plain hot chocolate. Whistling is great. Humming is actually pretty fun. Singing, even better. Maybe it’s not so great when you’re just trying to ride the elevator or as you’re questioning whether your rideshare driver will safely get you to point B. But it’s wonderful when you need to add some decoration to a cozy, quiet home.

And Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer has a pretty catchy tune.

“Eomma!” you call out as you swing your trench coat on. “Appa! I’m heading over to the school! I’ll see you for lunch!”

“Have fun at the play!” your mother calls, as your father yells, “Be careful!”

Singing is pretty fun while driving as well, and you’re able to get through both Silver Bells, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and a lyrics-forgotten version of Sleigh Ride substituted with “doo doo doo”s and “boop boop boop”s before parking next to the high school auditorium.

As soon as Taehyung sees you, he takes off running for your car.

“Hey!” he greets you, panting a little, and sliding in a patch of ice next to your door.

“Hi,” you chuckle, closing your door and pressing the lock, your car beeping the two final notes of Sleigh Ride in perfect time.

Taehyung grins, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” you echo, following him back to the two large SUVs backed up into the small driveway leading to the hallway next to the auditorium. The trunk and back doors all hang open, with just a few boxes left to unload.

“How was your haul?” he asks.

“Pretty solid,” you admit, adjusting the pendant of your father’s gifted necklace in the notch between your barely-there collarbones. Feeling a little self-conscious at Taehyung’s impressed and approving gaze, you tear your hand away and ask, “What about yours?”

“Lots of socks,” Taehyung says coolly. He shrugs, the knit cable on his frame shrugging along with him. “And sweaters.”

You aren’t sure if his arms are as bulky as the sweater sleeves that puff out around him as he hands you a box of swan headdresses to bring inside, but when the box slips a little in your hold, you learn that they absolutely are.

“You got it?” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” you squeak, hoisting the box back up.

Taehyung can’t help but notice your eyes scanning the hallway as you both walk, looking happy, but not happy enough, as you see Jungkook easily lifting two small bass drums, Jimin trying to hula-hoop all five of the gold rings, Jin cackling at him as he repositions the fake pear tree that he’s carrying on his back, Yoongi just on his phone and texting while sitting on a stool next to a papier-mache cow, and Namjoon desperately trying to collect all the pipes on three real bagpipes, discordant, deflated hums of failure seeping out of them.

“He’s on the stage,” Taehyung whispers to you, as he hoists up his box of six tacky yard flamingos, spray-painted white. “Teaching the lords how to leap.”

Your heart does a little leap, imagining Hobi laughing and smiling in the spotlight, looking on as ten children in tights leap across in unison.

Your heart does a bigger leap, seeing Hobi trying to collect ten rascals running chaotically around the stage.

When he sees you, he stops what he’s doing, suddenly uncaring that one rascal is about to fall off the end.

“Hobi!” you cry out, dropping the box and rushing over to him.

Both of you grab the kid in time, Hobi by the collar, and you by the waist of his pants. Once the kid regains his footing, he shakes you both off to give chase to the nine others.

“PLEASE! BE! CAREFUL!” Hobi yells out at them.

Hobi’s as-of-yet unheard stern voice, paired with his disapproving glare, seems to have scared the kids for the time being. They all clump together and quiet down, sitting in a blob and holding hands, settling down to play some kind of clapping game instead.

“This is— I’m—” Hobi lets out a breath that he had been holding as he turns back to you. “This is hell. I’m in hell.”

“Whatever game they’re playing now seems much safer,” you comment.

“No,” Hobi says, eyes widening. “This is how it started.”

The kids shift from their excitedly murmured rhyme into counting claps with loud shrieks, and then, two of them jump up, chasing each other around the circle as the other kids try to fill in the empty spots, making it harder for them to find a place to sit.

And then all of the kids end up running around again.

You laugh as you take a few steps back to the box of swan headdresses, collecting the ones that fell out and placing them back inside. You carry the box back to the edge of the stage, where Hobi is frowning and watching to make sure none of the kids die.

“Where are their parents?” you laugh, as Hobi takes the box from you.

“Some are backstage, fixing some of the other kids’ costumes. Most just dropped them off for a couple of hours of quiet until the play.” Hobi sighs. “I don’t know why I signed up for this.”

“It’s nice that you did,” you reassure him.

You move to hop up onto the stage, but Hobi backs away.

“Uh, I’ll go take these into the back room,” he says, holding up your box. “Mind if you watch them for a little bit?”

Since you’ve been home, you’ve been basking so unabashedly in Hobi’s warmth. It makes this sudden gale feel downright icy.

“Oh!” You nod. “Uh, sure. Whatever you need.”

As you near the hour that the play is supposed to start, you keep trying to check in with Hobi, give him little, inviting smiles, or comment on tiny things, easier to talk about than the big feelings between the two of you. But all that ends up happening is Jungkook and Taehyung running back and forth between the hallway, or other rooms, with more props for you to hand to Hobi to bring backstage.

In fact, Taehyung and Jungkook give you more than a few more things to do, which eat up the quiet times in between. Glue gun some fallen gems back onto a skirt. Sew a sash into place. Attach more pears to the so-called pear tree.

Things seem to settle as the kids are rounded up and their parents reappear. Everyone’s costumes are on, and secure. No one is running. Everyone is looking at Hobi, who is going through the list that today’s community board leader had sent out, making sure that final checks are complete.

And then, the auditorium is suddenly full. Of more parents. More family. More friends.

You and your friends pack together in the wings, stage right, to give them room. And to finish your duties for the day.

“We just have to send the kids out on their cues,” Hobi tells you, his face backlit by the soft, golden, stage lights.

“That’s it?” Taehyung asks.

“You need all seven of us to be here just to do that?” Jungkook echoes.

“They need to stay in their groups,” Hobi explains. “We need to make sure all the kids are ready to get out there when their group is called.”

“Alright, well, Jimin and I can keep them busy in the back room,” Taehyung replies. “Jungkook and Jin can walk them backstage?”

“Namjoon and Yoongi can keep them quiet as they help them get through the wings,” Jungkook adds.

Yoongi turns to you and Hobi and grins. “And you two can send them off.”

Hobi shakes his head, his hair fluffing around him. “No, uh, I can help wrangle—”

“You’ve been wrangling all morning,” Jimin laments piteously. “Let us help.” He smiles coyly. “We want to help.”

