#minghao fic

“Fine. One pitch.”  “We’ll have to work on your technique! Don’t wanna embarrass yourself out there, you know. They’re a co-ed team.” 

“They have those?” Minghao yawns, stretching his arms over his head as Seokmin types on his phone, nodding. “I don’t keep up with baseball like that, sorry.” 

“No worries, I’m actually good friends with the captain of their team. Choi Seungcheol, I’ve introduced you, right? We’ve had dinner at his a couple times.” 

“I know who Seungcheol is. Great brows on that guy, I’ll say.” Minghao rolls his shoulders back, adjusting in his seat. 

“Great butt, too.” Seokmin nods again, and Minghao gives him an amused look as he reaches for his phone across the couch, “sure, Seok. Whatever you say.” 

“It is! Have you seen it? Phenomenal, I see why the Diamonds are so big on social media.”  “Or...they could just be good.”  “They are, but he’s also a cutie.” 

“You’re so funny,” Minghao chuckles, unlocking his phone to see two new messages from his manager, Boo Seungkwan, following up on the e-mail about throwing the first pitch at the last game of the season for the Daegu Diamonds. Tonguing his cheek, Minghao just shoots back a short response in the affirmative, before feeling Seokmin pat his knee.  

“Alright, I’ve confirmed. We’re going to be down there tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll book the flights and send your ticket over before noon today. Pack light, we’ll only be there three days before we’re in Japan for Tokyo Collection. You’re walking for the Cherry Jubilee spring launch, and we’re having dinner with Seungkwan and Jeonghan. Yoon Jeonghan, the designer.” Seokmin looks at Minghao pointedly, who only glances up at him with boredom. 

“Yes, I know who Jeonghan is. We’re friends.” He lolls his head back, and Seokmin shrugs, “you know so many people, Hao. I can only take the initiative and ensure that you remember them.” 

Seokmin shoves his phone in his pocket, grabbing his jacket off the chair with a click of his tongue, “I’m gonna go on a quick coffee run, but they want you in the red set first. If you need help, Seungkwan is down the hall talking to the creative director. Do you want anything? Tea? Something to nibble on? Lunch is in an hour.” 

“I’m good. You go ahead, I’ll be out of here in a bit.” 

Seokmin nods, slipping out of the room whistling something that sounds a lot like Death of a Strawberry by Dance Gavin Dance. Minghao waits until the door shuts behind him to melt into the grooves of the couch, letting the soreness of the already-long day seep into his muscles as he drums his fingertips against his phone. He stares at a water spot in the ceiling tiles, his chest heavy as he opens his phone and scrolls down through his messages. Lots of old friends from back home, a few of his fellow modeling peers, a couple designers... 

An unsaved number, with messages dating back two years.  

He can’t bring himself to delete it. 

He doesn’t remember your full name, either, and it bothers him – only remembering your face, and that you liked the Daegu Diamonds. If he scrolls up high enough, he’ll see the exchange of nude photos and videos, and his face will grow hot before he clicks off the message thread and chooses to ignore it for exactly ten minutes... 

Before going back in and staring at the thumbnail of the singular video of you together, taken on his phone on the second and last night you ever saw each other. A week after meeting at a hole-in-the-wall bar, you’d gotten a non-disclosure agreement sent to him and he’d filled it out within ten minutes – sending it back with a ticket to meet him in Osaka the next weekend. He was him, and you were you – he'd said something about not having enough time, you admitted to commitment issues...and you both settled on two nights in Japan – away from the cameras, away from any friends or family. 

Just you. 

It had been fun. Of course, it was fun – as fun as risky, messy sex with a girl he didn’t know and didn’t have to know could be. You didn’t care to know him, either – only heading straight to business the moment you both crossed the threshold of the hotel room he’d gotten for the weekend. He had a pair of white panties in his apartment from that night, pulled off you with his teeth and shoved into the pocket of his True Religion jeans – never to meet the inside of your duffel bag again – but it wasn’t enough. 

Unfortunately, you lingered in his mind at the most inopportune moments. He could be half naked in someone else’s bed and about to get down to business; when your body will flash by his eyes, enough to knock him off his game, even if just for a moment. He’ll be in meetings, and he’ll feel his skin prickle as if he can still feel the ghost of your blood red fingernails dragging down his back. He’ll be sitting at dinner, his eyes trained on the food in front of him as he sips his drink but all he can taste is you. 

It feels cynical. Like a slow form of torture, to look at those messages and know that he’s drawn a line he cannot cross. To know that if he just presses play, even just once – he'll hear every single sound he drew from you in just those fifteen minutes. He’ll see the way your body was flush against him, the way you sighed at the feeling of his lips against your burning skin. 

He’ll remember the taste of your sweat as he dragged his tongue up the slope of your neck before sinking his teeth into you – marking you for the weekend. Never to be in his arms again. 

He hasn’t watched it since the night he sent it. The temptation is there. It’s always there, just like the photos of you that he can’t bring himself to look at. 

Message From: +82 010-2015-0526  Best of luck, Minghao! See you around. (Delivered) 

Message To: +82 010-2015-0526  You too, sweetheart. (Read: 4:32 AM) 

Minghao barely unlocks the door of his condo when the warmth of the heater hits his face. He shivers, locking the door behind him and resting his forehead against the cold steel. He lets out a deep breath, shrugging his coat off as his phone buzzes in his pocket, arguably another message from Seokmin or Seungkwan, or even the most hidden person on his team — Soonyoung. A cheery, bright-eyed publicist with a knack for persuasion, carefully navigating Minghao into the oddest of situations that have skyrocketed his career. It's because of Soonyoung that Minghao is the face of so many brands, plastered all over in countries he's never even been to. At least, not yet. 

Minghao hangs his coat with no urgency, smoothing the lapels before closing the front closet door and easing his way into his home. He toes his shoes off, sliding them onto the shelf in the foyer before stretching his arms over his head and walking into his empty living room. 

Empty living room with a single lamp on, waiting for him to come home. Empty kitchen, with food packed neatly in the fridge waiting to be eaten. An empty bathroom, empty bedroom. 

Empty bed. 

He can never get too comfortable. His condo in Shanghai is the closest he gets to feeling at home – even if his apartment in Seoul has seen him the most, and his studio in Osaka is bare bones aside from a few art pieces on the walls and a singular photo of him and his parents on a desk in the corner. 

Maybe that’s loneliness. Having so much and wanting so little, but to be rich in love...he yearns for that. 

He reaches into his pocket as he sits on the edge of his recliner, tonguing his cheek as he reads the message across his screen. 

Group Message From: Unnamed Group (4 Members)  Choi Seungcheol (DD): Hey, guys! Heard from our head of SNS that you’d be coming down for a game. Are you throwing the first pitch, Minghao? We’d love to get a team photo with you! Let us know.  Lee Seokmin (Work): You’re so cute. Yeah, we’re gonna be down there this weekend, we’re flying in from Shanghai in the morning. Should we expect to drop by the Choi residence for dinner? (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )  +82 010-2015-0526: Shit, hey Seok. I asked Cheol to make the group because I broke my phone a few months ago and lost your number. I have gossip, call me when you can. Good luck this weekend! 

Minghao stills, his brows furrowing as he looks at the number again. He exits the group, quickly scrolling down his message threads before seeing the number right there. Seungcheol replies in the groupchat as he stares at the conversation between you and him – his skin prickling as he enters and exits the thread almost anxiously. 

“Shit,” he runs a hand over his face, tossing his phone onto the recliner as he gets up. He beelines for the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water out of his refrigerator when he hears his phone continue to ping with messages. He brings the bottle to his lips, taking a poor excuse for a sip before setting it down on his countertop. 

The cold of it hurts his stomach.

He moves back to the recliner, quickly unlocking his phone and reading through new messages. Seungcheol, Seokmin, Soonyoung, Seungkwan, Seokmin again... 

You. 

NEW! 2 Messages from: +82 010-2015-0526  [9:32 PM] Minghao, right?  [9:32 PM] Oh, wow...I forgot we'd made these.

He groans. 

It’s not like Minghao to particularly care about the past, but he doesn’t remember your name. Surely, if you’re affiliated with Seungcheol, you could be very well affiliated with the Daegu Diamonds. 

He nibbles on his lip for a moment as the chat bubble on your end pops up and disappears repeatedly before it dawns on him – Seokmin said that the Diamonds were a co-ed team. 

He doesn’t reply to your texts, opting to go onto the official site for the Daegu Diamonds and scour through the roster. Many faces are familiar – Lee ‘Woozi’ Jihoon, Park Jihyo, Lee ‘Dino’ Chan... 

Y/N Kim. A pitcher for the Daegu Diamonds, repping #08 on the mound. Your height, your weight, your birthday, your social media – it's all there, in color on his screen. 

He, against his better judgment, presses the Instagram icon beneath your debut date – November 9th, 2015. 

His phone redirects him to your profile. You’ve amassed millions of followers, your profile plain of any introduction aside from a cheeky photo booth strip as your profile photo and ‘#08 DD’ in your biography. You have Fire by 2NE1 linked to your profile, and there is a neat array of posts filling the screen. 

Your profile is purely...you.

Not just pictures of you, but…the embodiment of you as an art. Your style. Everything he would've assumed a curated profile surrounding you would look like.

Candid photos, photos of you and friends at dinner or simply hanging out together. He spots several shots of his own colleagues and friends – Hansol 'Vernon' Chwe, a music producer he’d met in passing at a Cherry Jubilee show six years ago; Chou Tzuyu, a designer for Lazy Baby and Kim Mingyu, a fellow model and the face of Calvin Klein (and abs, and arms, that man is beautiful.) 

Also Tzuyu’s fiancé. 

Not that anyone knew that. 

He scrolls further and further – before seeing an Osaka carousel from two years ago. The song over the post is Heart Burn by Sunmi, and he scrolls past several pictures only to stop on the second to last. 

Him. 

Well, not him.  

His jacket, the corner of one of your photos. The Osaka skyline from the hotel room is the focus, but he can see the letters on the back of his monogrammed jacket – XU MIN visible before the photo crops the rest of it out. His watch is on the windowsill, and a sliver of his back is visible on the bed.  The window was behind the bed frame, and you had to have been standing by the vanity to get that angle. 

He chews on his lip anxiously, scrolling to the next photo before seeing your fingers holding a ring up to the light at the airport. A signet ring, his signet ring with an orchid stamped in the center – one he’d lost after that trip. He clears his throat, glancing at the caption before his eyes widen. 

diamonddazed: i hope we find time for more than osaka someday. 

His tongue runs behind his teeth as he closes the app, his head hanging low between his shoulders as he lets out a sigh. His phone continues to buzz and ping in his hand, but he ignores everyone else to move to your thread with him. 

NEW! 2 Messages from: Y/N [9:34 PM] I hope this...history doesn’t hinder your ability to come see the guys this weekend. They talk about you and Seokmin all the time.  [9:34 PM] But, it would be nice to see you. Maybe we can get drinks. LMK (: 

Minghao taps his foot as he opens and closes his keyboard. He tries typing a few letters, erasing them. Tries again, deletes them.  

He opens his email instead, typing your name into the search box before seeing a copy of the non-disclosure agreement he signed. He opens it, reading along the lines of when the contract ends. Maybe he can get out of this, state personal differences. Maybe say it wasn’t good for his brand to be tied to so many things plus baseball. 

Two weeks from today. 

“That’s not soon enough,” he murmurs, closing out of the application and moving back to messages. Seokmin has texted him six times, but he doesn’t care to reply as he opens your thread again. 

Message to: Y/N [9:39 PM] Are you in Seoul right now? 

He presses his thumb to his lips, and he can almost imagine the smile spreading on your lips as his phone shows that you’ve read the message. His knee bounces as you type, only to stop when your message comes through. 

NEW! 2 Message from: Y/N [9:42 PM] [1 Attachment]  [9:42 PM] Shanghai. Fly out for the game tomorrow afternoon. 

His stomach drops as he sees the Shanghai skyline fill his screen, and he can barely see the subtle reflection of you in the window – wrapped in a white towel, the glisten of your red nails bouncing off the fabric. He glances around the photo, trying to see anything else in the reflection before another message bounces in. 

NEW! 1 Message from: Y/N [9:43 PM] I’m alone if you want to swing by. Room 1107 @ the Conrad Shanghai.  

Minghao feels stupid as he nearly falls out of his recliner, shoving his phone in his pocket as he moves back to his foyer. He shoves his shoes on, cheeks hot as he grabs his coat and pulls it on haphazardly. He barrels out his front door, not bothering to check that it has shut behind him as he beelines for the stairs. 

He feels a rush course through him as he pulls his phone back out of his pocket, stopping at the top of the stairs to type a quick message. 

Message To: Y/N [9:47 PM] Lose the towel. 

Getting past the lobby proves to be far too easy. He flashes a few quick smiles, signs a few slips of paper before he calmly steps into an elevator, knowing the Conrad like the back of his hand as he presses your floor button. He fiddles with his coat's buttons, flapping it open, before shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He trills his lips, leaning against the wall of the elevator as he watches the floor counter go up. The elevator seems to sense his urgency, and it jolts to a stop on your floor.  

He slides out between the barely open doors, his eyes scanning the doors for your room number – finding it at the very end of the hall. He knocks twice, softly – adrenaline making his hands shake as he shoves them back into his pocket. 

The door opens slightly, but you’re behind the door as your hand beckons him inside. He tongues his cheek, slinking in through the gap to see you wrapped in a robe. He raises a brow at it, his fingers pinching the tie and tugging lightly. 

“Room service,” your voice is soft, “can’t be indecent, you know.” 

“Doesn’t look like room service is here, though.” He responds, nerves making his tongue feel larger than it is as you glance at his fingers still holding the tie. He rolls his eyes, wrapping it around his hand and using it to pull you closer, “you sleep with anyone else here?” 

“No.” You shake your head, your hair still slightly damp as your hands splay on his chest. His jaw is tense as he runs his eyes down the slope of your neck, across your clavicle to the small chain snug at the base of your throat. He glances up at your face, your lips smooth with lip balm and your cheeks still soft, still as supple as he remembers them.  

“Are you lying?”  “No, Minghao. I wouldn’t have asked you over if I had.”  “So, I’m just a quick fuck before you fly home?” 

You don’t reply, rolling your eyes as you press your lips to his. Your hands on your chest slide around his slender waist, pulling him closer as his hand loosens around the tie of your robe. He kisses you back carefully, pulling at the knot of the tie as your tongue slips into his mouth. The same taste that’s sat at the back of his throat for the last two years coats your tongue as he sucks on it gently, your robe falling open as he pulls away. The back of his head hits the wall lightly, making him wince as your hand immediately cards through his hair and rubs at the spot. 

“Can I touch?” He murmurs, his hands ghosting over the warmth of your skin as you nod. You move further into his space, your fingers pulling at the buckle of his belt and undoing it quickly. His hands are cautious as they shove your robe off your shoulders, the same small tattoo he'd bitten two years ago peering back at him as you pull his belt off and toss it to the side before kissing him again. Your lips are so soft against his, your hands proving desperate as you unbutton his jeans and shove his shirt out of the way to reveal the waistband of his boxers.  

“Why are you so fucking dressed up?” You mutter against his lips as your fingertips slither under his shirt, and he smiles as one of his own find the lace of your panties snug to your hips, “you don’t need all these clothes to fuck me.” 

“Believe it or not, I work, too.” He speaks between kisses, nipping at your lip with a soft growl in the back of his throat, “why do you taste like that? Did you touch yourself before I got here?” 

“I always touch myself when I think of you,”  you’re breathless as your fingers curl around his waistband, tugging uselessly. You pout as he laughs, “it’s true! I'm already halfway to getting in your pants, no need to lie. We’re all friends here.” 

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends at all, actually.” He refutes, sliding his fingers under the fabric of your panties to cup a handful of your ass. His lips press open mouthed kisses to your neck, earning him those soft, soft groans he’s had daydreams about for the last two years as he scrapes his teeth against your skin. “I don’t typically fuck my friends, much less make them sign NDAs about it. And if we were friends...” 

“You’d fuck me in your bed?” You interject, your fingertips pulling at his zipper and cupping his half-hard cock. He tries not to keen as you run a finger against him over the thin fabric, "you’d fuck me in your bed, right? Mark me up? Make me yours?” 

“Wouldn’t be my friend if you were mine.” He tugs at the ends of your hair, a quipped gasp falling from your lips as he gives your ass a gentle squeeze. “You hear me?” 

“Uh huh,” your fingertips are teasing at the waistband of his boxers, but he pulls your hand away, sliding his own back out from under your panties. He kisses the shell of your ear, your lips pouted as he squeezes your hips, “Minghao.” 

“Show me how you touched yourself,” he whispers, your lips parting slightly as he physically turns you around. “Then maybe I’ll give you what you want.” 

“Maybe?”  “Maybe.” 

“Cynical,” you huff, squealing as his fingertips land a soft smack against your ass. Your hands cover it as you scurry away, and he picks up his belt and follows, with a grin threatening to breach his lips. He doesn’t remember talking to you this much the first time (or even at the bar you met him at) but...the sound of your voice has something in it. Something...addictive. Erotic, even. 

He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care to figure it out right now. 

He pulls his coat off his shoulders as you pull your robe off fully, a tattoo across the dip of your spine new to his eyes and stark against the lace of your underwear. He stops what he’s doing, his eyes running over it as you glance over your shoulder at him. 

Lucky.

“It’s new.”  “I know.” 

He doesn’t say anything else as he pulls his shirt over his head, toeing his shoes off as you move to sit on the bed. He watches the way your demeanor shifts slightly, a bit shy as your thumbs hook on the waistband of your underwear. He shakes his head, motioning for you to get on the bed, “all fours.” 

“But I—”  “Just wanna see that new tattoo, sweetheart. All fours, please.” 

You oblige, carefully sprawling yourself on the bed as he asks. He moves closer, his fingers wrapping around your ankles and pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. You move easily, your back smooth in the low lighting of your hotel room as he slides his hand up it, curling his fingers around the back of your neck. Your skin litters in goosebumps as you push your hips back, meeting his lightly as he bends slightly, pressing his lips to your hip. You shiver as his teeth scrape the skin of your hip, pulling gently at the fabric of your panties and sliding them down your thighs.  

“I’m keeping these,” he says as he pulls them off entirely, shoving them in the back pocket of his jeans as you scoff. 

“Pervert.”  “You smell good. Show me.” 

He peers down between your thighs, the swell of your ass covered by his hands as he spreads the cheeks carefully. Your hand covers you immediately, the sheen of arousal spread between your inner thighs as he smirks inwardly, “I haven’t even touched you.” 

“You know I’m sensitive, shut up.” Your breathing is shaky as you drag your fingertips through your folds, spreading them lightly and circling your puffy clit. He sucks in a breath, his cock twitching beneath his boxers as your thighs slightly weaken at the stimulation. You bury your face in a pillow as you rub your clit in tight circles for him, shuddered whimpers wracking your body before you tease your hole with a finger. He leans forward slightly, enough that you can feel his breath as he drops a wad of spit on your pussy. You jolt as he presses a kiss to the curve of your ass, “come on, pretty. Make yourself cum for me.” 

Your whine rings in his ears, making him bite down on his lip as he runs his hands up and down the back of your thighs, “so pretty when you’re touching yourself, huh? Like putting on a show for me?” 

“Minghao...” your voice trails off as he watches you slip a finger in and then another, a breathy chuckle falling from his lips as he kneels behind you. He kisses the side of your foot, trailing his lips up your ankle as he watches your juices coat your fingers. He kisses up your calf, dragging his lips up your thigh as they shake. 

“So close already? Tsk,” he mocks you as he presses a kiss to the curve of your ass, then another. He switches to the other side, watching your hand still as if to stave it off before he presses a kiss to your knuckles, “can’t do it yourself?” 

“Hao,” you’re whining, your fingers slipping out to spread your pussy for him to see. He smiles inwardly as your hole clenches around nothing, begging for something in it as he sinks his teeth into the meat of your ass. You only groan, pushing your hips back as he laps his tongue over the marks of his teeth before your fingers find your clit again, tracing slow circles into it as he kisses them. He takes them into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as the taste of you coats his tongue. He presses a kiss to your fingertips before pushing your hand away, hooking his arms around your thighs and pulling your cunt to his face. 

“Please, please...” your hips are pushing back, and he can’t deny you anything as he presses a tentative kiss to your clit, covering his lips in your arousal. He flattens his tongue against it, licking long, languid strokes through your folds to taste you entirely. His lips wrap around your clit carefully, sucking it into his mouth as your hand reaches back and finds his hair. Your thighs are a shaking mess as he holds onto you tighter, his cock painfully hard against his boxers and aching for release – threatening to come undone at the mere taste of you paired with your soft thank you, thank you, thank you. 

He pulls away abruptly, using his strength to flip you onto your back before diving back in. Your thighs threaten to clamp shut around his head, but he doesn’t care as he feels your walls flutter around his fingers as he brings you closer to the edge. Your voice is barely audible with the flesh of your thighs pressed against his ears, your fingers tangled in his hair once more as you come undone on his tongue. 

He keeps his fingers inside you, thrusting them in and out gently as your thighs fall apart, trembling as he works you over with his tongue again.  

“H-Hao—”  “You can give me another. Just one more, then I’ll fuck you. Yeah?” 

Your legs must feel like jelly the way you spread them limply for him, your cunt covered in his spit and your cum as he slips his fingers out to smear your juices around. A soft gasp falls as he slides them back in with a coo, his lips pressing a kiss to your clit. 

“Messy,” he murmurs, biting his lip at the wet squelching sound you make around his lithe fingers. He can’t tell if you’re embarrassed or not, your hips grinding against his hand lazily as he peppers kisses across your hips. He nips at the skin, sucking soft marks as your whimpers fill the air, “greedy, too. Just taking everything I give you, huh? Such a good girl for me.” 

Your reply is too quiet for him to hear, and he pushes off his knees, trailing kisses up your soft belly as your fingers rake through his hair. He plants his free hand next to your head as he feels himself press against your inner thigh, before his tongue slides in the valley of your breasts. He kisses the flesh carefully, open-mouthed as he makes his way up your throat. Your breathing is all soft pants and bitten moans as your swollen lips are shiny with spit. Your face is flushed as he kisses up your jaw, biting your earlobe lightly and making your eyes open slightly. They’re hazy, watery as your lashes are coated with tears of pleasure as he kisses the side of your face, your pussy clamping around his fingers as his lips ghost over yours. 

“Tell me you missed me.” His mouth brushes yours as you nod silently, “nah, not like that. Tell me. Tell me you missed my cock inside you.” 

He knows it’s not the same thing, but it’s all he’s got in the moment as your eyes widen, his thumb pressing against your clit as a choked sound falls from your lips. You cant your hips up, but he stills his fingers as he sinks his teeth into your lower lip, “say it.”  

“Missed your cock inside me,” you whisper, tilting your head up to kiss him. He lets you, slotting his lips with yours chastely as you wrap one leg around his hip, “missed feeling you. Haven’t stopped thinking about you.” 

The admission, fake or not, makes his fingers start moving again, your eyes rolling slightly before you shut them. You kiss him again, your hand gripping the ends of his hair between your fingers as if to keep yourself grounded. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, a groan from your lips as you taste yourself all over him, your pussy clamping around his fingers at it. He smirks into your kiss, gently rutting his cock against your thigh as you coat his fingers again with a shuddered whine. 

Your hand shoves his fingers away as they circle your clit, shaking your head as you snap the waistband of his underwear against his hip, “take them off. Wanna feel you.” 

You pull his fingers into your mouth, slipping your tongue between them and collecting your juices off his skin. His eyes are glued to your lips, swollen and bitten from his teeth as his other hand cups your breast, running his thumb over your nipple and smiling inwardly at the way your back arches off the mattress lightly. Your ankle kicks his hip lightly as you pull off his fingers with a pop, and he pushes off the mattress to reach into his pocket for his wallet.  

Not a single condom in sight. 

“Shit,” he mutters, and you sit up, pointing at something on the nightstand. He glances at it – a pink pill case. Slots reading Monday through Sunday... 

“You’re clean, yeah?” You lean back on your elbows, your chest heaving slightly and your skin shiny with a layer of sweat. He nods, and you gesture at his jeans with your foot, the French tip pedicure glossy in the low light, “so take it off.” 

He wastes no time shucking off his pants and underwear in one go, hissing softly as his underwear brushes over his leaking cock. You sink your teeth into your lower lip as he wraps his hand around himself, a soft laugh slipping out as he slots himself between your legs.  

“What’s so funny?” He asks as he spreads beads of his precum through your folds, a soft breath falling from your lips as you feel his tip bump your clit. You shake your head, “nothing.” 

“Tell me.”  “...Just nice to see you so worked up over going down on me.” 

“That’s the way it should be,” he scoffs, forcing himself to focus as he grinds his cock against you, slick and messy with you all over his shaft. “God, missed this pussy.” 

“Just her?” Your voice is airy as he pulls you to the edge of the mattress, your leg resting against his body and your foot against his cheek. He presses a kiss to the side of it, his other hand spreading your thighs apart to peer at your bare cunt against him.  

“Gotta miss you to miss this, you know. One plus one.” He grinds down against you harder, brushing his lips against your ankle as he feels your hole clench around nothing, empty and wanting for him.  

“Not always the case.”  “You’ve plagued me for the last two years, shut up.” 

His voice is lacking confidence as he feels himself grow close just from the feeling of you against him, feeling his limbs slightly fuzzy as he takes his cock in his hand, his tip circling your hole carefully. 

“I won’t last very long,” he admits softly, and you tilt your hips up, his tip barely dipping inside you. He sinks in fully, his hips flush to yours as you clamp around him like a vice. A whine gets caught in his throat, annoyed at himself for being so close at the feeling of you – so wet and warm and delicious. “Shit.” 

“Fuck me,” you mewl, his hands moving to wrap around your thighs and pin you in place. He gives a roll of his hips, muffling his groan by sinking his teeth into your calf. You’re trying to move against him, but he gives a harsh thrust, hitting that spongy spot inside you and making your back arch up off the bed. Your hands trail up your body, cupping the bottom of your breasts before running your fingers over your hardened nipples. He watches you through hooded eyes, fucking his cock into you at a menacing pace that makes you whimper his name sinfully. He rests his head against your leg, kissing the skin of it as you continue to touch yourself, rolling your nipple through your fingers as his lips ache to be wrapped around them. 

He splays his hands on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart as he bends at the waist, dragging his tongue up from your navel and between your breasts before your hand finds home in his hair as he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it, shivering at how hard you clench around him, your walls fluttering as your moans fill his head. He feels like it’s swimming, intoxicated with the smell and taste of you all over him as he switches sides, scraping the neglected bud lightly with his teeth and earning a tug of your fingers in his hair, his groan covering your skin as he laps at the peak gently. 

“Want you to cum inside me,” you breathe out, “fill me up. Please.”  

He doesn’t respond, trying to stave himself off as his hips threaten to stutter. Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down slightly and he has to force himself to rip them away and pin them next to your head. He finds your lips, “can’t use your pretty nails. Have a show next week, baby.” 

You pout against his lips, kissing him slowly as he sinks lower against you, your chest flush to his. His hand slips out of yours, running between your bodies and curling around your hip as he sinks into your kiss. It’s slow and sensual, your legs wrapping around his hips and locking your ankles at the dip of his spine as his cock twitches inside you. 

“Feel so good,” his face is buried in your neck, his hand on your hip slipping between your thighs to circle your clit and make you finish before him. You’re a whining mess under him, his eyes squeezing shut as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, feeling the rush of your orgasm dripping down his thighs and soaking the mattress as he spills inside you. Your chest is heaving in tandem with his as he rocks his hips into you, working you into overstimulation as your moans grow weak. 

“S’too much,” you’re barely speaking above a whisper, and he covers your mouth with his as he stops, his hips flush to yours as he kisses you softly. You try to keep up, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close as his hands circle your knees, pushing them to your chest before carefully pulling out. He pulls away from your lips with a chaste kiss, his eyes glancing at the mess of you and him between your thighs. 

He feels his cheeks hot as he looks back up at you, an embarrassed look glazing your eyes as you clear your throat. 

“...I didn’t even say hello when I walked in.” He says suddenly, and you cover your mouth with your hand as you bite back a sound akin to a snort. He presses your knees together, “hi.” 

“Hey,” you laugh, running your hand through your hair. “It’s...nice to see you.” 

“Cut the shit,” he scoffs, and you only laugh harder as your arms cover your chest. He smiles inwardly, pressing his forehead to your knees, “I don’t know what came over me.” 

“Me either, but I’m not mad about it.” You wipe at your eyes, before scrunching your nose, “I’m gonna have to ask to get the sheets changed and they’re gonna know I got laid.” 

You cover your face with a pillow, letting out a groan of embarrassment as he laughs, “you’re an adult and you had a visitor. I’m sure they didn’t think we were just going to talk.” 

“Speaking of, you got here fast. Desperate to see me?” You lift the pillow just enough to show him the wiggle of your brows, only for him to tongue his lip and land a soft smack on your ass. You squeal, swatting his hand away as he turns his nose up, “I was taught never to keep a lady waiting.” 

“And you sure didn’t,” you tease, making him stick his tongue out at you as his hands slide down your thighs. He gives them a soft squeeze as you toss the pillow aside, stretching your arms over your head. You’re still covered with his spit and blooming nips of his teeth, “kind of a funny reunion, huh?” 

“The NDA is up in two weeks, otherwise I would’ve used it to get out of throwing that damn first pitch.” He admits, looking around before spotting a towel on the vanity. You snicker as he grabs it, carefully wiping you down. You wince here and there, before sitting up on your elbows, “there’s more towels in the bathroom, if you want to...shower before you go.” 

“I can’t promise it won’t get frisky if we’re both in there,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your knee. 

“Who said I was joining you?”  “The fact that you probably can’t even stand up on your own.” 

“Damn, got me there.” You sigh, his fingers massaging into the flesh of your thighs instinctively. A silence settles over you both, your eyes meeting as he smooths his palms against your skin. He squeezes carefully, "should we skip the small talk?"

You don't respond, merely spreading your knees with a quirk of your brow. He rolls his eyes, pinching your thigh gently and making you suck in a breath, "use words."

"I don't know what we are or what we're doing, if that's what you want to know," you say pointedly as he kneels back on the bed, his hands holding your knees apart as he scans your face. "I don't even know why I came to Shanghai. I don't plan ahead, I don't think twice. I just do it. I just go."

"So, you're reckless." "I'm spontaneous."

"You're full of shit," he snorts, making you smirk as you shrug, opting to lay back against the bed with your arms crossed behind your head. His hands slid up your thighs, squeezing the soft dip of your hips carefully. You shrug again, hooking a finger around the dangling silver chain and giving it a soft tug.

"I'd say I'm a spontaneous young woman with a promising career and good taste in sexual deviants," you nod slowly, and he has to bite back the smile threatening to spread on his lips as he hovers over you. He presses his lips to yours chastely, feeling the warmth flushing on your cheeks as he cups your face gently.

"Sexual deviant, huh?" "Sorry, do you prefer fuck buddy?"

"Shut up," he mutters against your lips, slotting them with his and swallowing the limp attempt at a chuckle from your throat. You card your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the roots as you kiss him eagerly. You're just as smooth with your tongue as you were then, carefully licking into his mouth as his hand wandered down between your bodies, wrapping around his cock. You spread your thighs further for him without breaking the kiss, and he smiles against your parted lips as he slides the tip of his cock through your slick folds. "Give me one for the road."

"Let me get on top." "Whatever you want, baby."

MINGHAO DIDN'T END UP LEAVING YOUR HOTEL ROOM UNTIL AN HOUR BEFORE YOU DID.

He'd spent the entire night and most of the next day between your thighs, if not holding you flush to him in the shower and washing your hair for you. Conversations were fulfilling though limited, often interrupted by a pair of lips kissing some expanse of skin — he ignores the coil in his stomach when he thinks about the sweet taste of your lip balm fading as the night went on.

Another Monday night of parting felt…laughable, honestly. He snorted at himself as he shoved himself into the black taxi he ordered, letting you kiss him goodbye one too many times for it to just be casual. Your scent lingered on his lips, his skin, and he felt exactly the same way he did when he left Osaka before you did — six hours earlier, pressing a lingering kiss to your soft mouth and wishing you a safe flight.

He'd done the same then, but he let you get carried away. He let you pull him in again, he almost let you take his pants off again but managed to get himself together before you could. You were almost too tempting, and it made his skin prickle as you watched from your door as he walked down the hall to the elevator. He stepped into it, thankful that there wasn't an awkward wait before waving again. He heard your laugh ring out before the doors closed, and he closed his eyes, gripping the railing and taking a deep breath.

This doesn't mean anything.

Just two people blowing off steam with someone that knows what the other likes.

He knows you prefer receiving oral, you know he prefers giving it. He knows that you're not into edging, rather overstimulation, he knows that you like to be held closely afterwards. He knows you like to be kissed breathless, that you like to be bitten, nipped at, suckled on…

That you would rather be on top and control the narrative — but you know he craves that same control, grappling at the ends of his sanity the same way you do.

The spotlight is something you both share, and though in different lights…you understand each other. Flashing cameras, winded magazine articles, online criticism forums — neither of you discuss your professional lives in depth. He knows you like to dabble in drinking with friends or long nights out to distract from the giant baseball career weighing on your back, you know he disappears completely into EDM parties and recording sessions to duck out of the blinding runway lights.

There is an unspoken comfort, an unvoiced observance that gives you both the answers you seek about one another.

And yet, he still rolls his eyes when he finds himself wanting to hear your voice.

He hasn't seen you since that Monday in Shanghai. It's been a total of four days, and he made a pit-stop in Seoul before Seokmin, Seungkwan and Soonyoung hauled him to Daegu in the back of an unmarked SUV that felt suspiciously like a kidnapping — he eyed them with more suspicion as they whispered on and on within themselves before flashing him falsely reassuring smiles.

Your schedule was packed; you'd done a handful of interviews, a few features in magazines and updated your Instagram profile since. In which he saw himself, once more, riddled in the crevices of your photos. The same Shanghai skyline photo you'd taken, a few snapshots of beautifully plated dishes, you in fitting rooms and hanging out with blurred friends…

And a singular photo of you in the steamy bathroom mirror right after he'd washed your hair — clad in a loose pair of blueberry-print pajamas and a blur of his (accidentally) scratched back. You apologized for the nail marks, he just shook his head and pressed his lips to yours, swallowing your apologies and pressing you into the tile. He winced when the hot water hit his skin, your fingers squeezing his hip gently before you lathered gentle soap over the expanse of the lean muscle.

You had taken it after he kissed you for an hour until the water ran cool, wandering hands spreading soapy suds all over each other. After he'd grimaced at the bruising of his teeth littered on your skin, a mark sucked deep on your inner thigh. After he'd brushed his teeth next to you — the second toothbrush and his collection of jewelry glistening in the corner of the photo. The carousel has a soft song over top — Heart Burn by Sunmi, again.

diamonddazed: i hope i'll be home to you someday, even if shanghai is the closest i'll ever get to it.

You posted it just after he landed in Seoul at two-something in the morning, and was clambered into the SUV by his team. He stared at the photo for fifteen minutes, sat in the back of the van before closing his eyes and shamelessly double tapping the screen. He turned his phone off right after, sliding it into the cup holder and settling his neck into the travel pillow Seungkwan had slid over his shoulders.

They'd been far too awake for two in the morning.

The team kept the curtains drawn, but he couldn't sleep — opting to stare out the sunroof as dawn crept in, his eyes burning with fatigue. Seokmin typed away on his laptop next to Minghao, eyes low as they peered at the screen's low brightness. He clicked around, rubbing his face once or twice before Minghao reached over and blindly closed the laptop. Seokmin sighed, settling his rigid shoulders into the stiff leather seats.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," he says softly, and Minghao peels an eye open as far as he can with a shrug, "I have a pit in my stomach."

"Tomorrow is a short day, don't worry. We'll have all day to rest up today." "When does the game happen?" "Six, but we'll be there by four to get you situated with everyone. Take some pictures, get some refreshments, maybe have one of the players help on your form. You might not care about baseball, but it's important you leave a good impression."

"I assume this was all said in that groupchat with Seungcheol?" He murmurs back, lolling his head against the seat as Seokmin nods, "and Y/N."

"I'm sorry?" "Y/N Kim. The pitcher? She's in the group."

Minghao feigns confusion, shrugging before closing his eyes. He feels his cheeks warm at the memory of your lips on his, your fingers carding through his hair with a rough tug that made him sink his teeth into the column of your throat.

"Right. Is she nice?" "Yes, very. She'll be at dinner with Seungcheol with us, but she won't be staying there like we will." "Cool, cool…anyone else I should know about?"

"Sure," he shrugs, crossing his arms on his chest. He eyes Minghao hard enough that the younger man can feel it, prompting him to look over, "mhm?"

"Jeonghan flew in." Seokmin raises a brow, and Minghao snorts, "Jeonghan? What for? We have a show."

"Because Seungcheol asked him to." "You'd think those two would have tied the knot by now." "Someone's dragging their feet and it's not Jeonghan."

"Ooh, messy," Minghao chuckles, shaking his head, "I forget they're dating at times."

"Don't we all," Seokmin stretches his legs as best as he can, wincing as soreness creeps up his thighs from the cramped seat. "I'm just hoping they'll do it sooner rather than later. Jeonghan's impatient and Seungcheol keeps pushing it back with things happening in their careers. I wouldn't be surprised if Seungcheol flew to Tokyo with us at this point."

"The more the merrier."

The rest of the ride is splattered with small talk — the weather, what does Minghao want to wear, is he comfortable staying at Seungcheol's house instead of a hotel…but none of it really registers. Minghao gives half-assed answers, bunching his blanket high on his lap when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. Seokmin has dozed off, his cheek mushed against his own travel pillow as Minghao digs his phone out of his pocket.

NEW! 3 Messages from: Y/N [5:29 AM] Hiii [5:29 AM] Cheollie told me you're staying with him? Is that true? [5:29 AM] I miss you.

He bites back his smile, tonguing his lip as he quickly types a few responses out. He sends them off, pressing his thumb to his lips as he watches the read receipt pop up almost immediately.

Message To: Y/N [5:30 AM] Five in the morning, shouldn't you be in bed? [5:30 AM] Yes, we're staying with Seungcheol. I don't know why but I'm not complaining, either. [5:30 AM] And to say you miss me…feels like a lie, hm?

NEW! 3 Messages from: Y/N [5:30 AM] I am in bed, Mr. Xu. Just checking in 👀 [5:30 AM] Seungcheol invited me to dinner tomorrow after the game but I haven't given him an answer in case you don't want me there. [5:30 AM] Maybe I'm a little tipsy but I still mean it. Come see me if you want…I'd love to see you.

He can picture you sprawled on your bedsheets in those soft pajamas you like. Freshly washed hair, with the taste of soju on the tip of your tongue — he'd seen you in Mingyu's Instagram story earlier that night with Jihyo and Tzuyu, huddled over a steaming hot pot and clinking shot glasses together.

You'd looked pretty. The strap of your dress had fallen down your shoulder, and you were squished against Jihyo's smiling face with all your teeth gleaming in the flash of the camera, plump lips slick with gloss and those very same nails that dragged down his back.

Message To: Y/N [5:32 AM] And I'd love to come see you but I'm on zero sleep. I'd be of no use to your needs. [5:33 AM] But…come to dinner. Wear something pretty.

Your message comes in almost instantly.

NEW! 2 Messages From: Y/N [5:33 AM] Come see me anyway. I only live down the block from Seungcheol, you can lie and say you're getting breakfast at the convenience store across from me. [5:33 AM] Please.

Minghao chews on his lip — glancing up to the dashboard and seeing that he'll be in Seungcheol's neighborhood in less than three minutes. He doesn't think about it too much; silently transferring a shirt and pair of sleep pants into his backpack as Seokmin snores softly.

He'll make up an excuse later.

Getting out of Seungcheol's house is a lot easier than anticipated. His team was far too tired to question why he was so awake, and he helped them all settle in Seungcheol's spare rooms. Seungcheol and Jeonghan were getting tipsy on the back deck, and Minghao let them know he'd be slipping out for a second. Seungcheol glanced at him, eyes glassy as he gave him a soft smile.

"Y/N's gate code is 1-1-0-9." He sang quietly, and Minghao only feigned amusement, ruffling the older man's hair before ducking out the enormous front doors. He shoved his hands in his pockets, thankful for the chilly air that kept him alert as he made his way down to your house. You'd been telling him you'd fall asleep if he didn't get there soon — and he wonders if you've fallen asleep when he stands in front of the heavy steel gates of your home. He glances around, nibbling on his lip before flipping the gate pad open and typing in the numbers Seungcheol had teased him with.

The gates unlock with a clunk, and he slips in and shuts it with his foot. He makes sure the lock has moved back in place before glancing up, seeing you standing at the open glass doors. Your pajamas are rumpled and you're squinting in the morning sun, your hand covering your eyebrows as he makes his way up the mosaic path made of colorful stones.

"You're unbelievable," he greets, fighting back a smile as you grin brightly. You're still clearly tipsy, the sway in your stance amusing as he steadies you carefully when you reach your arms out to him. He reaches one hand back to close and lock your front door; the other carding through your hair as you hum in satisfaction, resting your chin on his chest as you wrap your arms around his waist. "Still tipsy?"

"Oh, I got hammered. I can't tell you how I'm standing right now." "On your legs." "You're really annoying."

"Yet, you begged me to come over." Minghao chides, his fingers settling on the back of your neck as you give him a deadpan look, "begged is hyperbole, Mr. Xu. Take your shoes off."

"Hyperbole, understatement…it's whatever you say, sweetheart." He shrugs as he toes off his shoes, and you do the same, puckering your lips cutely. He rolls his eyes, craning his neck to press a chaste kiss to them; the minty scent of toothpaste wafting off. You twist out of his hold, sliding your fingers in his and tugging him towards the back of the house.

The common areas say more about you than he could've ever figured — dozens, if not hundreds of photos and memories scatter the baby blue walls from crown molding to baseboards. Huge art pieces are tastefully hung around the living room, gorgeous Tiffany lamps on glossy side tables, a beautiful deep sapphire sofa set with soft throw blankets. A pair of cream pillows with golden stitching are strewn on the recliner in the corner, the coffee table exhibiting an open book with highlighter and annotations next to a journal with blue ink scrawled across the lined pages.

"This is my humble abode, you can get a tour later." You hoot, pulling him through a dimmer hallway. The walls are painted a deep cherry red behind the quilted sapele shelves of vinyls, a player atop a barely open matching credenza. If he peeked inside, he'd see even more vinyls — retired ones you no longer played until you remember that one good song, what was it? I think I have the record!

Your bedroom is nothing like what he'd expect from you. The walls are forest green, the curtains dark brown and the blinds drawn. Your bed is in the middle of the room, surrounded by stunning zebrano furniture. Your ceiling boasts a massive fan, the blades shaped like moth wings and spinning slowly. The walls are covered with baseball paraphernalia, rock music posters, a Catwoman poster next to your closet and another vinyl — Hold The Girl by Rina Sawayama, hung directly above another player.

"Do you like?" You ask, your hair still in disarray as you tilt your head. He nods slowly, "very cool. Earthy…a little dark."

"I'm gonna have a massive hangover. Gotta keep it dark for now." "Oh, no doubt babe." "Not your babe."

"True," he says pointedly, glancing down at you. You're pouting, and he coos; lithe fingers tucking your hair behind your ears. He toys with the earrings speckled about the shells, a gold hoop catching his attention as he fiddles with it, "what's with the face?"

"You didn't call." "Ahh…did you want me to?" "…Maybe. I don't know."

You shrug, toying with the strings of his sweatpants. He hums, smoothing his hand over your hair before pressing his lips to your forehead, "we can talk about this later, yeah? When you're not tipsy and I'm not about to pass out."

"We could, yeah." You agree quietly, dropping your hands from his clothes and gesturing towards the bathroom, "that way. You can change or shower, too, I set some stuff out in case you did."

"Can barely stand but is a good host. Very redeeming." "Careful, you'll fall in love with me and I don't quite feel like cleaning up that mess."

He chuckles, pinching your cheek as you swat at his hip. He makes his way to the bathroom, the door ajar as he slips in. He hears you shuffling around, likely making yourself comfortable as he flicks the light on — a soft yellow light illuminates a stone shower with a smooth bench and golden fixtures. There's a fluffy white towel on the sink, a new toothbrush laid out next to it with a small array of travel toiletries. He tongues his cheek, glancing at himself in the mirror — more pictures of you and your friends. Polaroids taken in that very bathroom tucked neatly into the corners of the mirror's frame. Mingyu, Tzuyu, Hansol, Jihyo. A bunch of other people he's met in passing — Yoo Jeongyeon (a singer-songwriter), Jeon Wonwoo (a photographer for Cherry Jubilee)…

Wen Junhui, his life-long best friend and an actor — also a model on his limited free time for Cherry Jubilee and the face of Tzuyu's Lazy Baby menswear. He raises a brow, filing the photo away in his mind as he strips to get in the shower.

He doesn't let himself think much as he goes through the motions of his routine, opting to get in quick and get out quicker. He brushes his teeth, opting to towel dry his hair so as to not wake you if you're already asleep. He glances at the pictures once more, his eyes lingering on Junhui's squished cheek with yours before flicking the light off and ducking back out.

You're curled into a ball, facing away from the bathroom but the duvet is pulled back where he assumes you want him to lay down. You stir slightly, your hand blindly reaching behind you as he slips onto the mattress. Your fingers brush his shirt, quickly bunching it in your hand as you pull him down. He bites back his smile, sinking into the bed behind you and pulling the duvet over his hips. Your hand grabs his, interlacing your fingers and holding them to your chest.

"Can I ask you something?" He murmurs, and you hum, nodding as he curls himself around you, holding himself up on his elbow. He peers down at you, biting back his smile at the way your lashes kiss your cheeks. "What's your walk-up song?"

You snort, letting out a tired laugh as you peel an eye open, raking it over his face as he leans over you. He presses his lips to your cheek, the warmth of your skin flushing against his, "it's When I Grow Up by The Pussycat Dolls."

"You've always known you'd be a big deal, huh?" "I was made for this. Now, sleep. Hold me."

He snickers, planting a kiss to your temple as you hum. Your hand is tight around his, high on your chest as he buries your face in the back of your neck, a thin necklace brushing his lips. Your skin smells of pears and lilies, an underlying powder scent filling his nose as he sighs, letting his body sag into the mattress.

He doesn't bother thinking about how he could fall in love with you.

And maybe, already has.

THE BALL PARK IS MASSIVE — MINGHAO CAN'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME HE'D SEEN SOMETHING SO ARTIFICIALLY GREEN.

He's still peeking out through one of the hallways, basking in the chill of the air conditioning that will disappear the moment he steps onto the field. There's people sitting in the stands that aren't exactly customers. There's managers, photographers, even interviews happening right on the turf. Some players are dressed fully, caps set backwards and casualness drifting off their set-back shoulders — and then there's you, in black shorts and a Daegu Diamonds Training Camp t-shirt and standing at the mound.

A woman in standing in front of you but he knows its you — red nails, now trimmed short, digging into your arms as you cross them on your chest. She's got you looking up, passing a fluffy brush under your eyes before allowing you to step back from her. Your lips have that same gloss carefully glimmering under the lights, and your hair is slicked back with a sheen of gel — but he can't focus on just you as more people surround you. A taller man hands you a ball of many in his bag and a permanent marker, making you talk about one thing or another as you're scribbling your autograph on the composite leather.

"That's Y/N Kim." Seokmin's voice is suddenly in his ear, as is the slosh of the ice in a drink. Minghao glances down, seeing Seokmin holding a Daegu Diamonds Collectible cup filled to the brim with lemonade and covered with a clear lid — and a jersey draped over his arm with a matching one resting on his shoulders.

"Guess you're having the time of your life, huh?" Minghao chuckles, and Seokmin shrugs as he holds the jersey out to him. It's a crisp white with the signature powder blue and navy grey details of the Daegu Diamonds logo, and it's not sporting any of the autographs that Seokmin's is. "You earn those stripes?"

"You know it," Seokmin sips his drink, before gesturing around the park. "I spent my weekends growing up driving all around the country with my parents to see the Diamonds play. Got the shirt big so it'd fit forever. Look at me now, close with the players and with season tickets! Oh…and bringing you along!"

"Aww, you're sweet," Minghao chuckles as he rolls his eyes, carefully taking the jersey and pulling it over his shirt. He doesn't bother buttoning it, opting to look around the park from his spot in the hall, "we'll be in the audience during the game?"

"And we're having dinner with Seungcheol and Y/N before we fly out tomorrow at noon. The other teammates have plans, and a few are actually going out to Japan to see you strut your stuff," Seokmin bumps Minghao's hip with his, before the crunch of cleats and your voice traveling catches his attention.

"It was incredible! Shanghai never disappoints me," your laugh is soft as you're suddenly in front of him and Seokmin. Your eyes are wide as you feign surprise, extending your hand to him, "you must be…Minghao. I heard I was going to meet you today."

"Xu Minghao, yes. He's throwing your first pitch today!" Seokmin beams beside him, as Minghao carefully takes your hand as though he hadn't pinned it by your head only a week earlier. You gave his a soft squeeze, "you're even more ethereal in person."

"Haven't heard that one yet." Minghao smiles gently, making you roll your eyes. "Y/N Kim. I've heard a lot about…you."

"You don't know a thing about baseball." "Not nearly as much as I know about soccer." "Zero times zero is still zero, Mr. Xu."

"Sense of humor, I like her," Minghao looks over his shoulder at Seokmin. He's got that twinkle in his eye that Minghao has learned to recognize when he wants to say something he shouldn't. "Whatever you're thinking—"

"I'm not thinking anything! Y/N, beloved, teach this guy a thing or two." Seokmin pats Minghao's shoulder, before his eyes catch your hand still holding his. "You can't hold hands, rumors will fly."

"Not a baseball player and a model, what would the people say?" You pretend to be scandalized, but effectively drop Minghao's hand to hold your own to his chest. "Xu Minghao steps into the Diamond Life…pretty catchy headline."

"I'll leave you two to this…odd mating dance," Seokmin turns on his heel, and Minghao almost turns to face you before Seokmin turns once more, "oh, don't let me forget…I'll ask why you're both wrapped up in an NDA dated back two years after the game."

Your face reads like a book — and Seokmin only smiles before holding his phone up.

"Don't CC me next time!" He beams, walking backwards before turning around and calling Seungcheol's name, the captain whipping his head over to see him bounding over. Minghao gingerly reaches over and closes your mouth, his knuckle tapping your chin as a sheepish smile spreads on his lips.

"I may or may not have forgotten that my email is automatically set to do that." He says softly, and you cross your arms with what he can't discern is playful or serious disappointment. He matches your expression easily, "hey, it's no better than you soft-launching us on your Instagram! My back, my jewelry, my jacket—"

"You don't even follow me on there! How could you possibly—"

"You're involved in so many people's lives that are important to me. It's only common sense that you'd eventually make that team, too." He states firmly, and you make no move to hide the way a soft smile is spreading on your lips. "Stop."

"Aw, I'm important to you?" "Y/N." "Invite me to your show in Tokyo."

You're almost too close, your hands clasped behind your back as you bat your lashes at him. He scoffs out a laugh, cheeks warming at the proximity as he realizes people around you give absolutely zero fucks about either of you.

He could kiss you and no one would care.

He wants to. And he wants them to care and he wants to brag.

"Don't you have to go practice or something?" Minghao's voice is much less confident with you in his face, his eyes flickering down to your lips as you pout. His knees feel slightly weak, "don't do that."

"Invite me to your show, Minghao." "I already know that Jeonghan gave you a ticket on my behalf." "True…but I want to hear it from you."

He rolls his eyes, his hands finding home on your hips and pulling you slightly closer. You easily drape your arms over his shoulders, peering at him through your lashes with a shy smile, "I missed you."

"You saw me yesterday. In your bed, mind you." "Mmh…but you didn't kiss me before you left." "Didn't know our NDA required goodbye kisses."

You press your lips to his gently, his arms tightening around your waist as he nips at your lower lip, "come to my show."

"Say please and I might even let you—" "We're in public. Please come to my show and tell me I look pretty."

You only smile against his lips, "can I soft launch on Instagram again?"

"If that's what you need to do to ease me into the Diamond Life." "Come on, loser. I can't have my NDA partner embarrassing himself on the mound. Today, pitcher. Tomorrow…supermodel. What a life you live."

Minghao hadn't bothered to hide the way your thigh was thrown over his at dinner, and neither of you explained anything to Seokmin — it was easy to figure out. Seungcheol and Jeonghan had fun dissecting your vague Instagram posts, finding details of Minghao in almost any and every post — including the orchid-stamped signet ring that was in almost every single one of your posts. Minghao doesn't know how he missed it, but all he knows is that he'd really missed you.

It's been three days since the show.

You'd sat quietly, dressed in a beautiful red dress from Tzuyu's unreleased Lazy Baby Spring collection — and that same dress was featured hanging in the back of one of the photos in Minghao's latest Instagram post. Along with a snapshot (courtesy of Jeonghan) of your hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans while the two of you roamed Tokyo, a cropped picture of your friends all crowded together in a too-small booth for a delicious dinner…

And a picture of your hands interlaced, with a new, matching orchid-stamped signet ring on his finger — all of it set to Heartburn by Sunmi.

xuminghao_o: home, no matter where we are. ↳ 💬 diamonddazed: welcome to the diamond life, lover ♡

“sweetheart,” minghao says, taking hold of your hand and helping you out of the car, “it’s really no big deal.”

you scoff, rolling your eyes. releasing minghao’s hand, you deposit your purse into his waiting palm and flounce away, across the car park and to the apartment building doors.

minghao struggles to hold back a laugh as he trails after you. “y/n. you’re not truly mad, are you?”

“of course i’m truly mad,” you huff. “you said i could pay for our date this time.” 

during the five years you’ve been dating minghao, he’s taken you on a whole variety of incredible dates. from the impromptu long weekend to paris to the days where you just go to the restaurant down the block for dinner, minghao has never failed to take care of you and always pays for your meal.

any other person would be flattered to have such a rich and devoted boyfriend. and really, you adore that about him, too.

but, well. you’re rich also. and sometimes, you want to be the one to dote on your boyfriend.

you punch in the building code unnecessarily hard and stomp through the automatic doors before minghao can catch up with you. from behind, you can hear him laughing, and it makes you whirl back around to look at him, pouting extravagantly.

“i don’t see why that’s so funny. you promised, hao,” you whine, and minghao just laughs again.

that night had been just a normal date night, nothing more than the two of you dressing up to go to that one upscale chinese place that you both love. and so, it seemed like the best day to finally start paying for your dates—if it was any big occasion, minghao would’ve definitely protested against the idea, insistent that he wanted to treat you on such a special day.

and at the time, it seemed like it would work.

minghao had smiled at you, adjusting the pearls around your neck, and agreed.

you’d felt ridiculously satisfied, excited at the fact that finally, you’d have a chance to pay for your boyfriend. but oh, how wrong you were.

“i’m sorry, angel,” minghao says now, brushing a finger over your cheek fondly before pressing the ‘up’ button for the elevator. “it just so happened that i’d already paid for our meal before we’d even got there. i didn’t want to burst your bubble by telling you so, but i guess that made it even worse, hm?”

you whine again in frustration. “hao, that’s not even a thing! you can’t pay for a meal in advance!”

“i can when i know exactly what we’re going to order,” minghao grins.

“what?! i swear, that must go against restaurant etiquette! that's actually crazy behaviour. i can't believe you did that."

the elevator arrives then, and minghao gestures for you to get in first. you do, still arguing with him over restaurant rules and whatnot. even as you do so, supposedly very upset over his behaviour, you still hold onto his arm and lean against him to take off your heels, and then pass them over to him once they’re off your aching feet.

minghao smiles amusedly, terribly smitten. 

“—going to get you back for that stunt one day, xu minghao,” you say, stabbing an accusing finger into his shoulder. “gonna book out the entire restaurant. no, wait, the entire street! we’re going to venice one day, and i’m going to close down a whole road for us only. just you wait.”

the elevator doors open with a ding, and he trails behind as you continue talking, dreaming up big plans on how to treat your boyfriend sometime in the future.

it’s devastatingly endearing. he knows it was maybe a tiny, tiny bit mean to advance-pay the bill tonight, but in his defence, he does that most nights anyway. plus, he likes seeing how pouty you get over it, knowing you're not actually upset, but still insisting you are because you can pay for your own meals, without minghao's card, thank you very much.

and you very much can—he hasn’t run the numbers in a while, but he’s pretty sure you’re richer than him right now—but he likes paying for you. likes taking care of you like this.

he inputs the keycode to the apartment, chuckling as you continue to rant.

“okay, alright,” he finally concedes, opening the door and letting you enter first, taking off your wool coat for you and hanging it up by the door. “in which case, how about a compromise? i pay for our ordinary dates like these, and you can pay for special occasions.”

your eyes light up at his words. “wait, really?”

minghao laughs. “yes, really.” he puts your purse on the dresser by the door, your shoes in the shoe cupboard and then takes off his own. “except for valentine’s day, white day, our anniversary, and your birthday. i’ll be paying for those.”

“what?” you complain. “hao, you’re leaving me with nothing!”

“you can pay for my birthday.”

“come on, that’s a given. i would do that anyway.”

you’re giving him those big, sad eyes again, and minghao can’t help but smile even wider. lord, you’re just so pretty and you love him so much and he’s never been more grateful for that because he loves you so much too.

“well,” he says, pretending to think, “we don’t have an engagement or wedding anniversary yet. so if those things ever happen… then maybe…”

your eyes widen, little sparkles appearing in your irises even as your entire face softens, gentle and hopeful. “you’re… you want to marry me?”

minghao can’t take this anymore. he walks over, takes your face in his hands and kisses you, once. and then again, deeper, softer, for good measure. just to get his point across.

“of course,” he murmurs against your lips when he pulls away. “i love you.”

you lean in and peck him on the lips once more. “i love you too,” you say, and then pull away so he can see the mischievous glint in your eyes. “hey. if i propose to you, then i’ll definitely get to pay for every engagement anniversary we have, right?”

minghao laughs, pulling you back into his embrace. “sure, sweetheart. that’s only if you propose to me first, however.”

“are you trying to start a proposal race, minghao?”

“maybe. will you join in, y/n?”

you laugh, looping your arms behind his neck and bringing his face close to yours again. “oh, it’s on.”

Tonight’s target is a man named Arthur Kim. Age forty-three, married, with two daughters𑁋assigned to be executed under the orders of the Dominion for illegally accessing financial streams and attempting to sell them to some brokers located in the Undercity. A fatal error that costed him his entire life, and Minghao was sent to deliver the act within a termination window of two hours.

Minghao didn’t need all that time. 

In due time, the ocular implant in his eye pings, immediately locking onto the target’s heat signature through the reinforced glass and walls. Minghao narrows his gaze, heat mapping across his vision, following the man’s dull amber silhouette frantically pacing inside of his dimly lit and expensive apartment, as if already knowing what’s about to come.

A forty metre gap separates the two buildings. Minghao steps into the void without any hesitation. The wind roars past him as he launches himself off the ledge, his coat flaring out like wings. Twin magnetic grapples fire out from the wrist of his right bionic arm with a sharp hiss, cables flying across the chasm until they latch onto the Helix Tower’s exterior frame. 

At the apex of the launch, he releases the grapples and twists his body into a controlled dive towards the window. The second he makes contact, reinforced glass explodes inward as his boots smashes cleanly through Arthur Kim’s window, causing shards to rain across the carpet floor like confetti. 

The man in question spins around too late, eyes blown wide with utter panic, clutching nothing but a half-empty glass of whiskey in his trembling hand and useless revolver in the other that he shakily points directly at Minghao.

“Don’t… don’t come any closer!” he begs, fingers twitching around the trigger. “I have connections𑁋I-I have a family, a wife, two little girls𑁋I can pay𑁋”

Minghao doesn’t speak. He never does on missions like this. Words are wasted on the already dead.

