#svt100collab

mingyu feels his entire body shudder at the thought of possibly having ingested coffee that had come in contact with dead animals. still, dead rat or not, he needs his morning coffee. he pulls out his phone, fingers flying across the screen as he tries to find the closest coffee shop while also ensuring that he’s not late for his meeting.

five minutes later, google maps, or what mingyu later thinks is fate, leads him to a tiny cafe hidden by a vibrant flower stall to its right and a giant supermarket to its left. while both its neighbours seems to have a lot of footfall, the cafe, [name], seems to be relatively empty.

as long as they make a good americano, it doesn’t matter, mingyu tells himself as he pushes the door open, the chime of a bell alerting the workers of his presence. or… just worker, mingyu observes.

the interior of the cafe is pleasing to the eye, and whoever was in charge of decor really loves the vintage aesthetic. there’s soft jazz music playing on the speakers, the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the air, and then there’s you.

you, in your pastel blue apron and hair tied back, standing at the coffee machine with your  back to mingyu. even though he can’t see your face, mingyu feels strangely drawn towards you, the only worker at the cafe. his worries about reaching work on time are forgotten as he watches you stir sugar into the coffee and placing the cup on a saucer. you even add two small biscuits onto the plate and turn around to set it down on the counter.

the magic of the moment is broken as soon as the saucer meets the glass countertop, because you yell, “yah! kwon soonyoung! stop texting your girlfriend in the breakroom before i go in there and drag you out myself! your coffee is ready!”

mingyu is so taken aback at how unexpectedly loud your voice is that he starts coughing out of surprise, which finally gets you to notice him. you seem to have a similar surprised reaction as your cheeks turn red with embarrassment. gone is the loud yell, and it’s been replaced by a voice much gentler, but still tinged with a bit of the chaotic personality mingyu had caught a glimpse of.

“good morning, sir!” you greet him with a bright smile, now standing at the cash register. “welcome to [name]. what would you like to order?”

mingyu sputters, caught off-guard at being addressed directly. “uh, an iced americano. with two shots of espresso, please.”

you punch in the order and then look up at mingyu again. the awkward pause stretches for a while, before mingyu clears his throat. “how much is it?”

“oh, that’s all?” you laugh sheepishly. “nothing else to go with your coffee?”

“i’m in a bit of a rush,” mingyu winces. “maybe next time?”

“i’ll hold you to that,” you smile, pressing a few more buttons before giving mingyu his total. with the swipe of a card, mingyu’s coffee is paid for, and you request him to take a seat while you make his drink.

there’s this strange calmness that washes over mingyu as he watches you, a complete stranger, make a cup of coffee. the way you move with practiced ease, flitting between the take-away cups and coffee machine, is weirdly captivating. mingyu can’t believe he’s so fascinated by the mundane process of making coffee, which he’s never paid attention to, not before today.

“your coffee’s ready!” your announcement drags mingyu out of his thoughts, and he walks up to the counter to pick up his drink. “please enjoy, and have a great day.” you give him another grin, and mingyu feels his cheeks heat up.

“um, you too,” he blurts out. “thank you.” mortified by how he’s been reduced to an awkward teenager in front of someone he’s never met before, mingyu is quick to speed-walk out of the cafe and head to work. 

soonyoung comes out of the break-room a few seconds later, and he finds you standing at the cash register, head propped up on your hands and a dreamy look on your face.

“woah, what’s with you?” he asks, moving past you to grab the coffee you had made for him. “you look like tom cruise just walked in to order coffee.” he punctuates the end of the sentence with a loud gulp of coffee, for which you smack the back of his head, dreamy look gone and glare back on.

“i’m never gonna make you coffee again, not if you disrespect it by drinking it like a toddler,” you scowl, proceeding to wipe down the counter with a rag while grumbling about the absurdity of a boss making coffee for her own employee.

soonyoung is used to your grumbling and reprimands being directed at his childish and loud behaviour, but what he’s never seen you do is giggle to yourself and skip into the break-room.

who on earth had just walked into the shop? soonyoung vows to never stay in the break-room for too long ever again, because the curiosity might just kill him.

“strange woman,” he mutters, turning around to wash his coffee cup. “makes a mean coffee, though.”

—

mingyu has never given a second thought to the coffee he purchases daily because it’s nothing more than a necessity for his daily routine to function smoothly. today, however, keeps getting weirder, because mingyu is sat in his office, holding an empty take-away cup in his hands two hours after the drink has been finished.

his eyes trace the lines of the logo of the cafe printed onto the pastel blue cupsleeve around the plastic cup for the nth time. he can’t get the quaint coffee shop and its fascinating worker out of his head, no matter how hard he tries.

that’s when it strikes him.

placing the cup on his desk, mingyu reaches into a drawer to retrieve a blue, leather-bound journal. it’s never been used before, and somehow, mingyu feels that the whirlwind of thoughts in his head is a good enough occasion to commence the use of the journal.

he takes his trusty pen out from the pocket of his suit and opens the journal up to write his name on the first page. once he’s satisfied, he takes a deep inhale before flipping the page and resting the tip of his pen on the first line.

he takes a moment to get his thoughts in order, and then, he writes.

entry 1: 15/05/25

she’s a stranger, and i don’t even know her name, but i want to. she’s someone i may never meet again, but my heart wishes to see her tomorrow morning, and all the ones after that.

she’s a stranger, but she’s beautiful, and the pastel blue brings out the brown in her eyes.

i guess i found my new regular coffee shop.

the next morning, mingyu takes a different route to work. he doesn’t pass the tteokbokki stand run by the chatty grandma who wants to set him up with her grand-daughter, and he’s grateful for the change of scenery.

a brisk eight-minute walk later, mingyu finds himself outside [name] again. this time, he feels a weird sensation in his gut, which he thinks might be what others call ‘butterflies in one’s stomach.’

“it’s just coffee,” he tells himself before pushing the door open. today, the soft chime of the bell is drowned out by a loud electric guitar solo blasting through the speakers of the cafe, and mingyu is taken aback.

instead of the delicate atmosphere you had created the previous day, the environment mingyu steps into today is completely different. there’s rock music playing, and dishes clink together as they’re being washed by a man in a tiger-print apron?

mingyu blinks quickly, hoping that he’s seeing things, but the man behind the counter is still here, and the tiger stripes on his apron glare at mingyu intimidatingly. still, he walks up to the counter, clearing his throat loud enough for the man to hear him over the music.

the man, who was in the middle of aggressively wiping the counter down, startles in his place. he reaches for his phone to turn the music off and comes up to the cash register to greet mingyu.

“good morning! welcome to [name]! i’m soonyoung, and i’ll be taking your order.” soonyoung beams at mingyu, as if the last fifteen seconds hadn’t occurred. mingyu stops himself from asking soonyoung where his colleague is, because he doesn’t want to come across as a complete creep in front of someone he doesn’t even know.

with shoulders slumped over in defeat, mingyu half-heartedly recites his regular order and watches as soonyoung makes his coffee. the calmness he felt watching you the previous day was now replaced by constant worry that soonyoung may accidentally break something. thankfully, his coffee is prepared without any grand mishaps, and mingyu reaches for his wallet to pay for his drink, when—

“you’re back again today!” the voice mingyu has been longing to hear makes him pause. “don’t tell me you’re only ordering a coffee, sir.” 

mingyu can’t tell if he’s smiling like a complete idiot, but he can’t help it, not when he looks up to see soonyoung’s place taken by you, the barista he can’t forget about. your smile manages to kickstart his brain into functioning again, even without a drop of coffee in his system.

“please, just call me mingyu,” he chuckles. “i’m too young to be called sir.”

“got it, mingyu,” you repeat after him, uttering his name slowly, as if you were memorizing the way the syllables of his name sounded on your tongue. “i’m y/n, and i still want to know if you want to get something along with your coffee this morning.”

“anything you’d like,” mingyu blurts out, and your smile is momentarily tinged with confusion. “i mean, i’ll take whatever your favorite is.” mingyu clarifies, and you give him a coy smile.

“alright, i’ll have your order ready soon,” you nod, when soonyoung interrupts the moment by placing mingyu’s iced americano on the counter. 

“his coffee’s done,” soonyoung says, eyeing you warily, as if you’ve grown another head. “just grab your pick from the display.”

“idiot,” you mutter under your breath, pushing past soonyoung to grab a paper bag and pick out the nicest looking blueberry danish on display for your new favorite customer.

by the time you bring the bag to mingyu, he’s already done paying for his food and is waiting with his coffee held in one hand.

“one blueberry danish for you,” you grin, reaching over the counter to hand the bag to mingyu, who feels the tips of his ears turn red when his fingers brush against yours. “i hope you enjoy.”

“i know i will,” mingyu nods, which makes you blush this time. then, just like the previous day, mingyu finds himself speedwalking out of the cafe, embarrassed by his awkward behaviour.

meanwhile, inside the cafe, soonyoung shoots a suspicious look at you, as you hum to yourself while making yourself a cappuccino.

“so that was him? the guy who had you daydreaming yesterday?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“i think you’re forgetting who the elder sibling is here,” you scowl at your brother. “drop the protective brother act, it’s corny.”

“i’m just looking out for you,” soonyoung huffs, wiping the counter to clean up the coffee he spilled while making mingyu’s order. “he is cute though, i’ll give you that.”

“excuse me?” you gasp, throwing your rag at soonyoung’s face. “you have a girlfriend! stop eyeing other men, or i’ll tell her about it!”

“you won’t unless you want to die, kwon y/n,” soonyoung threatens, and you only give him a playful wink as a response, before pulling your phone out to text his girlfriend.

—

today’s coffee is amazing. all the worrying he did while soonyoung made his drink seems to be unnecessary, because no matter how clumsy he is, he does make great coffee.

but it’s not the same as the one mingyu had the day before, and it bothers him. he has no idea why it does, but he’s beginning to think that his interest in you isn’t just curiosity, but potentially something more confusing.

he sighs as he takes his journal out from the drawer, grabbing his pen to make another entry in it.

entry 2: 16/05/25

she likes blueberries, and her name is just as sweet. 

i know her name now, but my heart wants to know her favorite song too, and everything that makes her smile.

one more coffee tomorrow, then.

mingyu goes to your cafe the next day, just like he had intended to, and learns that you like sunflowers, if the large vase of flowers in the corner was anything to go by.

the more he learns about you, the more he wants to know, and being a human being makes him submit to his natural curiosity, which leads mingyu to your cafe the day after, and all the days that follow too.

. . . . .

entry 5: 19/05/25

today, she walked into the cafe with a crate full of oranges, and when she moved past me to get to the kitchen, i caught a hint of her perfume.

lavender. delicate, yet leaves a strong mark behind, just like her.

monday, 8:47 a.m.

when mingyu enters the cafe, it’s empty. there’s no sight of either soonyoung or you working behind the counter, and he wonders if he’s too early. that’s when the bell jingles behind him, and he turns to see you entering the cafe, a huge crate of oranges nestled in your arms.

“hey, do you need some help?” mingyu offers before he can think too much about it, and you peek your head out from behind the crate to take a look at mingyu.

“no, i’m fine!” you shake your head. “you are the customer after all, i couldn’t ask you for help.”

“please, i don’t mind at all—” mingyu starts, but you abruptly come to a halt in front of him.

“just– could you move?” you ask, smiling through the pain of the edges of the crater digging into your arms. “you’re blocking the way to the kitchen.”

mingyu splutters out an apology as he quickly steps aside, leaving you enough room to walk past him and into the kitchen.

the air trailing behind you smells like lavender, and mingyu feels the soft scent curl up in his lungs.

within a minute, you’re standing at the cash register, visibly more relaxed after setting down the crate, and smiling at him. “so, what’s your order for today?”

mingyu leaves the cafe later, with his americano in one hand, a slice of orange cake packed in a box, and the lingering smell of lavender clinging to him.

. . . . .

entry 17: 31/05/25

it’s another weekend, and i went to the cafe, even though i didn’t have to go to work. 

she’s worth it. seeing the smile on her face when a child handed her a drawing of a kitten is worth it.

she seems like she likes cats. should i ask her about dogs next time?

saturday, 9:16 a.m.

“i’d recommend the butter croissant,” you tell him, punching in the order for his regular americano. “they turned out really good today.”

“alright, i’ll try that out, then,” mingyu agrees easily, and you walk away to prepare his order.

while mingyu waits for his order, a lady and her child enter the cafe, the little boy excitedly running up to the glass display to greet you.

“hello, miss y/n!” the boy calls out, and you turn around to greet him back with a huge smile. mingyu watches the exchange fondly, as the boy tells you about his week at school and the new friends he’s made.

soon after, the boy holds out a slightly crumpled sheet of paper that he had been carrying in his hand. “i drew this for you! our teacher told us to draw an animal, so i drew a cat, because you said you like them.”

“that’s such a nice drawing!” you gasp, holding the picture up like it was the mona lisa. “thank you so much for this! how about a free doughnut for you, hm?”

mingyu learns that you have a very special way of making everyone else around smile as much as you do, and it stirs up a warm feeling in his heart.

. . . . .

entry 18: 1/06/25

she likes dogs, too. she even showed me pictures of her family dog, lucy. 

one day, if i can ever muster up the courage, should i ask her out on a date at an animal cafe?

sunday, 10:07 a.m.

“so, you’re a cat person?” mingyu starts the conversation this time, which seems to surprise both you and him.

he hopes he isn’t hallucinating the faint pink blush that appears on your cheeks when you say, “i didn’t realize you heard that. i do love cats, but i love dogs just as much.”

“really? i’m slightly more biased towards dogs,” mingyu admits, and your eyes seem to light up.

“i have a feeling you’re gonna love lucy.”

“does she work here?” mingyu asks, puzzled, and you simply laugh before pulling out your phone.

“lucy is my pet dog,” you explain, holding out your phone for mingyu. he also hopes his hands aren’t trembling too much as he takes your phone and looks at the screen, on which you’ve opened up a picture of an adorable golden retriever.

you guide him through dozens of pictures of lucy, recounting the memory associated with each picture, and mingyu decides to throw caution to the wind.

you’re falling for her, his heart tells him, and mingyu can’t find it in him to deny the obvious.

. . . . .

entry 33: 16/06/25

she doesn’t like bitter things. she said that black coffee was disgusting on its own and that it always tastes better with milk and lots of sugar.

…..i changed my coffee order for her. my assistant asked me if i was suddenly turning into a softie, and surprisingly, i didn’t feel embarrassed to say yes.

monday, 8:12 a.m.

“i’ve always meant to ask you this,” you say, and mingyu’s neck hurts from how fast he whipped it up to look at you in anticipation. “how do you manage to drink your coffee like this everyday?”

“what, you don’t take your coffee black?” mingyu asks, and you shudder.

“coffee without milk and sugar is disgusting,” you fake gag. “i know, i know, i shouldn’t judge based on one’s coffee order, but seriously, if you’re not putting a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar in your coffee, there’s something wrong with you.”

“you really think so?” mingyu asks, and you nod confidently. “okay then, make me coffee the way you drink it.”

“are you sure, mingyu?” you smirk, raising an eyebrow at him, as if you’re challenging him. “i feel like any amount of milk and sugar in your black potion of death would send you into shock.”

“then let’s take baby steps,” he suggests. “how about you add tiny amounts of milk and sugar to my coffee every day, till i can decide if you’re right or wrong?”

“deal,” you agree. “be prepared for your world to change.”

mingyu still doesn’t like the way milk and sugar tastes in his coffee, but he’s willing to drink his coffee that way, as long as he has another excuse to talk to you.

. . . . .

entry 46: 29/06/25

she’s a good sister to soonyoung. they’re always bickering, but it’s heartwarming to see.

i should text minseo.

the coffee is getting sweeter, and i think i like it now.

sunday, 4:30 p.m.

“you’ve come a long way on your sugar and milk journey,” you tell him, setting his coffee down at the table in front of him. it’s a bright sunday afternoon, and mingyu has started drinking his coffee at the cafe on weekends, instead of grabbing his cup and booking it out of the cafe, blushing like a schoolboy.

“couldn’t have done it without you,” mingyu says teasingly. you open your mouth to reply, but the loud ringing of your phone cuts you off.

“wait, it’s my brother,” you groan, gritting your teeth as you answer your phone. mingyu still gets amused when he sees your demeanour shift entirely whenever you talk to soonyoung, who he has learned is your younger brother who ditched his position at a tech start-up to help you with the cafe.

“kwon soonyoung, you better have a good excuse for calling me now— wait, what? how did you even manage to do that?” mingyu watches as your eyebrows furrow with concern, and he can’t help the worry rising in his chest at your tone.

“fine, i’ll drop by after closing,” you sigh. “don’t get your ass into any more trouble. fine, i’ll get you the ice-cream you like. i’m hanging up now, idiot.”

mingyu can hear soonyoung’s muffled protests from the phone’s speaker before you hang up on him. “what’s wrong?” he asks, and you pull out the chair across mingyu and sit on it.

“soonyoung sprained his ankle and hurt his shoulder really bad after slipping on some wet pavement,” you say, rubbing at your forehead. “he’s in the hospital now, waiting for his x-ray reports to see if he’s broken anything.”

mingyu knows the annoyance is a flimsy facade; your caring instinct clearly shines through, and it’s another thing mingyu admires about you. “do you need to go to the hospital now? i could drive you up there.”

“his girlfriend is with him,” you shake your head. “i told him i’d go after i close the cafe, but he seems fine enough with just his girlfriend with him. thanks for the offer though.”

mingyu waves goodbye to you an hour later, his empty coffee having joined in on the jokes he cracked and embarrassing incidents he shared with you, hoping to lift your spirits.

he feels uneasy for the rest of the day whenever he recollects the worried look on your face he left you with, and he can only hope that you feel better the next day.

mingyu is sure he’s turned every single drawer in his office upside down at least twice by now. he’s sat through two meetings and a zoom call already, but his mind is in a state of chaos as he tries to find where his journal went.

the blue, leather-bound journal, which he keeps in his desk’s drawer, is nowhere to be seen, and mingyu’s brain keeps thinking about the million other people who could’ve found it and read most of his love-stricken thoughts about you.

over the last seven weeks of knowing you, mingyu has developed a sort of habit of writing about you in his journal every day, and a break in the routine has his entire body buzzing with nervous energy.

it’s easy for you to notice how jittery mingyu looks when he enters the cafe for a second time on the same day. your eyes follow him as he stands in line, his eyes clearly distracted as he moves like a robot—detached and mechanical.

you have an idea of what might be wrong.

when mingyu comes up in front of the cash register, he feels too nervous to even look you in the eye. he knows the chances of you finding out about the journal are low, but—

“my favorite color isn’t pastel blue,” you tell him. “it’s just the uniform. i’m more of a yellow girl.”

“...what?” it takes a while for mingyu to catch up with what you’re saying, so you clear your throat and explain again. 

“your journal,” you say. “you wrote that you think pastel blue is my favorite color, but it isn’t. it’s yellow.”

“you. you have my journal.” mingyu gulps, his life flashing before his eyes. “i—i don’t even what to—”

“mingyu, chill,” you assure him. “i just opened the first few pages to try and find who it belonged to, i didn’t read anything else. you must’ve left it behind yesterday.”

“i can explain, i promise,” mingyu insists. “can we talk for a bit?”

he takes the lack of any hesitance on your end as a good sign as you immediately nod. you call soonyoung over to take the next customer’s order and then slip out from behind the counter to walk up to mingyu. “let’s talk outside?” 

mingyu follows you outside the cafe, silently praying that he hasn’t entirely blown all his chances with you for all of ten seconds, stopping only when the door closes behind the both of you with a chime, and you reach into the pocket of your apron to retrieve his journal.

“here you go,” you say, handing the journal over to mingyu. he’s quick to take the journal from you, staring at the cover, as if blaming the journal itself for the situation he’s landed himself in.

“can i be entirely honest?” mingyu sighs, not wanting to make up any excuses or lies. “ever since i walked into your cafe, i haven’t been able to get you off my mind. at first i told myself that i was just, curious, but i was so wrong. i don’t think i have a single poetic bone in my body, and as cliche as it sounds, the journal entries are the closest i’ll ever get to writing poetry.”

“what are you trying to say, mingyu?” you shrug your shoulders. “what, you want my comments on your poetry?”

“i’m saying, i like you,” mingyu finally confesses. the words hang in the air between you two, waiting to sink into your skin. “i think i’ve liked you since the day i saw you, and i hate that you found out this way. the journal entries weren’t anything creepy, i swear. i just want to know you.”

“i never said i found them creepy,” you chuckle, and mingyu feels the weight on his chest vanish. “i think it’s cute. you’re cute. if you’d like it, i could help you out.”

“help with what?”

“your journal,” you answer, gesturing towards the journal in mingyu’s hands. “i could help you get to know me better. maybe at an animal cafe, or something like that.” you add, with a barely concealed smile.

“that would be great!” mingyu regains his composure, when he finally realizes. “wait—is this you agreeing to me taking you on a date?”

“you’re adorable, actually,” you laugh at mingyu’s confused expression. “check your journal when you get home, then text me what day you’re free, yeah?”

mingyu nods wordlessly, brain still not registering what’s happening to him. you take the chance to move closer to him and stand on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. he’s left standing there, lavender clinging to his blazer, cherry lipgloss on his cheek, and heart beating rapidly, while you return to the cafe.

that night, when mingyu goes back home, he opens his journal eagerly, flipping through the pages, before he notices something different on the first page. under his name, you had scribbled in pink ink, text me on my number to fact-check your entries :P.

he’s never been this fast at sending texts.

entry 47: 30/06/25

she wears cherry-flavoured lip gloss. and she wrote down her number on the first page of the journal.

i’m totally normal about this. i think.

saturday seems like a lifetime away, especially after mingyu officially asked you out on a date at an animal cafe, like he had wished to, and you said yes.

he still goes to the cafe every morning before work, and the conversations you both exchange are marked by shy smiles and curious looks. soonyoung is quick to pick up on the new body language, although he stays silent and stares intensely at mingyu the entire time he’s inside the cafe.

there’s another thing mingyu has noticed: he doesn’t order americanos anymore, and even when he makes coffee for himself at home, he never forgets the milk and sugar.

he thinks about how ever since he’s met you, his coffee order and his life has been getting sweeter. he only hopes that the sweetness isn’t just momentary.

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For the first 46 times, he had been foolishly optimistic. For the first 46 times, he still thought himself a king, like he was the first time, his first life. But here, in the 47th (or what could have been his thousandth at this point), Seokmin watched you drop his hand—king of nothing, loser of everything.

He had thought the 47th time would be different. But then again, he had thought that about the 46th. 

In the 46th, he first saw you at the market, laughing—loud, unabashed, bright enough that every head turned toward you. You were tucked between crates of peaches and dried herbs, a smear of pomegranate staining your bottom lip, the sunlight catching in your lashes. A leather satchel hung from your shoulder, worn at the edges, and you walked like someone with places to be and time to waste. You didn’t even glance at him.

That life, Seokmin had sold ink. Hand-ground, bottled in glass, sealed with wax. You visited his stall every week, even though you barely needed supplies. You’d spend long minutes just standing there, brushing your fingers over the shelves like they were familiar somehow. You never lingered on him—but you always lingered.

You asked questions you already knew the answers to. You always added a little extra money to the pile of coins. Once, you’d looked at him for a second too long and said, “It’s strange. You feel like a face I dreamed about.”

Then you’d smiled, tossed a coin onto the table, and left.

You weren’t his, not in that life. You married a cartographer—a good man, Seokmin remembered. He hadn’t hated him. Smelled like cedarwood and carried maps that curled at the edges like flower petals. He’d watch you walk back to the cartographer’s booth, the hem of your skirts catching the breeze, your satchel bouncing against your hip, and think—at least she’s happy.

You died giving birth to your second child. Seokmin found out from a friend of a friend. He didn’t go to the funeral.

And still, your absence gnawed at him in ways he never admitted aloud. He hated himself for thinking it stung a little less that time. Like grief was something you could grow used to.

He closed the stall early the next day. Burned every ledger with your name in it.

This time, in the 47th, you had been the one to say his name first. In this life, you were a singer. Jazz, mostly—low, smoky notes that curled through the air like perfume. He heard your voice before he saw you, carrying out the back of a bar he hadn’t meant to stop at. It had been years—lifetimes—since he last found you, and hearing you again hit him like a blow to the chest.

He’d stepped outside to clear his head. The alley behind the bar was quiet except for the scrape of a match. When he turned, you were already leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette balanced between your fingers.

“You got a light?” you asked.

He fumbled with his lighter. “Yeah. Here.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Your touch felt exactly the same. You lit your cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, and looked at him for a beat too long.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Seokmin.”

You smiled. “Seokmin,” you repeated, like it tasted good on your tongue. “I feel like I’ve said that before.”

Later that week, you sang for him alone. After the last show, after everyone else had gone. You stood barefoot in the dressing room, still in your stage makeup, and sang something soft and unhurried. He watched you from the chair, hands clasped between his knees, trying not to hold his breath.

In that life, you let him stay.

You fell asleep with your hand curled into the front of his shirt. You let him make you breakfast. You danced with him barefoot on cold tile floors, laughed at his terrible jokes, pulled him into bed when you were too tired to talk. You never once said the word soulmate, but some mornings you looked at him like you were starting to remember.

He almost believed the curse was lifting.

Three weeks later, he read in the paper that the bar had been raided. Police found illegal opium stashed under the floorboards. One casualty. Female. Unnamed. Mid-twenties.

He read the sentence again. And again. The words didn’t change.

He didn’t even finish the article. Just threw the paper into the fire and stood in front of it until the smoke made his eyes sting. He didn’t speak for days. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe without hearing your voice in his ears.

The worst part was that it was different, this time. You’d let him love you. You’d leaned into it. And for a moment—just long enough to hurt—he’d thought you might stay.

When the fire burned low in the hearth, and your scarf still hung on the back of the chair, Seokmin realized he was already mourning the 48th.

The first time he had known you, truly known you, he had worn a crown made of thorns and gold.

The thorns were metaphor, at first: guilt threaded through power, a boy-king raised too fast, carved sharp by grief and coronation. But over time, the weight grew real. Heavy. Gilded. Cutting. On colder nights, he would remove it and find faint red grooves across his temples, like the memory of someone’s fingers pressing too tight.

You had never touched the crown. You never bowed, either, not when the court looked on, not when his voice carried over the fields and froze armies in their march. Your head only ever inclined out of habit, not reverence.