“Then I can—” Hobi’s eyes find Jungkook and Jin. “I can help walk them—”

“You’ve been on your feet for hours,” Jin soothes, as Jungkook smirks.

“What if I—”

“We’ve got this,” Namjoon tells him, so solemn that he can’t even spare a dimple.

Hobi meets Yoongi’s eyes. “Sending the kids out means just sitting here,” Hobi says, eyes pleading. “You could just sit there, on that stool, every now and then saying, ‘Go’.”

“But you’re the one with the checklist, and you know the program,” Yoongi says. He turns to you. “And the kids have seen you both. They’re familiar with you.” He turns back to Hobi, his smile growing bigger and wider. Almost creepily so. “So, you two should stay here. Together.”

You turn to Hobi, slightly confused, but shrugging it off. “Sounds like a plan.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Yoongi retorts for some reason.

As the rest of the guys laugh, Hobi just sinks.

Watching from the wings gives you more chances to do more humming and singing along. The first part of the show is done by the high school drama club, who do a sweet rendition of Twas the Night Before Christmas. The second part of the play is done by the middle school chorus, who sing more Christmas carols. The last part of the play is done by the groups of elementary school kids, sweating and picking their noses, quickly running out of patience and/or interest.

The two most precocious children of the group, the ones hoping for stardom but probably more realistically destined for catalog modeling, play the two main characters in the song. A girl in a cute, sparkly dress, starts singing the lyrics, and a boy in a vest and pantaloons laughs and smiles, presenting each of the twelve gifts for each of the twelve days as they enter the stage, and shooting fond, hopelessly romantic gazes of admiration to the girl, his true love.

You’re too busy watching and giggling at them when Yoongi leads the two kids in white tutus and turtledove wings to Hobi, whispering, “That kid is doing a great impression of you.”

You also miss Hobi slamming his elbow into Yoongi’s side.

Namjoon ushers in the next few groups, bringing you three kids wearing feathers and, questionably, French maid outfits; four kids wearing feathers and, weirdly, holding up four gigantic, 90s-style cell phones, and each of the five kids in golden onesies attempting to hula hoop those gold rings across the stage.

“Jimin,” Hobi mutters under his breath, as the gold rings keep catching on their waists and slamming to the floor.

Yoongi reappears, still rubbing his aching side, when the groups start to get bigger.

And the rest of the group joins in on chaperoning when the groups get even bigger.

They snicker and banter backstage, poking and prodding, sometimes louder than the kids.

It’s actually a better time than any of you had expected.

But Hobi’s favorite part of the day is watching you watch the kids.

You “aww” at every single one of their adorable costumes, with their funny, punny plays on the lyrics. The stage lights catch on your beautiful new necklace, and so do the residual costume sparkles in your hair and cheeks, which wave and bubble as you laugh with the audience, louder and louder at each instance of the kids having to remember to jump up and act again when their groups are re-sung on every verse.

He’s almost sad to give you the cue to send out the twelve drummers drumming.

But your laughter keeps him from frowning.

It takes all morning to get to this point, the final, adorable bow.

And yet, in a blink, the auditorium is empty again.

You and Hobi clean up the stage, collecting all the random props, odds, and ends and putting them into the designated black bins that the community board leaders have left for you, choosing to sort through them after the holidays are really over.

“How cute was that one maid-a-milking?” you ask. “The one on the stool? She really took her role so seriously!”

Hobi mimies squeezing the fake cow’s udders, the concentration on her face. When you laugh, he relaxes and says, “The first girl sang her heart out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that maid goes on to be the next superstar. Such dedication to her craft.”

You both walk back to the wings, to the small side table where you had left your belongings.

“Oh! I didn’t ask,” you say suddenly, turning around to face Hobi.

Your nose collides with his chest as he bumps into you. He hadn’t expected you to stop walking like that.

You laugh together, and he reaches out to rub your nose.

Just as quickly, he retracts his arm, looking a little nervous.

“Um,” you say, unsure if the freeze has thawed, “did you have a good Christmas?”

Hobi tries not to look too sullen. “It was fine.” He loves the way your lashes curl up and graze your upper lids. “Better now.” He lets himself tumble into a smile, and sneaks a peek further down, at your collarbones. “Looks like you definitely did.”

You laugh a little, as you readjust your necklace. “From my father.”

“You’re beautiful.” Hobi clenches. “I mean, it’s beautiful.” Hobi squeezes. “I mean— Uh, well, did your p-parents come? To the play?”

You brighten. Who wouldn’t, in his floodlights? “I think they were skipping this one, but let me check,” you say, reaching for your phone in your trench coat.

You try not to freak out at the red dot alerting you to one missed call, and the words in your mother’s after-the-fact text message.

“They went to the hospital,” you read robotically.

You lock eyes with Hobi.

“I-I’ve gotta go,” you say.

“I’ll drive you,” Hobi says, reaching for his jacket, neatly folded and resting on the small side table.

“No, that’s OK, I have my car,” you say, already having put your trench coat on, and feeling for your keys. When they jingle, you lock eyes with Hobi again. For so many reasons, you do not want to go to the hospital at all.

“I’ll check on you later,” Hobi says. “Call Yoongi if you need anything at all.”

You nod.

And then you’re off.

Your father was fine during your cherry, pineapple-y, ham dinner. You hadn’t seen him or your mother that morning, but you heard them talking in their bedroom. Not about anything serious. Your mother even laughed after they called back to you.

The tinsel garland on the nurse’s station is already starting to fall apart.

You shout over the chaos for your father’s room number, and the charge nurse yells a number back at you.

You zip through the halls, picking up bits of data from placards on the wall and signs hanging from the ceiling.

Finally, you hear your mother’s soft laugh again, and you swing into the room where your father is lying in bed, looking just a little worse for the wear.

You choke back tears. “Is it another stroke?!”

“No!” your mother sighs, rushing to your side and hugging you. “Oh, sweetie. No. No, no.”

You bury your tears into her chest, trying to calm your heart down.

“Everything’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s his arrhythmia. He felt like something was off, so we came in to check. They want to run some tests overnight to see what’s going on. That’s all.”

You peek over her shoulder at your father, who is trying his best to keep it together, not because he’s in any discomfort, but because he can’t stand seeing you fall apart.

You collect yourself quickly and walk over to him, stroking his hair.

“Appa?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, reaching for your wrist and patting it.

“I told you to take it easy.” You shake your head. “I even made you coffee. Why did I make you coffee??”

“It’s a congenital thing,” your mother reminds you, from just over your shoulder. “It just happens.”