Instead, he crosses the room in three, perfect strides, way faster than any modified human should. Arthur attempts to shoot, but the revolver kicks back into his grip and causes the bullet to go wide and harmlessly punch into the wall directly behind Minghao, barely grazing the edge of his temple. The second bullet misses again and punches a smoking hole through a video holographic family portrait that flickers and dies mid-laugh.

When Arthur tries to bolt towards the door, Minghao cuts him off with a firm seize to his throat with his cybernetic hand, lifting the man clean off the floor and knocking the breath out of his lungs with a choked gasp. The synthetic muscles and servos whirr softly under the plating as Arthur’s legs kicked uselessly through the air, causing the whiskey glass and gun to slip free out of his hands. 

Arthur’s screams are muddled when a sudden boom of thunder vibrates the world outside. Minghao doesn’t budge, even as the man claws at his grip with both hands. Forty-three years of soft living against a body rebuilt for war𑁋there was never a contest. 

Minghao tightens his hold ever so slightly. Not enough to fully incapacitate yet. He wants the man to feel it, to feel the consequences of his actions with a teasing crush to his windpipe. The ocular implant in his left eye feeds him live data: heart rate 179… 203… oxygen saturation plummeting from 97% to 47%. It isn’t long until Arthur’s face bloats and washes into a deep crimson. Veins stand out like ropes along his temples. His eyes bulge, whites shot through with burst capillaries, tears leaking from the corners as his tongue presses thickly against his teeth.

Nothing but a wet, gurgling choke escapes him, barely audible over the storm raging outside and Minghao’s ironclad grip. “Please… my girls…”

The man continues to spew out gargled, pathetic words𑁋about his family who he only wanted to provide for, his wife who didn’t know anything, his innocent little girls𑁋and Minghao doesn’t feel a single ounce of remorse for it. He was assigned a task to complete. There was nothing programmed in him for mercy or pity. 

When Minghao squeezes his fingers a fraction tighter, Arthur’s windpipe collapses with a wet, sickening pop. His eyes roll back completely in his head, his face drained of colour, as one final spasm jerks through his body before his arms drop limp to his side. Minghao holds him suspended in the air for a full ten seconds after the heart monitor flatlines before opening his hand.

Arthur’s body falls to the floor with a thud, sprawling among the glass shards and spilled whiskey. A thin stream of blood leaks from the corner of his mouth and pools beside his lifeless eyes. Updated data swarms through Minghao’s vision.

TARGET: Arthur Kim — TERMINATED ELAPSED TIME: 8 minutes, 53 seconds

Minghao exhales a breath through his nose, rolling his shoulders back. The servos under his bionic arm hum faintly through the movement of his artificial joints, recalibrating itself from the temporary exertion. Eight minutes and fifty-three seconds. It’s somewhat sloppy by his standards, but the noise of the storm did well to hide most of the struggle. Still, the Dominion would be satisfied with his work as they always are. 

He crouches beside the corpse, metal fingers brushing against the man’s neck to confirm zero pulse. Rain pours in from the shattered window, mixing in with the whiskey and the small pool of blood at his feet. This was definitely one of his messier missions, but the cleanup crew will do their task when he leaves.

He does a quick scan around the room, cycling through spectral overlays𑁋motion, thermal, electromagnetic. No alarms or security drones are detected. Arthur Kim had been arrogant enough to hide behind privacy glass and a single biometric lock on his door. What an amateur. 

The apartment is dead silent now, except for the storm outside slowly beginning to dull out. But what catches him for a split second is the glitchy sound of laughter. Minghao shoots a glance toward the broken holographic family portrait that Arthur had shot at just moments ago.

His gaze lingers on the screen as it flickers erratically. What remains is a looping fragment: Arthur Kim smiling wide with his arms looped around another woman, and two small girls in front of them, both of them with equally big grins as if the world had never once been cruel.

The audio stutters with one of the girls saying, “Daddy, look! I drew you a𑁋” before restarting the loop again. 

Minghao forcibly tears his eyes away. He forces out a flat exhale through his nose, turning his back on the portrait entirely. Sentiment was a luxury for the wealthy civilians; for him, it was just irrelevant data. He mindlessly steps over Arthur’s corpse and treads his way toward the shattered window, climbing onto the rain-slicked ledge without looking back. 

The wind claws onto him immediately, trying to sweep him off the building. He activates the magnetic grapples through his hand and anchors onto the opposite structure. With one powerful pull, he’s airborne again, swinging across the forty-metre gap like a shadow trailing through the void. Then he finds himself running across the rooftop before stopping right at the edge.

Below him, the city continues its restless slumber. Minghao watches it all distantly.

Then he jumps down into the void as the rain washes away the city’s sins. 

This time, the fall felt a little longer than it should have.

SECTOR THREE — THE AETHER DISTRICTS

“And what is this one here supposed to represent? The colour palette you chose is truly… evocative.”

You give a polite and charming smile to the gallery patron in front of you. A middle-aged man within the wealthy elitists of the city, too rich to the point he’s probably untouchable. He’s wearing a flashy chrome silver suit, a champagne glass in his hand, and both of his eyes appear obviously augmented. He’s standing a little too close for comfort to you, gaze wandering down your figure instead of the digital artwork displayed in front of him. The gun hidden under your coat suddenly feels ten times heavier. 

“The piece explores the themes of emotional preservation through digital decay,” You explain smoothly. “It showcases how memories become distorted when people try to immortalise them.” 

“How fascinating,” the man hums contemplatively, his eyes gleaming a little too brightly when they switch between the artwork and you. “You must have a tortured mind to come up with this, yeah?”

You resist the urge to laugh out of spite. The elitists adore these kinds of things𑁋seeking out tragically profound artwork to place in their grandly guarded penthouses, far removed from the decay eating away at the city. The wealthy have spent the entire evening complimenting your work.

Little do they know that you created it after watching a beggar get murdered in cold blood in the Undercity last month.

Funny how context changes art. 

“Someone with your talent shouldn’t remain independent any longer,” the man chimes back in, eyes pervertedly trailing over your body once again. “I could introduce you to more people who could help you elevate your career beyond these…” He gestures vaguely around the gallery. “...smaller venues.”

The hook beneath the bait. 

You tilt your head thoughtfully, pretending to be interested in the offer. You subtly adjust your stance, giving you enough room to slide your hand underneath your coat, fingertips brushing against your concealed gun. 

“Generous offer,” You reply lightly. “But I prefer maintaining creative control over my own art.”

“Everyone says that before the right amount of money appears.”

A tight-lipped smile forces its way across your face. If only he knew the amount of money currently sitting in your anonymous offshore accounts you’d siphoned from people exactly like him. 

“I appreciate the offer, sir, but I’ll have to decline,” You say, keeping your tone perfectly neutral. “Would you like to make an offer on the product?”

The man taps his foot pensively on the ground, trailing his amused eyes back to your artwork. 

“Price won’t be an issue,” he states casually, or more so with that lazy entitlement. “Have it delivered privately to my estate this week. I’ll send the coordinates.”

You nod. “Of course. It’ll arrive by tomorrow evening.” 

The man shoots you a wink, raising his champagne glass in the air before taking a slow sip that almost makes you want to gag. “Smart girl.”

You offer him one last polite smile as he walks away. But the moment his back is turned and you watch his figure disappear into the crowd of mingling elitists roaming through your gallery, the smile immediately fades off your face. You retrieve your hand from where it had been hiding underneath your coat.

God, your feet are aching. 

As the day begins to wind down to the night, the last patron finally steps out just after 22:17. You lock the hydraulic gallery doors with a click, dimming the overhead lights to thirty percent until only the neon colours of your digital canvases remain as the only sources of life. 

Then you move behind the counter and slip your heels off, your feet throbbing from hours of walking and pretending to care about rich people’s feelings. It’s time to conduct your closing routine. 

First, the security sweep. You pull up the gallery’s neural interface on your wrist watch, entering a quick code that shows off the holographic display of the building. You check through cameras, motion sensors, and electromagnetic jammers𑁋they all check green. Then a secondary backdoor protocol that scrubs any facial recognition data the elitists might have tried to sneak in on their visit. 

Next, you handle the finances. You transfer tonight’s legitimate sales onto the gallery’s clean account and send a generous amount into your offshore wallets. The piece you sold to the chrome-suited pervert would be delivered by drone tomorrow. You guess it helps to bring you closer to whatever ‘enough’ means anymore. 

After the finances are secured and the gallery’s digital footprint scrubbed clean, a soft ping of your wrist watch grabs your attention. You smile to yourself, realising it’s an encrypted message from Vernon𑁋another ghost hacker who’s been operating in the depths of the Undercity and one of the very few people you trust enough not to point a gun at on sight. 

The man once hacked a Dominion military convoy while actively high, laughed through the entire thing, and he never got caught once. So yeah, that’s how much trust you put in him. 

The two of you have recently formed a partnership together, combining your goals in exposing the corruption rotting through the Dominion from near-opposite ends in the city. Vernon specialised in infiltrating governmental infrastructure and extracting classified data; you specialised in infiltrating the social bloodstreams of the elitists and laundering decrypted data and money to other ghost hackers in your field. 

You can definitely say he’s the closest thing to family, with…whatever family you have left. It’s strange considering that you both carry enough criminal charges to disappear forever if the Dominion ever got their hands on you. If shit ever hits the fan, your existences would be completely erased. 

The Dominion𑁋in most people’s eyes𑁋are basically worshipped like gods. They emerged as the most powerful megacorporation of the city right after the government had basically collapsed in itself and humanity was fighting one another for survival. They were painted as saviours for rebuilding civilisation and spreading advanced cybernetic medicine and technology.

To the people, they promised stability and safety. That promise was never fulfilled, because their only goal was total control. 

You knew pieces of it. Vernon had been feeding you fragments for months.

Together, you both have secretly stolen enough information in the past six months to fill a small data vault. Progress has been slow and time-consuming, but every ounce of corruption pulled from the Dominion’s veins felt like another brick removed from their tower. One day, it would all come crashing down. 

You open Vernon’s encrypted message. 

VERNON yo ghost u alive? heard u had a gallery showing tonight did u manage to manipulate any rich freaks to join ur harem?

You snort quietly to yourself, the sound echoing throughout the empty gallery.

Y/N a few yeah some creep wanted to buy the art and the artist was hella close to kicking him in the balls but i realised that would be bad for business anyway, closing up now. about to head back to the loft

It takes a few minutes for Vernon’s next encrypted message to send.

VERNON cool cool cool got some new toys to play with wanna try them out with me? i got snacks and some fresh ash to smoke

A low laugh leaves you. Vernon always had his own definition of chaos. First step: casually hijack the relays of a Dominion cargo truck. Second: somehow succeed. Then finally: get high off enough ash to think it was funny.

You shake your head in fond disbelief before typing back. 

Y/N say less i’ll be there by midnight

VERNON fuck yeah don’t ditch me for some rich art daddy pls

When your wristwatch slips dark again, you lean back against the counter and allow the silence of the gallery to settle around you for a moment. The gallery looks beautiful at night. Cold, but beautiful. You meticulously slide out of the side exit and trigger the final lockdown sequence on your wristwatch.

The streets of the Aether Districts are still slick from the same storm that must have rolled through earlier this week. The sounds of hover-traffic hum overhead on the nearby skyways that travel throughout each district. The higher tier you are, the more pristine the skyways become; the lower you are, the more grimy and forgotten they are. 

You pull your hood up over your head, shove your hands in your pockets, and head towards the Undercity.

SECTOR SIX — THE UNDERCITY

The Undercity. Home sweet rotting home. The air is thicker here, heavy with the smell of exhaust and street food grease left to rot on the ground. 

Vernon’s current sanctum is an old shipping containers sitting on the eastern side of the Undercity.. Neon kanji flickers weakly above the reinforced door𑁋some half-dead ramen sign he never bothered to fix. You knock twice, pause for a second, then once more in the stupid rhythm he insists on.

After a few moments, the door hissens open. 

“Finally,” Vernon says, a half-eaten protein bar dangling from his mouth. His hair had been recently cut into this punk-rock style mullet, which you’ve constantly teased him about ever since he got it. 

You only roll your eyes and shove past him into the warm and cluttered interior of his little haven. 

The space is so Vernon. The walls are covered with holographic sticky notes overlapping each other, a bunch of half-disassembled drones, candy wrappers, and empty cans scattered on his workbench at the corner of the room, and a sagging couch (and bed) that has seen better days. Near his computer setup, there’s a small mountain of ‘fresh ash’𑁋the glowing, iridescent synth-weed everyone in the underground swears isn’t addictive. 

You plop down on his beaten-up couch with a groan while Vernon sits down in the chair in front of his computer. The screen behind him flashes with lines of stolen data and files and whatever toys he promised to show you. The old chair creaks under his weight as he kicks his feet up onto the edge of the desk. He’s already reaching over to the ash as if he already knows that you’re thinking about it, taking a few quiet moments to pack the joint. The iridescent smoke travels through the air when he lights it and takes a smooth hit, before passing it to you. 

“Rough day at the gallery?” he asks, his voice carrying that familiar drawl as the ash does its work.

You take the joint from his fingers and pull a deep hit. The sweet burn floods your lungs as you exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl through the air. 

“Understatement of the year,” You retort in annoyance. “I love smiling at entitled pricks while they eye-fuck both me and my art.” 

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” Vernon starts, spinning his chair around to face you. “I pulled some shit from the feeds earlier.” 

Curiosity lights up your face as you stand up and settle by his side. He pulls up some surveillance footage from what seems to be in the Veil Districts according to the timestamp and location at the corner of the screen, captured from a mid-level security camera that had barely survived the storm. The footage is heavily corrupted𑁋static glitching eating at the edges and the feed constantly flickering between security overlays like someone tried to scrub the clip out of sight but failed to finish the job completely. 

“Watch this shit,” Vernon mutters. “Storm hella degraded the quality, but it looks like the Dominion sent one of their shadows out recently.” 

At first, you aren’t able to make out what you’re supposed to be looking at. All you see is rain at first before the footage manages to stabilise. You spot a lone figure in what seems to be a black trench coat, but you aren’t able to make out any sort of face. Rain lashes across the screen when the figure suddenly launches across the gap and smashes through a penthouse window like a missile. 

The rest of the footage doesn’t directly capture whatever is happening inside the apartment, but from what you can see, the signs of a struggle𑁋a murder𑁋is abundantly clear from the grainy, violent flashes of movement. When the figure emerges back into frame, you watch them pause briefly at the window, before jumping across the gap once more and disappearing into the stormy night. 

Your eyes grow wide.

“Holy shit.” You grab hold of Vernon’s mouse, rewinding the footage back slightly, trying to zoom more into whoever this mysterious killing machine is. “Who is that?” 

“No clue,” Vernon answers with a shrug. “But whoever was in there must have definitely pissed off the Dominion in some way.”

You can’t tell if it’s the ash or the footage itself that sends a shiver of paranoia down your spine. That faceless killer is enough of a reminder to show what waited for people like you and Vernon if you both ever slipped up somehow. 

You’ve seen murders before.

In the Undercity, death can be considered as common as rain. You’ve watched bodies being dragged into alleyways and witnessed gang disputes end with blood painting the pavement. 

This one shouldn’t feel any different, but there was something about it that sticks to your skin like a vice. 

“Were you able to clean it up at all?” You ask Vernon. 

“Already tried. Tried boosting the resolution, running reconstruction software… Nothing.”

Your fingers clench tighter around the joint, tight enough you feel the burn searing at your fingertips. “Then what the fuck is that thing?” 

“I don’t know,” Vernon responds truthfully, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “And I don’t really want to find out… if it means ending up like that guy.” 

Passing the joint back to him, you watch the sweet iridescent smoke curl in the air as the frozen footage of the shadow operative sits almost tauntingly on the screen. That faceless killer in the black trench coat has your nerves buzzing harder than the ash.

“Dig deeper,” You urge him, standing up and leaning over his shoulder. “Maybe try crossing it with the financial breach logs we grabbed last week.”

Vernon cracks his neck and dives in, fingers flying across the haptic keyboard. “You got it. Gimme a sec to reroute these fuckass dummy nodes…”

Lines of encrypted data begin to stream past your eyes. You settle into the second chair with tense shoulders, while Vernon’s decryption worms burrow into the deeper layers of the Dominion’s surveillance archives.

However, the moment his proxy hits, the screen blares red. 

INTRUSION DETECTED — COUNTERMEASURE PROTOCOL INITIATED

“Goddammit!” Vernon snaps in panic, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Ghost snare! They’re pinging our location!”

In the blink of an eye, multiple windows on Vernon’s computer flood with aggressive tendrils of red code, trying to latch onto the connection and backtrace to your location. On the secondary monitor, spot a predator Dominion trace icon trying to sneak to your proxy chain.

You’re already moving before you could even think, shoulder-bumping Vernon aside to take one side of the dual controls. “I’ll sever the primary relay, you kill the secondary nodes and flood the pipe with junk! Buy us time!”

TRACE PROGRESS — 27%... 43%... 61%...

The shipping container feels as if it’s shrunk down ten times in size. Your fingers blur across the keys as you snap a series of ghost partitions to secure the logs while Vernon focuses on flooding the connection with junk data to confuse the trace: malicious traffic, Dominion propaganda, and generous sprinkle of black-market porn holos for good measure. The red node countermeasure continues surging angrily, and for a terrifying moment, it feels as if the Dominion itself is breathing down your neck.

“Motherfuckers have teeth,” Vernon growls in frustration as he works on slamming kill switches on the breached connection. One of the cooling fans on the computer screams in protest.

“Sixty-eight percent!” You bark, sweat prickling at the back of your neck while you reroute the last of your active proxies across the other districts. 

TRACE PROGRESS — 75%... 87%... 91%... 

When the progress bar reaches 94%, your heart and stomach drops for a single moment, but it stalls. The predator icon thrashes on the screen as the minutes continue to tensely tick by, glitching from your combined defenses, before finally breaking into static. One final red warning flashes before everything goes dark.

The computer reboots with a low, exhausted hum. Success.

You and Vernon slump back in your chairs. The cooling fans start to quiet down, silence returning except for the sounds of the rain from outside. 

Vernon lets out a shaky laugh, running a hand down his face. “Fuck. That was close.”

“They’re getting better at their security measures,” You say shakily, wiping away a drop of sweat on your brow, heart still hammering behind your ribs. “What was the damage?”

“Lost three dummy nodes, but… we’re back to being ghosts. They were definitely waiting for people stupid enough to dig into that footage.”

It takes a while for the computer to fully reboot. But when it does, Vernon leans in and starts to carefully recover the session. A file tree appears on the interface, containing the collateral files of whatever you both managed to claim. But something catches your eye at the very corner of a tree. 

Another file𑁋at least, one you haven’t seen before.

PROJECT REBIRTH: THE NEXT STAGE OF HUMANITY  — ACTIVE ASSETS

“Was that there before?” You ask, pointing at the screen.

Vernon rubs his jaw, narrowing his eyes at the file. “Shit. No, what is that? It sounds like some fucked-up Dominion wet dream.”

Before he could click on the file, you grab at his wrist to stop him from continuing. 

“Don’t open it yet,” You tell him. “I wouldn’t trust anything, especially after the close-call we had.”

Vernon glances between the file and you, then slowly nods and lets his hand fall away from the mouse. The two of you know that whatever is in these files may cost your anonymity; or worst, your entire lives. And as frustrating as it is, impatience can get hackers killed. 

“...Yeah, okay.” 

You chew at the inside of your cheek. “Should we try to sandbox it?”

“Probably. Might take a day or… longer, depending on how much we need to isolate and decrypt it.”

You twiddle the now-dead joint between your fingers before flickering the burnt filter into the overflowing astray beside the monitor. 

“Let’s do it,” You say with determination. “It’s now or never.” 

SECTOR THREE — THE AETHER DISTRICTS

It happened again this morning. 

Cyberpsychosis is what they call it. An anomaly that happens from the endless cybernetic modifications on the human body; a result of too much steel and too little flesh. Minghao believed he could control it, but the violent outburst he had experienced upon waking up proved otherwise. 

He doesn’t recall much from the morning, only remembering the screams of the ripperdoc running the diagnostic scan on him. For one horrifying moment, he looked at the doctor and felt the same thing he feels when looking at a target. Minghao had apparently lashed out with a phantom urge to tear through anything that moved𑁋his metal fingers crushing the man’s forearm before a sedative was forced through him and his systems were promptly rebooted. The ripperdoc survived, but just barely. 

It’s been happening ever since the Dominion hired him to become a shadow operative, like tiny little fractures that feel as if they’re clawing its way up his body. The handlers had reassured him that these temporary neurological instabilities were just a side effect of the robotic components installed within his system and that it is completely manageable. 

Or rather, more accurately, it’s been happening ever since they brought him back.

The distinction is important. At least, he thinks it is.

Minghao knew he had a life before the Dominion, but whatever was left of that previous life ceased to exist. He doesn’t remember where he was born, what his favourite colour used to be, or whether he had loved someone enough to miss seeing them. There are no parents, friends, or a childhood home waiting for him in the city. 

There was only darkness, and never a point in his current life where he questioned the relevance of his previous existence. The Dominion gave him another chance, because what other choice is there? He isn’t allowed to question the hands that pulled him from the grave. Now, he has a purpose when he had nothing. 

He was saved.

But as a result of his outburst from earlier, Minghao finds himself roaming the Aether Districts without an assigned target for him to eliminate in weeks. A mandatory cooldown window of two hours to allow the city to absorb the heat building inside of him before it becomes reportable deviation. Extra time to let the fractures settle. 

So… he walks with no destination in mind. 

The Aether Districts isn’t like Undercity’s choking rot, nor does it resemble the polished cages of the upper districts. The district exists as an in-between. It’s highly recognised as a hub where creativity and entertainment are showcased and a place where the wealthy often come to feel profound without ever touching the filth and insecurity of the lower districts. 

Minghao moves through like a ghost, taking in the sight of towering billboards glowing with abstract art and Dominion slogans. His ocular implant continues to idle in standby as he walks past passerbys: no targets, no threats, no kill parameters. He strolls by bustling restaurants, casinos, and nightclubs without interest; they’re all simple tools for the complacent, which he is none of those. 

Yet something pulls at the edge of his awareness when he rounds a corner leading to the quieter side of the district showcasing a bunch of curated storefronts. Most stores are closed for the night, but one remains softly lit in the distance. His feet lead him almost curiously in the direction, and he pauses directly in front of the main entrance. 

He doesn’t know why he stops. There’s no mission parameter, no target or odd signature in the electromagnetic field that he detects other than the patrons roaming inside. It appears to only be a simple art gallery, one of many in this part of the city. But still, he remains planted through the ground, staring beyond the reinforced glass to the holographic art that feels as if they’re teasing him from the inside. 

The doors slide open with a hiss. A chime echoes through the dim interior as the gallery’s neural system registers another visitor. When the doors shut behind, the hum of the city is instantly silenced into nothing but background static. His ocular implant cycles through a passive scan out of habit, still detecting nothing out of the ordinary beyond standard security protocols.

He moves deeper into the gallery silently before stopping in front of a particular exhibit. Minghao stares, unblinking, taking in the pulsing colours that appear like they’re almost breathing. The piece in front of him displays two figures standing on opposite sides of what seems to be a shattered mirror, standing close but not quite touching. At his side, his bionic arm hidden under his trench coat flexes unconsciously.

“Are you interested in buying a piece here?” 

His system doesn’t register the unfamiliar yet soft voice. When he turns, his gaze lands on you. You’re standing close enough to be polite, a soft smile to your features as you study him with curiosity. 

Minghao’s implant runs through an immediate scan on you.

IDENTITY: Unknown THREAT LEVEL: LOW SUBJECT PROXIMITY: 0.9 metres HEART RATE: 72 BPM

His eyes linger on your face longer than protocol would ever require, tracing over the lifted corners of your mouth, the slight exhaustion on your face, practically mapping you. You’re staring at him too, noticing the way his outfit doesn’t scream like a typical wealthy elitist that you regularly see drifting through the gallery.

Unusual.

An awkward chuckle leaves you when your question is left unanswered. 

“If you’re interested in any pieces here, feel free to let me know,” You tell him tactfully. “My name is Y/N L/N, the owner of the gallery.” 

Y/N L/N. He registers your name, then holds it for a fraction too long before his system considers it as irrelevant. And yet it does not leave his memory𑁋refuses to leave his memory. 

As you offer a curt smile and begin to turn around, Minghao takes a heavy step in your direction and finally speaks. 

“Are you the artist?” 

Through your ears, his voice sounds like it’s edged with something mechanical. It’s smooth, but not quite human. He clearly has some cosmetic augmentations installed, which you suspected the second you made eye contact with him. 

You turn back to him in surprise. “I am, yes.”

Minghao’s eyes doesn’t waver from you. In your perspective, he appears more striking and almost… unnerving up close. Maybe even familiar. He’s close enough you feel the odd jumps of your heartbeat from his presence. Tall, lean muscle wrapped in a matte black trench coat that drinks in the soft neon of your displays. One of his eyes catches the light with an unnatural, faint crimson ring around the pupil. An ocular implant, clearly; subtle, but you’ve seen enough chrome in your line of work to recognise it. 

His implant registers the spike in your pulse. 

“The gallery is preparing to close in a couple of minutes,” You tell him as casually as possible after clearing your throat. “If you are interested in purchasing something, feel free to stop by anytime this week. My schedule is quite available.”

Then you offer your hand to him.

Minghao glances down at your hand warily, the faint crimson ring in his ocular implant flickering once as if processing an unfamiliar protocol. For a few beats, he doesn’t dare move. Then, after a long, hesitant moment, his right hand emerges from the folds of his black trench coat and stretches out toward you. 

He takes your hand.

The moment your palms meet, you feel it𑁋the cool, unyielding smoothness of engineered alloy. A bionic arm. His grip is almost careful, like he’s internally modulating every servo to avoid crushing your fingers. It’s not entirely cold; the outer layer has been warmed by his body heat (or whatever passes for it in someone like him), but the weight and the quiet power hiding within the handshake sends a shiver racing up your arm.

His bionic hand engulfs yours completely. Your eyes widen slightly at the feeling. You can feel the segmented plating on his knuckles, the data cables running beneath the metal instead of veins. You can tell that it’s strong𑁋impossibly, and inhumanly, strong. Yet he holds you like you’re made of glass. For a moment, you wonder what could have happened for his arm to be put back together like this. 

Minghao feels it too. It’s unlike him to hold something with so much tenderness as he’s killed many humans who deserved far less, but the warmth of your palm seeps too easily through him. His bionic arm’s feedback loops hum faintly, sending a low vibration up through his shoulder joint that he forces down before it can register as a glitch.

His systems flag it as irrelevant; his mind refuses to let it go. You’re undoubtedly human𑁋perhaps more human than others whom he’s interacted with. 

You’re the first to let go before Minghao has time to fully process it. When he lets his arm fall back to his side, his fingers are still subtly curled as if remembering the shape of your hand. Then he lets eyes drift back to the holographic display.

“This art appears incomplete,” he says. 

You turn towards your art, a soft laugh escaping you. “Incomplete?”

“Correct.”

“If it was incomplete, I wouldn’t have it displayed.”

Before he can respond, you step up closer to it. Minghao watches your movements carefully.

“The two people here are the same person,” You explain to him, catching his full attention. “One is who they used to be, while the other is who they’ve become.”

Minghao’s brows furrow imperceptibly. You can tell he’s genuinely thinking. 

“And the mirror?” he questions curiously. 

“The mirror represents memory,” You answer. “because you can’t always put yourself back together exactly as you are.” 

“But people can be repaired.” 

You tilt your head at him, studying him more closely now. 

“I would argue against that,” You say, crossing your arms together. “I believe that people can heal.” 

“Repair implies returning something to its original condition.”

“And healing means accepting that it won’t.” 

The words settle in the air between the two of you like the fractured mirror on the display, and it loops through his neural code uncontrollably. His ocular implant flickers rapidly, logging every microexpression on your face, the way your arms are crossed𑁋not out of defense, but thoughtfully. Threat level: low. His systems insist on it. 

But something buried beneath layers of countless Dominion technology that was placed in him, twists.

“Art is subjective.” Your words make him blink back to reality, a tight-lipped smile at your mouth. “It can come with many different interpretations and meanings. Most people who stroll don’t really care for the depth of it, you know? I guess it’s nice to hear what others think of it. Whatever you believe that real meaning is up to you, at the end of the day.”

Minghao watches you glance down at your wristwatch, a low gasp leaving you at the time displayed on it. 

“Shit𑁋it’s late,” You curse under your breath, running a hand through your hair, before realising that the stranger𑁋Minghao𑁋is still in front of you. “Sorry, I should really get to closing up. But if you’re ever willing to come back again, you know where to find me𑁋”

“Minghao,” he cuts in primly. 

You pause, brow twitching up. “Minghao?”

“My name.”

“Oh.” Even though you don’t have any cybernetic modifications in you, his name settles somewhere in the back of your mind like it belongs there. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Minghao.”

Minghao inclines his head solemnly. Hearing his name from your mouth does something dangerous to his feedback loops, sending a bloom of warmth to spread through the organic parts of his chest. He detects the way your pulse has steadied, a certain relaxation to your shoulders now that your little conversation together has found a natural end. The crimson ring around his iris dims to its idle state. 

SUBJECT EMOTIONAL STATE: Calm

He stores the information away without understanding why.

You offer him one last smile before stepping away.

“Goodnight, Minghao. Stay safe out there.”

Minghao gives you one last lingering look, his implant pulsing faintly as he commits your face to more than just temporary memory banks. When he watches you disappear within the shadows of your gallery, he begins to head toward the exit. 

In the background, you quietly watch the doors hiss to a final close, and it only makes you imagine what kind of ghosts surround him. 

But you shake the thought loose and initiate the security protocols with a simple swipe to your wristwatch. Minghao’s name still echoes in the back of your mind as you slip out of the side exit with your hood up over your head. 

The streets are slick and quiet tonight, yet your thoughts are anything but. 

SECTOR THREE — AETHER DISTRICTS -> SECTOR ONE — THE CENTRAL DOMINION

Minghao wipes the blood off his sleeve. 

Another target had been successfully dealt with. The body of a man lay slumped against a hidden back alleyway of the Aether Districts, blood oozing from the slit across his throat, caused by the small monomolecular blade that Minghao could summon right out of his fingertip. The kill had been precise and quiet, successful under his own terms.

His ocular implant runs one final scan over the man’s body to confirm zero pulse, zero neural activity, and zero threat. Mission complete. 

TARGET: Jung Minjae — TERMINATED ELAPSED TIME: 4 minutes, 31 seconds

Minghao retracts the monomolecular blade back beneath the plating of his index finger before crouching beside the corpse. He reaches into the pocket of the man’s jacket to take out a tiny metallic chip, exactly where the Dominion stated it would be. He tucks it in his own pocket to submit for evidence as later. 

But he still can’t bring himself to leave. 

His eyes take in the sight of the man’s shocked expression, now frozen in time after the blade had done its work𑁋mouth hanging open and eyes blown wide with that final, useless realisation that his life had ended in an alley because he had been too greedy, too loud, too alive. 

Yet something twists in his chest as he stares down at the body. It isn’t exactly remorse, and it isn’t guilt either𑁋that feeling had long burned away𑁋he can’t quite name it. For a miniscule second, Minghao nearly imagines another kind of expression on the man’s face. Perhaps something of another emotion, one that isn’t plagued with fear or greed, but one in the more… positive aspect. Freedom, maybe.

Or happiness. The thought unsettles him more than the kill itself. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever felt happiness. 

The mission is beyond complete. He should return to the nexus for debrief. But as his feet remain planted on the ground, he finds his bionic arm reaching out, his metal fingers hovering over the man’s face. With a gesture so gentle, he closes the dead man’s eyes shut to erase that final look of terror. 

It was a pointless gesture. The dead didn’t care𑁋the body would get disposed of in a matter of minutes by the meat wagons after he confirms that his mission is complete, but something inside of him insisted on it. 

Minghao straightens back up on his feet and fixes his trench coat, snapping it back against the damp air. The servos in his bionic arm whir softly throughout the dripping alleyway. He stares at his metal fingers for a long moment, flexing them slowly as if testing whether the motion had been a glitch or something else. 

A directive pings across his ocular implant: Return to Nexus for debrief. Priority Alpha.

He accepts the directive. 

But as he travels through the Aether Districts𑁋past all the neon storefronts and vibrant dance clubs𑁋his feet are slower than what protocol demands. Everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you and the art you display so passionately at your gallery. 

Maybe art had once meant something to him. There was something about it that drew him in like a magnet so easily. Maybe he once wandered around galleries, or held a haptic brush instead of a blade. Or perhaps he hated art altogether. He doesn’t know. 

The possibilities were endless when an entire life had been erased. Each one felt equally true. All he knew is that something inside of him shifted the moment he stepped through your gallery doors the other night and his eyes refused to stray away from your artwork… and refused to stray away from you. 

When he arrives back at the nexus, The Central Dominion building looms above him like a giant monolithic blade in the heart of the city. Tall sterile white towers stained over with black Dominion insignia stand proud and tall while security drones orbit overhead. Minghao passes through the outer checkpoint without issue, his ocular implant syncing automatically with the security grid. Red beams sweep over his body to verify his identity and biometrics, before a heavy security door hisses open

“Operative X-08. Report to Chamber 47-C immediately,” a toneless, robotic voice orders him. 

Minghao’s jaw tightens, but he complies as he steps into the large corridor, his boots echoing against the polished obsidian floors. The hallway stretches endlessly before him. He walks past scientists, engineers, executives, and military officials who move synchronously beneath the watchful eyes of the surveillance systems installed in every corner. 

Nobody wastes time here.

Minghao knows this.

He was built in this place.

Inside the chamber, a Dominion handler is already waiting for him. A woman named Director Han with her back facing the entrance. She’s sharply dressed in Dominion attire, her silver hair tied in a tight updo, and her posture filled with enough authority that Minghao knew better than to question back. 

“Operative X-08,” she calls coldly over her shoulder without turning around yet. “Mission report.”

“Target was properly neutralised within the termination window. I have already sent out orders to the cleanup division,” Minghao responds evenly. He reaches into his pocket to take out the chip he retrieved from the body. “I also have the evidence I was ordered to extract.” 

Director Han finally turns around to meet his gaze, her gold-ringed eyes narrowing as she studies him carefully. She extends a hand out toward him without a word, and Minghao places the metallic chip directly in her palm. She turns the chip over between her fingers, then sets it into a secure scanner on the console. On the holographic display ahead, the stolen data quickly fills the screen in glowing, streaming lines. 

“Clean extraction. No traces left behind. Good.” Her praise is flat, almost bored. “The Dominion appreciates your efficiency, Operative. As always.” 

Minghao gives a solemn nod, however he doesn’t get dismissed right away. Director Han taps another command on the console, causing a secondary feed to bloom on the screen. 

“One more thing,” she begins. “We’ve recently detected a surge of anomalies aiming to breach confidential Dominion files. Ghost hackers. While we are able to contain their attempts most of the time, they’ve been becoming more challenging to identify.” 

Minghao listens with intent. Ghost hackers. He knows that they exist, and most times he’d find it ridiculous that these kinds of people would be bold enough to hack into the Dominion’s network. They were like cockroaches scuttling through the cracks of the city’s underbelly, surviving on scraps of data and dumb luck. 

A small, buried part of him wonders what secrets they might uncover that even he isn’t allowed to see.

“The second we are able to identify them, their termination assignments will be sent directly to you,” Director Han instructs. “Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Head to the sub-levels for recalibration.” Before she leaves, she eyes him warily. “I do not want to see another deviation report on my desk.” 

Minghao unclenches his fist when the door behind him slams shut.

VERNON yo ghost i managed to decrypt a bunch of the corrupted files sending them your way now be careful though

The decrypted files land in your private inbox by the time you sit down at your computer in a secret room constructed within the gallery, a hidden space tucked behind a false wall panel in the back storage room. After an entire week of working torturously hard to decrypt the file tree, it had finally been done. 

You boot up your virtual machine, triple-check your jammers to ensure your signal won’t be caught, and wipe the sweat off your brow. This was it. This was the moment you’ve been waiting for. If the Dominion hid teeth inside the files, they might as well be biting into a corpse instead of you. It couldn’t possibly be worse from anything you’ve ever seen… right?

“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” You say under your breath. 

Taking a deep breath, you drag the decrypted files into an isolated sandbox, and after a singular click, progress bars quickly flash across your screen. PROJECT REBIRTH splits itself into a hundred different folders and directories, all labeled with names with what appear to be procedure codes: Asset Archives, Incidents, Subject Logs, and more.

You click on Subject Logs first. 

At first, the directory hesitates to open, sitting frozen as if silently taunting you. Then rows of files begin to populate your screen one after the other, each one labelled with simple numerical designations that go all the way to eight and a description underneath.

SUBJECT 01, SUBJECT 02, SUBJECT 03…

You scroll through the medical dossiers. 

[SUBJECT 01] Status: DECEASED Cause of Failure: Extensive neural degradation following cybernetic integration Notes: Recover compatible components; dispose of remaining biological material

[SUBJECT 02] Status: DECEASED Cause of Failure: Complete cardiovascular collapse mid-procedure Notes: Mechanical augmentation incompatible with surviving tissue 

[SUBJECT 03] Status: DECEASED Cause of Failure: Persistent identity retention; attempted to defect after regaining memories of pre-procedure life Notes: Subjected to immediate termination 48 hours after procedure; family erased for security 

“Persistent identity retention?” You repeat quizzically. 

That could only mean one thing𑁋some poor soul was trying to cling onto the last bit of their biological identity before the Dominion decided to solve the problem with immediate termination. And if the procedure failed, their bodies would be disposed of as if nothing even happened. 

Your heart sinks into your stomach at the thought. 

The more you scroll through each subject, the more grotesque the details become. One subject was terminated for killing three technicians during a calibration episode, while another one self-terminated themself in an attempt to escape from the Dominion’s controlling hands and got caught. What the hell kind of experimentation was happening? Were they forced?

However, there was one subject that stuck out to you.

[SUBJECT 08] Status: ACTIVE Reconstruction Summary: Full skeletal lattice integration; bilateral limb replacement; cranial, ocular, and spinal reinforcement; neural core reinforced; full neuromuscular overrides Model: X-08 Loyalty Index: 98.7% Observed Anomalies: Recurrent cyberpsychosis episodes that often become violent, cooldown periods and memory suppression recommended Field Performance: Exceptional, has terminated multiple high-profile targets Notes: Continue routine deployment; monitor for emerging behavioural deviations 

A survivor𑁋no, a victim. A victim who had survived through this so-called procedure and became a puppet meant to serve under the Dominion. 

Your gaze drifts lower through the rest of the description, but nothing else informative comes up. There isn’t a name, age, photos, or any family history. Only body measurements, height, weight, and blood type. Whoever Subject 08 was had been reduced to nothing but numbers on a screen. 

And it appears that they are the only person to have survived the procedure so far.

That’s when the file titled Incidents catches your eye next. You hover your mouse over to click on it, and the page expands into what seems to be an official redacted report.

Date: [REDACTED] Location: Sector Four — The Bastion Districts Classification: Level 5 Summary: Eight soldiers operating in an internal resistance cell were involved in a catastrophic accident that declared all KIA. Key evidence shows that a malfunction occurred within the building’s power core, causing an inevitable explosion to erupt over the surrounding area. Intelligence reports indicated they were planning a coordinated defection and strike against key Dominion infrastructure. In the aftermath of this event, the families of the soldiers were offered condolence packages and gifts of remembrance. 

Eight soldiers. Eight rebels. Eight subjects. You continue reading.

As kept confidential, the Dominion orchestrated a detonation in order to eliminate the threat. All bodies were recovered from the scene and immediately placed under inspection for PROJECT REBIRTH. Memory engrams were overwritten with a fabricated narrative to foster gratitude and loyalty. All references to the resistance cell were buried under repeated sessions of memory suppression. If any subjects experienced symptoms beyond recalibration, a lethal safeguard was to be deployed.  The goal of PROJECT REBIRTH is to become what the future requires. Humanity cannot survive as it is with rebellion propaganda spreading. Peace is impossible when choice is presented. If successful, the subjects would be hired to serve permanently under Dominion cause in eliminating threats of rebellion and preserving harmony. 

What the fuck? Your eyes widen in pure shock as you reread the paragraphs once, twice, even three times. The Dominion staged an attack on a group of rebels, used their bodies for experimentation, and forced the subjects to serve under them in order to… preserve peace? To believe that eliminating free will is essential for humanity to survive? 

The irony punches you in the gut. What kind of sick minds thought of this? 

Judging from the subject logs, seven of them did not survive PROJECT REBIRTH. On the other hand, the final subject is… somewhere out there roaming the city and serving the Dominion like a slave, silently eliminating threats that stand in the way of their ruling. 

Just like the surveillance footage that Vernon showed you. 

The next file that you click on is Asset Archives. Your heart is already in your stomach from what you’ve just read from the report, and it only drops even further when a plethora of photos suddenly fills your screen.

The images are beyond brutal. You find high-resolution stills captured in the aftermath of the explosion. Twisted metal beams jutting from collapsed walls. Charred remains fused to concrete. There are pictures of the bodies𑁋or what was left of them at least𑁋scattered across the rubble. One frame shows a gloved hand reaching out from under a fallen support column, fingers frozen mid-grasp. Another captures the moment med-teams in Dominion black pulled a barely-living figure from the wreckage: half his body crushed, left arm and leg gone with his face burned beyond recognition. 

You feel like you’re going to puke. 

Photos of the reconstruction procedures follow. The bodies of the soldiers scattered across operating tables surrounded by ripperdocs, photos showing a before shot, with some almost mutilated beyond repair you’re surprised that the procedure had worked, if only for a moment. Then photos of the after shot, where missing limbs were replaced with bionic prosthetics and cranial platings inserted into skulls. 

You force yourself to look away from the screen for a few seconds, bile rising in your throat like a parasite. Sure, you’ve seen some heavy shit while being a ghost hacker, yet this was basically incomparable to everything you have ever seen. 

There is one photo in particular that catches your attention. Although it was a wider shot, you spot the blurry outline of one of the subjects sitting upright on the operating table post-procedure. He’s draped in patient wear, a ripperdoc standing in front of him blocking the view of his face seemingly testing out the new cybernetic modifications on his body. 

You lean in closer, attempting to sharpen the image. There was something about the subject’s body figure and the shape of his shoulders that strikes a nerve of familiarity through you. Subject 08… and the man in the surveillance video…

But before the realisation can sink in, your entire terminal suddenly explodes with red alerts. 

SECURITY BREACH DETECTED PRIORITY: ALPHA

Panic floods through your senses, your fingers instinctively flying over your keyboard to counterattack the breach.

“No, no, no𑁋fuck!” You seethe out angrily.

You slam with every countermeasure you have against the poison beginning to rot through your systems𑁋ghost reroutes, signal jammers, false data floods, even a desperate worm meant to fry the incoming trace. For a few heart-stopping seconds the alerts flicker and slow, slow enough to let you hear violent pounding of your heart in your ears. 

Endless lines of code scroll past in a blur as you reroute your signal through three dummy nodes in random locations within the Undercity. The breach starts to slow and the red alerts begin to stutter in panic. When the progress bar on your worm reaches 61%, you think you might actually win.

Then everything collapses in the snap of a finger, and the worm begins to count backwards.

61%... 54%... 47%...

“Shit!” You pivot instantly, slamming your hands to induce another layer of heavy encryption and flooding the trace with junk data. “Come on, you bastard! Work with me here!” 

But the alerts only begin to frantically multiply across your screen, your last clean proxy is burned through, and your worm inevitably flatlines at a heartbreaking 19%. 

You desperately try to initiate the self-destruct sequence on your sandbox, hoping it could corrupt everything the Dominion is trying to pull. Your fingers hover the execute command, ready to destroy your entire set-up with just the click of a button.

However, your finger lands on the button a millisecond too late. The entire screen of your computer goes black, shrouding the entire room in a permanent silent darkness. The entire system powers down with a final, defeated whine, leaving you with nothing but the imminent dread crawling up your spine. 

Your entire system is fried. There’s nothing left that you can do. 

With shaky hands, you flick your wristwatch on.

Y/N vernon i think i’m fucked.

VERNON what the fuck did you do y/n?? hello?? shit

NEW TARGET ASSIGNMENT COORDINATES: Aether-03 | X: 483.637 | Y: -115.092 | Z: +02.500 TARGET ASSIGNMENT: Unknown Name | Alias: “Ghost” TERMINATION WINDOW: 3 Hours

Minghao rids of the ocular interface with a flick of the finger as he marches down the Aether District with determination in his step. It’s comical, really, from how often he’s been finding himself drifting to this particular sector of the city. Most times it’s been out of habit, like there’s some sort of half-buried pull toward the curated streets hiding within whatever is left of consciousness. 

He can definitely agree that this is the most beautiful sector of the entire city. The only part that feels more alive. 

The distance to the coordinates continues to grow smaller as he approaches the destination. The sector is mostly empty from how late it is, but he’s learned that the best time to strike his targets is during the depths of the night. His targets don’t sleep because they already know their inevitable fate is coming due to the consequences of their own actions. The Dominion always aims to make that known whenever someone breaks their rules.

Minghao’s footsteps begin to slow when he realises the familiarity of the area that he’s in. He followed the coordinates precisely, and yet… how is it possible that it managed to land him here?

In front of your gallery?

He faces his body toward other directions, thinking it was just some bug or error. The coordinates refresh in his implant and his systems run a forced diagnostic, but it all comes out clean. Same numbers. Same location. No glitch. No error. No misread.

The target is inside your gallery. You’re probably at home during this point, and someone might be attempting to seek refuge inside. 

The monomolecular blade at his fingertip extends as he peers inside through the window. It appears closed for the night, with only a handful of lights illuminating the walls and holographic art displays inside. In the several seconds that pass, he calculates fifteen different entry routes he can use to get inside. 

Front entrance, roof access, maintenance shaft… He could force any of them open; he’s done more destructive things before. Every simulation that runs through his code ends the same way: locate and terminate Ghost; mission success probability of 99.2%. 

Yet his feet remain planted to the ground. The blade stays extended at his side but idle. Minghao never hesitates during a mission. He’s always been the type of operative to get the job done clean and quickly. 

Something about this feels wrong. 

That is, until he catches a heat signature spike moving from inside the rear-end part of the building. The termination window continues to tick down in his implant, causing him to click his jaw. He shakes away the hesitation coursing through him and walks over to the side of the building. The mission comes first always. 

Silently as a ghost himself, he scales up the wall until he lands directly on the roof, his boots making no sound. A light drizzle of rain patters softly against his trench coat as he runs a scan over the roof, detecting a reinforced maintenance hatch near the western corner. Bingo.

Minghao drifts between ventilation units before kneeling beside the hatch. The biometric lock flashes with warning, waiting for an authorised employee to access it. But he lifts up the monomolecular hiding underneath the sleeve of his trench coat and begins to trace a delicately perfect circle around the locking mechanism. 

The thin blade passes through the reinforced steel as effortlessly as pen on paper. He catches the damaged section before it can hit the floor below. Below lies nothing but darkness as he begins to descend into the shaft, night-vision clicking on instinctively, his nose catching the faint scent of ozone and dust. 

By the time he reaches the bottom of the shaft, he finds himself standing in a cramped utility unit corridor hidden between the gallery walls. 

Exposed wiring runs along the ceiling as he moves silently through the space. His implant focuses on the heat signature pulsating more strongly through the walls. He pushes open through a useless door that opens into a back storage room, seeing dozens of empty projection rigs and holotanks scattered across the floor. 

When Minghao nudges another door, he’s finally standing in the main gallery. 

He steps into the silence.

The murmurs of wealthy patrons are long gone by now. The holographic installations have dimmed into their nocturnal state for the night, light lazily rippling through the translucent displays and washing the polished floors in shifting shades of purple, blue, and red. His boots whisper against the ground as he continues walking. 

His gaze tracks the heat signature as it slips silently behind columns and installations before coming to a halt. The silhouette shifts into a kneeling position, its face appearing to be covered heat-to-toe by some thick garments to shield their facial features. The corner of Minghao’s lift slightly into a smirk. 

Behind one of the towering holographic installations, your breathing remains perfectly even. A gun is tightly clenched in your hand underneath your sleeve. Your pulse hammers wildly in your ears. The gallery had never been built to withstand a siege𑁋now it has become a living battlefield. And if the battle has lost, you have another secret weapon hidden directly in the pocket of your coat. 

Earlier, you had killed every power source connected to your hidden room the second the system fried.

You knew the Dominion would come, but you hadn’t expected them this quickly.

Through a narrow gap between two suspended sculptures, you catch your first glimpse of the intruder, and you spot a tall figure standing in the middle of the vast gallery. You’d recognise him anywhere𑁋the Dominion’s one and only shadow executioner is now standing in your territory, scanning for the prey he was assigned to hunt: you. 

Subject 08. 

The next breath that leaves you comes off shaky, and the man’s head tilts curiously as if he hears your heartbeat.

Shit. You can’t stay in this spot any longer. You need an opening.

Minghao starts walking measuredly in the direction the heat signature is taking him, his implant catching the faintest fluctuation of body temperature. His head turns towards the particular holo-display that seems to be the final boundary in the way of accomplishing his mission.

The moment your eyes meet through the narrow gap, you fire your gun.

The bullet slices through the air with a sharp crack, causing Minghao to inhumanly twist away immediately. The round punches through the holographic installation behind him, shattering its projector into a shower of blue sparks. And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

Sweat beads at your forehead as you fire and fire again, scrambling backward as you squeeze the trigger. A nearby holographic frame splinters in the background from another shot, while a few other bullets clip his bionic arm, causing them to ricochet off it and slam through another pillar. 

Minghao continues weaving and ducking from the onslaught of bullets raining at him, but the distance between him and the target only becomes smaller and smaller. He spots the clothed figure roll behind a pedestal, and in a quick, fluid motion, he vaults over it. The next bullet fires at him point-blank, catching him in his side, a low grunt leaving him as his system registers it as damage, but he shoves it down.

He surges forward like a predator and swings his bionic arm to knock the gun out of the target’s hand, skidding it across the floor and into the shadows. 

Your elbow suddenly slams at his jaw and a knee is driven up into his ribs. Most of the impact is blocked from his strength, but jars him enough for you to wiggle free enough to reach a hand into your coat before letting your other hand drive another punch to his face.

But a painful, strong, mechanical grip grabs your hand mid-punch and drives you down hard. The world spins all in that singular moment. 

You find your body completely pinned to the polished floor and your wrist is slammed above your head. A knee is pressed deeply into your stomach, and no matter how much you try to push him off, you realise you’re completely immobile. A blade hovers just mere inches from your throat, and you feel the hot, unsteady breath of the man above you fanning across your face.

The position causes your hood to fall back in the struggle. The dim, flickering lights of the gallery illuminates your face clearly. And when your gaze draws up to meet the eyes of your killer, your breath catches, and the blade at your throat trembles subtly. 

Minghao?

“...Y/N?” Your name glitches out of his lips. 

For a split second, the Dominion’s perfect weapon freezes and hesitates. 

You don’t waste it.

With every ounce of strength left, you twist yourself out of his hold beneath him, slamming your knee upward and using the momentary distraction to buck him off-balance. Minghao’s grip loosens just enough to let you roll over on top of him. Now you pin him down, straddling his waist, one knee on his bionic arm to keep the blade away from your body, even if you’re aware he has all the power to snap you in half if he wanted. 

You yank out a small cylindrical self-destruct trigger and press it firmly into his chest, thumb hovering over the activator. Just a singular press and the hidden charges throughout the gallery would render the entire building into nothing but a blazing tomb.

Minghao could only stare up at you. His ocular implant flickers erratically, like his entire system is screaming at him to finish this mission. He knows that he can𑁋knows that he can empower you and add you onto his endless list of accomplished directives𑁋but the monomolecular blade at his fingertip twitches useless at his side. 

DIRECTIVE: TERMINATE TARGET LOYALTY INDEX: 91.5% TERMINATION WINDOW: 2 Hours, 21 minutes remaining

“If you kill me, then we’ll both die,” You whisper fiercely, staring at him dead in the eyes as your fingertip lingers over the button. “The whole building, my art, everything, including the Dominion’s favourite puppet.”

The words snake through his system like venom. The servos in his body whine at the conflicting directives tearing at his neural core, his body trembling with the effort. His eyes flicker rapidly over your features, taking in the determination in your eyes and the quiver of fear at your lips. His loyalty index plummets another notch. 

“And if that doesn’t work, the entire gallery is rigged into your neuroport.” A brittle smirk runs across your face. “I could fry you within seconds and you wouldn’t even know.”

Minghao’s jaw clenches tightly. You can tell he’s internally trying to fight himself𑁋a ravenous battle between human and robot. The servos in his bionic arm gripe under the pressure of your knee, but he forces it to keep still. His human hand digs into the fabric of your coat as if he’s trying to cling onto you. The space between your bodies closes even more when your face hovers over his, watching him struggle like you’re both his saviour and executioner. 

LOYALTY INDEX: 86.3%

“But I won’t kill you.” You shove the trigger back into your pocket. “Unless you give me a reason to.” 

You carefully stand back up on your feet and retrieve your gun from the floor, pointing it directly at him. You cock the gun back, and with a small motion, you silently tell him to stand up. When Minghao lifts himself from off the floor, you notice a small pool of blood on the floor. The shot you landed on him earlier seemed to have got him clean. His human side is still there, just leaking out onto the floor.

Something about it tugs at your heart.

You gesture with the barrel toward the back storage room. “Move. And don’t even think about testing me.”

Minghao starts walking to where you’re directing him. You keep a respectful distance away, gun never wavering as you follow him into the backroom. 

The room feels as if it’s shrunk ten times in size when you both step in together. You point toward an empty reinforced crate with the barrel of your gun. He settles himself on top of it with his back against the wall, watching you disappear for a minute to grab a first-aid kit from a nearby shelf.

You hesitate briefly before lowering the gun slightly. “Take it off. Let me see the wound.”

Minghao studies you with a wary look, then glances down at his side. He runs a finger over the wound, seeing real human blood leaking through his shirt. His pain receptors must be dialed down due to whatever the hell the Dominion implanted on him, but the sting still registers somewhere deep in what’s left of his nervous system. To remind him that he’s not entirely a machine. 

He shakes off his trench coat and peels off his undershirt without a single word. A lump forms in your throat as your eyes rake over his toned, bare-chested form. The dim lighting of the storage room illuminates his muscles and old scars plastered over his skin𑁋some clearly surgical, others from targets who wasted their time trying to take him down. His bionic arm gleams coldly from his shoulder and down to his fingertips, twitching against his thigh like he’s physically trying to hold himself back from grabbing you. Though the human side of him… that side is breathing a little harder now. 

Forcing your focus back on the wound, you grab an antiseptic wipe from the medkit and begin to clean the bullet graze. His abs tense involuntarily from your touch on the raw flesh, and he keeps his eyes trained on you as you carefully smooth down a patch over the wound, lingering on the warm skin a little longer than needed.

“Ghost,” he calls out softly. 

You visibly wince at the mention of your alias, shooting him a dry look. “Ouch. Please do not call me that.”

“Y/N.”

You finally meet his eyes. He seems almost… exhausted.

“You’re wanted by the Dominion.”

A humourless smile crosses your face. “And you were sent to kill me, what a way to end the night, am I right?” 

Minghao’s implant runs a subconscious scan over your face. 

IDENTITY: Y/N L/N THREAT LEVEL: ??? HEART LEVEL: 91 BPM

“Why are you helping me?” he suddenly asks. 

You sit back on your heels, gun still within easy reach but pointed loosely at the floor now. A bitter little laugh escapes you.

“I wouldn’t call this ‘helping,’” You remind him, deftly tearing off another piece of medical tape before smoothing it across the patch. “I’m making sure the idiot who was sent to kill me doesn’t bleed out on my floor. I bet you’ve forgotten that you can bleed like a human.” 

Minghao’s eyes narrow down at you. “I’m not human.”

“No?”

“No.”

The reply comes off automatically, like some pre-programmed response engraved in his system. You tilt your head at him and stand back up on your feet, stepping closer to the point you’re almost positioned between his legs. Close enough that he could probably analyse every single tiny crack in your guarded expression.

Without thinking, you reach in to brush a fingertip over a raised scar on his collarbone. Seductive in the slightest, but more so out of curiosity. 

“Right here… this is human,” You tell him as your hands wander again, hesitating momentarily before flattening against the centre of his chest. His breath catches imperceptibly. “And this… still beats. Do you still think you’re not human?” 

Minghao looks down at your hand as if he’s never once noticed the sound sitting beneath his ribs. Ever since the Dominion brought him back, he hardly ever worried about the human heart still beating in his chest. It was just another component of him or another system to monitor. Another thing they could shut off if he ever became too inconvenient.

But right now, he feels it𑁋that rhythmic thump of his heartbeat slamming against your hand that’s still pressed firmly to his chest, daring him to feel the truth. 

Perhaps that remnant of humanity was still part of him. Somewhere, somehow. 

“I’ve hurt people too,” You admit to him, drawing your hand away from his chest but allowing your body to loom over his. “I’ve smiled at monsters to drain their pockets clean. I’ve hacked countless bank accounts, exposed trafficking rings, blackmailed executives, and sold secrets to people who could afford them. My hands aren’t exactly clean either.” 

Minghao absorbs your words carefully. There was something about you that his systems couldn’t exactly process. Usually, a target should be simple, a target should have a weakness. Every person the Dominion has placed on him were always separated into binary categories of morality.

But you don’t seem to fit into either. 

“You’re human, Minghao,” You remind him again, more sharply this time. “I’ve read the files. I know who you are, who you were.”

His ocular implant flickers once.

“Files?” he echoes.

“Yes,” You answer matter-of-factly. “I’ve read all about it𑁋about what the Dominion did to you, how they killed you and made you their slave. PROJECT REBIRTH. Does it ring a bell?”

Minghao’s entire body suddenly goes completely rigid beneath you. The name hits like a kill-switch.

For a fraction of a second, his entire vision flares red. The human warmth in his gaze vanishes and his bionic fingers snap up to grab at your wrist like a vice. He moves like lightning𑁋pain surging through you when your back meets the wall behind with enough force to rattle the surrounding shelves. The monomolecular blade extends out of his fingertip and hovers at the soft skin under your jaw. 

“You𑁋” His voice comes out like a glitchy, guttural snarl. “That name𑁋you can’t𑁋”

LOYALTY INDEX: 95.4%

The pressure around your wrist is almost bone-crushing that you feel the tears sprouting at the corners of your eyes. The blade presses a little deeper into your skin, just enough to draw a thin line of blood, before he forcibly wrenches it away. Raging tremors run up and down his body, like thousands of corrupted and suppressed memories have flooded his system all at once. 

“Fuck, get out𑁋get out of my head𑁋” Minghao grits out hoarsely. “Eliminate𑁋need to eliminate𑁋”

His vision distorts fleetingly𑁋a silhouette, a flash of an explosion, then darkness𑁋causing him to claw at the side of his skull as if trying to rip the implant out of his head. Your body is still pinned to the wall behind, completely frozen and trapped from his weight. 

After a few moments, the violent surge of cyberpsychosis ebbs away as fast as it came.

Both of your breaths come out in heavy pants. The thin cut at your throat stings, a warm trickle of blood sliding down your neck. Minghao’s head slowly comes back up, and when he catches the fear in your gaze, something inside of him fractures. 

For the first time since he’s stepped foot into your gallery, you see him as less the executioner and more the survivor. 

Every instinct within you is screaming to pull away from him before something worse could happen. But your feet remain planted to the floor below; if anything, you inch your face closer to his, your trembling lips hovering just over his. The corners of your mouth rise ever so slightly with a smile that he can’t quite decipher. Compassionate in a way, yet taunting at the same time. 

“If I told you everything the Dominion took from you…” You begin, dragging your words slowly, refusing to break eye contact with him. “...would you still kill me to accomplish your mission, or let me help you get it all back?” 