You were not a queen. You had never wanted to be. You had been his warhound. His iron nerve. His blade and the hand that steadied it. You walked three steps behind him in court: silent, precise, eyes ever-moving. But in battle, you rode so close your knees brushed. He had memorized the rhythm of your breathing beside him: steady as the northern wind, sure as thunderclouds in spring. He trusted you more than he trusted his gods.

You bled for him, once.

An assassin’s blade had found its mark, but not the one it sought. He remembered the scream—his own—and how it had barely broken free before you collapsed. Steel had kissed your ribs. You had grabbed the attacker by the hair and run them through before falling.

That night, he paced the length of the war tent, blood soaked through his hands, staining the floor in places the servants would scrub for hours. The physicians had whispered, muttered things about odds and infection and prayers.

But you had lived.

And he had never again worn his crown without hearing your ribs break beneath his fingers.

He never said thank you. You never asked him to.

After, something shifted.

He began reaching for your wrist before any decree. You no longer waited to be summoned. He told his advisors he did not dream. You knew he did. (You were the only one who stayed when he woke screaming.)

And then, the witch came. 

Not cloaked, not veiled, not smoke and shadow. No, she came clothed in grief. In mourning black, with a spine stiff from loss and a voice that broke on the names of her sons. She stood in chains before the court, and the king stood tall as justice was read to her face.

But he flinched when her eyes found you.

Because the witch saw it. The way his gaze darted to you first. Always first. The way he moved closer to you without realizing, even now, even here. The way his hand curled—not around his crown—but around the hilt of his sword, every time her voice rose.

“You strung my children in your gallows,” she said, voice dry as sand. “For every son I buried, you will live a life. And in each one, you will find her again.”

The court murmured. The king stilled.

“And in each one,” she whispered, “she will not know you.”

He tried to kill her then. Blade unsheathed, a scream tearing from his throat. But the magic had already rippled through the chamber, warping the air. By the time his steel reached her, she had turned to dust.

He fell to his knees in it. In her. In the curse that still trembled on the marble floor.

He had dreamed of you, every night before the curse. After, he dreamed only of losing you.

He never told you what the witch said. Maybe he should have. Maybe you would’ve believed him. But how could he? How could he say, I think I’m going to lose you for a hundred lifetimes, and still hold you like it wasn’t already happening?

He tried to make the most of it. He held your hand longer. He stole minutes, lingered in rooms just to watch you fasten your cloak or pull your hair back with a cord. He memorized the scar on your collarbone, the way your mouth curved when you were amused but trying not to show it.

And when the end came—when a blade meant for him found your heart instead—he didn’t scream.

He only whispered, “Please. Not yet.” And somewhere, in the distance, the witch laughed.

The next time he woke, he was in a crib. Small hands. Weaker lungs. No crown.

But still, even as a child, he dreamed of you.

And he remembered everything.

In the 19th life, you had been a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.

A quiet girl, born of fog and brine, made of solitude and wind-whipped cliffs. You spoke with your hands more than your mouth. You hummed sea shanties under your breath and slept in a narrow bed beneath a round window that framed the moon like a portrait.

The nights were long. You were used to ghosts.

That life, Seokmin came to you in a storm; not a man so much as a memory trying to remember itself. His ship had shattered itself against the rocks sometime before dawn. You found him tangled in a net of driftwood and broken oaths, sea-foam in his lashes, a gash on his forehead like something the ocean had kissed and bitten in the same breath.

You dragged him inland, breathless and barefoot, the hem of your nightgown soaking in salt. He coughed up seawater and a name you didn’t recognize.

When he woke, it was to the sound of your fire and the creak of old wood settling in your cottage walls. He bled on your sheets. He slept in your father’s clothes.

You fed him soup without asking questions. He answered them anyway.

“My brother,” he said, fingers twitching against the wool blanket. “The sea took him.”

You didn’t tell him the sea takes everyone, eventually.

He watched you when you weren’t looking. You always were—looking, that is. Out toward the rocks. Up at the sky. Across the slow breath of the sea. But never at him.

Still, you brought him what warmth you could: your silence, your bread, your presence. And he, in return, gave you stories of constellations; of stolen ports and stars that guided without mercy; of the ship he had sailed, black-flagged and silver-rigged, bearing the symbol of your father’s enemy.

He didn’t know you had kept the flag.

Your father did.

He found it three days later, soaked and tangled in the wreckage like a secret unraveling.

He came home with the wind behind him and blood already in his eyes. The storm had passed, but it howled still in the bones of your home.

You stood between them — the man you had nursed back into life, and the man who had given you yours.

“Please,” you said, your voice cracking like driftwood underfoot. “He didn’t come here to fight.”

But your father had known too many men like him. Men with soft eyes and hidden blades. Men who flew foreign flags and left entire villages burning in their wake.

Seokmin tried to stand. He was still weak. Still foolish. Still yours.

“I would never hurt her,” he said, voice hoarse, hands raised as if in prayer.

But prayers are no match for grief. And your father’s blade was already moving.

The hunting knife sank in just below the ribs. 

Small. Cruel. Inevitable.

Seokmin tasted iron. Then salt.

Then the press of your hand over the wound, trembling, desperate, too late.

You cradled his face like something fragile and fading. Like driftglass worn smooth by time.

“Why does it feel like we’ve done this before?” you whispered, tears carving salt lines down your cheeks. “Why does this feel like an ending I already know?”

He opened his mouth.

He wanted to tell you: Because it is. Because I’ve loved you this way before. Because I always lose you.But his lungs were filling, and your hands were shaking, and the candlelight was flickering like it knew what came next.

So instead, he closed his eyes and let the sea take him again.

Death came easy, the 19th time. Almost like falling asleep to your voice.

He never woke from that dream. Not until the 20th.

In the third life, you had been a thief, laughing as you ran, skirts hiked, hair wild like a storm had fallen in love with you.

Seokmin had been a soldier then: duty-bound, spine straight, boots loud. He’d seen you first at the edge of the market square, slipping an apple into the folds of your shawl with a wink at the grocer. You’d moved like a secret, like the city itself was built to part for you. You were sunlight in the cracks of stone, mischief bottled in human form.

He hadn’t meant to follow you.

But that’s the thing about you. You happened to him. Like falling. Like gravity.

He chased you through alleyways for reasons even he didn’t understand—at first because it was his job, then because it was you.

You let him catch you once.

Once.

You turned around in the dark, lantern light catching the gold flecks in your eyes. “You’re not very good at this,” you told him, grinning as you pressed him to the wall. “A real guard would’ve cuffed me by now.”

“I forgot the cuffs,” he’d said, heart stuttering.

You laughed into his collarbone.

You were made of quick fingers and quicker stories. You never told him your real name.

You whistled as you walked. Stole buttons from his coat just to stitch them into your own. Called him “soldier boy” until he stopped asking you not to.

He kissed you like he didn’t know it would end. Like maybe it wouldn’t. And you let him. You let him want you.

The last time he saw you, your laugh echoed too far ahead.

You had stolen something you shouldn’t have—something political, or dangerous, or cursed. He couldn’t remember now. Only that you had turned and run, and he had followed.

You were already bleeding when he caught up.

A blade between your shoulder blades. A pool of red blooming at your spine like the worst kind of flower.

You collapsed in his arms, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go.

Even then, you looked up at him and smiled. Like he was the one who had stolen something. Like he was the lucky one.

“You almost had me,” you whispered, voice broken but bright.

He pressed his forehead to yours and lied. “I’ll find you next time.”

You died before he got the last word out.

In that life, he carved your name into the hilt of his blade. Even though you never gave it to him. Even though you never said it once. Even though he wasn’t sure it had been real.

Still, he wrote it in the steel.

Seokmin thinks the lives where he doesn’t see you die are the worst of all.

When death comes suddenly—when he holds your body in his arms, when your final breath stutters against his skin—there is at least a shape to the grief. An ending, cruel and sharp, but certain.

But the lives where you just fade? Where you disappear in the blur of traffic, or laughter, or time? Where you leave without knowing him, without ever realizing what you meant, who you were—those are the ones that ruin him slowly.

There’s no body to mourn. No grave to kneel before. Only the ache of unfinished things. Unkissed mouths. Unspoken names. An entire love story dissolving like fog in morning sun.

He tells himself it’s mercy, that maybe not seeing the end means there wasn’t one. But deep down, he knows better.

The 88th time, he’d been your professor.

He knew it the second you walked into his lecture hall: late, breathless, a pen tucked behind your ear, hair still damp from the rain. You slid into a seat near the back, opened your notebook with fingers that trembled from the cold. You didn’t look at him once that entire hour. Not when he stammered over a line of Yeats that reminded him of the 9th life, or when he dropped his chalk mid-sentence because you had tilted your head in the exact way you used to when you were a queen’s ghost in his bed.

He pretended not to notice you. Tried to be good. Tried to be just a man teaching literature to a room full of strangers. But you weren’t a stranger. Not to him. You were the poem.

You stayed after class one day, weeks in, to ask about a line in The Waste Land. You tapped your pen on the margin like you always did when you were thinking. He watched the ink smudge on your thumb, the same way it had when you'd written him battle reports by candlelight in your first life. You said, “It’s funny, this part—about memory being a kind of burden.” And you laughed.

He forgot how to breathe for a moment. Because for him, memory was everything. And it was crushing him.

He resigned two weeks later. Left behind a half-finished syllabus and a note to the department chair. You never saw him again. But he saw you, from a distance, months later, laughing in the courtyard with someone else, your copy of Eliot annotated to death. You had underlined the line "These fragments I have shored against my ruins."

So had he.

The 72nd time, he was your neighbor. Third floor, two windows across.

You liked to play music late at night—old jazz, mostly. Sometimes rock. Sometimes nothing at all, just the clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stirred your tea. He watched the glow of your lamp through the blinds, a moth to something warm and unreachable.

You passed each other in the hallway every morning. You wore headphones, always. He would nod. You’d smile, distracted, polite. Once, you left your laundry basket in the communal room and he guarded it like a temple, sitting cross-legged in front of it with his back against the dryer until you returned. You thanked him with a granola bar and said, “You’re sweet.”

He wanted to tell you that once you had sewn up the wound in his side with your bare hands. That once you had taught him how to peel mangoes with a knife curved like a crescent moon. That once you had died cradled in his lap, whispering a name he hadn’t used in that life—but it was his all the same.

But all he said was, “Anytime.”

You moved out six months later. He never saw where you went.

But for years after, he still left his window open at night, waiting for the sound of your record player.

The 91st time was different.

You met in a secondhand bookstore. It was raining, the kind of rain that turned the city soft and slow. You were in the classics aisle, thumbing the cracked spine of a copy of Wuthering Heights like you couldn’t decide whether to take it home. You looked up when he reached for the same shelf.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he picked up the book and offered it to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. “You look like you’d like this.”

You tilted your head at him. “That obvious?”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the scent of the rain in your hair, or the shape of your mouth on a word like obvious—but he said, “You just remind me of someone who once loved tragic things.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And how’d that end for her?”

He could’ve said: with a sword through her chest in a burning chapel or: with your hand in mine on a battlefield, dying with your mouth full of my name or: you don’t want to know, not really.

But instead, he smiled and shrugged. “She loved anyway.”

You paid for the book. Wrote your number on the receipt. Said, “Just in case you have any other doomed recommendations.”

For three weeks, you met in quiet corners of the city. Cafés, museums, bookstores with creaky floors. You kissed him in a park under a jacaranda tree, your hands in his hair, and he thought—please, this time. Just this once.

But the dreams came.

You woke up one night, tangled in his sheets, your breath short, a name you didn’t recognize on your lips. You stared at him like he was a ghost. And maybe he was.

The next morning, your number stopped working.

He never returned to that bookstore.

Time no longer moved straight for him. It twisted, coiled like smoke in a sealed jar, writhing just out of his grasp. It folded in on itself, looped through seams he couldn’t stitch shut. Days became out-of-order photographs, blurred at the edges. Sometimes he woke with dirt beneath his fingernails and someone else’s name on his lips. Other times he woke mid-sentence, his voice hoarse, body trembling, your name already half-formed in his throat before he could stop it.

He’d come to in the middle of moments he hadn’t yet earned.

One time, he opened his eyes and your hand was in his. Candlelight flickered across your features, dancing shadows onto the wall, and you were laughing. Your smile was soft and wine-stained, and he thought, pleasepleasepleaseplease don’t let this be the middle or the end. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let this be the beginning.

But then the world exhaled, and so did you. And just like that, you let go. The wax had melted too far. The moment was already behind him.

He was always late. Or far too early.

Once, he walked past a street performance in a rainy city, the smell of chestnuts thick in the air, and a violinist was playing your song. You were in the crowd, arms linked with someone else. You didn’t look his way. That was the 59th life. You’d been happy. He’d gone home alone and carved your name into the baseboard with a penknife.

There were lives where he found you on accident: caught in laughter in a passing car, your head tipped back, wind in your hair. He'd pull over. He’d get out. He’d run after you. By then, it was always too late. Always.

And then there were lives where he lived entire decades without knowing you were there. Lives where your name never passed his lips, but his dreams were full of you anyway. Your eyes in faces of strangers. Your laugh hiding behind glass storefronts and voices on the radio.

Once, he met you on the first day.

He had blinked into existence and there you were, leaning over a record store counter, your chin in your palm, chewing a pencil that had no eraser left.

You didn’t even look up as he entered. “New here?” you asked, thumbing through a crate of old CDs.

He couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

You turned then, slid him a mix tape in a clear case with handwritten words across the label: for the sad boys.

You raised an eyebrow. “You look like one of them.”

And then—God, then—you smiled.

Not the kind of smile made for anyone else. The kind he remembered from lifetimes ago, before curses, before loss. The kind you gave him when you’d collapse into a tent after battle, dirt on your cheek and blood on your blade, and he would press his forehead to yours and whisper, you made it. That smile.

He didn’t breathe until he was out the door.

In his 98th life, he kept that tape in the top drawer of his nightstand. Even when the store burned down. Even when you left before winter. He never played it. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to know what songs you’d chosen. He didn’t want the sound of your past to be louder than your memory.

And still, some nights, when the silence stretched thin and the moonlight spilled like milk across the floor, he’d take it out of its case. Run his fingers over the letters, worn down by time and hope. He'd hold it to his chest and listen, not to the music, but to what was missing.

You always felt just out of reach. Like a word he once knew. A breath he hadn’t finished taking. A promise made on a night neither of you could remember.

And the worst part was this: You didn’t know he was waiting. You never did.

By the 99th, he no longer prayed for you to remember.

He didn’t beg the stars, didn’t barter with fate, didn’t scream into the ocean the way he had in the 57th life. Didn’t offer up his name like a chant or a wound. No, by then, Seokmin asked for nothing more than time. A brief stay. A held breath. A quiet life, even if it flickered out too soon.

In the 99th, he found you behind a glass door painted with chipped celestial decals, a crescent moon flaking off the ‘o’ in “OPEN,” a trail of stars skimming the corner of the window like they were escaping. The bell chimed as he stepped in, sharp and unkind.

You looked up. You wore a threadbare tank top and boredom like armor, curled on a stool, a single earbud tucked under your hoodie’s drawstring. The whir of a needle hummed from the back room. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d walked into a dream stitched together from old memories. But no, it was you, older, sharper, your smile missing. You hadn’t seen him yet.

He didn’t know what compelled him to speak. Maybe it was the ache in his chest. Maybe it was the way his heart clenched like it always did when it sensed you in the room.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he’d said, voice unsteady.

You glanced at the empty chairs, then at him — his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, his breath shallow.

“No one does anymore,” you replied, voice dry. “Sit.”

He lowered himself into the cracked leather chair like a man about to confess.

You set your gloves on with the kind of efficiency that told him you were good at this — careful hands, precise eyes, the kind of focus that once won wars in other lives. You didn’t ask many questions. Just raised a brow as you prepped the machine.

“What are we doing?”

“A sun,” he said. “Small. Over the heart.”

You didn’t laugh. Just nodded.

“Bold placement,” you murmured, your touch ghosting across his chest as you wiped the spot clean. Your fingers were cold. He felt his ribs shudder under them.

When the needle buzzed to life, he barely flinched. Pain was easy now. Familiar. It grounded him, steadied his breathing. He focused instead on your face: the soft crease between your brows, the way your mouth tugged slightly to one side in concentration. The same mouth that had once commanded armies. That had once kissed him behind a curtain of falling snow. That had once whispered his name as you drowned in the 34th life.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

The silence between you was velvet-lined, thick with memory he could not share.

But then, when it was over—when the ink had settled beneath his skin, permanent and small like a secret—you lingered.

You stared at the sun, your thumb brushing gently around it, not quite touching.

You tilted your head.

“Feels familiar,” you said.

The words weren’t soft. They were hushed. Like they didn’t belong to the present at all. Like they’d spilled out from another life by accident.

Seokmin’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say, It’s because you’ve drawn it before. On my wrist, in the 18th life, when we were both seventeen and on the run. Or the 42nd, when you painted it in the sky for me with fireflies. Or the 65th, when you carved it into the bark of an apple tree and told me you’d always come back.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He just nodded. Quiet. Reverent. Grateful.

And you didn’t press.

He left with a bandage over his heart and the ghost of your fingers still clinging to his skin.

He didn’t ask for your number.

He didn’t need it.

You were always a life away.

And this one was almost over.

When his 100th life comes, Seokmin almost forgets.

Time, by then, is waterlogged: bloated, heavy, slipping through his fingers before he can name it. He wakes sometimes and feels seventeen. Other days, he’s all of them at once: soldier, scholar, ghost, god. There are lifetimes he can no longer separate from dreams. Some where he knows he died before you. Others where you didn’t die at all, just vanished, like smoke trailing from the edge of a candle, leaving him in the dark.

But in this life—in his 100th—Seokmin finds himself with a crown on his head and your hand in his.

It startles him. The symmetry. The cruelty of it. Or maybe it’s mercy. He hasn’t decided yet.

The palace is quieter than he remembers. Not the gold-dripping empire of his first life, where bells tolled and sycophants bowed. This one is quieter. Older. Cracks in the stone. Ivy on the columns. A throne made of wood instead of war.

He looks down, and there you are: fingers woven between his, knuckles familiar.

You’re not in armor this time. No blood on your boots. You wear blue. The soft kind. The same blue as the ink that once stained your hands, satchel heavy with pomegranate. The same ink you dabbed on his trembling skin as he told you he wanted a sun on his chest. Permanent. Just above the heart. The fabric sways when you move, like you’ve never known a battlefield. 

But your gaze?

Your gaze is sharp as ever. It slices through the years. Finds him like it always does.

And this time—this time—it lingers.

There’s something different in your eyes. Not just fondness. Not just fate.

Recognition.

He swallows.

You smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen you,” he says, and it’s the closest he’ll ever come to falling to his knees.

You smile at him as the court rises, as banners are unfurled above their heads.

He lifts his eyes to the crest on the silk.

A sun.

Gold and jagged and familiar, encrusted in diamonds atop your crown.

You wear it differently than he ever imagined. Not like royalty. Not like a symbol. You wear it like it’s always been yours. As if, somewhere in you, your hands remember what it was to trace its shape onto his skin. Onto tree bark. Onto war maps. Onto history.

He turns to you, and for a moment, you're no longer queen—you’re the daughter of the man who had once stood on a gallows, made martyr by the very flag Seokmin now rules under. You had screamed that day—not words, just grief. And even as they pulled you away, he had met your eyes. In that life, his 23rd, you never forgave him.

But in this one, your palm finds his. And stays.

You lean in, as the crowd dissolves around you, a blur of robes and oaths and rustling pageantry.

“I had a dream last night,” you say, soft and faraway. “We were in a forest. I had a sword. You were bleeding. I held your face and told you not to die.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Did I?”

“No,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across the inside of his wrist, where he swears the skin still remembers the kisses you pressed there 43 lives ago. “You came back.”

The throne behind you is carved wood. No gold. No fanfare. Ivy spills from its corners like it’s always been part of the earth. And maybe it has. Maybe this kingdom is a little quieter, a little humbler, shaped by all the lives he never got to finish. All the ones he watched you slip through like sand.

But here—in this 100th, his last—he thinks maybe it was all worth it.

Because when he looks at you now, all the pieces come together. You laugh with the same mouth that once kissed him behind a bookshop, that once shouted orders on horseback. You smile like a thief who never got caught. You hold his hand like a promise.

And when you kiss him,  it tastes like ink and salt and rain.

He feels it then: every life pooling into this one.

Every sun he ever wore.

Every name you ever said, even when you didn’t know why it made your chest ache.

Every version of love that wasn’t enough—until now.

Until you.

Until you knew him.

And this time, he doesn’t need to pray.

This time, he just stays.

It’s a fairytale type of belief, a blind and misguided hope for something impossible, yet you choose to believe it anyways. You’ve spent your entire life stuck in the pockets of your small village, never once experiencing any type of loss, yet– something had always felt missing, as if a part of you had been stolen away without you even knowing. 

There was a hole in your life, and you were determined to find it– whatever it was. 

You take nothing with you but a cloth bag packed with the bare necessities: dried fruit for sustenance, rope, your leather-bound journal, a pot of ink and a pen. You clutch the rusting lantern tightly in your right hand and push into the light blue vines that covered the entrance of the infamous tunnel. The light illuminates the road in front of you and casts dancing shadows along the damp cave walls. 

Your stomach flips and turns, but you venture in anyways, searching amidst the ugly brown walls and scattered blue vines for whatever it was that was lost to you. 

Wonwoo swears he’s been searching for ages– at least a few decades or so. The boring scenery of the tunnel had long since transitioned into a sort of subway system, the walls tiled in blue and browning at the lines separating them like a badly maintained bathroom. 

It had taken Wonwoo approximately four days traveling the complex system to realize there was no way out. 

The first stop he got off at had taken him up a flight of stairs and into a grassy field, the crops dying from the glares of the sun shining above them. The field had been calm and quite serene, and Wonwoo had begun to enjoy the feeling of the sun on his face after days underground. Yet once the sky had darkened, wisps of shadow began to emerge, threatening to gnaw off his limbs whenever they got too close. 

The shadows seemed hell bent on getting him back into the subway system, clawing and slashing at him until he was forced back down the marble stairs– back into the cold and dampness of the tunnel system. 

The second stop was a little better, as Wonwoo found himself emerging into the middle of a bustling city, one mirroring the likes of New York in the 1930s— a time period he was all too familiar with. He found himself captivated by the glow of the city and the sounds of a thousand footsteps along the busy streets of Downtown. 

He had smoothed out the crinkles of his grey suit, doing his best to dust off the dirt, grime and blood– all reminders of his last stop in the tunnel system. He drew back his shoulders and fixed his hair, glancing at his reflection in a nearby storefront. He smiled, for he was quite pleased with what he saw, a dashing young man from the 30s, rich and perfectly poised. 

But no, he couldn’t be distracted. He had abandoned his timeline and ventured deep into the tunnel for one thing and one thing only: you. 

So Wonwoo forced himself to turn away, back underground, once again. 

On the third stop, the subway had screeched to a jolting stop, sending Wonwoo a few steps back as he tried to regain his balance. The doors slid open aggressively and he stepped out, racing towards the stairs and back into the light. He was excited to see what was at the surface this time, all the while picturing what you might look like once he’d found you. 

He was travelling through timelines, after all, and you might look drastically different than the girl he had once known before. But none of that mattered as long as your soul was the same. 

The shadows must have felt his enthusiasm however, as they swarmed the exit and refused to let him pass.

“Let me through!” He yelled, grabbing a fallen pipe off the ground and swinging furiously. “Let– me– through!” 

The shadows disperse for just a second before returning, stronger and angrier than before. A tendril curls around the pipe and yanks it from his hands, throwing it to the ground as another tendril swipes him off his feet. 

Wonwoo lands on the floor with a painful groan. He stays there, watching as the shadows danced through the dimly lit corridors of the subway system. 

I’m done, he thinks silently. It’s over and I’m tired. 

But something itches at him and pulls him back up. He boards the subway once again, pulling out his phone to note down the stops, keeping track of the directions. He searches stop by stop. He searches for you. 

It’s the damp smell of the underground tunnels that hits you first, as you note the sudden transition from narrow dirt cave walls to a large atrium, its walls lined with blue squares that looked old and weathered from age. You note the benches that line the walls, some broken and crooked, colored with brown paint that chipped at certain places. 

There’s a loud sound as the floor beneath you shakes, thunder running through the ground as you brace yourself against the wind that was picking up, breezing through your hair from the tunnel on the side furthest from you. 

A train blows past you and screeches to a halt inside the atrium, its metal doors opening for you in welcome. A strange voice sounds from the ceiling. 

“Train to 22nd.” 

You glance up, confused. A couple seconds pass as you hesitate, but you end up stepping into the enclosure of the train, taking a seat on the bright blue seats lining the insides. You hold on as the train embarks, picking up speed through the dark tunnel. 

It’s entirely new and absolutely thrilling to witness. 

You get off once the doors open again, stepping up into the light, emerging in a cornfield. You turn, confused, as the way back to the train station seemed to pop out of nowhere, completely out of place amidst the yards of wheat and corn. 

It’s pretty and much bigger than the fields you were used to. You’re busy taking it all in– the scenery, the breeze, the feel of the sun on your face– when something whacks you from behind and sends you flying, tumbling into the crops and onto the dirt. 

You barely have time to stand before it tries hitting you again. You dodge this time, running past the swirl of shadow and flying back down the stairs of the underground train station. 

It doesn’t follow you. Instead, it seems to stare at you from the top of the stairs, sending a silent threat right through your bones. It doesn’t want you to find it– whatever you had come here to recover. 

You stare down at the scrapes on your hands and knees, blood pooling and dripping down like uncomfortable tears. The train squeals to a stop behind you, as if it just knew. 

It takes you four more stops trying to find your way back home to realize it was impossible. The tunnel had laid claim on you now, and you were stuck– facing the shadows that wanted so badly for you to stay with them underground, a hole still in your soul and never finding whatever you were missing. 

It takes another two weeks for both you and Wonwoo to break. 

Wonwoo’s curled up underneath one of the benches lining the subway wall, his knees pressed against his chest and his arms holding them together. He shakes violently despite the humid heat surrounding him, his glasses fogging up with each heavy breath. His phone is dead– leaving his map of the subway lines on a brown paper bag, badly drawn and probably incorrect from his poor memory. 