You sigh. “Why don’t you two tell me these things?” You turn to your father and hug him gently, careful not to disturb any of the wires snaking out from his body. Your next sentence even comes out in a whimper. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?”

“Didn’t want to bother you,” your father says softly.

“It’s not a bother,” you explain to him. “It’s talking. It’s basic communication.” You raise your eyebrows. “Don’t you want me to know things?”

Funny what hospitals can do. He sees you at seven, and seventeen, and seventy. His voice sounds the same, young and old, all his years between his words. “I want you to live your life.”

“Can’t we live it all together?” you ask. “That’s why I’m here.”

Your father takes a shaky breath. And that’s when you realize what he’s been trying to tell you. What he’s been trying to say, in his way.

You watch him as he gathers his words. He’s always so, so careful with them.

“I want you next to my hospital bed only when it’s really time,” he replies.

You watch him sadly. “But how will we know?” you ask. “How will we know if I’m not here, every time?”

Your father watches as you straighten, your broad, strong shoulders evidently able to carry more than he thought. Your tears weren’t weaknesses. Your tears were just expressions. You can handle the edge of the hospital bed at any time. For him.

“OK,” your father says. “OK.” He pats your elbow, and lets you hug him a little tighter.

“You’re not in any pain?” you ask, wiping your tears away.

“A bit of tightness in my chest,” he says. Even this tiny admission is a huge leap forward. “But no. No pain.”

“I’ll be staying with him overnight,” your mother begins.

“Me too, then,” you say.

Your mother knew you’d interrupt her. “No,” she says, as gently as she can. “Go home. Go relax. Maybe help us out by doing a bit of cleaning?” She strokes your hair and tries to soak up more of the worry that’s painting your face. “There’s no danger. Nothing’s wrong. They’re just observing him. That’s why we’re cozy in this private room, and not in the ER, or in surgery.” Her logical way of thinking helps you get back to baseline. “They only let one visitor stay overnight, anyway,” she continues, “and if anything scary seems to be happening, I’ll call you right away. Not after the fact.”

You nod. “But I’ll go home and get you toiletries. And a change of clothes. And food! Food for later.” You take a breath. “Something good and healthy.” You eye your father. “With vegetables.”

Your mother smiles, and your father pouts.

Hobi swings his legs so hard that the back of the SUV is bouncing up and down. His phone catches the sunlight every now and then, shooting rays into Yoongi’s eyes.

“Just call her,” Yoongi says, trying not to rub it in that you’re saved in Hobi’s phone as “DG”.

The dig wouldn’t land anyway. All Hobi can see are the unanswered text messages right-aligned on the screen.

“I don’t want to disturb her,” Hobi mumbles. He looks so worried. “What if it’s bad?”

“Then you might not get a response,” Yoongi says. “But this time, at least you'll know why.”

Hobi looks back down at the ghosts of rejection past.

“Fair point.”

Jungkook feels like he’s about to tweak his shoulder, still twisted around and staring at the back of Hobi’s and Yoongi’s chattering heads.

“Uh, kinda need to get going!” Jungkook calls out. “These are due back to the community center soon!”

“Ah, sorry Jungkook!” Hobi calls back, as he and Yoongi hop off the back of the car.

Yoongi reaches up to slam the trunk door down, slapping the back window twice, followed quickly by the sound of the gear shifting back, and Hobi clicking his teeth as he stares at his phone.

Jungkook, and then Jimin, back the two SUVs down the driveway, the rest of the gang in tow and fighting over the radio stations in both cars.

Yoongi and Hobi hang back, waiting for the last of the crowd to finish visiting with each other before locking everything up.

As Yoongi turns to wave goodbye to the guys, Hobi presses the call button and raises the phone to his ear.

Yoongi spins back around, eyes widening at the phone stuck to Hobi’s face. He sticks his hands in his coat pockets and raises his shoulders, lips being chewed behind the zippered-up top of his puffy coat.

Hobi’s eyes fall at the message. “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

As Hobi brings the phone down to his side in defeat, Yoongi’s shoulders fall. He crinkles his nose and gathers his lips into a messy lump on the side of his face.

“Hopefully it’s not too serious,” Yoongi says gently.

“Hopefully it’s not serious at all,” Hobi says, frowning and putting his phone back into his pocket, and walking back toward the school. “She probably just has bad service.”

But Yoongi's face is still crinkled. “Bad service? At the hospital?” He tilts his head and jogs a little to catch up with Hobi, who is almost at the double doors. “Did it go straight to voicemail?”

“The number you have dialed is not in service,” Hobi repeats.

Yoongi shakes his head and places a halting hand on Hobi’s shoulder. “Hang on a sec.”

Yoongi takes his phone out from his pocket, pulls up your texts, and calls you.

You pick up right away.

“Hey, just checking in,” Yoongi explains. “Hobi said your parents were at the hospital. Is everything alright?”

Yoongi holds Hobi’s curious stare as you explain what happened, which also explains something else.

“Glad to know he’s OK,” Yoongi responds. “Call us if you need anything. Hobi’s particularly worried. He said he’d check on you this evening.”

You tell him a warm thank you before hanging up.

Yoongi’s not just holding Hobi’s stare. He’s grasping both of Hobi’s pupils with both of his fists.

“What number do you have saved for her?” Yoongi asks, going to your contact information.

Hobi pulls out his phone and compares it with Yoongi’s.

The last two digits in your phone number are switched in Hobi’s phone.

A group of kids jump suddenly when Hobi cries out, “I got the goddamn number wrong?!” The last of the crowd finally disperses as Hobi continues on. “How could I have gotten the number wrong?? Her mother used her father’s phone to text it to me! I just copied and pasted and—”

“Pull up the text,” Yoongi says urgently.

But Hobi can’t find it.

“I don’t get it?” Hobi asks, frowning. “I mean, I know it was years ago, but I don’t really clear my inbox or anything…”

Yoongi’s shrewd eyes narrow.

“I think it’s time for you to talk to Yeong-ja.”

The door slams so hard that it rattles on its hinges.

“Yeo—”

Hobi clears his throat.

“Yeob—”

Hobi can’t even bring himself to say it anymore. “Where are you??”

“In the laundry room!” she calls back, already annoyed.

Hobi marches into the laundry room, footsteps matching the slightly off-balanced dryer’s thud! thud! thud!s.