For once, Minghao doesn’t answer right away because he can’t. It’s as if he isn’t built or programmed to handle a question that cuts straight through every layer of conditioning that was forced upon him. The war plays out visibly across his face, and you notice the sharp twitch of his jaw and how the pupil in his eye widens with something painfully close to recognition. 

The crushing grip on your wrist loosens, only to curl around it again almost… possessively. His touch sends a shiver racing up your arm and the heat of his solid body seeps through the crevices of your coat. 

In his implant, the termination window continues to tick down. His loyalty index plummets once again.

LOYALTY INDEX: 79.7%... 73.5%...

The thrill of the chase has just begun. 

perm taglist (open) ʚɞ

@sn4psh00t @slytherinshua @seungkw1 @etherealyoungk @bananabubble

@parakissss @eskoupe @gent1es3xy @cherryophile @jaja-salute

@mellow-wishes @eternalse7en @hongyinujiang @ts19009 @boxofchocolatessss

Your stomach flipped, a sudden wave of nerves rising within you as you looked around you. All while your grandmother fixed you with a look that plainly instructed you to focus on her words.

“No, you are only hearing,” she corrected you. “Listening is different.” She leaned closer, conspiratorial. “You are not to go straight to that hotel room.”

You sighed. “Grandma—”

“No. You are only hearing,” she corrected coolly. “Listening different” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “You are not to go directly to that hotel room.”

You glanced down at the platform, instinctively. “If Grandfather finds out—”

“Your grandfather,” she said sweetly, lifting your face by the chin with her index finger, “will learn exactly as much as I choose to tell him, which is to say, very little.”

That earned a laugh from you, surprised and breathless. The mere thought of what your grandfather might do if he discovered your grandmother’s scheme to send you to the city early—and alone—made you want to vomit right there. Yet the way she managed it all, as though it were nothing more than a harmless secret between ladies, soothed you, if only for a brief moment.

She smiled then, softer. “A girl should have one day that belongs entirely to herself before she becomes someone’s wife. One day where no one tells her where to stand, what to say, or how to smile.”

Not that your impending married life promised to be much different from the one you already endured. You were already living within the confines she so neatly described—even beneath her own roof—despite her frequent quarrels with your grandfather over the manner in which he chose to govern your life.

And that was precisely why the thought of being alone in Manhattan unsettled you so deeply: you had never, not once in your life, truly been alone. Everything seemed part of a long chain of actions and consequences that lead you to be like that. One that began with a motorcar accident when you were only seven years old and ended with your grandfather becoming the rigid man he is now.

You swallowed. “I wouldn’t even know where to go, Grandma.”

“That,” she said, tapping your chest with one gloved finger, “is precisely why you must go.”

“But Grandpa will be furious, and—”

She gave a careless shrug, rolling her eyes. “Your grandfather was furious when I cut my hair as well.” She lifted a hand, miming the short strands with a faintly triumphant smile. “And yet he survived.” Her expression softened, though the certainty remained. “So don’t trouble yourself. I shall manage him.”

The train gave a piercing whistle, metal groaned, and doors clanged open. A uniformed conductor stepped down to announce that it was time to board for Manhattan.

A faint shudder passed through you. You could not quite bring yourself to imagine the possibilities waiting at the end of the line. Instead, your thoughts fixed on the simple, inescapable fact that in a little more than twenty-four hours you would be marrying a man you scarcely knew. And so, almost recklessly, another thought followed close behind: perhaps you had nothing left to lose.

“Go,” your grandmother said. “Lose yourself for a while. Sit in a café. Watch people who have no idea who you are.”

Still, you hesitated, squeezing your handbag slightly between your fingers. “And if something happens?”

She met your gaze steadily. “Something will happen. That is the point, dear.”

The conductor called for boarding one last time.

Your grandmother pulled you into an embrace that smelled faintly of lavender and tobacco. “Tomorrow,” she murmured near your ear, “you will be a married woman. Tonight, be a stranger.”

About thirty minutes later, the train slid forward with a patient, rhythm clatter, wheels singing against steel like a lullaby for the sleepless. The car was neither crowded nor empty, a comfortable in-between, populated by businessmen folded into their newspapers, a woman with a hatbox balanced precariously on her knees, and a young mother coaxing a drowsy child into stillness.

You had chosen a seat by the window, your suitcase tucked close to your ankles, your pink coat neatly folded across your lap, alongside your gloves. In your hands rested a well-worn copy of Little Women, its pages already creased from rereading. Around you, the morning revealed itself in small noises: low voices, the soft clatter of luggage, the hiss of doors opening and closing down the car.

Outside the window, Glen Cove slowly gave way to Nassau County, open stretches narrowing as houses pressed closer together, dissolving into brick and steel. The landscape slipped past without pause, the city inching nearer with each mile.

As the train slowed and pulled into the next station with a soft hiss, a new wave of passengers began to board, but you were too absorbed in your book to notice him at first.

You were halfway down a paragraph when the seat across from you dipped subtly, the cushion responding to new weight. Only then did you look up, politeness guiding the motion, prepared to offer a small smile to whoever had taken the seat.

The first thing you noticed was how tall he was—impressively, almost—, his appearance catching your attention right after. Not because he was particularly striking in the traditional sense, but because there was stillness about him. He looked tired but content, as if he had accepted his solitude long before stepping onto the train.

He was young, perhaps only a few years older than you, with a face that held an odd balance of softness and intent. His dark brown hair was neatly kept, save for a stubborn lock escaping near his temple, refusing discipline and perfectly accentuating his sleek facial features.

He was wearing a long black coat, simple but well cared for, the sort worn by someone who paid attention to how things lasted rather than how they appeared. He carried no newspaper, no book. Only a leather satchel, scuffed at the corners, which he set at his feet with quiet care.

You watched everything with an almost rude attentiveness, something entirely unlike you, or at least unlike the version of yourself most people knew. Your tutors would have called it unladylike. Your grandfather would have called it inappropriate curiosity. And you had read enough to know that curiosity was precisely what women were taught to bury.

As you turned the page, his eyes lifted to you, and for a brief moment your gazes met. A faint blush warmed your cheeks immediately. You exchanged a brief smile and subtle shake of the head, sharing a silent understanding and acknowledgement of each other, before he turned to the window and you returned to your reading.

For several minutes, your world narrowed to the March sisters’ life, the murmur of the train fading into a distant hum as telephone poles slid past in steady intervals. Then, slowly, you became aware of something else. Not a sound, precisely, but a sensation: the peculiar awareness of being observed.

You did not look up immediately. That would have felt abrupt, almost accusatory of you, and you had a tendency to be discreet. Instead, you kept turning the pages you had already read, eyes skimming familiar lines even while your attention drifted elsewhere.

There was the faint scratch of pencil on paper.

It was quiet, almost lost beneath the sounds of the train, but once you noticed it, you could not unheard it. A soft, deliberate sound. Pause. Another stroke. Pause again.

You shifted slightly in your seat, trying to focus on the words, but you could feel a pair of eyes flickering up now and then before lowering back. Your pulse picked up, not from fear, but from curiosity, and you wondered if he was capturing the quiet of the morning on the train or if, perhaps, you unwittingly became his subject.

When you finally lifted your eyes, you did so calmly, slowly, just to check if you weren’t going crazy.

And he was looking at you.

Not directly, not in the way men sometimes did, bold and appraising, as though you were something to be weighed. His gaze flicked between you and a small sketchbook now balanced against his knee. His pencil moved with precision and assuredness, as if he were wholly absorbed in the act of capturing something you didn’t even know you were giving.

Your breath caught, unused to such attention, and he seemed to realize then that you were watching him too. His eyes met yours fully, widening a fraction, pencil stalling. Neither of you spoke, until the train lurched forward, bumping your knees together before tossing you back against your seats.

He looked as though he might close the sketchbook. Instead, he hesitated, waiting.

You felt a curious steadiness settle over you. Perhaps it was the morning, the advice your grandmother had given you. Perhaps it was simply the sense that this moment, once passed, would not return.

You tilted your head slightly, your voice gentle, unaccusatory.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” you began, a hint of amusement threading through your tone, “but I believe I’ve been sitting here long enough to earn the right to ask… are you drawing me?”

Color rose instantly to his cheeks, lending him a boyish, almost endearing look.

“Yes,” he admitted, without pretense. He held up the sketchbook just enough for you to see, not fully revealing the page, but offering proof of what he was doing. “I can stop, if you’d prefer.”

You studied him for a moment, the sincerity in his expression disarming. He did not look defensive, only earnest. He had gentle eyes, you thought when you saw them narrowing slightly as they waited for your answer.

“I didn’t say I minded.” You shrugged, a soft smile tugging at your lips. If anything, you were flattered. “I was only curious.”

That made you laugh, surprised by his honesty. You can’t remember the last time someone had been so honest with you in such a short span of time, and it only deepened your curiosity about the stranger in front of you.

Which is why you decided to close your book and rest it atop your coat, directing all your attention to him.

“Well, in that case, I suppose I should sit properly.”

He waved his hands quickly, almost apologetically, the pencil still caught between his long fingers. “Please, you don’t need to change a thing because of me.”

You did anyway, just a little, angling your shoulders back, lifting your chin. He noticed, of course, and the corner of his mouth curved as his pencil resumed its quiet work.

“Do you always draw strangers on trains?” you asked, determined that if you were going to remain seated like this, you might as well make small talk.

It felt strange, doing so. A life spent in a large house, surrounded only by family and servants, had done little to prepare you for conversations with strangers, even less so with single men, as his bare ring finger quietly suggested. And yet, something in your grandmother’s words refused to let you settle quietly, as though she had lodged herself firmly inside your thoughts.

Be a stranger.

“Only the interesting ones.”

“That’s a dangerous habit.”

“So I’ve been told.”

There was an oddly comfortable silence between you, filled only with the sound of pencil and rail, his eyes examining your face, intently. Outside, you watched as the landscape shifted from open stretches to denser clusters of buildings, signs of the next city’s approach.

“Do you also make a habit of meeting people in such a fashion?”

“Certainly not.” He laughed briefly at your observation. You quickly noticed that he had a very beautiful laugh. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“One never can be sure,” you replied, a teasing note in your voice. “Don’t take offense.”

“I assure you, I couldn’t,” he countered easily, a faint smile playing at his lips,

You arched a brow, truly confused. “And why is that?”

He hesitated, then met your eyes again. “Because it would be quite impossible to take offense at someone so lovely. You look as though you ought to be framed.”

“Good heavens.” You blinked, momentarily stunned by his frankness as your whole face heated up immediately.

He stiffened, his hands going still. “Have I… spoken out of turn?”

“No,” you said quickly. A smile tugged at your lips as your gaze dropped to your shoes, suddenly unable to meet his. “I simply wasn’t expecting it.”

What would your grandfather think of you, a young woman, unmarried—by a technicality, but still—if he saw you now, flirting with a complete stranger on a train bound for New York, where you would spend the whole day alone? That answer came easily: he would think you foolish. Too much influenced by modern ideas he did not care to understand.

And yet, you had never felt so free.

“Then I’m relieved.” He smiled back. “It was meant as a compliment.”

“Why a painting, though?”

“I’m afraid I relate most things back to my work,” he admitted, sighing as he pointed his head towards his sketchbook.

You watched him draw for a moment, fascinated by the ease of his movements and how natural the motion seemed as though his hands were made to be doing that. Understanding settled in.

“You’re an artist.”

“I try to be,” he said. “A painter, to be precise.”

“Anything I might know?” you asked, half in jest.

You weren’t an art expert, not truly. Your tutors had given you the foundations, at least the parts they believed mattered, but your grandparents’ house was its own gallery. Thousands of paintings filled its rooms, the result of a shared hobby among them and the social circles they belonged to. Wandering from room to room, admiring each piece, had always been one of your favorite pastimes.

A faint, almost self-conscious smile curved his mouth. “I doubt it. I’ve yet to earn the sort of reputation that travels ahead of me.”

“That seems unlikely.” You tilted your head, unconvinced. “You draw with too much confidence for that.”

He glanced down at the sketchbook, that stubborn strand of hair falling forward again. “Well, some insist I’m quite accomplished, though I remain unconvinced.”

“That’s remarkable,” you said, the warmth in your voice unmistakable, and it made him smile in return.

“So I’m told.”

You studied him for a moment. “You’re terribly modest for an artist.”

He chuckled. “I’ve never learned the art of boasting.”

“Not even when it’s warranted?”

“Especially then.”

“That’s rather admirable. Not many people possess such restraint.”

Well, you would know, raised among people who never missed a chance to boast, whether it was about their money or their accomplishments. Seeing someone like him was something to admire, and more comforting than you cared to understand.

The train whistle blew, cutting cleanly through the small intimacy of the car. The rhythm of the wheels changed, the singing lullaby growing into a guttural rumble as the train descended into a tunnel. The light in the carriage shifted, flickering yellow and artificial as the daylight was swallowed by concrete walls.

“I’m Minghao,” he said suddenly, glancing up as if he’d just remembered something important. “I realized I should have said that first.”

He offered his hand, and you accepted, placing your bare one into his. You couldn’t name the feeling that stirred where your skin met his, only that it lingered, threading its way through you. You gave him your name in return, and the way he repeated it quietly, almost thoughtfully, sent an undeniable flutter through your chest.

The way it sounded in his voice— almost reverent—made it feel newly minted, as though it belonged to this version of you sitting across from a stranger in the dim light of a train car, rather than the girl who had answered to it all her life in echoing hallways.

“It suits you,” he concluded at last, almost to himself, scratching absently beneath his chin before the pencil resumed its gentle movements.

You smiled, unsure what to do with that, and turned your gaze toward the darkened window. Your reflection stared back faintly, layered over the tunnel walls rushing past.

You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Not the polished version presented at dinners or recitals, not the dutiful granddaughter, the orphan or well-tutored young lady, but this girl on a train, cheeks still warm from laughing, posture just slightly imperfect from trying not to fidget.

You were playing with your fingertips when you heard his voice again.

“Where are you headed?” he asked in a whisper.

“Manhattan,” you replied. Only then did it occur to you that you didn’t actually know this man at all, despite how trustworthy he seemed, and your mouth twisted slightly. “Which I probably shouldn’t be telling you,” you added, “seeing as I don’t know whether you’re Jack the Ripper or something equally unpleasant.”

A rich laugh burst from him, sudden and disarming, different from the low voice he’d used before. “I promise I’m not,” he said easily. “Just a lonely painter, I’m afraid.”

You looked down at your gloves, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in the fabric, laughing a little too.

“And you?” you asked. “Are you traveling toward or away?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Both, I think. But I do have somewhere to be later in the city.” He paused, then added, “But I would rather not be in my apartment right now.”

“Are you nervous about the place you have to be?”

“Terrified,” he corrected lightly. There was something in his gaze that suggested his fear reached far beyond, something you sensed but couldn’t quite grasp, and you didn’t know if it was yours to question. “It’s easier to be brave on a moving train,” he went on quietly. “Once it’s in motion, there’s no sensible way to escape.”

“That’s a dreadful metaphor.”

“Accurate, though.”

“Do you always confess your fears to strangers you’re sketching?”

“Only the expressive ones,” he said, that teasing, flirtatious lilt returning to his voice. You rolled your eyes despite the warmth blooming in your face.

The train roared on, metal screeching briefly as it curved along the track. A few seats down, the young mother had finally succeeded; the child slept heavy against her shoulder. The businessmen had lowered their papers, eyes distant. The whole carriage seemed suspended in a shared solitude that only exists in transit.

“Is this your first time being sketched by a stranger?”

“Yes.” You nodded slowly. “I imagine it’s not an experience somebody plans for.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “But, I’d say New York has a way of ignoring plans.” His brows rose in quiet emphasis, the hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “It prefers improvisation.”

You watched him as he spoke, the way his eyes drifted to the middle distance, as if he were already picturing streets you had only seen in photographs and paintings. You wondered what kind of life allowed a person to speak of a city the way others spoke of a lover.

You smiled. “So I’ve heard.”

Minghao gestured lightly toward your luggage. “You’re not from the city, then?”

“No,” you replied, a small shake of your head accompanying the word. “I’m on my way there now. For the first time.”

“Then welcome.” Sincerity threaded his voice. “Though I suppose it’s a bit early.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready,” you confessed under your breath, looking away again.

He considered that. “No one ever is.”

Before you could ask him to explain further, the calm of the carriage shattered as raised voices urged from two rows ahead, slicing through the morning hush like a snapped string. The sound ricocheted off the metal walls of the car, breaking the fragile cocoon that had formed around you and Minghao, and prompting everyone nearby to turn and search for its source.

They spoke rapidly in a language you did not recognize, their voices clear with frustration. You glanced at Minghao, catching the dark, almond-shaped focus of his eyes briefly, but he did not look startled. His pencil continued its steady passage across the paper, unhurried, as though the commotion were merely another thing to absorb.

Still, you could tell he was listening by the slight movement of his brows, the faint tilt of his ear toward the sound.

After a moment, he flicked a glance toward you, his expression carefully neutral, though you could see amusement lingered in it. Almost unconsciously, Minghao mirrored a sharp flick of the woman’s hand with two fingers, subtle enough that only you could notice.

“That sounds… unfortunate,” he murmured, his mouth tilting faintly, as though he understood exactly what their quarrel was about.

As soon as Minghao went silent, the argument reached its breaking point. The woman rose abruptly from her seat, and swept down the aisle without so much as a backward glance. Her heels struck the floor in decisive clicks. You followed her steps with your eyes until she vanished into the next carriage, the echo of her anger lingering behind her.

When you looked back, Minghao was watching you. He lifted his brows and made an exaggerated, almost theatrical expression of concern.

A loud laugh escaped you before you could stop it, earning you a few curious glances from the long-mustached men seated to your right. You clapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders dipping as you tried to smother the sound. The tension dissolved instantly, replaced by something lighter. Minghao’s lips curved into a smile he did not bother to hide this time, his eyes bright with quiet satisfaction at having drawn it from you.

“Did you happen to understand what they were quarreling about?” he asked, voice lowered just for you to hear it.

“No,” you admitted, a faint trace of self-consciousness creeping in. “I’m afraid my French is nonexistent. Did you?”

He nodded, a glimmer of mischief lighting his expression. “It seems I’ve become your accidental interpreter for this journey.”

“I see. And what is your professional opinion, Mr. Translator?”

Minghao leaned closer, conspiratorial, lowering his voice further. You followed his movements, standing just a few meters from him. “She’s furious because he forgot their anniversary.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the man still seated two rows from you. “He mixed up the date. And now they’re confined together on this train. A terrible combination.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “It’s astonishing how quickly things can unravel. I do feel rather sorry for her.”

He hummed in agreement. “Me too. He won’t be redeeming himself anytime soon, I’m afraid.”

Another laugh slipped out of you. You were slowly beginning to forget to be careful with him, forgetting that being careful was what you had been taught to be.

“It’s nice,” you murmured after a moment, thoughtful. “That they have each other. Even when they’re angry.”

You wondered if your marriage would be like that. If whoever this Mr. Huntzberger was, he would be your companion through hardship, if he would take you out of your loneliness. And you definitely couldn’t stop yourself from wondering, only for a moment, whether Minghao would be that kind of husband. He seemed like it would be much better than that.

Minghao’s pencil came to a stop, and he met your gaze, something unguarded softening his expression. “Yes,” he agreed. “It is. I think marriage gives people good things… eventually.”

The train slowed slightly, signs that another stop was approaching, and eventually Manhattan would come. You felt a subtle tightening in your chest, the awareness that time, which had seemed suspended for a while, was moving again and soon you both would have to part.

You didn’t know why, but the thought of never seeing Minghao again made something sink deep inside you. It startled you how abruptly the sadness arrived, uninvited, settling as a dull ache low in your stomach. You couldn’t explain it. You weren’t sure you wanted to. It was so silly of you to feel that way, you didn’t even know him.

“I’m getting married tomorrow.”

The confession slipped out before you could think straight, your gaze dropping to the stained carpet of the train. It was the first time you had ever said it aloud to anyone, and somehow putting it into words did nothing to ease its weight. You still hated that this was your life, that it would happen whether you wanted it to or not.

How foolish you had been to believe that marriage was meant to be formed by two people who loved each other.

Minghao’s reaction was immediate. The pencil slipped from his fingers, landing softly against the floor. If you knew any better, you might have thought the disappointment crossed his face was meant for you. If that was indeed a disappointment.

The words settled between you like a fragile object placed on a table.

“Oh.” It wasn’t loud, but it held something. Something you thought could only be happening in your head. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, his expression shifting before settling into careful neutrality. He recovered quickly, though not quickly enough to conceal the shock entirely. “I see. May I ask… to whom?”

You hesitated, then smiled, a little rueful, shrugging. “I’ve never met him.”

Minghao looked at you then, studying you with an expression you couldn’t quite name this time, but very different from the one he was wearing while drawing you. It wasn’t pity or judgment, which you had half expected, given how plainly everything must have been written across your face. He didn’t laugh, didn’t frown. He simply looked at you, searching your features with quiet care, something softer surfacing in his eyes.

Respect, perhaps.

“That’s… very brave of you,” he finally said.

A dry, bitter laugh escaped you. “Or simply expected.”

His brow creased, understanding dawning slowly. “Those are not always the same thing.”

“In my life, they usually are.” You lifted your eyes to meet his, one shoulder rising in another casual shrug. It was clear you had already made peace with it.

The train roared on, iron shrieking against iron as it curved through the city. Neither of you spoke for several minutes. The quiet that settled between you was no longer companionable; it had thinned, grown careful, as if both of you were suddenly aware of how easily it could tear.

Minghao leaned down to retrieve his pencil, buying himself time to think about what you just revealed to him. When he straightened, he didn’t resume drawing right away.

“Do you want it?” he finally asked.

You frowned. “Want what?”

“This marriage,” he clarified. You could tell he wasn’t probing, only trying to understand where to go from here.

And no one had ever asked you that before. Not once.

Since the day your grandfather struck the deal, two years ago, your opinion had never been requested. Not about this. Not about the one decision that would bend the entire trajectory of your life, the single event around which everything else would have to rearrange itself.

You opened your mouth with the answer you’d been trained to give: Of course. It’s a good match. I’m fortunate. The words hovered, polished and ready to be said.

They didn’t come out this time.

“I don’t know him,” you repeated instead. “I know his family. His prospects. The size of the house. I know what our lives will look like on paper.”

“And off paper?”

You lowered your gaze to your hands, smoothing the fabric of your dress with your fingers, as if it might offer an answer. “I suppose, I’ll have to wait and find out.”

Minghao stared at you with that same careful attention he gave his drawing, as though afraid to press too hard and ruin something delicate.

“My mother used to say,” he began slowly, looking thoughtful, “that a life can be survived… or it can be lived. They often look similar from the outside.”

You swallowed. “Which did she choose?”

“She tried to live,” he said, a faint smile ghosting his mouth. “That’s how I ended up becoming a painter instead of a lawyer.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, brief and almost disbelieving, though your chest felt tight as you spoke. “I think my parents did that too,” you said. “Even though it was against my grandfather’s wishes.”

“That’s how life has to be.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t.” Minghao’s gaze flicked to the window, where faint daylight was beginning to reappear between tunnel beams. “But my mom said the fear of disappointing others fades, eventually. The fear of disappointing yourself does not.”

His words had an effect on you, even though you didn't want to show it. You looked at him quickly, as though he might take them back. “You speak very boldly for someone who claims to be terrified.”

“I am terrified,” Minghao admitted, shrugging. “But I’m on the train anyway.”

That silenced you.

The train shuddered as it began to slow one more time, the tunnel walls giving way to streaks of morning light again. The carriage brightened in uneven flashes, yellow bulbs surrendering to the plate blue dawn filtering down between buildings. You caught your reflection in the window once more, but now the city moved behind with fire escapes, laundry lines, brick stacked high and close like a thousand lives leaning into one another. So different from what you’re used to in Long Island.

Minghao’s pencil slowed.

“We’ll be at Penn Station soon,” he observed, not looking up. His voice had changed, still gentle, but threaded now with something that sounded like reluctance.

You felt it too. Melancholy creeping into your thoughts as the unspoken warning settled over you. The strange, suspended world you had stepped into an hour ago was drawing to its close. Reality pressed back in through clipped announcements and the rustle of passengers gathering their belongings, preparing for arrival.

It stirred something else in you, another thought that was now echoing loudly at the back of your mind as the end of your journey approached.

“My grandmother told me to get lost today.”

An involuntary smile broke across his face. “She sounds extraordinary,” he said. “And remarkably clever.”

“She is.” You smiled too. She was the best thing in your life. “She said I should have one day that belongs only to me. Before I become…”

You couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it, but Minghao finished for you, “Before you become what’s expected of you.”

You only nodded. You couldn’t have said it better yourself.

“And what will you do with it?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

What could you possibly do? It wasn’t like you knew the city. You were afraid of getting lost, or worse, of something happening to you. It was a vast city, and you had heard a thousand stories about it, some good, some bad. If you stopped to think about it, your grandmother had to be at least a little crazy to send her only granddaughter alone to a place she had never been.

And yet… it wasn’t like you had much to lose. Not after twenty years of living a small, nearly invisible life in Glen Cove.

“Walk, perhaps,” you said, considering the possibilities as they slowly took shape in your mind. “Sit somewhere no one knows my name… and pretend I am someone else.”

Minghao tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his face, an amused smile at his lips. “And who would you pretend to be?”

Well, you had never allowed yourself to imagine that part. “Someone….” you began, the idea forming even as you spoke it, braver than you were used to being, “who makes choices without asking permission.”

His expression shifted, gentling into something that might have been pride. Though you couldn’t be certain. It startled you, how pleased you felt that a stranger—that stranger—could be proud of you.

“Well, then I hope you meet her today.”

“Me too.”

The train began to slow completely this time, its rhythm changing, the steady clatter giving way to a dragging groan. Outside the window, the city rose to meet you, buildings crowding closer until there was no mistaking it.

Manhattan. Penn Station.

You leaned closer to the glass. “This is it,” you said. “We get off here, don’t we?”

“Yes.” He lingered on it, before he said, almost under his breath, “A pity.”

You turned to him. “A pity?”

Minghao smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “I wish I had met you sooner.” The disappointment in his gaze wasn’t for you, but at the timing, at the circumstances that had placed you here. “I’ve enjoyed speaking with you. More than I anticipated.”

You felt something warm settle in your chest. “I’ve enjoyed it quite a lot too.”

The train lurched one final time before coming to a full stop. The doors slid ope, and the cold air immediately rushed in, along with the sound of voices, footsteps, the impatient shuffling of lives crossing paths for seconds at a time. Passengers began to rise, gathering coats and bags, filling the aisle.

Neither of you moved for a moment. You didn’t look at each other either, only at the other passengers, at the small commotion of disembarking, careful to avoid one another’s gaze. You were simply enjoying each other’s company while you still could.

From somewhere down the carriage, the porters’ whistle pierced the air, announcing your arrival as though you hadn’t already know it, as though you weren’t deliberately avoiding the moment of getting out.

Were you foolish to think Minghao felt it too? Perhaps. But it seemed so. You had known him scarcely an hour, so why should you feel this way about someone you had only just met?

Life was cruelly, beautifully strange.

He stood first, placing his sketchbook carefully inside his briefcase and buttoning his long coat over it. Then he reached for your suitcase, lifting it like it weighed nothing. It struck you then that he carried himself like a former dancer, though you couldn’t quite have said why. He was simply light on his feet, every movement measured and intentional. There was a subtle and unforced confidence in it.

“Allow me.”

“Thank you,” you said, rising to your feet and following behind him. Your steps were deliberately slow, faintly awkward—those of someone who did not quite know where she was meant to go—as you pulled your gloves and coat back on.

You walked along the platform together until you reached a line of taxis, moving in complete silence, almost like any words would be too much for the moment to bear. There, you turned to face one another, and simply stared.

Outside the dim confines of the train and in the full light of day, you could see him clearly for the first time. The sharp line of his jaw. The dark sweep of his lashes. It struck you all at once how undeniably handsome Minghao truly was.

You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of yourself, and looked away first. “Well, I guess this is where we part.”

“Yes.” He nodded, disappointment flickering openly across his features. This time, you were certain of it. “You’ll be all right? You have enough for a taxi?”

“Yes, I’m all set.” You gave your handbag a light tap. “I’m quite prepared.”

At least in that regard, your answer could be considered true.

Minghao felt a twinge of selfishness. Even for a brief moment, he wished you weren’t prepared, that you needed him, because he would have been more than willing to help, simply to keep the conversation going, to be in your company a little longer.

Instead, Minghao simply shook his head, a small, almost sad smile on his closed lips, and handed you your bag. After a quiet farewell, you remained there for a few seconds, eyes following him as he drifted into the crowd, until at last he vanished from view.

You were nearly sealing a deal with a taxi driver, whose motorcar—a model remarkably similar to the one your grandfather had just acquired—was confirmed by your brief inspection, when you heard your name called across the station.

You turned just in time to see a breathless Minghao pushing through the crowd, weaving his way toward you. He came to a halt almost beside you, hands on his knees as he struggled for air, before straightening and walking toward you at a measured pace.

“Wait,” he begged

“What are you doing?” you asked, eyes widening in shock.

“I’ve had a thought,” he said, slowly closing the distance between you, his voice loud enough for both you and the driver to hear. “A rather mad one, I’m afraid. But if I do not speak it now, I suspect it will trouble me for the rest of my days.”

You studied him, intrigued by the tension in his posture, your eyebrows arching. “What is it?”

Minghao opened his mouth, then closed it again. His gaze flicked briefly to the floor, then back to you. For a moment, he seemed almost shy.

“Well?” you prompted, your voice softer this time. From the corner of your eye, you caught the taxi driver casting a faintly impatient glance, clearly weary of waiting.

He reached you in two strides, breath slightly uneven. “Would you… spend the day with me?”

You stared at him, startled, your lips parting to speak, still reeling, but he continued before a single word could leave you.

“I would like to continue speaking with you. I know nothing of your circumstances, truly, but I feel as though we have… met at an odd but meaningful one.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I feel that too.”

Relief crossed his face, quick and unmistakable. “Then perhaps this will not sound entirely absurd,” he shrugged. “We could walk the city together. Be strangers together.”

You smiled at the idea, though uncertainty lingered behind it. “And where would we go?”

Minghao let out a quiet laugh, shook his head, and finally came to a stop right in front of you. You resisted the urge to reach out and brush that unruly strand of hair from his face, tightening your grip instead on the straps of the bags you carried.

“I wish I could say I have a plan.” He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, shrugging once more. “All I know is that I cannot return to my studio right now, so I will simply wander until it is time to go… somewhere. If I prove untrustworthy, tedious, or—heaven forbid—even remotely reminiscent of Jack the Ripper, you may leave and attend to whatever you had planned. Just…” He sighed, eyes soft and earnest as they met yours. “Please. grant me this one chance.

You said nothing at first, considering. You looked at him, at the city waiting beyond the open doors of the station, looked at the annoyed driver, at the narrow space between certainty and possibility, your grandmother’s words were louder than ever.

Be a stranger.

“Say it, yes, doll. Go on.”

Your cheeks burned immediately at the nickname, as if you weren’t already persuaded to go with him simply because you enjoyed being in his presence, even without knowing much about him, except for the fact that he was an artist. The thing was: you really, really wanted to find out more. Perhaps you simply had no survival instinct at all.

You were already convinced, yet still, you said, “Give me one good reason.”

“Because I won’t be here tomorrow.”

WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK, NEW YORK  FEBRUARY 15TH, 1926 | MORNING

The café was already half-full when you stepped inside, likely owing to the late hour for breakfast. A bell chimed over your head as the door swung shut behind you, and Minghao paused just by the entrance, as though giving you a moment to take the room in.

“You first.” He made an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture for you to step in front of him, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Warm air, thick with steam and roasted coffee, wrapped around you at once, the low murmur of conversation stitched together by the soft clink of cups and cutlery. You glanced at the counter, at the men standing with easy confidence, and at the chalkboard menu written in cursive letters.

“I’ve never ordered alone,” you admitted, almost ashamed and apologetically.

“Then today will be full of firsts,” Minghao replied, as if it were no great matter at all, guiding you through the place. “There’s both coffee and pastries, if you like.”

You followed his instructions precisely, heart fluttering more than it ought to have over something so small. When the cup was finally placed into your hands, you felt absurdly accomplished.

Outside, Washington Square Park stretched open and pale gold, dotted with figures bundled against the lingering chill. You chose a small round table by the fogged windows, settling into a mismatched chair across from Minghao. Your gloves lay neatly folded beside your cup, his sketchbook between you, pencil balanced loosely in his fingers like an extension of his body.

“So… you’re being deported?” you returned to the subject Minghao had started minutes earlier, while you were putting your things safe in a locker back at Penn Station. Your eyes were still a little wide, even now, minutes after he had revealed it to you.

He looked up from his cup, brows lifting slightly, then smiled, not defensive or alarmed, almost amused and resigned, as if he no longer cared to fight it. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I managed to irritate some very important people.”

You waited, but he didn’t give you any more details. “That’s all?” you pressed, still stunned.

“For now.” He offered a small wink, treating it like an inconvenience he could simply set aside, not the unraveling of his life. “If we linger on it, I’ll lose my appetite. And I’m quite fond of this place.”

Minghao took a sip of his coffee and, without ceremony, reopened his sketchbook to the exact page he’d been working on during the train ride. The drawing there held the unmistakable contours of someone who looked very much like you. With so little, he had already captured so much, enough to make his talent undeniable.

He caught the way your eyes lingered on the sketch and paused, pencil hovering above the page. “Do you mind if I continue?”

You shook your head immediately. “No,” you said. “I think I’d mind more if you stopped.”

And if you were honest with yourself, you liked the attention he gave you; unconnected to duty or blood, and that you hadn’t known in years.

He gave you another smile and continued his work, occasionally looking up at your face.

“So…” Mingao drew in a deep breath, taking another sip of his coffee and a bite of the cake he had ordered. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

Again, you couldn’t recall the last person who had asked you that, so it was no surprise that the question caught you a little off guard.

“What would you like to know about me?” you inquired back.

“I want to know everything about you.” Minghao’s voice carried a firmness and honesty that took you aback once more, yet he wanted you to understand that he truly meant it.

So you told him, while he continued to draw you, even as he listened attentively, about the fact that you lived with your grandparents in Glen Cove practically your whole life—carefully omitting that your parents had passed away. You spoke of the hours spent studying, reading, swimming, and wandering the vast gardens of your grandparents’ estate, often in the quiet company of a young girl tasked with keeping you company.

“There’s not much interesting about me to know,” you said, your voice tinged with self-awareness.

Minghao paused, pencil hovering over the paper, and looked at you. “I really doubt that,” he said softly.

You watched him for a moment, the concentration in his face, the way his world seemed to narrow to the paper when he sketched. Then you glanced around the café, suddenly aware of how unfamiliar everything still felt for someone like you who had barely set foot outside the house you lived in unaccompanied.

Your fingers curled around the porcelain cup, grateful for the warmth in your palms, for the sense of having nowhere to be, even temporarily.

“I’ve never done this,” you confessed suddenly, your eyes still fixed on the world beyond the glass separating the street from the café.

Minghao looked up then, his gaze thoughtful. “Ordered coffee?” he asked, smiling.

“That too.” You giggled, resting your cup on the table. “Being alone in a city. Truly alone, I mean.”

There would be no reason for you to be.

He considered what you’d said for a moment, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the pause, before he spoke. “You’re not completely alone,” he said. “Not if you’re with me.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” you hurried to say. “But it’s different. New York is altogether unfamiliar territory to me. And for once, I can explore it without my grandparents hovering over me and stealing the air from my lungs.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m the best tour guide around.” He offered you another wink. “I’ve lived here for five years.”

“And you’re going to be deported after all this time?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

He waved a hand, dismissive—of the subject, not of you—already retreating from it.

“What can you do?” He shrugged, putting the pencil behind his ear, and closing his sketchbook. “America isn’t exactly kind to its immigrants.”

You look down at the table. Living trapped on the other side of the island like Rapunzel hadn’t exactly prepared you for how the real world worked. It was remarkable how clever you had once thought yourself, until you brushed up against real problems and realized that even stealing the newspaper every morning to keep informed still left you ignorant in so many ways.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, doll.”

Your cheeks warmed again, and you looked anywhere but at him, ready to change the subject and lighten the mood.

“If that’s the case, then tell me, what’s one spot I can’t miss here? Not just the tourist spots, I want to go off beneath the path.”

“Excuse me, my dear lady, but today’s itinerary is strictly confidential.” Minghao traced a finger across his lips before twisting it in the air, as if locking the secret away. You cursed yourself for noticing how red and full his lips were. “So,” he went on, eyes flicking to yours, “how does it feel to be alone for the first time?”

You considered the question, searching for the right word. “Like standing at the edge of something unknown,” you said at last. “Both exhilarating and terrifying.”

And somehow—without Minghao ever knowing it—he was the one who had coaxed that courage into your life when he made you that proposal at the station. You hadn’t even realized it was there. The seed, perhaps, had been planted by your grandmother, but he was the one who had watered it to grow, unknowingly.

Where fear had once crowded your thoughts, anticipation now took its place. You found yourself no longer bracing for what might go wrong tomorrow, but wondering, almost eagerly, where the day might carry you.

“That does sound about right,” he agreed with a small nod. “It’s how I felt my first year here.”

For nearly ten minutes, you listened as Minghao spoke about his years in art school, a spark lighting his eyes while you both ate. He told you about the crowded rooms filled with arrogant, confident men, and of professors who praised his skills even as they urged him to change his subject matter, to make it less about where he came from and more about what they believed modern art should be.

“It’s not like I’m against this new wave of Art Deco,” he explained, shaking his head. “I think it’s beautiful. But I also think that each artist has to have their own authenticity, otherwise everything becomes the same and soulless.”

“And did you?” you asked, brows lifting with curiosity as the coffee cooled between your hands. “Made Art Deco, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, although he didn’t seem particularly happy with the idea. “When I need to.”

It was captivating to watch him speak like that, the animation in his face making every word feel alive. Hearing about Minghao’s experiences felt unexpectedly intimate, like being trusted with something carefully guarded for years.

Suddenly, Minghao looked at you, shaking his head as though only just realizing how long he had been speaking. “Forgive me. Am I boring you with all of this?”

“No, not at all,” you quickly reassured him. “I want to hear about it.”

Minghao held your gaze with something briefly passing through his eyes, before the corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile. If you hadn’t known better, you might have called it shy. But it looked grateful, too.

You left the café soon after, stepping back into the open air. Minghao tucked his sketchbook beneath one arm and, without ceremony, offered you the other as you walked.

Washington Square Park was beautiful and alive in a quiet, restless way. There was so much to see that you didn’t know where to look first. Despite the faint smell of coal smoke, damp earth, and tobacco, you found yourself unexpectedly happy to be there.

The park itself was uneven and worn, its paths packed dirt, but you didn’t care—you were simply happy to be walking there. Benches lined the walkways, wooden slats with iron arms, occupied by old men in flat caps reading newspapers, women in cloche hats and heavy coats smoking freely, a few children scattered here and there, and young people sitting close together.

You loved everything about it.

Minghao watched you watching the fountain, quiet fondness in his eyes, his hands twitching at his sides with the urge to brush a strand of your short hair from your face, one you didn’t seem to notice at all.

He was almost raising his hand when you looked at him again.

“My parents met here,” you said, a little lost in thought, the sound of the fountain nearly swallowing your voice. “Not in this square. In the city.”

Minghao seemed surprised, but curious about your sudden revelation. “Oh, really?”

You just nodded. “Five years before I was born.”

You told Minghao pieces of their love story as you crossed the square, and he listened attentively, never interrupting, while you passed clusters of people: artists with their canvases, men bent over chessboards, women chitchatting.

“My grandfather disapproved of my father, naturally.” You rolled your eyes, remembering how he used to freeze that at the mere mention of him when you were growing up. “They got tired of hiding it and ran away. Then my mother became pregnant with me, and suddenly the world rearranged itself. My grandfather could hardly refuse a marriage proposal after that.”

“Are they happy?”

You smiled sadly. “They were.”

His eyes widened a little. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“They were extremely happy,” you said, cutting him off before you went there. “I don’t think I’ve ever met two people who loved each other as much as they did.”

“That’s how love should be, isn’t it?” He raised his eyebrows at you, as if you already knew the answer, or were meant to share whatever idea had just occurred to him. “Make you do crazy things. So in love that you act insane.”

You scoffed softly, looking away from him just in time to catch a horse-drawn cart rolling past on the opposite side of the street, followed closely by a modern automobile. You weren’t mocking him, only struggling to reconcile his words with a reality that had never quite made room for you.

“In books, maybe.” You shrugged. “I’m not sure society agrees with that.”

“Society rarely agrees with anything worthwhile.”

You told him how your mother’s death had changed your grandfather, leaving him rigid, angry, how control became his only language for grief and love. That to him, love was control, and so he treated the people he loved most as property, not as people. Which was the only reason that had brought you there, at the end of the day.

“He never forgave your parents for running away,” Minghao said as he looked like he came to a conclusion.

“No,” you confirmed, laughing humorlessly. “In fact, he believes that was the card in the pile that knocked all the others down, and ultimately triggered everything that came after.”

“How unfortunate it is,” he murmured, “that grief took over him completely.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. When mom died, I think all that love had nowhere to go. So it settled on me, and turned into rules and overprotection.”

You both slowed your pace, and with a small nod, Minghao gestured toward a bench set before a cluster of tall, impossibly green trees. Nearby, a violinist played for the passersby, his music drifting through the air, a straw hat resting at his feet for coins.

“He’s not a bad person, my grandfather.” You hesitated, biting the inside of your cheek. You liked to think he cared, perhaps a little too much, even if he expressed it in a strange way. You knew, though, that some would call you foolish for believing that. “I think he did everything the way his father taught him to, what he believes is right.”

“But you don’t think it's right for you.”

“That’s an understatement,” you whispered, eyes fixed on the violinist. The melancholy in your eyes was unmistakable to Minghao. “That’s why I like to believe that if love didn’t save my parents, it wouldn’t save me either.”

For a moment, Minghao didn’t speak, as if pondering your words with the same care he gave his lines on paper earlier.

“That’s a sad way to see love, doll,” he said at last.

You offered a small smile, meeting his gaze again. “I think it’s nice that you speak as though love strikes like lightning,” you said dryly, not meaning to be harsh. “As if a woman has a say in where it lands.”

He smiled at that too, a little rueful himself. “I like to think it does. That it chooses us before we’ve quite made up our minds.”

“That’s an artist's comfort,” you shot back. “And I’m afraid I’ve never had the luxury of that.”

You wouldn’t exactly call yourself a cynic when it came to love. You knew it existed because you had watched your parents in the short period of time they were with you. Sometimes you even allowed yourself to daydream that maybe your marriage could be like that. Still, even you knew you were being a little foolish for thinking so.

“But you have a mind of your own,” he argued, quickly. “Surely you don’t believe your future must be sold to the highest bidder.”

Minghao couldn’t understand why it was you, of all people, who unsettled him like this. He had lost count of the times he’d avoided arguments with cynics, choosing peace over persuasion, content to remain an incurable romantic on his own.

So why did it trouble him so deeply to hear you speak with such resignation? Why did your careful step into cynicism feel less like an opinion and more like a quiet wrong, something that demanded, for once, that he not stay silent?

“Except that… it already happened.” Your voice carried more resentment than sorrow. “What future do you imagine women are given?”

“Well, women are freer now, after the war, and, I suppose—”

“I was raised by a man who still thinks in pre-war terms. I don’t earn enough to stand alone, I’ve only learned the basics from my tutors, and I don’t think I could ever find a job anywhere, because I’m so inexperienced at everything.”

“But you could marry for affection,” Minghao insisted, resting his head on his hands, gaze fixed on yours as if that alone could make you reconsider. “For happiness. Isn’t that worth more than security bought without any feeling?”

“Happiness doesn’t keep a household,” you said firmly. “And affection won’t protect me when the law says I belong to a man, at the end of the day, will it?”

Minghao had to admit it: you were very clever and witty. Add that to being very good at arguing and keeping your ground and perhaps the only profession that would suit you properly would be a lawyer; something he knew society wasn’t so fond of.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You see only the rules. I see what might exist beyond them.”

“And I envy you for that. But marriage, for most women, is not a romance. It’s simply a negotiation.”

It was becoming clear to Minghao that the two of you would not see eye to eye this evening. All he could do was hope that, before the sun rises tomorrow, your thoughts might lean another way.

For a few seconds, you both sit quietly, watching a group of boys scurry past, their eyes bright with admiration for the flowers they hold. The brisk winter wind tugged at the branches, and a handful of leaves drifted down to the earth. It only then occurred to you that you were having this conversation a day after Valentine’s Day.

Looking at Minghao, you couldn’t help but notice the disappointment in his eyes, and the thought that you had caused it made your chest tighten.

“Listen, I’m happy to talk to you about this, and I appreciate that you have all these progressive views about women’s lives, even if we still have a long way to go.” You carried an expression that told him it was all right to disagree. “But I was raised to be agreeable, Minghao. Everything in my life was arranged toward a single outcome.”

You didn’t need to say it. Minghao reached the conclusion himself, eyes now becoming softer. “Marriage,” he murmured.

You nodded in confirmation. “I always knew that I would marry a stranger. It was never presented as a possibility, only a certainty.”

His jaw tensed as his eyes lost a bit of the sparkle, and he looked away from you.

“I was taught how to be good,” you kept going. “And yet being good never saved anyone I loved.”

“And what did you want?”

The question came to you like a soft hand against a closed door. No one had ever asked you that before either, and yet the truth had always been far too intricate to be answered by anything so simple as fleeing an arranged marriage.

You paused, lips pressed together, then with another sad smile on your face, you mumbled, “Lots of things.”

You both let that answer rest between you, looking anywhere but at each other. You took in the scene around you once again, a new wave of students passing by, a sense of happiness filling you as you watched a group of girls walking beside each other with notebooks with hands, one with ink-stained fingers, making something twist inside your chest.

“I used to imagine myself here,” you confessed. “As one of them.”

He followed your gaze. “A student?”

“Yes. Learning something for myself.” He nodded, as though this were not strange at all. It made your chest warm that he thought like that. “Well, before I understood that I was never meant to be.”

Minghao didn’t contradict you this time. He only watched the students disappear down the path, their laughter thinning into the late morning air, before turning back to you.

He seemed to want to say more, to insist, perhaps, that it meant something, that it still could, but instead he rose from the bench and offered you his arm again, patient and respectful. As though he already understood that some doors were not meant to be forced open.

You took it, and as you walked with the city humming gently around you, it occurred to you that one day Minghao would make some lucky woman very happy. Deep down—maybe not as deep as you would have liked—, secretly, at least in another life, you wished it could’ve been you.

FIFTH AVENUE & 82ND STREET, NEW YORK  FEBRUARY 15TH, 1926 | EARLY AFTERNOON

Minghao took you uptown next by subway, the two of you settling into a narrow wooden seat near the center of the carriage. He sat properly, knees angled away in practiced courtesy, though the closeness of the space left no avoiding the warm press of his thigh against yours.

Outside the rattling windows, the city passed in uneven glimpses of rows and rows of brownstones giving away to broader avenues. The February winter wind suddenly feeling rather colder and cleaner near open parkland.

You weren’t sure whether anyone found your presence there improper, but nearly no one turned to look your way. They must have taken you for a couple—together in every sense of the word—though nothing had ever been said aloud between you.

Minghao leaned closer so you could hear him over the rush of male voices around. “To pass the time,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “we could play a game.”

You raised a brow and angled your body toward him. “I’m afraid I’m dreadful at games,” you said, though there was something curious in your tone.

“This one requires no skill,” he assured you. “Only your most truthful honesty.”

That made you smile. “All right.”

“Questions and answers. One each. No refusals.”

“Very well. But nothing scandalous.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied, then promptly asked, “What frightens you most, doll?”

You were caught off guard by the seriousness of the question, momentarily ignoring the fact that Minghao had used that nickname again—and how it stirred something in a small corner of your heart. You had expected him to ask something light, even silly. But then again, none of your conversations so far had ever truly been about trivial things.

You watched the city blur past the window, taking a moment before answering. “Silence,” you finally said. “Not the pleasant kind. The kind that settles after something has gone wrong.” You swallowed. “I lived with a lot of it before my grandmother told me what had happened to my parents. Even now, it still frightens me.”

Minghao seemed to notice how quickly his game had become serious, so he simply nodded, his gaze thoughtful as he processed your response. You didn’t give him much time.

“My turn?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to be remembered for?”

He didn’t answer immediately, thinking about the answer carefully in the same way you did. Then, softly, “For having made something that didn’t exist before me.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed his head slightly, then looked back at you. “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks immediately, grateful for the dimness of the carriage and the fact that his eyes, though attentive, held no trace of mockery, only genuine interest in getting to know you. The answer, so ordinary for most people your age, felt suddenly idiotic in your mouth.

“I haven’t.”

Minghao blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Haven’t…?”

You shook your head, avoiding his shocked gaze. “Kissed.” After a minute, you added, “I was never allowed to be alone with boys. There was always a chaperone, or a door left open.” You gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “My grandfather would die first… before ever allowing me to become my mother.”

He didn’t smile this time. Instead, his expression softened. With each passing second, Minghao understood more clearly just how different your lives had been. How unfamiliar all of this must be for you. And yet, here you were, taking a chance to do something different, perhaps for the first time in your life.

“I’m sorry.” He was not pitying you, just being sincere. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s all right,” you said quickly, brushing it off with a small wave of your hand. “You said no refusals.” You hesitated, then shrugged, “Besides, I suppose it is a bit strange.”

Minghao shook his head immediately, eyes widening just a fraction, as though the idea of you putting yourself down truly unsettled him. “No, no,” he rushed to say, eyes flickering to your lips briefly. “It’s not strange. It just means no one has earned it yet.”

His eyes were so intense and sincere as he said this that your heart raced shortly. On his end, without meaning to, Minghao found himself wishing—secretly, silently—that he might be worthy of it.

The subway lurched slightly as it slowed at another stop, the lights flickering over your head. Your shoulder brushed his arm this time, and neither of you moved away.

“And you?” you asked, partly to reclaim your composure, partly because you truly wanted to know. “When was yours?”

Minghao smiled faintly. “Too young.” He scratched the back of his head briefly. “And far less meaningful than people like to pretend those things are. Though I’ve learned they can mean something, if you let them.”

You kept trading questions like that, though now they landed in safer, more harmless territory as the subway carried you through the city, the conversation drifting towards favorite places, childhood habits, and what he missed most about home.

The subway screeched as it pulled into Grand Central Station, and you only realized you had arrived when someone called out, the doors sliding open with a hiss. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of stone and metal. Minghao rose first, offering you his hand, if you wished to take it, and you took it without hesitation.

By the time you stepped down onto the pavement, you were still engrossed in the game, the conversation flowing naturally between you as though the world had chosen not to interrupt, with Minghao guiding you—hand in hand—through the busy streets of Fifth Avenue.

You headed west, weaving past grand hotels, office towers, and shouting newsboys. The pedestrian traffic grew heavier, until you were obliged to release each other’s hands. Then a cluster of impeccably dressed men and women slipped between you, dividing you on the crowded pavement.

Minghao circled around them to catch up, repeating the answer he had just given before his words were swallowed by the strangers’ overlapping conversations.

You walked a little farther, this time heading north, and everything around you seemed impossibly luxurious. Jewellers with glittering displays. Tailors’ shops with immaculate suits posed in their windows. Mannequins adorned in cloche hats and fur collars. There was so much to take in, so much that ought to have captured your attention.

Yet only one thing managed to hold it.

The MET rose before you in pale stone grandeur, flags flanking the entrance in the breeze, its broad steps crowded with figures ascending and descending beneath the winter sun. You paused at the foot of them, your breath catching as you took it all in.

You let out a quiet, almost disbelieving sigh. “I’ve seen it in photographs, but I don’t think they do it justice.”

Minghao watched your face instead of the building.

“No,” he agreed. “It rarely does. Shall we?”

You didn’t need to be told twice, almost pulling him up the stairs with you, excitement coursing through your veins. Minghao only chuckled behind you, letting himself be carried along as he squeezed your hand in his, so your hurry wouldn’t part you.

Inside, the noise of the city fell away, replaced by footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors and hushed voices. You moved from room to room at an unhurried pace, letting Minghao guide you once again as light filtered down from the high ceilings.

You were no longer holding hands, but he walked beside you with his hands and arms clasped behind his back, telling you about each work as if he had already memorized the route and every single one of them, from the countless hours he had clearly spent here.

Everything felt impressive to you. You were familiar with the paintings in your own home, but these carried pieces of history, and witnessing them in person felt incredible. Portraits followed you with their eyes: women painted into permanence, faces composed and beautiful, hands folded or draped just so, and, more often than not, unnamed. Gold frames, dark backgrounds, and lives distilled into posture.

You paused before one such canvas. “They’re so beautiful. And most of them don’t even have names.”

Minghao followed your gaze. “Wife of,” he read from a placard. “Daughter of.”

“Never simply herself,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, though Minghao heard you all the same. “They were here, and yet… erased, somehow.”

“I saw it often in school. There were men who submitted work their wives had helped create, sometimes entirely.”

“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but…” You clicked your lips together in disappointment. “It hardly does. I bet they’d laugh about that too.”

“Precisely. Talent is easier to claim than to credit.”

It was sad on so many levels that you couldn’t even process it properly. What else could it be, if not history repeating itself in countless forms?

You walked on, unsettled and thoughtful, Minghao walking just behind you, quietly watching your reactions. “Do you think art remembers people better than history does?”

“Yes,” he said without a single glance of hesitation. “Art is meant to be proof that we lived. That we felt something strongly enough to leave a mark.”

You stopped before a landscape, turning to stand face to face with him. “And if no one knows who painted it?”

“Then it still exists.” He shrugs, hands still behind his back. “Which is something.”

You stared at him for a few seconds, and he did not look away, simply appreciating how you analyzed him and let his words filter through. Minghao intrigued you in so many ways, and though you felt you were beginning to understand him, there was still a depth that seemed endless, something you imagined was what led a person to become an artist.

“How did you come to paint?” you asked. “You speak of it as though… I don’t know, it saved you?”

You saw him hesitate, his gaze now slipping away from yours. “Doll…”

“Only your most truthful honesty.” You echoed his words, before Minghao could finish, and the corner of his lips lifted a bit.

“It’s a long story.”

“I don’t mind long stories. Besides,” you said, gesturing around at all there was still to see, “it looks like we have plenty of time ahead of us.”

“It isn’t a cheerful one.”

“I didn’t ask for anything cheerful.”

Minghao would like to say that what had convinced him to share the most personal, saddest thing in his life was the thought that there was a chance you would never see each other again after today. You had opened your heart to him earlier, without hesitation, and it felt only right to do the same.

But the way you were looking at him—those beautiful eyes blinking curiously behind impossibly long lashes—shattered every structure he had built in years. And the fact that you seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, in his story, was something he hadn’t felt in months.

“Are you certain you wish to hear it?” Minghao gave you one last chance to back down.

Your eyes met his, and you stepped closer, nodding. “Please… tell me.”

He mirrored your nod, exhaling slowly. “I lost my older sister when I was very young… an accident. I survived, and she did not.”

“Oh.” You felt your chest tighten for him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was… difficult,” he continued, offering his arm so you could walk together again, even if his voice sounded distant. “For a long time, I carried a great deal of anger at the world. At myself. I didn’t know where to put it.”

“And then?” You encouraged him to continue.

“One day, my father brought home paints. Just something to keep my hands busy, I think. He gave me paper and told me to draw what I couldn’t say.”

Minghao’s voice steadied as he spoke, though something in his eyes remained far away, caught in another time. You tightened your fingers around his sleeve, a silent invitation to keep going.

A small, restrained smile touched his lips. “It changed everything. I’ve been painting ever since.” The expression turned almost sheepish. “I suppose that’s the short version.”

Your steps slowed without your meaning to, and you tugged gently at his shirt sleeve so he would look at you again. The museum felt hushed around you.

“That’s a beautiful story.”

You wanted to hug him, but you weren’t sure if you were that comfortable with each other yet—or how those around you would react to such a public display of affection in the middle of the museum—so you held yourself back, squeezing his arm lightly instead.

Minghao looked at you as though you had reached inside his chest and hugged something he’d never knew it was possible to embrace. For a moment, he seemed unable to speak.

“Everything can be made beautiful from the right angle, I suppose.”

“Like art.”

“Exactly like art.”

A couple passed behind you, their footsteps echoing softly, and yet the space between you felt intimate, carved out of time. You became acutely aware of how close you stood, of the warmth radiating from him, of the way his arm was still offered, waiting.

For a fleeting moment, you entertained the most reckless hope that he might kiss you right there, without even fully understanding why the thought had come to you, or how deeply you desired it.

“Come,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “There’s one more room I want you to see.”

You laced your fingers together without thinking, and walked on together in silence for a moment.

“Have you ever tried art yourself?” he asked, and in doing so, suddenly opened a Pandora’s box you had long kept sealed in your memory, where even the good ones had been carefully kept out of reach.

You thought of ivory keys and rooms closed to you, of sneaking into that room of your house in the dead of night when everyone was already asleep, of the music pressed into silence.

“Music,” you replied proudly, then corrected yourself. “At least, until my grandfather decided it was impractical.”

“Impractical?” he echoed, frowning as if that word made absolutely no sense.

“Hmm.” You nodded, your expression turning distant as old memories stirred. “I played the piano for most of my life. I devoted hours to it, every single day.”

For a moment, you thought about how music had once been encouraged as a proper hobby, endorsed by the teacher hired to instruct you, by the grand piano purchased and placed in a sunlit room where light poured through tall windows without restraint. How perfect it had all seemed; until it became more than a pastime. Until it became your passion.

“I’ve wanted to play the piano properly. To study music.”

His eyes lit. “Why didn’t you?”

“When I mentioned the possibility to my grandfather, he was not pleased,” you continued. “He called it an indulgence. A hobby at best. He said no man wishes to marry a woman who dreams too loudly.”

Your grandmother had protested, calling it nonsense, but he had never been one to heed her objections.

Minghao looked outraged as he listened to you. After everything you had just told him, he seemed convinced there was no possibility your grandfather was anything but a cruel man, no matter how carefully you had tried to soften the description earlier.

You studied the sculptures around you, but he watched only you, concern etched across his features. He could not quite explain the sudden urge to take you away from that life, to play the knight in shining armor to a princess. And yet, the last thing he believed was that you were helpless. He did not mistake you for a damsel in need of saving, nor did he see fragility in you. Minghao saw someone who had simply accepted her fate.

“Before he sold the piano, he told me it was merely a pleasant accomplishment. Nothing more. Certainly not a future.”

Minghao smiled, something bright and defiant. “That sounds like a future to me.”

You lifted your shoulder in a careless shrug, as if it hardly mattered. “Yes, well…”

“What about now?” Minghao asked, unable to let go of that matter.

You fell silent for a moment, thinking of the months that had passed without your fingers touching a single key, how you hadn’t even heard a proper note in ages. You remembered the last time you played in secret, traveling so far into the music that you lost all sense of yourself, of where you were, until you were discovered, dragged back to earth.

“Now…” A faint, sad smile touched your lips, and Minghao found he hated the sight of it. “I suppose I’ve become exactly what I was meant to be.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said, almost before you had finished speaking.

You exhaled softly and rested your head on his shoulder, only for a second, permitting yourself the fragile comfort of believing he was right.

STATEN ISLAND FERRY, NEW YORK  FEBRUARY 15 TH, 1926 | AFTERNOON

“And that’s Ellis Island.”

Minghao rested his forearms on the railing of the ferry, nodding toward the low and small buildings in the distance. His tone was casual, but you felt something beneath it and saw the way he pressed his lips together.

You were standing beside him, your gloved hands resting against the cold metal, coat pulled close against the February wind. The air smelled of salt and coal and something faintly metallic. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying sharply before vanishing toward the open water.

You followed his gaze. “Is that where—”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Where they decide whether you may stay or not.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you stayed silent. Since he didn’t want to talk about it earlier, you didn’t know if he would want to do that now.