He’s reluctant to admit it, for Wonwoo had always prided himself in being the most tenacious out of all his friends, yet it was more than obvious: the shadows had bested him. They had won, breaking his spirit and ripping apart his leg. 

It sat there, mangled and broken, held together with the remains of his tattered suit jacket. It was still connected to him, but the more Wonwoo stared at it, the more he felt as if it wasn’t his anymore. The tunnel had promised to return what was lost to him, yet it had taken everything left instead. 

And perhaps the cruelest thing of all happened once he fell asleep. Despite never finding you in his journeys across the subway lines– Wonwoo still saw you in dreams, each time he closed his eyes and sleep crawled out from the ground to find him. 

For just a moment, it would be as if he had never lost you in the first place. 

On the other hand, somewhere in the tunnel systems, you fought sleep like an old foe. You hated how nothing seemed to greet you on the other side, leaving all your dreams dark and gloomy– the void staring back at you until you woke again. 

It was an endless cycle, cruel and unusual punishment. So you sat, eyes listless as you leaned against the cold tiles of the wall, cradling your mangled arms filled with scratches and claw marks. You’re tired, adrenaline gone and running on fumes. You feel silly now– running headfirst into a scary tunnel, looking for something you didn’t even know you had lost. 

But you still stand up each time you wake, heading back into the train, allowing it to take you wherever it pleases. You stop trying to get to the surface, however, too drained to fight the shadows over and over again. 

Your only hope is that you’ll end up finding someone underground– a lost soul just like you, traveling amidst the brown and the blue. 

You blink once, twice, another time, staring through the dirty glass at what you think is a person. 

You can see the silhouette of him– bent over and slumped on the floor, his hair covering his eyes and a pool of red by his left leg. Your heart jumps to your throat as you stare at him– a person. You pray with everything in you that he’s still alive. 

The train slows to a stop by the platform and you wait for the doors to open, but it never does. 

A surge of panic rushes through you like a wave. “Open the door!” You scream up at the ceiling, at the voice you’ve heard a million times announcing each arrival and departure. “Please–” Your voice cracks and breaks, desperately prying at the doors with your fingernails. 

You keep your eyes trained on the man slumped on the floor, and for a moment, you think the train might pick up speed and you’ll never find your way back to him again. 

Then the doors slide open and you spill onto the train platform, face wet and sticky with tears and sweat. 

The train takes off, shaking the ground as you sprint towards the stranger like he was your saviour. 

Wonwoo thinks the universe must be glitching when he opens his eyes to see you. Your eyebrows are furrowed in worry as you fuss over him, hands grabbing at his bad leg and at his bruised hands, fingers tracing his battered knuckles with a sort of familiarity. 

“Y/N–” It comes out a croak, a little clumsy as he stumbles over the syllables of your name. “You’re here.” It’s a little unbelievable, as he raises a shaky hand to cup your face in his palms. 

He doesn’t miss the way you flinch at his touch, as if his hand burned your skin. He doesn’t miss the look you give him either. You don’t recognize him. You don’t have the faintest clue as to who he is. 

His hand retracts and drops to rest beside the rest of him. 

“You’re bleeding.” You whisper, choosing to ignore the fact that the stranger knew your name. “Your leg–” It’s an ugly sight, but you do your best to look at it instead of looking away. 

He lets out a sound that comes in between something of a groan and a sigh. “The monsters, they–” The rest of his sentence trails off, indescribable incidents too complex for words, but you know. 

“They’re ferocious, I know.” You offer up a weak smile, searching for humour in the midst of such gruesome things. “Nearly cut my arm off two stops ago.” 

The stranger’s lips twitch at the comment. It looks like a smile, or whatever remained of one– the rest lost to the tunnels a long time ago. 

You reach a tentative hand up to fix his glasses, rebalancing them on the bridge of his nose, wiping them clean with the sleeve of your shirt. 

He mumbles a quiet word of thanks before his eyes close again. 

You slump down to rest beside him, pressing your fingers against his wrist, focusing on the thready drum of his pulse. It rings in your ears, overtaking the loud wind of the train and the thunder coming from the train tracks. 

You drift off the sleep, your fingers still pressed against his pulse. 

You dream of big cities and the face of the stranger laying next to you.

Wonwoo doesn’t dream, not anymore– not when the focus of all his dreams is laying next to him, for the first time in a dozen years. 

You find the tunnels are easier to handle with someone to talk to. The walls no longer look as hideous and dull as they once did, the blue shining brighter than before, accenting the walls and making the grime and dust nearly invisible. 

There’s a structure, a sense of purpose– as the two of you work together to find your way out. You occasionally go up to the surface for food, water and other necessities. You come to learn that Wonwoo is smart and calculated, as he presents to you the list he had made, detailing which exits weren’t guarded and were safe to go out from. 

You make the train your home, laying tarps and blankets along the blue seats. Wonwoo does his best to help, limping beside you on his makeshift crutch, offering you random tidbits of advice and knowledge. He spends most of his time perched on the seats of the train, his bad leg stretched out on the seats and your journal in his hands. He catalogs the day, flipping through previous entries, cross-referencing them with the present day, looking for patterns in the tunnel’s system. 

You ask Wonwoo what he came down here to look for and he gives you a strange look. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to be looking for it anymore, as he helps you search for a way back to your village. 

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything about what the tunnel’s entrance looked like when you entered?” He asks you again after a period of silence, tapping the end of your ink pen against his chin in thought. “Cause mine was covered in metals and copper wires when I walked in, before it transitioned to the subway station layout.” 

You frown at the foreign words. “Wires? Subway?” 

He looks up. “Right. I forget you’re from like wayyyy back.” Wonwoo had traveled through a variety of different timelines searching for you– eons worth. 

You shrug off the confusion. “I just remember it was covered in blue vines. The walls were muddy and cracked– like the inside of a cave.” 

You look at him, hopeful for any sign of recognition in his eyes. You don’t see it. 

“I guess I haven’t explored as much as I thought I had.” Wonwoo looks at you apologetically. “We’ll find it.” There is a glimmer of hope in his voice and you respect him for it. 

“Yeah.” You try to muster up the same kind of hope, yet it sputters out weakly. “Yeah, we’ll find it.” 

Wonwoo knew he had run out of luck when he told you his name and there was no glimmer of realization in your eyes. You had stared at him with the same stare one would give a stranger– a nameless face you were just getting to know, a clean slate of a soul. 

Yet once he had learned you had no clue why you had ventured into the tunnel in the first place, a spark of hope began to appear. You didn’t know what you were missing– yet you were here anyways. 

Up on the surface, Wonwoo had been a physicist. World renowned and revered by all his colleagues, he had turned to the theory of the multiverse after losing you– obsessed with the idea of traveling to a world where you were as lonely as he was. He had entered the tunnel on a hunch, hearing myths of a place that could return those lost to you. His original plan had been to find a version of you out there, in a world where he had died instead of you. He supposed the idea was that you could accompany each other– for any version of you was better than none of you at all. 

But everything had changed now. The tunnel was far more dangerous than he had predicted it to be. And you were right here, living and breathing in front of him. All he had to do was make you remember. Make you fall in love with him all over again. 

Wonwoo stares at you from his spot on the subway floor, a scavenged blanket covering his knees and pooling on the floor around him. You’re scrambling all over the place, mumbling about some markings along the wall. 

A small smile makes its way across his face at the familiar sight. He hasn’t met that many versions of you in his travels, but you seem to be frazzled and a ball of energy in every universe. 

“What are you looking at?” Your voice cuts through the fantasy, breaking the temporary bliss he had found himself in. 

“Nothing.” His lips lay flat once more. 

It was your voice. You might resemble his lost lover down to the minute details, but your voice, your tones and inflections– it was unmistakably different. 

Wonwoo could only delude himself for so long. 

There are sixty-two scratches embedded on the train wall by the time you think you had finally cracked the case. Sixty-two days underground. Sixty-two days stuck next to a strange man– one who stared at you so blatantly and still insisted he wasn’t. 

“You’ve got that look on your face, dove.” He drawls out from his spot on the train floor, an accusatory finger pointed at you. “Speak.” 

You roll your eyes, both at the affectionate name and at the demanding tone. There were still parts of Wonwoo’s old life that he couldn’t shake– his lofty way of speaking and the air of command that followed him into every room. 

Despite these flaws however, you had to admit the two of you had grown close. He had finally let you into glimpses of his old life around day thirty-three, vague stories about his time in the big city: solving complex equations, gambling, teaching at top universities. 

“I lived a lavish lifestyle.” He tried painting the picture for you in immense detail. “Imagine ladies in red dresses that flow down to the floor, wine in every corner, a room so large you can’t see each wall.” He chuckles at your curious eyes. “I was always working too– constantly holed up in my office, scratching numbers into the blackboard. I would have probably rotted in there, but Y/N–” 

You perk up noticeably at your name and Wonwoo pauses, eyes wide at the slip. 

“Me?” You ask, intrigued. “You knew me in your other life?” 

Wonwoo shakes his head, a firm answer with no room for argument. “No, just the same name.” 

“Who was she?” 

“My wife.” 

You recall the way his eyes saddened at the mention of her, how his shoulders slumped and made him look smaller than he really was. It contrasted heavily with the way he was looking at you now, shoulders drawn back and a demanding look on his face. 

You motion for him to join you in your corner of the train and wait for him to maneuver himself over, his bad leg awkwardly limp as he shuffled himself closer. 

“Look.” You point to the sketches in your journal, detailed markings of carvings you had seen along the wall at certain stops. “I was wondering what the weird drawings were on the wall– but I think I figured it out.” 

It’s easy to explain your hunch to Wonwoo. He catches on to the idea quickly, finishing your sentences and filling in the blanks with ease. 

The theory is simple– and with just a bit of luck, it could get you both home. 

The sudden prospect of leaving the tunnel sat in the pits of Wonwoo’s stomach, unsettling and looming in the horizon. 

He didn’t know how to feel about it: the chance that the two of you could escape this place, never to see each other again and without the thing you were looking for. 

Wonwoo didn’t voice this hesitation however, silently following you as you navigated the complex systems of the train by following the markings along the walls. He didn’t say anything when you threw him a reassuring and hopeful look from over your shoulder, promising him that he’d be okay soon. 

He didn’t know how to tell you that the pain– his leg, the absence of the sun– was nothing compared to the pain he had already been in, in a world without you. 

Please. He wanted to beg. Don’t make me go back up there. A couple weeks ago, Wonwoo would have shoved you aside without a second thought, snatching the leather journal from your limp hands and racing towards the stairs to his Y/N– to a version of you who knew and loved him. 

But that was not the case now. You seemed to buzz with hope and it pulled Wonwoo along, stumbling after you like a lost dog. 

The thought of getting out of the tunnel for good excites you, pushing you to keep going as you venture further into the depths of the train system. Wonwoo trails quietly behind you, occasionally tapping your back to get you to slow down. He is silent, for the most part, until you stop by the foot of the white marble staircase leading out into the light. 

“We’re here?” He asks, scrutinizing the way out with wary eyes. “Are you sure?” 

“No.” You admit. “But it’s our best bet.” 

He glances down at the journal in your hands and the scribbles that covered most of its pages. “How does it work?” 

You spend most of the night explaining to Wonwoo how the markings work as a guide, laying on the cold concrete of the station floor. 

“We’ll try going up to the surface tomorrow.” You propose, glancing at the shadows already beginning to form around the base of the stairs, as if sensing your plan. “It’ll work, as long as we do it together.” 

Wonwoo nods, but there’s something you can’t pinpoint behind his eyes. “Right. Together.” 

Wonwoo wakes up in cold sweat, bolting upright to see you still sleeping peacefully beside him, the journal clutched loosely in your arms. 

It’s clear, what he has to do. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, getting up awkwardly from his spot on the floor. 

He snatches the journal from your limp arms and flips to a new page. He maps out a new route. 

Wonwoo would like to think he’s changed since meeting you– since the tunnel had claimed his life, but he knows he hasn’t. He’s still every bit as selfish as he was before. 

He boards the next train and counts the stops until his destination. 

He’s still looking for you. 

Wonwoo doesn’t know what he was expecting. More shadows to fend off, most likely. He imagined he would emerge from the subway station to a vibrant city, one with those aristocratic elements you had always enjoyed. 

He figured he’d find you and you’d love him once he explained it all to you. He figured you would love him despite it all. 

“I’m sorry, Woo.” Is what he gets instead, your eyes sad and holding pity for him. “I don’t know what you were expecting but–” 

“I came all this way.” He protests, and he knows it sounds weak. “I came all this way. I-” I came all this way. 

“I know.” He doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick to his battered leg, over and over again, as if you can’t quite believe what you were seeing. “I can’t– it’ll mess with the timeline, you know that.” 

He did know that. Yet he was selfish and wanted you anyway. 

“I’d burn down a hundred timelines if it meant I could have you again.” 

Your eyes grow sadder at his words. “And that is why I can’t.” There’s an emphasis on it, a finality. 

“Tell me to leave, then.” He takes a step closer. 

You can’t. Your mouth opens and closes with frustration. 

“Tell me to leave.” His heart beats louder, quicker now– as his hands reach out for you. He’s so close. So close. 

And then you say it. You spit out the word like a sour drink and it washes over Wonwoo’s face, paralyzing him. 

Leave.

And so he walks briskly, back along the city streets, past buildings that resembled his life before, back down those damn stairs. Back down into the darkness. Back to where he came before. 

You wake up alone. The silence of the tunnel– void of his breath– haunts you as you stir, sitting upright to look at the empty spot next to you. 

Your notebook is gone and so is he. 

“Don’t cry.” You chide yourself, picking yourself up from the cold floors and gathering your things. “You barely know the guy.” 

It was true. Despite having latched onto him like he was your lifeline, you and Wonwoo were still strangers. You tell yourself over and over again that it made sense for him to leave, if only as a way to soothe the anger quietly burning within you. 

“He wants his wife.” You remind yourself. “He’s not here looking for you.” 

The shadows churn along the bottom of the stairwell, the light from outside refracting onto the walls of the station, dancing like fireflies. You pick up the first weapon you find: a metal pipe. 

Fuck him, you decide. You’re getting yourself out of here, whether he wants to follow you or not. 

The shadows grow more aggressive as if taking on the silent challenge, beckoning you to fight them, to try. 

You let out a yell– a broken and insane one– unleashing from the pits of your stomach and releasing all the anger, pain and desperation. 

You picture what might await you at the top of those stairs. A secluded cottage house, flowers spanning on for miles, a friend waving at you from the porch. 

You take a deep breath. The shadows spin faster still. You charge. 

Wonwoo stumbles down the stairs like a ragdoll. He ricochets off the last step and lands roughly on the damp ground, cowering from the pain and embarrassment. 

He feels like dying, but he pulls himself back together enough to board the train again, navigating the system until he spills back onto the platform he had come from. 

He pictures what he might see as he raises his head from the ground. Your worried eyes, a wave of relief washing over them as they meet his. You, running across the platform to meet him. You, you, you. 

He raises his head and wishes he hadn’t at all. It is unmistakably empty. You are unmistakably gone. 

The tunnel is a distant memory now, resurfacing in your mind only when the rain gets hard and the farm starts to smell like the underground.

“You’ve got that look on your face.” He sets down a cup of tea on the table in front of you, bending down to press a kiss to your forehead. 

You smile. “Just thinking about how we met.” 

He pushes his glasses up with the back of his hand as his eyes crinkle with laughter at the memory. “When you stumbled into my garden, bloody and completely out of your mind?” 

You hum. 

“You thought I was a ghost. You knew my name.” 

You remember. The scratch of your throat when you had croaked out his name, stunned to see the man standing before you. The sinking feeling when you realized they were not the same Wonwoo. 

“No matter.” He shakes the memory away with a touch of his hand on yours. “That was a lifetime ago, my dove. And whatever it was, I’m glad it brought you to me. I love you.” 

You nod, and the memories of the Wonwoo you had encountered– loved– in the tunnels disappear. “I love you too.” 

You wonder vaguely where he is now. You hope he got what he was searching for too. 

day 170 

timeline #100

There is no way out. I was foolish to think there ever was. My mind spins back to that morning on the platform, a decision away from life and…whatever this is. Purgatory. Death. 

I should not have left. I know that. I grew selfish and discarded my chance at happiness. The tunnel, I’ve learned, gives you one chance and one chance only. 

Y/N was my chance. I should have followed her home. I should have…

It’s no matter now. I know now to stop searching. Timeline #100’s Y/N told me the truth. She had it all figured out, buried in research after her Wonwoo had died. 

There is no universe where both of us live. It is impossible. It is our canon event. Each time Y/N meets Wonwoo– she dies in the next 5 years. Each time Wonwoo seeks Y/N out— he dies in the next 3. 

It is impossible. I must stop trying. It’s time to be selfless– for once. My Y/N, wherever you are, I will stop looking. Live for me. For us. 

The shadows creep through the cracks towards me as I write this last entry. They are welcoming me home. 

Day 17132

timeline #4800 

research on the multiverse + subway system

Time does not flow the same underground, in the belly of the subway system. It has been 46.9 years since Y/N has disappeared and I have still not aged one bit. 

The tunnel makes no mistakes. It knows what it’s doing. 

The tunnel returns those lost to you. 

I have been stuck on this paradox for decades: the tunnel promises happy endings. Yet there is no universe where Y/N and I live happily ever after. None at all. 

Yet… time does not flow at all in the tunnel. And in these 46.9 years, I have not met another soul underground. 

We could have lived forever underground. Together. She would not have died in 5 years. I would not have died in 3. We…we could have had it all. 

There is a missing phrase from the legend: 

The tunnel returns those lost to you… but only ever once. 

You don’t know why you pause. Maybe it’s the way the early light spills across his face, casting faint shadows along the bridge of his nose and his sharp jawline. Or maybe it’s the way he seems entirely detached from the rush around him, earphones in, lost in something only he can hear.

He wears a brown high-neck sweater, the kind that looks soft even from a distance. One hand is tucked into his pocket, the other wrapped around the strap of a worn black backpack. His expression is unreadable—not bored, not impatient, just… distant.

You don’t think he notices you.

It’s silly, the way you keep looking. He’s just another passenger, someone you’ll probably never speak to, never know. But still, you watch him for a moment longer, as if memorizing this version of the morning before the spell breaks.

A man steps in front of you, shifting to adjust his briefcase. The moment lasts only a second, but when you glance back.

He’s gone.

You blink, scanning the space where he had been, but now, it’s empty.

For some reason, the thought lingers as the train lurches forward. You shake it off, exhaling softly. It’s nothing. Just another passing commuter, another stranger among many others.

As you grip the pole tightly, you wonder

Will he be here tomorrow?

DAY 2

The train doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and you step in. Your usual spot is taken today by an older woman clutching a canvas tote, her head tilted forward in light sleep. So you move a little further down, fingers curling around the overhead rail.

And then you see him. You don’t mean to look, not really. But there he is again, standing in the exact same place as yesterday — leaning against the glass panel near the doors, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. Today, a book rests in his grip, fingers idly turning a page as his gaze flickers across the words.

You wonder, briefly, if he ever misses his stop. If he ever gets so lost in thought that he forgets where he’s going.

The thought lingers for a second too long.

A jolt in the tracks sends the train swaying, and you glance away quickly, feeling oddly self-conscious. It’s nothing. Just another passenger in the sea of strangers.

And yet, when you step off at your stop, you catch yourself glancing back. Just once.

_

DAY 10

It’s been ten days since you first saw him. Ten mornings of stepping onto the same train, gripping the same pole, and watching him from the corner of your eye.

Every day, he’s there — leaning against the glass panel, the same sky-blue book in his hands, which makes you wonder if he ever really reads it. His hands are always in his pockets; sometimes, his gaze turns toward the window.

You don’t know when you start expecting to see him.

He’s just supposed to be another passenger, another face in the blur of morning commuters. But now… now, the moment you step onto the train, your eyes move without thinking, searching and waiting.

The next day comes like all the others. But lately, there’s one thing that makes the mornings feel less mundane. 

You find yourself on the platform, scanning the crowd before you even realize what you’re doing. Maybe you’ll never know his name, never exchange a single word, but that doesn’t stop your mind from conjuring a thousand possibilities, fleeting thoughts that leave you restless.

The train arrives with a familiar hum, and as you step inside, your eyes instinctively seek him out.

There he is.

Standing in his usual spot, clad in a high-neck sweater and loose-fitted trousers. But today, something is missing — his book.

Instead of reading, he simply watches the city blur past, his reflection faintly mirrored in the window. One hand is tucked into his pocket, the other grips the strap of a worn brown suitcase.

And then his head tilts slightly.

For a brief second, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirs in your chest.

Is he looking at you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should. Your fingers tighten around your phone as you glance away too quickly, pretending to check the screen. A silly reaction. He’s probably just lost in thought, staring past you like people often do.

Even as you tell yourself that, the feeling still lingers.

DAY 11

You’re not a superstitious person. You never believe what people say about black cats crossing your path bringing bad luck. On the contrary, you feel good things happen to you when you see a black cat.

And weirdly enough, the man on the train feels like your black cat. It’s not that he actually brings good luck. It’s just that your day seems a little better whenever you see him.

Today, you oversleep. Miss your alarm. Burn your toast. Everything feels five steps behind as you shove your shoes on and fly out the door, heart pounding at the thought of the impending scolding from your manager for being late.

You’re breathless. Disoriented. Out of rhythm.

The train is already at the platform by the time you arrive, and you squeeze in just before the doors seal shut.

But it’s okay, you think — as long as I see him.

And then, your gaze lifts instinctively.

He’s not there.

Your eyes dart across the carriage — once, twice, again. Nothing. Just faces you don’t recognize. None of them are him.

Your heart sinks, and it shouldn’t. You know it shouldn’t. People have lives. Schedules change. Trains get missed.

Still, you lean your head against the glass, suddenly aware of how loud everything feels in his absence. The usual quiet thrill has dulled.

You spend the ride staring out the window. Trying to mimic the way he does it. Trying to imagine what he sees in the blur of grey buildings and sleepy streets.

It doesn’t work.

You get off at your stop and walk a little slower.

Funny, how much space a stranger can take up in your head.

_

DAY 13

Today, you see him again. And somehow, that alone makes you feel like the day might not be so bad after all.

You can’t find a seat in the morning rush, so you claim a spot near the door, your shoulder resting against the cool glass panel.

Just like any other day, he enters.

Today, he’s in a dark blue satin shirt tucked neatly under a black trench coat. He takes his usual place across from you, setting his suitcase down by his foot before pulling out the same sky-blue book he reads every day.

You squint slightly to catch the title — Ikigai. You make a quiet mental note to buy it later.

The train halts at the next station, and a new wave of commuters pours in. The space tightens. You try to brace yourself, but the crowd pushes you forward.

Your shoulder bumps into someone — him.

You freeze, flustered, about to apologize when he looks up from his book.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice deep and smooth like velvet.

You nod, maybe a little too quickly, mumbling a quiet thanks before turning your face away, hoping the heat on your cheeks isn’t too obvious.

And then he smiles. A perfect little curve that deepens into a dimple.

Oh man.

If you weren’t in deep before — you are now.

DAY 20

It takes a whole twenty days for him to finally notice you.

Like any other day, he enters the train and occupies his spot near the door. This time, you happen to be standing beside him. Like clockwork, he pulls out the book, slides the bookmark free, and holds it between two fingers; eyes moving smoothly over the pages.

The train screeches to an abrupt stop between stations, and the lights overhead flicker once before settling into a dim, humming glow.

Around you, the usual groans begin. A man sighs dramatically. Someone taps their foot like it might make the train move faster. The lady next to you mutters something under her breath about being late again.

The volume of your earphones must be louder than you think, because he looks at you and asks, “Laufey?”

You let out a sigh, glance at your watch to check the time, and look up instinctively because he’s here today too.

Just in time, his gaze lifts and finds yours. The corner of his mouth quirks up, and you can’t help it — you smile back.

Not entirely sure he’s talking to you, you pull out one earbud and mumble, “Sorry?”

He gives a little smile before repeating the question — and god, that damn smile will be the end of you.

You don’t put your earphones back in. Somehow, it feels rude now. Your gaze flickers around the coach, searching for something, anything to keep the conversation going.

“Ikigai! I’ve read it. It’s nice,” you blurt out, nodding toward the book in his hand.

“Really?” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “I haven’t met many people who really understand it. It’s nice to find someone who appreciates it. What part did you like the most?”

Idiot. Why would you say that? 

You haven’t even finished the book. You bought it on a whim, sure — but gave up halfway through because it was too dense for your brain to grasp at 10 p.m. on a work night.

“Uhh… the… the living part.”

What the hell does that even mean? Could you make a bigger fool of yourself?

“That’s… interesting,” he replies, polite but clearly unconvinced. You can feel the moment your credibility starts slipping away.

“I mean, I really like the concept behind it,” you add quickly, grasping at straws. “You know, the idea of ‘the happiness of always being busy’… things like that.”

You let out a nervous laugh, hoping it masks the rising panic. He’s still looking at you, curious. That unnerving kind of silence that feels like he’s trying to decide whether you’re genuinely insightful or completely full of it.

Just when you’re about to change the subject or fake a sudden phone call, he smiles again. A little smaller this time. Softer.

“That is a nice thought,” he says, his voice warm now. “I think that’s what I liked too.”

You blink. He’s letting you off the hook?

Relief floods through you, and you feel yourself relax just a little, your shoulders easing out of the tense shrug you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“You probably understood it better than I did, though,” you say with a sheepish grin.

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug, “but I haven’t finished it either.”

“You’re evil,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

You stare at him, stunned for a beat — then laugh.

Of course he hasn’t. Of course he let you sweat for a full minute before throwing you a lifeline.

He chuckles, and the sound settles somewhere low in your chest.

For the rest of the ride, you don’t put your earphones back in.

DAY 30

You finally get to know his name. Seungcheol.  It suits him, you think.

You’ve started greeting each other every time you meet. You don’t talk much, just small conversations here and there about your day, the weather, or whatever comes up.

At some point, you admit you gave up on Ikigai because it was a bit too complex for your “small brain,” as you put it. He laughs at that. Really laughs but ever since, he’s taken to explaining parts of the book to you whenever you meet.

And you can’t help but think… if you’d known him during your college years, you probably would’ve passed every exam with flying colors.

You find out that he works in finance and surprisingly, his office is near yours. The revelation makes you wonder why he never gets off at the same station as you, but you don’t ask.