“Look, I’m so sorry that I didn’t come to the play,” Yeong-ja grumbles, “but your friends took all your clothes out of the attic, and they’re all sticky, so I figured I would—”

“You went in my phone?” Hobi demands again. “You went in my phone and deleted a text? Changed her number?!”

The entire drive home, Hobi felt the quicksand around him sucking him in, deeper and deeper. The fact that Yeong-ja looks caught just clinches it. Her face is the last, ugly, globbing gulp of the earth fading to black, pulling him out of the sky toward her evil, molten core, swallowing him alive.

Her arms fall slightly, and her lips disappear into her mouth.

This conversation will not save her.

This conversation is the first unraveling. The beginning of the end.

“You know, at first, I thought all this was about Yoongi being interested in her. But then.”

Yeong-ja shrugs.

“Fine, I’ll explain,” she adds, her voice still so direct and commandeering despite.

“You’d better!” Hobi exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air. But Hobi kind of already has some of the answers. She couldn’t just delete your number altogether. All that would do is warrant another visit to your father. “How did you even—” She must know everything now, to go to these lengths. But where did she get the information? “What even made you think to do any of this?”

“Ji-woo.”

Hobi was expecting to hear your name at some point in this conversation, but the mention of his sister just breaks his heart even more.

The two wrinkles at Yeong-ja’s inner eyebrows form deep caverns, connecting to all the wrinkles on Yeong-ja’s face, from her forehead to her chin, an intricate cave system hiding years of secrets tunneling deeper and deeper.

“She told me that you were in love with some girl. That when we went to visit Ji-woo and the baby, you noticed that her father was there. That he had given you her number. And that I might need to prepare myself. That even though we were finally dating, you’d never commit to me as long as you knew this girl was out there, somewhere. That she was your dream girl.”

Yeong-ja laughs. Laughs.

“As if there’s such a thing as a dream girl,” she spits.

And she goes on, laughing and spitting. Laughing and spitting all over Hobi’s broken heart. Laughing and spitting as if he’s the fool, when she’s the one who’s laughing and spitting. If he’s a fool, she’s the reason he became one.

“There’s just people, Hobi! And you and I were going down this road. A real relationship. You would have missed out on this real relationship if you kept your empty head in the stupid clouds!”

“What relationship? A relationship that sucked everything else up?” Hobi demands. “A relationship where all we do is fight, and then seethe, and then fight some more?”

He bangs his fist down on the dryer, the sound louder than the thud!s emanating from inside and making Yeong-ja jump and back away.

“I haven’t seen my sister in years! I barely talk to my parents!”

“I let you talk to those imbeciles,” Yeong-ja mutters, throwing more of Hobi’s sportswear into the open washer.

“Let me?!” Hobi echoes.

“You were never going to call her!” Yeong-ja counters. “You were going to hold onto this asinine dream girl bullshit, and I was going to, what? Wait around? Leave with nothing? After all that time I had invested in you? All that time that I took to make you mine? All that time that I—”

“YEONG-JA!” Hobi cries out.

At the sound of her name, she finally stops. She finally comes down from whatever untouchable throne she believed she was on. Of course she looks this terrified, eyes so wide that they take up half of her face. No matter how much she braces for it, the impact will completely destroy everything.

Because when Hobi says it this time, he really means it. His voice is seven-men strong. His frame is reinforced with steel. He stands, looming, like the end.

“Get it through your head,” Hobi spits back. “It’s done. I’m done.”

Though she tries to fight him off, Hobi gets hold of her left wrist.

But her engagement ring is gone.

“What—”

Hobi glares at her.

Yeong-ja stares at the pile of Hobi’s clothes. “It— I-I—” She looks at him helplessly. “It must’ve gotten lost somewhere?” she tries, pulling her hand from his grip and starting to sort through his dirty high school laundry. Tears finally roll down her cheeks. “Let me just—” She’s never sounded so pitiful. “Let me just find it, and we can, uh, t-talk more about—”

“Call your parents,” Hobi says. “Tell them you’re moving in.” He shoves his hand into his letterman jacket pocket and holds out his keys to her.

“Leave the ring, and take the car.”

You’d never actually been in your attic. And your father was always the one responsible for all the physical chores around the house.

But with no one at home on Christmas Day, and nothing to do except wait, stuck with the knowledge that your father will likely need to rely on someone else to shovel the walkway or bring the Christmas decorations down from here on out, you decide to get some practice.

And your father had already shoveled the walkway.

Lugging everything down and putting the proper boxes in the right rooms was exhausting and terribly messy. You celebrated heartily when you realized that all there was left to do was decorate, until you made even more of a mess unpacking and assembling everything.

You sweep up the last of the mess and wonder if the extra dinner you bought needs to be reheated.

But you feel equally warm and full at the sights and sounds of your hard work on display.

Nat King Cole’s voice softly echoing through the house. The string of lights wrapping around the banister. The tchotchkes and doo-dads in, you think, their usual places. And the fully decorated tree, with an added nostalgic touch of some old ornaments you had made for your mother in elementary school. A popsicle stick framed photo of you. A googly-eyed Rudolph. A Santa that really just looks like red and white mangled clay.

Something’s missing, though.

“Fuck,” you mutter, upon realization.

You’ll need to get the ladder back out from the shed. And you’ll need to go back into the attic to find the star for the top of the Christmas tree.

For some reason, you think you hear your father call from downstairs.

“Appa?” you call back.

“Uh, sorry! It’s, uh… well, it’s Hobi?”

You bolt upright, luckily missing a beam that definitely would have knocked your father out.

“One sec!”

You carefully tiptoe down the wobbly, not completely properly unfolded attic steps, and catch sight of Hobi in the middle of your living room, taking off his letterman jacket and looking around at your handiwork.

You’re so, so happy to see him.

And he’s so happy to see you gazing like that at him for once.

He doesn’t really know what to do with that attention.

“The door was unlocked,” he says, pointing his thumb back. “I called a couple times, and then I knocked, but—”

“I needed the ladder,” you say, thoughts disorganized. “The shed. Went outside.”

“Wait…”

Hobi looks around, understanding, but furrowing his brow as he puts together the fresh feeling of the decorations with the sweaty strands of hair tucked behind your ears, and dust-covered sweats. “Did you just now do all of this? Alone?” He blinks. “Where are your parents?”

“They’re staying the night for observation,” you reply. “Everything’s fine, but I couldn’t just sit here and— and—”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Can I help?” Hobi asks, walking up to you, stopping at the bottom stair. “What can I do?”