The ferry cut across the harbor unhurried, gliding through the gray-blue water. Smoke curled lazily from the funnel, dissolving into the winter sky, and the sound of the city stayed behind you, buildings shrinking, noise thinning as it rocked gently beneath your feet.

You had never been on a ferry before, and even though you had said earlier that you didn’t want many touristy things, you were happy that this was on Minghao’s itinerary.

After a while in silence, just enjoying the view, you watched as he pulled his sketchbook from the pocket of his big coat, flipping it open against the wind right on the page with his sketch of you. He wasn’t drawing yet, just holding it open and staring at it, as though the act itself were comforting.

“Can I ask you something?” You tilted your head, studying his profile as the wind tousled his hair.

He glanced at you, a smile playing at his lips. “I was under the impression you already knew you had free rein to do that, doll.”

A blush bloomed across your cheeks, and Minghao let out a soft giggle, clearly delighted by the effect the nickname had on you. You rolled your eyes at his flirtatious tone, shaking your head as if to brush it off, even though that was impossible. There’s no denying it: you very much liked that tone.

“Where were you coming from this morning when you got on the train?”

He ran a hand over his face, grinding his teeth slightly. “I had a meeting yesterday with a potential buyer.”

You raised your eyebrows excitedly. “As in a potential client?”

“If one can call him that.” He pursed his lips and shrugged, clearly not looking pleased.

“Why? Is he bad?”

“No,” he said quickly, letting out a tired sigh. “I mean, yes. It’s just that... I’m lucky, I suppose. It’s usually only this one. Meetings with him make me want to lose my mind. Or rather, kill myself entirely.”

You gasped softly, a hand flying to your chest. “Minghao—”

“I’m joking,doll,” he clarifies with a light laugh. “Mostly.”

“What’s wrong with him, then?” you asked. “He doesn’t like your work?”

“Oh, he likes it all right,” Minghao said, rolling his eyes. “He’s obsessed with it. And that’s the problem.”

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and Minghao noticed.

He leaned his elbows on the railing again, his eyes drifting to the water below. “Not to be full of myself or anything, but… in my own way, I’m well known for not being an average artist. I don’t say that arrogantly, just factually.”

You wouldn’t say you were surprised to hear that, yet you still nodded to reassure him. “I believe you.”

“And because of that, naturally, I know exactly who my buyers are. They tend to be very wealthy, and very confident in their own importance in the world. Wall Street men, mostly.” Minghao chuckled under his breath, tilting his head back to look at the sky while he shook it slowly. “They like owning things no one else can. My paintings are one of those things.”

“And this man… is he a big shot or something?”

Minghao looked at you and smiled, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re very clever, doll.”

You might have wanted to say you didn’t lean into his touch when his fingers brushed your cheek briefly but you both knew that would be a lie. Your face must have been flushed again; and now you could feel the tips of your ears burning too.

“Don’t change the subject.” You quickly looked away, your gaze drawn to the Statue of Liberty, the sun setting just behind it in marvelous shades of purple and pink across the sky. You heard him exhale through his mouth again before he continued.

“I thought he wanted to put on an exhibition of my work, but instead he wanted to commission a painting.” Minghao grimaced, his gaze dropping to the sketch he had started of you earlier, still unfinished. “A large one. A portrait of himself with very specific instructions about how he wanted to be seen, and where the painting would hang, who would see it.”

“You weren’t lying about them being confident in their importance in the world,” you scoffed.

And you had no doubts about it. If there was one thing that didn’t surprise you, it was that. You had known far more people like that than truly modest ones, all of them friends of your grandfather, stock market investors and the list goes on. You had grown up surrounded by people overflowing with confidence in their supposed, often false, importance in the world, to the point of sheer exhaustion.

“Did you refuse?”

“Bingo!” Minghao exclaimed, winking as he pointed a finger at you, as though you had struck the mark dead center. “I don’t paint on commission, never have.” He shook his head lightly, conviction in his voice. “I paint only for exhibitions of my own making. Works I plan spontaneously.”

“May I ask you why?”

He smiled softly. “Always.” Then, arched an eyebrow, turning fully to face you while he leaned against the railing with one arm. “But you tell me,” he said, “why do you think I refuse commissions, doll?”

Perhaps it was premature to believe you understood him, based solely on the few hours you had spent in his company. Yet even so—amid all the other impressions forming in your mind—one thing about Minghao’s character stood out with unmistakable clarity.

“You didn’t want anyone holding the reins.”

Minghao nodded, smiling as though a flicker of pride crossed his face. “Smart girl.” His head tilted slightly, before continuing. “It would feel like selling my soul.” He winced, just a touch, before adding, “Dramatic, I know.”

“No,” you said. “I understand.”

“Every painting carries a piece of me,” he went on. “I’ve never known how to do things differently. I either give myself to it completely, or I don’t so much as touch a drop of paint.”

“It sounds very admirable, Hao.” His face lit up the moment the nickname left his lips. “Not many people take their work so seriously.”

You felt something warm bloom in your chest, equal parts admiration and something a little more dangerous. His gaze softened at that, something equally warm and a little vulnerable passing through his expression.

“Are you truly interested in all this?” he asked, a hint of uncertainty slipping through. “At times I fear I may be boring you.”

“No—no,” you said quickly. “I truly am. I enjoy hearing your views on art.”

It was enchanting to hear him speak of it as though it were his first love, the very reason he woke up each morning. You found yourself wishing for more time: to learn more, to hear him more, to see his work up close.

For several minutes, you listened to Minghao speaking of his creative process, how he painted, the techniques he favored, the way his studio descended into utter chaos while he worked, and the subjects that most compelled him, mostly expressionism.

Minghao shook his head, biting his lip as his gaze drifted toward the sea, then back to you—as though, by looking at you, he was looking at something he could scarcely believe was real.

“You know… this is the first time I’ve ever wanted to speak about my art with anyone,” he admitted quietly. “I’m usually rather reserved. But with you…” His voice softened. “I don’t wish to stop.”

You could not help but smile, face lighting up entirely. “Then I see no reason for you to stop.”

“I won’t.” His eyes did not leave yours for so much as a second. “It would likely be easier to explain everything by simply showing you my work. A thousand words could never do justice to art.”

“And when will you show me everything?”

“Everything I have?”

You were anything but dumb. You caught the undertone in his voice, the suggestion hidden neatly beneath his words. Though the tips of your ears burned ever so slightly, you didn’t retreat. Instead, you offered him a small smile, briefly catching your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze never once leaving his too.

“Of course.”

He considered it for a second. “Later today.”

“Later today?” you repeated, though you had heard him perfectly well.

“If you’ll allow it, of course,” he explained. “My studio isn’t far from Washington Square. It’s not… particularly glamorous.” A faint smirk curved his mouth. “You may find yourself terribly disappointed.”

“I doubt that,” you replied softly.

The ferry horn sounded, long and low, vibrating through the deck beneath your shoes. The city loomed closer little by little, Manhattan rising from the water in proud lines of brick and steel, windows catching the fading light. The sky had deepened into bruised violet, streaked with molten gold near the horizon.

Minghao closed his sketchbook at last, sliding it back into his coat pocket with unusual care. “Come.” He extended his hand, and you took it without hesitation, allowing him to guide you toward a nearby seat.

You settled beside him in a spot that still afforded a splendid view of the vast, open sea and the fading sunset. Your hands came to rest neatly in your lap, though, if you were honest, you had not wished to let go of his at all.

“You sell your paintings at your exhibitions, then?” you asked, after turning the thought over in your mind for a while.

Minghao nodded. “Only there,” he replied. “I display them, and whoever wishes to purchase one may do so. That is how I make my living.”

You tipped your head to one side, thoughtful. “Does it not make you a little sad to part with them?”

“Very.” A faint shrug followed. “But I must eat, after all.”

You merely hummed in reply, gently biting the inside of your cheek. You had no true notion of what that might feel like. Even in your early twenties, you had never worked a day to place food upon your own table. And however stifling your life could be—hemmed in by your grandfather’s suffocating authority—you knew you were privileged for it all the same.

“When was your last exhibition?”

You could not quite tell whether your questions were beginning to try his patience, though Minghao gave no real sign of it. Still, that last one drew a faint grimace from him, and he absently scratched the underside of his jawline, before answering.

“About a year.”

You hadn’t meant to let the small sound escape you, barely more than a breath of surprise. Your lips parted all the same, your eyes widening before you could compose yourself. It wasn’t like you were any authority on the world of art exhibitions, but even you knew that going an entire year without selling a single piece could not be good. 

“How come?”

He sighed again, stretching one arm along the back of the bench behind you. You felt him settle there in the shared shadow, the warmth of his body seeping gently into yours.

“There are a few reasons.”

“I am all ears.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Minghao gave the side of your cheek a playful tap with his index finger, though his expression soon became serious. “The buyer I mentioned earlier… it isn’t a recent notion of his, wanting me to paint on commission.”

“Oh?”

He exhaled, looking tired and frustrated just from thinking about it. “Yeah. And I’ve refused him for quite some time now. But he is very persistent, and worse still, exceedingly influential.”

You felt your brows knit together. “Influential how?”

“He sponsors galleries. Owns shares in more than a few, funds certain exhibitions. And when he decides he does not favor someone…” Minghao’s jaw tightened as he lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug that fooled no one. “Doors begin to close.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the February wind crept along your spine.

“You mean to say he’s blacklisting you.”

Minghao didn’t answer immediately. The ferry rocked gently beneath your feet once more, the low hum of the engine threading through the silence between you. Somewhere behind you, a child’s laughter rang out; somewhere ahead, a man coughed discreetly into his handkerchief.

“What I mean,” he said finally, measuring each word, conscious that in this city conversations rarely went unheard, “is that securing a venue has been… more complicated this past year.”

You studied him. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension coiled tight in his shoulders. Pride, perhaps. Or stubbornness. Still, you suspected that in Minghao’s case, it was not nearly so simple.

“And yet you still refused him.”

Minghao didn’t answer immediately. He watched a gull dip low over the gray waves, his jaw working as if chewing on the memory of the encounter.

A faint, almost self-deprecating smile touched his mouth. “Of course.”

“Even knowing it might cost you?” you pressed, turning your body to shield your face from the biting wind, creating a small, private alcove for the two of you.

“Especially knowing.” He finally looked at you, the collar of his coat turned up against his ears. “Defiance loses its flavor if it’s free, don’t you think?”

“That is terribly brave,” you said quietly.

“It is terribly foolish,” he corrected instantly, his laugh sharp and short. He looked down at his hands, watching his fingers drum a restless rhythm on the fabric of his pants. “My landlord certainly thinks so. As does my empty stomach on most Tuesdays.”

“No.”

Your voice came out firmer than you expected, cutting through the low hum of the ferry’s engine. You reached out, your gloved hand hovering for a second before resting lightly on his forearm. The contact made him freeze.

“It is principled.”

Something softened in his eyes as though Minghao hadn’t expected anyone to see it that way. He stared at you, searching your face for any sign of the pity he clearly despised, but finding only respect. And he felt a quiet relief in knowing that you, of all people, were the one who understood him.

He let out a long, shaky exhale, the condensation ghosting between you. “You are a dangerous woman to talk to,” he murmured. “You make a man feel like a hero when he’s really just a mess.”

He pulled his arm away gently, not out of rejection, but as if the touch burned him. Rising from where he had been sitting beside you, he walked back to the railing and stared toward the horizon, where the Atlantic met the sky, the direction of a home he had no desire to return to.

You trailed after him, keeping a careful distance, yet close enough that his voice would carry above the wind and the hum of the ferry.

“Principles make for a poor shield, unfortunately,” he said, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear him. “He didn’t take the rejection well. Men like that… they don't get mad, they get even.”

Minghao’s grip on the railing tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“He’s the one who reported me.”

The world seemed to tilt slightly beneath your feet, and it wasn’t the motion of the boat. The cold air suddenly felt sharper, stinging your cheeks.

“Reported you?” You felt the blood drain from your face. “To immigration?”

Minghao confirmed it with a nod. “My work visa has expired,” he said evenly. “And since I can find no other sponsor because of it, he saw fit to report me, just to ensure he has something hanging over my head.”

The ferry horn sounded, long and mournful. You didn’t know where the anger came from. It began at the tips of your toes and slowly climbed through your body as you listened to him explain his situation, his voice measured, almost careful, as though trying to keep the defeat from sounding too obvious.

“I’ve received letters,” he continued. “Warnings, notices, and eventually, a deadline. A date after which my presence would be considered… inconvenient.”

“Tomorrow,” you whispered, your gaze falling vaguely to the tips of your shoes.

“Yeah.”

“That’s cruel,” you said, your brows furrowing, a faint pout touching your lips. “I truly despise him.”

“It’s practical for him,” he replied. “Which is often worse.”

You lapsed into silence for a time. The ferry neared its turn, the Statue of Liberty still visible in the distance, arm raised eternally in welcome.

Minghao went on to explain that he had graduated the spring before last, and with it, lost his student visa. Later, because of his exhibitions, he managed to secure a work visa. But he wasn’t established enough, his name not yet large enough to make himself untouchable. When he finally won recognition, he sought sponsors in hopes of reversing his situation. It proved far from simple. 

And now, he admitted, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do next, or even where to go thanks to the guy who reported him.

“You sound as though you’ve known men like him,” he observed.

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I have.”

Your grandfather’s drawing room flashed in your mind—thick cigars, louder voices, polished shoes on imported rugs. Men who spoke of railroads and stocks and legacy as though they were divine rights.

“They believe money entitles them to authorship over everything,” you continued. “Even over things they didn’t create.”

Minghao watched you carefully. “And does your grandfather believe the same?”

The question was gentle, but it landed squarely. You hesitated for only a moment. “Yes.”

The ferry horn sounded again in the distance as you moved toward the dock. Manhattan was no longer a distant silhouette, but a living thing again, windows aglow, smoke curling from chimneys, streetlamps flickering to life like scattered stars.

“I suppose,” you added softly, “that is why I admire you.”

He blinked. “Admire me?”

“You refuse to be owned.”

The wind caught the brim of your hat, and Minghao reached out instinctively to steady it, his fingers brushing your temple in the process. Neither of you moved away.

“I would rather starve,” he said quietly, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic slap of the water against the hull, “than paint a soulless work.”

You searched his face, looking for a crack in the armor, but found only the hard, beautiful resolve of a man who had already made his choice. The wind whipped a lock of dark hair across his forehead; he didn't bother to brush it away.

“What is the second reason?” you asked, your voice fighting the gale.

He blinked, drawn back from the dark water to you. “Pardon?”

“You said there were a few reasons you haven’t exhibited in a year. The blacklisting is one. What are the others?”

A slow, crooked smile curved his lips, changing his face from tragic to boyish in a heartbeat. “You’re remarkably observant, doll. Has anyone ever told you that?”

You gave a small shrug, burying your chin deeper into your collar. “I’ve been told I’m stubborn. I prefer ‘thorough.’”

Minghao laughed, a low sound that vibrated in the small space between you. He turned his back to the railing, leaning against it so he could face you fully.

“Have you ever heard of a drought?” he asked. “Not of rain, but of… spirit?”

“Writer’s block,” you ventured.

“Painter’s block,” he corrected, his eyes drifting to your gloved hands resting on the railing. “Though it feels less like a block and more like a hollowness. I pick up the brush, and the canvas stares back at me. It mocks me. For months now, everything I touch feels… gray. Static.”

“That sounds lonely,” you said softly.

“It was,” he admitted, his gaze snapping back to yours, intense and uncomfortably direct. “Until this morning.”

The air between you suddenly felt very thin, charged with something heavier than the salt spray.

“Oh?” You tried for casualness, but your breath hitched. “And what changed this morning?”

“I found a subject,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Or perhaps, she found me.”

A flush that had nothing to do with the winter chill rose to your cheeks. You looked away, feigning interest in a passing tugboat. “You mean a muse. Like in the Greek myths.”

“Better,” Minghao murmured. He took a step closer, invading your personal space in a way that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “The Greeks dealt in statues and marble. Cold things. I prefer life.”

“And what does a muse do, exactly?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. “Does she just sit there and look pretty?”

He considered this with mock seriousness, tapping a finger against his chin. “Ideally? She inspires the artist to madness. She breathes life into the dead paint.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes. “And, if the artistic process demands it, she may be required to offer encouragement. A touch here, a kiss there. Strictly for the sake of the composition, of course.”

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “You are shameless, Minghao.”

“I am desperate,” he countered, though his smile remained. “I don’t have time to waste on propriety, doll. Not anymore.”

The playfulness vanished as quickly as it had come. He nodded toward the darkening sky above you. The violet bruising of twilight was turning into the deep indigo of night. The skyline of Manhattan was rising up to meet you, a jagged jaw of electricity and stone.

“You speak as though the clock is chasing us.”

“Isn't it?” His tone held no dramatics this time. Only a brutal, quiet fact.

The nearness of tomorrow pressed in on you both for the first time today. The deportation order. Your marriage. The separation. It was strange how the world could look so vast—the endless Atlantic stretching out behind you—while time itself narrowed to the point of a needle.

“How long do we have?” you whispered.

“Not long enough,” he answered.

He looked as if he wanted to say more, to bridge the final inch between you and closed your lips together. 

Butterflies took flight in your stomach, your chest swelling with anticipation as his head tilted slightly toward you. You couldn’t help glancing at his lips, they looked soft, inviting, and you found it impossible to imagine a more beautiful setting, or a better person, for your first kiss.

You wanted him to kiss you. But a sudden jangle of bracelets shattered the moment.

“A reading for the lovers?”

You both startled, pulling apart. A woman stood there, wrapped in layers of mismatched shawls, her face weathered like old leather. She didn't wait for permission. Her hands, quick as birds, snatched yours and Minghao’s, turning your palms up to the dying light.

“I—” you started to protest.

“Hush,” she commanded, her eyes darting between your hand and his. She hummed, a low, discordant sound. “Strange lines. Tangled.”

Minghao tried to gently withdraw his hand. “We don’t have any money for—”

“I see a collision,” the woman interrupted, her voice raspy. She looked up at Minghao, her eyes sharp and unsettlingly pale. “Two stars crashing. A brief union.” She turned to you, her grip tightening on your fingers. “You will carry him with you. Across the water. Across the years.”

She dropped your hand and looked back at him, her expression softening into something like pity. “And her memory will hunt you forever, child. Long after the ship has sailed. She is the paint in your veins.”

The silence that followed was absolute. The woman didn’t ask for a coin. She simply wrapped her shawls tighter and vanished into the crowd of commuters near the bow, leaving the scent of sage and old violets in her wake.

Minghao let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. He looked at you, a nervous chuckle caught in his throat. “Well. That was… ominous.”

“Dramatic,” you agreed, though your voice sounded hollow. “She must tell everyone that. It’s good for business.”

“Right,” Minghao said. “Just a ferry tale.”

But neither of you moved. The words hung there: Brief union. Carry him with you. Memory will hunt you forever.

The ferry’s horn blasted—a long, mournful bass note that vibrated through the soles of your shoes. The boat shuddered as the engines reversed, the water churning white as you approached the Battery slip.

Minghao seemed to shake himself awake. He closed the distance between you again, but this time, he didn't stop. He reached out and took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His grip was firm, possessive, an anchor in the shifting world.

“I’m not letting a fortune teller dictate my life,” he said firmly.

The gangway rattled down with a metallic clang. The crowd began to surge forward, a sea of gray coats and fedoras pushing toward the exit.

“So,” you said, trying to find your footing as the boat bumped against the pilings. “What now?”

Minghao stopped dead in the middle of the moving crowd, forcing people to stream around you like water around a rock. He looked down at you, his eyes blazing with a sudden, frantic energy.

“I have somewhere to be,” he said, checking the large clock visible on the terminal wall. “Somewhere important. A place I wasn't going to go, but now… now I think I must.”

“Oh.” You felt a sharp pang of disappointment, trying to pull your hand away. “Well, then I shouldn't keep y—”

He tightened his grip, pulling you a step closer until the brim of your hat brushed his forehead.

“You’re not listening, doll,” he whispered, a grin spreading across his face, reckless, inviting, and utterly irresistible. “I have somewhere to be. And you’re coming with me.”

“I am?” You blinked, breathless. “Where?”

He winked, turning and pulling you into the flow of the crowd, moving not toward the subway, but toward the fancy, louder streets of the Upper East Side.

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @chromequette @codeinebelle @ojuwme @paradiseoflosers @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @christinewithluv @jesauiin @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @junnhuisworld @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @sarahashleight @starmy-143 @wonu13 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @nonuverse @gyuhao365 @healingmv

Y/N straightened her blazer, mentally rehearsing counter-arguments to every possible criticism as she strode into the Seoul Metropolitan Government conference room. At twenty-eight, she'd earned her reputation as one of the city's most uncompromising sustainable architects through sheer determination and technical brilliance. The Hangang Riverfront Revitalization Project was exactly the kind of high-profile commission her firm needed—and she wasn't about to let anyone derail her vision of creating the most environmentally innovative public space in Asia.

She scanned the room, noting the familiar faces of committee members and developers, before her gaze locked onto an unfamiliar figure. Xu Minghao of XM Development stood near the windows, examining the site maps with intense focus. She'd never met him personally, but his reputation preceded him—artistic, enigmatic, and ruthlessly effective at getting his designs approved. His buildings were architectural marvels that graced magazine covers and won international awards while consuming unconscionable amounts of energy with their glass facades and dramatic lighting.

As if sensing her scrutiny, Minghao looked up. Their eyes met across the room in a moment of instant recognition—not of each other personally, but of what each represented. A subtle tension charged the air between them.

Joshua Hong, the city's cultural development officer, approached with his characteristic diplomatic smile. "Y/N! I see you've noticed Minghao. Let me introduce you properly before presentations begin."

She followed Joshua, maintaining perfect professional composure as they approached Minghao, who straightened to his full height, his expression coolly appraising.

"Xu Minghao, this is Y/N, principal architect at Green Path Architecture. Y/N, Minghao is the creative director at XM Development."

"Your Dongdaemun Plaza extension was featured in Architectural Review last month," Y/N said, extending her hand. It wasn't a compliment—merely an acknowledgment of fact—but she could acknowledge quality work even from the opposition.

Minghao's handshake was firm, his gaze direct. "And your critique of it in Sustainable Design Quarterly was quite... thorough." There was a hint of something in his voice—not quite anger, more like curiosity.

Y/N didn't flinch. "I stand by every word."

"I would expect nothing less." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, surprising her. "It was one of the more intelligent critiques I've read. Most critics don't understand the structural constraints we were working with."

Before Y/N could respond to this unexpected comment, they were called to take their seats.

Throughout her presentation, Y/N was acutely aware of Minghao's attention. Unlike other developers who checked phones or whispered to colleagues during technical explanations, he observed with complete focus, occasionally making notes. His scrutiny was unnerving—she found herself emphasizing certain points more forcefully, as if in direct challenge to his design philosophy.

When Minghao presented his concept, Y/N reluctantly found herself impressed by his eloquence and vision. Where her presentation had been data-driven and practical, his was almost poetic—speaking of architecture as cultural storytelling, of spaces that evolved with seasonal light, of connections between traditional Korean design principles and contemporary human needs.

"A truly sustainable space," he concluded, his voice quiet but carrying through the silent room, "must sustain not just environmental metrics, but the human soul. It must create memories, inspire creativity, and connect people to something larger than themselves."

It was beautiful rhetoric that conveniently sidestepped concrete sustainability commitments, Y/N thought critically. Yet she couldn't deny the power of his vision or the masterful renderings that accompanied it.

When the committee's decision came, delivered by Joshua, it landed like a thunderbolt.

"Both proposals contain essential elements the committee feels are necessary for this project's success. Rather than choosing between them, we're asking Y/N and Minghao to collaborate on a unified design—combining Green Path's environmental innovation with XM's cultural and aesthetic vision."

Y/N's expression remained professionally neutral while her mind raced through implications. A collaboration? With him? Their approaches weren't just different—they were fundamentally opposed.

Across the room, she saw Minghao's composed mask slip momentarily, revealing a flash of the same dismay she felt. Their eyes met again, mutual wariness transformed into shared predicament.

After the meeting adjourned, Minghao approached her with measured steps. "It seems we have a situation," he said, his voice low.

"That's one way of putting it," Y/N replied evenly. "I have serious concerns about reconciling our approaches."

"As do I," he admitted, surprising her with his candor. "But the commission is significant. Perhaps we can establish ground rules to make this... functional."

They agreed to meet the following day at a neutral location to establish their working parameters, both clearly determined to protect their core principles while finding some way to fulfill the committee's requirements.

The café they chose was halfway between their respective offices—a small, quiet place with good lighting and minimal distractions. Y/N arrived ten minutes early, selecting a corner table and arranging her materials precisely. Minghao arrived exactly on time, dressed in simple black that somehow looked both casual and impeccable.

"I reviewed your full proposal last night," he said without preamble as he took the seat across from her. "Your technical solutions are innovative, but they fail to consider the aesthetic impact."

Y/N set down her coffee cup with deliberate care. "And I reviewed yours. Your spatial concepts are impressive but environmentally irresponsible. Your projected energy consumption is triple what it should be for a public project of this scale."

"Those calculations don't account for the passive cooling systems integrated into the design."

"Even with those systems, the glass expanses you've proposed create unnecessary thermal management challenges."

They continued this technical sparring for nearly an hour, each demonstrating a surprisingly thorough understanding of the other's specialty. Y/N had expected Minghao to dismiss environmental concerns entirely but found instead that he comprehended them well—he simply prioritized differently. Similarly, Minghao seemed taken aback by her knowledge of architectural theory and cultural references.

"You've studied Korean traditional architecture," he noted when she referenced historical precedents for natural ventilation.

"You sound surprised."

"Most sustainability specialists I've worked with focus exclusively on contemporary technology."

"That would be shortsighted," Y/N replied. "Traditional builders solved climate challenges without modern energy sources. There's much to learn from them."

A thoughtful expression crossed Minghao's face. "On that, at least, we agree."

This small point of alignment felt like a minor breakthrough. They tentatively established a working schedule and division of responsibilities, each carefully guarding their core elements while identifying areas where compromise might be possible.

As they gathered their materials to leave, Minghao hesitated. "I should clarify something. I'm not opposed to sustainability. I simply believe it must include cultural and aesthetic sustainability alongside environmental concerns."

Y/N studied him, trying to determine if this was merely diplomatic posturing. "And I'm not opposed to beauty. I just believe it shouldn't come at the expense of future generations."

Minghao nodded once, accepting this. "Then perhaps this collaboration isn't impossible after all."

"I didn't say that," Y/N countered with hint of a challenging smile. "I said it wasn't entirely impossible."

Something flickered in Minghao's eyes—surprise, followed by what might have been respect. "Until tomorrow, then."

Their working relationship developed into a pattern of intense intellectual debate punctuated by rare moments of unexpected alignment. They established a temporary studio in a small gallery space Joshua arranged for them—neutral territory that became the battleground for their competing visions.

Each morning began civilly enough, reviewing progress and outlining objectives. By afternoon, they were invariably locked in philosophical combat over fundamental aspects of the design. Y/N found these debates simultaneously frustrating and stimulating—Minghao challenged her assumptions with perspectives she'd never considered, forcing her to articulate her values with greater precision.

"You speak of environmental responsibility as if it exists in isolation from human experience," Minghao argued during a particularly heated discussion. "But people protect what they love. Create a space they don't connect with emotionally, and it will be neglected or demolished within a generation, regardless of its ecological merits."

"And you speak of human experience as if it can be separated from environmental context," Y/N fired back. "The most beautiful space becomes meaningless if the air is unbreathable or the temperature unbearable. Ask the residents of coastal cities losing ground to rising sea levels how much they're enjoying the 'human experience' of architectural masterpieces that contributed to climate change."

Mingyu, Minghao's assistant, had learned to make himself scarce during these exchanges, quietly leaving coffee and returning hours later when the conceptual storm had passed.

What surprised Y/N most was not Minghao's stubborn defense of his vision—she'd expected that—but his work ethic. He matched her legendary stamina hour for hour, sometimes staying past midnight to perfect details or research technical questions that arose during their debates. One evening, she returned from a quick dinner break to find him surrounded by books on wetland ecosystems, cross-referencing her water management proposals against ecological studies.

"I wanted to understand the biological implications better," he explained simply, not looking up.

Another night, Minghao found Y/N studying the historical design references in his original concept. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she merely said, "If I'm going to argue against aspects of your design, I should at least understand its cultural context properly."

These moments of mutual professional respect existed alongside their fundamental disagreements, creating a complex working relationship neither had anticipated.

Three weeks into their collaboration, they reached an impasse over the central plaza. Y/N's design prioritized permeable surfaces and rainwater capture, while Minghao's emphasized traditional patterns and ceremonial pathways. Neither would yield, their respective heels dug in after days of circular arguments.

"This isn't productive," Minghao finally said, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. "We're approaching this from incompatible premises."

"Then we need to change the premises," Y/N replied, surprising herself with the suggestion. "We're still thinking of our designs as separate entities being forced together, not as a new integrated concept."

Minghao looked at her thoughtfully. "What are you suggesting?"

"Let's visit the site. Together. Not to argue our positions, but to observe. Maybe there's something we're both missing."

The next morning dawned clear and cool as they met at the riverfront. By unspoken agreement, they walked in silence, observing how light played across the water, how people naturally gathered in certain spaces, how the existing landscape created patterns of movement.

An hour passed before either spoke. They had stopped at a particular bend in the river, watching an elderly man feeding birds while a group of students sketched nearby.

"There's a rhythm to how people use this space," Minghao said quietly. "Different but harmonious patterns overlapping."

Y/N nodded. "And natural cycles intersecting with human ones. The tide, the seasonal plants, the daily movement of sun and shadow."

They spent the entire day at the site, gradually beginning to exchange observations, then ideas, their usual combative dynamic softened by the physical reality of the place itself. As sunset painted the river gold, Y/N found herself sketching alongside Minghao on a park bench, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they worked.

"What if," Minghao said suddenly, looking up from his drawing, "the water management systems became visible features that change with the seasons? Not hidden infrastructure, but celebrated elements that tell an environmental story while creating evolving beauty."

Y/N stared at him, momentarily speechless at how perfectly this bridged their divided approaches. "That... could actually work." She quickly sketched an adaptation of her technical systems that incorporated his aesthetic principles. "The filtration gardens could become these sculptural elements that transform with rainfall patterns."

"Yes," Minghao leaned closer to see her drawing, his usual reserve giving way to genuine enthusiasm. "And these ceremonial pathways I proposed—they could be constructed with your permeable materials, creating traditional patterns that also serve ecological functions."

They worked with growing excitement, building on each other's ideas in a creative flow unlike anything their previous combative approach had produced. When darkness finally forced them to pack up their materials, both were reluctant to break the productive spell.

Walking back toward the subway station, Y/N glanced at Minghao's profile, softened in the evening light.

"I still think you're wrong about the glass pavilions," she said, but there was no edge to her voice now.

"And I still think your maintenance projections are unrealistic," he replied with the ghost of a smile.

"But today was... not entirely unproductive."

"A diplomatic assessment," Minghao agreed. After a pause, he added more seriously, "You're not what I expected, Y/N."

"Oh? And what did you expect?"

"Someone less willing to consider alternative perspectives. Less... formidable in defending her vision."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you. I expected a developer focused exclusively on aesthetics and profit, not someone who would spend hours researching ecosystem impacts."

They parted at the station with a new sense of possibility, though neither would admit how significantly their perception of the other had shifted. Y/N found herself thinking about Minghao's unexpected depth as she rode home—his quiet intensity, his surprising knowledge across disciplines, the rare moments when his composed exterior gave way to genuine passion for architecture.

It was professionally inconvenient, she decided, to discover that your philosophical opponent was actually worthy of respect. Even more inconvenient to realize you were beginning to look forward to the intellectual challenge he presented each day. Most inconvenient of all was catching herself wondering what else might lie beneath his carefully controlled surface—and why that possibility intrigued her more than she cared to admit.

-

The breakthrough at the riverfront changed something fundamental in Y/N and Minghao's working relationship. Though they still disagreed—often vehemently—about specific elements, a grudging respect had formed between them. Their temporary studio space gradually transformed, walls covered with evolving sketches that showed a slow but unmistakable merging of their distinct approaches.

Y/N arrived early one morning, a week after their site visit, to find Minghao already there. He sat with his back to the door, so absorbed in his work that he hadn't heard her enter. She paused, taking the rare opportunity to observe him unguarded. His movements were precise as he sketched, occasionally pausing to reference her technical specifications before continuing. The morning light caught the edges of his profile, and Y/N was struck by the intensity of his focus—the same quality she prided in herself.

"You've adapted the rainwater system," she said, finally announcing her presence.

Minghao turned, not startled but transitioning smoothly from solitary concentration to acknowledgment of her arrival. "I had some thoughts about integrating it more fully with the traditional elements."

Y/N set down her materials and moved closer to examine his work. The technical system she'd designed remained intact in its function but had been transformed visually into something that echoed historical Korean water features while remaining distinctly contemporary.

"This actually improves the water flow," she admitted, studying the modifications. "The aesthetic changes create a more efficient path for heavy rainfall."

"Form following function," Minghao said with the slight upturn of lips that passed for his smile. "Or perhaps function following form. Does it matter which comes first if the result serves both?"

Y/N gave him a measured look. "It matters in the process. But I'll concede the outcome is... promising."

They settled into work, the morning passing in focused collaboration punctuated by their usual debates—though the tone had shifted from combative to challenging, each pushing the other toward more refined solutions.

Around noon, the studio door opened to reveal Seungkwan from Y/N's firm, carrying several bags of takeout.

"Lunch delivery!" he announced with characteristic enthusiasm. "Y/N, the office is buzzing about your collaboration. Everyone's wondering if you've strangled the famous Xu Minghao yet or if he's converted you to the dark side of luxury development." He stopped abruptly, seeming to realize Minghao was present. "Oh! I mean—that is—good afternoon, Mr. Xu!"

Y/N suppressed a smile at Seungkwan's flustered backpedaling. "Minghao, this is Seungkwan from my PR department."

"We've met briefly," Minghao said with a gracious nod. "At the initial presentation."

"Right! Yes! I was very impressed with your cultural integration concepts," Seungkwan babbled, setting down the food and backing toward the door. "I'll just leave this here and let you both get back to your... creative tension. Or harmony! Whatever you're creating!"

After Seungkwan's hasty departure, Y/N shook her head. "Sorry about that. He's brilliant at public relations but subtle isn't in his vocabulary."

"He cares about you," Minghao observed, arranging the food containers. "Your firm seems more like a family than a corporation."

"We're small but dedicated. Everyone believes in what we're doing." Y/N accepted the container he handed her. "What about XM? From what I've read, it's quite hierarchical."

Something flickered across Minghao's face—so brief Y/N almost missed it. "Traditional corporate structure, yes. Efficiency has its advantages."

"But?"

Minghao looked up, surprised by her perception. "What makes you think there's a 'but'?"

"Your expression. Just for a second."

He considered her for a moment before responding. "The traditional structure has advantages for executing projects efficiently. It has... limitations for innovation. Particularly regarding sustainability initiatives."

This was the most personal insight he'd offered about his professional situation. Y/N sensed something significant beneath his measured words.

"You're advocating for change within XM?"

"Let's say I have a longer-term vision that doesn't always align with quarterly profit expectations." Minghao's tone made it clear he considered this topic closed.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before returning to safer territory—the technical challenges of their current design integration. But Y/N filed away this glimpse beneath Minghao's professional exterior, another piece in the increasingly complex puzzle he presented.

Later that week, Y/N sat in her apartment surrounded by crumpled sketches, trying desperately to focus on refining the public garden layout for their project. Instead, she found herself repeatedly drawing Minghao's profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the thoughtful tilt of his head when considering a design problem.

"This isn't happening," she muttered, furiously erasing the latest inadvertent portrait. "This is Stockholm syndrome. Professional delirium. Sleep deprivation psychosis."

She crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the trash can, missing by a good foot. The floor was already littered with similar failures—evidence of her complete inability to focus without her thoughts drifting to a certain frustratingly elegant architect with stupidly perfect cheekbones and infuriatingly thoughtful design insights.

When her phone rang, Y/N nearly leapt for it, grateful for any distraction. Seeing Seungkwan's name on the screen was an added relief—at least it wasn't Minghao calling about work, which would mean having to sound professional while in the midst of this embarrassing crisis.

"Please tell me you're free for dinner," Seungkwan said without preamble. "We're all at the usual place, and Woozi is three beers in, talking about writing a concept album about sustainable architecture. You need to witness this."

Y/N stared at her disaster of an apartment—takeout containers from three consecutive nights of working late with Minghao, sketches everywhere, and a half-empty bottle of wine that wasn't helping her current crisis at all.

"I'll be there in thirty," she replied, grateful for the escape.

The hole-in-the-wall restaurant was already lively when Y/N arrived, sliding into a booth next to Jeonghan and across from Seungkwan and Woozi.

"The workaholic emerges!" Seungkwan announced dramatically. "How's life with the enemy?"

"He's not the enemy," Y/N answered automatically, then froze at her own defensive tone.

Three pairs of eyes locked onto her with laser focus.

"Well, well, well," Jeonghan drawled, sliding the soju bottle towards her. "That's new."

"What?" Y/N poured herself a generous shot. "He's a collaborator now. Professionally. On the project. That's all."

"Right," Woozi nodded sagely. "Totally professional. Which is why you just drew hearts around his name on that napkin."

Y/N looked down in horror, only to find a blank napkin. When she looked up, Woozi was smirking.

"Your face right now is all the confirmation we needed," he said.

"I hate all of you," Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. "It's not—I don't—UGH."

"Oh my god, she actually likes him," Seungkwan stage-whispered, eyes wide with delight. "Our Y/N has fallen for Corporate Architecture Ken!"

"I have NOT fallen for him," Y/N hissed, looking around to make sure no one from the industry was nearby. "I just... don't completely despise working with him anymore. He has... occasional good ideas."

"Occasional good ideas," Jeonghan repeated flatly. "Is that what we're calling it when you haven't stopped talking about 'Minghao's innovative approach to spatial harmony' for three weeks?"

"Or when you defended his honor to that sustainability consultant who called his previous projects 'ecological disasters'?" Woozi added.

"Or when you started wearing your nice blazers to the collaborative studio instead of your usual 'comfort over corporate' outfits?" Seungkwan chimed in.

Y/N looked between them, betrayal written across her face. "I just wanted to project professionalism!"

"Since when have you cared about looking professional?" Jeonghan laughed. "Your entire brand is 'too busy saving the planet to care about dress codes.'"

Y/N downed her soju in one shot, the harsh reality hitting harder than the alcohol. "This is a disaster. If—and I mean IF—I were developing... unprofessional feelings, which I'm NOT admitting to... it would be career suicide. Personal suicide. A complete betrayal of everything I stand for."

"Dramatic much?" Woozi raised an eyebrow.

"He works for XM Development!" Y/N whispered furiously. "They literally built that resort that destroyed an entire coral reef ecosystem! I protested outside their headquarters! I wrote a scathing industry article about their CEO!"

"Who happens to be his uncle," Seungkwan pointed out unhelpfully. "Awkward future family dinners."

Y/N dropped her head onto the table with a thunk. "This isn't happening. I refuse. I absolutely refuse to be attracted to Xu Minghao. He probably irons his socks. He definitely owns more black turtlenecks than Steve Jobs ever did. His idea of sustainable materials is 'slightly less endangered tropical hardwood.' This is a cosmic joke."

"But he's so pretty," Seungkwan sighed dreamily. "Those cheekbones could cut glass."

"And he did publicly challenge his board about sustainability initiatives," Jeonghan reminded her. "That article was everywhere in the industry. He put his reputation on the line."

"Not helping," Y/N mumbled into the table.

"Look," Woozi said, suddenly serious. "You've spent your entire career fighting against developers who don't care about environmental impact. Now you've found one who might actually be an ally—who gets your vision enough to fight for it within his own corporate structure. What's the real problem?"

Y/N lifted her head, expression pained. "The problem is I wanted to hate him. I was prepared to hate him. Hating him was simple and comfortable and fit my worldview perfectly. But now..." She gestured helplessly.

"Now you like him," Seungkwan finished for her. "Like, LIKE him like him."

"And I hate that I like him," Y/N groaned. "It's so inconvenient. So cliché. So... ugh."

"The heart wants what the heart wants," Jeonghan said with philosophical air.

"Well, my heart needs to shut up and get back to focusing on sustainable architecture instead of Minghao's stupid perfect hands and the way he tilts his head when he's really considering an idea and how he remembers exactly how I like my coffee and—" Y/N cut herself off, horrified.

The table erupted in delighted chaos.

"This is the greatest day of my life," Seungkwan declared, wiping away a fake tear. "Our ice queen has melted for the prince of luxury development."

"I'm leaving," Y/N announced, grabbing her bag. "I'm moving to a remote island where there are no architects, no colleagues, and definitely no irritatingly perceptive friends."

As she stood to leave, Woozi called after her: "Just remember to invite us to the wedding! I've already started composing your processional!"

The wadded-up napkin Y/N threw hit him squarely between the eyes.

Meanwhile, across the city, Minghao sat perfectly still in his apartment's minimalist living room, staring at the scale model he'd been working on for the past three hours. It was meant to be a section of their riverfront design. Somehow, he'd unconsciously incorporated elements that were distinctly Y/N's—the curved rainwater channels, the integrated vegetation patterns, the community-focused gathering spaces.

"This is unacceptable," he murmured to himself, setting down his tools with deliberate precision.

He'd spent years cultivating perfect control—over his designs, his career trajectory, his emotions. Three weeks working with Y/N had somehow dismantled that control with terrifying efficiency.

His phone rang. Jun.

"Please tell me you're not still working," his friend said when Minghao answered. "It's Friday night. We're at Mingyu's place. Even Wonwoo left the office."

"I'm not working," Minghao replied, staring at the evidence that he'd been thinking about Y/N rather than actual work. "Just... reviewing some concepts."

"All work and no play makes Minghao a dull boy," Jun sing-songed. "Come over. Mingyu made his famous hotpot, and Vernon brought that weird board game where you have to build fictional cities."

The prospect of architecture-themed entertainment was the last thing Minghao needed right now, but the alternative was sitting alone in his apartment, fighting the unprofessional urge to text Y/N about a design idea that had occurred to him in the shower.

"Fine," he conceded. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Mingyu's apartment was chaos compared to Minghao's serene space—warm, cluttered, and currently filled with his closest friends sprawled across various furniture. The delicious scent of hotpot filled the air, and someone had put on a jazz playlist that mingled with conversations and laughter.

"He emerges from his creative cave!" Jun announced as Minghao entered. "We were taking bets on whether you'd actually show up or send another 'something came up' text."

"I'm not that antisocial," Minghao protested mildly, accepting the drink Mingyu handed him.

"No, you're just that obsessed with perfection," Wonwoo corrected from his position on the couch, not looking up from his book. "How's the collaboration going with the eco-warrior princess?"

Minghao nearly choked on his drink. "Her name is Y/N, and the project is progressing adequately."

"Adequately?" Jun repeated with a grin. "That's not what Mingyu said after he dropped off those materials yesterday. What was it again, Mingyu? Something about 'intense creative energy' and 'finishing each other's sentences'?"

Mingyu had the decency to look apologetic as he stirred the hotpot. "I just mentioned that you two seemed to be working well together. Better than expected, considering how you used to talk about her environmental manifestos."

"We've found professional common ground," Minghao said carefully, taking a seat at the dining table. "Her technical knowledge is impressive, and she's more open to aesthetic considerations than I initially assumed."

"Wow, from Minghao, that's practically a declaration of love," Vernon commented, looking up from where he was setting up the board game.

"It's professional respect," Minghao clarified firmly.

"Is that why you've saved every industry article she's ever written?" Wonwoo asked, finally closing his book. "For professional respect?"

Minghao shot him a betrayed look. "Those are research materials. Know your opponent's perspective."

"And is that why you specially ordered her favorite tea for the studio? And stayed up all night researching wetland ecosystems to understand her water management system better? And hand-crafted that traditional pavilion model that took you three days?" Jun pressed, clearly enjoying himself.

"Those were... professional courtesies," Minghao insisted, feeling uncomfortably warm. "The project benefits from a harmonious working relationship."

"Harmonious," Mingyu repeated with a knowing smile. "Interesting word choice."

"You guys are reading too much into this," Minghao said, helping himself to food in an attempt to end the conversation. "We're collaborating on a project with strict deadlines. That's all."

The room fell silent for a moment before Jun spoke again, his tone gentler. "You know, it wouldn't be the end of the world if you did like her."

"She represents everything I'm supposed to be working against," Minghao said quietly. "She's idealistic to the point of impracticality, stubborn about her principles, and has publicly criticized XM's projects multiple times."

"And yet..." Vernon prompted.

"And yet," Minghao admitted reluctantly, "she's brilliant. Her technical innovations are genuinely revolutionary. She sees connections in systems that most designers miss. And she cares about the impact of her work in a way that's..." he searched for the right word, "...admirable."

"Just admirable?" Wonwoo asked, eyebrow raised.

Minghao set down his chopsticks, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain his usual composure. "Fine. You want the truth? I can't stop thinking about her. I find myself sketching elements I know she'll appreciate into designs she'll never even see. I've started questioning corporate policies I've accepted for years because her arguments make compelling sense. I wake up thinking about our debates and go to sleep solving design problems we discussed."

He ran a hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. "It's completely inappropriate, utterly unprofessional, and would horrify my uncle and the entire board if they knew. She probably still thinks I'm a corporate sellout despite everything, and the project will end in three weeks, after which we'll go back to being professional adversaries. So yes, maybe I do find her more than just professionally admirable, but it doesn't matter because nothing could ever come of it."

The room was silent for a long moment.

"Wow," Mingyu finally said. "That's the most words I've heard you speak consecutively in... possibly ever."

"She must be really special," Vernon added thoughtfully.

"This is a disaster," Minghao sighed, his perfect posture finally slumping. "Of all the architects in Seoul, why did it have to be her? The one person guaranteed to find my family's business morally reprehensible? The one designer who would consider my aesthetic priorities superficial? The most stubborn, principled, frustratingly intelligent woman I've ever met?"

"The heart is mysterious," Jun said, patting his shoulder sympathetically. "And apparently has terrible timing."

"The heart has nothing to do with this," Minghao insisted. "This is temporary insanity brought on by extended proximity and creative intensity."

"Right," Wonwoo nodded sagely. "That explains why you've started dressing even more impeccably than usual for your studio sessions. And why you've been turning down family dinner invitations to work late with her. And why you risked your position at XM to champion sustainability initiatives that align with her values."

Minghao stared at him. "How do you know all that?"

"I pay attention," Wonwoo shrugged. "And Mingyu talks a lot."

"Traitor," Minghao muttered, glancing at Mingyu, who was suddenly very interested in the hotpot.

The following day, Y/N arrived at the studio determined to maintain strict professional boundaries. She'd spent half the night lecturing herself about the absolute insanity of developing feelings for Xu Minghao, of all people. She had a plan: minimal personal conversation, focused work discussion, and absolutely no noticing of his perfect cheekbones or elegant hands or the way his eyes lit up when discussing traditional Korean architecture.

Her resolve lasted approximately three minutes.

Minghao was already there, arranging a collection of material samples on their work table. He looked up when she entered, and something in his expression seemed different—a flicker of self-consciousness that mirrored her own.

"Good morning," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I brought coffee." He gestured to a cup on her side of the table. "Black with one sugar."

The fact that he remembered exactly how she took her coffee was not helping her resolution at all.

"Thank you," she managed, setting down her bag and picking up the cup to give her hands something to do. "I was thinking about the central plaza transition areas overnight. I have some ideas for improving the flow."

Minghao nodded, seemingly grateful for the immediate focus on work. "I was considering the same issue. The current design creates a bottleneck during peak usage times."

They fell into their usual pattern of collaborative problem-solving, but something had shifted in the atmosphere. Y/N found herself hyperaware of every accidental brush of hands when they reached for the same reference material, every moment their eyes met when making a point, every instance of inadvertent synchronization when they both had the same idea simultaneously.

Judging by Minghao's slightly stiffer-than-usual posture and occasional hesitations before physical proximity, he might be experiencing similar awareness. The thought was both terrifying and oddly exhilarating.

By afternoon, the awkwardness had somewhat dissipated as they became absorbed in a particularly challenging aspect of the water feature design. Their usual dynamic reasserted itself—Y/N focusing on technical efficiency, Minghao on experiential quality, both pushing the other toward a more integrated solution.

"If we adjust the flow pattern here," Y/N suggested, leaning over the model they'd constructed, "we can increase capture capacity while creating more interesting visual movement."

Minghao considered this, head tilted in the exact way that Y/N had embarrassingly confessed to finding attractive just the night before. She forced herself to focus on the model instead of his profile.

"That could work," he agreed, reaching for a pencil to sketch the modification. Their fingers brushed briefly, causing both to withdraw a fraction too quickly.

"Sorry," they said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise.

A moment of silence stretched between them, charged with something neither was prepared to acknowledge.

"We should take a break," Minghao finally said, straightening up. "We've been working for hours."

Y/N nodded, grateful for the suggestion. "Good idea. I need some air."

They stepped outside into the late afternoon sun, walking silently to a small park across from their studio building. Finding a bench, they sat with a careful distance between them, watching office workers hurry past on their way home.

"The project is progressing well," Minghao observed after a while. "Better than I expected when we were first assigned to collaborate."

"Agreed," Y/N said. "It's become something neither of us would have created independently."

"That's the value of diverse perspectives," Minghao replied. "When integrated thoughtfully rather than forced together superficially."

Something about his phrasing made Y/N wonder if he was talking about more than just their architectural collaboration. Before she could analyze this further, her phone chimed with a news alert.

"Oh," she said, reading the notification. "There's an article about you. About XM's sustainability initiative."

Minghao tensed visibly. "Already? The board meeting was just yesterday."

"You didn't know this was being published?" Y/N asked, scanning the article. "'XM Development Creative Director Challenges Board on Sustainability Direction.'"

"No," Minghao replied, his usual composure slipping. "Someone leaked it. This complicates things."

"In what way?"

He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "My uncle—the chairman—is deeply traditional in his business approach. He believes our brand is built on luxury and exclusivity, not environmental considerations. I've been trying to shift the corporate direction gradually, presenting sustainability as market advantage rather than moral imperative. A public leak makes it appear I'm forcing his hand through media pressure."

"Are you?" Y/N asked directly.

"No," Minghao said, meeting her eyes. "I would prefer to change the company from within, through demonstrating that sustainable design can be both beautiful and profitable. Our project is meant to be evidence of that possibility."

Y/N studied him, seeing the complexity of his position more clearly than before. "You're navigating a difficult path between family expectations and your own values."

"As we all must in different ways," he replied quietly. After a pause, he added, "Working with you has... clarified certain priorities for me."

The admission hung in the air between them, neither quite ready to explore its full implications. Instead, they watched the sun begin its descent, casting long shadows across the park.

"We should get back to work," Y/N finally said, standing. "The committee presentation is in two weeks."

Minghao nodded, following her lead. As they walked back toward the studio, he asked unexpectedly, "Would you join me for dinner tomorrow evening? There's a restaurant I think you might appreciate—they source all ingredients locally and power their kitchen entirely with renewable energy."

Y/N nearly stumbled in surprise. "That sounds suspiciously like something I would approve of," she said, attempting to keep her tone light despite her suddenly racing pulse.

"I do occasionally pay attention to your preferences," Minghao replied, a rare hint of humor in his voice.

"Then yes," Y/N agreed, telling herself this was still professional courtesy, nothing more. "I'd like that."

As they returned to work, Y/N tried not to think about Seungkwan's inevitable reaction when he heard she was having dinner with Minghao, or how much time she would likely spend tonight overthinking what to wear, or how the prospect of spending an evening with Minghao outside their work environment filled her with both anticipation and alarm.

This was fine. Perfectly normal. Just two collaborating professionals having a business dinner. The fact that her heart raced slightly at the thought was irrelevant and absolutely not worth examining.

Across the table, Minghao appeared to have regained his usual composed focus, though Y/N thought she detected a new tension in his movements, a heightened awareness that mirrored her own. If he was experiencing even a fraction of the confusing emotions currently churning through her, he was hiding it far better than she was.

Y/N forced her attention back to their design, trying to ignore how thoroughly Xu Minghao had disrupted her carefully ordered world—personally and professionally. The most infuriating part wasn't that she was attracted to him despite their differences.

It was that she was attracted to him because of them.

-

Y/N stood in front of her closet, surrounded by discarded outfits, feeling ridiculous. It was just dinner. A professional dinner with a colleague. The fact that she'd tried on seven different combinations was completely unrelated to the fact that said colleague was Xu Minghao.

"This is pathetic," she told her reflection as she adjusted a simple black dress. "Too formal." She changed into jeans and a nice blouse. "Too casual." A tailored pantsuit followed. "Too business meeting."

After thirty more minutes of wardrobe crisis, she settled on a dress that balanced professional and elegant—something she might wear to an industry event rather than a date. Because this was definitely not a date. Minghao had simply suggested they discuss their project in a different setting. The fact that he'd chosen a sustainability-focused restaurant was merely... thoughtful professional courtesy.

Her phone buzzed with a text from

Seungkwan: "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING??? Send pics!!! I need to approve!!!"

Y/N groaned. She'd made the tactical error of mentioning her dinner with Minghao during a work call, and Seungkwan had practically hyperventilated with excitement. She ignored the text, knowing any response would only encourage him.

Seconds later, her phone rang.

"You can't ignore me on this historic occasion," Seungkwan declared when she answered. "Our Y/N, sustainability warrior princess, dining with the prince of luxury development! The office has a betting pool on whether you'll come back engaged or covered in wine after throwing it in his face."

"It's a professional dinner," Y/N insisted, checking her watch. "And I'm going to be late if I don't leave now."

"Just tell me one thing," Seungkwan said, his tone suddenly serious. "Are you going to give this a chance? Whatever 'this' is between you two?"

The unexpected question caught Y/N off guard. "I... don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," Seungkwan replied gently. "I've known you for years, Y/N. I've seen you passionate about projects, about environmental causes, about fighting corporate developers. I've never seen you like this about a person."

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, suddenly unable to maintain her denial. "It's complicated, Seungkwan. Even if there were... feelings... which I'm not saying there are... there are so many reasons it couldn't work."

"Name one that doesn't involve your stubborn pride or preconceived notions."

She opened her mouth to list the many practical obstacles, then closed it again, realizing how many of her objections had gradually eroded over the weeks of working with Minghao.

"Just be open to possibility," Seungkwan suggested. "That's all I'm saying. And text me immediately if anything romantic happens!"

"Goodbye, Seungkwan," Y/N said firmly, ending the call. But his words lingered as she gathered her things and headed out.

The restaurant was intimate but not overtly romantic—a renovated traditional building with contemporary sustainable elements seamlessly integrated throughout. When Y/N arrived, Minghao was already there, dressed in his usual impeccable style but with subtle differences that suggested he'd put thought into his appearance beyond his normal care.

"This place is beautiful," Y/N said as they were seated at a corner table with a view of a small courtyard garden. "I haven't been here before."

"It opened recently," Minghao replied. "The owner is an old friend who shares your commitment to sustainability. The building itself is carbon-neutral, and all ingredients are sourced within fifty kilometers."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You really did your research."

A flicker of something crossed Minghao's face—was that actually nervousness? "I wanted to choose somewhere you'd appreciate."

The thoughtfulness of this gesture was not helping Y/N maintain her professional distance at all.

After ordering, an awkward silence fell between them—so different from their usual passionate debates or focused work discussions. It was as if removing the shield of their project had left them both uncomfortably exposed.

"So," Y/N finally said, "how did your uncle react to the article about your sustainability initiative?"

Minghao's expression tightened slightly. "About as well as expected. There was a... heated discussion about company direction and my role within it. He believes I'm being influenced by outside perspectives."

"Am I the outside influence he's concerned about?" Y/N asked directly.

"Among others," Minghao admitted. "But my interest in sustainable design predates our collaboration, though working with you has... intensified certain convictions."

"Is your position at risk?" The thought bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

Minghao considered this question carefully. "Not immediately. Family dynamics complicate professional relationships. My uncle values loyalty and tradition, but he also recognizes that markets evolve. The question is whether sustainability represents a fundamental shift in our company identity or merely a strategic adaptation."

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe it's necessary," he said simply. "Both ethically and practically. The future of development must incorporate environmental responsibility—not as marketing strategy but as core principle."

Y/N studied him, struck by how similar his words were to arguments she'd made in industry publications. "That sounds suspiciously like something I would say."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps you've been a bad influence."

"Or a good one, depending on perspective," Y/N countered, returning his smile.

The arrival of their first course provided a welcome shift in conversation to lighter topics. Y/N was surprised by how easily they moved from professional discussions to personal interests—Minghao's background in traditional art, Y/N's early environmental activism, shared admiration for certain architects and mutual disdain for pretentious industry trends.

"I can't believe you also hated the Hansen Tower," Y/N said, laughing at Minghao's devastatingly accurate critique of a recently celebrated building. "Everyone acts like it's revolutionary, but it's just inefficient design hiding behind flashy facades."

"Form without function," Minghao agreed. "Beautiful from a distance but completely impractical to actually occupy. Architecture should serve people, not merely impress them."

"Another suspiciously Y/N-like statement," she observed, enjoying the unexpected alignment of their views.

"I've always held this perspective," Minghao clarified. "But working with you has helped me articulate certain principles more clearly."

As their meal continued, Y/N found herself increasingly aware of how much she was enjoying Minghao's company. His quiet intensity, thoughtful observations, and unexpected flashes of dry humor were dangerously appealing. The careful distance she'd maintained began to feel increasingly arbitrary.

When dessert arrived—a beautifully presented seasonal fruit creation—Minghao hesitated before speaking. "I've been considering a possibility that I wanted to discuss with you."

Something in his tone made Y/N's pulse quicken. "What kind of possibility?"

"A professional one," he clarified, seeming to sense her sudden tension. "I've been contemplating establishing an independent design studio focused on integrating sustainable innovation with cultural and aesthetic excellence. The kind of work we've been doing together, but as a dedicated practice rather than a one-time collaboration."

"You're leaving XM?" Y/N couldn't hide her surprise.

"It's one option I'm considering," Minghao said carefully. "Family expectations are powerful, but at some point, personal convictions must take precedence." After a pause, he added, "I would value your perspective on whether such a venture could succeed."

"I think it could," Y/N said slowly, processing the implications. "But it would be a significant risk compared to your position at XM."

"Some risks are necessary for meaningful change." His gaze met hers with unexpected directness. "Both professionally and personally."

The weight of his words hung between them, carrying implications beyond career choices. Y/N found herself at a crossroads—continue maintaining careful professional boundaries or acknowledge the growing connection between them.

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed with an urgent message. Y/N glanced at it and frowned.

"Everything alright?" Minghao asked.

"It's from Seungkwan. Apparently there's been a leak about our project—some industry blog has published speculation about conflicts between our design approaches, claiming the collaboration is failing."

Minghao's expression darkened. "That could undermine the committee's confidence before our presentation."

"We should address this," Y/N said, professional concerns immediately overriding the personal moment. "Perhaps with a joint statement or preliminary images that demonstrate our progress."

"Agreed." Minghao signaled for the check. "We should return to the studio and review what might have been leaked and prepare a response."

The intimate atmosphere dissolved as they shifted back into work mode, both perhaps secretly relieved to postpone the more complicated conversation that had been developing.

The next morning, Y/N arrived at the studio early, determined to focus on damage control rather than dwelling on the unresolved tension from dinner. To her surprise, she found Mingyu pacing outside the door.

"Y/N!" he exclaimed when he saw her. "Thank goodness. Minghao sent me to wait for you. There's an emergency meeting at XM headquarters. The chairman is demanding to review the project immediately instead of waiting for the committee presentation."

"What? Why?" Y/N asked, alarmed by the sudden interference.

"The leaked information created concern about the project's direction," Mingyu explained as they hurried toward a waiting car. "Minghao's uncle is worried about the company's reputation if the collaboration is perceived as compromising XM's luxury brand identity."