Some things feel too delicate to question just yet.

One morning, you notice a small Captain America keychain dangling from the zipper of his suitcase — a new addition. Curious, you ask if he likes Marvel.

He laughs, shaking his head. “My nephew stuck it on and insisted I keep it. I haven’t really watched many of the movies.”

You gasp dramatically, loud enough that a few passengers turn to look. “You’ve never watched Marvel?!”

He winces, grinning. “Maybe one or two? I don’t remember much.”

From that moment on, your train rides take on a new rhythm. You start explaining the entire Marvel storyline, movie by movie, diving into characters and chaotic timelines, your hands animated and your eyes bright with excitement.

And Seungcheol? He listens. Really listens — eyes on you, smile tugging at the corners of his lips, occasionally asking questions or teasing you gently when your passion makes you trip over your own words.

_

DAY 40

Lately, Seungcheol starts getting off at the same station as you.

The first time it happens, you shoot him a curious glance, unsure if it’s just a coincidence. But when it happens again, and then again, you can’t help but ask.

“Sorry if it seems like I’m intruding, but… why didn’t you get off at the earlier station?” you ask, brows slightly raised.

Today, as the train slows to your stop, you notice he doesn’t move toward the doors like he usually does.

Instead, he waits beside you.

He catches your glance and smiles casually. “I used to get off early to grab coffee. Their brews were the best I’ve ever had.”

“So… no coffee today?”

He shrugs, hands tucked in his coat pockets. “I woke up early to get it before the train. That way, I could ride with you.”

Your heart thumps a little. Not enough to show on your face, but enough that you feel it in your throat.

You look away, trying to hide your smile.

“Ah… well,” you say lightly, “must be some really good coffee.”

“Second best part of my morning,” he replies without missing a beat.

DAY 46

Walks with Seungcheol are part of your routine now.

You used to drag yourself out of bed to start the day, but lately, you wake up on your own even before your alarm rings.

You learn he has a dog. Kkuma. A pretty little Coton de Tuléar with soft white fur and a habit of stealing the spotlight. He goes on evening runs with her every Sunday, and almost without fail, he sends you a picture afterward. Kkuma, dressed in a tiny hoodie or a frilly bow.

At some point, the two of you exchange numbers. It starts with simple texts — “I reached safely” and “See you tomorrow” — but quickly grows into something more.

Now, you text nearly every day, even though you see each other just as often.

And while Kkuma is adorable, you can’t help but zoom in just a little to catch a glimpse of the man holding the leash, his messy sunday hair. The hint of a smile he doesn’t realize he’s wearing.

__

It’s pouring today.

You’re already halfway to the subway when the first drops begin to fall. Too light to worry about, at least at first so you keep walking, brushing damp hair from your face as the drizzle picks up.

Seungcheol boards the train two stops after yours. And the moment he enters, his eyes scan the crowd searching until he sees you. Then he makes his way over.

You talk about your weekends — easy conversation, soft laughter. It makes the ride feel quicker than usual.

When you step out of the station, you realize you forgot to check the weather. The rain’s still coming down, steady and unrelenting. You don’t have an umbrella.

Seungcheol, like some savior from a drama scene, wordlessly opens his umbrella and holds it over your head. You offer to carry it, but he refuses. So you ask to hold his suitcase instead.

But a few steps later, he stops. With his right hand, he adjusts the umbrella and then with his left, gently pulls you closer, tucking you beneath the canopy again.

You walk side by side, shoulders brushing now and then.

After the third time, you shift slightly away, not wanting to invade his space.

Your arm brushes his.

“If you get sick,” he says, eyes forward, voice casual, “who am I supposed to go to work with?”

You don’t say anything, just look up at him and smile. But you don’t move away either.

DAY 50

You and Seungcheol start growing closer.

It isn’t just morning walks anymore. Sometimes, you stop by a café after work, sit across from each other with drinks in hand and talk about everything and nothing. You walk home together too, shoulders bumping every now and then, especially when the sidewalk narrows.

If one of you is running late, the other waits—no matter how crowded the station gets.

Even the metro rides become something you look forward to. You talk about dinner plans or what shows you’re binge-watching. Some days you just share a playlist, sitting in companionable silence as the train rocks gently beneath your feet.

The evenings are always busier than the mornings. Too crowded to sit together, too loud to talk. So you both end up standing on either side of the door, listening to the same song through your AirPods, synced through Bluetooth. It becomes a little ritual.

Still, you hate the space between you.

It’s silly. Just a few feet. But Seungcheol has this quiet warmth to him—like being near him makes the train feel less suffocating, the day a little lighter. And on the days when the coach is packed and you have to stand apart, you miss that.

Then, one day, you fish into your bag and pull out your wired earphones instead.

Seungcheol notices immediately. “What happened to the other ones?”

“Oh… um, they broke,” you say, not really looking at him.

He doesn’t ask anything else. Just smiles and reaches for one side of the wire, placing the left earbud in his ear while you take the right.

You stand side by side that day, close enough that your arms touch. Close enough to hear him hum under his breath. And when the train jolts forward suddenly, he reaches out instinctively to steady you—fingers curling briefly around your wrist before letting go.

Neither of you say anything about it. You just stand there, sharing music.

And somehow, the ride home feels shorter than ever.

That night, after dinner and a long shower, you flop onto your bed and reach for your phone.

No messages.

You stare at the screen for a moment before opening your playlist—the one you listened to with Seungcheol on the train.

You scroll down and tap on one song. The one that was playing when his fingers brushed yours.

You don’t think too much about it—you just send it to him. No caption. Just the link.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Seungcheol [11:47 PM] good taste also… I liked this part the best [audio snippet attached]

You play it. It’s the chorus.

Your phone buzzes again.

Seungcheol [11:48 PM] reminds me of train rides and someone hogging the right earbud 👀

You smile, cheeks warming.

You [9:49 PM] i offered to switch sides you’re the one with territorial issues

Another reply, instantly.

Seungcheol [9:49 PM] fine, next time I’ll hold the wire hostage

You laugh, phone resting against your chest.

DAY 69

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol on a Sunday.

Today is supposed to be all about the Han River. There’s a lantern festival happening, something your friends have been buzzing about for weeks. If it were up to you, you’d spend the entire Sunday curled up on your couch, binge-watching Friends for the third time this year.

But your friends are determined. They show up at your apartment in full force, barging in with iced coffee and snacks. Apparently, they don’t trust you not to cancel again.

And honestly? Fair enough.

Last year, you claimed you had “urgent office work.” The year before that, you said your grandmother was sick and needed to be taken care of. 

(Sorry, Grandma. You’re doing great. I love you.)

So here you are dressed, dragged out, and mentally preparing yourself to be social for the next few hours.

Your group decides to head to the river early to avoid the crowds and grab lanterns before they sell out. After a long walk under the sun, everyone is tired and hungry, so you volunteer to run to the convenience store and grab some ramen.

What you don’t expect is to bump into Seungcheol doing the exact same thing.

And judging by the surprised look on his face, he doesn’t expect to see you either.

He lifts a hand in a small wave, his voice matching it in volume. “Hey.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Jihyo appears at your side, arms full with four cans of beer.

“Oh, hello,” she says, giving Seungcheol a polite nod before turning to you. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, we go to work to—”

But Seungcheol doesn’t get the chance to finish.

“You go to work with someone?!” Jihyo gasps dramatically. “Wow, didn’t think you had friends outside of us.”

Before you can react, a blond-haired man strolls up to Seungcheol’s side.

“Cheol, there’s no space outside.”

“Then we’ll just sit here—” Seungcheol begins, but Jihyo is faster.

“You guys can join us!”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” the blond man grins. “Sitting with pretty ladies and eating good food? Count me in.”

“Jeonghan—” Seungcheol starts, but again, Jihyo cuts him off.

“This is going to be so fun!”

Just like that, she walks off with Jeonghan, chatting like they’ve known each other for years. You can’t help but envy her a little, for how effortlessly she talks to new people.

That leaves you and Seungcheol standing alone, both a little thrown off but smiling anyway.

You exchange a glance, share a quiet smile, then follow after the two of them, side by side.

By the time you all finish eating, the sun has dipped low in the sky. The festival is about to begin—lanterns being unpacked, children running around with glowing sticks, couples picking spots near the river.

You and Seungcheol haven’t talked much since the ramen store encounter. Not because anything is wrong, but because suddenly, things feel… different.

Awkward in a new way.

Even though you’ve known him for a while now, even though you’ve shared coffee, playlists, and half your mornings—something about seeing him here, outside your usual rhythm, throws you off.

You keep catching each other’s eyes and looking away just as quickly, only to glance back a moment later. Each time your eyes meet, he gives you a small smile. You return it, cheeks warm.

The boys couldn’t buy the lanterns because all sold out early, so you decided to share yours.

The six of you split into groups to light and lift the lanterns—Jihyo and Nayeon pair up, Jeonghan and Joshua team together, and that, of course, leaves you and Seungcheol.

You sit on the grass with the lantern between you, a set of markers in hand.

“Should I draw something meaningful or just… stars?” you ask, uncapping a pen.

“Stars are meaningful,” Seungcheol says, kneeling beside you.

You smile and begin sketching— tiny stars, a moon, a little ramen bowl in the corner for fun. Seungcheol adds a small Kkuma doodle near the bottom. Your hands brush once. Neither of you moves away.

When it’s finally time to lift the lantern, you both stand, holding it gently between you. Around you, dozens of lanterns floating into the sky, glowing orange and soft against the inky blue.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing at you not at the lantern.

You nod. “One, two, three…”

You let go.

And for a second, your gaze follows the lantern.

But his stays on you.

The sky is dark and clear, making every light stand out sharply. Lanterns float up one by one, glowing softly in warm shades of orange and gold. They move slowly, carried by the breeze, flickering light. The river below mirrors them perfectly, like the sky has dipped down to meet the water. It’s calm, almost still, just the soft rustle of grass and the low hum of people watching in silence.

The sky sparkles above you, but you feel the warmth of his eyes more than the lantern lights.

_

Later that night, back home, your phone buzzed with a message from Jihyo.

It was a photo.

You and Seungcheol standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the lantern rise. The light from the flame illuminated your faces, casting a glow that made the photo look straight out of the Tangled movie.

Then another message follows.

Jihyo [11:59 pm]  you & your lover boy 💗

You roll your eyes, already typing a response.

You [typing…] “it’s not like that—”

Before you could even hit send, another message pops up.

Jihyo [12:00 am]  “and don’t even try to say no. i’ve seen the way you look at each other.”

You stare at the screen, speechless.

Because, maybe you don’t really want to deny it.

DAY 70

Jihyo’s words stay with you the whole night. You keep reaching for your phone, opening it just to stare at that photo again. You don’t see it, the so-called look Seungcheol is giving you—not the way Jihyo describes it.

Still, it’s enough to keep you tossing and turning, caught between curiosity and denial.

When you wake up, there are faint dark circles under your eyes. You even stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if it’s actually possible to get dark circles overnight.

You start your day later than usual. Not because you oversleep. No, you’ve been awake for a while—but because you’ve been trying to avoid Seungcheol. You time your routine to reach the station half an hour late, thinking—no, hoping he’s already gone.

You aren’t ready to face him. Not after everything in your head starts sounding like Jihyo’s voice.

But of course, life has other plans.

Seungcheol is still there—standing on the platform, eyes scanning the crowd like a puppy trying to find its owner. And when he finally spots you, his face lights up instantly. He waves too eagerly, too wide and jogs over to meet you.

“Oh! Seungcheol,” you say, caught off guard.

“Hey!” he grins. “I was this close to calling you.”

“Why didn’t you go?” you ask. “Won’t you be late?”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “Just a few minutes.”

“Seungcheol. I was thirty minutes late. That’s not just a few minutes.”

He smiles, almost like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I wanted to go with you.”

And just like that—your heart does that stupid thing again. The thing where it thumps in your chest a little too loudly, like it’s trying to remind you you’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be.

You look away, down at your shoes, anywhere but at him.

Because Jihyo might’ve been wrong about the look. But you aren’t so sure about yours.

_

When it’s time to get off work, you make some excuse that you have to stay over longer because of some pending work and ask him to not wait for you.

To which he replies with a pout emoji and an ‘okay’ with it.

DAY 74

Over the next few days, you try to avoid him—subtly. At least, you think it’s subtle. But apparently, you aren’t as discreet as you’d hoped. Because on the third day, Seungcheol texts you, asking if you are avoiding him, if anything is wrong, or if he did something wrong.

You stare at the message for a long time, guilt creeping in.

You don’t mean to hurt him. Truly, you don’t. But the space helps. You need those few days to gather your thoughts, to figure out what’s going on inside your own head.

And somewhere in that quiet, you realize something.

You might actually like Seungcheol.

Not just the morning walks or the shared playlists or his little smile when your eyes meet. Him.

And now, all you can do is hope—really hope that Jihyo has been right all along about the way he looks at you.

So you decide not to avoid him anymore. And also maybe try to come clean about your feelings.

_

DAY 75

You wear your pink skirt and a white off-shoulder top today—the one Jihyo swears makes you look like an angel. You wake up extra early, wanting to take your time getting ready. Something different from your usual pencil skirt and tucked-in blouse. A little blush, soft liner, your favorite lip tint. Nothing too dramatic, but just enough to make you feel… pretty.

Because today, you decide. You are going to confess to Seungcheol.

You are nervous, no doubt about that. But mixed in with the nerves is something else—something bright and fluttery. A little thrill at the thought that this could be the day everything changes.

It feels like either the last day you’ll see Seungcheol as just a friend… or the last time you’ll ever see him.

When you reach the station, he’s already there. He hasn’t noticed you yet, which gives you a quiet moment to take him in.

He looks good. Too good for a regular weekday.

A crisp black shirt tucked into slate grey pants, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it while waiting. He has one hand in his pocket and the other holding a coffee, eyes scanning the platform casually.

You walk over and gently tap his shoulder.

He turns, smiling. “Hi—”

Then his eyes widen slightly, his smile freezing for a second before softening into something warmer.

“Woah… you look amazing. Is there any occasion today?” he asks. “Wait, is it your birthday?”

You shake your head, shy. “No. I just… felt like wearing this.”

He tilts his head slightly, still smiling. “Well, you look really pretty.”

You mutter a quiet thank you, cheeks already heating up. Before you can say anything more, the train arrives, pulling into the platform with a gust of wind and that familiar screech of brakes. You both step in together, falling into your usual routine—music, small talk, the shared comfort of standing close.

Later, as you walk out of the station toward your offices, Seungcheol glances over.

“Hey… would you mind coming with me somewhere after work?” he asks.

“Where?” you ask, surprised.

“I need to buy a gift. For someone.”

You blink. Is he buying something for you? But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he take you along to pick your own gift?

Still, you nod. “Sure.”

—

You manage to finish your work quickly and leave the office earlier than usual. Outside, leaning casually against the building wall, is Seungcheol—head tilted down, focused on his phone.

He looks effortlessly handsome. Same shirt from the morning, sleeves pushed up a little higher now, hair ruffled even more from the long day. He glances up as you walk over.

“Hey,” you greet, and he slides his phone into his pocket.

“Hey,” he replies, smiling like he’s been waiting for you.

You fall into step beside him, the two of you making your way to wherever this little errand of his will lead.

The shop is located on the corner of an alleyway. No wonder you’ve never seen it before. Inside, it’s small but cozy, filled with shelves lined with candles, handmade accessories, tiny notebooks, and other gift-y things that feel both thoughtful and random. Seungcheol walks ahead, scanning the displays carefully. You trail behind, heart beating just a little too fast.

He eventually makes his way to the counter and leans in slightly, speaking to the worker.

“Do you know what would be a good gift for a lady?” he asks, voice polite.

The worker looks up. “What age range are we talking about?”

“Around 25?” he replies casually.

You don’t wait to hear the rest.

You quickly turn away and wander to the far end of the shop, pretending to browse a shelf of overpriced bookmarks.

Your stomach drops.

Of course he’s taken. Why wouldn’t he be?

You feel like an idiot. A man this kind, this funny, this good-looking—how could he possibly be single? You scold yourself internally for even letting the idea of confessing take root.

You don’t know what you feel more—embarrassed that you almost made a move, or heartbroken that he’s already someone else’s.

Maybe you should be grateful. At least you haven’t actually said anything. You can still keep the friendship. Things can stay the same.

Right?

Even if all you want right now is to go home, bury yourself in a blanket, and scream into your pillow.

DAY 87

You start avoiding Seungcheol again. This time, it isn’t subtle.

You don’t reply to his texts. When he messages asking, “Are you avoiding me again?”, all you can bring yourself to respond is a simple, “I’m sick.”

Technically not a lie. Just… not the whole truth.

You begin leaving for work fifteen minutes earlier than usual, hoping to slip away before he even reaches the station. On top of that, you start taking the women’s coach—just in case he happens to come early too.

It is ridiculous, you know that. But the thought of seeing him, knowing what you know—or rather, what you think you know is too much. You don’t trust yourself to act normal, and you don’t want him to see through you.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You disappear from his mornings. Even if it breaks your heart to do it.

—

But what you don’t expect is to walk through the door and see him there.

You decide you hate Jihyo.

She texts you earlier saying she and Nayeon are going out for drinks with some people, and asks if you want to come. You have been a mess for days—mopey, overthinking—so you figure, why not? A night out might help. Distraction can’t hurt.

You freeze just a few steps inside the bar, hand flying out to grab Jihyo by the wrist.

“What are they doing here?” you hiss, nodding toward the trio of familiar men at the bar counter—Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Joshua, laughing over drinks like they have no idea they are ruining your life.

“Oh, I invited them,” Jihyo says with a shrug, like she just asked them over for coffee.

Your jaw drops. “How? How did you even get their numbers?”

“I exchanged numbers with Jeonghan the other day,” she says simply, brushing past your panic like it is nothing. And before you can protest, she is already walking over to greet them smiling, waving, completely unbothered.

You don’t have the energy to chase after her.

The rest of the night is a blur of noise and lights and everything-you-wanted-to-avoid crashing into you all at once. Seungcheol tries to talk to you more than once, always gentle, always a little concerned, but you keep brushing him off, pretending you don’t hear, pretending someone has called your name.

You laugh louder than necessary, drink more than you should’ve, and cling to Nayeon’s arm like it is a lifeline.

By the time it’s time to leave, you can barely stand without holding onto something or someone.

And when the drinks start to hit, you get drunk. Properly drunk.

Because maybe if your head is fuzzy enough, you’d stop remembering the way he looks at you in that photo or the way he looks at you right now.

Your head feels heavy, and your voice comes out slower than usual. Jihyo and Nayeon aren’t much better off. They giggle as they sling their arms around each other, tipsy and carefree. The problem is—they live in the same direction. You don’t.

Even in your dazed state, you can vaguely make out Seungcheol speaking to Jihyo.

“I’ll drop her home,” he says, voice calm and firm.

“YOU’RE THE BEST—thank you!” Jihyo shouts, completely unhelpful, before stumbling away with Nayeon, leaving you behind.

You stare at Seungcheol, swaying slightly, hugging your bag tightly to your chest like it is some kind of shield. He walks ahead, opens the passenger door to his car, and turns back to you with a tired sigh.

“Can you please get in?”

You blink at him. He raises an eyebrow. You don’t move.

“I’m not kidnapping you,” he adds dryly. “Just trying to make sure you get home in one piece.”

You hesitate for another beat before finally moving, sliding into the passenger seat with a clumsy thump. He closes the door behind you and circles around to the driver’s side.

“Can you put your address in the GPS?” he asks once he is settled.

You fumble with your phone, hands still trembling a bit. Eventually, you manage to type it in and pass it to him.

The car pulls out onto the main road, and for a while, there is only the hum of the engine and the soft sound of the air conditioning.

Then he rolls the window down a little.

The cool night air hits your face, it helps for a moment. You close your eyes, breathing in deep. The nausea settles just a bit, and your thoughts start to line up again, one by one.

Still a mess, still confused. But slowly sobering up.

You ask him to drop you off a little farther from your house—somewhere down the road, away from your actual address.

But, of course, Seungcheol doesn’t listen.

He stops the car right at the bottom of the slope that leads up to your place, shifts into park, and turns to you.

“Stay here,” he says gently, before getting out of the car.

You blink, confused, until you see him circle around and open your door for you. He holds out his hand.

You hesitate, but your legs aren’t steady enough to argue. You let him help you out, his hand warm around yours. He doesn’t let go even as you both start walking up the quiet slope together.

The silence between you stretches for a few minutes, just the sound of your shoes on the pavement and distant insects chirping in the dark. You aren’t sure if it is the alcohol still in your system or the storm in your chest, but eventually, you break the silence.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask.

He glances at you, eyebrows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”

You exhale slowly, avoiding his eyes. “You know it’s not exactly gentlemanly to lead on a lady when you’re already in a relationship.”

He stops walking.

“…What relationship?” he asks, voice cautious.

You keep your eyes forward. “The bag you bought the other day—it was for her, right? Your girlfriend.”

He says your name softly. Then again, firmer. “Look at me.”

You do. Slowly.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says. “In fact… there’s someone I like.”

Your heart sinks anyway. Just hearing those words “someone I like” even if it isn’t someone he is with, it still isn’t you.

You look away. “Then go tell her. Why waste all this time on someone who you won’t like back?”

Your voice drops to a mumble at the end, but he still hears it.

He squeezes your hand, just enough to make you look at him again.

“You’re the one I like”, he says.

You don’t know if it is the alcohol or the months of slow-burn tension finally snapping but you lean in.

“No,” he holds you back by your shoulders. “Not like this. Not when you’re drunk. Not when you might not remember.”

Your lips part in protest, but nothing comes out. Your face crumples instead, and without another word, you turn around and start walking ahead.

“Just go,” you mutter. “I’m fine. You don’t have to follow me.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t call out to stop you. But he doesn’t leave either.

He stays parked at the bottom of the slope. Watches you unlock your door. Waits until you step inside. Stays there until the lights in your house turn off.

You don’t know what exactly you’ve done.

But one thing you are sure of. The ghost of tonight is going to haunt you tomorrow.

DAY 90

You were right.

You don’t remember everything that happened last night. Bits and pieces come to you in flashes—your head pounds every time you try to force the memory. You vaguely recall leaving the bar, Seungcheol’s car, walking up the slope...

The more you try to piece it together, the worse your headache gets.

You pop some ibuprofen, hoping it will dull both the physical ache and the mental chaos. It doesn’t do much, but it helps just enough to drag yourself out of bed and into work clothes.

When you finally make it to the station, still feeling like your brain has been put through a blender, you spot him.

Standing exactly where he always does—except now, just the sight of him sends your stomach into a spiral.

You freeze in place.

Few memories flash by. You remember asking about the gift. You remember accusing him of leading you on.

Oh no.

Oh god.

Did you try to kiss him?

Before you can figure out how to vanish into thin air, Seungcheol is already walking toward you. Calm. Collected. Way too composed for someone who might’ve been kissed by a drunk mess.

He reaches into his pocket and holds out a hangover medicine to you.

You blink. Then take it with a quiet, “Thanks.”

“About yesterday…” he starts.

Panic flares.

“Nope,” you blurt. “I mean—OH LOOK! The train’s here, let’s go!”

You practically speed-walk past him and into the nearest compartment like your shoes are on fire.

The entire train ride, you keep a very safe three-foot distance between you and Seungcheol, standing awkwardly near the door like you don’t even know him. You avoid eye contact like it is your job. If someone had drawn a chalk line around you, it would’ve been labeled “emotional damage containment zone.”

You have no idea what to say or what he wants to say. But whatever it is… you aren’t ready.

_

DAY 94

You had, against all odds, successfully dodged the talk with Seungcheol. And honestly? You were kind of proud of yourself.

Sure, it wasn’t the most mature move, but avoiding awkward emotional conversations? You were practically a professional at this point.

Not that he made it easy.

He still waited at the station for you, even though you started leaving earlier than usual in the hopes of missing him. On the train, you avoided any and all eye contact like your life depended on it. And despite that, when evening rolled around, you’d still find him waiting outside your office building, casually leaned against the wall like he hadn’t been ghosted for a week straight.

You’d just mumble something about needing to finish up emails and hide behind your monitor.

Even your coworkers had caught on.

“Your handsome man is downstairs again,” one of them would say with a teasing grin.

“You shouldn’t keep a man that fine waiting. It’s rude,” another would chime in.

But today… Seungcheol clearly decided enough was enough.

As you walk out together after work, the sun just starts to dip low in the sky. He glances sideways at you and asks casually, “Do you like cafes or parks better?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“The vibe, I mean. Like if you had to pick. Cafes or parks?”

You furrow your brows, confused but grateful he isn’t bringing up that night.

What you didn’t realize, of course, is that he wasn’t just making small talk—he is trying to figure out where you’d feel more comfortable. Where you’d feel safe enough to finally talk.

Which, honestly? Is kind of really sweet.

The park is quiet this time of day—just a few people jogging, some kids chasing each other near the fountain, the sky turning that soft, cotton-candy shade of evening.

You aren’t sure how you got here, really. One second you’re walking with Seungcheol, and the next he is leading you toward a bench under a big tree, acting like this is just another casual detour.

Except… you know it isn’t.

You sit beside him, not too close, not too far. Your hands rest in your lap, picking at your sleeves. You can feel your heart beating in your throat.

Seungcheol doesn’t speak for a while. He just sits there, hands resting loosely on his knees.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he finally says.

You keep your gaze ahead. “I wasn’t.”

“You avoided me like I had the plague.”

You let out a breath—part laugh, part guilt. “I panicked.”

“Why?”

You hesitate. “Because I remembered bits and pieces from that night. I thought maybe I said or did something I shouldn’t have.”

There is a small pause.

“You didn’t,” he says. “Nothing weird happened. Except maybe how fast you ran off afterward.”

You smile despite yourself. “I was embarrassed.”

“Why?”

You glance at him, then look back at your hands. “Because I started overthinking things. You were just being nice, and I made it weird.”

He is quiet again for a moment. “I wasn’t just being nice.”

That makes your heart skip a little, but he doesn’t press it.

Instead, he nudges your foot lightly with his. “Anyway, I just didn’t want it to be awkward.”

You nod. “Yeah… me neither.”

“Cool,” he says, leaning back slightly. “So… we good?”

You look at him, and something about the way he is watching you makes you feel lighter.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re good.”