You take a deep breath and smile. “Sorry. Yes. I just wanted to give my parents something nice to see when they got home. Y’know. Spruce up the place.”

Hobi chuckles, and you feel proud.

“I’m pretty much done,” you say, “but I just need some help finding and placing the tree topper.”

“OK,” Hobi replies, looking at you expectantly.

You bask in his glow for a little while. Until you say—

“Right.”

You turn to climb the stairs.

“The decorations are up here.”

You lead him to the hallway, and he smiles a little when he sees the door hanging down from the ceiling, the same flimsy steps leading upwards as the one in his own family home.

He climbs them so easily. Light on his feet. Never worrying that he’ll fall.

You follow him and linger on the top step, watching Hobi rummaging around while carefully placing his weight on the right beams. Like your father knows how to.

“A gold star?” he asks.

You nod and smile. “Yes!”

Hobi reaches into a box and pulls it out, grinning back at you when he sees you nodding.

You both head back downstairs, and Hobi watches as you shakily climb the ladder that you’ve positioned by the tree. He holds the frame steady for you, arms ready to catch you if you fall.

“Is this you coming to check on me?” you ask with a grin, as you fix the top pine needles into a more natural and balanced arrangement.

Hobi shifts his weight, telling you with his body. But he also thinks through his words. He wants to be more purposeful with them. Like your father might.

“I know I said I’d call…” Hobi says. He wants to grab your ankles. Your calves. He could. They’re right there, in front of him. “…But I wanted to see you.”

You pause.

“You had all this time,” you say gently.

You’re grateful that you have to look down at the ladder rungs. Holding Hobi’s stare when you say this might make it impossible to come out.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Hobi wants to explain everything. All the mix-ups that have led you down this path. But he knows that it’s not just about switched numbers and outside forces. It’s also about how long he chose to wait. How long he chose to gaze at you from afar, when you have been more than within reach since the day he first saw you.

Hobi looks thoughtfully at the nearly-completed tree, gazing at the way you’ve placed all the different bobbles and figurines. Like with everything else in life, there’s no one right way to decorate a tree. But like with everything else in life, you’ve somehow managed to find the perfect arrangement.

“You see all of these ornaments?” Hobi asks, gesturing to your handiwork. He looks up at you, balancing carefully on the ladder. “Do you think these ornaments dare to talk to the star on top?”

You chuckle to yourself. “Do you think ornaments talk to each other?”

Hobi quiets the voice that the rocking horse nearest to him neigh!s at the playful elf smiling from two branches up. He thinks of Jungkook briefly. And then he smiles a little.

You turn in Hobi’s silence.

Hobi eyes the star hanging from your delicate fingers.

“How do you talk to a dream?” he asks, gazing up at you. When you fail to answer, he continues with, “You don't. You can’t. You just revel in it. Bask in it. Thankful for the time you get with it. Hope that some of it stays with you for the rest of the day. Wish for longer.”

You place the star on the top of the tree, and then you climb back down the rungs before you respond. You want to look up at him when you say this.

“I’m not a dream girl,” you say. “I’m just me.”

Hobi shakes his head. “You have no clue. All the games. All the chatter. I’m even standing here, telling you, right now. And you still have no clue.”

You don’t mean for tears to well up in your eyes. “Does it even matter?”

But, suddenly, nothing matters. Nothing matters except the feel of Hobi’s hands in your hair. The feel of Hobi’s arms around you, less pulling you in, but reaching for you, as if trying to catch you. The feel of Hobi learning that you’re not going anywhere. That you’ve always been here. And that feeling, that realization, amounting to one of the best kisses you’ve ever had, his soft lips adorning you with years of nostalgic, pent-up, real, love.

You pull away. “It’s too late,” you say, feeling guilty and wretched.

“It’s not,” Hobi says desperately. “We talked. She’s leaving.”

“She’s leaving?”

“It was more than just this,” Hobi tells you firmly. “Everything with her was off. Wrong.” He laces his fingers into yours. “But not now.”

You swerve his kiss, but Hobi takes it happily. He’ll take a lifetime of you swerving his kisses if it means getting to see the want in your eyes when you look back.

“Are you sure?” you ask, blinking back more tears.

“I’m sure,” he tells you. “As sure as I am about you.” He smiles. “It has always, always been you.”

He strokes the damp strands of hair tucked behind your right ear, their ends slightly tangled in the back of your rose earring. You feel the hair slip through the holes in the metal, bending your neck a little to the left to help it free. Your hair runs smooth through it, and through Hobi’s adoring fingers.

You look up at him, and you lean forward this time. You tiptoe. He holds you as you do it. And as you gently press a kiss to his cheek.

It slips down to a kiss on his lips.

And then you’re in it again.

This perfect world that Hobi created for you.

You take his hand and lead him upstairs.

He keeps his eyes on you as he pushes the underside of the attic door up, the steps folding automatically, and the latch catching as the thin wood flattens against the ceiling.

You lead him into your room, guiding him to your bed.

You wondered, upon learning about this little project, whether Hobi would be curious about your room. The posters that still hang. The picture frames that are collecting the same dust that you have on your sweater. The dried potpourri that your mother still insists on refreshing monthly, nestled in a tiny, light orange bowl on your dresser.

But right now, Hobi’s uninterested in everything else.

He just looks at you. Only sees you.

“Can I have a second?” you say, nervous, and sweating even more.

Hobi just nods, sitting there on your bed, so peaceful. All of his time is yours. It always has been.

You disappear into your bathroom. Strip off your clothes. Wash your face. Quickly brush your teeth. Contemplate reapplying your makeup, but settling for a natural look instead. You soap and rinse a washcloth to clear the little bit of sweat under your arms and on the back of your neck. Should you shower? Will you be sweating again soon, anyway?

You smirk at yourself at the thought.

But then you catch yourself in the mirror. You don’t see the comfortable but cute, silk, floral bralette and light yellow panties that you had changed into after you got home for the evening.

All you see is you, too.

“Even more evidence that I’m not a dream girl,” you sigh, as you leave your bathroom and try to forget the reflection that you saw in the mirror. “Flab. Freckles.” You glance at Hobi, who’s just sitting on your bed, staring at your body, probably recalculating his decisions upon seeing all of your stretch marks and scars. “Faults.”

Hobi just keeps staring.

You take a shaky breath, and Hobi rushes to his feet, walking toward you, softly taking your hands. He kisses the back of them, and then starts to kiss up your right arm. You start to chew your lip when he approaches a particular patch of skin, small raised bumps that your lotion still can’t seem to get rid of completely.