During the drive to XM's imposing glass headquarters, Y/N felt mounting dread. This was exactly the corporate interference she'd initially feared when forced to collaborate with a luxury developer.

The building itself embodied everything Y/N had spent her career criticizing—excessive glass that created massive heating and cooling demands, dramatic but energy-intensive lighting, and materials selected for prestige rather than sustainability. As they rode the elevator to the executive floor, Y/N steeled herself for confrontation.

Mingyu led her to a conference room where Minghao was already engaged in tense conversation with an older man whose commanding presence and family resemblance identified him as the chairman. Several board members and executives observed from around a massive table covered with printouts of their design.

Minghao looked up when Y/N entered, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes communicating a silent apology.

"Ah, the environmental architect," the chairman said, turning to assess Y/N with calculating eyes. "I've heard much about you. Please, join us. We were just discussing certain... concerns about the direction of this project."

Y/N approached with professional composure, noting the specific design elements that had been highlighted for criticism—precisely the innovative integrations she and Minghao had been most proud of developing together.

"Chairman Xu," she acknowledged with a respectful nod. "I understand you have questions about our collaborative approach."

"Indeed," he replied coolly. "XM Development has built its reputation on distinctive luxury experiences. These elements," he gestured to their sustainable water management systems and community-focused spaces, "dilute our brand identity with features that could appear in any public park. Our clients expect exclusivity."

Y/N felt a familiar surge of frustration but maintained her professional demeanor. "With respect, Chairman, this project is specifically designed as a public space that balances environmental responsibility with exceptional design quality. The integration creates something unique rather than diluted."

The chairman's expression remained skeptical. "A noble sentiment, but our investors have specific expectations about XM projects. Minghao knows this," he added with a pointed look at his nephew.

"Uncle," Minghao said, his voice quiet but firm, "the committee specifically requested a collaboration that incorporates both companies' strengths. The design we've developed fulfills that brief while expanding XM's capabilities in an emerging market sector."

"A sector you seem increasingly preoccupied with," the chairman observed. "First your sustainability initiative presentation, now this project. One might wonder where your priorities lie."

The undercurrent of personal disappointment in his tone made the professional criticism more cutting. Y/N saw Minghao's carefully maintained composure falter slightly, revealing how deeply his uncle's approval mattered despite their differing visions.

"My priority is the future success of XM," Minghao replied. "Which requires evolution rather than rigid adherence to past formulas."

The chairman waved this away impatiently. "We need concrete adjustments to realign this project with our brand standards. I suggest removing these community elements, upgrading the materials to our usual specifications, and redesigning the central pavilion to feature our signature aesthetic."

Y/N bit her tongue, recognizing that these changes would effectively erase every sustainable innovation they'd integrated, returning the design to exactly the kind of environmentally irresponsible luxury project she'd fought against throughout her career.

She glanced at Minghao, expecting him to begin negotiating a compromise. To her surprise, he straightened his shoulders and spoke with quiet determination.

"No."

The single word fell into stunned silence. Even Y/N hadn't expected such direct refusal.

"What did you say?" the chairman asked, his tone dangerous.

"I said no," Minghao repeated calmly. "The design represents a balanced integration developed through genuine collaboration. Removing those elements would compromise both its integrity and its purpose."

The chairman's expression hardened. "Perhaps you've forgotten whose name is on this building, Minghao. Your experimental design theories are interesting, but ultimately, XM projects reflect the company vision—my vision."

"I haven't forgotten," Minghao replied. "But I also remember the principles my father valued before you took control—innovation, integrity, and creating spaces that elevated people rather than excluding them."

The personal nature of this statement clearly crossed a line. The chairman's expression turned glacial. "We'll continue this discussion privately. Everyone else, please leave us."

The executives quickly filed out, eager to escape the family tension. Y/N hesitated, looking at Minghao with concern.

"It's alright," he told her quietly. "I'll meet you downstairs after we've finished."

Y/N reluctantly left the room, acutely aware that Minghao had just risked his position—and family relationship—defending their shared vision. The implications of this were too significant to ignore.

An hour passed before Minghao appeared in the lobby, his expression composed but with a new resolution in his eyes.

"Walk with me," he said simply, leading her out of the building and across the street to a small park—one of the few green spaces in the corporate district.

They sat on a bench beneath flowering cherry trees, a moment of natural beauty incongruously peaceful after the tension of the meeting.

"I've been relieved of my position as creative director," Minghao said finally, his voice calm despite the bombshell.

Y/N stared at him in shock. "They fired you? Over our project?"

"The project was simply the catalyst. My uncle and I have been moving in different directions for some time. Today merely forced the issue into the open."

"Minghao, I'm so sorry," Y/N said, genuine distress overriding any professional considerations. "You shouldn't have sacrificed your position. We could have modified some elements, found a compromise—"

"No," he interrupted gently. "The compromise would have destroyed what makes the design valuable. And this isn't just about one project. It's about the future I want to create versus the past my uncle wants to preserve."

"Still, your career—"

"Is not defined by XM," Minghao finished. "Perhaps this was inevitable. I've been considering independent paths for some time, as I mentioned last night."

Y/N studied him, searching for signs of regret or uncertainty. Instead, she found surprising calm—as if a burden had been lifted rather than imposed.

"You seem... okay with this," she observed.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "There's freedom in clarity. For years I've tried to balance family expectations with personal convictions. Now the choice has been made for me."

"What will you do now?"

"Exactly what I suggested yesterday—establish an independent practice based on the principles we've explored together." After a pause, he added more softly, "Though I had hoped to discuss that possibility with you under different circumstances."

Y/N felt a flutter of something that definitely wasn't just professional concern. "With me? In what capacity?"

Minghao turned to face her directly, his usual reserve giving way to unexpected openness. "In whatever capacity you might consider. As a consultant, a collaborator, or..." he hesitated, then continued with quiet determination, "...something more. If that's something you might want."

The directness of this semi-confession left Y/N momentarily speechless. Part of her wanted to retreat behind professional boundaries, to remind both of them of all the reasons personal involvement would be complicated. But after watching Minghao sacrifice his position defending principles they both valued, such caution suddenly seemed cowardly.

"I don't know what I want," she admitted honestly. "Three months ago, I would have said collaborating with an XM developer was my worst nightmare. Now I'm sitting here disturbed by the fact that you're no longer with XM, which makes absolutely no sense considering I've spent years criticizing everything they represent."

"Life rarely follows our expectations," Minghao observed, a hint of humor warming his voice.

"Tell me about it," Y/N sighed. "My entire worldview had such clear lines before meeting you. Sustainable architects: good. Luxury developers: bad. Now everything's complicated."

"Complexity can be valuable," Minghao suggested. "In design and in relationships."

Y/N looked at him—really looked at the person rather than the professional role he'd occupied. The man who had challenged her assumptions while respecting her principles. Who had matched her passion for architecture with his own, differently expressed but equally genuine. Whose carefully maintained reserve concealed depths she'd only begun to discover.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I would like to explore what 'something more' might mean. But slowly. This is all very... new territory."

The smile that transformed Minghao's usually composed features was worth every moment of confusion that had preceded it.

"New territory is where innovation happens," he said softly.

Their conversation was interrupted by Y/N's phone ringing insistently. She glanced at it and groaned.

"It's Seungkwan. Again. He's probably heard about the XM meeting already—news travels unnervingly fast in this industry."

"You should answer," Minghao suggested. "He'll just keep calling otherwise."

Y/N reluctantly accepted the call, holding the phone slightly away from her ear in anticipation of Seungkwan's volume.

"Y/N! IS IT TRUE?" Seungkwan practically shouted. "DID MINGHAO JUST QUIT XM DEVELOPMENT TO BE WITH YOU? THE ENTIRE OFFICE IS LOSING THEIR MINDS! WOOZI JUST SPAT COFFEE ALL OVER HIS KEYBOARD!"

"That's not exactly—" Y/N began, feeling her face heat up as Minghao raised an amused eyebrow, clearly able to hear Seungkwan's voice.

"IT'S THE MOST ROMANTIC THING I'VE EVER HEARD!" Seungkwan continued, undeterred. "GIVING UP A FAMILY EMPIRE FOR LOVE! IT'S LIKE A DRAMA BUT WITH SUSTAINABLE ARCHITECTURE!"

"Seungkwan, please," Y/N attempted, mortified. "It's much more complicated than that. He had professional disagreements with the company direction—"

"BECAUSE OF YOU!" Seungkwan crowed triumphantly. "BECAUSE YOU SHOWED HIM THE LIGHT OF ECO-CONSCIOUS DESIGN WITH YOUR PASSION AND PRINCIPLES! I'M WRITING THE WEDDING SPEECH RIGHT NOW!"

"There is no wedding!" Y/N hissed, avoiding Minghao's gaze. "We haven't even—that is—we're just—"

"Just what?" Seungkwan pressed, finally lowering his volume to merely enthusiastic rather than deafening.

Y/N glanced at Minghao, who was watching her with undisguised amusement and something warmer that made her pulse quicken.

"We're figuring it out," she said finally.

"HA! I KNEW IT!" Seungkwan's volume instantly returned to maximum. "JEONGHAN OWES ME DINNER! I SAID YOU'D ADMIT FEELINGS BEFORE THE PROJECT ENDED!"

"I'm hanging up now," Y/N informed him, doing exactly that despite his protests.

She turned to Minghao with embarrassment. "Sorry about that. Seungkwan has no concept of indoor voice or professional boundaries."

"He cares about you," Minghao observed, echoing his comment from weeks earlier. "Though his enthusiasm is... considerable."

"Wait until you meet the rest of them properly," Y/N said, then paused as she realized the implication of future social integration. "I mean, if that's something that might happen. Eventually."

"I'd like that," Minghao said simply.

They sat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a moment, the cherry blossoms occasionally drifting down around them in the spring breeze.

"So what happens now?" Y/N finally asked. "With the project, with the committee presentation, with... everything?"

"The project continues," Minghao said decisively. "My departure from XM doesn't change my commitment to our design. As for the rest..." he looked at her with quiet intensity, "that depends on what we both want to build."

The architectural metaphor wasn't lost on Y/N. "I've never been good at personal blueprints," she admitted. "Professional plans, environmental strategies, technical specifications—those I can draft perfectly. But this..."

"Perhaps we approach it like our design process," Minghao suggested. "Start with core principles, develop the framework gradually, adjust as we learn, and trust that something valuable will emerge from the collaboration."

Y/N couldn't help smiling at his architect's approach to relationship development. "That's the most Minghao way possible of asking someone to date you."

"Is it working?" he asked, a rare vulnerability visible beneath his composed exterior.

Instead of answering immediately, Y/N reached for his hand—a simple gesture that somehow felt more significant than their entire professional collaboration.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I'd like to see what we might design together. Beyond riverfront projects and sustainable pavilions."

Minghao's fingers interlaced with hers, his touch as precise and intentional as everything else about him. "I've found our collaborative process surprisingly rewarding so far."

"Despite the arguments?"

"Because of them, in part," he amended. "Few people challenge me the way you do. It's... invigorating."

Y/N laughed. "Only you would find someone questioning your every design decision 'invigorating.'"

"Only when the questions are intelligent ones," he clarified, his thumb tracing a small pattern against her palm. "And when they come from someone whose perspective I've grown to value."

The simple honesty of this statement affected Y/N more than any grand declaration could have. She looked at their joined hands—her practical manicure next to his artist's fingers—and thought about how unexpected and yet somehow right this felt.

"So we continue with the committee presentation," she said, bringing the conversation back to safer territory while she processed her emotions. "And afterward..."

"Afterward, we explore possibilities," Minghao finished. "Professional and personal."

"Seungkwan is going to be insufferable about this," Y/N groaned, but couldn't suppress her smile.

"As will Jun," Minghao admitted. "He's been making increasingly unsubtle comments about our 'creative chemistry' for weeks."

The thought of their respective friends' reactions to this development was both mortifying and amusing. Y/N could already imagine the dramatic speeches, the knowing looks, the inevitable "I told you so" declarations.

"We should get back to the studio," she said reluctantly. "We have a presentation to finalize, and now we need to address your change in professional status as well."

Minghao nodded, but neither moved immediately to leave the peaceful moment they'd created together.

"Just to be clear," Y/N said, feeling uncharacteristically uncertain, "you're really okay with what happened at XM? You didn't throw away your career because of our project?"

"I didn't throw away anything," Minghao replied with quiet certainty. "I chose authenticity over compromise. The project was simply the catalyst for a decision that's been forming for longer than you might realize." After a pause, he added, "Though I will admit that knowing you has clarified certain priorities."

Y/N felt a rush of warmth at his words. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me, and it wasn't even really a compliment."

"It was absolutely a compliment," Minghao corrected her. "Just expressed with appropriate restraint."

Y/N laughed, struck by how much she enjoyed his particular brand of reserved intensity. "You know, for two people who started out thinking we represented everything wrong with each other's approach to architecture, we've come to a surprisingly compatible place."

"Perhaps we weren't as opposed as we believed," Minghao suggested. "Just viewing the same principles from different angles."

As they finally rose to leave, still holding hands as they walked back toward their studio, Y/N reflected on the unexpected journey that had brought them to this point. From professional adversaries to reluctant collaborators to... whatever they were becoming now. It wasn't a path she could have designed or anticipated.

But sometimes, she was beginning to realize, the most interesting spaces emerged from unexpected intersections—in architecture and in life.

-

The committee presentation room buzzed with anticipation. Two weeks had passed since Minghao's departure from XM Development—two weeks of intense preparation, industry speculation, and carefully navigated new personal territory between him and Y/N.

"Are you ready for this?" Y/N asked, adjusting the display boards one final time. She wore her most professional outfit, a structured suit in deep green that somehow managed to be both authoritative and a personal statement.

"Absolutely," Minghao replied, his calm demeanor betraying none of the professional upheaval he'd experienced. If anything, he seemed more centered than before, as if shedding his corporate constraints had allowed a more authentic self to emerge.

Word of their situation had spread throughout the industry—the XM creative director who'd left his family's company over creative differences, continuing to collaborate with the sustainable architect who'd presumably influenced his professional rebellion. The resulting publicity had transformed their presentation from a standard committee review into a highly anticipated industry event.

Joshua Hong approached them with an encouraging smile. "Quite the turnout today," he observed, nodding toward the unusually full room. "Your project has generated significant interest."

"Apparently professional drama is good for publicity," Y/N said dryly.

"Quality work is good for publicity," Joshua corrected. "The circumstances simply brought additional attention to what was already an innovative collaboration."

As committee members and industry observers took their seats, Y/N felt a flutter of nerves—not about the design itself, which she knew was exceptional, but about the public perception of her relationship with Minghao. They'd agreed to maintain strictly professional behavior during the presentation, focusing attention on their work rather than the personal connection that had developed alongside it.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Seungkwan: "We're all here! Third row, looking FABULOUS and ready to cheer inappropriately loud!!!"

Y/N glanced over to see Seungkwan, Jeonghan, and Woozi seated together, all giving her enthusiastic thumbs up. Behind them sat Jun, Mingyu, and Wonwoo—Minghao's support team. The sight of their merged friend groups was both heartwarming and mildly terrifying.

"Your colleagues are here," she murmured to Minghao. "And mine. Together. This could be interesting."

"Should we be concerned?" Minghao asked, following her gaze to where Seungkwan was now showing something on his phone to Jun, both of them grinning conspiratorially.

"Definitely," Y/N confirmed.

Before she could elaborate, Joshua called the presentation to order. Y/N took a deep breath, centering herself in the familiar territory of professional expertise as she stepped forward to begin.

"The Hangang Riverfront Revitalization Project presented unique challenges and opportunities," she began, her voice clear and confident. "Our goal was to create a space that serves environmental needs, community functions, and cultural expression in equal measure."

As she outlined the technical aspects of their design, Y/N found herself naturally transitioning to Minghao's contributions without the planned handoff cues they'd rehearsed. Their presentation flowed organically between her explanations of sustainability innovations and his descriptions of spatial experience and cultural references.

The committee watched with undisguised interest as these former adversaries demonstrated a seamless collaborative vision. When they revealed the final design models and renderings, a murmur of appreciation spread through the room.

Their central concept—visible environmental systems integrated with traditional Korean design elements to create both functional efficiency and cultural resonance—was beautifully realized in the detailed models. Water features that processed rainwater while referencing historical irrigation patterns. Community gardens arranged to create contemplative spaces reminiscent of traditional courtyards. Solar elements that cast evolving shadow patterns inspired by traditional architecture.

During the question period, a committee member asked directly about the impact of Minghao's separation from XM Development on the project's viability.

"My professional transition doesn't affect my commitment to this design," Minghao answered with perfect composure. "The concept we've developed represents principles I intend to pursue in my independent practice."

"And how do you respond to industry speculation that personal factors influenced these professional decisions?" the committee member pressed, glancing between Minghao and Y/N with poorly disguised curiosity.

Y/N tensed, but Minghao responded with characteristic grace.

"Professional respect can develop into broader appreciation," he said carefully. "Y/N's environmental expertise and design integrity challenged me to reconsider certain assumptions. That kind of intellectual growth naturally influences career decisions."

It was the perfect answer—acknowledging their connection without feeding gossip or distracting from the work itself. Y/N shot him a grateful look as the questions returned to technical aspects of the design.

When the presentation concluded, the committee announced they would deliberate and provide their decision within the week. As the crowd dispersed, Y/N and Minghao found themselves surrounded by their enthusiastic friends.

"That was AMAZING!" Seungkwan declared, hugging Y/N before she could evade him. "You two have, like, actual presentation chemistry! It was like watching an architectural tango!"

"Please never say 'architectural tango' again," Y/N begged, though she couldn't help smiling at his enthusiasm.

"Your integration of the water systems was particularly elegant," Wonwoo told her, adjusting his glasses. "I appreciated the technical rigor behind the aesthetic elements."

"And your cultural references were so thoughtfully applied," Jeonghan said to Minghao. "Not superficial at all."

As their friends chatted excitedly about various aspects of the presentation, Y/N noticed the easy way their previously separate groups had merged—Mingyu and Seungkwan comparing notes on their respective roles, Jun and Jeonghan clearly bonding over some shared mischievous energy, Wonwoo and Woozi engaged in what appeared to be a deeply technical conversation about acoustic design elements.

"They get along well," Minghao observed quietly, coming to stand beside her.

"Surprisingly well," Y/N agreed. "Though I'm not sure the world is ready for Seungkwan and Jun joining forces."

"Too late," Minghao noted, nodding toward where the two were clearly plotting something, occasional glances in their direction confirming that Y/N and Minghao were the subject of whatever scheme they were developing.

"We should probably be concerned about that," Y/N said.

"Definitely," Minghao agreed, echoing her earlier assessment.

Before they could investigate further, Joshua approached with news.

"The committee was impressed," he told them. "Very impressed. They've asked me to inform you that deliberations may be abbreviated—they're leaning strongly toward full approval with minimal revisions."

"That's wonderful news," Y/N said, relief and pride washing through her. After everything they'd been through, the validation of their shared vision meant more than she'd expected.

"There's something else," Joshua continued. "The city planning department was so taken with your integrated approach that they're considering a larger initiative—a series of sustainable urban interventions throughout Seoul, using your river project as a prototype. They'd be interested in discussing this with both of you, regardless of which firm ultimately leads the river project construction."

Y/N exchanged a look with Minghao, both processing the implications of this unexpected opportunity.

"We'd be very interested in those discussions," Minghao replied, his calm words belying the significance of Joshua's news.

After Joshua departed, Seungkwan appeared with an announcement of his own. "Attention, architectural power couple and assorted friends! We've arranged a celebration at The Garden Terrace. No excuses, attendance mandatory, first round on Jeonghan because he lost the betting pool about when you two would finally get together!"

"We haven't officially—" Y/N began, but Seungkwan waved away her objection.

"Semantics! You're holding hands right now!"

Y/N looked down in surprise to find that, indeed, her hand had somehow found Minghao's during their conversation with Joshua. She hadn't even noticed.

"The evidence is undeniable," Jun declared solemnly. "Subconscious hand-holding indicates advanced relationship development."

"That's not a real thing," Minghao told his friend with fond exasperation.

"And yet," Jun gestured meaningfully at their joined hands, "empirical evidence suggests otherwise."

Rather than pulling away in embarrassment as she might have weeks earlier, Y/N simply adjusted her grip on Minghao's hand more comfortably. "Fine. We'll come to your celebration. But no embarrassing toasts or relationship interrogations."

"We make no such promises," Seungkwan replied cheerfully. "See you all there in thirty minutes!"

The Garden Terrace was exactly the kind of place Y/N and Minghao might have designed together—a rooftop restaurant with traditional elements reimagined through contemporary sustainable design. Living walls provided natural cooling, solar canopies created dappled light patterns across wooden floors, and the careful arrangement of spaces allowed both community interaction and private conversation.

Their friends had reserved a corner section with spectacular views of the city at sunset. Y/N and Minghao found themselves at the center of a boisterous celebration, their successful presentation and potential new opportunities providing the official reason for festivities, though everyone present knew the unofficial cause for celebration was more personal.

"A toast!" Seungkwan announced, raising his glass. "To the most unlikely architectural partnership in Seoul—proof that opposites not only attract but create award-winning public spaces in the process!"

"And to new beginnings," Jeonghan added, with a meaningful look at Minghao. "Professional and otherwise."

Everyone raised their glasses, the genuine warmth of the moment overriding Y/N's usual aversion to being the center of attention. Under the table, Minghao's hand found hers again, a quiet connection amid the lively celebration.

As the evening progressed, Y/N found herself in conversation with Jun while Minghao was engaged in discussion with Woozi across the table.

"He's different with you," Jun observed, nodding toward Minghao. "More himself, somehow."

"What do you mean?" Y/N asked, curious about this perspective from someone who'd known Minghao far longer than she had.

"Minghao has always contained himself," Jun explained. "Precise control in everything—his art, his work, his emotions. Necessary for navigating family expectations and corporate politics, but it became second nature. With you, he's still Minghao—still thoughtful and measured—but there's a freedom to it now. Less constraint, more authentic expression."

Y/N considered this, watching Minghao as he listened intently to Woozi's apparently passionate discourse on acoustic design. There was a subtle openness to his posture and expressions that did seem different from when they'd first met.

"I'm glad," she said simply. "He deserves that freedom."

"And what about you?" Jun asked. "Your friends tell me you've changed too."

"Do they now?" Y/N replied dryly, making a mental note to have words with Seungkwan about discussing her personal development with Minghao's friends.

"Apparently you smile more," Jun said with a grin. "And have developed a surprising tolerance for aesthetic considerations in your designs."

"Function still comes first," Y/N insisted, though she couldn't deny how her perspective had evolved. "But I've come to appreciate that beauty can be functional in its own way—creating spaces people connect with emotionally means they value and protect those spaces."

"Exactly what Minghao has always believed," Jun noted. "See? Perfect harmony."

"Hardly perfect," Y/N laughed. "We still argue constantly."

"Creative tension," Jun corrected. "Essential for innovation."

Across the table, Minghao caught her eye and smiled—that rare, genuine smile that still made her heart do ridiculous things in her chest. He excused himself from his conversation and made his way to her side.

"Stealing my architect, Jun?" he asked, his tone light.

"Just confirming you're worthy of her," Jun replied with theatrical seriousness. "The jury remains deliberating."

"A reasonable concern," Minghao acknowledged, surprising Y/N with his playfulness. "I have similar questions myself."

"On that note, I'll leave you two to your existential relationship doubts," Jun said, standing. "Seungkwan is demonstrating what he calls 'the dance of sustainable architecture' to Mingyu, and I can't miss that."

As Jun departed, Minghao took his place beside Y/N. "Having second thoughts yet?" he asked quietly.

"About?"

"This." He gestured between them. "Us. The complicated personal and professional entanglement we've somehow created."

Y/N considered the question seriously. "Second thoughts? No. Occasional moments of disbelief that I'm actually involved with someone who once represented everything I professionally opposed? Absolutely."

"The feeling is mutual," Minghao assured her, his eyes warm with amusement. "My uncle still can't comprehend it. He called yesterday to ask if this was an elaborate professional strategy to absorb your environmental expertise into a new luxury brand."

"Is it?" Y/N teased.

"If so, it's a strategy that's backfired spectacularly," Minghao replied. "I find myself increasingly aligned with your environmental priorities rather than his profit margins."

"Terrible business sense," Y/N agreed solemnly. "But excellent ethical development."

Their conversation was interrupted by Seungkwan's return, slightly flushed from whatever architectural dance he'd been performing.

"Stop being antisocial in your little couple bubble," he admonished. "We're planning the housewarming party for your new joint studio."

"Our what?" Y/N asked, bewildered.

"Your new studio," Seungkwan repeated as if it were obvious. "For the independent practice you're obviously going to establish together. We've already started a Pinterest board for the design. Very minimal but with plants everywhere. Mingyu suggested a coffee station that would make most cafes jealous."

"We haven't discussed—" Minghao began.

"Details," Seungkwan dismissed with a wave. "The concept is solid. 'XYN Design' or something similarly clever that combines your names. Sustainable luxury for the conscious elite. We're trademarking taglines as we speak."

Y/N looked at Minghao, expecting shared exasperation at their friends' presumption. Instead, she found him looking thoughtful.

"It's not an unreasonable concept," he said carefully. "Combining our complementary expertise in a dedicated practice."

"You're actually considering this?" Y/N asked, surprised by his openness to Seungkwan's meddling.

"I'm considering many possibilities," Minghao clarified. "Including professional collaboration that extends beyond our current project." After a pause, he added more quietly, "If that's something you might be interested in exploring."

Before Y/N could respond, Seungkwan clapped his hands delightedly. "See? It's practically decided! Jun, they're discussing the studio concept! Operation Architecture Romance is advancing to phase three!"

"We have phases?" Y/N asked, alarmed.

"So many phases," Seungkwan confirmed cheerfully before hurrying off to update Jun on this development.

Left momentarily alone despite the bustling celebration around them, Y/N turned to Minghao. "Are we really discussing a joint studio?"

"We're discussing possibilities," Minghao clarified. "No commitment, just... consideration of potential futures."

The careful way he framed it—open but not pressuring—was so characteristic of his approach to everything. Y/N found herself appreciating this thoughtfulness even as part of her marveled at how quickly her life had transformed.

"Three months ago, I would have laughed at the mere suggestion of working with you long-term," she admitted. "Now it seems like the most natural evolution imaginable."

"Evolution rather than revolution," Minghao observed. "Gradual integration of complementary elements."

"You make it sound so architectural," Y/N smiled.

"It's how I understand the world," he acknowledged. "Through spatial relationships and balanced tensions."

"And how do you understand us?" she asked, surprising herself with the directness of the question.

Minghao considered this with characteristic thoughtfulness. "As a harmonious counterpoint," he said finally. "Different melodies that create something more complex and beautiful together than either could alone."

The poetry of his answer caught Y/N off guard. For someone so reserved, Minghao occasionally revealed unexpected depth of feeling through carefully chosen words.

"That's beautiful," she said softly.

"It's accurate," he replied simply. "At least from my perspective."

Around them, their friends continued celebrating, occasional glances and smiles in their direction suggesting that their quiet conversation was not going unnoticed. Y/N found she didn't mind the attention as much as she might have expected. There was something affirming about having their connection witnessed and supported by people who mattered to them both.

"Whatever we decide professionally," Y/N said, returning to the question of their potential collaboration, "I know I want to continue what we've started personally. Despite how unexpected and occasionally inconvenient it might be."

"Inconvenient?" Minghao raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yes," Y/N laughed. "Do you know how often I have to hear Seungkwan say 'I told you so'? At least three times daily. And my entire professional identity was partly built on criticizing exactly the kind of development your family company represents. Plus, you're annoyingly particular about material selections and have opinions about literally every design element down to the smallest detail."

"All valid points," Minghao acknowledged, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. "Though I could note similar inconveniences—Jun's unbearable smugness, my uncle's disappointment, your stubborn insistence on prioritizing function even when aesthetic adjustments would create negligible efficiency impacts..."

"See? Completely impractical connection," Y/N concluded, her smile belying her words.

"And yet," Minghao said softly, taking her hand, "here we are."

"Here we are," Y/N agreed, feeling a sense of rightness that defied all her previous notions of compatibility. "Designing something neither of us planned but both of us need."

Six Months Later

Y/N adjusted the placement of the architectural model on the display table, stepping back to assess its impact in the gallery lighting. Around her, staff made final preparations for the evening's exhibition opening—"Sustainable Harmony: New Directions in Urban Design."

The gallery space—a renovated industrial building with exposed brick walls and carefully preserved structural elements—provided the perfect backdrop for their first major presentation as partners in XYN Studio, the name they'd ultimately embraced despite Y/N's initial eye-rolling at Seungkwan's suggestion.

The past six months had been a whirlwind of change. The Hangang Riverfront project had received unanimous committee approval and was now under construction, with Y/N and Minghao serving as design consultants. Their joint studio had formed organically from their continued collaboration, gathering surprising momentum as clients sought their unique integration of sustainability and aesthetics.

And personally... Y/N smiled to herself, remembering the incredulous looks on her friends' faces when she'd casually mentioned moving in with Minghao just three months into their relationship. For someone who had always prided herself on careful planning and methodical decision-making, the speed of these developments should have been alarming. Instead, each step had felt like a natural progression, as if they were simply acknowledging what had already formed between them.

"Perfect," Minghao's voice came from behind her as he surveyed the model placement. "The lighting highlights the water elements exactly as we intended."

Y/N turned to find him carrying two cups of tea—oolong for himself, black with one sugar for her. The simple gesture of remembering her preference, as he had from their earliest collaboration, still touched her in unexpected ways.

"Nervous?" she asked, accepting the cup.

"Appropriately alert to the professional significance of the evening," he corrected, making her smile. Minghao rarely admitted to anything as unrefined as nervousness, though she'd learned to recognize the subtle signs—the slightly more precise adjustment of his cuffs, the extra moment spent considering his words.

"It's a beautiful exhibition," Y/N assured him, looking around at the carefully curated display of their work. "The perfect introduction of XYN Studio to the wider design community."

Their exhibition showcased a series of urban interventions—some completed, others conceptual—that demonstrated their shared vision. Each project balanced environmental innovation with cultural and aesthetic excellence, creating spaces that served both planet and people with equal consideration.

"Your parents are coming tonight?" Minghao asked, a hint of that not-nervousness in his voice.

"Yes," Y/N confirmed. "They're excited to finally meet you properly. My father has read every article about your departure from XM at least twice. He's fascinated by your professional evolution."

"And your criticism of my family's company?" Minghao asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Also fascinated by that," Y/N admitted with a laugh. "He finds our entire relationship 'conceptually intriguing,' which is high praise from an environmental engineering professor."

"And your uncle?" she asked in return. "Any change in his position?"

Minghao's expression grew more thoughtful. "Some. The success of the river project has made him reconsider certain assumptions. He's even incorporated some sustainability elements into recent XM developments—though more as marketing strategy than core principle."

"Progress nonetheless," Y/N observed.

"Incremental change," Minghao agreed. "Sometimes that's how transformation happens—not through dramatic rejection but gradual integration of new ideas."

The philosophy could have applied equally to their personal journey—from professional adversaries to reluctant collaborators to partners in every sense. Not a sudden conversion but a gradual recognition of complementary values beneath seemingly opposed approaches.

Their moment of reflection was interrupted by the arrival of familiar voices—their friends coming early to preview the exhibition before the official opening.

"It's MAGNIFICENT!" Seungkwan declared before he'd even fully entered the gallery, Jeonghan and Woozi following with more moderate but equally supportive expressions.

"Professional bias noted but appreciated," Y/N replied dryly as Seungkwan embraced her enthusiastically.

"No bias, only objective recognition of excellence," Seungkwan insisted. "Though I do take partial credit for facilitating the partnership that made this possible."

"How exactly did you facilitate it?" Woozi asked skeptically.

"Through strategic encouragement and creating opportunities for romance to blossom," Seungkwan explained grandly. "Also, I totally called it from day one."

"We all called it," Jeonghan corrected. "Some of us were just more vocal about it."

As they bantered, Jun, Mingyu, and Wonwoo arrived, completing what had become their merged circle of friends. The easy integration of their once-separate groups mirrored Y/N and Minghao's own blending of lives and practices—unexpected but surprisingly natural.

"The central concept is exceptionally well-articulated," Wonwoo observed as he studied one of the display boards. "The balance between innovation and accessibility is precisely calibrated."

"High praise from architecture's most discerning analyst," Jun translated for Y/N. "He stayed up all night reading your design manifesto and called it 'refreshingly substantive.'"

As their friends explored the exhibition, offering commentary and support in their various styles, Y/N found herself standing slightly apart with Minghao, observing the scene with shared appreciation.

"Did you ever imagine this?" she asked quietly. "When we were first forced to collaborate on the river project? That we'd end up here?"

"Never," Minghao admitted, his honesty one of the many things she'd come to value deeply. "I expected a difficult professional exercise that would ultimately remain a compromise between opposed visions. I never anticipated discovering such fundamental alignment beneath our surface differences."

"Nor did I," Y/N agreed. "I was so certain I understood exactly who you were and what you represented. Being wrong has never been so satisfying."

Minghao's expression softened into the smile that was still rare in professional settings but increasingly common in their private moments. "Perhaps that's the most valuable outcome of our collaboration—the recognition that initial judgments rarely capture the complexity of another person's perspective."

"That, and the truly exceptional architecture we create together," Y/N added with a grin.

"That too," Minghao acknowledged. "Though I maintain the personal discovery has been the more revolutionary development."

Before Y/N could respond, Seungkwan's voice rose above the general conversation. "Everyone! Attention please! Jun and I have an announcement!"

Y/N and Minghao exchanged wary glances, all too familiar with the creative chaos that tended to result from Seungkwan and Jun's collaborative ideas.

"As the self-appointed chroniclers of the greatest architectural love story of our generation," Seungkwan began dramatically, "Jun and I have created something special to commemorate this exhibition opening."

"We call it 'From Rivalry to Romance: The Architectural Journey of Y/N and Minghao,'" Jun continued, producing a tablet with a flourish. "A digital scrapbook documenting your transformation from enemies to partners."

"You did not," Y/N said, horrified fascination in her voice.

"We absolutely did," Seungkwan confirmed. "Complete with candid photos, overheard quotes, and a timeline of significant moments—including Y/N's legendary takedown of Minghao's Dongdaemun Plaza extension in Sustainable Design Quarterly, which we now recognize as sublimated attraction expressed through professional criticism."

"That was genuine criticism," Y/N protested, though she couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"The glass curtain wall was legitimately problematic from an energy management perspective," Minghao agreed, surprising everyone by joining her defense.

"See? Still perfectly aligned in their architectural principles," Jun declared triumphantly. "True love."

As their friends gathered to view what promised to be an equally embarrassing and endearing documentation of their relationship, Y/N turned to Minghao. "Should we be concerned about this becoming public?"

"Definitely," Minghao replied, echoing their now-familiar exchange. But his expression remained calm, even quietly amused. "Though I find I'm less concerned about public perception than I once would have been."

It was true, Y/N realized. Both of them had grown more comfortable with the unconventional nature of their connection—professional rivals turned partners, environmental advocate and luxury developer finding common ground, opposites creating harmony rather than discord.

As the gallery began filling with exhibition guests—fellow architects, clients, critics, and friends—Y/N felt a moment of perspective on the journey that had brought them here. Not just the architectural achievements displayed around them, but the personal evolution that had made those achievements possible.

Later that evening, after successful introductions between families, enthusiastic reception of their work, and countless congratulations from colleagues, Y/N and Minghao finally found a quiet moment alone in the corner of the gallery.

"A successful launch," Minghao observed, his composed exterior barely hinting at the satisfaction she knew he felt.

"For the studio and the exhibition," Y/N agreed. "Though I could have done without Seungkwan and Jun's multimedia presentation of our 'architectural romance.'"

"It was surprisingly well-produced," Minghao noted with that hint of humor she'd come to treasure. "The timeline of our evolving design approach alongside our personal development showed genuine analytical thinking."

"Of course you would appreciate the organizational structure," Y/N laughed. "Even in embarrassing friend interventions, you find design elements to admire."

"Pattern recognition is fundamental to architectural thinking," Minghao replied solemnly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.

Y/N studied him in the gallery lighting—the elegant lines of his profile, the careful precision of his movements, the subtle warmth in his expression that most people missed but she had learned to read fluently. All the elements that had once seemed to represent values opposed to her own now recognized as simply different expressions of shared principles.

"I love you," she said simply—a statement they'd exchanged privately before but never in a professional context. "Not despite our differences but because of how they've helped us both grow."

Minghao's expression softened in the way reserved only for her. "I love you too," he replied, his quiet voice carrying the depth of feeling he expressed more through actions than words. "You've changed how I see everything—architecture, sustainability, purpose, balance. It's been the most valuable revelation of my career."

"Just your career?" Y/N teased gently.

"Of my life," Minghao amended, taking her hand with characteristic intentionality. "The most unexpected and essential discovery I never knew I needed to make."

Around them, their exhibition—the physical manifestation of their shared vision—drew appreciation from the design community that had once seen them as representatives of opposed approaches. Their friends and families mingled in unlikely but harmonious combination. And between them, something had formed that neither could have designed alone—a connection that balanced strength with vulnerability, principle with flexibility, certainty with growth.

Not a compromise between conflicting visions, but a new creation altogether—unexpected, challenging, and ultimately more beautiful than either could have imagined when they first faced each other across that conference room, certain they understood exactly who the other was and what they represented.

The most exquisite designs, they had both discovered, emerge not from perfect agreement but from productive tension—opposing forces finding balance to create something neither could achieve alone.

It’s almost as if you are the magnet and he is a piece of iron, always attracted to magnetic items. Because that is exactly how he would describe you, engrossed as you scroll through the photos you have just taken, lips pursed. It takes everything within him not to kiss you right there and then, instead tearing his eyes away from your lips to the crease in your forehead.

Supporting himself with one hand, he gets to his feet, closing the distance between you in a matter of strides. Before you realise it, his thumb is pressed between your knotted eyebrows, gently massaging your skin until you get it. The tension ebbs away, receding like the tide at dawn, leaving a smooth shore as you relax your facial features. You inhale deeply, releasing the tension in your clenched jaw, consciously lowering your shoulders.

”That’s more like it,” Minghao murmurs into the shell of your ear, breath fluttering across your skin and causing a heat to rise to your cheeks at the blatant display of affection.

For some time, you had tried to keep your relationship at work strictly professional, until one of the younger photographers tried to make a move on you.

Minghao wasn’t possessive by nature, but when he noticed your disinterested, polite smile didn’t seem to deter the younger photographer’s advancements, he had grown uncomfortable. You were too nice to reject him, but Minghao wasn’t just going to sit by and let it play out.

He had come up to you while your thumb played with the button on the camera, scrolling through your pictures, your attention half on them and half on the conversation at hand. You were nodding in that absent-minded way you did when you weren’t listening—something Minghao positively hated when it was directed at him, he would much rather you pay attention to either him or your work, not both—and he had given into the impulse to slip his hand into yours, causing you to stiffen at his touch.

”Hao?” Your nickname for him had slipped out, and he couldn’t help the smile playing at his lips.

”Yes, love?”

Your furrowed eyebrows had been a clear sign of your confusion, but Minghao only pecked your cheek and stood beside you, withdrawing his hand from your loose grasp to hold your waist. His touch was gentle and his presence welcome, and while the other photographer looked discomfited, you were comforted by Minghao’s gesture, and the photographer never made a move towards you again.

Since then, Minghao had been more open about your relationship, even at work. He wasn’t particularly clingy, but he liked to slip his hand into yours whenever he was standing near you, and he liked to kiss you before a shoot. It was his good luck ritual, he claimed. You weren’t one to protest, not when you enjoyed it perfectly fine.

With a sigh, Minghao rests his head on your shoulder, and you tilt your head to the side, resting your own head atop his. He slings his hands around your waist, inhaling your scent, until you let out a sharp gasp.

”This is the one!”

”Hm?” He looks up, careful not to jostle your grasp on the camera or hit his head against your chin, leaning in to peer at your screen. You tilt the camera his way, and he nods in approval.

He isn’t familiar with the process of photography, but he knows raw photographs rarely get published as they are. Editing is just as much part of the process as the photo-taking is, but that photograph is beautiful. Minghao is iron, after all, a magnetic material, and one of the things that draws him in is beauty.

From fresh morning dew on blades of grass to dried flowers used as bookmarks in old, weathered hardcover books with battered covers and yellowed pages, Minghao is familiar with beauty. He is especially familiar with it with you as his partner, with your soft hair and arched brows and the curve of your lips. Your jaw, soft where your tongue is sharp, and your eyes, bright and clever and keen, all of it is beautiful.

So is the photograph, because it was taken from your perspective, and the way you see Minghao is different from the way Minghao sees himself.

He sees himself as he is, objectively, able to appreciate the way wire-rimmed glasses frame his face in a more attractive manner, or the way his slender fingers and lithe limbs always draw a glance or two that hover a little too long to be normal.

But you have seen him in all his glory, the broken way he collapses into your touch after a long day at work, all of him melting into your embrace before he has even stepped over the threshold into your house proper. You have been with him through his frustration, the regret that follows after his harsh, angry words, said in a blur of fury so red-hot it turns his vision white. You have held him when he cries, softly, weeping into your shoulder, struggling to catch his breath.

You have seen him happy, too, the way he glows incandescently in the sunlight on a Sunday afternoon, sprawled across a picnic mat with the low-hanging branches of the twisted, gnarly old tree shading his face while the sun warms the fabric of his plaid clothing.

You have captured every facet of him in that one photograph. In it, he exudes confidence, but not in an arrogant way, in an easy way, the same way that he always seems to smile when he catches sight of you. Like it is second nature, as if he has been built for nothing else but to bask in your light, the glow of creativity you bring with you.

Minghao will always be a faded photograph to himself, but to you, he would will always be in sharp focus, fully in technicolour.

—

general taglist: @slytherinshua, @wiishies

seventeen taglist: @weird-bookworm, @kangtaehyunzzz, @raevyng, @moonkyeom, @zhongzn

if you liked it, please reblog it.

"I am your host, Wen Junhui. Today, we are joined by a few special guests! We have our beloved Ferrari team present…"

You zone out as Junhui introduces the people surrounding you – your teammate, Lee 'Flame' Jihoon and his race engineer, Kwon 'Hoshi' Soonyoung. Both men are sitting across the table, introducing themselves into the microphones as Junhui directs his attention to you, and your race engineer. The sound of his name rolls off Junhui's tongue smoothly, practiced. Like he's said it his whole life and it's never gotten stuck in your throat, heavy on your tongue like the man next to you isn't the absolute light of your life — "...And we are ecstatic to present my best friend in this entire world. The one and only flash-flash, hundred-yard dash, and Ferrari's finest: Song Y/N! How are you doing today?!"

You want to match his excitement. You do.

"I told you not to call me that, it's like I'm showing off." You snort into the microphone, your cheeks warm as your life-long best friend grins at you over his own microphone from across the table. You twiddle your thumbs beneath the table, before feeling a soft palm cover them gently. Not bothering to look down, you carefully interlace your fingers; your shoulders relaxing as Junhui wiggles his brows and the camera pans back to Jihoon and Soonyoung smiling across the table.

"You are a showoff, and I'm allowed to call you whatever I want, I'm your best friend." He argues playfully, and you scrunch your nose as you shake your head with laughter. "Anyway! First and foremost, how are you, Y/N? It's been a long time since we've had you on the show. I'd say what, a good two years? Did the off-season treat you well?" You shrug, "The off-season is…well, it's exactly that, the off-season. I feel weird, and I feel odd having to find things to fill my time with. I went back home to Shenzhen three separate times within two weeks just to feel something, only to return with too many leftovers and missing my father's rice wine. He says hello, by the way." Your exaggerated pout makes him laugh almost maniacally.

"Any vacations that don't involve going back home? Or, baecations, that we should know about?" "No, and you treat your radio show like it's one of our monthly dinners. Our other friends here, stop that!" "I will, if you can tell me when the last time you showed up to one of our monthly dinners was. I'll bet you a crisp twenty that you can't!" Laughter fills the station, but nothing makes your stomach flutter like the bitten giggle next to you. Your hand squeezes softly, only to feel the pad of a thumb start tracing circles into your skin. Your thighs are brushing from the closeness of your chairs, but he inches away slightly as the camera pans to you – almost making it seem like an innocent swivel of his chair.

"That's not fair, Junhui. You know I'm busy." "As am I, but I still send my Google Calendar invitation every month! But speaking of being busy, my dear friend, the fans have been busy flooding our DMs and ask boxes with questions for you since we announced you'd be on this week! Are you up for a few?" You nod at his eager smile, clearing your throat before matching his expression. "Absolutely, hit me." The questions are easy, and they're repetitive from years past: Janelle from Nashville asking if you're posing for PETA again, Lourdes from Sicily asking if you'd ever do a press tour like you did at the beginning of your career six years ago…and unnamed 9-year-old girl from Houston with no questions – just wanting to tell you that you're her hero.

It warms your chest and your neck and suddenly, the room is too hot when you realize that you've been perceived as more than just Y/N. You're not Y/N to thousands of people across the globe; and once the season starts again, eventually, you'll get lost in being nothing more than the Ferrari Flash again, accompanied only by your counterpart, Ferrari Flame: Lee Jihoon. And you wonder how he doesn't lose sight of who he is when you've both been bound to a brand and you feel like you'll never be more than the haunting bright red. Jihoon went home and enjoyed his off-seasons. He went home to a lovely wife and a cute tabby cat named Calico, and he went home to those who missed him. He went home, and he was home to those he returned to. Where was that for you?

"...Yinghua from Tianjin wants to know if you'll be debuting a new beau any time soon." Junhui's smile is too wide; it almost reminds you of the Cheshire Cat as you narrow your eyes at him. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips anyway, and you let a dramatic sigh slip from your mouth before rolling your eyes at him.

"Are you sure Yinghua from Tianjin isn't Junhui from Shenzhen?" Your voice is teasing, and Junhui laughs into the microphone with a tinge of mirth. "Anyway, to answer your invasive question…"

You feel the hand squeeze yours, burning hot.

"No. No beaus. No ifs, ands, or buts, either." "You're hilarious." "You're not even laughing, Jun." "It doesn't negate that you're the funniest person in my life." Junhui scoffs, and you wonder if the bickering that reminds you of your childhood together isn't too much for the mid-afternoon radio show. You keep firing back despite your concerns; the only thing keeping you grounded is the hand on yours, that smooths over your thigh every once in a while, squeezing your knee and kneading the flesh of your leg before slipping back into your palm for safekeeping.

You're grateful that the cameraman keeps the lens at eye-level.

"Now, I know you've been cleared to talk about your upcoming partnerships for the next season and all the fans want to know. We know you signed a pretty big deal with Love&Letter for this upcoming season, and you've renewed your sponsorship with ORBIT Tech, but we're all awaiting the big answer here. Y/N, our beloved Flash…are you staying with Ferrari this season?"

The truth?

You hadn't been sure if you wanted to, but the chance to slither out of your ten-year contract had gone out the window exactly twelve days ago. The benefits of staying with Ferrari heavily outweighed the cons, but the importance to your heart was quality; not quantity.

A part of you yearned to leave racing altogether; but with the fatal, crushing flaw of your one-track mind being rooted in the dig of your tires in the tarmac…it just wasn't something you knew you could do. You weren't confident enough, strong enough, any of it. Your nightmares were full of the tracks you'd memorized over the years – and you begged whatever God was out there to see more than the burning wheels, the crashed carts, the medical team hauling you off before you fought your way back onto the track like your life depended on the win more than anything else. Because the win was what mattered.

The applause, the cheers, the relief of darting into an empty bathroom and splashing cool water on your face; letting it drip through your lashes before braving the gaggle of journalists, stoic competitors, sponsors, your teammate…

Him, with the knowing smile. Him, with the soft eyes and soothing touch that you'd never admit to yourself you find comfort in – not unless you were six margaritas and a drunk cigarette in. Him, who you found yourself gravitating to at the end of every press conference, every dinner, every event; him, that you called even if you were halfway across the world during the off-season and he wasn't with you, and he always picked up. No matter the time…

He always picked up.

"Oh, absolutely! Ferrari and I have been going strong for six years now, I'd be a fool to leave such a promising team. I will admit this one time, only, though: I don't think I could go a single day without bothering my beloved Ferrari Flame, Lee Jihoon. Pissing him off right before a race always puts me in a good mood, and it's even better when the drinks are on him because he barely scraped second to me across that finish line." A laugh is shared around the studio, your hand moving to squeeze his knee twice. He doesn't flinch, but if you glanced to the right just an inch – you would see a soft blush creeping up his neck, coating his ears and cheeks as he slid his palm over the back of your hand before crossing his legs at the knee, keeping your hand wedged in.

And you don't mind the weight of it, either. "It's not that you piss me off, per se…" Jihoon clears his throat, and you give him a knowing smile as you lean back slightly in your seat. "You just get under my skin sometimes." "Is that not the same thing? I get all in your head, and you miss my rear wing by an inch–" "Okay, now you're starting to piss me off."

Another resounding chortle is heard, before Junhui pulls everyone back. "So, would you say that Jihoon is one of the most important people on your team, or even in your life? Someone who dodges your punches like no other?" Your eyes flicker to the knee covering your hand, the chipped black polish that you chose on his dangling fingers. A few thick, silver rings and yet – one gold on his thumb, matching the one ring nestled on your hand. You lean forward, tongue darting out to wet your lips before feeling the same warmth squeeze your hand. Almost as if to say…you don't have to.

"I'd say Jihoon is an important part of my day, yeah. He shares his sandwiches with me and he's always listening to what people say about me, and he defends me if something is out of line…stop smiling like that, you little freak!" You laugh into the microphone at Jihoon's boyish grin, pride exuding from the glimmer in his eyes, "but, despite how near and dear to my heart he may be, there is only one person I'd say is the absolute highlight of my day, and someone I genuinely could not do any of this without."

Junhui beams, "Aw, Y/N–" "And that's Infinite."

A snicker is heard beside you, the camera panning to your scowling best friend. His knew slides off your hand to interlace your fingers on your lap again, making Junhui put and turn his nose up at you before he scoffs.

"I'm your best friend!" "He's my engineer and, simultaneously, the pebble in my shoe. I could not do anything without Infinite. I love you, Jun, but–" "If there's a but, you don't love me!" The studio fills with giggles once more, with Junhui's pout pulling at your heart strings as he sulks into the microphone. You smile softly, reaching over the table and ruffling his hair under the headset as he swats your hand away.

"I do love you, Junhui! Remember when I honored you at the banquet last year? I might have to attribute MVP to Infinite, but you were the start of it all. You got me into racing, you helped me build connections, you were my eye in the sky. There would be no Ferrari Flash without you, you know that."

You snicker at the little smile creeping onto his lips, before shaking your head and letting the chattered questions in the room fill your mind. You're not entirely there, mechanically analyzing questions and finding answers in the grooves of your mind to appease listeners, sponsors, managers. Junhui sees right through you, you know he does — he's been your best friend since the two of you met in elementary school, always helping you with extracurriculars and teaching you how to do long division…

And helping you make friends.

The squeeze around your hand reminds you of the first friend Junhui helped you make as your eyes drift to his face. Soft, gentle features — the slope of his nose, plump lips…paired with sharp eyes that miss nothing, especially when it comes to you. You see him glance at you out of the corner of his eye, and you notice the way he almost leans into your lips – stopping himself before clearing his throat and spotting the cameras pointed at Jihoon. He squeezes your hand again, rolling his chair impossibly closer to yours before resting his cheek on your bare shoulder. Your dress rubs his skin, and he quickly tugs at the hem of your sleeve to move it out of the way.

"Minghao." You whisper through gritted teeth, but he only presses a chaste kiss on the skin of your exposed shoulder as he ignores you, your cheeks hot as Junhui smiles inwardly. You like the warmth in your chest when Junhui's eyebrows wiggle as he keeps reading off his script, talking about the announced stops for the upcoming season. He asks which track makes you most excited, and you sarcastically reply with the Fuji Speedway — something you'd started saying a few years ago, alluding to the idea of wanting to quit racing but no one has truly caught on. The Fuji Speedway had left the racing world before you even got into it, but something within you longed to join it even if it brought financial ruin (which, it wouldn't, but a girl can catastrophize her life in attempts to enjoy it more, can't she?)

It felt like a waste to quit, and you didn't know what you'd do with your time. You didn't have a partner, or kids, or anything that would 'traditionally' take up your time.

Not that you cared to be traditional.

Your life has been so fast, so busy since you got into the world of professional racing — and despite not being a life-long karter like the rest of your colleagues, you still showed up and showed the hell out. Win after win, celebration after celebration…you were one of the best and you had no intention of changing that.

But sometimes, just sometimes…the shadow of doubt tries to creep in.

It's usually after a race, particularly if you've done what you consider to be bad – but Minghao always swoops in before you can spiral into it. He coaxes you out of the bathroom, he tells reporters you'll be with them after you eat…he forms a bubble where the only voice you can hear is his and if it's not the most comforting thing in the world…you don't know what could be. He's become a safe space.

Xu Minghao…he was everything a friend should be, everything a boyfriend could be and everything you hoped a husband would be. Your husband, if you ever actually opened the gate to your beaten heart and let it heal.

Should've, could've, would've.

And you let yourself romanticize normal things like friendships, dating, even potentially starting a family that you're not all that sure you want, anyway — until you looked at the packed schedule in your Google Calendar, color-coded by managers, the lone monthly dinner invitation from Junhui sandwiched under your 8 PM: call Dad.

The dinner you try to catch as often as you can, the call you try to make as weekly as you can – because a part of you misses normalcy. You miss the normalcy of just having dinner at Junhui's apartment; you miss knowing the kitchen where your meals were cooked on aged steel pans, knowing where the bathroom is without having to ask, being able to wear sweatpants and kick your shoes off to sit at his coffee table and eat dinner. The heart in you missed the silence of Junhui's apartment – the solace of it all, the familiar scent of your best friend and his cologne, the way his sheets always smelled of honey and how he'd put on a movie before the two of you inevitably knocked out on his cheap mattress that hurt your back.

That was dinner with Junhui on the 27th of every month. That was your best friend in the entire world, aside from one Mr. Song (your father.) Showing you that he was still the safe space he had been your entire lives; hinting at normalcy, as he talked about his life with his other friends, his dating adventures, his possible endorsements for the show, his bored reminiscing of his time on the tarmac…everything seemed like it was so normal for him. Because it was. The difference between you and Junhui was that he was able to ease into his fame, his spotlight – because he also left his career as a driver in the past. Two years in, one with Kick Sauber and one with McLaren and Junhui made the ultimate decision to leave — finding success as a radio show host, focused on the ups and downs of athlete lives, of sports, of Formula One and you. You were his favorite guest, one of his only recurring guests, and his best friend on and off the air. Whereas you were thrust into the world of racing. Photographed alongside then-Kick Sauber driver Wen Junhui, you were immediately perceived as a girlfriend – only to join him on the tarmac during his year at McLaren. You never once gave him a chance to beat you out on the track, and you both cleared up relationship rumors like nobody's business. Not only were you good, not only were you knocking long-standing champions like Aston Martin's Jeon Wonwoo out of the fucking park…

But you're also a woman. One of four current female racers, and you were signed a year after Lee Saerom, two years before Park Jihyo and Chou Tzuyu. You'd become friendly with the three of them, but their own schedules kept them as busy as yours kept you – only managing quick lunches before a race or late night drinks to celebrate wins before hopping on flights, if you weren't looped into some sort of deal together. Last year, the four of you were photographed for Vogue – something about the Fabulous Four of Formula One, with personalized style concepts and lengthy interviews about your lives…

Including your romantic one, something you didn't want to share.

So you didn't.

Lee Saerom was the first to be signed, a blue pen scrawling her life to Kick Sauber for ten years. She was on the tarmac before the ink on her contract could dry, eager to escape the past by driving away at full speed. She was glued to the hip with Junhui that year, meeting you two weeks into their first season together and immediately hitting it off. She remained a close friend to you and Junhui after you joined and he left the tarmac for good, but you watched something shift within her when her new teammate was introduced. Apparently, there was history between her and one Lee Seokmin – romantic history, agonizingly mushy romantic history. It made their team rather awkward, with communication remaining at a minimum until Seokmin mentioned a girlfriend at one of the first weekends during their first season…

But the longing glances never wavered. Chou Tzuyu was signed to McLaren after nearly two decades dedicated to karting. She was teamed up with a certain Kim Mingyu, only to be immediately warned not to fall for his good looks and natural charm by literally everyone. She rolled her eyes and said she wouldn't – then found herself in a now three-year committed relationship with the driver and breaking records by both being the tallest on their respective rosters as well as being the first (and only) couple to race against each other on the tarmac. You met Tzuyu two weeks after she signed to McLaren, and you met her at a photoshoot of all places — but you'd been hearing all about her from Mingyu since he first laid eyes on her; it wasn't hard to picture them together. You figured being signed to the same team definitely made the relationship easier, watching Mingyu flirt with her like a loser by hanging onto the rear wing of her kart. Eventually, the forced proximity, the flirting, the way Mingyu made it evident he was interested in the way the cogs of her mind worked — it all lead to you following their private couple Instagram where they posted their dates, their destination vacations on the off-seasons, even family dinner photos in Taiwan and Korea. It was all respected by the fans and the McLaren team, and there was no one trying to invade their privacy as they posted subtle shots together on their public pages. It made you wonder where you went wrong, but no use crying over spilt milk (or broken hearts, if you wanna be technical.)

Despite two co-ed teams having romantic history within teammates (in past and present tense,) Mercedes' Park Jihyo and Choi Seungcheol had nothing of the sort. The two of them grew up together, and while two years apart, they were the youngest children at their apartment complex. They became somewhat of frenemies throughout the years – with Seungcheol chasing off potential boyfriends to get under Jihyo's skin and Jihyo badmouthing him to the girls in his grade to ruin his chances of getting into any of their hearts. She signed to Mercedes the day after Seungcheol renewed his contract – without warning or prior notice to the older man, thus sending him into a downward spiral. She argued that she didn't have to tell him anything, that she was her own person and that only brought forth more bickering; in fact, they were constantly at each other's throats. You once caught them arguing about the catered lunch and how Seungcheol took the last sandwich, only for Jihyo to snatch it out of his hand and narrowly escape the pit with him hot on her heels. Despite their obvious history as something of friends, something of enemies – they were a fiery duo, two natural leaders fighting everyone for the top spot, including each other.

Only for you to find out on a drunken girls' night that Seungcheol was Jihyo's first kiss, and she was his – done the night before he left for his career with Mercedes and changed his number. She admitted that seeing him on the silver screen of the sport they both loved pained her, but she knew she had the same potential, if not stronger, of taking his spot, too.

As for you?

You joined Ferrari six years ago, a year before Junhui left, shocking dozens of Junhui's fans the moment your position was announced. Your initial introduction to the team was nerve-wracking but it certainly wasn't anything particularly exciting — you sat in a slightly cramped office with Junhui for moral support as your contract sat in front of you, your pen uncapped by your manager, Mina. 

She introduced other people in the room: Lee Jihoon was your teammate and another new addition to the Ferrari team. Kwon Soonyoung was his racing engineer and your engineer was running late to the meeting. She apologized, saying you could go ahead and sign your contract while you waited, but you refused – only to see Xu Minghao apologetically ducking past the threshold of the office. The apology died on his lips the moment his eyes found yours across the room, instead tonguing his cheek as a smile fought its way onto his face. He rounded the table as you stood almost abruptly, embracing him in a tight hug as everyone stared confusedly. Junhui explained that the three of you were childhood friends that lost contact, and the reunion was (bitter)sweet. 

This would be your second reunion, the first tainted by his early departure. And this one would be tainted, too – when Junhui told you both over dinner that same night that he didn't plan to return to racing the following season. You and Minghao took the news hard, but neither said anything more as you dropped Junhui off at his hotel room and took the elevator to yours together. Not much else was said, only soft looks and a quiet goodnight when you both retreated to your respective rooms – but there was something there. Something unspoken, something burning as you glanced over your shoulder to see him doing the same before slipping into your rooms.