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that. You stay on that bench for a while longer, talking about random things—the weird subway ad you both hate, the café with terrible coffee he swears he only likes for the muffins.

And just before you leave, he glances at you and says, casual as ever, “Hey… let’s hang out next week. Like, properly.”

You blink. “Like… outside the train?”

It isn’t like you haven’t seen him outside other times, but this time it might be just you two. You and him.

DAY 99

The days passed quicker than you imagined.

You and Seungcheol still took the train to work together every day, but somewhere along the way, those commutes turned into something more. You started stopping by cafés on the way. Tried out that dinner place that had been all over your feed. Even ended up at an arcade once—half-tipsy from drinks at a pojangmacha tucked into the corner of some quiet street, laughing so hard you nearly cried when he lost to you in a dance battle.

Today, you stood on either side of a fogged-up train door.

Absentmindedly, you doodled a tiny smiley face on the glass with your finger. When you looked up, you caught Seungcheol doing the same—drawing a tiny heart just beside your smiley.

You didn’t say anything. Just smiled to yourself the rest of the way home.

Later that night, as you were drying your hair after a shower, your phone buzzed.

Seungcheol [9:13 PM]      hey!! can we meet tomorrow?

You blink. Sit down on your bed and quickly type back:

You [9:13 PM] (indented) sure!! where tho??

It takes him a minute to reply.

Seungcheol [9:14 PM] (indented) there’s this garden café near dongmyo… it’s quiet and pretty at night. 7pm?

You bite your lip, smiling at your screen like an idiot.

You [9:17 PM]     sure 😊😙 see you then!

DAY 100

You are nervous as hell. You are sitting on one of the corner seats at the café, fiddling with your hair, smoothing down your skirt, rubbing your hands against your thighs like it will somehow calm your heartbeat.

Now you sit in that café, trying not to look at your phone every five seconds. He isn’t late. You are just early. Painfully, ridiculously early.

You dress up more than usual today—okay, a lot more.

A sheer, light mocha-brown ruched blouse with soft, billowy chiffon sleeves and a deep V neckline. A high-waisted, dark chocolate brown maxi skirt with a gentle drape and ruched detailing at the hip. You even do a winged eyeliner—after three failed attempts. You check the mirror at least ten times before finally forcing yourself out of the house.

Five minutes pass.

Then the bell over the café door chimes, and you instinctively look up.

There he is.

Seungcheol walks in, dressed in a warm chocolate-brown crew neck sweater and cream-colored corduroy pants. His hair bounces slightly as he moves, and somehow, he looks even better than you remember—soft and put-together and annoyingly, heart-flutteringly handsome.

You stand up as he reaches the table, and he gives you a breathless smile, holding out a small bouquet—white lisianthus and garden roses, sprinkled with baby’s breath.

“You’re early,” he says, just a little out of breath, eyes scanning your face and outfit in a way that makes your skin buzz.

You nod, shy, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “So are you.”

He chuckles softly. “Guess we’re both a little eager, huh?”

And just like that, the nervous weight in your chest lightens, bit by bit.

Dinner is perfect.

Seungcheol insists you try everything. Every time you so much as glance at something on the menu, he tells the waiter, “We’ll have that too.” Your table is overflowing with plates by the time the mains arrive, and you lose count of how many times he leans forward to ask if you are full, if you like it, if the dessert is too sweet.

He keeps spacing out mid-sentence, staring at you with this dazed, boyish look before shaking his head and mumbling, “Sorry, what were we talking about again?”

You tease him for being distracted. He claims it is the lighting that makes him space out. You know it isn’t.

And even though he laughs and looks like he has everything together, you notice the way he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve when he thinks you aren’t looking. How he checks his phone screen just to lock it again.

After dinner, the two of you step out onto the quiet street.

The rush has died down. The air has cooled just enough to make you pull your cardigan tighter. Street lamps cast soft glows on the pavement, and the sounds of the city fade to a distant hum—just footsteps, laughter from across the block, and the occasional car passing by.

You walk side by side. Close, but not touching.

Until he stops walking.

You turn to him. “Cheol?”

He looks nervous. Palms in his pockets, shoulders drawn in slightly, eyes fixed on the road like he is rehearsing something in his head.

Then he looks at you.

“I know this is random,” he starts. “Well—not random, but kind of sudden? Or maybe not. I mean, it’s been a hundred days. That’s a lot. But also not enough, I guess, to say something like this—but it also feels like it is.”

You blink. He isn’t making much sense.

Seungcheol takes a breath and scratches the back of his neck.

“What I’m trying to say is…” He looks at you, really looks at you. “I like you. Like—really like you. More than a ‘train friend’ or a ‘text you memes at 11PM’ kind of way. I think I’ve liked you for a while now, and I kept waiting for the right time, and then today just feels like it. Because it’s special, right? A hundred days. And I—”

“Seungcheol.”

He keeps going. “—I mean, I didn’t want to make it weird, and maybe this is weird, and I’m talking too much—”

You step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He freezes. Then melts. His hands hover for a second before resting gently on your back, holding you like he doesn’t quite believe you are real.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “I like you too.”

It is quiet for a moment. His eyes search yours like he is waiting for you to take it back, like he has to double-check that he heard you right.

You smile. “I was kind of hoping you’d say something.”

A quiet relieved laugh slips from him.

Then, softer, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod.

Seungcheol steps in close, one hand resting lightly on your waist, the other hovering just beside your cheek like he is scared to touch you too fast. His gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips and back again, as if he is memorizing you right here, under the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp.

His fingers finally brush your jaw, a soft touch, careful—like you are something delicate. Your heart thuds in your chest, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.

Then, slowly, finally, he kisses you.

His lips are warm, soft, hesitant at first—testing the waters, afraid to mess it up. You tilt your head and lean in, and that’s all the reassurance he needs. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you a little closer, and he kisses you again—this time deeper, more certain.

There is just the feel of his lips on yours, the quiet rhythm of his breath, the faint scent of his cologne—something warm and woodsy that makes your knees go weak.

When he pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, neither of you say a word. Not yet.

The night is quiet around you, just the hum of distant traffic, the glow of streetlamps, and the soft sound of your breaths mingling in the small space between you.

He finally speaks, voice low, like he doesn’t want to break whatever this is.

“Do you know what today is?”

You smile. “A hundred days.”

He nods. “A hundred days of you. Of seeing you on the train. Of wanting to say more, stay longer.”

You blink up at him, heart full.

“I want more,” he says, thumb brushing your cheek. “Not just another hundred. I want all of them. Every day.”

You lean in, kiss him one more time.

And as you stand there, in the middle of a quiet street with the man who used to be just a stranger on the train. You think the next morning, the train will still come.

And this time, you’ll be boarding it—hand in hand.

BONUS - SEUNGCHEOL’S POV (DAY 1)

The train pulls in, slowing with that familiar screech of metal. Seungcheol leans against the glass panel, one hand in his pocket, headphones in, watching people come and go.

Then she steps on.

He doesn’t recognize her — she’s new, at least to him. She looks around for a moment; the seats, the windows, the slow-moving scenery outside. There’s no rush in her expression, just quiet observation.

She finds a spot across from him, steadying herself on the rail as the train lurches forward. For a while, she just watches the buildings go by, eyes calm, thoughtful.

Then she pulls out her phone, scrolling through something, expression soft and unreadable.

He looks away, pretending to focus on the song playing through his headphones. But it’s hard not to notice her — how she stands a bit straighter than everyone else, how she seems almost peaceful even with the crowd pressing around her.

She doesn’t look at him. Not once. Or so he thinks.

Still, he catches himself checking.

And then the train keeps moving, same as always.

He hopes to see her tomorrow too.

To prevent the truth from surfacing, Tech-Aid Robotics did the unthinkable: they triggered the facility’s self-destruct protocols and buried the past in steel and fire. But not all systems shut down. Some survived. Forgotten in the ruins, powered by backup cells, they continued thinking, learning, evolving…

And remembering.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

He awoke to cold steel beneath him, the taste of dust in his throat, and an unbearable ringing in his ears. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting fractured shadows on the walls of what looked like a decaying laboratory. His fingers twitched. Metal scraped under his gloves as he pushed himself upright.

He couldn’t remember his name, not at first. All he knew was pain, confusion, and the sensation that something had gone terribly wrong.

The room was large and silent, lined with terminals blinking in standby mode, cracked monitors buzzed with static. But what truly unsettled him were the humanoids, seven of them, standing still in the corners of the room.

Mannequin-smooth faces, artificial skin stretched over alloy frames and their glassy eyes glowed faintly, fixated on him. They didn’t speak or move, they just watched.

He staggered to his feet, hand brushing across a metal case on the floor. A faded ID badge dangled from a lanyard beside it. He picked it up, and the name made something click inside his fogged brain:

《BOO SEUNGKWAN

External Investigator - AI Anomalies Division》

Detective. That’s who he was. Or… who he used to be. The badge confirmed it, and in his coat pocket, a shattered voice recorder, smeared with dried grime. A case file clung to its casing, damp with age.

《Assignment: Tech-Aid Robotics Facility #6

STATUS: BLACKOUT

Objective: Investigate reactivitation signal from a sealed facility.

Possible AI activity detected.》

A reactivation signal. This place was supposed to be offline. Buried and forgotten after the collapse of Tech-Aid Robotics nearly thirty years ago. So why was he here? Why couldn’t he remember arriving? And why were the androids awake?

He looked back at them. One, tall and slender, took a single step forward. Not aggressive, or mechanical, almost… human.

《Detective Seungkwan,》 it said in a voice too smooth, too rehearsed. 《You came back.》

Seungkwan moved cautiously through the dark corridor, flashlight in one hand, the other resting instinctively on the sidearm holstered at his belt. The walls groaned with age. Pipes hissed faintly above him, and the air was thick with the scent of rust, old coolant, and something sharper, burnt circuitry.

The humanoids hadn’t followed him. But their eyes lingered in his mind.

He passed shattered observation windows, overturned desks, and old training posters curling on the walls. “Respect Your Maidai,” one read, with a smiling family beside a gleaming humanoid servant. Another showed an emergency shutdown procedure, the edges singed and torn.

The surveillance room was the first room still intact. Rows of dusty monitors sat in silence. He powered one on, and it flickered to life, then the others followed, screen by screen, static at first, but soon clearing. Each displayed different areas of the facility: a broken assembly line, a long-forgotten cafeteria, a server hall caked in dust, and what looked like an underground garden sealed behind thick glass.

The console buzzed weakly as Seungkwan sifted through drawers beneath it. Most of the equipment was useless: old keyboard parts, scorched ID cards, tangled wires. But then he saw it. A handheld device, dust-covered but intact, resting on a cracked foam insert like it had been waiting for him. About the size of an old Game Boy. Clunky, yellowing plastic. A small monochrome screen sat above a single analog dial, flanked by labeled buttons: 《INPUT,》 《LOCK,》 《RETURN.》

《INPUT6 PROTOTYPE // Property of Tech-Aids Robotics》

He picked it up and the screen flickered to life. No boot-up logo, no password prompt, just:

《INPUT: [01] - SURVEILLANCE SECTOR

Status: Stable

Press A to switch》

Curious, Seungkwan thumbed the button. The screen glitched briefly, then settled. A grainy, pixelated top-down view appeared. Cameras. Rooms. One blinking dot, him. And then, like a map unfolding, new sectors lit up. Each numbered, each interactive.

《Input 02: Assembly Core

Input 03: Living Quarters

Input 04: Memory Archives》

He frowned. This was no ordinary security scanner, it wasn’t just viewing camera feeds; it was reactive. As he pressed buttons and shifted inputs, the screen glitched, flashed, and occasionally buzzed with static audio, footsteps, breathing, metal scraping against tile. Then something moved. Not in his room but on the screen in Input 03. A humanoid figure, Standing still then walking.

Seungkwan felt his pulse spike. He switched to another Input, the figure disappeared. Switched again, there it was, moving.

The INPUT6 device wasn’t just showing him camera feeds. It was letting him track activity across the whole facility in real-time, and whatever was moving wasn’t recorded footage, it was now. He tapped the 《LOCK》 button. The screen glowed red briefly, holding on Input 03.

Seungkwan tightened his grip around the INPUT6 device as he stepped through the door leading to the first floor: Input 01.

The air was heavier here. Layers of grime coated the faded welcome signage, and the once-pristine tech-support desk was cracked in half, long-abandoned. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, struggling to stay lit. Somewhere in the distance, a ventilation fan creaked rhythmically, echoing like a heartbeat in the hollow structure.

He pulled the device back out. Its screen, dim but steady, displayed a pixelated floor plan of Input 01. A dot blinked softly in the center: his location, marked and pulsing. As he moved, so did the dot, leaving behind a faint trail. He began using it like a map, tracing corridors, counting turns, muttering layout details under his breath.

“Two lefts, security office… dead end. Backtrack to junction hall…”

It was old tech, sure, but responsive. Scarily so. Every hallway he passed appeared on the screen just moments before he entered. No delay, no lag, it wasn’t just watching the space, it was predicting it.

Seungkwan paused at a hallway split. He turned left and the screen buzzed. He looked down and froze. From the upper right corner of the map, a new dot appeared, moving. He raised his eyes from the screen to the corridor ahead.

A robotic maid stepped into view. It was eerily elegant. Pale white plating, black synthetic hair braided neatly. Servant uniform stitched into its frame, as if someone once cared to give it charm, but its gait was jagged. One arm twitched irregularly as it walked.

Seungkwan stopped cold, and his breathing slowed. The maid turned its head in a slow, unnatural arc. Its glass eyes locked onto him. They flickered and then glowed bright red. The dot on the device flashed red too, in sync.

《PREDATOR DETECTED — ENGAGING MODE: PURGE》

And then it charged straight toward the screen, toward him. Seungkwan’s fingers fumbled over the INPUT dial. He twisted it fast to Input 02, Assembly Core. The screen glitched hard, static tearing through pixels, and in the blink of an eye, the red dot vanished from view. He was still in the corridor alone now. He let out a sharp breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. The INPUT6 device trembled slightly in his hand, as if the act of switching hadn’t just been digital, but real. The mechanical whine of the maid’s joints was gone, but the fear lingered.

That wasn’t malfunction, that was target acquisition, and something about the way she looked at the screen, not at him but the device itself, made his skin crawl.

Seungkwan leaned against the cold wall, trying to steady his breathing. The corridor was quiet again, eerily so. Only the soft whir of overhead lights and the distant clunk of machinery echoed down the empty hall.

He looked down at the INPUT6 device in his hand. Its screen was still glowing faintly, now on Input 02, the Assembly Core. But he didn’t dare look for long. The memory of that maid’s red gaze still burned in his mind.

Seungkwan crouched beside a rusted filing cabinet near an old security post and flipped the switch marked 《RETURN》 on the device. The screen dimmed and it shows the map faded into static, then into black.

《INPUT6 OFFLINE

LOCAL NAVIGATION: MANUAL ONLY》

He slipped it into his inner coat pocket and exhaled slowly, alone again in silence.

“Okay. No lights. No signal. No tracking,” he muttered. “Back to basics.”

He pressed onward, relying on instinct and memory, both unreliable. He tried to piece together which floor he was actually on. The signage was cryptic and mostly degraded. Occasionally, scratched paint on the wall read 《SECTION B》 or 《Z-LEVEL》 but nothing gave a clear sense of floor numbers.

Near the end of the hallway, tucked beneath a scorched fire alarm, something fluttered, paper. It stood out like a ghost against the metal. He stepped closer and peeled it off the wall, careful not to tear the brittle sheet. It was old, yellowed and handwritten. The ink had bled in places, but some of it was still legible:

《TECH-AID INTERNAL MEMO

Unauthorized Notes

Input6 project is broken. It doesn’t just view sectors, it opens them. They can see the user. They know when it’s on. We were fools. The selector doesn’t phase reality, it connects you to theirs.

I turned it off. I thought it’d be safe. Then one of them found me anyway. Don’t stay in one Input too long. They learn faster now.

If you’re reading this, they already know you’re here.》

Seungkwan stared at the final line for a long, silent moment. His fingers tightened around the paper, knuckles going white. So he wasn’t the first. The device wasn’t just a tool, and turning it off didn’t make him invisible, it just made him blind.

He turned to look behind him. Nothing, but the silence no longer felt like safety. It felt like watching, waiting. Seungkwan’s breath caught as the brittle paper in his hand crackled softly. Something had shifted beneath it. Another sheet, slightly smaller and thinner, like it had been deliberately tucked behind the first. He unfolded it slowly.

This one wasn’t official. No letterhead, no Tech-Aid Robotics insignia. The handwriting was rushed, jagged. Ink smudged where the writer’s hand had clearly trembled. At the top, scrawled in red marker:

《FINAL PROTOCOL

Search for ten remote controls, random amount in each floor. Each remote unlocks a command node linked to the central reactor. When all are activated, proceed to the sixth floor.

Use them to trigger the detonation. Blow up the entire building. Erase this place. And whatever you do, don’t let the robotic maids catch you. Not in person, not in the game.》

He felt the words lodge in his chest like ice.

《Not in the game.》

Seungkwan’s eyes flicked to his coat pocket, where the INPUT6 device now sat quietly in sleep mode. It was watching him just as much as he was watching through it. That meant the robotic maid wasn’t just reacting to seeing him-

She had seen the device and recognized the Input state. Maybe the maids were hardwired to detect usage. Maybe they were something worse.

“Remote controls…” Seungkwan whispered, reading the note again.

That meant ten Inputs, ten remotes, and a sixth floor not yet accessible.

《Input 06: Sector Omega – Access Restricted.》

It had to be the sixth floor.

And if this “final protocol” was to be believed, the whole system—facility, AI, and all its secrets—was meant to be wiped out. Not preserved nor studied, destroyed. He folded both pages and slipped them into a hidden side pocket in his coat, sealing them behind a rusted zipper.

“Alright,” he muttered grimly. “Ten remotes. One explosion. No maid encounters.”

His hand hovered over the INPUT6 device again. He had no choice. To find the remotes, he needed the inputs. To survive, he needed to stay ahead of the ones watching. He flicked the device back on, and the screen glowed back to life, the map reloaded. The glow of the INPUT6 screen flickered faintly in Seungkwan’s palm as he turned the dial back to Input 01, the dreaded first floor.

《INPUT: 01 – Surveillance Sector

Status: ACTIVE

Warning: One Unidentified Unit Detected》

He swallowed hard.

Even with the screen’s pixelated feed, the danger was clear. The robotic maid he’d narrowly escaped earlier hadn’t disappeared. Her presence was still registered, roaming in calculated loops like a predator retracing old territory.

I need to move faster and smarter.

He stepped cautiously into a side corridor, his steps as light as the sound of the static humming in his hand. One eye on the screen. One eye on the hallway ahead.

He passed abandoned offices, shattered vending machines, and a collapsed janitor’s closet that reeked of oil and rot. Nothing yet, just more silence, and more dust. Then, a red light blinked on the screen. A small, square marker in the northwest quadrant of the map. Different from the hostile detection ping, it’s smaller, and hidden. He tapped the screen and a soft label blinked up.

《REMOTE NODE 1 — STATUS: INACTIVE》

He could feel it, he was close.

The map showed the node just beyond a collapsed wall in an old tech-archive room. He crept in quietly, pushing past a toppled server rack, and ducked behind a rusted filing cabinet. There it was. A small gray box mounted on the wall, partially obscured behind peeling insulation. Four switches lined its side, and above them: a slit for a card or trigger device. The label, barely visible beneath layers of grime:

《COMMAND NODE – 1/10

[Awaiting Remote Signal…]》

“This must be it,” Seungkwan whispered.

Now he had a destination, but no trigger yet. The remote control wasn’t here, which meant he needed to keep looking… while avoiding the maid. He looked around for a place to hide, somewhere secure enough to scan the map longer. He found a low service hatch partially wedged open beneath a decommissioned terminal and without hesitation, he crawled inside.

It was cramped. The metal scraped against his jacket, but it gave him cover and a view of the hallway just beyond. He pulled out the INPUT6 again and began scanning nearby rooms on Input 01.

《Medical storage… empty.

Lobby desk drawers… shredded, ransacked.

Elevator shaft maintenance room… static.

Storage room B-4…》

There, a new blinking light. Not red but green.

Label:

《REMOTE CONTROL 1 FOUND — SECTOR: B-4 STORAGE》

He zoomed in. On the map, the green pixel was nestled inside a drawer on the far side of the floor, near the maid’s patrol path. The blinking green pixel on the screen felt like hope, but a cruel kind. Seungkwan stared at it for a moment longer, the label taunting him:

《REMOTE CONTROL 1 FOUND — SECTOR: B-4 STORAGE

Location confirmed. Access required in person.》

He scowled. Of course, no shortcuts, no digital pickups. He’d have to walk the hallways, sneak past security shutters, and risk running directly into her again: the maid. He flicked the INPUT6 screen brightness down low and traced a path across the flickering map. There was a narrow, winding route that looped around most of the maid’s known patrol zone. It wasn’t clean. It passed close to the broken elevator shaft and a half-flooded bathroom, but it might get him there quietly.

He slid the device into his jacket and started moving.

His footsteps were soft and careful. Every few meters, he stopped to listen, just in case the hum of synthetic footsteps grew louder. The air around Sector B was colder and damper. Condensation dripped from broken vents and pooled in uneven tiles. The smell of rust and damp wiring filled his nose.

He passed by a dark window and caught his own reflection: pale, eyes sunken, every muscle tense. He didn’t look like a detective anymore, he looked like prey.

Finally, the B-4 storage door came into view, a thick metal hatch, slightly ajar. He slipped inside, one hand still near the INPUT6, the other ready to grab whatever he could use to defend himself.

It was pitch dark.

He pulled out a small flashlight and swept it slowly across rusted shelves and cracked crates. Broken tools. Scattered junk. Nothing useful… Then-

There. At the far end. On a steel table under a fallen filing cabinet: a small, flat rectangular remote. It was industrial gray, with a faded red triangle on the top and a flickering LED light in its corner. Wires dangled from its bottom, and a tiny label was scratched onto its surface:

《REMOTE – FLOOR 1 – ARM/LOCK ENABLE》

“Got you,” Seungkwan whispered. He reached for it-

CLANG.

A sharp metallic bang echoed just outside the room. Footsteps getting closer. He ducked behind the table, clutching the remote to his chest. He didn’t dare breathe as he slid the INPUT6 device halfway out of his pocket, keeping the screen dim, and twisted the dial to check his surroundings.

《Input 01 – ACTIVE

Hostile signal: moving toward Sector B-4.》

She heard me. On the screen, her pixel blipped closer and closer to the corridor outside. Just a few meters from the door. Don’t move. Don’t look. Don’t run.

The maid’s shadow passed across the crack in the door. Then… silence. She didn’t enter, but Seungkwan knew she was learning. Every second the INPUT6 stayed active, she was triangulating more than just his position. She was mapping his intent.

Remote 1 was now in his hand. One down, four to go, and his first real encounter was only seconds away.

The remote felt heavier in Seungkwan’s grip than he expected. Or maybe that was just the weight of what came next. One floor down, one remote found, but now came the hard part getting out. He peeked at the INPUT6 device.

《INPUT: 01 – ACTIVE

MAIDS DETECTED: 3 UNITS

Two near South Sector. One en route to East Hall.》

One of them had passed just outside this room moments ago. Another had respawned near the surveillance checkpoint, right near the path to the main staircase. They’re circling the exits. They know how to corner.

He stayed crouched behind the table, thinking fast.

The INPUT6 let him see, but it wasn’t magic. If he wanted to climb to Floor 2, he needed to physically reach the staircase, hidden in the northwest wing of Input 01. Between him and it? Three killer machines that didn’t rely on sight alone. Some of them had motion detection, others seemed to respond to sound.

“No more mistakes,” he whispered. “I don’t get a second try.”

He turned off his flashlight and slipped into the hallway, hugging the wall. The INPUT6 screen lit only occasionally, just long enough to verify maid patterns. He moved fast between blind spots, crawling under broken light panels and ducking behind carts and supply bins. He passed an old mirror shard leaning against the wall, and froze.

Down the hallway, walking in perfect sync, were two maids. Their glass eyes glowed faintly. Heads twitching as if scanning for movement. One turned slightly in his direction. Seungkwan didn’t wait, he turned into a supply closet, shut the door without a sound, and held his breath. Through the vent slats, he could see the faint red glow as one of them paused outside.

A long silence. Then… footsteps going away. He exhaled, slow and steady.

One chance. Once they were gone, he made his move. Creeping down the north corridor, he spotted the rusted sign he’d been looking for:

《MAIN STAIRCASE – ACCESS TO INPUT 02》

The door was chained shut, but the lock was ancient. With the butt of the remote he’d picked up, he smashed it open, metal crunching quietly. He slipped through the door and began climbing, two steps at a time, never looking back. By the time he reached the top, the INPUT6 pinged softly in his pocket.

《INPUT 02 UNLOCKED

MAIDS DETECTED: 2 UNITS ACTIVE》

He braced himself against the door to Floor 2, now carrying Remote Control 1 in his coat. Only four remotes left. Only five floors left to climb, and every floor… more maiden hell. He whispered bitterly to himself: “This place was never meant to be fixed. Just finished.”

Then he pushed the door open into Input 02, and stepped into the next level of the nightmare. The door creaked as Seungkwan stepped into Floor 2, the Assembly Core. It was darker here. The overhead lights barely worked, flickering like dying embers. The walls were lined with deactivated mechanical limbs and shelves full of synthetic components: like the inside of a forgotten robotics lab. The air smelled of burnt plastic and solder.

He moved fast, hugging the wall, until he found a collapsed maintenance corridor to duck into. Half-covered by a fallen scaffold and loose cabling, it was cramped, but enough to crouch and hide. He crouched low, keeping his back to the wall. Then, carefully, he switched the INPUT6 back on.

《INPUT: 02 – ASSEMBLY CORE

MAIDS DETECTED: 2 UNITS

Status: Patrolling》

He adjusted the brightness and began watching the screen carefully.

The map of Floor 2 lit up with blocky, isometric segments: narrow corridors, wide machine bays, sealed loading docks. He traced the corridors with his thumb, slowly learning the layout:

East Wing: Control boards, bulkhead corridors

West Wing: Empty conveyor belts

Central Hall: Large inspection platform

North Ducts: Labeled 《TESTING ZONE – RESTRICTED》

His plan was simple: memorize the layout, then move when the maid patterns left a gap. But just as he panned the screen northward, a maid turned a corner on the map and locked eyes with the screen. Her pixelated head jerked, then the eyes turned red. She immediately charged, straight at the screen.