He doesn’t kiss them. He kisses past them. They don’t even register. He’s just kissing you.

He kisses up your neck, not remarking on the small scar you have just under your chin. He finds your jaw and draws you in, taking more of your attention, bringing him into whatever world he always seems to be in when he’s with you. The world where his hands keep swimming, uncaring that you have some extra bits of you on your stomach, or around your bust line, not even noticing the small keloids on the backs of your shoulders, and easily finding your collarbones and caressing them with his fingers, and then his lips, even under the extra flesh. And, what some might call tiny patches of discoloration, what you call freckles, all over your body, Hobi sees stars.

Hobi doesn’t understand how you can travel so many galaxies and not know this world.

The world where you are a dream girl.

His dream girl.

You feel his hands on your ass, and he grunts as he hugs you closer to him.

His lips flirt with your earlobe. “Been wondering.” The shockwaves of excruciating angst echo from his mouth and into your ear. “Can I…”

He runs a finger under the fabric of your panties, tracing the cleft of your left bottom cheek.

“Can I find out?”

You laugh softly as you tighten your arms around him, pressing your body into him.

He grunts again, slipping his hand under your panties and upwards, the fabric stretching and smoothing against you. He paws at you as he envelops you into an even deeper kiss, sucking up everything that he can taste, his entire body sucking you into him with the fervor of a hunger finally being satiated.

Walking backwards, Hobi leads you over to your bed, ankles hitting the bottom of your bed’s frame and prompting him to fall back. You climb on top of him and straddle him, your hands following as the backs of his arms slide against your duvet. You realize that his arms are still clothed with fabric, and then you lean back on your calves, kneeling on top of him, and smiling as he gazes up at you.

You tug on his sleeves, and he sits back up so that you can pull his sweater off of him, and then the shirt on underneath.

Cords of lithe muscle greet you, perfectly set on his proportioned frame. It’s been years since Hobi’s really danced, but his graceful abs have stayed loyal and true. You run your hands over his chest, appreciating how he’s filled out. Lived more life. Become stronger, and yet, softer.

All for you.

Hobi laughs softly at your wide, curious eyes, shaming yourself for not having seen before. He forgives you, or perhaps, tells you that there’s nothing to forgive, as he pulls you back into his kiss, like whipped cream and peppermint freshly mixed into hot cocoa. Sweet. Filling. Delicious.

You feel yourself starting to move your hips.

“How do you like it, dream girl?” he whispers to you. He palms your breasts in his big, soft hands, fingers smooth on your silk bralette. “Tell me.” He licks your left nipple, tongue wetting that silk, tracing you over and over again. “Wanna give it to you. Want it to be perfect.”

“Surprise me,” you whisper. “Like you always do.”

He nods, nosing into your breast as he continues to lick and suck through silk, kissing across your chest to your other breast and doing the same.

Your hips mimic his tongue’s movements, swirling on his rising cock, wetness seeping through your stained, yellow panties, and making a mess on his pants.

He pulls the silk cup off of your right breast and smiles, letting his tongue dart out and catch your nipple, lips soon following and circling around it, perfect pressure, then too much pressure, then, increasingly, not enough.

While his mouth continues working, tasting, feasting, his hands clasp down on your hips, and he starts to move you back and forth, rolling your hips toward and then away from him, as he widens his legs to make room for himself. You moan, feeling him grow beneath you, jutting up into you more and more, separating your wet, sticky lips and starting to burrow deeper.

You propel forward on your knees, and Hobi arches back with you, his left arm swiftly sliding diagonally across your back, from your right hip bone toward your left shoulder blade, hand gripping you there before sliding back over and finding the base of your skull. He cradles you there, and you feel so secure in his hold that you start to move with more intention. You slide your body closer to his trunk, your entrance taking in more of his bulge, and your waking clit rubbing against those perfect abs.

Your hips switch to infinity signs, craving more and more pressure against your clit.

Hobi seems to know, like always just seems to know. His right hand rubs your left knee, and as he slides it up your thigh, you buck into him again. His thumb slides between you, finding your clit and moving in slow circles, giving you another tempo to match your pace and flow to, and, when added to his fingers massaging your scalp, and his tongue still caressing your nipple and breast, making your breaths heavier, and shaky.

His right knuckles start to press into you as he works his index finger into your pussy, aiming to roll your clit between its pad and the pad of his already soaking thumb. You whimper at the feel of him teasing you, his lips smiling into you as you move against him, and feeling his hot breath on your skin as he laughs softly at your squeaks and whines.

You need more. Hobi knows you need more.

But he doesn’t know how badly you need it until you bend your neck to the side, arch back, push your chest out, shake your hair behind you, letting it tickle the hair on his arm, as you reach for the clasp of your bralette to undo it, all the while, letting out a long, low, needy moan.

“Shit,” he grunts, pausing his movements to bring his hands up and pull the straps of your bralette down and off of you.

Once your bralette hits the floor, you grind deeper into his lap, driven by feeling more of Hobi’s jaw and lips and arms and rising cock against you. He keeps working no matter where you let your hands roam. You grab the back of his head with both hands, running your fingers through his soft hair. You let them hang around his neck. He doesn’t get distracted, already used to having such focus with you. A man always on a mission. Particularly when it comes to you.

But when you clasp his shoulders…

And you start to bounce…

“Fuck,” he hisses.

You find yourself nodding. You agree. The pressure. The tension. Not just now, but for the past few days. Years, for him. It’s all leading somewhere. It has to happen.

“We doing this?” he mumbles, eyes closed, eyebrows raised. “For real?”

You place your hands on either side of his face, thumbs in the outer corners of his eyes, opening them up and directing his gaze. You look at him, fondly.

“For real,” you whisper back, always so touched at how gentle he really is with you.

He grips you with his right forearm and stands. Picking you up is as easy as a dream. He unbuttons his jeans with his other hand, and he crouches a little to try and get the waist off of his hips.

Sensing the struggle, you place the soles of your feet on his jeans and try to slide them down, making Hobi laugh, and then hum in appreciation when it works.

He sits back down, and he shakes his pants and boxers down off of his ankles before reaching for your hips. He tosses you left and right, pulling your panties down. Down your thighs. Down your calves. And then, down onto the floor.

You climb off of him, and Hobi looks at you in confusion, wondering where you’re going. It’s unparalleled by the sheer ecstasy he feels when you wrap your drooling mouth around his cock, looking up at him with eager-to-please eyes.