Saerom, Jihyo, Tzuyu and you were as close as you could be – forming solidarity through fighting misogynistic views and creating a space in the racing world that would only grow bigger as more and more women got into the sport. You all posed for the same magazines, represented countless organizations, and tried to entertain the idea of a girls' trip during the off-season but even then, your schedules were jam-packed…even if you didn't really allow people into your personal life on the same level you did Junhui or Minghao.

Aside from the fact that quitting the racing scene was something that was constantly on the forefront of your mind, you learned the hard way that letting people be a part of your private life would only lead to complications. Granted, you never thought something like that would happen to you and you genuinely thought you'd covered all your tracks – no social media posts, phones off, hotels and reservations booked under pseudonyms and you thought everything was perfect. 

"...you would think you'd be a little more excited for the season, Minghao." His name pulls you back to the present, and you realize your hand is freed of his on your lap, slightly limp and cool.

"I am excited about the season, Junhui. I'm excited to reunite with a few of the other drivers, and I had the worst time adjusting to the off-season this year. You can even ask Soonyoung, I was restless." Minghao shrugs, and you put a soft smile on your face as the camera pans to you. It pans away just as quickly, and you shift next to him as he clears his throat. His hand grips at the fabric of his pants as Junhui moves the attention to Soonyoung, and fingers grab the underside of your chair and pull you closer to him. He slides his hand over your thighs and interlocks your fingers once more, almost as if he was losing his mind without your touch.

Despite the closeness…you and Minghao were not labeled as anything more than just friends. Friends, coworkers, lunch buddies. You would go out shopping together, you'd join fellow drivers and engineers at outings, you'd spend time exploring cities side-by-side…

Sometimes, you'd end up back in your hotel room. You'd end up in his lap, the two of you tipsy off red wine and the berry taste lingering on your tongues as you pawed at his belt and the hands you admired pushed your skirt up your thighs, grip bruising against your skin. You'd end up in your bed, his hand tugging on your hair and holding you close to him, the sound of skin on skin and choked, muffled moans embarrassing.

You simply sit and listen to the chatter around you.

The rest of the interview went on with your mind filling of your nights with Minghao – whether you were fully clothed or not decided if you bit back your smile or stuttered on your answers. The glint in Junhui's eyes never disappeared, and your wary demeanor in front of the camera never waned, but neither did the warmth of Minghao's skin on yours. Junhui wrapped up the interview with the sponsorship announcements and your goodbyes – your own sounding a bit strained as you waved at the camera with a soft smile.

"You are both nauseating." Jihoon spoke up the moment the cameras were cut, and you scowled as your teammate stuck his tongue out at you. Minghao's grip on your hand didn't loosen as he stood, pushing his chair in with a bitten grin. "When are you guys going to stop hiding under tables and around corners? It's not like we don't know."

Neither of you reply as the photographer makes you all pose in front of the Radio Delta sign. You leave little space between you and Minghao, your hand holding his hidden behind your hip. Your ring digs into his skin, but he doesn't move away from you as both smile for the flashing camera. You feel him press his lips to your temple quickly before Jihoon makes a gagging noise, and you throw him a dirty look as Minghao's arm wraps around your waist gingerly. "It's one thing for us to know, Ji. You know that." Junhui pipes up as he scrolls through the pictures and chooses one before running his fingers through his hair. "So…lunch on me? Or are you guys busy?" "I'm down for lunch. We can go to that cafe you took us to, what was it? With the braised pork belly rice?" Minghao agrees, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair when you clear your throat. He glances down at you, everyone's eyes doing the same as you pat the back of his hand. "I'm not hungry, you guys go on without me. I'm going to head to the hotel and unpack a bit." You give them a curt smile, grabbing your purse off the back of your chair and moving towards the door as the rest of your team nods slowly. Minghao's eyes hold something you don't let yourself think too hard about as you excuse yourself, waving to all the technicians involved in Junhui's show before one of the security guards you came with gives you a sharp look. His name-tag reads A. Hironaka, BSIS. "Are you ready to head out, ma'am?"

His voice is gruff, and you only nod quickly as he clicks around on his phone. He beckons for you to follow after him, your heels clicking on the linoleum floor the only sound in your ears as you're led out the back to a black van. The same driver from earlier was inside, giving you a quick smile before the guard steps forward to open your door. 

"Y/N! Are you sure you don't want lunch? We're meeting Mingyu and Tzuyu at Liu's Cafe."

Minghao's voice rings across the private parking lot, and you don't get a chance to reply before he's crossing it. He's standing next to the guard now, who gives him a nod before slipping around the car to slide into the passenger seat. Minghao's lithe fingers hold the door as you hoist yourself into the car, and you tongue your cheek. "You love Liu's." "I need to know if the team got my room checked out." "Our room, sweetheart. And they did, I got a text. We're cleared."

Minghao's smile is warm as he leans in slightly, his eyes flickering to make sure the partition between the driver and the cab is still up. "I'm with you. Nothing is going to happen, okay?" His hand moves to squeeze your knee lightly, and you can't help but let a pout grace your lips. He lets his hand slide up to your waist, invading your space a bit more as he brushes his nose to yours. "C'mon, pretty girl. You need to eat."

You sigh, pressing your lips to his chastely and moving away before he can kiss back. He frowns, but you press the palm of your hand to his chest as he chases after your lips. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, your fingers carding through the soft hair at the nape of his neck as he watches your face. "Can I just meet you guys there? I want to at least hear it from their mouths that we're cleared." You admit quietly, and he hums.

"Or…we can order room service. Watch trash reality TV and get you out of this dress." His lips press in soft kisses around your cheeks, and you snort as you lightly smack his shoulder. You feel his lips curve into a smile on the side of your face, before the bite of his teeth on your earlobe makes you gasp. "I'll text Jun." "Tell him I'll make it up to him." You mumble as you slide back into the seat, making room for Minghao to slip in next to you. He nods, closing the door carefully as the familiar beep of the GPS is heard through the partition. You make the choice to sit in the middle seat, your thigh rubbing against Minghao's as you haphazardly pull your seatbelt across your chest. Your stomach swirls as the car starts moving; the light tap of Minghao's fingertips against his phone screen is the only thing distracting you from the weird feeling settling in your lower belly.

It's not really weird. It's normal at this point, but it's weird because you don't know what could come of it. You've gotten it every time you've had to stay in a hotel since the incident. You get it every time you stay at a new hotel. Or an old hotel, or any hotel, ever. You don't trust them anymore, the privacy stripped to the point that you wonder if you'll ever be able to get a room alone again. 

Not that you mind Minghao's company. You don't. If anything, you bask in it like a lizard in the sunlight. You take in the warmth and hope it lasts forever, the scent of his soft cologne mixing with your shampoo and lingering in your nose.

The relationship remains unlabeled. It remains confusing, messy, but reliable. Minghao is reliable, you are reliable – and there's no doubt in your mind that Minghao felt the same thundering in his chest when you reunited that morning after the official end of the off-season. You know that his eyes glimmer with excitement when he sees you, not only because he's your friend, but because…well, there's something more. Something in the kissing, in the touching, something in the way your lips form around his name and the way you worship every inch of him like he'd disappear if you closed your eyes. Something about every pet name that slips out of his mouth, in the way he pulls you into him by wrapping his fingers around your neck gently…

Something about Minghao. God, something about him.

The ride is silent aside from the jazz bleeding through the speakers, with Minghao's hand holding yours against his thigh. Your head is leaned slightly on his shoulder, his cheek against your hair as you both look out the tinted window, watching people pass by. You see a billboard for Junhui's radio show, your best friend's face smiling back at you from fifty feet above ground.

The driver pulls into the porte-cochère before you know it, and you unbuckle your seatbelt with a soft thank you through the partition. There are a few people standing around the front as Minghao cracks the door open, your security guard already standing outside as he pushes it further. He slides out, holding your hand tightly as he helps you out. There are no fans, but you can tell the lingering guests are wondering what makes you so important as you duck your head and make your way through the entrance and lobby before you're handed your keycards by the same security guard as you're guided to the back of the lobby, taking a left turn into an office-like room. Inside, there is another security guard standing rigidly, guarding what seems to be a private elevator. Without a word, you all slip into it, with the second security guard following and facing the doors. Mr. Hironaka presses the number 11, before turning on his heel to face you both.

"You are staying on floor eleven in Suite 7B with Mr. Xu. Your personal concierge for the weekend is named Eleanore and her extension is 1-9-9-7. I will be across the hall in room 14B should you need anything, and my room extension is 0-5-2-6. If you are leaving the building or going anywhere within it, you are to take this elevator. You must let your concierge and myself know before doing either." He gives a curt bow of his head, before speaking again. "The cybersecurity team you hired is still stationed in your room. They've asked to check your cellphones and any other technology you might have brought with you for spyware. It should take no more than five minutes." You only nod, and he turns to face the doors as they open, stepping out before guiding you down the hall to your room. Minghao swipes his keycard, opening the door to see the cybersecurity team is staring back at you. They wear serious expressions on their faces as they greet you almost robotically, before a young woman clears her throat.

"Your room has been cleared, we ran our software twice in case we missed anything. All your mirrors are safe, as is your television and your landline. We will need to run software on your phones and any other tech you've brought with you, if you'd like to handle that now before we head out for the night. It will only take a second." She nods politely, and you fish your phone out of your purse as Minghao hands his over without a second thought. 

He shrugs his jacket off and hangs it over the back of the desk chair, heading for the bathroom as you toe your heels off in the corner of the room; watching out of the corner of your eye as they plug all sorts of wires into the ports of your phones. A few beeps are heard, murmurs amongst the team sounding in your ears as you grab a hanger out of the wardrobe and beeline for Minghao’s jacket. You smooth it over the wooden arms, tugging the zipper up as more murmuring fills the room before the same throat clearing catches your attention.

"Your room and devices are have passed inspection. Is there anything else my team can do for you during your stay?" The young woman presses more buttons on a remote-like device in her hand, unplugging your phone from it with one hand before holding it back out to you. You shake your head, taking Minghao's phone as the team packs up quickly.

"Thank you. Is there a business card I could get? I'll be in Los Angeles more after the end of my season." You smile politely, and she fishes one out of her pocket, her own smile mirroring yours. "We'd be happily at your service, Miss Song. Take care and thank you for trusting us with your cybersecurity needs." 

They exit the room in a uniform line, Minghao popping back out of the restroom to say his goodbyes. You give him a look as you follow behind them, giving them a small wave as you close the door, locking it quickly. You sigh, pressing your forehead to the cool metal of the door when you feel his fingers curl around the slope of your neck, pulling you back lightly. The back of your head hits his chest, the warmth of his hand covering the base of your throat as his arm wraps around your waist.

"Minghao." You groan, but he doesn't dignify you with a response. He dips his head down slightly, pressing his lips to your temple. You let your eyes flutter shut, your hand moving to wrap around his wrist on your neck; feeling his hand around your waist move to your back and slide up, pinching the zipper of your dress between his fingers.

"Minghao, lunch." Your voice is no higher than a whisper as he tugs the zipper down, your skin prickling as the cold air hits it. He smiles against your cheek, nipping at it with his teeth.

"You hate this dress, don't think I don't remember." He gives your neck a soft squeeze, before dropping his hand and turning you in his hold. Your hands press against his chest, his eyes making your cheeks warm as he smiles down at you. "I'll look through the menu and see if there's anything you like while you shower. Deal?" "Join me." You mumble, your fingers picking at his shirt aimlessly. "Please?" "Mmh, I'll think about it. Go."

You huff, worming out of his arms as he chuckles behind you. You turn into the bathroom, pulling the sleeves of your wretched dress down your arms and pushing the bunched fabric down your legs before kicking it to the side. You sigh as you stuff it into the woven basket in the corner, moving about with purpose and fiddling with the shower knobs. The water isn't too strong, but hot enough that you let it go and strip off your intimates. 

The water is soothing against your back as you step into it, trickling through your hair and down your shoulders as yet another sigh slips from your lips. You cross your arms on your chest, closing your eyes as you let the warmth wash over you – the warmth of the water, of the security blanket, of knowing Minghao is with you and nothing could possibly go wrong with all the precautions you've taken.

The creak of the bathroom door opening is heard, a soft tsk from Minghao's lips as he moves around, likely picking up your underwear and putting it into the hamper. You can hear the thwip of his shirt being discarded, and you ignore the heat of your cheeks as you feel his presence behind you. 

This is how it starts every time. A shower together to mark the beginning of the season, his hands sliding up your wet body and caressing the most intimate parts of your soul as the water pelts you both. A shower that turns into kissing, into sex, into spending your nights after practices and races in his arms in one bed despite all your rooms coming with two.

Even if you slipped into your own bed halfway through the night before you refused to let yourself feel more than him, even if you speculated it was the other way around…nothing meant anything if he didn't say it.

"How are you feeling?" His voice is soft as he swipes all your hair back, his fingers barely grazing the skin of your shoulders as you shrug. You turn, keeping your eyes closed as you let the water run over your face.

"I should've taken you up on the offer to go home with you. The off-season was dreadful this time around." You confess, wiping at your eyes before opening them. He's peering down at you, his gaze gentle as you look away. "I missed you." "You could've called, baby." "And look desperate?" "It's not desperation if I feel the same way, you know. I miss you all the time." "Then why didn't you call?" You scowl lightly, running your fingernails up his torso. He shivers, grabbing your wrists and pulling you forward. You wrap your arms around him, still giving him a nasty look before resting your head against his chest; the thundering of his heart comforting to your restless mind. He cards his fingers through your wet hair, reaching for the shampoo and lathering it into your scalp. He sighs, shaking his head above you.

"I should've. You're right." His admission is laced with defeat, likely feeling your triumphant smile against his skin. "Maybe then you wouldn't have posted that photo of you in the black dress from the New Years Eve party. That comment section was atrocious." "Are you jealous, Xu Minghao? That's not like you." You gasp in feigned shock, feeling his hand slide from your head to your neck, spreading suds across your skin as he makes you look up at him. "Are any of those people in this shower with you?" He says pointedly, a brow raised as if to challenge you. You only smile up at him, your nails digging lightly into his back as he rolls his eyes. "Didn't think so. I can't believe everyone saw you in that dress. Do they know I picked it?" "You are jealous." Your voice is teasing as he tilts your head back to rinse it of shampoo, leaning forward slightly to brush his lips to yours. You almost try to kiss him, missing the ache of his teeth sinking into your lower lip but he pulls away. "I'm allowed to be jealous." "Are you?" "Yes. You're not available and the people should know that."

"But that means a label." You remind him, and he scoffs, rolling his eyes once more. "You said you didn't want one." "No, you said that. I don't see anyone that isn't you, anyway. Have a heart, let me be yours officially." He tries to sound nonchalant, but there's a twinge of want in his voice that you can't seem to gloss over.

The relationship was complicated. You fucked around the entire season, sleeping together, sharing meals and making memories – only to go home at the end of the season without so much as a parting kiss, sealing said memories to the backs of your minds. Him, going home to Haicheng; you, wallowing in the luxury apartment you attempted to make home in New York City. 

No home without Xu Minghao.

Or with a twelve-hour time difference between the two of you. You were starting your day and he'd be winding down – but the phone remained untouched. No emails, no texts, no calls – just indirect mentions on Instagram stories and liked photos. Comments of emojis, nothing that someone could take out of context – emojis under a photo of you in Cape Cod for a weekend, a simple see u soon on his Japan visit post for ViVi Magazine.

Though you both knew you wouldn't be in Japan and he wouldn't make the move to try to see you in New York. Even if it was one of the shorter flights either of you would ever take. Even if you got one of the magazines in the mail and posted it on your story to promote a 'friend.' Neither of you would make the move.

Ever.

"You wanna be my boyfriend?" You ask softly, and he sighs above you. His cheeks are tinged pink, hair dripping with water as he shrugs. "Only if that's something you want. We don't have to think about it now, but it's on the table. I know it's not the easiest thing for us. I'm willing to wait." His hand around your neck slides slowly, wrapping his finger in the thin gold chain he gave you for your birthday a few years ago. He tugs at it. 

“At the end of the day, it's your choice. I'm just letting you know that it's an option and it's one I'm on board with." "Mmh." You hum, nodding slowly as his hand trails down your chest, knuckles brushing your wet skin in a way that makes your stomach flip. "We'll see how the season goes, yeah? I'll have an answer for you, promise. Just wait for me." You hold your pinky out, and you don't miss the way he nibbles at his lower lip. Hesitance flashes across his features, but you only file it away, pushing your hand into the palm of his on your chest. He tongues his cheek, curling his pinky finger around yours.

He brings your hands to your mouth, pressing his thumb to your lips. You kiss it softly, watching him do the same to yours before pressing them together.

"By the end of the season?" "By the end of the season, I promise." He nods slowly, letting your hand go to trace the slope of your neck with his fingertips. The water is losing its heat as you stare up at him, but the space between you is burning hot as he leans down slightly, nose brushing yours.

"Can I have a kiss?" "One?" "As many as you'll give me."

"What about lunch?" You murmur, your lips barely touching him as his impatience flickers through his eyes. You bite back a smile, feeling his fingers wrap around the base of your throat as you give in to him. His lips are soft but unforgiving, swallowing your contented sigh and sucking you into him. Teeth pulling at your lip, tongue sliding into your mouth with a yearning you feel deep in your stomach every time you reunite.

You wonder if a label will make him want you less. You wonder if eventually, he'll lose himself in you and resent it — resent you.

Something to worry about another day.

STORY OF ANOTHER US –  WHY F1 STARS CHOI SAN + SONG Y/N SHOULD HIT THE BRAKES. Written by: Anonymous Thursday, August 27th. 12-minute read | Updated: 5:41 PM.

Author's Note: As this is published, the F1 drivers will be on their way to the Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps for the Belgian Grand Prix. Do not let Y/N's recent win deflect from the fact that she has been involved with a new racer and thus sabotaging his chances at a career in Formula One along the straight and narrow. We refer to both parties by their surnames, so please do not mistake SONG for Song Mingi of the VCARB team.

— Location: Spielberg, Austria. Date: July 10th | Time of Arrival: 6:32 AM.

The Ferrari team was stationed at Enzingerhof as was the Red Bull Racing team. Song Y/N and Choi San were seen arriving at Perschler Hotel following a post on Song's personal Instagram story congratulating Choi on his birthday. In the mentioned birthday post, the two are seen sitting next to each other on an Asiana Airlines airplane (presumably business class,) assuming the teams flew in together. Choi did not reply to the story publicly and then posted around 7:56 AM, with a snapshot of the hotel's breakfast nook – barely capturing Song's recent MAESTRO Jewelry sponsorship wrapped around her wrist in the form of a gold watch on his Instagram story via choi3an. She was not tagged, but suspicions were confirmed when another Instagram story was posted on her respective profile, flashingyou_by, where she posed for a quick mirror shot with fellow Ferrari driver, Lee Jihoon 'Flame', with the same watch caught in the reflection.

On July 11th at 5:34 AM, Song posted another cryptic Instagram story of her hotel room, holding a pair of running shoes and a man's shoulder in a bright red muscle tee was in the corner. Choi later confirmed it was him with a collage of photos posted to his own story showcasing a five-minute mile run with the same shoes Song was holding in the corner of the frame. The two are suspected to have started dating sometime around the beginning of the season, if not before.

— Location: Mogyoród, Hungary. Date: July 16th | Time of Arrival: 4:23 AM.

The Ferrari team had flown separately to Song, and landed an hour before she did. Racing engineers Xu Minghao, Kwon Soonyoung and fellow Ferrari teammate Lee Jihoon 'Flame' were photographed arriving at Hotel Foldana at 3:45 AM, with Kwon and Lee venturing back outside from 3:59 AM to 4:39 AM, returning to Foldana with takeout boxes and brown bags holding alcohol from the local liquor store. 

Choi and Song were photographed taking a private car (2016 GMC Yukon) straight off the airport tarmac. Other concerned fans were said to have used inner connections to figure out that the pair had booked a room at the Alice Hotel under Red Bull Racing – thus taking the steps to install recording devices in several spots around the hotel and even using a janitorial master key to install more within the booked room. 

▸ Listen Here.| TRANSCRIPT:

5:39 AM: [muffled noises] 5:39 AM: [female voice: SONG Y/N] I missed you…wait, wait…let me put my bag down. 5:40 AM: [male voice: CHOI SAN] Just one, princess. 5:40 AM: [muffled noises] [squealing] 5:41 AM: [SONG] At least ask me how my flight was, you twerp! (laughter) 5:41 AM: [CHOI] I know how your flight was, I was there. You were sitting on my lap. 5:42 AM: [SONG] You could still ask me, you know. It's what a normal boyfriend would do. 5:42 AM: [CHOI] Let's get in the shower and we can talk all you want, pretty girl. 5:42 AM: [SONG] Mmh. [muffled noises] Not so rough, I'm still sore from yesterday. 5:42 AM: [CHOI] I'm sorry, my love. I'll be nicer. [muffled noises] 5:42 AM: [muffled noises] [door slamming]

We can only presume intimacy ensued in the bathroom, as nothing much but muffled whispers were heard in the recording afterward. We have cut the audio to protect Choi's image. This further proves that there is a romantic link between Choi and Song. While an invasion of privacy, as fans and supporters of Choi San we want to ensure that he is getting the best possible shot at a clean career in Formula One after being a life-long karter. Choi went on to place 4th in the Hungarian Grand Prix, three places behind Song who won after placing P4 during Q3.

— Location: Silverstone, England. Date: July 30th | Time of Arrival: 2:33 AM.

Once more, Ferrari and Song have flown separately. Song arrived first, taking a private car off the airport tarmac and caught on film arriving at The Ritz London, 90 minutes away from the Silverstone Circuit. Choi flew in with the Red Bull team, heading for the original hotel booked fifteen minutes from the circuit. Choi does not descend from the vehicle, instead bidding teammate Park Seonghwa and engineers Kim Hongjoong and Ogawa Mizuki a quick goodbye at 3:21 AM and heading towards Song's location. 

Upon arrival, Song is heard through more transcribed audios (recording devices placed a day in advance by connections) inviting him in at 4:57 AM.

▸ Listen Here. | TRANSCRIPT:

4:57 AM: [muffled noises] 4:57 AM: [female voice: SONG Y/N] Welcome, welcome. (laughter) 4:58 AM: [male voice: CHOI SAN] Hey, gorgeous. [muffled noises] I'm so tired. 4:58 AM: [SONG] Yeah, me too. Quick shower? 4:59 AM: [CHOI] Mmh, join me? 4:59 AM: [SONG] Yep. [muffled noises] Is your back still hurting? I got some heat patches. 5:00 AM: [CHOI] You're an angel. I love you. [muffled noises] 5:00 AM: [SONG] What did you say? 5:00 AM: [CHOI] Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't…babe– 5:01 AM: [SONG] You love me? San…[muffled noises] San, answer me. 5:01 AM: [CHOI] It just slipped out, I'm sorry…[muffled noises] I understand if you're not ready for that. 5:01 AM: [SONG] Could you at least look at me? Babe. 5:02 AM: [CHOI] Do you want me to go? I'll leave. 5:02 AM: [SONG] I love you. 5:02 AM: [CHOI] Are you just saying that? 5:02 AM: [SONG] You're not seriously asking me that, Choi San. 5:02 AM: [CHOI] Are you sure we're ready for this? 5:03 AM: [SONG] (laughter) I don't think I've ever been more ready to love you. 5:03 AM: [CHOI] It's kind of painful, actually. Loving you. In private, that is. 5:03 AM: [SONG] We'll go public eventually. We just need to keep this to ourselves for a little while longer. It's for the best. 5:03 AM: [CHOI] I know, babe. I know. [muffled noises]...I love you. 5:03 AM: [SONG] Feels good, doesn't it? (laughter) I love you, San. 5:04 AM: [CHOI] Does this mean you'll finally get on top? [muffled noises] Ouch! I was kidding! 5:04 AM: [SONG] Get in the fucking shower, you freak. You smell like airport peanuts and despair.

We have once more cut the audio to protect Choi's image. This is the most damning evidence that Song and Choi have been in a long-term relationship. Other inner connections have started analyzing posts starting at the PR teasing of Choi joining Red Bull Racing at the end of last season upon the retirement of Adachi Yuto, who is now an engineer for VCARB. Several hints at a relationship between the two have piled up dating back to that point and likely before. Choi went on to win the British Grand Prix, with Song coming in second despite getting Pole in Q3 against Choi in P8.

— Location: Ibiza, Spain. Date: August 10th | Time of Arrival: 7:32 PM.

Choi and Song were photographed arriving at the Ibiza Airport four days before the Spanish Grand Prix, landing at approximately 7:35 PM and taking separate vehicles to the Nobu Hotel Ibiza Bay. They checked in separately at approximately 7:54 PM, and insiders found that they were booked into separate rooms. A concierge (whose name we've omitted to protect their privacy) provided intel that the couple seemed frigid and annoyed with another. They were escorted to their rooms, and later vacated within 5 minutes of each other to visit the pool. Aside from photographs being taken as the couple shared a hammock, it was then that our team moved in. We have transcripts from both rooms, as well as some intel from their cellphones that we will not be sharing.

▸ Listen Here. | TRANSCRIPT #1:

10:11 PM: [muffled noises] [door slamming] 10:11 PM: [male voice: CHOI SAN] You didn't have to do that. She was just being nice. 10:12 PM: [female voice: SONG Y/N] Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know being nice meant undressing you with her eyes? She was practically eye-fucking you, San. 10:12 PM: [CHOI] So you embarrass her? You couldn't let me handle it? I was on top of it. 10:12 PM: [SONG] (laughter) On top of it? She was acting like I wasn't even there. I'm your girlfriend, San. On and off the tarmac, on and off the clock. 10:13 PM: [CHOI] This is your problem, Y/N! You're so jealous sometimes, it's hard to be around you. I can't believe you can't just trust me. I've never given you a reason not to. 10:17 PM: [SONG] It's hard to be around me? 10:18 PM: [CHOI] I didn't mean it like that. Fuck, I never– 10:18 PM: [SONG](whispered) Is that why you wanted separate rooms? 10:18 PM: [CHOI] I'm sorry, my love. I didn't choose my words properly, I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I never want to hurt your feelings. 10:19 PM: [muffled noises] 10:20 PM: [SONG] Eleven days ago, you said you loved me. Does your mind change that fast? 10:20 PM: [CHOI] How can you say that? Honey– 10:21 PM: [SONG] (strained) I think I'm going to turn in. I'm sorry for embarrassing you, I'll apologize to the bartender tomorrow morning. Good night, San. 10:21 PM: [CHOI] Honey, please– 10:21 PM: [muffled crying] [door slamming] 10:21 PM: [CHOI] Fucking hell.

▸ Listen Here.|TRANSCRIPT #2:

3:02 AM: [muffled noises] [door creaking] 3:02 AM: [male voice: CHOI SAN] Honey? 3:02 AM: [female voice: SONG Y/N] (whispered) I'm here. 3:02 AM: [CHOI] Honey, I'm so sorry. I was entirely out of line earlier. 3:03 AM: [SONG] It's fine. 3:03 AM: [CHOI] No, it's not. Don't say it's fine when we both know it's not. 3:03 AM: [SONG] It is, though. I booked my flight back to the mainland for tomorrow afternoon. I'm catching Junhui for lunch before he goes back to Los Angeles. 3:04 AM: [CHOI] Please don't go. Please don't leave. 3:04 AM: [SONG] We're fine. I'm not mad, I'm not being petty or vengeful. I'm just going to catch lunch with my best friend and…I don't know. Shop around Barcelona alone, I guess. 3:05 AM: [CHOI] I can't change your mind, can I? 3:05 AM: [SONG] I just need some space from you. I wish you would've told me I was making you uncomfortable instead of resorting to this. It was never my intention to do that. 3:10 AM: [SONG] San? 3:11 AM: [CHOI] You're the perfect woman for me. 3:12 AM: [SONG] (strained) San… 3:12 AM: [CHOI] I love you…so much. I'm sorry that I didn't communicate my needs better and I understand if you need space. I'm willing to give it. But…please don't ever think that I don't love you. I don't think I've ever been in love like this before. I don't know if I'll ever be in love like this again, if it's not you. 3:13 AM: [muffled crying] 3:13 AM: [SONG] Don't say that. Don't say that because you don't know what the future holds. 3:13 AM: [CHOI] I know what I want it to hold. And it's you, and me, together. I can't live without you, I don't think I could go back to a life where you're not everything to me. Your jealousy streaks are the least of my concerns, I just…please, don't leave me. 3:13 AM: [SONG] San… 3:14 AM: [CHOI] Take all the space you need, all the time you need…but don't leave me. I know I'm flawed. I know I'm not perfect but I'm nothing of a man without you and it pains me to know that I've hurt you. 3:14 AM: [SONG] You can't act like I'm the world to you. You have a career, and you might have someone else in a few years. 3:15 AM: [CHOI] If you think that way, don't tell me you love me ever again. 3:15 AM: [SONG] I love you so much, San.

Song departed from the Ibiza Airport the next afternoon at approximately 2:32 PM, with a defeated Choi lingering at the airport for around 3 hours and 17 minutes before boarding a private plane to Barcelona. Choi landed in Barcelona an hour later, taking a private car service to the Hotel Astoria. 

Song is seen exiting the same hotel with radio show host, former F1 driver and proclaimed life-long best friend Wen Junhui, their pinkies linked as they boarded a private vehicle at 7:09 PM. They were trailed to the renowned tapas restaurant La Cova Fumada until 10:42 PM. Song made her departure alone at 10:51 PM, and met with Ferrari race engineer Xu Minghao at Mariposa Negra Cocterleria Artesanato by 11:03 PM. Neither party drank but Xu did sit with Song from 11:07 PM to 1:32 AM, before getting a car together back to the Hotel Astoria. Below we've included an audio recording from the car ride with Xu and Song.

▸ Listen Here.| TRANSCRIPT #3:

1:35 AM: [muffled noises] [door slamming] 1:35 AM: [female voice: SONG Y/N] Hotel Astoria, please. 1:36 AM: [male voice: XU MINGHAO] I've got cash, don't worry about it. 1:36 AM: [SONG] Thanks, Hao. I'm…ugh. 1:37 AM: [XU] Couples fight, sweetheart. And we're all human, we all mess up sometimes. He didn't mean it but you're allowed to feel hurt by it. 1:37 AM: [SONG] Have you ever been in love, Hao? 1:38 AM: [XU] Have I ever been in love? (muffled laughter) Yeah. Once. 1:38 AM: [SONG] What happened? 1:38 AM: [XU] She fell in love with someone else because I took too long to confess. She still doesn't know, actually. 1:39 AM: [SONG] Is she still in love? 1:40 AM: [XU] Painfully. I think the man she chose is her endgame. I don't believe in soulmates…but I did think she and I were something meant to be brought together by the universe. I mean, I could spot her out in a crowd of millions of people. That's how important she is to me. 1:40 AM: [SONG] You still love her? 1:41 AM: [XU] A part of me wishes I'd never met her in the first place, but it's just not the way life goes. I think I'm learning to let go, knowing that she's out of reach. He's a good guy, her boyfriend. I think they'll get married if things keep going well. 1:47 AM: [SONG] Hey, Minghao? 1:48 AM: [XU] Yes? 1:48 AM: [SONG] Thanks for being my friend. I don't know what I'd do without you. 1:48 AM: [XU] Ah, it's second nature at this point. I've known you longer than I haven't. Plus, it's nice to have an emergency contact that actually answers her phone. 1:48 AM: [SONG] (laughter) Yeah, Junhui's shit at that. 1:48 AM: [XU] Hey, Y/N? 1:49 AM: [SONG] Yeah? 1:49 AM: [XU] I love you. 1:49 AM: [SONG] Aw. I love you, Hao.

Song and Xu entered the hotel at 1:53 AM. Song and Choi were not pictured together at all for the rest of the week, only seen shaking hands at the paddock on Sunday afternoon. Song took Pole in Q3 and came in 2nd place to two-time Spanish Grand Prix winner, Park Jihyo of Mercedes. Choi was P9 and came in 12th place.

In conclusion, we do not think that a relationship between Choi San and Song Y/N is healthy for either driver. While Song uses the turmoil of their relationship as fuel for her wins and placements, it only slows Choi down and puts him in pitiful spots on the grid and knocking him down several pegs on winning rosters. As fans, we think it's unacceptable that a seasoned driver is ruining a rookie's career with romance, and we have put together an anonymous petition to get the FIA, Red Bull Racing and Ferrari to intervene and pump the brakes on this kart before it crashes and burns. We only want the best for our Rookie of the Year, and we hope that Song Y/N takes this as a reminder to not intervene with someone's career when hers is already stabilized.

We will continue to update with audio files and transcripts should the relationship not be stopped. Thank you, FIA, from concerned F1 fans all around the world.

– Monza, Italy. | 5 years ago, September 5th.

Your hands were shaking uncontrollably as you scrolled through the blog post. San was seated next to you, his cheeks blazing red as everyone else in the room looked uncomfortable. Your fingers pressed on the audio files, hearing your own voice echoing back at you from the speaker. You gagged inwardly, dropping the phone as the fight you had with San the week before echoed through the room. Minghao grabbed it off the floor, turning the screen off and tucking the phone under his thigh.

Just seven days ago, you sped past the checkered flag in first place. You won the Belgian Grand Prix, with Jihoon sliding past in second and San coming in third. You celebrated in your hotel room with your boyfriend after dinner with your team, fooling around in bed and getting tipsy off hotel champagne. 

And now you're sitting in an office the morning of Qualifying, with your breakfast in your throat as you stare at the landline covered in dust on the desk. A trembling, humiliated San to your right, a quiet Minghao to your left and a pissed Jihoon in front of you. Every single PR person on both racing teams is trying to figure out how to get the post taken down, but it's of no use. You know those audio files are probably everywhere by now – romanticizing San's begging, making you both the laughingstock of F1 but furthermore, tainting your careers by airing out your personal, private affairs.

So much for cutting audios to protect San's image.

"We won't tell you what to do." Minghao says softly, "but…it's better to do it now than to wait for Jungkwon to get involved. Cybersecurity is on their way to look at your phones and make sure you're safe."

Seo Jungkwon and Yoon Mirae – the married duo that once famously owned the tarmac now owned two of the teams. Mirae, the first woman in F1, now the owner of Red Bull Racing and famously in touch with everyone in her team, was already present. Her eyes were full of what you want to believe is sadness, but you wonder if it's pity as she crouches in front of you and San.

"We can only do so much to protect you both." She speaks gently, "we're going to have to take legal action as it is, because this blog post and these audios are a direct violation of privacy. Not to mention stalking, abuse of resources, bribing…the list goes on. You know what you'll do, and we will try our best to keep you both safe. I just hope you know that none of this is either of your faults."

She looks between the two of you, and you can only imagine the distress on your face as you glance at San's hands folded in his lap. He's digging his dull nails into his skin, a single tear rolling down his face as he takes a shaky breath.

"Can we get a moment alone, please?" His voice is strained, and you feel a sob try to crawl past the waves of nausea but you force it down. Everyone quietly vacates the office, with Minghao taking your phone and San's in his pocket as he steps out. You watch his head turn from the small window in the door, a deep frown on his lips as he walks away.

You feel a cold sweat settle on your back, your hands clammy as you run them down the front of your jeans. San is staring at the floor, his leg bouncing before a humorless laugh leaves his lips shakily. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way he covers his face with his hands as he tries to bite back a sob.

"I love you." You whisper, the reality of what had to happen sinking into your very bones. You turned in your chair, his eyes glossed over as his lips quivered. "I love you, San."

"I love you, too." He murmured, barely intelligible as his voice grew thick. "I love you so much. I can't believe this is happening." You don't have any words for him, simply sliding into his lap and wrapping your arms around him so tight, you weren't sure he could breathe. He sobbed into your shoulder, his fingers digging into your hips as you silently let tears drip down your face. You didn't really know what to make of the situation – you felt violated, your intimate conversations and raw parts of your life were now posted on the internet for everyone to dissect. You were dragged through the muck for the supposed sake of San's career, and everyone around you took hits, too. Your rapport, your guarded life – everything was stripped from you for the man you loved. It's not his fault. It's not. But you can't help but lose your footing on the trust you built.

Minutes feel like hours as you tighten your arms around him, his sobs subsiding into shallow sniffles as he grips the back of your shirt. You swallow your nausea, letting your tears seep into his shirt when a knock makes you hum defeatedly. You barely turn your head to see Minghao opening the door quietly, your phone in his hand as he holds them both out.

"They found spyware on your phones, but it was apparently only installed around the time you were in Hungary. Jungkwon came in during the middle of the meeting and decided to assign you a cybersecurity team to scan your hotel rooms for malware every time you arrive at a new place, or leave the room for an extended period of time." Minghao speaks almost robotically, and you only nod into San's shoulder as your phones are placed on the chair you formerly occupied. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this, Hao." You mumble, your voice almost too soft to be heard but you see him shake his head out of the corner of your eye. "It's not your fault. You couldn't have known, and I'm sorry the two of you are being put in this position." His voice is slightly warmer, and he sighs as he looks down at you both. "I hope that everything works out the way it's meant to for you guys. I'm rooting for you both."

"Thanks, Hao." Your voice is no higher than a murmur, and he hums in response before turning on his heel. "They're waiting for you both to come out, by the way. You're going to have to make a statement, and then they'll decide whether or not you'll be pulled from the roster for the race this weekend." His fingers curl around the doorknob, and you turn your head enough to face him. He looks just as defeated as you do as he glances over his shoulder, "I just thought I should let you know that they expect a clean break. No drama on the paddock and no tears on the tarmac." "Thank you." San's voice is strained, his cheek wet as he leans it against your forehead. You give Minghao a blink of affirmation, and he takes his leave, shutting the door tightly behind him. "Does it have to be the end?" You can hardly hear your own voice, and San's fingers tightening in your shirt say it doesn't. The motion screams that it doesn't – but somehow, you know it is. It's the end, whether you like it or not.

"I think I'll die without you." He snivels, and you let a humorless chuckle slip from your lips as you sit up in his lap, your hands cradling his cheeks gently. His wrecked face and bloodshot eyes make your chest ache, your eyes now too dry to produce any more tears. You run the pad of your thumb along his brows, watching the way his eyes flutter shut as you trace his eyelids. Your hands are featherlight as you press a soft kiss to his pouted lips, feeling his arms constrict around you. You can't bring yourself to pull away, the kiss turning desperate as your hands tangle in his short hair – but he pulls back first, resting his forehead against the slope of your shoulder as you swallow a sob.

"You won't die without me. I'm still here." You choke out, but he doesn't dignify you with an answer as his arms loosen, hands falling down your sides and patting your hips. He sniffles, a sound of disgust coming from his throat as you slide your hands down his arms before interlacing your fingers with his and bringing them between your bodies.

"So…this is it? I'm supposed to sleep without you after sharing a bed for a year?" He murmurs, and you actually let a laugh bubble out of your throat. "You can cuddle with that dinosaur body pillow I got you as a gift last Christmas." You tease, making him scoff as he moves to rest his head against your clavicle. "At least…we did well in hiding it. Not these couple of months, but they didn't catch on until last month. We almost made it, a year in hiding." "I never got to love you out loud." He sighs, and you smile sadly. "God, I want to love you out loud so bad."

"...Maybe in another life." "I'm gonna throw up." "I can't imagine someone being so obsessed with you that they sabotage our relationship. Not to mention, you came on to me." You scoff, tonguing your cheek as you feel his lips curve against your neck. "How could I not? You're ambitious, you're smart…you're gorgeous. It's so easy to love you." His lips brush your skin, making it prickle as you move away lightly. "I've never wanted anyone as bad as I've wanted you. As bad as I want you now."

"San." You groan, "stop it." "It's the truth. If we're breaking up, you need to know everything I feel about you." "I already know how you feel about me." "Did you know that I love the way you smell so much, I stole your perfume out of your suitcase in Spielberg?" "You little rat, I've been wondering where I lost it!" You smack his shoulder, but he only smiles as he plants a kiss to your cheek. You sigh, giving his hands a soft squeeze before looking him in the face. A small smile graces your lips, "maybe…we love ourselves more than each other." "Rookie of the Year, huh?" San leans back in his seat, his head hitting the wall lightly. He closes his eyes, letting out a tired grunt. "I don't even care about that shit." "You say that now, but you are the Rookie of the Year. You're a great driver with insane potential. I shouldn't be the reason you don't get that recognition and that you're painted as someone that's 'hard to work with' for choosing love over success." You shrug, and he only shakes his head. "Can't I have both?" "Not as a rookie. Try again in two years." "Who says someone won't snatch you up by then, pretty girl?" "Shut up." You snort, feeling your cheeks heat as you look away. The heat of his gaze is still intense, but you let out a quelled sigh. "I love you, you know?" "I know, princess. I'll love you to the end of time. You're my first, after all." 

His words cause a sharp pang in your chest, with your eyes suddenly teary as you let out a laugh. "I'll be here, always." "Me, too. Let's go."

PUMPING THE BRAKES ON LOVE – SONG Y/N AND CHOI SAN END YEAR-LONG RELATIONSHIP AMIDST ANONYMOUS STALKER BLOG POST. Written by: Lee Ro and Zhou Jieqiong Wednesday, September 9th. 5-minute read | Updated: 3:12 AM.

On August 27th, an anonymous blog post was made under the pretense to allegedly protect Formula One Red Bull Racing driver Choi San from attempted sabotage at the hand of love, particularly by Song Y/N of Ferrari, often referred to as the Ferrari Flash. Choi has only joined Formula One this year, whereas Song is a seasoned driver on her second of ten contracted years with Ferrari – not to be mistaken with Song Mingi of the Visa Cash App Racing Bulls, who has only been with Formula One since the start of this season.

Despite Choi and Song keeping their relationship neatly tucked away for the greater part of a year, an unnamed stalker gathered enough information to put the couple on blast for hiding their romance from the eye of fans. This person of interest managed to go as far as tapping electronic devices in the couple's shared hotel rooms on multiple stops of this year's circuit stops – Austria, Hungary, England and Spain. They also managed to install spyware into their personal cellular devices as a means to gain further intel on their lives, then moving forward to edit and publish these audio files without the consent of either party. Should this person be found, they are facing extreme legal consequences for what they assume to be a simple invasion of privacy.

Amongst all of the so-called information this person managed to gather, they ended their blog post pleading with Red Bull Racing, Ferrari and the FIA (Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile) to end the relationship before Choi could face any serious setbacks as the fans' choice for Rookie of The Year, lest they continue to stalk and harass the couple and posting their intimate moments. Both racing teams quietly addressed the situation with the drivers, and both Choi and Song had posts on their respective X accounts (formerly known as Twitter) announcing the end of their relationship within 12 hours. In case you missed it, see them below.

Choi San (@choi3san) via X:

I am at a loss for words. This complete circus has left my family, my team, my friends and my partner with no words. It is unfair to us that we no longer feel safe in each other's presence, and I hope that whoever is behind this realizes that they are no fan of mine if they felt comfortable enough to strip me and Y/N of our privacy. It is with a heavy heart that Y/N and I part ways after a year of memories together, for the safety of one another and the sanctity of her image. I wish her absolutely nothing but the best and she will always, always have my unconditional love and support. Until the end of time, my heart is yours Y/N. I love you. – San.

Song Y/N (@flashingyou_by) via X:

I am truly astounded at how invasive people can be. From the beginning of my career, I knew things could get complicated should I decide to get romantically involved with anyone whilst in the spotlight – but I never, ever thought it would be like this. To San, I am incredibly sorry to have put you in a position where someone felt brave enough to take our lives and attempt to make them fit for public consumption. I apologize deeply to everyone who was involved in this utter mess, and I hope that whoever is behind this atrocity knows that nothing they do could ever take away that they completely tore away the autonomy San and I had as partners, but more importantly, human beings. Unfortunately, we have chosen our careers and are continuing our journey together as colleagues with no further ties than the paddock and tarmac. We will always support each other, in love, life and work – I love you, San. – Y/N.

Xu Minghao, Song's racing engineer and childhood friend, and Wen Junhui, Song's life-long best friend, radio show host and retired Formula One driver also had some comments to make on the matter.

Xu Minghao (@xuminghao_o) via X:

Hello, this is INFINITE. I am aware that a private conversation I had with Y/N in Barcelona was taken to be made part of a malicious post directed towards her romantic relationship with Choi San. I am in no way condoning this behavior, and I am appalled that a conversation with a friend I have known my entire life had to be made public because of a cowardly stalker not understanding boundaries. For the future, I ask people to carefully calculate their actions and take into consideration that the people you are hurting are human. My personal life, my relationship status and my friendship with Y/N is not something I want exploited, much less used in malicious intent against her and the relationship I was a part in creating. I would appreciate all comments and questions to be ceased, as I do not plan to address or discuss this further. Y/N is my friend before she is my colleague, and I will always respect and support her endeavors and relationships. Point blank.

Wen Junhui (@junhui_moon) via X:

Hello, this is Junhui of 105.7 Radio DELTA. I have been made to know that Song Y/N, someone I care deeply about, has been under fire for a relationship with a fellow driver, of all things. I was also informed that I was followed while on vacation in Barcelona because I met with Y/N while this person was gathering information in order to blackmail her into ending a relationship she cherishes (and has since, succeeded.) I hope whoever is behind this post knows that nobody in the racing, sports reporting, or cybersecurity world likes you. I hope you can't sleep at night knowing that you bullied and harassed two innocent people in love for whatever weird agenda you had in mind. Maybe put that energy into finding a job, or studying for school. This being said, I fully support Y/N and San in all their endeavors, as colleagues or partners. Good day.

Choi and Song did end up driving in the Italian Grand Prix despite learning about this information the day before the race, after crashing their karts during Q1 and setting them both at the back of the grid in P19 (Song) and P20 (Choi.) Despite the odds, Song and Choi came out on top – with Choi winning the Italian Grand Prix with 1:47:06.056 on the clock, and Song hot on his heels, sliding past the checkered flag only 0.415 seconds later.

Choi and Song have both since been pulled off the roster for legal proceedings as well as mental health evaluations. They will not be racing for the following circuits: Sochi Autodrom (Russia), Nürburgring (Germany), and Autódromo Internacional do Algarve (Portugal.) The Ferrari Flash will make her comeback at the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix in Italy, and Red Bull's Rookie of the Year will return for the Turkish Grand Prix. 

We hope both drivers are feeling better upon their return, and we hope the two can move forward in their careers with little push back from fans. We are vigilantly watching for updates on whether or not the person behind this malicious blog post will be apprehended. Stay tuned.

— MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA | 12:03 AM.

"We've been cleared."

Minghao's voice is soft as you use the hotel stairs to stretch, your legs sore from the long flight. You nod your head, slipping your hands in the pockets of your sweatpants as you follow him to the room. He swipes his keycard, the cybersecurity team giving you both tired smiles as they filed out of your room.

"Thank you." You call gently as they load into the elevator, only getting a quick thumbs-up as the doors close. You slink into the room as Minghao holds the door open, seeing your cellphones laid out across the desk in the corner. You don't bother picking it up, instead opting to unzip your sweater and shove it off your shoulders as you kick your suitcase in front of one of the beds.

"I should be awake right now. It's only noon in New York." You grumble, and Minghao smiles as he shrugs his own sweater off, laying it over the back of the desk chair. He slips into it, stretching his arms over his head as you crouch next to your bag, fiddling with the lock before it pops open. "Do you wanna shower with me?" "If I do, we'll be in there for two hours." He snorts, folding his hands on his lower stomach as you throw a rolled sock at him. He giggles, tossing it back into your bag with precision as you thumb through folded underwear and pick a soft pair of pink briefs. "But who am I to say no?" "I'm so awake, Hao. I need to tire myself out but I can't leave the room and bring that poor team back this late." You rest your cheek on your knees, wrapping your arms around your shins as you look at him with low eyes. "I don't like timezones. They don't make sense." "Yes, they do. Come on, I'll wash your hair if you get up now." He lets out a grunt as he stretches his arms over his head once more, the hem of his shirt rising up to reveal a sliver of tan skin. You huff, untangling your arms and standing up as he toes his shoes off, sliding them towards the front of the room. You pluck a random shirt out of your suitcase and your toiletry bag and bunch them under your arm as Minghao peels his shirt off. Your eyes fixate on the smooth skin of his back, muscles flexing lightly as he shakes his hair out.

"I can feel you staring at me, you know." "When you take your pants off, go a little slower. Give me a show." "Yeah, right. Get in the bathroom, pervert." He snorts, rolling his eyes as you swipe your fingertips down his back. He swats your hand away, only for you to grab his hand and interlace your fingers. He tongues his cheek, fighting back a smile as you tug at the knotted string of his sweatpants. "Just a suggestion." You shrug, shooting him a cheeky smile before dropping his hand and making your way to the bathroom. He clicks his tongue behind you, letting you slip into the bathroom before following behind, watching you set down your minimal clothing before leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

"You think you're so funny." "I am hilarious, actually." You give him a pointed look in the mirror as you open your toiletry bag. Face wash, sunscreen, moisturizer…Astroglide. Rolling your eyes, you set it to the side as you find your toothpaste and toothbrush at the bottom of the bag. Minghao makes a noise of amusement as he slides up behind you, caging you between him and the bathroom counter as he grips the edge on either side of you.

"Minghao." Your voice has a warning lilt to it, but he only snickers as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You raise your brow at him in the mirror, "what do you want?" "Who says I want anything? Can't I just be near you?" "Mmh, so you're just trapping me for comfort's sake? You missed me that much on the flight?" "You're a tease."

His chuckle is low in your ear as he smiles at you in the reflection, tilting his head to look up at you. You can't bring yourself to look at him, knowing one glance will utterly crush your resolve and you'd sell your soul to the Devil if that's what he asked of you.

"A tease? Me? You've got it all wrong."

You feel your cheeks warm as his fingertips brush your hip, pushing the hem of your shirt up slightly to feel the heat of skin on skin. Your eyes divert to your reflection in the mirror, your fingers flitting to your ears as you carefully pull off your earrings.

"I don't know, I think I might be spot on. You take 'airport casual' to another level, you know?" His voice is featherlight as you smirk inwardly, reaching around your neck to unclip the random necklace. Your eyes linger on the gold chain that's snug to your throat, but you leave it alone. "At least you wore pants this time."

"I always wear pants, Minghao." "The pink shorts you wore in Los Angeles that did nothing to hide the marks of my teeth on your inner thighs don't count as pants."

"What happened to wanting people to know that I'm not available?" You question with a bitten grin, slipping your necklace into the side pocket of your toiletry bag. His fingertips breach the hem of your shirt, bunching the fabric as he slides it up. Evidence of your intimate moments are littered across your soft belly, and your skin prickles with goosebumps as he stops it right under your breasts.

"If that were the case, you wouldn't have edited these out of your bikini shot from before we left Los Angeles. They'd be displayed, front and center…" His fingers push the fabric a little higher, the bite mark on the underside of your breast now visible, "maybe I should take these up a little higher, hm?"

He looks at you in the reflection, his lips ghosting over the side of your neck as you fiddle with your rings. Silver dragon from Junhui on your forefinger, your mother's old wedding band on your right hand…a simple, gold band with the letter M engraved on the inside on your thumb, matching the one on his and twinkling up at you.

"Maybe you should." You whisper back, slipping the rings off your fingers one by one, but leaving the gold. You wiggle it in the mirror, the sparkle catching his eye. He smiles against your skin, "yeah?"

His fingers slide up to the base of your throat, covering the thin chain he gave you all those years ago, your nipples peeking out from under the bunched hem of your shirt. "Since when does 'airport casual' mean going braless?"

"Since it means I'll get your attention from halfway across the gate." "And you dare say you're not a tease?"

You only shrug, your fingers tracing his bare arm with featherlight touches as your eyes meet his in the reflection. You tilt your head at him, a silent challenge as you feel his other hand palm at your hip. The pad of his thumb slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, slow and deliberate. He tugs at it, just enough to see the marks his teeth left on your hip — typically, covered by a pair of lacy underwear.

"You're insane." His voice is no higher than a whisper, but you don't say anything as he wedges his knee between your legs. You oblige, spreading them slightly as you tongue your cheek to suppress a mischievous grin. Minghao was…composed. He was composed and level-headed, and seeing him lose his grip on that was enough to fill your belly with a flutter only he could subdue.

"Can I have a kiss?" He murmurs, fingers sliding up to your jaw with practiced ease to make you face him. You nod as much as his grip will allow, your lips meeting his as his other hand slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, teasing its way across your lower belly before cupping your heat. One, two fingers dip further south, cool against your swollen clit as he circles it gently. You gasp against his mouth, earning a low chuckle before he slots his lips to yours in a kiss. Soft, smooth — annoying to your mind as you impatiently nip at his lower lip, making him pull back with a raised brow.

"Don't be a brat." He murmurs, a pout gracing your mouth as he presses himself against your ass. He drags his lips down the slope of your neck tortuously slow, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel the scrape of his teeth against your skin. You tilt your head away, his hand giving your throat a soft squeeze before slipping down to push your shirt out of the way to palm at your breast. His thumb swipes over your nipple, sending a quick shudder down your spine as you push your chest into his hand. "If you're just gonna mess with me—" "Just having my fun, sweetheart."

You ignore the sudden feeling of déjà vu as you roll your eyes; he untangles himself from you, a frown on your lips at the loss of contact as he slides his hand out of your pants with a quick kiss to your cheek. Your cheeks flush at his glistening fingers, feeling them grip at your hip as he turns you to face him. You don't get a chance to speak, the closeness rendering you silent as his lips brush yours before you meet them as you carefully perch yourself onto the counter.

He moves between your spread knees, his free hand sliding up your thigh and slipping back under your sweatpants, your mouth falling open against his at the contact. He kisses down the side of your jaw as his fingers spread your wet folds, tight circles traced on your clit as you force yourself to focus — your lips slotting with his, hard, as he smiles into it at the way you rut your hips against his hand.

Kissing Minghao always makes your skin prickle, your stomach fluttering in excitement…but sometimes, like now, you forget the world around you. You forget anyone else exists as he pulls you close, eyes closed as he slides his tongue into your mouth with ease, tasting like the berry drink he had in the car on the way to the hotel. You forget he's not really yours and you're not really his as you feel his heart against the palm of your hand on his chest, even if it beats as hard as yours.

His mouth is growing desperate against yours, something uncommon between the two of you but so, so welcome. His slips a finger inside, then another — your teeth nipping at his lower lip as he smiles into the kiss, the heel of his palm bumping your clit as the cool metal of his rings makes you jolt. Your hand slides down his chest, fingertips catching at the loops in the drawstring of his sweatpants. You tug at them, the knot falling apart as he sucks on the tip of your tongue, his fingers slowly pumping in and out of you. Your fingers barely dip past the waistband when he shudders, pulling back slightly and looking down at you with swollen lips as he shakes his head.

"Don't." His hand leaves your neck to find your wrist, pulling it away and pinning it to the sink counter as you smile against his lips. You'd be more confident if his fingers weren't curled inside you, but you manage to grin up at him.

"Why?"

Any answer Minghao might've had dies on his throat, a groan replacing it as a knock on the door ricochets through the room. He sucks his teeth, giving a displeased tick of his head before his eyes meet yours. You're annoyed but better at hiding it in the moment, a quiet gasp leaving your lips as he reluctantly retracts his fingers. He doesn't pull his hand out of your sweatpants; instead, featherlight touches against your clit meant to make you squirm.

You're both silent for a moment, Minghao turning to look over his shoulder — as if daring the visitor to knock again. You lean forward, planting your lips against his cheekbone before whispering in his ear.

"Just get the door, Hao. We can finish this later."

"Wanna finish it now, though. I miss my girl." He confesses quietly, still looking over his shoulder when your hand taps his wrist. He pouts, making you chuckle as he pulls his hand out of your sweatpants and begs for a kiss with his eyes. You oblige, softly — when the knock reverberates, making you roll your eyes as he huffs. You grab a hand towel for him, silently watching as he tongues his cheek in frustration before bee-lining for the door. You lean back on your hands, your lower back touching the cool porcelain of the sink. You're slightly embarrassed at the wet sound that rings in your ears as you cross your legs.

"It's…Jun?" He calls out, the click of the lock sounding reluctant as you smile inwardly, quickly pulling your shirt back down and hopping off the counter. Minghao opens the door, and you peek out of the bathroom to see a smiling Junhui being invited in.

"What are you doing here? I mean, nice to see you, but—"

"Hey, Jun!" You interrupt, waving slightly without showing yourself too much from behind the bathroom door. Minghao looks irritated as Junhui grins at you, holding up a brown liquor store bag. "When did you get here? How long are you staying?"

"Considering the way Minghao is giving me a major stink eye, I'm going to assume you're not fully dressed behind that door?" Junhui calls out over his shoulder, making his way to the desk in your room. You snicker as Minghao mimics him, slipping back into the bathroom as you slink out. The sink turns on, and you cross your arms on your chest to hide the peaks of your nipples through your shirt.

"I am dressed, you idiot. We're not always on the verge of coitus, you know." "Coitus? So polished, aren't you? But hey, I'm not stopping you." "You kind of are, sweetie."

"Don't worry, I won't keep you too long." Junhui's grin makes you roll your eyes, but you perch on the edge of one of the beds to indulge him anyway, crossing one leg over the other. Your best friend hums to himself as he sets the food out, with Minghao emerging from the bathroom wiping his hands on a different towel and a scowl on his lips.

"You're real sexy when you're angry, you know that?" Junhui smirks as he pulls a bottle of cheap champagne from the bag, wiggling his brows as Minghao sits next to you. He leans back on his elbows, and you pat his thigh. Junhui makes a face of disgust as he pops the cork, making you stick your tongue out at him.

"What are you doing here, anyway? I know you love us and can't get enough, but I thought you were booked and busy for the season? And how'd you know where we were staying?" You watch as Junhui pours the champagne into plastic flutes from the same bag, handing you one as Minghao's fingers play with the back of your shirt. He plucks at it until Junhui hands him one of the flutes, a twitch in his lip as Junhui winks at him.

"So many questions, dearest. Can't you just wait until I tell you what I've done?" He only smiles wider as he pours himself champagne, and you give Minghao a worried glance as he nibbles on his lip with a shrug. Setting the bottle down, Junhui rolls his shoulders back before taking a seat in the rolling desk chair and moving so close, your knees touch. "I know where you're staying because I booked this room, remember? I told you months ago I'd be coming to Melbourne anyway, because I'm working with Ro, you remember Ro, right? The journalist? Also Jihoon's wife?" "Yes, Jun. We know Ro, we love Ro, we read all her pieces." You roll your eyes, making Minghao bite back a laugh as Junhui scoffs.

"Anyway, I'm working with Ro and her new segment in The Carat. She asked me last season, but I was booked for most of the season with interviews, and then with the MET Gala and the fact that I opened the Oscars of all people…incredible." Junhui raises a brow, making you let out a faux yawn to make him get on with it. You grin as he pouts, before holding up his flute, "but, I have great news. Potentially, if you love me and don't want me to be sad."

"Of course we love you, Jun. You just have horrible timing." Minghao pipes up, earning a smack from you as he giggles. "What's the news? I'm crawling out of my skin with excitement."

Suppressing a smile, Junhui shrugs.

"I've been missing you guys a lot, lately. I feel like we're out of touch," Junhui starts, looking genuinely hurt as he speaks. Your heart sinks a bit, making you sit up a bit as he continues. "It sucks to have grown up together, practically attached at the hip…and then I only see you guys once or twice a year. And Hao…"

You feel your chest warm as Junhui's breath hitches, the man next to you sitting up quickly as your mutual best friend seemingly prepares to bare his heart. He leans in, his hand resting on your knee as he looks at Junhui with a flash of concern.