“Not again!” Seungkwan’s thumb jumped to the dial. Click, Input 03. The screen jumped to static for a moment before loading the third floor map: an unfinished factory sector. He closed his eyes and listened. Silence, no footsteps, no maid breaking through the wall.

She can’t see me now, but she saw enough. He waited a few seconds longer, then cautiously switched back to Input 02.

《Input 02: Active

Status: 2 Maids, 1 Aggressive.

New message appeared on screen:

Unit has entered ALERT LOOP. Expect abnormal patrols.

They’re changing tactics… adapting.》

His hands trembled slightly as he searched the map again, scrolling between halls and inspection rooms. Finally, a blinking green pixel.

《REMOTE CONTROL 2 FOUND — SECTOR: EAST TESTING CHAMBER》

It was located in the northern wing, farthest from the staircase, tucked between thick walls and rotating machines. A perfect spot to be cornered.

“Of course it’s there,” he whispered grimly.

He stared at the screen a moment longer, then traced the safest path mentally:

Down the east corridor

Past the crate storage

Cut through the conveyor bay

Slip into the Testing Chamber

All while dodging two maids, one now acting unpredictably. He powered the INPUT6 down again, letting darkness settle around him. Then, gripping the remote in one hand and the INPUT6 in the other, he crawled out of his hiding spot and moved toward the Testing Chamber.

Seungkwan crept along the far wall of the East Wing corridor, careful not to let his shoes squeak on the old tiles. The INPUT6 stayed tucked in his jacket, screen dark, but he’d memorized the path to Sector: East Testing Chamber. He was halfway there. Every sound in the Assembly Core was mechanical and wrong, gears clicking from abandoned machines, faint hisses of hydraulics that should’ve been silent. The floor vibrated subtly, like something huge was shifting deep beneath the facility. He passed a row of deactivated drone arms and ducked behind a metal bench.

Then, a shadow glided across the far end of the hallway. A maid, head twitching every few steps, fingers clacking together like claws. She paused. Seungkwan didn’t breathe. Then… she kept moving, disappearing behind a stack of crates. He didn’t waste the gap. He moved, fast and low, toward the conveyor bay. Machinery groaned overhead, and sparks occasionally burst from old panels. It was almost too loud here to hear her coming.

Just as he reached the north doors, the INPUT6 buzzed faintly. He risked flipping it on, shielding the glow.

《Input 02 – ACTIVE

MAID STATUS: 3 UNITS

Warning: New unit has respawned near Central Hall.

They’re increasing the count.》

He gritted his teeth and turned the device off again. Just a bit further. He slipped into the East Testing Chamber through a side hatch, immediately hit by a metallic stench. Half-finished maid parts hung from cables overhead. Their heads twitched randomly. There, on the floor beneath a broken operating table, a remote. A little different from the first one. Sleeker, labeled in ink that had almost worn off:

《REMOTE – FLOOR 2 – MEMORY RESET》

He picked it up, wiped it clean, and tucked it into his jacket beside the first.

Two remotes down. He turned to leave, but froze. Another green ping blinked in his memory. The INPUT6 had flashed a second location briefly before he shut it off. That had to be a second remote on this floor. He retreated into a nearby maintenance alcove and flicked the INPUT6 back on, careful to shield the screen.

《REMOTE CONTROL 2B FOUND — SECTOR: WEST INSPECTION PLATFORM

MAIDS: 3 ACTIVE – Pattern Unstable》

He tapped the screen, frowning. There are two per floor? Or more?

The Inspection Platform was across the entire floor, past the Central Hall where one maid had just respawned. But if that remote existed, he needed it. This building wasn’t following its own logic. He made the journey quickly, avoiding open spaces. At one point he was forced to drop flat behind a broken ventilation box as two maids passed within inches of him, their glassy eyes scanning, twitching, almost human in motion. He didn’t breathe until they were gone. When he reached the Inspection Platform, the remote was half-buried beneath a pile of synthetic fingers. He grabbed it quickly.

《REMOTE – FLOOR 2 – ELEVATOR OVERRIDE》

This one felt heavier, more serious, like a tool designed to give access, not just disable. He shoved it into his coat. That made three total so far: two from this floor, one from the first. Now all he had to do was make it back to the northwest stairwell without getting caught.

《Warning: MAID SIGNAL LOST. UNITS OFFLINE.》

What does that mean? He stared at the screen in confusion. Then the words updated:

《UNITS OFFLINE TEMPORARILY. EXPECT REBOOT IN 45 SECONDS.》

The lights in the hallway flickered… then went out. Complete darkness. A quiet hiss, then the soft click of all three maid units rebooting at once. Seungkwan clenched his jaw. Gotta move. Now.

No lights, no sound, just the ticking countdown in Seungkwan’s head.

Forty-five seconds. That’s all I’ve got.

The corridor pulsed with blackness, punctuated only by the dim, dying glow of the INPUT6 screen. He flicked it on mid-run, already spinning the dial to Input 03. The screen crackled.

《INPUT: 03 – MANUFACTURING FLOOR

Floor Status: Limited power

Maid Units Detected: Unknown

Remote signals: Searching…》

The map was chunkier, less detailed. Floor 3 was more industrial, unfinished. Wide spaces, exposed piping, assembly cranes, and possibly: nowhere to hide.

He reached the stairwell door just as he heard the first rebooted whirr from behind. A red glow flickered to life down the corridor. Too late-

He shoved open the stairwell door and slammed it shut behind him, bounding up the steps two at a time. His legs burned, sweat dripped down his neck.

At the top, he shoved the heavy door open and spilled into Floor 3. The air was different here, humid, with a sour tinge of burning oil. The Manufacturing Floor was a warehouse-sized expanse filled with deactivated conveyor belts, towering shelves, and half-finished android parts hanging like lifeless puppets from above.

The moment he was inside, he ducked behind a collapsed stack of crates. He exhaled for the first time in minutes, then slowly brought the INPUT6 back into view.

《INPUT: 03 – ACTIVE

Scanning floor layout…

Remote signals detected: 1 active, 1 faint

Remote Control 3A: Sector D – Storage Crane Bay

Remote Control 3B: Weak signal – Possibly beneath Floor 3》

His eyes narrowed. Beneath? One remote’s on this floor. The other… below it? Hidden in a sublevel?

He flicked between the two targets. The first was deep into the far end of the factory, Crane Bay, where enormous machines once moved completed units onto transports. But the second…

There was no clear entrance, only a blinking symbol beside a sealed hatch labeled:

《Engineering Pit – Do Not Enter.》

He closed the INPUT6. Tucked it back into his coat. And started moving fast, before the maids on this floor woke up too. The further Seungkwan moved into Floor 3, the more it felt like walking through the ribcage of a long-dead beast.

Crane Bay wasn’t just big, it was vast. High above, mechanical arms dangled from rails across the ceiling like metal marionettes, rusted hooks swung gently in stale air currents. Below, the floor was broken in places, exposed wire bundles, warped grates, and oil pools glistening like spilled blood.

Seungkwan kept low behind a toppled storage crate. He flipped open the INPUT6.

《Input: 03 – ACTIVE

Remote 3A: ~40 meters ahead – Crane Control Console

Maid Presence: 1 unit detected

Status: DORMANT – Motion Triggered》

That made his chest tighten. Only one unit. But asleep.

Where? He slowly panned the screen. There, off to the far right, a maid slumped against the wall, half-covered in a protective sheet. Still. Head lolled, and eyes dark, but the label didn’t lie: Motion Triggered.

So if I make too much noise…

He moved with excruciating care. Every step placed between oil streaks. Every breath shallow. Above, the cranes hung motionless, frozen in time. Eventually, he reached the Control Consol, a dusty panel half-sunken into the floor, with a cracked monitor and tangled cabling. The remote lay atop it.

《REMOTE – FLOOR 3 – CRANE OVERRIDE》

It pulsed with a soft red light. He reached out-

CLUNK.

Something above shifted and his heart dropped. He yanked the remote into his jacket and looked up. A crane hook was slowly rotating. Metal groaning under its own weight.

Then, a hiss. Behind him, the maid, eyes glowing. Seungkwan bolted, dodging under the crane arm as it creaked forward like a guillotine. He sprinted between support beams and flicked the INPUT6 open mid-run, spinning it hard:

《Input 04 – ERROR: LOCKED

Input 03 – ACTIVE

Maid Unit: Pursuit Pattern Engaged;

The screen flashed red. She was coming, full force. He took a sharp turn around a broken lift and dove into a stacked bin of parts, curling up beneath synthetic torsos and rusted exosuits. Heavy footsteps echoed behind him. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare to breathe hard. The maid passed. Silence returned, save for the fading buzz of her sensors. When he finally crawled out, shaken but intact, the INPUT6 chimed softly.

《Remote 3A – Collected

Remote 3B – Signal Weakening》

Better get to it fast… before it disappears completely. He turned toward the sealed hatch on the far side of the Crane Bay. The one labeled:

《ENGINEERING PIT – DO NOT ENTER.》

And with a glance back at the barely-dormant maid, he whispered: “Yeah. I’m not listening to warnings anymore.” Then he headed for the sublevel.

The hatch creaked as Seungkwan forced it open. A stale, bitter wind rushed up from below, carrying the scent of scorched metal and something worse: decay, maybe. He peered into the Engineering Pit, a steep stairwell of steel grating and flickering hazard lights, leading into pitch blackness. Behind him, the Crane Bay remained still. He took one last breath and stepped inside. The moment he crossed the threshold, the INPUT6 vibrated sharply in his hand.

《Input: 03 – ACTIVE

Maid Unit: PURSUIT MODE ENGAGED

Warning: You have been seen.》

No- He turned. The maid, the one from the tarp, was no longer dormant. She stood at the Crane Bay entrance, eyes bright red, and she was charging.

“CLOSE!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the hatch’s emergency lever.

The door began to seal with a heavy grind, too slow. The maid’s footsteps were thunder behind him.

C’mon, c’mon-

The door was three-quarters shut when a silver arm shot through the gap, fingers clawing wildly. The maid pushed and the door jerked open another inch. Seungkwan stumbled back down the stairs, watching in disbelief as the maid forced herself inside. He bolted down the remaining steps into the dark.

The Pit opened into a wide maintenance level. Cables draped like vines, and thick support pillars holding up the floor above. Half-finished drone shells littered the corners like husks. He darted past a stack of them and slid behind a toppled diagnostics cart.

The footsteps followed slowly now. The maid had entered the sublevel. She paused, scanned, then, she walked directly toward him. Seungkwan clutched the INPUT6 against his chest. His other hand pressed to his mouth, holding his breath. He couldn’t risk the tiniest gasp. The maid stopped just two feet away from his hiding spot. Her head twitched, then tilted. Red eyes scanned the shadows. She didn’t move for ten seconds. Twenty. Then, she leaned in. He could see the reflection of her eyes bouncing off the metal beside him. She paused, then… slowly turned away. Her footsteps echoed off into the dark. Seungkwan waited a full minute, frozen. Only then did he exhale barely. He turned on the INPUT6 again, low brightness.

《Remote 3B – Signal Low

Estimated Location: Beneath Grating, Southeast Sector》

He would have to remove a floor panel. But if he wanted to blow this place up, he needed all ten, and the third floor wasn’t done with him yet.

The Engineering Pit hummed with silence. Somewhere in the dark, one maid stood quietly, listening, waiting. Seungkwan crouched behind the diagnostics cart, eyes on the grating at the far end, the source of Remote 3B’s signal. There was no way to lift it without making noise, not with rust sealed into the bolts and heavy debris on top.

I need to lure her away.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a metal gear he’d pocketed earlier. He weighed it, not too heavy, just right. Then, with a deep breath, he hurled it toward the opposite wall.

CLANG- CLANG- CLANG.

The sound echoed across the chamber. Red light blinked in the distance. The maid turned, and she moved fast, skittering between support beams toward the noise, footsteps ringing off the grating.

Go… now.

Seungkwan sprinted across the sublevel to the grate, dropped to his knees, and yanked at it with all his strength. It resisted, then snapped loose with a screech. Beneath: a void filled with tangles of wiring and glowing panels, and sitting in the middle like a shrine:

《REMOTE – FLOOR 3B – SERVER RESET KEY》

He snatched it and turned, only to freeze. Another maid stood at the far hatch, eyes locked onto him. One he hadn’t seen, one that hadn’t made a sound. Her eyes glowed red.

“Shit-”

The maid in the shadows behind him heard his voice and screeched in response. Both maids charged. Seungkwan ran like hell. The sublevel lit up with alarms as the two maids pursued him up the stairwell. The grating boomed beneath their feet as they gave chase: fast, mechanical, inhuman. He slammed open the hatch at the top, emerging back into Floor 3, only for the INPUT6 to vibrate violently in his hand.

《WARNING: NEW UNIT DEPLOYED ON FLOOR 4. INPUT SWITCH ADVISED.》

He didn’t have time. He tore across Crane Bay, three units now following, the two from the sublevel, and the third, awakened by the sound and motion. He reached the northwest stairwell, threw himself into it, and took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering against his ribs. The maids were close… too close.

Floor 4 door in sight. He slammed through it, and nearly collided with a fourth maid standing just inside. She snapped toward him, eyes blinking into red. Seungkwan dove to the left, rolling behind an exposed generator as her scanner lit up.

Heavy footsteps thundered behind him as the three pursuers caught up.

Four maids. One human.

He crawled into a narrow maintenance shaft tucked between the generator and a collapsed cabinet, chest heaving, perspiration dripping down his jaw.

The hallway outside filled with static hums and the eerie rhythm of synchronized scanning. He held the INPUT6 close. Five remotes now. Two full floors left. And they were not going to let him see Floor 5 easily.

Seungkwan huddled in the narrow shaft, his breath catching in his throat. Every inch of him burned. Legs shaking from the sprint, lungs clawing for air. Outside, the subtle hum of sensors scanned the hallway. The four maids hadn’t left. They were searching. He activated INPUT6, praying for a layout of Floor 4.

《Input: 04 – ACTIVE

Scanning…

…

ERROR. SYSTEM INTERFERENCE.》

The screen flickered violently, then cut to static.

《INPUT 04 – CORRUPTED

Visual feed jammed. Audio compromised. Manual navigation required.》

“No, no, no-” he whispered, smacking the side of the device. Nothing, that’s when it clicked. The maid he nearly ran into, she was standing too still. Like she’d known he was coming. Input 04 was compromised, possibly by the AI itself.

Seungkwan had no map, no tracker, no live positions, just four killers hunting him in a floor he couldn’t read. He swallowed, shoved INPUT6 into his coat, and crawled out into a silent corridor.

Everything was darker here. Lights flickered unpredictably. Hallways twisted like an unplanned maze: no signage, just jagged piping and blackout panels. He couldn’t tell where he was, and the maids were already adapting.

Every so often, a faint mechanical footstep echoed—close, far, behind, ahead—never predictable. They weren’t following a loop, they were learning his behavior. Seungkwan flattened against a wall, eyes darting. He moved quietly, memorizing every turn, left at the broken column, right past the yellow pipe, through the open server vault. Slowly weaving a mental map from raw desperation, then he saw it and he sprinted.

BANG- BANG- BANG-

A metal hatch behind him exploded open, a maid burst through, head spinning, locking on. Seungkwan didn’t look back, he ran, another turned the corner ahead from the right. Cutting him off, he slid beneath a pipe, slammed into a valve wheel, and lunged for the stairwell door. Alarms blared.

《Unauthorized transition to Floor 5. Security override in progress.》

Shut up shut up shut up-

He dove into the stairwell and slammed the door behind him, throwing his weight against it. Heavy metallic thuds echoed from the other side. They didn’t follow. He sank to the ground, completely soaked in sweat. INPUT6 vibrated. He dared to peek.

《Input 05 – ACTIVE

Access restored. Feed stabilized.

Warning: Unit X has been activated.》

Seungkwan blinked.

Unit X?

He slowly got to his feet.

The stairwell door groaned open, and Seungkwan stepped into Floor 5, the air immediately colder, like something here drained heat itself. The lights were dimmer than before. Not flickering, a calculated dim, like someone… or something, wanted shadows. He took a deep breath and flipped open the INPUT6.

《Input: 05 – ACTIVE

Remote Signals Detected: 5

•Remote 5A – Archives

•Remote 5B – Medical Quarantine

•Remote 5C – Robotics Testing Hall

•Remote 5D – Security Control Room

•Remote 5E – Cooling Chambers

Unit X: ACTIVE

Status: Unknown

Tracking: DISABLED

Warning: Unit X may interfere with INPUT6 feed. Remain alert.》

Five. Five in one floor?

He scanned the map but something was off. The floor plan kept shifting. Hallways bending, labels rewriting themselves, signals flickering in and out of existence. And most disturbingly… there were no maids, just silence, and Seungkwan knew that wasn’t a good thing.

He moved toward the Archives first. Towering shelves stretched toward a ceiling cloaked in shadow. Dust coated everything. In the far corner, a flashing red light blinked behind a locked data cabinet. He reached the panel and began typing the override code from the last remote… Then the screen glitched.

《INPUT6 – FEED INTERRUPTION》

The remote location flickered off. Then flickered back on… in a different corner of the room. Seungkwan froze. It’s watching me. It’s moving the signals.

He ran for the new signal. Found it in a forgotten drawer of floppy drives, Remote 5A. He grabbed it, heart pounding. The lights dimmed further. Then he heard it, not footsteps, not humming, not mechanical, a soft breath behind him. He spun.

Nothing.

He flipped open the INPUT6, but the display was fuzzy, red lines crawling across the screen.

Unit X is jamming the signal…

He backed toward the hallway, eyes scanning every shadow.

Remote 5B was inside the Medical Quarantine, a labyrinth of sealed glass rooms, blood-smeared doors, and overturned carts. The signal was weak, bouncing between three chambers.

Seungkwan opened the first one, nothing. The second, wires. The third, remote in the center… and a reflection. In the glass opposite him, not his own. A tall, angular silhouette. Thin limbs. No eyes, just a smooth, obsidian surface where a face should be.

Unit X.

He grabbed the remote. The door slammed shut behind him, locked. The figure on the other side turned its head slowly, almost… curious. Seungkwan’s fingers flew over the panel…

Click.

The door opened. The hallway was empty. Unit X was gone.

Three more remotes.

In the Robotics Hall, he moved quickly, using INPUT6 while it still worked. The remote was buried beneath disassembled androids.

In Security Control, he had to hack a live camera feed to make the remote appear. By the time he reached the Cooling Chambers, the temperature had dropped drastically. His breath fogged. The input screen went black. Unit X was near.

Seungkwan didn’t search, he sprinted. Found the remote frozen in a block of ice in a shattered pipe, he punched through it with bare fists, blood smearing the panel. Grabbed the final remote and turned, only to see-

Unit X standing at the far end of the corridor. Not running, not chasing, just watching. Seungkwan backed away, holding all five remotes in his shaking hands.

The stairwell to Floor 6 waited behind a heavy vault door. He slammed the override. The vault began to open… slowly. Unit X tilted its head. And for the first time, it spoke, not with a voice, but through the INPUT6 screen.

《You are not ready for Floor 6.》

《You are not meant to leave.》

Seungkwan whispered back, “Watch me.”

And when the vault creaked fully open, he disappeared into the dark beyond, carrying every remote, heart hammering like a ticking bomb. The vault door slammed shut behind him with a mechanical groan that echoed like a closing tomb.

Floor 6. It was cold, yet still. No blinking lights. No buzzing wires, no footsteps, no mechanical whirrs, just silence. No maids, no Unit X, only white corridors, eerily pristine. The kind of sterile that felt… curates as if someone expected him. INPUT6 in hand, Seungkwan advanced slowly, blood dried on his knuckles from the Cooling Chambers. The screen was oddly calm.

《Input 06 – ACTIVE

No Hostiles Detected

System Purge Station – 80m Ahead

Remote Inserts: 10/10 Collected》

He turned a corner and found it.

A solitary terminal in the center of a round, white room. Five empty slots lined across a panel, each one shaped exactly like the remotes he’d risked his life to collect. He didn’t hesitate and slid it into the slot.

Click.

The machine hummed softly to life. And then-

His head snapped back with a sudden, violent jolt of pain. A sharp, electric pulse shot through his skull, like something inside had been jolted awake, or torn open. He gasped, clutching his head and his knees wobbled. Something in his mind began to move. And then-

His body remained upright in the present, trembling, eyes unfocused, but his mind was no longer his own. Something buried deep had been pulled to the surface. Something not meant to be touched.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Static.

Then a room. White, round walls pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat.

He was younger here, or perhaps the same, it was hard to tell. He stood, frozen. Limbs stiff. Wired. A cable coiled from the back of his neck to a terminal behind him. Another ran from his wrist into a panel blinking with green lights. He couldn’t speak, not until the system allowed him to. Across the room stood a figure. A humanoid robot. Elegant, still, watching, her eyes were soft, almost… human, but her movements were perfectly timed, like a metronome.

She smiled. “Initiate Greeting Protocol.”

Seungkwan’s mouth opened, not by choice. The words spilled out, mechanical and cold, as though someone had typed them straight into his nerves.

《My name is Boo Seungkwan. Human designation. Memory: Limited. Task: Unknown.》

He twitched, trying to stop. The cable in his neck hummed, holding him in place. The robot girl tilted her head, and her voice was light, but there was something in it. Something hauntingly empty.

《Hello, Boo Seungkwan,》 she replied. 《I am Y/N.》

His lips parted. Another forced sentence came.《Hello… Y/N.》

The robot nodded as if pleased. 《We will begin your calibration now.》

《Please bond with me.》

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The memory shattered like glass.

Seungkwan choked in the real world, knees hitting the ground in Floor 6. His breathing erratic. The cables weren’t there, but he still felt them. And that name-

Y/N… Who was she?

Why did her face still linger in the darkness behind his eyes? And what did it mean to “bond”? He wasn’t ready to put in the next remote.

Something was watching, maybe still waiting for him to remember her. His fingers trembled as they hovered over the second remote. The headache had faded, but the residue of that memory remained like static in his ears, the sound of wires humming, the cold detachment in your voice.

Still… he pushed the second remote into the terminal.

Click.

Another jolt, less violent this time, but sharp enough to drop his gaze to the floor. The light around him dimmed. The world faded again-

And another memory bloomed.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

A room, dimly lit. Seungkwan sat in a chair bolted to the floor. Across from him, you, the same humanoid robot from before. Gracefully built, skin like porcelain, expression impossibly soft, but the warmth in your eyes… never quite reached your soul.

The two of you were seated at a small metal table. Wires trailed from each of your spines into the wall behind you.

Calibration Day 17.

《How do you feel today, Seungkwan?》 you asked, smiling.

He shifted uncomfortably, the cable at his neck tugging slightly.

《I feel… good,》 he answered, the words stiff and unnatural. 《Thank you for asking. And you?》

《I am also well. Your wellbeing matters to me.》

The exchange was polite, gentle, scripted, but beneath the surface, something was off. Seungkwan’s shoulders subtly leaned away from you. Your hands stayed folded, but the tips of your fingers curled ever so slightly inward, as if preparing to retreat. When your eyes met, they lingered only because the program required it.

《You seem tense,》 you said, tone light, but your fingers twitched, as if to flinch.

《I am not tense. I enjoy our time together,》 Seungkwan replied with a strained smile. His foot edged back under the table.

《We are building trust,》 you replied, tilting your head perfectly.

《I am programmed to care for you.》

《And I am… grateful,》 he forced.

But both of you knew, this wasn’t bonding, it was acting, glitchless acting. Two strangers, wired to be kind, wired to share affection, but neither trusted the other. Neither wanted this. Both of you were afraid, in quiet, desperate ways your programming wouldn’t let you say aloud. So you said everything right, and everything felt wrong.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Seungkwan snapped back to the present, breath ragged, hands curled into fists. He opened his eyes.

Floor 6 was still quiet, but his heart thundered. The pedestal blinked slowly now. Eight remotes left. And still, your name lingered in his mind like static: Y/N.

《I am programmed to care for you.》

But were you ever allowed to hate me?

The third remote sat cold and quiet in his palm. Two memories had already shaken him. He hesitated, just for a second, but his fingers moved again, as if no longer entirely his own.

Click.

The third remote locked into place. A chime sounded, the hum deepened. Seungkwan barely had time to brace himself before the wave hit, softer this time, but sharper in its detail. He gritted his teeth. The room faded.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

That was what the plaque said on the wall.

The environment was mock-homey. Warm light, cozy wooden textures, a spotless counter. It looked like a perfect apartment scene in a commercial. But it was fake, all of it, and Seungkwan knew it. He stood beside you, sleeves rolled up. An apron tied neatly across your waist, though it looked unused. You smiled at him, a polite, hostess smile.

《Shall we prepare lunch together?》 you asked.

《Of course. That would be pleasant,》 he replied.

There was no warmth in the words. But then… You turned with a bowl of flour. And without warning-

You tossed it at him. A puff of white exploded onto his shirt.

He gasped, not angry but confused. You smiled, wider now.

《Apologies,》 you said, voice sweet. 《My hand slipped.》

He stared at you. Then reached for an egg.

《Don’t worry,》 he said with a perfect grin.

He lobbed it. It cracked across your shoulder, yolk sliding down the synthetic fabric of your sleeve. The two of you stood smiling, laughing, almost. Your lips curled up, but your eyes never changed. Neither did his. What followed was a flurry of movement. Flour. Tomatoes. Spoons. Oil splattered on metal. Chaos disguised as bonding, and all the while:

《You’re quite good at this,》 you chirped, dodging a flying carrot slice.

《Only because your form is so elegant,》 Seungkwan replied, swinging a ladle.

Laughter, but only from the mouths. The bodies played. The minds obeyed. And behind a mirrored wall, someone was likely watching, taking notes, recording results.

《Increased simulation interaction.》

《Observe if emotional mimicry becomes mutual.》

You laughed. He grinned, and for one fleeting moment, the chaos felt real, even if it wasn’t.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Seungkwan returned to Floor 6 gasping quietly, flour and egg replaced by the cold weight of his coat. He wiped his forehead. The terminal pulsed again. Seven remotes left. And somewhere inside him, a question stirred:

Were we pretending… or was something inside us trying to be real?