Hobi swims in your gaze as you let your tongue swim against him, broad and curving around his underside, stroking him as you move your head back and forth, teasing him to come hither. When he starts to pump, slow and easy, you go to work, gathering your hair behind you, and feeling him take the strands in his palm for you, so that you can use your mouth and both hands to make sure his entire shaft gets some piece of you.

He can’t get enough.

He moans your name softly, telling you how good it feels with each hiss or click of his teeth. The way your nose brushes against his lower torso. The way you tilt your head down and bring your chest up, pulling his cock out with a kiss on his crown every time, before diving back in for another gulp. And the way you tongue every crevice underneath that crown, before taking one long lick down his shaft and sucking on his balls.

Doing it to Hobi does it to you. He sees how wet you are, dripping onto your bedroom carpet, unable to focus on anything except his cock.

He wants to focus on you, too.

Before another threat of losing it completely, he pulls you up and onto his lap, licking up the strands of your spit on your chin with his tongue, tasting himself on you and spitting in your mouth to try and find the taste of you again.

Your hips seek each other out again, as well.

You start with shallow strokes, wetting his head with your slick. There’s so much more coming.

Your knees press into your mattress, which starts to creak under your slight bounces.

Hobi searches for your lips. How he isn’t tired given all the work he’d put in at your chest, you don’t know. But he could do this forever. Travel and explore your body. He’s so, so curious to see how right he’d gotten it.

The tip, slipping into you easily now, edges further and further into you, and you’re having more and more trouble keeping your neck still, your head a spinning top, circling around, only able to maintain any sense of control with Hobi, his heart, his body, his cock, your axis. He’s grunting, trying not to lose it, holding as much back as he can, choosing instead to let you spin out of control.

Another stroke of your clit with those two, sopping wet fingers, and you do.

“Want you deeper,” you growl, before even the first waves leave you, feeling needy, and greedy, and unashamedly so.

Hobi nods and kisses you, sliding out of you with some reluctance, holding you close to him as he picks you up and places you on all fours on your mattress, a hand on you at all times as he lines up with you, worried that any time or space away from you will pry you from him yet again.

You low as he sinks back into you, flesh on fire, tissue twisting as he fits more of himself into you, halfway down his length. He forces his hips back, pushing only as far as your walls will let him for now, both of you hissing and moaning at the simultaneous pleasure and pain.

He grabs at your hips, grabbing past the extra as if it isn’t extra. As if it was always meant to be there. As if you would be incomplete somehow without it.

A deep moan seeps out of him. And then, “Spread for me.”

When you do, words fail him. He’ll get better at them with time. Or not.

He slowly pulls you back to him, more of him inside of you, waking you back up, shaking you back into action as you meet him halfway.

“More,” you sigh over and over, as you start to roll your hips through your movements, aching to take more of him into you, “more,” and aching worse at the fact that you can’t just yet, “more,” each of your sighs a plea to your body to give you what you fucking want.

If Hobi’s proved anything, it’s that patience is a virtue. He’s perfectly content to watch you struggling around him, twitching and trying, because he, as he tells you, sees where you’re headed so clearly.

“I can’t,” you whimper deliriously, though you’re certain you’ve done this before. “Fuck, why can’t I—”

“You can,” he tells you in a whisper, bending down to kiss your back. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You whine and let your head hang until something, a tingle, or a shock, sent to you by the way Hobi’s cock buries into your folds at a low, forward angle, snaps your head back up, and you start to push back against him. Still not as deep as you want, but closer.

Hobi notices. He starts to pump into you, watching your hips move below him, nearly biting his bottom lip plumb off when you have the audacity to clench in an attempt to get you there.

You snap your hand to your clit, trying a finger, some of your fingers, all of your fingers, your palm, your wrist, desperate for that explosion to finally bloom around you the way you want.

Your body comes back to you with a suggestion, and you gladly take it, shivering as the second wave envelops you.

“C’mere,” Hobi mumbles, flipping you over and throwing your legs over his shoulders.

“Oh god,” you whine. You’re starting to just know, like he just knows. And it’s a dangerous thing, seeing the bigger picture with him.

His tongue’s perfect point aims with such precision, flicking your clit, slow, and then fast, and then faster, inside of his mouth as he cushions it with his lips, widening his mouth and groaning as he kisses your lips to cool you off, edging you, and making your walls throb.

“Hobi,” you sigh, running your hand through his drenched locks. “Hobi. Hobi.”

He knows you’re about to come, but he snaps back anyway.

You pout and moan his name over and over again, but he shakes his head.

“Mmm. I know. But trust me.”

You squeeze your eyes tight, letting the tears fall, mourning the waves that never came.

But then he stands.

And he pulls your hips down to the edge of the mattress.

And you’re crying for a different reason.

It isn’t that he’s too much, though he is thick, and longer than most of the others you’ve known. It’s really just coming down to timing. Getting to know him. Make space for him. Feel him.

And when you wait for that timing, it pays off.

He climbs on top of you and burrows, all of him now, into you, deeper and deeper, until you feel the base of his cock press against your flesh, his balls warmly resting against your skin, and then slapping as he picks up the pace.

“Fuck, yes,” you sigh. “Yes, yes, yes.”

This is what you’d been waiting all this time for. And it was more than worth the wait.

That fathomless stroke, long, and firm, so heated, and focused, and dangerous that with each pound, you worry that your ribcage might fall apart.

You let out a howling cry, eyes springing open with tears, Hobi’s sublime face blurry until you blink.

He reaches up and wipes your tears away with his thumb.

“Stay with me, dream girl,” he whispers, as he leans down to kiss you.

You nod through your kiss. You want to tell him that from now on, you will always, always stay with him.

Deep, plodding strokes, spaced farther and farther apart, making you slide higher and higher up your mattress, the pressure mounting so tensely between each pump that you feel like you’re coming unhinged.

You both moan and grunt on each one, pitch rising higher and higher.

Until he murmurs. Strained. Breaking.

“Come.”

You let out a final moan as he empties into you, and your body shakes, none of your parts knowing where they want to go, spasming and flinching as indescribable pleasure blossoms across your bodies. He litters kisses all over you, grateful grunts, and reassuring words, telling you how good you did. How good it felt. How good you are.

How perfect.

When your heartbeat finally settles, you turn to Hobi, who has collapsed next to you. You manage a tired, satisfied smile when you find that he has been running his hand up and down his chest, eyes barely able to stay open.