"I feel like I need to be with you guys, even if it's for a little while. I miss my friends. I know we're all…adults now, with our grown-up jobs and all that but I miss seeing you both, at the same time. I miss staying out late and getting chili oil noodles after a race, I miss doing the stupid poses in the pictures Minghao would take of us. After Minghao left the second time—"

"I didn't think I would let it happen. I'm sorry." Minghao interrupts, and you feel your heart clench at the reminder. It was dumb, really, to feel anxious about it — Minghao chose you, after all. He chose you, over and over again.

"It's not your fault, Hao. Love makes us do crazy things." Junhui chuckles, patting Minghao's knee before giving it a soft squeeze.

"I miss you, too, you know." You pipe up softly, making both men glance at you. "What you said about the dinners, it's been weighing on me. I haven't tried hard enough to keep our friendship alive and it pains me to know that I made you feel this way."

"Don't feel bad for being busy, and genuinely getting so lost in the sauce that you don't know which way is up. I was you, once, remember? I know what it's like." Junhui shakes his head, and you press your lips into a thin line as you nod. "I love you, Y/N. You're my best friend."

"Hey!" Minghao pouts, making the air feel lighter as you and Junhui laugh.

"But, to end this sappy charade and let the two of you get your freak on—"

"Don't rush this for that. We can…'get our freak on' any other time." Minghao shrugs, and you nod earnestly as Junhui smiles inwardly. "After all, we're friends before we're…more."

Lovers, dies on your tongue.

"True, true. I guess…you're right. Anyway," Junhui clears his throat, "I miss you guys. And because I miss you, and I want to be your favorite cock-block—"

"Watch it, Wen Junhui." You snip, pointing a menacing finger at him as he snickers.

"Three years into your career, after the world found out that we all grew up together and had been friends literally our entire lives, Ferrari teamed up with Ro and some other people in their media department to get me back on the paddock. They asked me if I wanted to join you on the circuit calendar, and they'd cover everything, I would just have to report for News 17 for the entirety of the season to make sure they're getting coverage." He nods, his fingertips tracing the rim of his flute. Your eyes narrow in suspicion, with Minghao tonguing his cheek as he fights a smile.

"I couldn't say yes then, because I was just starting in radio and I didn't want to just be known for Formula One. I wanted to have an image outside of McLaren and Kick Sauber, I wanted Wen Junhui, I wanted something to call my own. And then, I got Radio DELTA." Junhui smiles softly, before holding up his champagne flute. "And now…Radio DELTA is going on the road, baby! Can I get a hell yeah!?"

"Hell yeah!"

You're not too sure you process it fully as Junhui animatedly explains more — how he and Ro created F1: Drifting, Danger and Digging Deeper; a segment for The Carat, which just happened to be Ro's magazine. She featured people of all walks of life, often filling the glossy, coated papers with black and white action shots, melancholy think pieces, and long, detailed interview transcripts — until she met Jihoon.

The pages filled with color after that. Beautiful photos shot by her partner, Jieqiong, no longer filtered to fit a certain narrative that paired well with lively articles that wove support in tough spots of guilt and lost motivation of whoever was pictured next to it…

You had yet to sit for your debut in the magazine, constantly dodging Ro and Jieqiong's phone calls and questions from fans about it. You weren't too sure if you were ready for the theoretical Google deep-dive on your life: questions combing through your life before F1, questions about your parents, your friends, your hobbies, who you were before you became the Ferrari Flash.

It's not like you're very sure, either.

But it doesn't matter.

The clock is blinking half past two when the bottle of bubbly is empty and rolling around the floor, Minghao's hand holding the back of your neck as Junhui crawls into the spare bed. He mumbles something about not fucking too loud, not to wake him up — but none of you have anything to do tomorrow, having arrived two days early (three for Junhui) for the sake of it. You and Minghao just giggle, tipsy as you wander back into the bathroom with your fingers interlaced, fully intending to shower before slipping into bed.

He undresses you carefully, one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck as he kisses you messily.

"Do you still—" "God, yeah."

Neither of you address how slippery the shower floor is as he kneels in front of you and hikes your leg over his shoulder, tongue finding your clit almost hungrily. You cover your mouth with your fingers, your free hand carding through Minghao's wet hair, shuddered whimpers falling from your lips loud enough that Minghao smirks into your skin. Soap covers your skin, suds bubbled around your breasts as Minghao rolls your nipples between his fingers from his place between your thighs; the groans from his mouth against your clit from your hand tugging at his hair enough to make you fill the bathroom with a quipped gasp.

Neither of you say much else as he turns you around, the shower tile cool against your cheek. He drags the tip of his cock through your folds, asking twice if you're sure before giving in to your whispered begging for more, please.

For the first time, your whines are muffled by Minghao's hand over your mouth, his dirty words whispered into your ear, his teeth nipping methodically.

And you break your own heart, again, when you get into the same bed after he dresses you, helps you brush your teeth…

Knowing you'll crawl out halfway through the night and sleep on your bed, curled into a ball to avoid Junhui's sprawled limbs and quietly hoping Minghao never notices.

But it's not hard to feel someone climb out of bed.

And it's not hard to miss the heat of them, either.

— Gunma, Japan. | 8 years ago, November 6th.

"This is it."

Minghao is sitting in the passenger seat of Junhui's modded Supra, his fingers dangling out of the window as they pull up next to a white 2002 Acura NSX with blue butterflies plastered along the side. Cars of all sorts are parked around haphazardly, but three are lined up carefully along a spray-painted white line; girls with thick eyeliner lounging with cigarettes slotted between manicured nails, fishnet stockings under mini shorts and heavy boots. A few are scattered about the lot, clinging to each other or men who seem to be their boyfriends; jersey wearing, cigarette smoking, two absences from failing their Women and Gender Studies course type of boyfriends.

Might dump them for the next pretty girl that bats their eyelashes type of boyfriends.

He slips out of the car with Junhui, wiping the hem of his long-sleeve on the lens of his camera. Junhui slides across the hood, perched near his headlight as he clears his throat. Minghao looks around, before Junhui finally spots who he's looking for and calls out.

"Y/N! Get over here!"

Minghao's ears perk at the sound of your name, the sound of it familiar.

He mouths it, the feeling heavy on his tongue as your head whips up from down the line, your hand clenched around a yellow rag that was wiping the hood of your car that's parked to race. Sleek; some type of super car wrapped in pink glitter and with a modded rear spoiler in black, the words 'Pussy Wagon' spelled out on one of the custom tire rims. Minghao bites his lip to stop from grinning.

You're suspicious as you look around the lot, Junhui's voice calling out to you again before you spot him in a bright yellow jacket. Your sudden smile is bright on glossed lips, and Minghao feels his heart drop to his ass as you toss the rag and make your way across the lot. You're wearing green cargo pants, a brown hoodie that makes you look like you're drowning and a ratty pair of high top canvas sneakers.

You look oddly familiar.

"Hey! I thought I wouldn't see you tonight, did you get your paper done early?" You give Junhui a one-armed hug, before your eyes meet Minghao's. They widen a bit, a flash of curiosity blooming in the back of them as you nod politely. "Hello. Are you racing, too?"

He feels a wave of bashfulness wash over him as he slowly shakes his head, your brow raising slightly as Junhui squeezes your shoulder. Your eyes don't avert from him, instead trailing down to the heavy camera in his hand; an ORBIT Tech 97X, equipped with the newest model of the 105mm S2S macro lens, dropped just last week.

You gesture at it with your pinky finger, your skin and nails tinted with smeared red polish. Why is that so familiar?

"Are you on the yearbook committee? I don't think they'll let you use any photos you take here." You lament, as if you know you're letting him down. He clears his throat, shaking his head before unscrewing the lens.

"Oh, no. I'm just…taking pictures for Junhui." He nods, swallowing carefully as Junhui facepalms behind you.

Minghao has transferred to your university for a semester abroad — and it was truly the universe that brought Junhui and Minghao back together after having lost contact years ago. Minghao had misplaced Junhui's house number when he moved back to Haicheng, turning everything over looking for it to no avail; the two hadn't spoken since Minghao left the summer before seventh grade. Funnily enough, Minghao found Junhui's number on a poster pinned to in the dorm hall resident board for an afternoon car meet; texting the number and asking if they needed someone to take pictures. The two met up an hour before, with the two instantly recognizing each other and immediately falling into excited chatter about everything they had missed throughout the years, and Junhui even introduced him to some of his buddies — none of which Minghao bothered to remember their names.

Minghao easily fit into Junhui's friend group here, though quiet — but you were always busy at the garage under your car, or cramming for school. Junhui kept talking about you, mentioning how you used to throw pebbles and mulch at kids who would pick on him and Minghao at the playgrounds — but nothing in Minghao's memory was sparking an image of you.

Until now — with the tint of smeared red polish on your fingertips, the messily untied shoelaces and the small gold hoops that looped through your earlobes. He remembers Mrs. Huang having to pull you aside constantly and tie them for you, the way she'd have to fold the hem of your brown school pants because they were much too long for you. He remembers the gold hoops most of all, because you fought a girl — yes, fought — who wanted to try them on but you said they were from your grandmother and you weren't allowed to take them off.

He remembers being the first boy to ever tell you that you were pretty — on the playground after school, waiting for your father to pick you up. Of course he gave you compliments before that were much more important in his mind; smart, for figuring out long division without Junhui's help, talented, for learning to do a back-flip on the first try. You were eleven then, holding handfuls of mulch and throwing pieces down at Junhui from the top of the slides when he murmured it. You were so flustered you couldn't even say anything back, instead smiling inwardly, your chin to your chest as you threw more pieces of mulch at Junhui. Minghao took it as a silent win.

And he realizes, in losing Junhui's phone number all those years ago — he lost you, too.

"You look…really familiar. Do I know you?" You ask, tilting your head to the side as Junhui visibly squeezed your shoulder again, his eyes pleading with Minghao. You tore your eyes away from him for a moment, looking up at your mutual friend before looking back at Minghao.

"Y/N, this is Minghao."

Your eyes widened, your hand reaching into your sweatshirt and pulling out a locket. You popped it open, only glancing down at it once before gasping.

"Xu Minghao? From class 7-B?"

You bounced on your toes as a blush crept across his cheeks, nodding slowly when you turned the locket to face him. Inside was a picture of you, squished between two boys in dirty uniform shirts, your face smeared with icing from a cake. You, Junhui and Minghao — squeezed together on one chair, smiling brightly.

"Hi." He mumbles softly, and you nod eagerly as you close the locket and shove it into your shirt. He rubs his neck awkwardly, "I just transferred for the semester, so—" "No, I know! Junhui has been texting me about you nonstop but I've just been so busy, I haven't been checking anything and my memory is so shit these days. I'm so sorry, but it really is so nice to see you again. Thought we lost ya for a while, there." Your smile, so bright and beautiful…it makes his stomach flip, his knees slightly weak as he clears his throat.

"It's okay, it's nice to see you, too. You're still pretty." His voice is quiet as he toys with the lens in his hand, but he notices the way your shoulders tense slightly, your breath hitching in your throat. Your eyes flicker away, and you clear your throat as Junhui snickers behind you.

"God, you guys. Act like you know each other!" He bumps your shoulder, making you scowl as you shove him away. "You act like no one has called you pretty before. I call you pretty all the time!"

"That's your job as my best friend, dickwad. And you're not as pretty as he is." "Hey! I resent that!"

Minghao ignored the heat on his cheeks, instead screwing the lens back onto the camera as he listened to you and Junhui bicker. It reminded him of the old times, where the three of you would split a raspberry and cream snowcone but get mad at Junhui for taking all the chunks of ice — eventually, ending in you making Junhui shell out the coins for you to get your own.

"I hate to interrupt, but…" His voice makes you both stop, a pout on your lip as you shove Junhui again, presumably for good measure. "Your tire. It says…it says 'Pussy Wagon', right?"

You immediately perk up, looking over your shoulder at your car across the lot. "Hell yeah! Jun got me the rims for my birthday!"

Minghao bites back his smile, holding up his camera slightly. "Would you like some shots? They're free."

"I love free. Do whatever you want, but I do want a shot of the rims to frame in my dorm." You wiggle your brows, and he lets a laugh slip through as you give Junhui an uninterested look. "Are you gonna race or not? I need to know if I have a confirmed win tonight."

"Are you saying I'm not good enough to beat you? You don't think any of our buddies have what it takes to beat you across that finish line, either?" Junhui scoffs, before shrugging his bag off his shoulder and unzipping it. A wad of cash is hidden in your hand, your eyes narrowing as you quickly cover him with your body. You seemingly tuck it into his bag, and you give Minghao a quipped smile.

"So…how does this race thing work, anyway? Are you guys tracked or something?" Minghao fiddles with the shutter on his camera, and you point upwards, his line of vision following up a winding mountain.

"Pretty simple, we don't get tracked because the race stops if someone gets hurt. We line up here," You foot taps the pavement beneath you, tire marks scattered everywhere, "and we race down this backstreet, which leads you to the east end of the mountain. The trail has been marked as defunct on any online maps you see, but that's because the rangers closed it due to the street racing. We still use it, because one of the rookies has connects with the rangers. Think his name is Mingi."

You roll your eyes, before glancing at the watch on your wrist. Thin, gold. Familiar.

"We have a bit before the race starts. Did you want me to show you some of my mods? I don't know much about photography but you're the artist, maybe you'll find something worth shooting." You try to distract him from the money exchange, but he just files it away as he nods, much to Junhui's delight — who shoots him a sly wink. You eagerly take his free hand, his breath hitching as you drag him across the lot, fingertips cool against his warm palm. You interlace your fingers with his, keeping him close to your hip as you rattle off specs that he doesn't understand as you make it to your car.

"How have you been? I mean, it's been…years." You ask suddenly, and he feels his cheek warm as your thumb strokes the back of his hand before you quickly let go. "Sorry. Force of habit, Jun and I."

"Oh, are the two of you—" "No! God, no. He's a freak. I say that with love, of course."

You snicker, crossing your arms limply, your fingers gripping at the sleeves of your hoodie. He nods slowly, before shrugging. He crouches next to your car, wiping at a bit of dirt on your tire with the pad of his thumb before you quickly lean over the hood of your car and grab the rag. You hand it to him, crouching so close your thigh touches his knuckles as he cleans the rim of your tire. He smiles at the slogan stamped into the pink metal, clicking his tongue as he speaks.

"I've…existed, I guess. Made my mark here and there." "Do you still dance? I remember you were super into that back then." "I retired. I went to Shanghai for a casting and it just wasn't in the cards for me. The universe works in mysterious ways."

"That really sucks, I'm sorry. Do you miss it?" You ask, and he looks over his shoulder, a small smirk on his lips as he raises a brow. Your arms are wrapped around your knees, holding them close to your chest as you peer at him through your lashes.

"You're big on small talk, huh?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you look away. "No."

"Yeah? What's next, gonna ask me how I feel about the weather?" He teases, and you tongue your cheek to stop the spread of a smile on your lips. He gives you a wink, watching the way you bury your face in your arms. "How'd you get into this, anyway?"

You seem to lighten up at that, but shrug like it's no big deal.

"Oh, just…watching. Junhui and I would hang out on weekends a lot, and his dad has that sick model car collection, remember? The ones in the upstairs guest room that we weren't allowed to touch?" Your voice is fond as Minghao nods, still wiping at the metal. "Jun's cousins also took us to a lot of car meets and street races when we were still kids, which probably wasn't the best idea because Mr. Wen had to teach us both to drive and we scared him half to death every time we got behind the wheel."

You chuckle, but there's a hint of sorrow in it as you sigh.

"Why did Mr. Wen teach you?" He asks, not looking at you as he sets the rag down. You shift next to him, your knee brushing his as you clear your throat.

"My dad didn't want to teach me." "…Can I ask why?" "My mom was a racer, too, back when we were kids." You mumble, making Minghao still next to you. He glances over his shoulder, watching you pick at a loose thread in your pants. He turns, facing you a bit more as you zero in on the green fabric, your fingertips pinching it limply before tugging it out.

"Hydroplaned across the road she was racing on and crashed into a tree head-on. Died on impact back in 2009."

Minghao feels his stomach sink as you shrug again, giving him a small smile. "It's okay, I've learned to live with it. My dad doesn't know I race, but I'm always extra careful around these parts, anyway, especially this mountain. Turns are kinda tight, you know?"

You pat your knees, before standing up quickly. "I've gotta talk to Jun about some school stuff but you'll be around after, right? We can get dinner, my treat. I'm a winner, after all."

Your hand squeezes his shoulder before you scamper away, leaving Minghao with his heart in his throat. He sits for a moment, thinking back. He remembers your mother a lot more than your father — she always pressed a kiss to your cheek when she dropped you off in the mornings, stamping her bright red lipstick on your skin. She picked you up early during thunderstorms, showing up in the door of the classroom with your yellow raincoat in her hand and a clear umbrella. She had these wide eyes, bright and gentle; and she was always the one who answered the door when Minghao's mother dropped him off at Junhui's house, giving his mother soft smiles and polite greetings.

He remembers Junhui's birthday party the summer he left; your mother had baked the cake, sneaking back into the house for plates when your father caught her at the backdoor. He kissed her cheeks shamelessly, her laughter ringing out as she reached out for you, her hand grabbing your wrist as you walked by. She pulled you in between them, your father's lips landing on your cheek as you squealed when he spun you around. She escaped, the plates in her hand for the cake slightly crushed in her grip. He remembers her shy smile as his own mother teased her, slicing the cake quickly to escape the crooning of parents and children alike.

He remembers her face behind the camera as the three of you were squished uncomfortably on one of the lawn chairs, but Junhui smeared icing on your face just as the camera flashed.

And that's the picture in your locket.

But he doesn't remember anything about your mother ever being a racer. He remembers her wearing suits, pressed and pleated. High heels, a camera strap around her shoulder, a chunky gold ring on her left hand from your father — and sometimes, a thin, gold watch around her wrist.

He shudders, his fingers tightening around the lens of his camera. He busies himself, trying to will away the way your eyes blanked for a moment when you said it — snapping photos of your car, wiping the edge of your license plate…

Catching a shot of you and Junhui leaning against the hood of his car, smiling as you talk to each other, before a staticky megaphone sounds out. You and Junhui wince, a scowl on your lips as you cover your ears. It's too warbled for Minghao to make out what is being said, but it seems everyone around is used to it because commotion starts — cheers and hoots paired with the slamming of doors, your hair bouncing as you sprint across the lot. You don't bother opening the door, sliding into your front seat through the open window with a giddy smile on your face as you meet his eyes.

"Hey, pretty boy! Don't get hit, stand over there!" You yell over the rev of your engine, shooting him a quick wink as he shakes his head, tonguing his cheek as he holds the camera up for a quick shot. You smile wide, the flash barely fazing you as the megaphone sounds again, a pair of girls holding green flags in their balled fists. Minghao makes his way into the crowd, giving polite smiles and throwing a quiet excuse me here and there.

"Ready!"

Minghao turns, bringing his camera to his face and zeroing his lens in on you. Another quick flick.

"Set!"

You grin devilishly, shooting a quick finger-gun at Junhui across the lot. He hoists the camera up again, the light perfect against Junhui's skin…

"Go!"

Flash — and you're gone. Minghao looks through the camera as you and Junhui are speeding down the back road, capturing a satisfyingly blurry shot of your bumpers next to each other.

Minghao fades into the crowds, not bothering to speak to anyone as he takes his phone out. His fingers fumble around, pressing into his social media profile before typing in Junhui's name. His profile is full of pictures of cars, cats, you in the most random situations; standing on the hood of your car, hanging upside down from a tree branch, asleep in a lecture hall at your campus.

Minghao sees that you're tagged in all of them, and he takes a deep breath, his finger hovering over the tag. He presses it, opening it to see you and Junhui filling your public profile, but the most recent post from six months ago. You're holding someone's hand in a mirror, his face cut off by the edge of the mirror.

@/007dash: last of my lover. i'll miss u ♡ make me proud. @/96jeon.

He clears his throat, feeling an odd disappointment settle in his belly. Tonguing his cheek, he scrolls through your profile a bit more — your 'lover' is seemingly nameless, and his profile is full of aesthetic shots of you, his car, his friends…

However, there is no pictures of your boyfriend's face on either profile. Neck down shots, short videos of you speaking but they're muted with edited captions and music. The last post was made a year ago, a short video of you and him in Tokyo with Automatic by Hikaru Utada edited over it. The video ends with a reflection shot of you on your tiptoes, seemingly to kiss him, before the screen going black.

@/96jeon: my first love, i'll make you proud @/007dash ♡

Minghao realizes you are really, truly, loved. By Junhui, by your father, by…lover. He's never had to be there, his absence from your life has never made the world stop turning for you. You've moved on, you've lived, you've loved and you're loving.

He sits with his thoughts for a moment — staring up at the sky. The trees cover a lot of it, but there are a few twinkling stars that he makes out as he lets his mind wander. Junhui had briefed him on your heartbreak, omitting names and certain details but Minghao got the general gist. He understood you were in love, that it was something you had fully thought would be long-term. You'd planned it all with this '96jeon' — the house, the kids, the wedding.

When he left, you were restless. You spent all your time filling it — what used to be Saturdays in the garage turned to 40 hours a week, you studied until your eyes hurt and you'd spend days driving in circles all over the city to feel the wind in your hair. Junhui explained it was the way you coped with heartbreak, that he'd seen you do it once before — with your father, and on pedal bikes. You didn't get into a car for a handful of years after she died. He just hadn't mentioned it was when your mother passed, but Minghao was able to put that together on his own.

On the other hand…sure, Minghao has had a girlfriend. Several girlfriends, actually — but something had always been missing and that was enough to get over them sooner than later. Not enough ambition, too much dependency, even a lack of emotional attachment at one point; Minghao needed balance. He needed someone who had her own goals, who didn't need his money, who didn't want to date him just because he was a pretty face. He wanted…well, he wanted love. In the deepest form, even if it hurt him.

It was unlike him to think that way.

He shook it off, taking the time instead to mingle with other people. Everyone was welcoming, of course, and they were even nicer when Minghao offered pictures for free. Poses were struck, engines were revved, detailing was polished clean for a 10-second moment in the camera — until the screech of tires were heard, paired with Hold It Against Me by Britney Spears blaring through someone's speakers. People begin to crowd, on either side of the finish line, their eyes wide and hollers loud as he looks up, seeing Junhui's green supra making its way to the lot—

When your car slides past him, top down and crossing the finish line with a loud skid. You steer into it, spinning into a tight doughnut and leaving marks on the asphalt as the song playing through your stereo changes — Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls blasting as you stand on your seat. His fingers are tight around the camera, hollers of your name ring out as you hop out of the car. Your eyes are sparkling as Junhui skids to a halt right next to you, slamming out of his car as you stick your tongue out at him like a 6-year-old.

For a moment, Minghao sees a gleam of the girl he last knew in your eyes.

And he's sure the flash from his camera is nothing as you scream along with everyone who gathered around you. You taunt Junhui as you hop around him, but Minghao knows better than to think that the smile forcing it's way onto his lips is anything less than mischief laced with adoration. Junhui was a great liar, sure — but there was no way he could be annoyed at someone like you.

"Loser!" You cheer in Junhui's face as he snorted, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest as Minghao snaps another photo. It's not in a congratulatory way, Minghao can see the moment the idea sparks in Junhui's mind as he wraps a playful arm around your neck and your eyes widen. You pat his forearm quickly, letting out a gasp.

"I yield! Wait, Jun, please—"

The rest of the straggling racers pump their brakes as they make it to the finish line, cutting their wheels with scowls on their lips. You shriek as Junhui's fingertips dig into your side teasingly, before you manage to free yourself from his grasp and swat at his hands.

"Pay up, losers! Three hundred bucks each and it's all for me!" You brag, snatching the money you'd slipped into Junhui's bag right out of his hand as he held it out to you. The other racers grumbled about fair play and poor sportsmanship as they pulled their wallets out, watching you prance around happily as everyone began to dissipate. You shove the money into one of your cargo pockets, patting the flap shut as you wave everyone off.

"Jun! Wanna go to Tsuki's?" You ask as one of the racers sorely revs their engine in front of you, making you flip them the bird as you walk backwards. Minghao meets you halfway, his chest hitting your back as you reach behind you. As soon as Junhui nods, you look over your shoulder.

"Told you I was a winner." "Never doubted you for a second, Flash."

"Ooh, I like that. Flash." You snort, before you glance back at Junhui. He's putting shrugging his jacket off, tossing it into his backseat before meeting your eyes. "Are you riding with Jun?"

"You want me to ride with you?" He asks coolly as you both make your way back to Junhui, and you don't respond as you reach into your car and turn your stereo down. Junhui slips into his seat, giving you both a look.

"You wanna ride with Y/N? She speeds and her car smells like macaroni." Junhui scrunches his nose as you scoff, kicking his wheel. "My car does not smell like macaroni!"

"And she yells, Hao." Junhui feigns tears, making the younger bite back his smile. You huff, turning away and giving Junhui a chance to give Minghao a pointed look. Go with her, he mouths, and Minghao knows a glaze of worry flashes through his eyes. Junhui waves him off, giving him a comforting smile before calling out to you. "I'll meet you there, alright? I've got some business to take care of."

"Sure thing. We'll save you a seat, Jun." You give him a thumbs up, fiddling with your stereo as you look over to Minghao. You pat the side of your car door, "come on, pretty boy. Hop in."

Minghao does as he's told, sliding in and quietly tucking his camera into his bag before placing it between his feet. He pulls at the seatbelt as Junhui speeds off, honking something offbeat. Minghao clears his throat lightly, only for you to look up at him with a soft smile.

"You wanna cruise or you wanna get there fast?" You rev your engine, and he looks away, shrugging.

"Whatever you want."

You seemingly take mercy on him, taking a nice cruise through the streets. You don't speak either, just letting him look around as softer songs play — 24 Hours by Sunmi, Everything is Embarrassing by Sky Ferreira, Twenty-three by IU…

Lonesome Love by Mitski.

It wasn't long before you arrived at Tsuki's, a homey hole-in-the-wall udon shop in Shibukawa that you and Junhui frequented a lot during your first year at Gunma University. You befriended the owners, quickly meeting the namesake — a white Turkish Angora cat with one blue eye and one brown. The two of you were photographed in the restaurant, posing for a quick Polaroid that rested against the cashier's register. Minghao examined it as you ordered quickly, rattling off toppings before telling him to choose a table as you fished out the money in your pocket. He handed his card to the cashier before you could take it out, earning a scowl from you as the receipt printed and he turned to find a seat. You mumbled something about a bathroom, and he gave you a quick thumbs up as he took a seat in the corner.

"Iced tea!" You state, holding two large glasses in your hand as you came back from the restroom. "Best in the area, brewed in house by the owners."

He takes a quick sip, before the waitress comes over with your bowls. You both thank her quickly, hearing the door open and Junhui appearing with an excited gleam in his eye. You wave him over, "I ordered for you. But I told them you'd be a bit, so go tell them you're here now."

"Thanks," He ruffles your hair, and Minghao watches the action silently as he fiddles with his camera. "I'll be back, gonna talk to Mrs. Iguchi. Eat up, don't wait for me."

You don't seem at all bothered by Junhui's behavior, almost like it's normal for you as Minghao clears his throat. You pause, your chopsticks halfway to your mouth with a bundle of noodles.

"Can I ask you something?" He stares at the broth in his bowl, and you carefully shovel the noodles into your mouth as you nod.

"Sure." You cover your mouth with your hand, chewing carefully as he glances up. Your eyes are wide in curiosity, and you tilt your head slightly before swallowing. "You're okay, right?"

"Do you ever wonder what would've happened if I had never gone back to Haicheng? Do you think we would've stayed friends?" His fingers play with the rim of the glass, and you hum, pursing your lips.

"I don't like to think about the what ifs, actually." You start, before a small smile graces your lips. "But if I really think about it, I think you leaving for Haicheng was an essential part of…growing up, I guess. You weren't meant to stay by our side for the time being but clearly the universe brought you back for a reason."

Your smile is gentle as you shrug, and you rest your chin in your hand. "I think…maybe we would've been really close. Maybe you and I would've ganged up against Jun more often than not. Maybe we would've fought the way Jun and I do, but…it'd be easier with you, I think."

Before Minghao can ask what you mean, Jun returns with a bottle of sake in his hand and a glass of water. He gives you both a quick smile, slipping into the booth next to Minghao. You frown, gesturing at the empty spot next to you.

"We have a guest, Y/N." "We have a ritual, Junhui."

He just rolls his eyes, watching as you scowl and cross your arms, leaning against the vinyl of the booth.

"So." He presses his lips together as he adjusts in his seat, slipping his jacket off his shoulders and kicking you under the table. You jump, his face serious as the waitress drops his bowl off on the table. "Fix your face. What did I miss?"

"Nothing. Eat your food, brat." You stick your tongue out at him, before giving Minghao a quick smile. He smiles back, awkwardly feeling around for his utensils on the table before Junhui clears his throat.

"Did you guys catch up? Did she tell you about the time she tripped down a flight of stairs and—" "Junhui!"

You kick him under the table, but he still manages a smile as he rubs his shin rapidly. "What?! You didn't tell him about the day you learned to fly?"

"Junhui, shut up!" You pout, and Minghao bites back his smile as he nudges Junhui's side with his elbow. Junhui scowls, swatting his arm away as Minghao snickers.

"Leave the girl alone, Jun." "Now you're on her side? How is that fair?!"

"Why would I be on your side?" Minghao scoffs, turning his nose up as he slides his bowl slightly closer. "I'm a neutral party."

"Anyway," Junhui smiles softly, "I have news."

"Do tell, since you've been disappearing on me every few days. It's like you're hiding something from me." Your eyes are pointed as you take a sip from your iced tea, and Minghao notices Junhui's gaze turn a bit guilty as he glances at him. Junhui swallows loudly, his fingers tracing patterns into the cold sake bottle.

You blink expectantly as you slurp another mouthful of noodles, and Junhui clears his throat.

"So, I filled Minghao in a bit on the way here. About, uh, your recent heartbreak."

Your eyes narrow, your cheek bulging from the food stuffed into it. You glance at Minghao, who is rigid in his seat. He lets out a weak cough, eyes avoidant as Junhui tries to clean the situation up.

"I didn't name names. I only…I just told him your boyfriend left." Junhui awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, and you blink again, silently setting down your chopsticks as you swallow hard. "Or, ex-boyfriend, rather."

"Whatever you wanna call it. Just spit it out, Wen." Your voice holds no malice, only curiosity laced with concern as you shift in your seat. You're leaning forward, your lips glistening with oil from the broth of the noodles. "You know you can tell me anything."

"I'm…going to be on the roster for the upcoming F1 season." He whispers, and Minghao watches your face change in seconds. Confusion, anger, excitement…hurt. You purse your lips, your hands on the table flattening as you process the information, before Junhui speaks again. "With Kick Sauber."

You shrink into the booth, and Minghao can't read you fast enough before you're nibbling on your lip. Your eyes are glazed over, and Minghao can almost feel the ache in your throat as you look up at the lights of the restaurant. His hands clench in his lap, enveloping each other as he begins to bounce his leg.

"You're leaving?" "I'll come back. You know I'll come back, I'd never leave you behind."

Junhui's voice is reassuring, but you just nod slowly. Your eyes are brimming with tears, your fingernail tapping against the mahogany wood of the table as you try to clear your throat. You fail, your voice coming out thick as you speak.

"When are you leaving?"

"In March. Second week of March." Junhui's tone grows even softer, as if he's trying to cushion the blow. An angry tear slips down your face, your fingers quickly wiping it away as you sniffle. You tongue your cheek, and you squeeze your eyes shut before running a hand through your hair.

"I'm your best friend. You're my best friend in this entire world, Y/N. I'd never leave you behind." Junhui tries, but you just nod again, blowing a breath out of your mouth before sucking your teeth. You tilt your head, eyes searching Junhui before they land on Minghao.

"Did you already know?" You ask, and he chews his cheek as he nods slowly. A flash of something crosses your eyes as you acknowledge his response with a nod of your own, and Junhui starts slowly scooting out of the booth as if he knows you're going to run. You slide out of the booth entirely, grabbing the strap of your bag and hiking it over your shoulder before looking down at Junhui with what Minghao can only identify as betrayal.

"I can't say what you need me to say right now," You admit quietly, your voice shaky as Junhui tries to get up to comfort you. You step back, "I can't say what I should say right now, and I know that's selfish. I think…I just need some time alone to process this."

Junhui nods, and you don't say anything else as you wipe at your face harshly and whirl out of the shop. Minghao looks at your bowl of noodles, half eaten and your sweating glass of iced tea on the coaster. Junhui sounds off with a defeated sigh, running a hand over his face as he grabs the bottle of sake.

"I told you she wouldn't take it well." He murmurs, and Minghao nods, before clicking his tongue.

"I still think it's better she finds out from you than anyone else, or worse, the media." Minghao replies, when the front door bell rings again. You're barreling back in, and you're still crying but you throw your arms around Junhui and squeeze him tight. The guy looks taken aback, but he quickly recovers by wrapping his arms around your torso.

"You bitch." You sob, smacking his shoulder as Minghao moves back a bit, his fingers fiddling with the lens of his camera. He scoots back more, holding the camera to his face as you press a kiss to the top of Junhui's head. "I hate you. I'm so proud of you. Idiot."

"I know you're experiencing a lot of emotions right now, but you could be nicer." "You could be a better friend and not leave me and Minghao—" "You have Minghao and Minghao has you. I'm always in your heart, Y/N."

The flash doesn't distract either of you, but you shove Junhui away before you can cry anymore. Your eyes are full of what can only be described as fear, but you seemingly swallow the most that you can and wipe at your face shakily.

"I love you so much. Don't call me, dumbass. I'll see you later."

Minghao wonders if he'll ever hear those words from you.

I love you so much.

— Melbourne, Australia. Present Day, Post-Race Results.

Tzuyu CHOU [McLaren | #14]: 1:20:26.843

Jihoon LEE [Ferrari | #22] +2.366s

YN SONG [Ferrari | #8] +5.904s

Jeonghan YOON [Alpine | #4] +35.770s

Jihyo PARK [Mercedes | #1] +56.309s

Seungcheol CHOI [Mercedes | #95] +93.222s

San CHOI [Red Bull | #7] +95.601s

Jongho CHOI [Williams | #12] +100.992s

Mingyu KIM [McLaren | #6] +104.553s

Wonwoo JEON [Aston Martin | #96] +1 Lap.

"Ninth place is fucking insane. P2 to ninth? What the hell happened?" You hear Mingyu mutter as you walk past him unzipping his suit, tugging at your collar and undoing the Velcro strap as Wonwoo shoves his shoulder lightly. Tzuyu is snickering from the front of the paddock, attempting to hide it behind the chewing of a gummy bear from the pack in her hand. "You're laughing? It's not funny, babe!"

"You'll live." "Easy for you to say, from the top."

"Gyu, it could've been worse. Take what you get and be better next time." He shrugs, and you smile inwardly as you manage to skirt past them and grab a water bottle off the table. Minghao is across the paddock, likely talking shop as Junhui interviews him.

"Easy for you to say, old man." "I'm not even that much older than you, dimwit."

"Whatever. Hey, Flash. Nice going out there." Mingyu comments, and you feel your shoulders tense as you glance over. You give him a curt smile, catching Wonwoo's gaze as you speak.

"Maybe if you were three times faster you'd be where I am, Kim. Nice going, though." You chuckle, taking a sip of your water bottle as Wonwoo bites back his laugh, covering his face as Mingyu blinks.

"What?" "You're ninth place. Three multiplied by three is nine. If you were three times as fast—" "I know what she meant, Jeon."

You smile to yourself, looking through the snack table and grabbing for a granola bar when a hand grabs it first. You glance up, seeing the familiar navy blue suit attached to one Choi San. You feel your expression turn somewhat apologetic as you reach for something else, but he places it into your open hand and grabs something else himself.

"P15 to third place is impressive." He says softly, "good job, Flash."

"Thanks, San." Your cheeks warm under his gaze, steady as you shrug, "but it's no big deal. They don't call me Flash for nothing."

He laughs, "I know, sweetheart. See you."

You feel a bit of guilt spread in your chest, knowing that Minghao is only a few feet away. However, you've always just been that way — joining F1 a year after Junhui did and seeing Wonwoo was a hit to the heart like no other. You'd ended up going to dinner to fully tie up loose ends, and now things were as casual as they could be between two first loves.

But San?

You and Wonwoo had been something incredibly private. He was an entity of a first love — nameless, faceless, even voiceless throughout the public duration of your year-long relationship and social media was about you to him. You kissed out in the open without scrutiny, you held hands walking through the streets of your college town, you went on dates without anyone ever thinking anything except two lovers…well, loving.

And then he left.

With San…you were so careful. You tried so hard to keep it under wraps, not really knowing the severity of a relationship in the spotlight but wanting to avoid it anyway. You both loved so hard, so silently — only to be stripped of it all in one go. You were made a laughingstock, you were exposed for being someone in love and while things calmed down, you knew people in your vicinity were still wary of you even if it wasn't your fault.

San's team made it a point to keep the two of you separate in every occasion possible. You were sat on opposite ends of the interview rooms during post-race questioning, you were not allowed to be on the same flights or stay in the same hotels, and you were even told not to stand too close together if either of you placed in the top three on Sundays.

It was miserable, and when you were both taken off the roster, you felt like everything was crumbling in your hands. You didn't feel safe in your apartment in Long Beach, repeatedly having it checked for bugs and even San himself mentioned feeling paranoid at his condo in Los Angeles. After every lead in the investigation came to a dead end, you felt discouraged and any form of contact with San was so limited that you just stopped trying.

You made the move to New York City after your lawyers admitted there was nothing else that could be done, and San made a cross-country move as well — to Miami. You got one last message from him before he changed his number, and you weren't recommended to be given the new one per his legal team's advisement.

Yet, he still looks at you as though you've hung the stars from the sky.

"See you."

Message From: Choi San [old number] [07/10] settled in. just sending this because i miss you and i was told i shouldn't give you my new number to keep you safe. i hope you know i love you, always, and that i'll always be here if you need someone. [07/10] for my birthday, all i ask is you stay for just a moment more. please don't move on right away. please love me a little longer. [07/10] i'll see you next season. (Read: 3:42AM)

— SHANGHAI, CHINA. | 4:32 PM.

"My stomach hurts."

You always feel this way when you land in Shanghai. Junhui's parents always take the flight up to watch you race for the weekend, getting their tickets through your team directly — and bringing gifts from your father, who also gets a ticket.

It's always unclaimed.

He never comes down to watch you race and you can't say you blame him, but you get a single text from him the morning of the race with a simple be safe. He's never in the stands, and you don't blame him — he wasn't very happy when you called him about your college boyfriend leaving to be a racer, then Junhui…then you.

He didn't speak to you for a week after learning you'd signed the contract with Ferrari. He called Junhui and asked him to talk you out of it, only to find out that Junhui was the one who encouraged you to break into the scene after your racing past was discovered by the Kick Sauber team through him. He was upset, and you still called every day at 8PM Shenzhen time — no matter where you were.

Minghao glances at you over his shoulder, his hair damp from his shower as he fishes through his duffel bag.

"You can call him now, babe." "I know, but he already texted me. I know he's nervous and that makes me nervous. I never place well in Qualifying when we race in Shanghai." "You'll place well, you just need to shake it off. I'm certain you could even win."

You groan as you flop onto your hotel bed, earning a hum from your…something as he slides onto the bed next to you. He sits up on his elbow, and you pout up at him as he brushes your hair out of your face carefully. You pucker your lips slightly, begging for a kiss and he obliges, lips soft against yours as he cups your face.

"He loves you anyway." "It's selfish of me to want him to be here, isn't it?" "It's human nature to be selfish, you know."

He presses a kiss to your nose as you turn on your side, draping your leg over his hip and settling into his neck. His hand slips under the back of your shirt, tracing circles into your warm skin as you sigh.

"Sometimes I want to move back, you know." You mumble, "I miss my dad a lot. I think being home would also help me figure out if racing is really what I want, and…"

And we'd be closer.

Minghao understands, squeezing your hip under your shirt.

"You can. You can always move back, you know your dad would love to have you back and Junhui is over here all the time anyway. It's like he never left." "I know, you guys are always hanging out without me! It's like you hate me."

"We don't hate you, angel. Shanghai is just a good halfway point for Jun and me, and if you ever came back home…you could be with us. We could spend time together, but you like New York too much." He teases, but you know there's truth to it. It's not that you like New York, but it's…easier to say that than to say you're a coward. A coward that can't admit her feelings, that can't say what she wants to say so she hides behind the veil of the smog in a concrete jungle she's tried to call home.

It never works.

"If I came back, I'd stay in Shenzhen with my dad." "You came back to Shenzhen three times during the off-season and never once asked to see me, though. So what would change now? At least you'd be closer." "I was homesick." "So am I, any time we're apart."

Silence settles between you as his words sink in, his lips pressing to your face in random patterns. You let your eyes flutter shut, pulling him closer as he plants a kiss on your lips.

"An eight-hour flight is easier than a thirty-hour one, don't you think?" He murmurs against your lips, likely feeling the way you pout because he laughs. "As much as I love just laying here with you, we have lunch plans with Jun, Tzuyu and Mingyu."

"It's almost suppertime." "It's lunch because you didn't eat on the plane. You pushed your food around." "Stop noticing things about me, it's like you're obsessed with me."

Your scoff does nothing to deter him, his smile only growing cheeky as he peppers kisses across your cheeks.

"I am obsessed with you, angel. Get up."

You huff in embarrassment as he pats the swell of your ass before slipping away, your hand swatting at his as he giggles. You force yourself up with a groan, watching him pull a shirt over his head as you click your tongue.

"I'm already in my pajamas." "You should wear your yellow dress. You know the one, with the pockets?"

You change begrudgingly, moving around the room as Minghao watches silently. Your thumb shines with the same gold ring, your neck sparkling with the same thin chain…and he doesn't miss a chance to kiss the top of your head as you pull him close to you for a picture in the hallway mirror.

"Are you posting that?" He asks softly, and you hate the weight his words hold. The weight of being tapped into, of the safe haven he's built around you being stripped and shown to the world for all to speculate. The weight of being discovered, the romance between driver and engineer something not uncommon but it's you. It's you, the Ferrari Flash, debuting another man. Another target for people to dig deep into, as if they don't already have so much information about him.

The difference is that Minghao can still hide from the spotlight, he doesn't owe anyone anything because he's not the one on that stupid tarmac.

You're on it almost every weekend. You chose it, he didn't.

"Are you okay with it?" You let him interlace your fingers as you slip into the elevator, your phone open to the gallery. Hundreds of images of you and Minghao filled it, often filed away to a private folder — dating all the way back to your reunion in Gunma eight years ago, full of videos and stills from his camera and your phone until he left after the semester ended, breaking his phone halfway through his first month back in Haicheng and once more losing you in the process.

"I don't mind." He shrugs, "I can hold my own."

"You say it like I'm throwing you to the sharks." "You're throwing me to the wolves but a death by your hand is all the sweeter."

"Charmer." You roll your eyes, but open your Instagram anyway. You click around, choosing a song for your story as he presses the button to take you down to the lobby. His thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand, his matching ring cool to your skin as you post it, his phone pinging with the notification.

@/flashingyou_by | ♫ Suga Suga - Baby Bash, Frankie J. ↳ 💬 lunch on us? @/xuminghao_o

"Us? I'm paying, angel." "Your money is mine, my money is yours. Loser."

"Doesn't that come with marriage? Shared finances?" He asks, pulling his phone out as the elevator jolts to a stop. You pull your hand out of his, despite having been photographed holding hands and such for ages — stepping out of the elevator as your stomach growls. He reaches for your wrist, pulling you close as a camera flashes in the corner of your eye. He doesn't care, wrapping his arm around your waist and holding you so flush to him that your hips bump as you walk towards the car awaiting you. Junhui is already there, talking to the driver as he leans through the window.

"Doesn't it?" Minghao's voice is soft in your ear as he opens the door for you, giving you a pointed look as your cheeks burn. You stick your tongue out at him, making him do it back as another camera flash goes off. He helps you into the car, and you both greet the driver quietly without a response as Junhui rounds the vehicle to get in on the other side of you.

"Hey, losers. Or should I say—"

You smack Junhui's arm, a scowl on your lips when you realize that the driver is just Mingyu, and Tzuyu is sitting in the passenger seat. Minghao swallows his laughter as you rub Junhui's arm apologetically, his lip jutted in a pout as you pat him.

"I was wondering why the hell you were both greeting me like that. Always lost in each other, huh?" Mingyu snorts, and you feel Minghao's hand pat your knee as you reach forward to pinch Mingyu's shoulder. He jumps, swatting at your hand as you cross your legs and wedging Minghao's hand between them as Mingyu pulls out of the hotel lot.

"How did the two of you become a thing, anyway?" Tzuyu asks curiously, and Minghao tenses slightly next to you before clearing his throat. You catch her eyes in the rear view, wide and inquisitive as you shrug, gesturing at the air.

"I mean, we've known each other for ages, and you kind of just…feel it, I guess. It's not a crush because a crush is lack of information, but it's too much to just be chemistry. It's…something."

"It's romance, is what it is. God, just slap a label on it already!" Mingyu scoffs, earning a shove from Tzuyu as he stops at a red light. Minghao snorts next to you, and Junhui pushes the back of Mingyu's head.

"Leave them alone, Gyu."

"And it's easy for you to say, lover boy. You were ready to get married the moment you laid eyes on Tzuyu." Minghao quips, "some of us like to take things slow."

"Slow? You've been doing this for the last three years! The off-season is full of you both moping on social media and Y/N posting photo dumps that scream 'I miss Minghao.' If you want it, make it happen!" Tzuyu shakes her head, grabbing Mingyu's hand and interlacing their fingers over the center console. Your eyes soften at the sparkle of the promise ring on her hand, next to an M ring on her middle finger as the light turns green, with Mingyu pressing softly on the gas to take a left turn.

"We'll be ready when we're ready." Minghao's voice is soft, with an air of nonchalance that you don't really like. If he notices, he says nothing; his fingers wedged between your knee sliding up slightly. You glance at Junhui, who is typing rapidly on his phone in an open Outlook email to Jieqiong. Leaning back silently, you watch Tzuyu fiddle with the radio as you rest your head on Minghao's shoulder.

"Does your stomach still hurt?" He asks quietly, and you open your mouth to respond as Mingyu looks in the rear view, making you stop.

"Your stomach hurts? Are you sick?" Mingyu's voice is concerned, and you shake your head.

"No. I always get like this when we're in Shanghai for a race." You shrug, before wrapping your hands around Minghao's arm. "You know how Junhui's parents always come?"

"Yeah, his mom always brings us almond cookies. God, I miss those right now." Tzuyu sighs dreamily, and you can practically feel the pride radiating off Junhui next to you as he chuckles inwardly.

"She's here, you know. She'll have some, I think." Junhui chimes in, before elbowing you lightly. "Keep talking, honey."

"Don't call her 'honey.' She's not your honey." Minghao scoffs, his fingers squeezing your knee unconsciously. You cover your face as Mingyu and Tzuyu's eyes find you in the rear view, twinkling with delight as Junhui leans over you to argue with him. "She's my best friend." "Yeah, well, so am I; you never call me 'honey.'" "Because you're gross."

"Guys, she isn't going anywhere, you know." Tzuyu teases, and you feel Junhui shove Minghao's shoulder and slip your hand off your face to see Minghao reaching to pinch his nipple through his shirt.

"Stop it! God, you guys are annoying," You swat Minghao's hand away, grabbing his wrist and pinning it to your thigh as you look at Mingyu and Tzuyu with burning cheeks. "The reason my stomach hurts is because my dad never comes to the races. He lives in Shenzhen, and he gets a ticket just like Junhui's parents do but he never comes."

"Why? You always do well when we're in Shanghai. You get Pole almost every year and if not, you're always top three."

The car falls eerily silent as Tzuyu stops talking, Mingyu carefully turning into a parking lot that you recognize as Lian's Tea House — a place Minghao once took you in the middle of the night during your first year together with Ferrari, and you ate steamed pork buns in a hidden corner booth while crying about your father until your stomach hurt. San hadn't been in the picture yet, and Minghao held your hand the entire time; wiping your face of dipping sauce and tears.

Your lips part, about to answer the question when Minghao clears his throat.

"This place is great. I came here a few times with an old friend, and it's been one of my favorite spots in Shanghai since. Junhui and I are always here during the off season." Minghao taps the glass of the window with his knuckle, and your stomach loses a knot as he squeezes your leg softly. You swallow hard, watching Mingyu reverses into a parking spot, your eyes trained on the leather sleeve of the wheel as the car jolts to a stop. You all slide out of the car, Minghao's hand tugging your dress down smoothly as Junhui rounds the car and shuts your door behind you. You stick between the men as Mingyu and Tzuyu walk hip-to-hip, her hand slotted into the back pocket of his jeans as he drapes his arm over her shoulder.

"I heard they have tea. It might help with your tummy." She talks over her shoulder, and you give her a weak smile as Junhui interlaces your fingers, squeezing your hand with a worried look on his face as you squeeze back. "I'm so excited, I missed the breakfast at the hotel and Mingyu—"

"I woke you up! You went back to bed!" "You could've brought me something back! What kind of boyfriend are you?!" "A good one! A great one, even! I love you!"

You let them bicker as you make it to the front of the restaurant, and Mingyu holds the door open for you all to trickle in. The restaurant is quiet, soft music playing through the speakers as you scan for an empty table.

"Welcome to Lian's Tea House. For five?"

You're barely present as you're seated in a long booth across the wall, your back to the door. The hostess takes your drink orders, your words mumbled as you rested your head back against the booth. No one made you feel bad about your sudden silence — with Minghao and Junhui understanding in depth that the ache in the pit of your stomach had nothing to do with hunger or illness, but longing.

The food came and went — steamed pork buns stuffed so full they burst upon teeth sinking into the soft dough, soft tofu in spicy garlic sauce with ground pork, stir-fried rice cakes with shiitake mushroom and crunchy bok choy bits…

You took bits of everything, but never enough to chew more than twice. You smiled when they laughed, nodded with interest when Tzuyu told story after story of her karting days with Jihyo, shifted in your seat with warmed cheeks every time Minghao's fingers brushed your thigh. You tried to stay involved, to stay present — but your heart is elsewhere, and they understand.

They always understand.

"Does anyone wanna split a honey cake with me?" You mumble as the waitress slips dessert menus on the table, before Tzuyu quickly asks her to snap a picture. Junhui uses the camera on your phone to wipe at his face, making you elbow him before taking it back. You grab Minghao's leg under the table, scooting closer to him as you both smile for the flashing camera. Tzuyu thanks her, before giving you a quick smile.

"I'll split. Gyu's probably about to burst—" "I can eat honey cake! I can so fit a honey cake!"

Junhui snickers next to you as they bicker, managing to order dessert for the table (including honey cake for Mingyu) when you feel your phone buzz on your leg. The waitress returns with plates of dessert, and you slice your piece of cake in half for Tzuyu before peering down at your screen.

[NEW] (2) Messages in: car go vroom (3 members) hao ♡: let's get a separate car. hao ♡: if i see gyu try to kiss tzuyu one more time i'm gonna barf.

You snicker, glancing up to see Mingyu practically devouring Tzuyu with his eyes, leaning into her as she talks to him about one thing or another. Junhui snorts from beside you, before the chat gets two more messages as you type.

[NEW] (4) Messages in: car go vroom (3 members) junhui: talk about wolf in sheep's clothing, look at the way he's looking at her… junhui: me when? :( You: when you stop third wheeling like a loser. junhui: you idiots have to be a couple for me to be able to third wheel, dipshit

"Mingyu, buddy, she's not going anywhere." Junhui scoffs, making him pout as Tzuyu laughs, shoving him away lightly. "We'll get a separate car, don't worry about it."

"He always does this," Tzuyu rolls her eyes, "you don't see Minghao all over Y/N, do you? Have some decency."

"No, but I'm also not your situationship. I'm your boyfriend and I have been for the last four years." Mingyu scoffs, and you pretend it doesn't sting as Minghao tenses next to you. The mood shifts as Minghao clears his throat, but he says nothing.

What can he say if it's only the truth? What can you?

"Mingyu." She grits, but you shake your head quickly as Minghao scoots out of the booth with his wallet in hand.

"It's alright," You shrug, and Minghao gives a curt smile as he disappears behind you. You feel the urge to go after him, but stay glued to your seat as Mingyu apologizes quietly. You only tell him there's nothing to apologize for, but you watch the way your hands tremble as you reach across the table for a napkin.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" You ask quickly, desperate to change the subject as Minghao returns, stuffing his wallet in his pocket.

"I think my parents came from Taiwan to see me, or they're on their way. If they're not here by tonight, we're gonna see if we can catch a late viewing of MaXXXine. There's a cinema about an hour out that plays night shows only and we wanna swing by it. You wanna come?" Tzuyu smiles as she spears her cake with her fork, and you feel Minghao's fingers settle back on your thigh as you tilt your head, before shaking it.

"You guys have fun, but I think…I might go to Shenzhen for the night." You clear your throat lightly, poking at your cake. "I miss my dad."

"By yourself?" Mingyu inquires, his eyes filling with worry once more as you smile. "Yes, by myself. I'm a big girl, Mingyu. I can travel alone."

"Well, what if I wanna see your dad, too? You're just gonna leave me here?" Junhui scoffs from beside you, making you elbow him as the rest of the table chuckles.

Conversation moves to smoother topics — Junhui joining the international journey with F1 as a reporter, Tzuyu kicking off the season with a win and setting the mood for the rest of the races, Mingyu dropping subtle hints at an engagement before Tzuyu twists his nipple through his shirt and tells him to stop lying. Something in his eye as he rubs his chest says he might not be, but you think you're the only one who catches it as you shoot him a quick wink.

Minghao says nothing. You hold his hand under the table tightly, the both of you rubbing circles into each other's skin as if to soothe — bruised egos, maybe.

Junhui ends up paying for a separate car to pick the three of you up, with Mingyu and Tzuyu standing in front of the restaurant with you until it pulls up. Goodbyes are exchanged, and you and Minghao slip into the car when Junhui shuts the door. He taps the passenger window with his knuckle, and the driver rolls it down only to get an extra wad of cash slipped into his hand.

"You're not coming?" You ask, your hand barely pulling on the seatbelt as Junhui shakes his head with a knowing grin. "Nah. You two have fun, I've gotta get back to Ro and Jieqiong and explain why you don't wanna sit for the new segment yet again."

He pats the car, and the driver rolls the window up as you and Minghao turn in your seats, watching Junhui take a call before you're turning out of the parking lot. You both adjust in sync, his hand finding yours and interlacing your fingers, resting his head on your shoulder as your driver gives you both a polite nod in the rear view mirror.

Minghao pulls away, and you pretend it doesn't matter.

Because it doesn't. Not when you're nothing more than two people who kiss, two people who sleep together and eventually, two people who part ways.

So it doesn't matter. Not now, not later, not ever.

— Gunma, Japan. | 7 years ago, March 3rd.

"I'm going to miss him."

You're sitting on the roof of your apartment building with Minghao, your coats wrapped tightly and covered with a quilt as you both stared out over the forest greenery. Thick, cushioned blankets lay beneath you, protecting you both from the cold cement flooring as you fight a dejected frown. You glance at your watch, the time reading half past midnight.

Junhui left a week ago — a week earlier than he said he would, for some sort of training. You had dinner at Tsuki's one last time, posing for teary photos but generally letting him go with well wishes and a stamp of your rouge lipstick on his cheek. He hadn't been able to call since, and you and Minghao settled with taking photos together and posting them on Instagram for him to see when he had time. You changed your username, crediting Minghao with the new one in your latest drop earlier that day — a dump of photos ranging from your car to Junhui to you and Minghao, to one of your mother in the middle.

@/flashingyou_by: missing you xtra today @/junonthemoon ♡ (and mommy!!) ↳💬@flashingyou_by commented: and thanks for the new username @/infinitelyyourz :P

"You already miss him, sweetheart." Minghao reminds you, bumping his shoulder to yours as you smile inwardly. Your hands are warm, tucked under your thighs, and you lean your head against his shoulder. He rests his chin on top of your head, clicking his tongue before you sigh.

"I know. But…it's nice to have you around. At least I'm not alone." "You're using me to heal your broken heart." "My heart is not broken, and if you didn't want to be used I think you would've gone back to Shanghai after your semester ended. You're still here."

"So I extended my stay, let me live!" He laughs, your own bubbling in your throat as you look up to the indigo sky. "This is nice, by the way. Thank you for giving me a reason to stay."

"Of course. You're my friend." You shrug, "and you're easy on the eyes. It's a nice change of pace."

"Stop flirting with me, you'll fall in love and then I can't help you." He jests, making you elbow his ribcage. He gasps, swatting your arm away as the blanket falls off your shoulders. You snicker, "as if I'd ever fall in love with you."

"You could, you never know!" He protests, "plus all you do is make suggestive comments. If I knew this was friendship with Song Y/N, I would've considered twice."

"No, you wouldn't." "No, I wouldn't."

You feel your cheeks hot as you bite back a grin, leaning back on your hands as you look back up to the sky.

"You really stayed for me?" "Of course. You think I'd leave you out here on your own?" "You don't owe me anything."

"I know. Doesn't mean I can't give you everything." He shrugs, holding a hand up to the sky and tracing the stars. "Well, maybe now I can't. But I'd certainly try."

"How isn't what you're saying so much more dangerous than me flirting? It's like you're trying to convince me you're this dynamite guy." You snort, and he looks over at you with a shy grin.

"Am I not?" "I never said that." "You're thinking it."

"You don't know what I think, Xu Minghao." You roll your eyes, only to look and see him staring at you with an expectant look. "You can ask, it doesn't mean I'll tell."

"You and your secrets." "I have none, you know that."

"Then tell me what you think," His breath is cloudy in the early spring air, and you snort as you shove him away lightly. He only smiles, running a hand through his hair before leaning back on his elbows and looking up at you. "I never pegged you to be a coward."

You gape, earning giggles from him as you look at him. A scoff leaves your throat as you cross your arms, "I am not a coward."

"And I'm not an engineering student." "…Yes, you are?"

"Idiot." He whispers, and you shove him fully as he laughs loudly. Your fingers dig into his sides, making him squeal as he tries to push you away. You pin him down by swinging your leg over his hips, locking him in with your knees as he wrestles your hands from his ribs. "I yield! I yield!"

"Yeah, you better. Loser." Another scoff escapes you, and you cross your arms on your chest as you watch him catch his breath. He gives you a grumpy look, his hair mussed as he runs his hand through it again.

"You don't play fair. No wonder you win all those races." "I play fair! You're just mean. Junhui would never—"

"Junhui's not me, sweetheart." He sits up on his hands, shrugging as you realize just how close you are to him. You can't speak, suddenly too aware of how warm he is against you, how you can feel the thick material of his jeans against your inner thighs because you chose to wear a stupid skirt out tonight. A stupid, dumb skirt that showed everything if you bent the wrong way — but it was Minghao.

Smart, sweet, handsome Minghao.

It's not like either of you care, clearly — minimal clothing to welcome spring and denim jackets from the back of your closets. The blankets are enough, the warmth of closeness…the platonic warmth of his hand on your thigh when you mumbled about being cold moments after you both got on the roof. He'd buttoned your jacket for you over the green tube top you foolishly chose; pulling you closer by the lapels and likely hearing your breath hitch, and doing nothing about it but bite back his smile.

It wasn't anything serious. You'd convinced yourself already.

"Tell me what you think." His voice is soft, eyes glued to yours as you nibbled on your lip. He grabbed for the blanket without breaking eye contact, draping it around your shoulders as goosebumps littered the skin of your thighs. "Tell me."

"I think you're cute." You admit, staring up at the sky as your cheeks burn despite the biting wind. Your fingers dig into your arms, a motion clearly not missed by Minghao's eyes as he moves your hands away by your wrists. You instinctively move to shove them in the pockets of your jacket, but he interlaces his fingers with one before you can do so.

"You can look at me when you talk, you know," Minghao whispers, his hand squeezing yours slightly as you roll your eyes. "You're so pretty."