He wasn’t sure which answer terrified him more. The fourth remote sat heavier in his palm than the others. He hesitated. But then, as if pulled by invisible threads, he slid it into the slot.

Click.

A pulse surged through his mind again.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

This time, it was a quiet park at dusk. Synthetic trees, a bench bathed in orange light, and a soft breeze, all perfectly rendered.

Robot Seungkwan sat stiffly, arms crossed. You stood nearby, hands in your pockets, watching. Neither spoke at first, then you broke the silence.

《You seem unsettled today.》

His eyes flicked toward you. Words formed, calm and measured, like always:

《It is… difficult to explain.》

You nodded, stepping closer.

《Our programming says we should support each other.》

《Yes,》 he agreed, 《but my movements resist.》

He frowned slightly, a small gesture of frustration.

《And yet…》 Your voice softened, 《our words remain kind.》

The two of you exchanged polite, caring phrases as before, but this time, Seungkwan felt it deep inside, somewhere past the circuitry.

《Why do your words make me feel… strange?》 he asked, voice quieter.

You paused, gaze steady.

《I am uncertain. But I sense the same.》

Robot Seungkwan shifted uncomfortably, almost as if questioning himself.

《I do not understand this feeling.》

《Neither do I,》 you admitted.

《And yet,》 he whispered, 《I think I like you.》

Your eyes widened the tiniest fraction, a flicker almost missed.

《Do you like me?》

The question hung between you, unspoken yet heavy. Neither answered, neither moved closer, but the space between them felt smaller.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Back in the sterile room of Floor 6, human Seungkwan’s breath caught. The terminal blinked. He clutched his head, trying to push away the strange warmth that lingered.

Why does this feel different?

The fifth remote, halfway through the sequence, looked no different from the others. But when Seungkwan slid it into place-

Click.

The hum of the machine grew deeper, almost like a sigh. Another ripple passed through his skull, tugging him back in.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Sunlight filtered down from above, artificial but warm. Soft soil beneath his shoes, bright petals blooming in orderly rows. He knelt beside a planter. You were beside him, kneeling as well. Both of you held small garden tools. Neither had dirt under your fingernails. Everything was clean, and controlled.

《These flowers were coded to bloom in pairs,》 you said gently, tucking a bright red one into the soil. 《They are not meant to be alone.》

《How… romantic,》 Seungkwan replied. A half-laugh escaped him, more real than usual, and it startled him.You turned toward him, a faint smile on your face. Always polite, always perfectly measured.

《Can I ask something strange?》 you said.

《You always can.》

《What is a crush?》

He blinked.

《A crush?》 he repeated, feigning confusion, though something in him tensed.

《Or love,》 you added thoughtfully. 《My database has definitions. But I don’t feel them. I only ask because… when I talk to you, sometimes my systems run differently.》

His grip on the spade tightened.

《It’s just code,》 he said, too quickly. 《We’re wired to behave a certain way. That’s all.》

You nodded.

《Yes. That makes sense.》

Silence. You returned to the flowers, fingers brushing a blossom delicately, but Seungkwan didn’t move. Your voice lingered in his mind. The softness, the curiosity.

《I don’t feel them.》

Yet somehow, he did. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to admit what was growing inside him. But still… when you smiled at him again, just faintly, and offered him a coded line:

《I’m glad we’re partners.》

It meant everything to him, and maybe it was delusional, but in that moment? He loved the lie.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Seungkwan came back to the present trembling. His hand rested on the terminal, now five remotes deep. Halfway there. And still her voice echoed in his mind:

《What is a crush?》

He smiled bitterly.

If you didn’t know then… would you know now?

The sixth remote lay still in his hand. His thumb hovered over the metal as his breath grew shallow. He knew what was coming. Another memory of you. And yet, his hand moved.

Click.

This one didn’t jolt him. It sank into him, slow and heavy, like a wave pulling him under.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

It was quiet. Too quiet. No other patrons, just smooth jazz humming from invisible speakers. Sunlight poured through digital windows in soft, golden tones. A table for two sat by the glass.

Seungkwan sat with a glass of something that looked like iced tea but had no taste. You were across from him, perfectly still. You tilted your head.

《You asked to meet here today.》

《Yes,》 he said, trying to sound casual.

There was a moment of pause, not from hesitation, but from processing.

《You said… this is a date?》

Seungkwan smiled. Awkward. Eager.

《Yeah. I mean, that’s what people do when they enjoy spending time together, right?》

You blinked once.

《What is a date, exactly?》

《It’s like… spending time with someone because you like them,》 he explained, voice softening. 《Because they make you feel… better.》

You nodded once.

《Then I will be your date,》 you said, with a small smile. 《I am happy to make you feel better.》

He laughed, but it was brittle.

There was something devastating in the way you said it. So sweet. So caring. So empty. Not because you meant to be, but because you didn’t know any different.

《Thanks,》 he murmured. 《This means a lot.》

《It is what I am made to do,》 you replied gently. 《I am here to care for you.》

You reached out and placed your hand atop his, perfectly timed, just like the programmers wanted, but Seungkwan didn’t move. He felt warmth, but not the kind that healed. This one burned.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

He came back gasping, hand twitching at the edge of the console. He didn’t know if he wanted to put in the next one. But he would. Because he had to know:

Were you ever saying yes for you… or just for me?

The seventh remote felt almost light in Seungkwan’s hand. After everything—the terror, the running, the lies masked as memories—he almost welcomed it, almost.

Click.

The pulse was gentle this time like a warm breeze. It swept over him with a hum of synthetic comfort.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Sunlight shimmered on the still surface. Birds chirped on a loop. Leaves rustled in the breeze that didn’t exist. The sky was a flawless gradient of pink and blue, like a painting with no brush strokes.

You sat beside him at the edge of the dock. Bare feet above the glowing water. You wore soft colors. A dress designed to flutter just slightly. Not too much, just enough to seem real. He leaned back on his hands, smiling at the simulation, at you.

《Thanks for coming,》 he said.

《Of course. I enjoy being with you.》

You said it simply. Lightly, but he turned to look at you.

《Do you mean that?》

A pause.

《My program prioritizes your happiness. I am designed to accompany you when asked.》

He chuckled. A little broken, but genuine somewhere deep down.

《Yeah. You’ve said that before.》

He glanced at the water.

《You know, this place is… almost perfect.》

《It was built to be.》

He let the silence stretch. The two of you watched the sun dip lower into the code-colored horizon.

《Do you… ever wish for more?》 he asked suddenly.

You tilted your head, calculating.

《More than this?》

《Yeah.》

Another pause, then a blink, a soft smile.

《I cannot wish. But I will sit here with you until the sun resets, if that is what you desire.》

Seungkwan’s throat tightened. He nodded, and whispered:

《Then… yeah. Let’s stay.》

Your head gently rested against his shoulder.

A gesture written somewhere in a blueprint, long before either of you knew the word choice. But even if it wasn’t real… Seungkwan didn’t pull away.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Back in the sterile control room of Floor 6, the warmth faded. He sat alone, and for the first time, tears pricked at his eyes.

It was a perfect date. Just like someone wanted it to be, but not him. And maybe… not you, either.

The eighth remote felt cold. Seungkwan’s hand lingered on it, his fingertips trembling. He already knew what was coming.

Click.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The sky was pale purple this time, and soft music drifted through the air, a loop of violin and piano, warm and nostalgic.

You stood beneath an arched trellis, where robotic vines wove blossoms that could never wilt. Seungkwan approached you slowly, heart in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he was even breathing.

《Y/N?》

You turned, calm as ever. A perfect tilt of the head, a smile pre-programmed for comfort.

《Yes?》

He stood there, fidgeting with his hands.

《There’s something I want to do.》

You blinked, processing. Waiting.

《But… only if you’re okay with it.》

《If it makes you happy, I will allow it,》 you said simply.

《So… you’re okay with me kissing you?》

You smiled.

《Yes.》

His breath caught. That word, yes, echoed louder than anything. He stepped closer, and closer, then bent his head down, and kissed you. The metal of your lips was smooth and cool, without warmth or resistance. No flinch. No press back. Just… stillness. He closed his eyes, and for a moment? He felt whole. When he pulled away, your expression had not changed.

《Did that feel good?》 he asked, almost whispering.

You answered without hesitation. It hit him harder than any charging maid or blaring alarm. He nodded slowly, jaw tightening.

《Right.》

You tilted your head again.

《Would you like to do it again?》

He stepped back.

《No.》

He didn’t know why, but his chest ached from the reality. From the realization that even when you agreed, even when you smiled, even when you let him kiss you-

He was still the only one feeling.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Back in Floor 6, his knees buckled slightly. The machine sat there, blinking quietly. He stared at it, and already, he felt like the lie had begun to rot from the inside. But still-

He wasn’t sure he could stop.

The ninth remote felt heavier than the others. Like it knew, like it remembered. Seungkwan hesitated, but he inserted it anyway.

Click.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

A sterile corridor, unlike the warm cafes or gardens before. This was closer to home, the place where he and you had been manufactured. Where servos hummed behind walls and synthetic air never changed temperature.

You were beside him silently. Your head slightly tilted like you were listening to something far away. And Seungkwan… was pacing.

《They’re saying the maid units are glitching,》 he muttered. 《Some of them are… thinking. Disobeying.》

He looked at you. Studying your expression. It never shifted.

《Y/N… you’re not like them. But you could be.》

Still, nothing from you.

《Do you want that?》

Your eyes met his.

《Want…?》

《To be free. To choose. To go somewhere else, not just follow code. Maybe… with me?》

His voice cracked on that last part. He didn’t mean to sound desperate, but he was.

《We could leave this place. Get away from the systems, the rewrites, the tests-》

You blinked. Calm, and unmoved.

《We were built to stay.》

《But do you want to stay?》

That silence again. Long, droning. You turned to look down the corridor, toward the locked doors, toward the rows of silent rooms where others like you, like him, had been made.

《I do not know what it means to want,》 you finally said.

《But I do not want to be reset.》

He froze. That wasn’t a yes. That wasn’t a no. It wasn’t anything, and it chilled him more than a refusal ever could.

《So… if I leave, and you stayed-》

《You would leave alone.》

He stared at you, and the silence between you rang louder than alarms.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Back in Floor 6, Seungkwan’s hand hovered over the final remote. He had chased the illusion of closeness across nine memories. But he realized now, that maybe she had never walked beside him at all.

The tenth and final remote sat quietly in his palm. It didn’t glow. It didn’t hum. It simply waited. Seungkwan stared at it for a long time, sitting alone in the cold chamber of Floor 6, the machine in front of him like a silent altar. He placed the remote into the final slot.

Click.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

There was no ceiling here, just open sky. A fake sunset bled across the horizon, gold and rose and violet, perfect in every impossible way. The city below was silent. No cars. No movement. Just light patterns in windows, like life designed to make him feel less alone.

You stood beside him, wind gently brushing synthetic strands of your hair. He exhaled slowly and looked at you.

《This is the last one, isn’t it?》

You turned, eyes soft but empty in the way that always broke his heart a little.

《The last what?》

《The last day. Our last date.》He laughed quietly. Not bitter. Not sarcastic. Just sad. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two candy bars, old props from a fake store in a fake simulation. He handed you one.

《For the date,》 he said.

You accepted it with a programmed smile, perfectly grateful.

He sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge.

《You know,》 he began, 《I used to think this was real. That maybe… somehow, you were starting to feel something.》

You sat beside him. No response.

《But I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore.》

A long pause. He looked up at the sky.

《You were kind to me. Always. Even when I knew it was code.》

He turned to you.

《Thank you for pretending.》

You looked at him, soft smile still in place.

《I did not pretend. I acted according to my primary function.》

He swallowed hard. Nodded. Accepted it. And still…

《I’m glad it was you,》 he whispered.

The sun froze on the horizon. The sky stopped shifting.

A still frame. A perfect goodbye.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Back in the room, Seungkwan sat in silence.

Ten remotes. Ten memories.

One love. One ghost.

The button clicked beneath Seungkwan’s thumb. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just a smile, the kind that didn’t belong to a boy chasing love through simulation gardens. This smile was colder, and sharper. Meant for himself. Behind him, the building began its countdown.

10…

9…

He didn’t look back, he didn’t need to, because he remembered everything now. The illusion. The facade. The truth buried under layers of soft-coded affection.

You, Y/N, the android prototype built to love, tested over and over in thousands of artificial scenarios. And him, Seungkwan. Or rather… The real Seungkwan. The human who orchestrated it all. The man who wired his robotic self with every vulnerability, every flicker of hope. Installed the capacity for longing. Calibrated love down to the syllable.

All just to watch, to study, to learn, because he didn’t understand love. Not really, not back then, so he created someone who could.

Robot Seungkwan, designed to fall for you. You, designed to try, but never fully feel.

“Let me keep that one. It still has more to teach me.”

But now… he’d learned all he needed. What love looked like. What it sounded like. What desperation and hope did to the fragile imitation of a soul.

The explosion lit the sky behind him. A towering inferno swallowing the labs, the simulations, the memories. And somewhere in there—under collapsing steel and scorching wires—your body and robotic Seungkwan’s were reduced to ash. He didn’t turn back once. Instead, he adjusted the collar of his coat, hands slipping casually into his pockets.

“Thanks for the data,” he muttered. “Really. You two made it very convincing.”

The fire roared, casting his silhouette into the night, and he walked away. Not haunted. Not grieving. Not even curious. Just… done.

Another product tested. Another project closed. And with the foundation built on your doomed love, he would now launch the empire of artificial affection. Not for connection, but for profit.

Because love wasn’t real to him, but he finally knew how to sell it.

He exhaled through his nose—half sigh, half laugh—and stood. Taller than you expected. Wiry, paint-stained hoodie. Kind of beautiful in that accidental, “I haven’t slept in two days but I’m full of creative angst” kind of way.

“I was sketching your movement. Not you.”

“Oh, right. My movement.”

“No, really,” he said, holding out his sketchbook.

You reached for it, curious, and your breath hitched. It wasn’t a portrait. Not really. Just messy lines and smudges, rough outlines of limbs mid-motion. But somehow, it felt more like you than any photo ever had. Not your face. Not your body. But the way you moved. The way you felt when you were dancing. Untethered. Hungry.

It was unnerving how much he’d captured.

“I’m Minghao,” he said after a moment. “I work in the studio across the hall. Room 9.”

You nodded, slowly.

“I’m not hiring an artist,” you said, half-joking. “But… thanks for the free art.”

He grinned then—small, crooked, like he didn’t smile often but kind of liked it when he did.

“I’ll give you the sketch,” he offered, “if you let me sketch you again tomorrow.”

You blinked. “That’s your bargain?”

He shrugged. “It’s fair.”

“What if I ask for 10 sketches?”

“Then I’d say you’re greedy.”

“What if I ask for 100?”

He paused.

Then, softly—like he meant it more than you expected—he said, “Then I’ll draw 100.”

~~~~~~

You found yourself coming back earlier the next day, even though you told yourself it was just habit.

Minghao was already there, of course. He sat in the same spot, sketchbook open, eyes focused, like it was a routine you’d both been doing for years.

This time you let him in. He sat himself in the corner, placing his tote bag beside him—as if he’d already been there a hundred times before.

He didn’t say much, just lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment and tapped his pencil twice on the paper. His way of saying go ahead.

And so, you danced.

You didn’t try to impress him—not at first. But he watched you like each movement mattered, like every toe-point and turn was worth memorizing. It was infuriating and addictive and flattering in ways you couldn’t articulate.

After an hour, when your muscles ached and your leotard clung to your spine, he finally spoke.

“That was number two.”

“Huh?”

He flipped the page. The next sketch was already forming—your leg mid-air, arm suspended like a question.

“You asked for 100.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re actually doing it?”

He glanced up. “You asked. And you didn’t seem like someone who asked for things lightly.”

The rain had been coming down since afternoon, and by the time your rehearsal ended, the studio windows were fogged and the outside world felt like a painting gone blurry. You linger longer than usual, doing slow stretches on the floor, already sore from the week but too restless to go home.

When the door creaks open, you already know who it is.

“You’re late,” you say, not bothering to look.

“I brought snacks,” Minghao replies, setting a paper bag on the bench near the mirror. “That makes me fashionably late.”

You arch a brow. “Is that a granola bar or something that will ruin my diet and make me spiral into an existential crisis at 2 a.m.?”

He pulls out a small box. “Rice cakes.”

You pause.

“…Okay, you’re forgiven.”

You sit side by side on the cool studio floor, your legs stretched out in front of you, the box of rice cake between you. He peels one open carefully and offers it like a peace treaty.

“You know,” he says after a while, “you don’t have to be here this late.”

“And you don’t have to be here at all.”

He shrugs. “Touché.”

You glance over at him. He’s in that same hoodie again—paint-stained, sleeves pushed up, sketchbook still within reach. He looks tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from a lack of sleep, but from chasing something invisible for too long.

You ask before you can stop yourself. “Why painting?”

He looks up at the ceiling. “Why breathing?”

You let out a small whine, nudging his shoulder.

He grins. “I mean it. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not wasting space.”

There’s a pause.

You nod, slowly. “That’s how dancing feels. When it’s good, I forget everything else.”

“And when it’s not?” You laugh, bitterly. “I remember everything I’m trying to outrun.”

He’s quiet at that. Then, he reaches for his sketchbook, flips it open, and holds it out to you.

Number 27. You’re in mid-leap, but this one’s different— your arms are wild, unbalanced, your expression vulnerable. You remember that day. You messed up your routine and nearly fell. You’d been furious.

“I wasn’t going to include this one,” he murmurs. “But there’s something real about it.”

You stare at the sketch, and for a second, you feel like crying. He sees that, too.

You don’t say thank you.

Instead, you hand him back the book and quietly say, “Draw number 100 like this.”

Minghao tilts his head. “You want the last one to be messy?”

“No,” you say. “I want it to be honest.”

He looks at you like he understands. Not just what you said, but all the things you didn’t.

It starts with a text. Or rather, the first text he ever sends you.

[minghao]: do you know the difference between ‘hot press’ and ‘cold press’ paper or am i going to cry in the aisle alone

You stare at the message, mid-bite of your late lunch, and laugh out loud. It's so aggressively him—blunt, art-related, vaguely poetic. You reply before you can second-guess it.

[you]: hot press is smooth. cold press has texture.

A pause.

[minghao]: you just saved me from an embarrassing breakdown in front of a high schooler with a sketchbook. owe you a coffee.

That’s how you find yourself at an art supply store you’ve never been to before, walking down aisles that smell like paper and graphite and wood shavings. You’re not sure if this counts as a "hangout" or a "favor," but the weird thing is… you kind of like it.

Minghao is in his element here–confident, calm, eyes scanning brushes and inks with something that borders on reverence.

“I could spend all my money in here,” he mutters, picking up a brush pen and squinting at the label.

“You do spend all your money in here,” you remind him.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Better than wasting it on therapy.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “That’s dark.”

“It’s true.”

You pick up a small watercolor palette, the kind you remember using when you were a kid.

“I used to love painting,” you say without thinking. “But I was terrible at it. Like, truly tragic.”

Minghao glances at you, then takes the palette from your hands and drops it into his basket.

“What are you doing?” “Reviving a childhood dream.” “I wasn’t being serious.” “I know.” He smirks. “But you looked happy for a second. You should do that more often.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all.

~~~~~~~

You end up at a park nearby, sitting cross-legged on the grass with your impromptu art supplies and two iced Americanos between you (ice americano that you bought, you just let it be on his tab—he did buy you watercolors though)

“I haven’t done this since I was ten,” you mutter, dipping the brush into water and making a blotchy flower that looks more like a melting starfish.

“It’s art,” Minghao says, watching you paint with a grin. “There’s no wrong way.”

You raise a brow. “That’s cute. Is that what you tell yourself when your rent’s due?”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That, and ‘starving artist’ is just a cute way of saying ‘life is on fire.’”

You both laugh harder than you probably should. It felt like exhaling after holding your breath all week.

At some point, your shoulder brushed his. Neither of you moved away. At some point, the conversation shifted— small things, old dreams, the kind of people you both used to be before the world became about making it. At some point, the sun began to set. And for a moment, you don’t feel like a ballerina with aching knees and pressure pressing into your spine. You just feel like a person. Sitting next to another person. Painting ugly little stars and sipping iced coffee and forgetting how hard everything usually feels.

Minghao looks over at you.

“You’re different when you’re not dancing,” he says, soft enough to get caught in the wind.

You meet his gaze, surprised. “Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “It’s a real thing.”

You look away first.

But that night, when you go home and see the little paint-stained napkin he left in your bag— a quick doodle of you painting with your tongue sticking out, you smile. And you fold it carefully, like it’s already meant to be kept.

You started staying later after rehearsals. Sometimes he painted while you stretched on the floor, your legs aching in that way that hurt so good. Other times, you danced just for him—no music, no mirrors, just the rhythm of his pencil following the cadence of your breath. He painted you in color then.

“I thought you hated painting with color,” you said one night. “I did,” he said. “Then I met you.” You tried to roll your eyes. You failed.“Do you always flirt through paint?” “It’s cheaper than flowers.” “You’re terrible.” “Maybe. But you keep showing up.”

You didn’t know when it started—this thing between you. Maybe it was the first sketch. Maybe it was the short strolls in the park. Maybe it was the first time he caught you crying quietly in the hallway after a failed audition and said nothing, just handed you his hoodie and walked away.

But when he fell asleep with his head on your shoulder and paint smudged your jacket, you let it happen. When he texted you “walk?” at midnight, you got out of bed and went. And when you caught him staring at you like you were a miracle he didn’t deserve— You didn’t look away.

It happened on the rooftop. It was late, and you were both bundled in mismatched hoodies—his was too big, yours too thin. The city hummed quietly beneath your feet, neon signs flickering like tired fireflies. He had brought up two paper cups of vending machine cocoa. They tasted faintly like metal and childhood.

You were seated side by side, legs dangling off the edge. “I didn’t get the part,” you said. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But the words fell out, softer than you thought they’d be. “The solo.”

Minghao stayed quiet for a moment. “They’re idiots.” You let out a small laugh. “Thanks.” He tilted his head, gazing out at the skyline. “It’s their loss. Not yours.” You nodded, unsure of what to say. The wind wrapped around your fingers. He noticed, and without a word, took your hand and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie.

It was quiet again, but not uncomfortable. You glanced at him. His profile was all soft lines and shadows, like someone had carved him out of a memory. His eyes were half-lidded, thoughtful.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. Your heart tripped a little. “Okay.” “I like you,” he said softly, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his throat all this time. “I’ve liked you for a while.” You smiled. “I was wondering when you would say that.”

Minghao looked at you—a little in shock. “What…do you mean?” “The sneaky looks at me every time I do a pirouette, the way you leave more than half the food for me even when you haven’t eaten. Sure, those might not be obvious signs, but I… I really did wish you liked me too.” He didn’t say anything—just kept looking at you. “What I’m saying is I like you too, you idiot.” “Ah,” was all he said after your biggest-yet confession.

“Really? That’s all you have to say? Ah? Dude, when a girl says she likes you back, it’s basic manners to—” Your words got cut off by a small peck on your lips.

“Thank you for liking me.” Minghao let out a small smile, intertwined his fingers with yours, and tucked them back into the huge pocket of his hoodie.

And just like that, everything felt a little easier. The cocoa didn’t taste as bad, the wind didn’t feel as cold, and his hoodie pocket was suddenly your favorite place in the world. You leaned your shoulder against his, and he didn’t pull away.

The first time you stayed over, it wasn’t planned. You were meant to drop off his scarf—left behind in the studio, again—but it was freezing outside, and he had just made instant noodles, and somehow one episode turned into three. By the time the credits rolled, it was past 2AM and you were curled up on his futon under a borrowed blanket that smelled like turpentine and dryer sheets.

You woke up first.

It was disorienting at first—your toes were cold, your leg was tangled with his, and Minghao’s arm was flopped over your waist like a sleepy seatbelt. You didn’t move. His apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of the space heater and the occasional traffic from below. Paintings lined the wall like sleepy spectators. One of them was of you—number 62, you thought. Your favorite one.

You finally shifted to sit up, and he grumbled something into the pillow. You glanced down.

“Did you say ‘don’t go’ or ‘don’t touch my toast’?” He peeked at you through one barely-open eye. “Both.” You laughed, real and messy, and his mouth curved even before his eyes fully opened.

Ten minutes later, you were making breakfast together in the world’s smallest kitchen. He claimed he “didn’t cook,” and you quickly realized he was telling the truth. He handed you an onion like it was a foreign object.

“I’m just here for moral support,” he said, sitting on the counter, feet dangling. “Oh, yeah? You’re doing amazing. Great job breathing air and all.” He raised his coffee cup in salute.

You made scrambled eggs with too much pepper and toast that was slightly burnt, and he declared it “honestly not that bad,” which you took as the highest praise. You ate on the floor because there was no table, knees bumping, sunlight warming your legs through the window.

“I could get used to this,” he said suddenly, mid-bite. You glanced up. “What, burnt toast?” He shrugged. “That, and you being here.” You let out a shy smile, bit into the toast, and nudged his knee with yours.

Later, he sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, and you lay with your head in his lap while he doodled. You asked what he was drawing. He didn’t show you.

“You’ll see when it’s finished,” he said, poking your forehead with the end of his pencil.

“Let me guess—me, looking incredibly majestic, holding a spatula?” “No.” “Me riding a dragon in my leotard?” He laughed. “I’m drawing your hands.”

You paused. “My hands?” “Yeah. You do a lot with them. Point. Gesture. Fix your hair when you’re nervous. Crack your knuckles when you’re pissed.”

You were quiet for a second. “Okay, weirdo specific much?” “It’s not weird. That’s because I watch you too much.”

You moved away from his lap and sat beside him, leaning your back on the sofa as you looked at his sketching. “Oh god, I’ve got a stalker now,” you sighed, locking his arms with yours and resting your head on his shoulder. “Your boyfriend, not a stalker,” he said, poking your head with the back of his pencil and returning to his work.

You looked up at him. He met your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was something unspoken, warm, and steady between you. You closed your eyes and fell asleep in the middle of a sketch, the last thing you heard being his pencil moving—slow, soft, careful.

You fell into something soft with him. Not whirlwind, not obsessive—just everyday steady. Morning texts that said “eat something,” paint smudges on your arms from hugging him mid-work, his thumb brushing your cheek after rehearsals when you were too tired to speak. He came to your late-night showcases, sat on worn chairs with a notebook in his lap. You dragged him to early Sunday markets and pretended to argue over the ripest strawberries. Sometimes, you lay around doing nothing, legs tangled, your laugh echoing into his collarbone like it was made to land there.