Hobi finds it weird to dream about you, open his eyes, and then find you staring back at him.

“Hungry?” you ask sweetly.

Hobi raises his eyes and looks far away. “A little.” But then he finds you again. “The diner?” He frowns at the thought of the guys’ championesque smirks as the two of you stroll in. “Maybe not.”

You smile. “I bought some kimchi-bokkeum-bap yesterday. Never got around to eating it.”

“Why not?”

“Had something else instead.”

“Mmm.” Hobi hums and reaches for your hand, pulling it to him and kissing it. And then his eyebrows shoot up. “Kimchi-bokkeum-bap kinda sounds perfect, actually.” And then he rolls into you. “But not yet, please.”

You laugh as he scooches forward to kiss your shoulder.

“How did you sleep?” you whisper.

“Good. Dreamt about you. In Jimin’s green dress.” The wrong image pops into his head. “I mean, the dress that Jimin—” He shakes his hair out his face. “Ugh, you know what I mean. The dress you wore to the carol singing thing.”

He closes his eyes as you chuckle and turn your head back up to the ceiling. “Speaking of,” you say softly, staring up at the popcorn pattern, “what did Mrs. Yoon whisper in your ear?”

“That we made a nice couple.” Hobi raises his head a little to catch your eyes. “And, uh… she very graphically told me that… uh… we would also make nice babies.”

He buries his head back into your pillow.

“Are you seriously getting shy right now?” you laugh, charmed. “We just fucked!”

“Still.” Hobi’s words are muffled by the pillow. But he keeps one eye on you.

“Do we really have a whole month of this?” he asks you.

You smile. You’ve already told him. And you’re about to tell him again. You want so much more.

Until you hear the front door open.

And your father really calls for you.

“Shit!” you whisper, as both you and Hobi scramble out of your bed. And then, to your parents, you yell, “Be right down!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hobi mutters, getting dressed. He stares at you frantically. “W-where should I—?”

Your mother knocks on your door. “You still sleepy? We brought home some breakfast!”

“Dammit,” you whisper, pulling on the last bit of your right sweatpant leg. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I think the only option is the window.”

“OK,” Hobi says, a glint of worry in his eye, though his voice is steady and strong, trying to psyche himself up for the drop. “That’s fine. That’s fine.”

“Sweetie?” your mother asks.

“This is not fine!” you whine to Hobi.

“It’s fine. I promise.” Hobi means to kiss your cheek, but he kisses the tip of your nose in the crazed frenzy. “I’ll call you later.”

You nod quickly, as Hobi reaches over and opens your window. He grimaces as he looks down at your front yard. And all that snow.

“Sweetie? You OK?”

As Hobi gets into position, you crouch a little and crack your door open, careful to hide him from view as he gets ready to jump. “Eomma?” you ask.

She smiles happily at you. “Good morning.” She wedges her face through your door and gives you a kiss on the forehead. “Sleep OK?”

“Mmhmm!” you exclaim.

“OK, well, let’s go have some breakfast,” your mother tells you.

As you join her in the hall, you hear a quiet floof! from outside and below your window.

You walk down the stairs, arm in arm, though you keep looking back to your bedroom door.

“Good morning,” your father greets you, kissing your cheek.

“These decorations, sweetie. They were a lovely, lovely surprise,” your mother adds from behind you, stroking your hair.

“I just wanted to make you smile,” you tell her. You turn back to your father. “How are you feeling?” you ask, eyes wide, and heart thumping.

“Great!” your father tells you. “Everything was fine, but they’re going to make some adjustments to my medication.”

He hugs you back, even tighter than you hug him.

“So that means I can have an unhealthy breakfast,” your father surmises.

“Whatever, Appa.”

“Is Hobi joining us?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your father pulls away, and you see your mother grinning just behind him, trying her best not to laugh. “Where’s Hobi?” he asks, looking around.

“Uh, Hobi??” you ask.

Your father points to the jacket draped across the couch back, JUNG clearly on display.

Your erratically beating heart stops and sinks into your lower intestines. “Oh.”

“Where is he?” your father repeats. “We have tons of food!”

You blink quickly at your father.

And then you rush outside, seeing Hobi still struggling to get up.

“Hobi!” you call out to him, running into your yard, barefoot and barely dressed.

“What!” His eyes go as white as all the snow covering him when he sees you running to him, and then tackling him back down into the snow, laughing and kissing him.

“They invited you in for breakfast,” you tell him warmly, voice purring in your chest, pressed against his.

“P-please tell me there’s coffee,” Hobi chatters. “I’m c-cold.”

But you don’t feel a thing.

All you feel is Hobi underneath you, tickling you, and then saying, “OK, no, but s-seriously, it’s so, s-so cold.”

You get to your feet and help him up, bringing him up the porch steps again.

Your mother frowns at you as she yanks him into the house, dusting him off and throwing him onto the couch in the living room. “What is wrong with you??” she exclaims. “You let him jump out the window?!”

“I wasn’t sure if I could have—” You cough. “If having, uh, a guest, would be OK?” you say awkwardly.

“Jesus!” your mother mutters. She sighs and looks piteously at Hobi. “I’m getting you dry clothes and some blankets. I mean, for crying out loud.”

“T-T-Thank you,” Hobi chokes out.

You apologetically wrap Hobi up in his letterman jacket as your father laughs at the two of you.

“Did you think the no dating rule was still in effect or something?” he asks.

“The child locks are still on in the car,” you mumble. You feel Hobi’s adoring eyes on you, and you smile back at him when you add, “And we’re still… figuring it out?”

“Took you long enough to get this far,” your father replies. “Sweetie, ever since you got back into town, everyone in the town has been asking about you two. Especially that Mrs. Yoon.” He smiles. “I’ll make you both some coffee,” your father says, walking into the kitchen. “And, Hobi, please, the least we could do for you is make good on that invite to dinner.”

He smiles at Hobi.

“Stay.”

Hobi just grins back.

Once your father is out of earshot, you whisper anxiously, “Oh god, this is a lot. I’m sorry. You really don’t have to feel obligated to stay.”

“Are you kidding?”

Hobi, still shivering, turns to you and smiles.

“I finally get a real date with my dream girl, and you expect me to say no?”

You laugh and wrap Hobi up in your arms, covering him with your entire body, trying to warm him back up, as your collective teeth chatter through a warm, sweet kiss that makes up for a decade full of every single one he’s imagined.

Every single one you’ve missed.

Easily setting the bar for all the ones to come.

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