"Shut up." You mutter, attempting to twist your hand out of his grasp, but he holds your fingers flush to his chest, yanking you forward in the process. You glance down at him, only to see him already staring up at you — your eyes, your nose, your lips. They linger there for a moment, and you stop yourself from leaning into him as he speaks.

"You're beautiful." "I'm more than just my looks, you know."

"I do know, sweetness. But you called me cute, nothing else. I'm just returning your words." He taunts you, his ring cool against your skin as he rubs his thumb against the side of your hand. "Is that all you think?"

"I think lots of things." You shrug, feigning nonchalance as you let him play with your fingers. You let a breath out through your lips, "there are lots of things I know, too."

"Oh, so you know things? Anything I should know about?" "You mean anything I want to tell you?"

You give him a lopsided smirk, earning one right back as you shrug again.

"I know that…we're on this rooftop." "Right." "Under the stars…missing the same person.." "I don't miss Junhui, that bitch left his dirty socks in my hamper this weekend."

You double over in laughter, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. His arms immediately wrap around your waist, smiling into your jacket as your laugh rings out in the night.

You rest your cheek on his shoulder, wrapping your own arms around him before sighing.

"Is that all you know?" He asks in a hushed whisper, his hand splayed across the small of your back as you breathe in the soft scent of his cologne. Citrus, mixed with something floral — maybe jasmine, maybe ylang ylang. Your nose brushes the slope of his neck as you turn to face him. His eyes follow the soft curve of your jaw, and you think he leans in as your cheek brushes his.

You look down at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you pass them over his face. He looks at you with something in the depth of his eyes — not expectant, not demanding…but curious. Wondering, what your next step would be, what the next words out of your mouth could change between the two of you.

"I think you want to kiss me."

He gives you an amused look, his lips forming into an ‘O’ shape as he nods.  He doesn't hide the smile that spreads on his lips, the tip of his tongue peeking out to wet them slightly.

“You think I want to kiss you? You think about kissin’ me a lot, sweetheart?” He tilts his head, and you tongue your cheek before shrugging.  

“I’ve thought about it, once or twice.”  “Once or twice?”  “Maybe three times, what’s it to you?” 

“Maybe it’s everything.” He shrugs, a soft heat trailing up your neck and cheeks as he peers at you through his lashes. “You’re a smart girl, though. I’ll give you that. I just think, personally...” 

He leans closer slightly, your breath hitching quietly in your throat. He smiles, one of his hands on your back sliding up and cupping the back of your neck as your fingers dig into his shoulders slightly. 

“I think that I know you want me to kiss you.”  “I do not.”  “Then why are you always staring at my lips?” 

“Because they’re...pretty.” You clear your throat slightly, shuddering slightly as you feel his fingertips graze the shell of your ear, before thumbing at your earring.  

“Pretty?”  “Y-Yeah.”  “So...you don’t want me to kiss you?” 

His breath is minty against your lips, his eyes scanning your face as he traces your collarbone lightly and tugging at the chain of your locket.  

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe.” He echoes, nodding his head with pursed lips as his hand traces the slope of your neck. You lean into it, your lips parting slightly as he loosely wraps his fingers at the base of your throat. The cold of his pinky ring against your skin is somehow searing, nothing to compare with the cool midnight breeze.  

“Do you...want to kiss me?”  “I think you know the answer to that, sweetness. But, I won’t unless you want it, too.” 

His fingers press lightly against your pulse point, and you nibble on your lip as he pulls you slightly closer. You can count his eyelashes from the proximity, your hand moving to hold his wrist and feeling the metal of his bracelet beneath it. Your eyes dart to his lips, earning a smile as he leans towards your ear, his lips brushing against the shell lightly. 

“You just let me know, yeah?” 

He moves back, slipping his hand away from your throat only for you to hold it close to your chest. You pull at his jewelry, slipping rings up and down his fingers and tracing his knuckles silently. You pull off a gold signet ring with a plum blossom stamped onto the face and slip it on. 

“Will things change?” You ask softly, interlacing your fingers between your bodies. Your eyes flicker up to his, the tip of his nose brushing yours as you suck in a breath. 

“Only if you want them to.”  “And if I do?” 

“Then we move at your pace. Whatever you want, sweetness.” He shrugs carefully, and you tuck your lip between your teeth as you lean in closer. You can feel the heat of his gaze burning into you, your stomach fluttering as he nuzzles his nose against yours. “It’s up to you.” 

You don’t say anything, blinking twice before brushing your lips to his. He doesn't indulge you, smiling against you instead as you meet his eyes.

“What's so funny?”  “Nothing, you're just cute."

"Cute?" You echo, your lips touching his as you speak. He nods, his hand moving to card his fingers through your hair. You allow it, letting him tug at the strands on the back of your head to keep you in place.

"Can I kiss you?"

Your hand holding his between your bodies squeezing tightly as you nod, a mumbled please falling from your lips as he closes the gap. You let go of his hand to fist his shirt between your fingers, his own moving to the small of your waist. His lips are soft, patient against yours; your tongue slides against his lower lip, begging for entrance.

"Yellow flag." He mumbles, his fingers wrapping around the base of your throat as he keeps kissing you. "Slow down, baby. We'll get there."

You don't say anything back with embarrassment pooling in your chest, but it quickly washes away as his lips meld with yours. It's easier, smoother to melt into him — you don't even notice when your lips part, his own sucking lightly on the tip of your tongue as your thighs tighten around his hips.

"Hao," you whine against his mouth, only earning a chuckle as he plucks at the buttons of your jacket. "Minghao."

"You can't say my name like that and not tell me what you want." He says pointedly, voice slightly raspy as he undoes the first button. Your teeth nip at his lower lip, pulling at it softly before watching it spring back. "You're so impatient, sweetheart."

"Minghao."

"Whining won't get you anywhere," he tuts. Your lips nearly curve into a frown before he brushes a kiss against the corner of them, "tell me what you want. I'll give it to you."

You shudder as he presses another to your chin, moving up the curve of your jaw as you feel his fingers pop the second button on your jacket.

"If I get to the bottom, and you haven't said anything—" "Just kiss me, please. Anywhere."

He's smiling against the shell of your ear, his teeth pulling at the lobe as you gasp lightly, your hand finding home in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Anywhere?"

"Minghao." "So pretty when you say my name."

"Stop it." You tug at the ends of his hair, a soft groan falling from his lips as he nuzzles your neck with the tip of his nose. His teeth graze the soft skin, his lips featherlight against the sweetest spot as you tilt your head back with a sigh, your skin prickling as he mouths at your throat.

His fingers make quick work of your jacket buttons, plucking at them incessantly as his lips drag along your warming skin. He lets go of your hand, sliding both of his up your thighs to hold your hips as you try to shrug your jacket off one shoulder.

"It's cold, keep it on." He murmurs, his hands grabbing the lapels and holding them tightly. You peer down at him by the slope of your nose, watching the way he tugs at your necklace with his teeth to get your attention. "You'll get sick."

Your hand in his hair pulls him back, his lips pouted as he looks up at you with glossy eyes.

"Isn't the point to get undressed?" You question, your voice full of air. His eyes dart across your face, tilting his head a bit as he tongues his bottom lip, fighting a smile.

"You said kiss. You never said anything about sleeping together, silly." "And if I want more?"

His hands drop back to your hips, squeezing gently as he runs his eyes over you.

"Well, I'd be a dumbass if I said no, right?" He raises a brow, his thumbs slipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles into your warm skin. "Pretty girl on my lap…kissing me like I'm the only man in the world and you're not even wearing a bra. I'd be stupid to say no, wouldn't I?"

He pulls at the hem of your shirt, taut against your pebbled nipples, cause of the chilly air. Your fingers card through his hair, running your nails down the back of his neck; your shirt bunches around your navel as his hands slide up slightly.

"I'd say so." You whisper as your hand cradles his cheek, your thumb tracing the seam of his lips. He smiles against it, pressing a kiss to the pad before shrugging. You lean down slightly, your lips brushing his as you speak. "We don't have to."

"I know we don't." He lets your hand slide down his neck, lips parting slightly as your fingers squeeze the sides gently. His fingers dig into your skin, pulling you down against him. Your breath hitches slightly as your skirt rides up, feeling the thick material of his jeans brush against your clothed core. "I don't have—"

"Want you, Hao." Your lips are touching his as you speak, eyes searching his as he lets out an airy chuckle. He presses a kiss to your pouted lips, smiling inwardly as you chase him when he pulls away. His hand moves to cradle your face, your eyes watery as he pulls you closer.

"Beg for it."

He watches the way your eyes widen, your hands on his body stilling as you look down at him. Your cheeks are hot as he squishes them in his hand, planting a chaste kiss to your puckered lips.

"Prove to me that you want it. That you deserve it." He shrugs, watching the way you peer at him through your lashes. He clicks his tongue, gently shaking your head side to side in his grip. "Don't look at me like that, I might fall in love with you."

"One step closer to getting in your pants," you jest, pulling his hand off your face and dragging it down your neck. "Please,Hao?"

He's gazing up at you as your hand on his wrist is slowly stopping on your chest, his thumb instinctively running over the sensitive bud over your shirt. He tongues his cheek, glancing at your chest as you slowly pull the top down, your breasts spilling out and he averts his eyes. You lean closer, pressing a kiss to his lips and trailing up his jaw as he pushes your shirt down to bunch at the waist of your skirt before he cups your breasts in his hands. You pretend not to shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples, forcing yourself not to whine in his ear.

"Want you to see me," you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hand trails down his chest, fingers catching on his belt buckle. You mouth at the slope of his neck, feeling his hands slide to your waist as you suck a soft mark on his clavicle. He groans, his breath quipped in your ear.

"Touch me," your hand slips under his shirt, feeling his stomach cave in slightly at your cool hand. You push his shirt up slightly, your fingertips tracing the waistband of his underwear, plucking it against his hip as you trail back up the other side of his neck, watching his eyes flutter when you pull at the small hoop through his earlobe with your teeth. Your hips grind down against his gently, slowly, as you single-handedly undo his belt buckle; your fingertips popping the button as you drag your lips against the side of his jaw.

"Taste me," your voice is no higher than a whisper against his lips, your cheeks warming as he looks at you with low eyes. The sound of you pulling his zipper down punctuates the kiss he gives you, slotting your lips to his with a purpose to ease the burning ache in the pit of your bellies. You're flush to his chest as cool fingers curl around your throat, your limbs buzzing as he lightly sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, tugging it slightly before pressing a chaste kiss to it and pulling back.

"Want you, Hao. Want to be yours."

"Mine, huh?" His tone is low as you nod as much as his hand on you will allow, your own palming at his painfully hard cock beneath his jeans. He ruts lightly into your hand, your panties sticking to you uncomfortably as his hand slips from your throat. His fingers ghost over your chest, making your skin prickle as he suddenly slides them up your thigh, flicking the hem of your skirt. "Can I touch?"

You nod, a whispered please falling from your lips as his hand bunched the fabric around your hips; his knuckles grazing the skin of your inner thigh as he pulls your flimsy underwear to the side, smirking as you shiver in the breeze. He tuts, glancing at you as he slides one finger between your folds, the pad bumping your clit and making you jolt in sensitivity. He adds another finger, your hand in his pants moving to clutch his shirt as he traces tight circles on your clit, the wet sound filling the air when he moves his hand away the moment a soft whimper slips your lips.

He holds it up, your arousal stringy between his fingers as he tilts his head, "I've hardly touched you and you're a mess, baby."

"If you're just gonna mess with me—" "Just having my fun, sweetheart."

His smile is genuine as he plucks at your lips with his wet fingers, your mouth opening instinctively as your tongue peeks out. He shakes his head, moving the blanket out of the way enough to let you move but not show your current state.  

“Lay back.” He instructs, fixing your skirt as you oblige, his fingers pinching the swell of your ass as you scowl. You swat at his hand as you lean back on your elbows, the blankets cushioning beneath you when you feel his fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. You let him slip them down your legs, tucking them into his pocket shamelessly before shucking your shoes off and pulling you closer to him by your ankle. You let out a choked sound between a shriek and a yell, earning a laugh. He hovers over you, the same hand snaking between your legs as he presses his lips to your cheek. 

“If you want to stop, you just tell me, okay? We’ll stop.” His voice is soft, and you nod as your eyes meet, and there’s something you can’t place in his as you silently beg for a kiss. He obliges, his fingers slipping inside you with ease, curling up as your thighs try to shut. He smiles against your skin as your jaw falls slack, and you embarrassedly try to hide your face in the crook of his neck as wet sounds fill the silent night. 

“Don’t hide,” He whispers as you bite back groans into his neck, “let me hear you. I want to know I’m making you feel good.” 

“I’m shy,” You gasp as he finds the spot that makes your vision blurry, making him chuckle as he presses a kiss right under your ear. Your walls clench around his fingers, a whimper falling from your lips as he continues to hit the same spongy spot as he drags his lips down your neck.  

“You’re a lot of things, but shy is not one of them,” He whispers, nipping at your clavicle as your nails dig into his shoulders. His hand keeps its pace as a few moans join the sound of your arousal, “that’s it. Sound so pretty for me, don't you?"

His lips trail down your chest, mouthing at the curve of your breasts before pressing a kiss to your left nipple, your thighs trembling around his hand as his tongue circles it painfully slow. Your cheeks heat as a whimper leaves your throat, your fingers flying to his hair as your back arches off the layered blankets. You tug at the jet black tresses as he switches sides, plump lips wrapping around the sensitive bud with a soft suck. A shuddered gasp is heard as he scrapes his teeth against it gently, your eyes brimming with tears of pleasure as you feel the familiar heat building in your lower belly. He swirls his tongue around your nipple teasingly, before kissing up your chest as he pulled his fingers out of you, tracing circles around your clit. He's nipping at your earlobe as your hand tightens its hold in his hair, earning a breathy moan against your jaw.

 "Want you to cum on my tongue, sweetheart," His teeth graze the column of your throat, "can you do that for me?"

He's sucking a mark into your skin as you let out an airy yes, only trail down your chest and stomach with featherlight kisses, moving his fingers off your clit before wrapping both hands around your thighs and pushing them apart. Wet kisses are dragged across your inner thighs, teasing and slow as he sinks his teeth into the plush flesh to earn gasps from you, only echoed with his own grunts as you tug on his hair. He laves his tongue over the marks of his teeth as you clench around nothing, sitting up slightly on your elbows to meet his eyes as he drags his tongue through your folds. His eyes flutter shut as the taste of you spreads in his mouth, your breath hitching as he groans into your pussy.

"Fuck." His whisper is barely heard as he buries his face in your center, smearing your arousal all over his chin and lips as he sucks your swollen clit into his mouth. Your stomach caves in with a guttural moan, pleas of yes, yes falling from your lips as you grind your hips against his tongue. He opens his eyes to see your head thrown back, the moonlight shining on the sheen of sweat on your neck and chest, where your fingers have started teasing your nipples; his cock painfully hard in his jeans as he grinds down against the layered blankets at the mere taste of you, the subtle stinging pleasure of you tugging at his hair.

"Hao," You whine, your hips stuttering against his face as your orgasm washes over you with another choked whimper, his tongue continuing its evil ministrations against your bundle of nerves like a starved man. Your thighs tremble at the overstimulation, tightening around his head as panted breaths fill your ears as you pull his head back by his hair. He looks up at you, lips swollen and covered in your juices, eyes watery as he pouts.

"Don't look at me like that." You're breathless as you tap his cheek, his lips brushing against your inner thigh once more. "Minghao."

"Just one more," He pleads, making you shudder as he presses a tentative kiss to your thigh. You almost cave, his lips parting in a breath as you tug him back further, shaking your head. He sits up, hovering over you as you let go of his hair. You glance at his lips, glistening, enticing as your own part lightly.

"Want you to fuck me," You breathe out, making the corner of his lips twitch as he blinks at you. He has an expectant look in his eyes, careful as he leans closer, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as his nose brushes yours. "Don't make me beg, please. Please."

"I haven't even opened my mouth and you're already begging, sweetheart." He teases, pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You slot them with his, the taste of yourself seeping into your mouth and making your skin prickle as his hands move to shove your jacket off your shoulders. "Say please."

"Please." "Say pretty please."

"Oh my God, pretty please." You whine, letting him slip your jacket off onto the layered blankets. He tugs at the hem of your top, before bunching the fabric in one hand and pulling it up your torso. You wiggle around, holding your arms up as his lips brush yours once more.

"With a cherry on top." His voice is sultry in your ear as he successfully gets your top off, tossing it off to the side where your bag lays. You pout, making him bite back his smile. "You're such a brat."

"You're teasing me," You mutter, your fingers moving to pull at his belt loops. "You're not being fair."

"You're just so cute when you beg, baby." "'M not your baby."

"Not yet." He murmurs, making your cheeks hot as he slips his belt out of the loops, rolling it in his hand and tossing it to the side. You peer up at him through your lashes, your hand moving to palm his cock when he grabs your wrist, pulling it away. "Hands to yourself, sweetheart."

You tongue your cheek as he smirks, before he taps your knee. "Better yet, why don't you turn around for me? All fours, pretty girl."

Huffing, you do what you're told; hearing a soft hiss from his lips as you attempt to look back.

"Face forward." He says sternly, his hands grabbing at your hips carefully. You click your tongue, feeling the warmth of one of his hands disappear as he flipped the back of your skirt up. You push your hips back in anticipation, earning a quick slap to the back of your thigh before you feel the weight of his chest against your back. "Be patient."

You nod, the words caught in your throat as he rubs his hand over the stinging skin. "Are you sure?"

"Minghao, please." You let your forehead touch the blankets below you, your thighs tensing as you feel him run the tip of his cock through your folds. You shiver, a broken whine falling from your lips as he taps your clit. "Please, please—"

"Shh, I've got you." He sinks into you carefully, his fingers digging into your hips. Your eyes roll back at the stretch, walls fluttering around him as a punctuated fuck sounds in your ear. Your fingers fist at the blankets beneath you, a soft breath from your parted lips as dull fingernails sink into your hips, and you feel him shudder behind you as his hips are flush to your ass.

You rock back against him, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as the metal of his zipper brushes your thigh. He doesn't move, instead pinning you to the blankets, with his hand clutching the fabric of your skirt, the other sliding up your back to wrap around your neck from behind. He pulls back slightly, a slow roll of your hips producing an embarrassed whine as the wet squelch reaches your ears.

"So messy," His voice is taunting as he gives another gentle thrust, his fingers squeezing the sides of your throat. "Just for me, right?"

Your cheeks burn as he builds a slow pace, impatience stirring in your lower belly that gets cut by your trembling whimpers and muffled whispers for him to go harder. He doesn't give in, only laughing weakly and leaning down to press his lips to your shoulder. He bites at it, nipping his way up to your ear; feeling the shell grow hot against his lips as he calls you his pretty little slut.

"More," You plead, squeezing around him like a vice and feeling his fingers around your throat do the same. He groans against your neck, giving an involuntary jerk of his hips as you reach back, wrapping your arm around his head and pulling at his hair. "Please, please—"

"You're so fucking impatient," He mutters, holding no anger as he gives into your pleas, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a hard thrust of his hips. Your jaw goes slack with a breathless sound, the tip of his cock brushing you just right as you melt beneath him. He leans up, grabbing at your hips with a bruising grip as he fucks his cock into you with bitten groans. "So fucking needy, huh? Can't just take what I give you? Always want more."

"Want you," Your voice is broken with every snap of his hips, the sound of skin on skin filling the quiet night as you muffle yourself with the blankets, clawing at the fabric. You hate how quickly you can taste your end in the back of your throat, your thighs trembling as he keeps a brutal pace that makes a few tears trickle down your face from pleasure. Your gasps spur him on, before you feel his hand tangle in your hair, pulling you up towards him gently. Your back hits his chest, his hand moving you to face him as he coos at your wet lashes.

"So cute, huh?" He smiles against your cheek, wrapping his fingers around your throat as you whine softly, "so pretty when you cry, angel."

"Wanna be pretty for you," You whisper back breathlessly, feeling his lips press to your jaw as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, your tears trickling onto his face. "Yours, Hao."

"Mine?"

You nod frantically, your fingers wrapping around his wrist as you feel his thrusts grow sloppier, perfectly hitting that sweet spot as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder.

"Want you to fill me up," You mewl, his fingers tightening around your neck as he whines into your neck, hips stuttering briefly before sinking smoothly into you. "Make me yours."

"You're already mine." His lips brush your neck, gasping against your skin as the band in your belly snaps for the second time, your pussy fluttering around his cock as you feel him twitch inside you, stuffing you full with a shaky groan.

You both shudder as a breeze blows past, your thighs twitching as he rolls his hips against you slowly, riding out your highs together. His hands smooth down your body, palming at your breasts and sides as he peppers kisses along the slope of your neck, the air filling with panted breaths.

He lays you down slowly, massaging your hips and thighs as he pulls out carefully. Any embarrassment leaving your chest as you wince, his palms squeezing your calves before helping you onto your back. You cover your face with your hands, feeling the mix of your releases sticky between your thighs as he reaches over to grab your shirt.

"Good?" He asks softly, pulling you up to slip it over your head. You welcome the warmth of it, your vision slightly blurred as you look up at him with tired eyes. You nod, "great, even. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Whatever that means," he scoffs, making you laugh wearily as he tugs your shirt down to cover your belly. You reach up, running your hand through his hair before cradling his cheek.

"What did you mean—" "Oh, I just…say things."

His cheeks are ruddy as he clears his throat, reaching for your jacket as you grab the collar of his shirt between your fingers. He raises a brow, glancing at your hand before tilting his head at you.

"You just say things? Sounds like bullshit to me."

He tongues his cheek, fighting a smile as he fluffs out your jacket, expectantly holding it out for you to slip into. You shake your head, sliding your arms limply into the arms and flipping your hair out of the back.

"So?" "So…what?" "Minghao."

"I should get you home. We don't have anything to clean you up with here." He clears his throat, and you give him an unconvinced look as he tucks himself back into his underwear, zipping up his jeans and reaching for his belt.

"Your pillow talk is shitty." You scoff, making him gape at you as he shoves your knee playfully.

"It is not! I'm trying to get you home so you can get cleaned up and rest! How is that shitty?" "I said you have shitty pillow talk, not that you're a shitty person. Two separate things."

You wiggle two fingers in front of his face, making him roll his eyes as he swats your hand away. You grab his fingers, interlacing them with yours as he sighs. He leans forward slightly, your eyes widening as he brushes his lips to yours. You kiss him first, holding your hands to your chest as he kisses you back almost lovingly. Almost like he wants this, wants you.

"Should we go again?"

You shove him away from you, rolling your eyes with a laugh of disbelief. He giggles, hovering over you entirely and peppering his lips all over your face as you pout.

"You're not funny." "But I'm yours. So it's okay, right?"

You hate the way your heart beats faster, his face settled into the crook of your neck as one of his hands strokes your thigh. You huff, feeling his fingers squeeze the plush flesh as you limply hit his chest. He meets your eyes, your lip jutted in a pout as he smiles.

"I guess." "You guess? I'm offended."

Neither of you mention anything about your underwear, seemingly in agreeance that they were his now. He rolled up the blankets, tucking them under his arm while grabbing both your bag and hitching it over his shoulder. He smiles inwardly as you try to stand from where he's seated you to collect your belongings, failing miserably as your cheeks burn.

"Well, don't just stare at me! Help me up!" "You're so cute."

He does so, holding you flush to his hip as you both make your way off the roof. The silence is comfortable albeit thick, a slightly limp in your walk making him bite back his laughter as you poke his sides with a scowl. You make it to the elevator that will take you down, your knuckle pressing the button to take you down three flights of stairs. His hand on your hip slides across your lower back, smoothing the waistband of your skirt before slipping his hand into yours.

Your fingers are linked together as the elevator jolts to a stop, any discomfort from the mess between your thighs forgotten as he stops in front of your door. There is something suspended in the air, something neither of you can say but both know is the inevitable change of your dynamic. You can't bring yourself to let go of his hand, the blankets he's holding belonging to you as the silence grows thick.

"Uhm," you start, but he just squeezes your hand. His eyes are glazed in warmth, something that makes your stomach flip and flutter and damn near fall out as he glances at your lips before clearing his throat.

"It's late. You should get some rest." He nods, pressing his lips into a thin line before squeezing your hand again and letting go. Your hand curls into itself, feeling odd that neither of you can seem to move. You nibble on your lip, before rolling your eyes with a frustrated sigh. You grab the lapel of his jacket, pulling him towards you as you press a kiss to his lips. His hands immediately move to your waist, dropping the blankets on the floor as he pulls you flush to him. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he pushes you against the door, before feeling him pull away abruptly, lips slick with your saliva and glitter from your gloss.

"You have to go inside." He breathes against your lips, "I can't say no to you and I'll be here forever if I don't. Go."

"Just one more." "Y/N, go inside."

You sigh, clicking your tongue as his hand on your waist moves to press the code into your key pad. It clicks open, and you bite back your pout as he pulls away. He physically turns you around, pushing you carefully into the apartment. You give, toeing your shoes off as he picks up the blankets and puts them into your coat closet. You're moving to tug your jacket off, only to feel his fingers wrap around your neck and pull you to him, your back hitting his chest and making your cheeks burn as you peered up at him.

"Yes?" "One more and I'm out of here. Just one."

You grin, watching him tongue his cheek in feigned annoyance as you turn and wrap your arms around his waist. He cups your jaw, leaning down to brush his lips to yours softly. It's sweet, the way he slots his lips to yours carefully while wrapping his fingers around your throat like it's muscle memory. Your fingers grip his jacket as you swipe your tongue against his lips, only for him to pull away with one, two, three chaste kisses.

"Wash up and sleep, yeah? I'll see you in the morning." He whispers, and you jut your lower lip in a pout as he rolls his eyes. "Don't pout. If I stay, I'll never leave."

"Isn't that a good thing?" "Not when we both have class tomorrow, and not when I've got a weak heart when it comes to you. I have to leave." "You don't have to—"

He shakes his head, pressing another kiss to your lips. And another, and another before pulling your hands off him and holding them to your chest.

"Get some rest, dream of me." He jests, making you stick your tongue out at him as he plants a kiss to your hairline. "I'll see you later."

"One more." "Y/N." "Last one, promise."

"Let me leave!" He huffs as you curl your fingers around the buckle of his belt, biting back a smile as he cups your cheeks in his hands. He presses his lips to yours, almost fighting back a hunger as you paw at him. He pulls away, holding your wrist away from him as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "I am leaving. Goodnight."

You smile up at him, shrugging as you open the door for him.

"Goodnight, handsome. Sweet dreams." "You're horrible. Shut up."

He ruffles your hair as he slips out the door, running a hand through his hair as you watch him beeline for the stairs. A piece of black lace hangs from his back pocket, and you run your fingers over your lips as he disappears with a clamber of his boots on the steps.

You turn into your apartment, carding your fingers through your hair as you lock the door behind you. You head for the bathroom, shedding your clothes like a snake does its skin on the way. Your shower is quick, scrubbing at every crevice with vigor as the guilt of sleeping with your friend sinks into your skin, the taste of him still heavy on your tongue even after you brush your teeth. The marks of his teeth lingering on your skin as you pull on your pajamas, and you feel pathetic for the pooling arousal in your lower belly as you force yourself to stop staring at them and walk into your bedroom with your phone in hand.

Message To: junhui  [2:58 AM] hui. don't be mad. promise you won't be mad.  [2:58 AM] i slept with hao.  [2:59 AM] fuck i'm so stupid.

You drop your phone on your nightstand, your lips still swollen from Minghao's incessant need to kiss you. You try not to think about it, your chest filling with fluttering at the thought of his lips on yours again. The sound of his voice asking you questions when he knew you couldn't respond, his fingers digging into your skin and taking your stupid underwear with him. Flopping on your bed, you let out a groan as you stare at the ceiling, your hand sliding up your chest and resting at the base of your throat but feeling nothing like his — aside from the ring you took that he didn't ask for back. The weight isn't enough, the want, the lustful little itch in your belly not being quenched as you hear a ping from your phone.

NEW! Message From: junhui  [3:02 AM] dumbass. call me when you can. 

And a dumbass, you are. 

Because across campus, there is a nervous Minghao sitting on the edge of his bed — his message thread open to your contact, eight words sitting in the text box waiting for a shaky finger to send it off and never be able to take it back. A nervous Minghao that wonders where his ring is as he thumbs at the fabric of your black panties that he'd stuffed in his pocket.

A nervous Minghao that stares at the blinking text cursor that mocks him as he thinks about your lips, your whines…the way his name fell from your mouth like a prayer. The way he couldn't believe he got the girl, even if just for a moment. A nervous Minghao that also texted Junhui in a panic, only for the guy to respond with "you absolute fool. call me when you can."

A nervous Minghao that realizes he is in love with you, as he exits the message app, the message disappearing with it. 

Unsent Message To: flash ♡  [3:03 AM] and by the way…i've always been yours. 

Send now?  

— Shanghai, China. Present Day, Post-Race Results. 

Y/N SONG [Ferrari | #8]: 1:40:52.554

Mingyu KIM [McLaren | #6]: +13.773s

Jihoon LEE [Ferrari | #22]: +19.160s

Jihyo PARK [Mercedes | #1]: +23.623s

Seungcheol CHOI [Mercedes | #95]: +33.983s

Chan LEE [Aston Martin | #99]: +38.724s

Saerom LEE [Kick Sauber | #97]: +43.414s

Seokmin LEE [Kick Sauber | #18]: +56.198s

Wonwoo JEON [Aston Martin | #96]: +57.986s

San CHOI [Red Bull | #7]: +1 Lap.

"Would you look at that?" You nod to yourself as Jihoon yanks his helmet off his head next to you. You punch his shoulder lightly, earning a scowl as he swats your hand away while biting back a smile. Minghao is nowhere to be found, as is Junhui — which isn't unusual, but you're not sure what to do if you're not going to review the data graphs with him. You loop your arm with Jihoon's as Ro makes her way through the paddock with a clipboard in her hand, giving you an amused roll of her eyes as you drag her husband towards Soonyoung. 

You feel an odd sense of pride seeing yourself at the top.

"Don't brag, it's not a good look on you." Jihoon pretends to be annoyed, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders and sway him back and forth. "Stop it, you'll make me sick—" 

"I overtake Kim easy." You say loud enough for the taller man to hear you across the paddock, earning a smirk as he flips you off from ten feet away. Tzuyu smacks his arm, speaking at him through her teeth as he pouts, only for her to roll her eyes and kiss his cheek before ducking into the air-conditioned building, likely on her way to the bathroom to freshen up. She's sitting for Ro and Jieqiong this week, timeline unclear. 

"I'll be back, I'm gonna see if I can find Hao." You smile, squeezing Jihoon's shoulder as he reviews his footage with Soonyoung. They both give you a thumbs up, and you undo the Velcro strap of your suit as Ro returns with a second clipboard. 

"Flash! Can I get you for a second?" She calls, and you still. You turn on your heel, a pained smile spreading on your lips as you realize what's to come. She gives you an expectant look, holding up her second clipboard and using it to point at you menacingly. "You've been dodging my calls." 

"I don't mean to," You try to lie, but she tuts, tapping your chin with the corner of the clipboard. 

"No excuses. I know you and Minghao are heading to Gunma for a week or so before we're supposed to be in Suzuka, so I talked to him and we're carving a day out. I'm sitting you down the day before Free Practice, so wear something pretty and make sure you get some sleep. Okay?"  

"Or, or!" You move the clipboard away slightly, her eyes narrowing as she fixes her glasses. "I give you two hours after the race, and I'll pose for the feature photoshoot." 

You try to smile as she seems unimpressed, her eyes rolling as she sighs. 

"Promise me I'll get you before we're out of Japan."  "I promise—"  "I'm serious. I have Mingi sitting for Bahrain and if I don't get you in The Carat soon, I'm gonna lose my head." 

"I promise I'll sit pretty for The Carat after the Suzuka race. I even pinky promise!" You hold your finger out, and she tongues her cheek as she links your fingers together. "Call me with the deets, okay? I've gotta find Hao for my review." 

"Yeah, yeah. Go find lover boy." She snorts, crossing her arms as she turns to walk towards Soonyoung and Jihoon. You turn on your heel, unzipping your suit halfway down to shoulder out of it when you see an ecstatic Junhui running out of the building onto the paddock.  

"Y/N!" His eyes are wildly looking around, and you whistle through your teeth as you walk towards him. He whips his head around, excitement clear on his face as he practically sprints towards you. "You'll never believe it—" 

"What, the girl who ghosted you last month finally called?" You wiggle your brows as he pulls you towards the building, a waft of cold air hitting your face. You scoff, pulling your arm out of his hold as he looks for your hand. "Hui, you're freaking me out." 

"…it's really nice to see you again, sir."  

Minghao's voice is soft as Jun interlaces your fingers, pulling you towards the offices. You see Minghao standing in an open one, his headset in his hand as his voice bounces off the walls. You see a hand with a familiar gold signet ring pat his shoulder, your heels suddenly digging into the floor as Minghao looks up at you. His expression immediately changes to worry as he meets yours, his lips parting as your eyes suddenly well with tears. 

"Come on, Y/N." Junhui's voice is encouraging as you refuse to let him pull you towards the office. Minghao steps out, whispering something before taking three long strides towards you as Junhui pats your head. Minghao presses a kiss to your hairline, running his thumbs over your cheeks before any tears fall. 

“Just take a deep breath for me, okay? In, out.” He smooths his hands over your hair, cupping your face as you breathe in shakily. “You’re alright. Everything is okay.” 

“It’s...is it my dad?” Your voice is thick, and he nods with a glaze of warmth in his eyes. You press your lips together, trying not to let your face crumple and let yourself burst into tears as Minghao runs his hands down the sides of your neck, fixing your t-shirt on your shoulders before leaning down slightly. 

“Kiss for good luck?” He whispers, and you sniffle before pressing a simple peck to his lips. He cups your jaw lightly, stealing two more before brushing his thumbs under your eyes. You try to take another deep breath, fanning at your eyes as he smiles above you; his arms wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you flush to his chest. You let a singular sob fall from your lips as he chuckles, his laughter vibrating through your face as he holds the back of your neck gently. 

“You can cry, but you should at least say hello to him, you know?” He whispers, and you let out an uglier, louder sob into his chest before a shaky breath follows. Your hands cover your face, wiping haphazardly as he unwraps himself from you. You sniffle, his fingers tilting your chin up as he plants a soft kiss on the corner of your lips. “Come on, sweetheart.” 

You can't help but hide behind him as you let him take your hand, the crook of his elbow covering you as you reach the threshold of the office. Your father is sitting in a chair with a picket in his hand, your smiling face plastered across it with Ferrari in bold red letters across the top, and FLASH 08 across the bottom. He's wearing one of the many merchandise pieces you'd sent him over the years, this one being a custom windbreaker with your number and nickname across the back, and has a nervous look on his face as he fiddles with the gold ring on his pinky finger — with the number 8 engraved on the face.

"She's here." Minghao's voice is quiet as your father stands abruptly, and you bite back a sob as you skirt around him into your father's outstretched arms. You don't see the way their eyes widen as you let out a sob, both men quickly stepping out and closing the door for privacy. Your father shushes you the way one would a baby, patting your back gently and swaying you back and forth as you cry into his shoulder.

"Why are you crying? Are you hurt?" His voice has the gentle rasp it always does, only making you cry harder as your fingers grip the vinyl on the back of his windbreaker. He hums, pressing a kiss to your hairline before pulling away slightly. He peers down at you, your face covered in tears as he pats your head. "Was this a bad time to come see you?"

"Why are you here? You never come to the races. Not once." You sniffle, and he shrugs as a soft smile graces his features, features you also have.

"I had an inkling you'd need me here. I went to bed and something felt off, but you'd gone to bed so I didn't think to call again. I called Junhui this morning to help me get up here." He nods, a thoughtful look in his eyes before he tilts his head at you. "Is everything okay? I've been worried about you for a few weeks but you just brush it off."

You roll your eyes, tonguing your cheek as you shake your head.

"I'm fine." "You've never been a good liar, Y/N."

"You didn't have to come," your lip trembles, and you wipe haphazardly at your cheeks as more tears roll down. "I never want you to be somewhere that makes you hurt or worry."

Your father smiles, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and giving you a soft squeeze.

"I've come to realize that you'll do whatever you want, whether I like it or not. You're a lot like Mommy that way, you know?" He pats your shoulder, your face crumpling as you cover it with your hands. He pulls you into his chest, shushing you with a hand patting your back. "You're born to be out there. You're a born winner, even when you don't come in first place that crowd loves you. You should hear the way they scream that nickname, Flash? Yeah."

"Flash," You cry into your hands, your heart sinking in your chest as his words sink into your mind. That crowd loves you. Born to be a racer, born to be a winner.

"I'll try harder to be at more of your races. Maybe Suzuka, that's the next one, right? Or—" "My favorite is Silverstone. I'll talk to the team, we'll get you out there. Hotel and all."

You suck in a breath, wiping your hands on the pants of your suit as you pull yourself out of his embrace. He sighs, patting the back of your head as he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

"I'm proud of you, you know. Racer or not, you'll always be my favorite kid." "I'm your only kid, Dad." "Makes it all the sweeter!"

You scoff, swatting his hand away as he laughs before you open the door to see Minghao and Junhui whispering amongst themselves. You wrap your hand around your father's arm, tugging him out as they stop their conversation and stand up straighter. Your father snickers, patting your arm as tired legs trudge along slowly to the cadence of your antsy ones.

"I have a press conference right now, but I'll get you a badge so you can sit in and we can go to lunch with Jun and Hao. There's a restaurant here that makes really good braised pork, you'll love it!"

All the embarrassment and guilt washes away as excitement takes over, and you see Junhui dig in his pocket and pull out a Press pass. He holds it out to your father with a warm smile, bowing his head slightly as he takes it and ropes it over his neck.

"This is kind of nerve-wracking, isn't it? Being famous and all?" He whispers as you all make your way to the seemingly packed interview room, where Jihoon is standing on a chair and looking around. He spots you through the glass of the doors, waving you over frantically as reporters turn, cameras flashing at you through the glass. You squint your eyes only to see Jieqiong running out of the back doors, a stressed look on her face as she beelines straight for you.

"Flash, you're late. Everyone is asking where you are, let's go! Move it!" She grabs your hand, and you reluctantly let go of your father as Minghao and Junhui move to his sides.

"I'll see you after, okay? The guys'll take care of you, promise!" You hold a thumbs up, and your father only smiles, reciprocating as Junhui hooks his arm with your father's as if he were his own. You feel your heart warm, but focus on running into the back room with Jieqiong to get yourself situated. The cameras are flashing and the room is loud as you enter, apologizing profusely to everyone as you take a seat at the end of the table with Jihoon on your left.

Your father is seated already, tucked safely between Junhui and Minghao — heart warm as you're congratulated for winning the Chinese Grand Prix, cheers erupting from all corners of the room but none shining as bright as the three most important people in your life.

After all, you're a born winner.

— GUNMA, JAPAN. | 1:32 AM.

You'd taken a late flight to Gunma from Shanghai, following your father's own flight back to Shenzhen. Your heart was full, sending him home with a ticket to the Suzuka race in exactly two weeks — but your eyes were heavy and your brain was frazzled as you blindly made your way around the apartment, muscle memory lost on you as you fumbled for the light switch.

You find it along the wall, flicking it on and the same low light you hated back then fills the room. Sighing, you drop your backpack, dropping face-first onto the couch you hadn't seen in almost a decade, having broken your lease to it shortly after signing to Ferrari.

But Minghao had seen it almost yearly after. He'd stayed there during his shoot with ViVi Magazine, the furniture still lingering with the scent of his cologne. You nestled your face into the old couch cushion, having bought the apartment on a whim after the owner said it was for sale in an accidental email to you. He decorated it, kept it hidden from the public — a safe, quiet space for the two of you to enjoy, with elderly neighbors who weren't gossips. Or well versed in what it was that either fo you did, only knowing that Minghao was the nice boy that brought them steamed pork buns and honey cake he made himself every time he stayed there.

"God, I missed this place." You grumble, feeling Minghao tug at your boots with a huff.

"No shoes in the house, you'll ruin my carpet." "This is my carpet." "This is my apartment, sweetheart."

You turn on your back, rolling your eyes as he shucks off his coat. "What's mine is yours, Hao."

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue as he looks over his shoulder at you. Your arms are outstretched, beckoning him into your embrace as he sighs.

"You're going to be the death of me, you know that?" "Mmh, I love it when you talk dirty."

He huffs, lightly smacking your foot before climbing onto the couch, sliding into your arms. You laugh as he settles his head on your chest, his lips brushing your clavicle under your thin top. He nuzzles his nose into your skin, your fingers carding through the mess of black hair on the top of his head.

"I miss you." He murmurs, your skin prickling as you let out a laugh.

"I'm right here, Hao." "Eventually, you won't be."

"Ah, you're so negative." You scoff, feeling him push off you and look up to see him staring down at you. "It's not good for the heart to be so pessimistic, you know."

"I'm being realistic, sweetheart." "You're being—" "Shut up."

He presses his lips to yours, catching you by surprise before you quickly melt into him. Your stomach fills with fluttering as he cradles your face, your hand circling his wrist as he nips at your lower lip. He trails off your lips, kissing down your neck as you tug on his hair to get his attention.

"Hao, I have to shower—" "You could be fresh off the tarmac and I would not care." "You're a freak."

"And you're mine, so what does it matter?" His hands move to your waist, pushing your shirt up slightly. "I just want to make you feel good, nothing else. Is that okay?"

His fingers are warm against your belly, thumbs tracing circles into your skin as he lifts his head to meet your eyes. His own are starry, and you feel your heart start beating harder in your chest as his thumbs brush the swell of your breasts. You nod silently, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer to you.

"It's kind of nostalgic, isn't it? This apartment?" You say suddenly, watching him shrug as he pushes your shirt higher up your chest, thumbs brushing your nipples.

"It hadn't been lived in since you left, you know. The owners couldn't convince anyone to rent or buy, it's like you did some sort of witchcraft to it." He chuckles, making your scoff be cut with a gasp as his head dipped down, pressing a soft kiss to your nipple before swirling his tongue around it. Your thighs tensed around his hips, and you feel him smile against your skin, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth as you tried to speak.

"Well that just means…" You shiver as he lightly scrapes his teeth against it, an involuntary whine cutting through the air as your fingers tug at his hair. "That just means it was meant to be mine. Just like you."

"Yeah?" He kisses his way across your chest, rolling the slick bud through lithe fingers as he gives the other a tentative kiss. "I'm yours, right?"

"Let's take this to the bedroom." You whisper, "I don't want to sully our couch."

"My couch." "What's mine is yours, Minghao. Just like you are mine, got it?"

You don't miss the blush that coats his cheeks, your hands taking his face and pulling him to your lips. He pouts as you press a kiss to his lips, eyes watery as you pepper his skin with your lips.

"You're oddly emotional today. Come on, I can fix it." "You're mine, right?"

You blink up at him, a concerned look glazing your eyes as you rub the pads of your thumbs under his eyes.

"Yes, Minghao." "Say it." "I'm yours. Just like you're mine. Are you okay?"

"Sometimes I just need to hear it." He admits softly, planting a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling your shirt down. "Bedroom?"

FERRARI FLASH CAUGHT ON CAMERA CANOODLING WITH RACE ENGINEER INFINITE — BLOOMING ROMANCE OR BAITED REBOUND?

Written by: Anonymous Wednesday, March 27th. 3-minute read | Updated: 9:14 PM.

Suspicions of an off-paddock romance between the beloved Ferrari Flash (Song Y/N) and one of Ferrari's race engineers, Infinite (Xu Minghao) have been confirmed as of March 24th. The racer was seen and photographed sharing not one, not two, but five passionate smooches with the engineer.

Song was formerly linked to Red Bull driver Choi San, having a very public and amicable breakup after articles and voice recordings surfaced exposing their relationship through stalking and several breaches of privacy. Both drivers were left incredibly affected and left the roster for a few races that season, but Choi was still named Rookie of The Year with four consecutive wins after his return at the Turkish Grand Prix. Song was photographed congratulating him from a distance, but no more interactions have been recorded since.

Aforementioned suspicions between Flash and Infinite arose after the duo were spotted leaving a New Year's Eve party, with Xu's hand reportedly being a little too low on the racing star's hip to be friendly. The two were photographed for a few days afterward, but the allegations died down before reaching major media outlets, as Song reported back to her $3.2 million-dollar apartment in New York City, whereas Xu was spotted in various cities in China and posed for ViVi's Magazine in Osaka, Japan before settling back in his hometown of Haicheng for the remainder of the off-season. Song was reported to have taken two flights out of LaGuardia and one out of JFK to her hometown of Shenzhen, spending a week on each trip.

Despite the beloved Flash's constant trips to Shenzhen, where she grew up with Xu for a few years; no reports were made of her meeting with Xu while there. Her social media was radio silent for all three trips, and fans speculated from paparazzi photos that the star was spending her time with her father, who tends to keep himself out of his daughter's spotlight.

Mr. Song was also photographed to be standing with Xu, radio show host and former McLaren/Kick Sauber driver Wen Junhui and Song shortly after the kissing photos were taken — and it was heard through Song herself during the post-race interviews that her father had never been in attendance to one of her races before, and she was glad he was there to see her win the Chinese Grand Prix.

A few tears were shed, but our focus is still on Xu and Song. What is to come? Fans have reported seeing them in Gunma, Japan — where the two attended college together along with Wen, and where Wen and Song were first discovered as skilled drivers. Xu and Song have been photographed near Tsuki's, a long-standing udon shop that has several pre-Formula One photos of them and Wen, as well as many autographs and they are close with the shop owners. They have been mentioned to be driving a grey 2000 Nissan Skyline, formerly known to be kept in a car garage as it was Song's first racing vehicle — alongside the pink Kill Bill inspired Pussy Wagon (2000 Honda NSX Type S) we've all come to know and love.

We all had our rising suspicions that our favorite Ferrari team members were anything but platonic, but with years of radio silence between former lover Choi and Song following the exposure of their private relationship and several lovey-dovey statements — some fans are disappointed to know that their favorite ship has ended for good. Choi has not been seen with anyone since his breakup with Song, and this is the first of Song's spottings with another man.

Could it be that our Flash is finally debuting a new beau? Or, maybe, not-so-new — perhaps the two have history that runs deeper than life-long friendship? Keep your eyes peeled, we'll update as we find out more information.

— Gunma, Japan. Present Day.

You've only been in Gunma for four days. You've gone to Tsuki's more times than you can count, sending pictures of Mrs. Iguchi and the namesake cat; you've spent hours hiking through the forests with Minghao, running your hands through flowing streams when it gets too hot…

You've resisted revving your engine back at a couple of stupid kids in glittery Supras and LS swapped Miatas — feeling Minghao's hand on your thigh as your jaw ticks. His gaze reminds you it's not worth it, you can't race the mountains now; but your fingers itch as you let them leave you in the dust in your rental. You tongue your cheek, you grip the wheel; but he presses a kiss to your temple and offers to drive the rest of the way. You only agree because you know better than to give into a short-lived race for a measly two hundred dollars.

Everything is fine. You feel secure in Gunma, having spent so much time wandering the streets and spending time in obscure shops with Junhui and Minghao as college students; everything is still where it was then, as is your heart, warm and full when you're greeted by name by the older women who don't care that you race karts for a living. Older women who don't care that you're an adrenaline junkie, because they remember your soft cheeks and starry eyes from long nights of studying with sweating cups of iced coffee and half eaten cream sandwiches.

Everything is fine.

The article pings on your phone halfway through your second bowl of takeout udon from Tsuki's. It's from Junhui, followed by several messages telling you not to do anything rash and just read it. To just tell Minghao, who is sitting next to you on the bed — who sets down his bowl he moment he sees you pick up your phone, the white-and-black article filling your screen.

He can't tear his eyes from you as your lower lip starts trembling, his hands finding your thigh as he peers over.

"What's wrong?"

You don't answer, your thumb stilling as a picture comes across the screen. It's from Shanghai — Minghao, in his all-black ensemble, holding your cheeks as he kisses you. You're half dressed in your racing suit, your face crumpled the way it is before you burst into tears; and a second picture shows him holding you to his chest, a third showing him kissing the corner of your lips. He takes the phone from you, scrolling back to the top as you shove your bowl onto the nightstand and kick yourself out of bed.

You pace like a caged animal, your heart practically beating out of your chest as Minghao sits silently, staring at the screen before turning your phone off and sliding it facedown on the nightstand. You slide your hands through your hair cupping the sides of your neck as Minghao's phone pings incessantly. You look up, watching him flip it over to see Junhui's contact flashing across the screen.

He stares for a moment, before answering.

"Hey, Jun…yeah. Yeah, we saw it….I don't know. Uh huh. Yeah. No, she's right here…"

You shake your head at Minghao, holding your hands out as you feel your heart in your throat.

"She can't talk…I'll call you later. Jun…Junhui, I said I'll call you later. Uh huh. Yeah. Bye."

Minghao can't tear his eyes away from you, you feel the heat of them on your back as you turn away. Your mind is racing a million miles a minute, the feeling of your chest tightening far too familiar to the first time this happened — with San, five years ago.

"I must be cursed." You laugh in disbelief, turning to face him. "I'm cursed, that's the only way this keeps happening. I pissed off a witch or made some sort of binding covenant with the universe unknowingly."

"Y/N—"

"What were you thinking? Kissing me out in the open?" Your eyes are wide as you think back to the Shanghai race, your hand moving to pull at your necklace as you walk past the foot of the bed, your thighs brushing the bunched duvet. "What was I thinking? Did I just throw caution to the fucking wind?"

Your spiral is momentarily paused by his hand grabbing the pocket of your shorts, pulling you to him. Your eyes burn with tears as you let him, and you let out a pitiful sound as he settles his hands on your hips.

"Just take a deep breath for me, okay? In, out." His words are too familiar, "you’re alright. Everything is okay."

The same words he said in Shanghai, just moments before kissing you. Moments before those photos were taken.

"Everything is not okay, Minghao! Didn't you see? Didn't you read the article? People know, people have been anticipating this for years. How is that not detrimental to my career? To my image? To yours?" Your voice is dripping with something you can't place, but you can tell it's nothing positive as it sours on the back of your tongue. You push his hands away, ignoring the clink of your matching rings, ignoring the plum blossom signet ring on your forefinger that you stole from him all those years ago.

"We should just end it. We just…we put out a statement that it was a lapse in judgment, that it didn't mean anything. We'll get Ro and Jieqiong to counter the article, they know us. Their word holds more weight."

"Is that what this is to you? A lapse in judgment?" His is soft, any feelings masked by his obvious patience. You give him a look, and it must hold something, some sort of weight, because he repeats himself.

"Is that all I am to you?" "That's not what I said." "Then what are we doing?"

You don't have an answer for him. Your mind races to the week before the season, the first night in Los Angeles where you promised to have an answer for him by the end of the season. Where you knew he was giving you an out, because you know that though Minghao is patient, and Minghao is forever someone that holds you in high regard…he's human.

And he won't wait forever.

"Let's end this." You whisper, "let's end it and we can spare ourselves the ridicule. I can handle it. I signed up for it, I signed that contract and I put myself in the public eye. You didn't. Don't let me stop you from reaching higher."

Minghao stares at you, hurt evident in the back of his eyes as he swallows hard. He nods silently, his fingers feeling around absently across the nightstand before snatching up his phone and his wallet. He slides off the bed, nearing you quietly before giving you a wayward glance.

"Say something!" You yell, your voice thick from holding in your cries. He scoffs, shutting his suitcase that's open on the floor and setting it upright. "Minghao!"

"What? What do you want me to say, Y/N? You want me to beg? Should I get on my knees and beg you not to leave me, when that's all you've ever done? How can you expect me to keep hurting myself to keep you happy? To keep you with me when I know you don't want me?"

His voice trembles, low as he covers his eyes, yanking the handle of his suitcase up.

"I can't. Okay? I can't do it anymore. You're not choosing me, you never choose me." He lets out a shaky breath, "every time I think we're moving forward, you pull away. It's always something, it's your career, it's our friends, it's the press, it's your fear. What are you so afraid of? Why are you so scared of being loud with your feelings? Why?"

"Because I deserve privacy. I deserve to—" "I'm not saying you don't, but what about me? What do I deserve from you? After all these years, shouldn't I deserve something that isn't the tip of your boot when you kick me out of your life because it's convenient?"

His voice cracks, and he curses himself as he moves around the room, shoving shirts and sweaters into his duffel. Your lip trembles as you hold in a sob, watching him haphazardly zip up his bag and shove it over his shoulder. He runs a hand over his face, stopping it over his lips as a wounded sound tries to fight its way out.

"Minghao."

You can't move from your spot at the foot of the bed, your fingers grabbing at the fabric of your shorts as he runs a hand through his hair. He slides his phone and wallet into his pocket, tossing his key to the apartment onto the dresser in a smooth glide.

"Minghao." "Stop saying my name like it means something to you."

He lets out a defeated sigh, teary eyes looking at the annoyingly bright lights in your lamp. He blinks rapidly, before meeting your gaze. You're sure you don't look any better, your sniffling louder than his as he fights himself internally. To leave, to leave you.

"Do you remember the first time we slept together?" His voice is a whisper, white-knuckling the strap of his duffel. "March third. It was a Tuesday, and we were on the roof after we went to Tsuki's for the first time without Jun."

You can't bring yourself to respond, your tears flowing down your cheeks as you're frozen in place. Your fingers are numbing at how tight they're curled into your shorts, but he lets out a humorless laugh, running a hand over his face as he fights back tears. You've seen Minghao cry a total of two times — when you were named Rookie of the Year seven years ago, and when he came over to see you breakdown, alone in your hotel room, after the exposé on your relationship with San was released.

"I think that was one of the most memorable nights of my life. I thought, just for a moment, that I got the girl." He tongues his cheek, "Even after I left Japan and I cut contact, I never moved on. I never wanted anyone else, but I couldn't have you because you didn't want me. You wanted a good time, and I was a good time. I was a great time, even."

He grabs his suitcase, letting another trembled breath out.

"I don't want to just be a good time. I don't want to know that I keep choosing you, over and over, and you can't make up your mind. You say it's not about San, it's not about me, it's not about the press…so it's about you. You are the one stopping this, because I don't care if people photograph me kissing you. I don't care if the FIA fines me. I don't care what anyone thinks about the way I love you, because it's me doing it. Not them."

Your heart drops at the three words he glosses over, how he says them with ease, like he's known his whole life.

"Eight years, not counting our school days. Eight years of knowing you, missing you, wanting you. Eight years of choosing you, over and over again, even when everyone told me I was making a mistake because you were too focused on your career, because you have a one-track mind. Years of knowing that I can't sleep after you slip out of bed in the middle of the night, but I still beg to have you in mine even if just for a few hours. So much can't be good for the heart and soul. " He speaks to the floor, before looking up at you.

"And leaving you gets harder and harder as the time keeps going. But that's just it, isn't it? Time keeps going, we keep growing and…we're not growing together. Your career is important to you, our friends, keeping an image that you're a winner. Everyone loves the Ferrari Flash. Everyone loves watching you skid past that finish line first, asking you questions, looking at you pose for magazines and organizations. Everyone loves Flash, number eight on the tarmac and number one in their hearts, right?"

He steps forward, his hand warm as he presses it to the center of your chest.

"When do they get to love Y/N?" His voice is soft, and you blow a sob out of the side of your mouth as he wipes your cheeks carefully. His hand grabs yours, his thumb rubbing over your matching ring before he gently pulls it off. You close your hand, but he slips it into his palm anyway. He pulls off his own, looking at them closely. Looking at your initials engraved on the insides, he lets out a sigh and slides them onto the dresser.

Your lashes are wet with tears as you look up at him, his fingers carding through your hair as he plants a kiss on your hairline before he meets your eyes.

"When do I get to love you? Is it any time soon, or should I wait for the next life?"

"Minghao." Your voice trembles, but he just shakes his head.

"Stay. This is your home, too." He strokes the back of your head, "I'll take the couch and fly to Suzuka first thing in the morning. I'll see you there, hm?"

"Minghao, please—" "Goodnight, Flash."

When he was a kid, he wondered how his father did it sometimes. How did he make it all look so easy? Even during marital arguments, there was no malice in his father's eyes. He still looked at Minghao's mother like she was an angel sent from heaven, the most precious gift he had ever received. Minghao wanted to understand his father's secret. When he asked him at eight years old and the only answer he was given was a simple "I love her", he was too young to truly understand the weight of those words.

When Minghao met you at twenty-three, he finally understood things from his father's point of view.

Minghao wants to give you everything. From the stars in the sky to the treasures of the sea, he wants you to have everything you could possibly want in life. He wants to love you as earnestly as his father taught him to, and nothing can dissuade his mind from it.

When he was in university, he heard the story time and time again from different couples. The second they saw their future spouse, they knew. Something felt unmistakably right. Something that they couldn't shake. But Minghao always thought the chances were too low. While he's seen love so pure and beautiful it should be shielded from the harsh realities of the world, he's also seen the uglier side of it. As he grew older, Minghao learned that what his parents had was a rare blessing. As reality beat down on him heavier, he learned how to look at everything pragmatically. And while he didn't lower his standards, he accepted the statistical probabilities.

But, as fate would have it, he did have that moment. A glance across the room, so fleeting, but so significant it haunted him for the next week. He knew nothing about you—name, age, interests, family, friends. But he couldn't forget the look he saw in your eyes as they met his. The moment where everything clicked, even for just a few seconds. And it meant something.

A few weeks later when your paths crossed again on campus, Minghao didn't let you slip away. The rest fell into place naturally.

Minghao's on a phone call with your wedding planner, scheduling something related to catering and the reception. You're too caught up in staring at him to focus on anything he's saying. Whatever the conversation is, it's not as important to you as the way the sun is shining through the window on his face. Call you shameless, but staring at your fiancé has always been one of your favourite activities—you can't shake the trance he puts you in by just… existing.

This time, he catches you. The moment his eyes meet yours, phone still pressed against his cheek, right hand scribbling something in his notebook about cuisine options, he gives you that look. The one that questions why you're looking at him like he's a Greek god when he isn't doing anything of note at all. And you give him a look back, one that doesn't do much to defend yourself but puts the blame back on him for looking so beautiful during the most mundane moments.

His eyes keep glancing back at you after that, and slowly but surely, his cheeks flush slightly under your gaze. You're so intent, so focused that it's hard to keep his attention on the different starting prices to cater food for two hundred people.

When he finally comes to an agreement with the wedding planner and jots down the information he needs to not forget in the next five minutes, he turns his attention back to you. You're still staring with that adoring look in your eyes like you've never been more in love with him than right now. He mirrors it, tilting his head to the side fondly. The book you'd picked up twenty minutes ago to read with your morning tea lays abandoned on your lap, bookmark not even in the right spot anymore. Your hands are wrapped around your mug to capture its warmth and your legs are folded underneath you to consolidate the coziness of your sweater even more. Your habits are adorable, and Minghao reminds himself once again that he's all yours. In six months he'll have a ring on his finger to prove it.

"Your tea will get cold," he tells you. You smile, not caring about the tea right now for even a second. "And you haven't turned the page for ten minutes."

"You're more interesting than the book," you shrug.

Minghao ponders over this response, resting his temple on his fist, an amused smile on his face. He can't particularly argue with you, although he doesn't fully believe the statement. The idea that you're more entertained watching him on a phone call than reading the book you've been raving about for days is far too endearing to disagree with. He doesn't want you to change for a second, either. Your simple explanation causes all the warm soft feelings that only you can summon to gather in his chest again.

He scoots closer to you on the couch, removing the book from your lap and your mug of tea from your hands. He replaces the latter with his own hands, cool slender fingers lacing with your warm ones. And then he kisses you like you mean everything to him—which you do, and you know it. You fall into the kiss just as tenderly, making sure he knows even without words how much you love him with everything you have.

Before you had even learned Minghao, he had already promised you the world. You thought he was exaggerating when you first met, but he meant it with his whole heart. He was ready to walk to the ends of the earth for you, to be with you until his dying breath because of one simple truth. He loves you.

© slytherinshua ── do not repost translate or copy　⸝⸝⸝　join my taglist!

@kstrucknet