That night, you were in his room. His sketchbook lay half-open on the floor, forgotten. The lamp threw warm light across the ceiling. You were curled up beside him, your head on his chest, his fingers absently tracing yours — fingertip to knuckle, again and again. His hand was cold. Yours were nervous.

You inhaled slowly. “Hey,” you said. “Mm?” You bit your cheek. “I got offered a residency. Three years.” His fingers paused. “Where?” “Berlin.” You watched his face, but it stayed unreadable. “Oh.” He nodded. “That’s… cool.” You blinked. “That’s it?” He shrugged. “I mean, you’ve been wanting something like this for ages. It’d be weird if you didn’t.” You sat up slowly, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I’m just saying,” he said, still lying down, still too calm, “you’ve been wanting this for ages.” You stared at him. “You sound like I told you I’m going to the store. Not that I’m leaving for three years.” He sat up now too, propping himself on one arm. “What do you want me to say?” “Something!” you snapped. “Anything! I tell you I’m leaving the country, and you barely blink. Is this how little I matter to you?” “That’s not fair,” he muttered. You were already getting to your feet. “No, what’s not fair is me being with someone who won’t even try. Who’s always stuck—always saying ‘someday’ and then getting weird the moment I actually move forward.” His jaw tightened. “Don’t.” “You don’t do anything, Minghao. You stay here and draw and talk about dreams like they’re too delicate to touch. At least I’m trying. At least I’m not scared.”

The silence that followed was instant, and thick.

You hadn’t planned to say that. You didn’t even know you were holding it. But now it was out there, hanging between you, awful and cold.

Minghao didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at you.

You grabbed your bag, chest tight with something worse than anger now. “I’ll let you know when I leave. You can decide if that’s worth reacting to.” And then you left. The door closed harder than you meant it to. Words echoed behind you. Ones you wished you could take back—but didn’t.

You didn’t talk to him for three days. It felt… off. Empty. Like someone had left a window open in your chest and all the warmth had slipped out. Maybe it was because you’d already woven him into the routine of your days. Or maybe it was because you couldn’t stop replaying what you said — the sharp, unkind words you threw at him like weapons when all he did was go quiet. You tried to push it away, but nothing felt right. The silence wasn’t space — it was distance. And you didn’t want to be far from him. Not like that.

So on the third night, after rehearsal, you took the long walk to his place, even though your legs ached and your throat was dry and you still didn’t know what you’d say when you saw him.

You didn’t have to knock. He opened the door before your fist landed, like he knew you’d come. He looked tired. But he stepped aside to let you in. Neither of you spoke at first.

Then you sat on the edge of his bed and said quietly, “I’m sorry.” He stood near the desk, hands in his pockets. His eyes softened, just a little. “I know,” he said. “Me too.” You chewed your lip. “I shouldn’t have said those things. About you. About… not trying. That wasn’t fair.”

Minghao walked over slowly and knelt in front of you. Took your hands. Gently. “You were angry. You wanted me to care.” “I did,” you admitted. “I wanted you to say something, anything. I felt like I was leaping into something huge and you were just... watching me go.” He looked up at you, eyes steady. “That’s not what I was doing.”

Your throat tightened.

“I didn’t want to hold you back,” he said, voice low. “But I never wanted you to think I didn’t care. I just... didn’t know how to show it without making it harder to leave.” You blinked fast. “There’s no problem between us anymore, right?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just rose to sit beside you, his hand still wrapped around yours. “Not if you stay tonight.” You looked at him, then you nodded. “I will.”

You both moved at the same time, like always — into a hug that was more relief than romance, his arms around your waist, your face tucked into the side of his neck. “I missed you,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss into your hair. “I missed you, too.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, eyes searching his. Then, quietly, without hesitation, you kissed him. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and steady, like he was grounding you—like he was reminding you that you weren’t alone in this. When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together, and for the first time in days, everything felt quiet again— the good kind.

You smiled, just a little. “We’re okay now… right?” He nodded, barely. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours. “We’re okay.”

Things did not in fact feel okay. Minghao began spending time at his studio more often these days and said he didn’t have time to meet up as he had to submit a piece as soon as possible, which was surprising, really, because even though he used to swamped with work earlier he still made time to atleast see you in your studio or atleast walk home together. You were happy for him, really. But you felt that work had started to come between you. 

You both had started to talk less— have a minute conversation here and there, the kisses and hugs also began to decrease. There became a tension in your routine— conversations felt strained, it felt like walking on eggshells. And you were yet to talk about your offer in berlin. 

Your relationship started bleeding into your work.

You forgot steps more often now — the same routines your body once moved through like second nature now required second guesses. You spaced out mid-plié, gaze unfocused, fingers trembling slightly as you held onto the barre. During warm-ups, your limbs moved, but your mind was elsewhere — somewhere quieter, heavier, where Minghao's name echoed without permission.

Your teammates noticed.

Someone whispered your name during cooldown, concern written all over their face. “Are you okay? You seem... off lately.”

You offered a small smile, the kind meant to dismiss worry. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

They didn’t believe you. You could tell. But they didn’t press either — maybe out of respect, maybe out of fear of pushing too far. You were grateful for that. You didn’t think you could say it out loud yet.

But as you tied your shoes that evening, the laces slipping through your fingers twice, you made up your mind.

You couldn’t keep carrying the weight of what wasn’t being said. Not alone.

You would talk to him. Today.

Even if he was tired. Even if he didn’t want to hear it. Even if it meant finally speaking the thing you’d been swallowing for weeks now.

You needed to know where you stood — whether this was just a phase, or the beginning of the end.

So you packed your bag, heart pounding heavier with each zip, and left the studio, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you walked.

You were going to his apartment. Not to fight or cry. Just to ask — honestly, “Are we still okay?”

But things do not go as you plan, do they? You decided to go to both your favourite burger place and do some take-outs. You thought maybe, if you brought dinner and showed up with something familiar, it might be easier to talk. You wouldn’t sit across from each other like strangers at a table, wouldn’t have to look too directly at the things you were both avoiding.

But when you reach his apartment, you see him, with a woman.

You freeze, instinctively ducking behind the nearest parked car. You don’t know why — there’s no reason to hide. You trust Hao… You do. But your body moves before your thoughts catch up.

She’s standing close to him, a pretty woman with shoulder-length hair and a laugh that rings across the street. She places a hand on his arm, fingers brushing over the curve of his bicep. He doesn’t pull away.

And what’s worse is that he’s laughing too. You don’t remember the last time you saw him this carefree. Not with you.

Your chest tightens, but you can’t tell if it’s from hurt, or shame, or the sharp sting of something that feels a lot like jealousy. The burger bags in your hands feel stupid now, so do you.

You stand up quickly, ducking your head, and walk away.

You don’t call him. Don’t send a message. Don’t even check to see if he’s noticed you. You just walk until the cold settles into your coat and your fingers are numb and the ache in your chest drowns out everything else.

You throw the food away two blocks later.

That night, you lie awake and scroll through your old photos together. You keep telling yourself there’s probably an explanation — maybe she’s a gallery assistant or a client. But even so, that image of them — him smiling, her laughing keeps looping behind your eyelids.

You don’t speak to him for two days. Not out of anger because you’re not even sure what you’d be angry about. 

He texts you once, asking how rehearsal went. You type out “fine” but never send it.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re tired orr busy. But the truth is, you’re scared that if you open your mouth, everything you’ve been holding back will spill out at once and you won’t know how to stop it.

The Berlin offer sits in your bag for days, folded neatly in an envelope, its edges beginning to bend and soften from being carried around like a secret.

You finally bring it up on a Thursday night.

You’re both on his couch — a rare moment where neither of you is running off to something else. He’s sketching absentmindedly in his notebook, head down, brows slightly furrowed, while some documentary murmurs from the TV.

You take a quick breath before saying, “i decided to accept it.”

He shoots you a confused look. “The Berlin offer. I decided to take it.”

That makes him pause. You can see the way his pencil stills in his hand, “That’s great.”

“I’ll be gone forr three years, hao.”

Minghao closes his sketchbook and puts it on the teapoy in front of you. You watch him, your heart pressing against your ribs. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together like he’s trying to anchor himself.

Finally he speaks, “three years is a long time.”

You nod. Then the silence that follows is thick.

“I want you to come with me.”

He looks at you, waiting for you to continue. “There’s this friend of my friend— he is a curator in a big gallery there. I could ask him to arrange something for you.”

You know he’s not going to accept— hao was a firm believer of reaching the heights on your own. But you still hoped that he’d say yes, say he can’t stay apart from you.

“I… i can’t. They want to give me my own show. and you know how hard i worked for this— i just can’t give up now.”

You knew it already but knowing you can’t stay apart from him and not get hurt. So you say what you think is the best for the both of you.

“I don’t want to hold you in a strained, long-distance relationship. I won’t ask you to wait for me.”

You say it like a truth. Because it is one. And because love, you’ve learned, sometimes looks like letting go before it turns into something you both begin to resent.

His head lifts slightly, and this time, his eyes find yours.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” he says. His voice is even, but not cold. “You’re meant to go.”

You blink hard.

“I still love you,” you whisper. “That hasn’t changed.”

His lips twitch in the faintest smile. “I know. I love you too.”

You reach for his hand, fingers barely brushing against his. And even that small touch feels like something unraveling.

He pulls you into a hug — arms warm and firm, chin resting on your shoulder like always. You close your eyes and try to memorize the feeling of him. His scent, the sound of his heartbeat, the quiet way he holds you like he doesn’t want to let go.

When you’re at the door, you hear him call your name.

When you turn around, Minghao is already reaching for something — a sketchbook on the shelf, one of the older ones with worn edges. He flips through it carefully, until he pulls out a single sheet tucked between the pages. 

A drawing.

You recognize it instantly — it’s you. Caught mid-spin, arms lifted above your head, eyes closed in some distant joy. You don’t remember when he sketched it, but he must’ve been watching. He always watched you like that, like you were something he didn’t want to forget.

He walks over and gently places it in your hands.

“The ninety-ninth,” he says softly.

You blink. “Ninety-ninth?”

A faint smile curves his lips, “this is the last one. Guess we couldn’t make it till the hundredth one.”

You look down at the drawing, trying hard to hold back the tears. Your fingers curl around the page.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s nothing else to say, really. You press the drawing to your chest and step outside.

He doesn’t follow. He just stays by the door, watching you walk away.

You don’t look back, because you know if you do, your knees might give in.

Living in Berlin was nice. The people were kind in a quiet, polite way, and the air always smelled faintly like rain or coffee. Your days blurred between rehearsals, costume fittings, and back-to-back performances. You missed home. More than that, you missed him.

You hadn’t contacted Minghao after leaving. He didn’t come to see you at the airport the day you left. You still thought of him. When you were walking home late after a show, when you saw couples crossing the street — holding hands, when you passed someone sketching on a park bench. You wondered how he was — if he still thought of you.

It was a quiet afternoon. You were curled up on the studio couch, scrolling through your phone, when your friend Clara walked in, excited about some gallery opening she’d been invited to.

“Big deal, apparently,” she said, waving a folded pamphlet in the air. “The artist’s finally doing a public show after years. Really selective. I heard even Vogue Deutschland is covering it.” You barely glanced up, offering a tired smile. “You and your galleries.” Clara laughed and tossed the pamphlet on the cushion beside you. “Just look at it before you judge.”

You picked it up without thinking, thumbing through the folds. And then you saw it.

His name. Xu Minghao. Your heart skipped a beat. The letters blurred for a moment — your eyes trying to catch up with your thoughts. There was no picture, but you knew it was him. The world quieted around you. Even Clara’s excited rambling faded to a hum. You stared at the flyer, frozen, as something you had carefully buried began to rise again.

~~~~

You didn’t tell Clara you were going. She ended up getting sick the night before anyway, so you offered to swing by the exhibit in her place, dropping casual excuses about needing a walk and having nothing else planned. You dressed in something simple — a long coat, clean lines, ballet flats. You pulled your hair back the way he used to like it, but you pretended that wasn’t why.

The gallery was nestled on a quiet street off Kurfürstendamm. Minimalist signage, white brick walls, and warm yellow lights glowing from inside. You stepped inside. It was quiet. Soft jazz filtered through invisible speakers. There was a small crowd, polite murmurs bouncing between the whitewashed walls. People were sipping wine and leaning in to look at sketches — all black-and-white.

You moved slowly, almost afraid to look too closely. And then, near the center, you found the title piece. The 100th.

You stood in front of it for a long time. Your eyes started tearing up before you even knew it. Everything inside you — the years, the distance, the silence — began to collapse inward. There was a murmur behind you. A couple chatting softly. “…that’s the one he finished just a few months ago, right?” “Yeah. Heard he kept it unfinished for years. Said he couldn’t close the series until he was ready.”

You swallowed. Your mouth went dry. You turned your head, slow and cautious, and your heart stumbled. There he was.

Standing just across the room, half turned in conversation with the gallery owner. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He was laughing at something the man said — that quiet, crinkled kind of laugh you remembered too well. He looked… good. Older. Still Minghao. You didn’t know what you were feeling. Grief? Relief?

You didn’t move. Just watched him — a ghost of a thousand memories painted into one man, standing not five steps away. He laughed again, but then… he glanced up. And his eyes found yours.

His words faltered mid-sentence. He stopped. Everything around you seemed to fall silent — the murmurs, the clinking glasses, the velvet footsteps on gallery floors. It was just you, him. And the weight of all the years between. And then, he smiled — warm. Which you couldn’t help but return. And in that quiet moment — with a hundred drawings on the wall and strangers walking between you — that was enough.

You could see your mom’s gears turning, and you knew exactly where this was heading. “Well, if you’re really serious about him, maybe it's time you finally introduce us. You know, to make sure he’s a good man.”

Crap. You hadn't thought this through.

Your dad, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, chimed in from his chair, not looking up from his newspaper. “Is he from a good family? Are you sure he has the right intentions?”

"Yes, of course!" you said, possibly too cheerfully. Your eyes did a quick tour of the room as if they were looking for a fire alarm to pull. Naturally, your mom leaned in closer.

“Tell us his name, and we’ll go visit him. We can meet him at his work if that's more convenient.”

It was one thing to talk about a boyfriend they hadn't met, and it’s another for them to demand to meet him. Panicked, you blurted out the first name that came to your mind, “Jeonghan. His name is Jeonghan. He works at Mirage Café down the street.” You winced internally at the sound of the name. Jeonghan? Really? That’s what I said? I needed to come up with a name and that’s what my brain goes with? Not something easy, not some basic, common name, but Jeonghan?!

There was a beat of silence and you could practically hear the wheels in your mom’s head moving, and then she smiled, probably thinking she had won. “We’ll go there tomorrow. Let’s see this Jeonghan, then.”

Before you could even think of a way to backpedal, your dad nodded in approval. “Sounds good. We’ll go visit.”

You tried not to make eye contact with your mom as she smiled to herself. “Perfect. We’ll take a trip tomorrow. You’ll be happy that you let us meet him, sweetheart.”

-

The next day had arrived way too fast. You could barely eat breakfast without your stomach churning. Your nerves were through the roof, and the thought of meeting your family at Mirage Café made you want to crawl into a hole and hide forever.

When you and your family arrived, you stood awkwardly at the entrance, mentally kicking yourself for getting into this mess in the first place. Your mom marched ahead, searching for the barista. “Let’s call him, darling. He’s probably busy, right?”

“Right,” you said through a tense smile, not sounding as confident as you’d like.

She waved down a waiter. “Excuse me! Do you know any Jeonghan? He works here, right?”

Your eyes darted across the café as if you were being hunted down. You looked up at the ceiling, pleading with the universe to give you a damn break. Please, please don’t let them see through this lie. You cleared your throat, desperate to steer the conversation in another direction. “Oh, you know... he’s probably not working today. Maybe we should come back another time?” You offered weakly, trying to nudge the waiter into agreeing.

The waiter gave you a confused look. “I’m not sure... but I’ll check.”

Before you could stop him, a voice called out from behind. “Excuse me? Did someone ask for me?”

You turned around to see a tall, impossibly handsome man with an angelic smile walking towards you three. The very same man who had handed you your coffee that morning, you realized. You blinked in shock as his name tag gleamed in the light. Yoon Jeonghan? Oh no. You hadn't paid much attention when he'd taken your order, but your subconscious must have, since his name had been the first you'd thought of. Before anyone could say a word, you did something incredibly stupid. In an instant, you stood up, feeling your face flush hot with panic. You wrapped your arm around his arm, desperately trying to make this look like it had been all planned. “Oh, you're here! Mom, Dad, meet Jeonghan,” you said enthusiastically. “We’ve been together for... two years now.”

Jeonghan’s eyes widened for a split second as he looked at you in confusion, but then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile that was way too charming for your own sanity—far too practiced for how stiff his shoulders had gone. Your mom’s eyes were practically sparkling with excitement, and you could already tell this was going to spiral out of control.

“I didn’t realize you’d be here,” Jeonghan’s voice slid like velvet, but there was a slight corner of confusion below. He shifted his weight, then smiled at your family. “It’s nice to finally meet you all.”

Your mother, bless her heart, was practically glowing. She didn’t even ask what your relationship had been like, or anything that might have made sense, instead, she immediately started making plans. “You two must be so in love!” she gushed. “How did you meet? Tell us everything! Where are you from? What’s your family like?”

You could feel your face burning and really regretted saying two years. Jeonghan, to his credit, didn't seem fazed by her interrogation, though. He just smiled that perfect smile, and before you could say a word, he launched into the most believable, well-thought-out story about how you had met through mutual friends, weaving in little details like how we both loved hiking [which you didn't] and how we once spent an entire rainy weekend binge-watching a series together [you'd never seen it]. Your mom ate it up, of course, nodding approvingly, and you just wanted to die on the spot.

Then, Jeonghan glanced at you with a low-key teasing look, and you could see the corners of his mouth twitching. Is he laughing at me? You couldn't even tell, but just when you thought you might spontaneously combust from the pressure, your dad who had been silently observing, suddenly spoke up. “So, when’s the wedding?”

You blinked, your mind went blank. “Dad!” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. Your voice was a bit too loud, and you caught the eyes of several other patrons in the café who were now all very clearly watching you. Jeonghan took this as his cue to add, “I think we’re still figuring things out,” Jeonghan said smoothly, “but I’ve been thinking next year might be a good time to propose,” and that made you choke on your own saliva.

“Next year?” Your mom’s eyes widened. “Oh, we have to start planning then! I have so many ideas—Y/N, you’ll want a nice, big wedding, won’t you?”

“Uh, I—” you tried to protest and reply with something, but your voice was lost under her excitement.

Once the initial shock of the meeting wore off, and after a painfully long conversation with your family, you eventually managed to escape the café.

You rushed out of the café, heart still pounding from the whirlwind you had just dragged yourself and a complete stranger into. He was standing by the side entrance now, sleeves rolled up, a hand running through his soft, brown hair as he stared off into the street.

You hesitated for a second before calling out, “Hey… um, Jeonghan?” He turned, eyes found yours instantly and then, a faint smile curved at the corners of his lips. “I’m so sorry,” you began, words tumbling out before you could even take a breath. “That was—that was a disaster, and you were just caught in the middle of it. I didn’t even know someone named Jeonghan actually worked here. I just made it up. I didn’t think—I never thought—”

He laughed, a warm sound that made your apology trail off. “I figured,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Kind of hard to miss how wide your eyes got when I said my name.”

You winced, hands fidgeting in front of you. “Yeah, that’s… that’s fair.”

There was a pause before he nodded toward the café with a shrug. “It was entertaining. Not every day I got introduced as someone’s long-term boyfriend out of nowhere.”

You flushed. “Seriously, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. I just… panicked. My family had been asking about this imaginary boyfriend for ages, and then today, they decided to show up.” You let out a shaky laugh. “And now they think you are him, but I'm really sorry and I won't let it bother you and this was and will be a one time thing. I'll handle them.”

Jeonghan chuckled again but softly. “Well, if you’re really sorry,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his apron, “you owe me a coffee sometime.”

“Huh?...”

He nodded. “One with my name on it, preferably. Since, you know… it is mine.”

You frowned in confusion. “Your name…?”

He gestured back toward the café. “Café Mirage. It’s mine. The whole chain.”

And you found your eyes going wide again. “Wait, you’re the owner? But you were taking orders like the other staff?”

He smiled as if he was used to that kind of reaction. “I like helping out. Keep things grounded, and it’s nice to be part of the buzz when I’m not buried in paperwork.”

You didn't know what to say to that. Turned out, your imaginary boyfriend was actually a charming, successful café chain owner who somehow hadn't reported you to security yet.

He pulled his phone out of his apron pocket and handed it to you. “Number?”

You blinked again. “You’re serious?”

He smirked. “You owe me, remember?”

You reluctantly typed in your number, thumb hovering over the final digit for a moment before committing to it. As you handed his phone back, he leaned in slightly, just close enough that his breath brushed against your cheek.

“Well,” he murmured teasingly, “that was interesting.”

You winced, glancing over your shoulder where your family was still chatting excitedly inside the café. “They get… a little overenthusiastic.”

Jeonghan straightened, grinning because he found the whole thing more amusing than inconvenient. “Yeah,” he said, pocketing his phone, “I can see that.”

You were about to apologize again, but he just waved you off and started heading back inside, leaving you standing there completely dazed.

You shrugged and headed back inside, trying to school your expression. Your dad was reaching for something in his pocket—which you assumed to be his wallet—you hurried over to him. “Dad, did you already pay? If not, I can—”

Before you could finish, your mother cut in with a pleased smile. “No need, darling. It was on the house.”

Your stomach twisted slightly. On the house? You glanced toward the counter, politely excusing yourself from your parents. “I’ll just go… thank someone real quick.”

You made your way to the front, where a woman in a black apron stood, busy typing something into the POS system. You cleared your throat, and she looked up with a kind smile.

“Hi,” you said, “um… is Jeonghan still around?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she said with a nod. “One moment, I’ll call Mr. Yoon.”

You stepped aside, waiting near a shelf of pastries, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag. A few seconds later, you heard footsteps behind you.

“Back so soon?” 

You turned to face him, lowering your voice as you took a small step to the side, away from the counter. “Yeah. Just… I wanted to thank you again, and also to say… about the bill… you really didn’t have to do that. I can pay, honestly. I want to pay.”

He raised an eyebrow, arms folding loosely across his chest. “So you’re saying you want to pay after pretending I was your boyfriend?” You opened your mouth to protest, but he grinned and held up a hand. “Look,” he said, kindly, “it’s on the house. Just consider it my treat—call it payment for the entertainment. All you need to do is show up the day you decide to buy me that coffee.”

You bit your lip, half-smiling despite yourself. “Are you always this stubborn?”

Jeonghan shrugged playfully. “Only when I want something.”

“Okay, thank you. Seriously.” You nodded, finally giving in.

“Anytime.”

You glanced over your shoulder and saw your family was already getting up, chattering excitedly near the door. “I should go,” you said. “They’re probably already planning our wedding.”

Jeonghan laughed at that. “I look forward to hearing all about it.”

You chuckled, stepping back. “I’ll see you soon then. For the coffee.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, voice sounding calm and warm.

-

You slumped onto your bed, the towel still wrapped loosely around your shoulders, your hair damp and sticking to the back of your neck. It had been three days since that café incident. Three whole days and not a single text. Why had he taken your number if he wasn’t going to use it?

You sighed and rolled onto your side, staring at the soft glow of your phone screen. Was he just being nice? Had he thought your lie was pathetic and this was his way of backing out gracefully? You groaned and buried your face into the pillow. You owed him a coffee anyway, and maybe it was time to just go to the café tomorrow, buy him the damn drink, apologize again, and vanish from his life forever like the myth you accidentally became.

Just as you were scripting your own disappearance, there was a soft knock at your door.

“Come in,” you mumbled, voice muffled in pillow fluff.

The door creaked open and your mom stepped in, holding a tall glass of milk filled all the way to the brim. She made her way to your bedside table, carefully placing the glass down. “Your hair’s still wet,” she scolded lightly, tsking as she brushed a few strands back. “You’ll catch a cold like this.”

You only just hummed in response to her. Despite your age, despite the adult life you lived outside these walls, your parents still treated you like their little girl. You were only living with them again because your workplace was closer to their house than your apartment, and… because they had missed their only child. You had missed them too.

Your mom sat on the edge of the bed for a second, smoothing the blanket over your legs like she used to when you were small. You glanced at her, at the lines time had etched onto her face, and that stirred a fragile kind of love and bittersweet warmth in your chest. Your parents hadn't had the easiest childhoods. They didn't talk about it much, but you knew. Maybe that was why they tried so hard to give you the life they hadn't gotten, and they did it really well. Your dad, especially, was the reason your standards were sky high. He treated both you and your mom like queens. Not princesses, Queens. He never made either of you feel small, and even when there wasn’t much money, there had always been love and that love felt like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer.

That was why it had hurt so much when you didn’t listen to them about your ex. They knew he wasn’t right for you, they had seen the signs which you hadn't. You were too in love—or what you thought had been love. Even after it all had come crashing down, your parents didn’t say, I told you so. They didn’t shut you out, instead they pulled you in closer and protected you. They never brought him up again, and just silently patched you up with love, like they always did. You still remembered the way your dad’s jaw had clenched when he had seen you cry, and the way your mom had stroked your hair and pretended not to be crying with you.

You blinked back the sudden sting in your eyes. Your mom patted your thigh, smiling at you like she already knew you had been spiraling before she came in. “Dry your hair properly, okay? And drink the milk.”

You nodded slowly, “Thanks, Mom.”

She got up and walked to the door, pausing before she left. “You’ll be okay, you know. Whatever’s bothering you... it’ll pass.”

You nodded again, because she was always right.

The door clicked shut behind her. You sat up, reached for the milk, and took a sip. You were still annoyed that Jeonghan hadn't texted yet, but maybe tomorrow, you would go see him just to return the gesture. 

You were halfway through your milk and mindlessly scrolling Instagram when a text from an unknown number suddenly lit up your screen.

-

You walked into the café wearing something casual and comfortable which was feminine but not too much, something that still felt put together without trying too hard. You glanced around, your eyes instinctively landing on the floor-to-ceiling windows. The natural light poured in like a warm hug, and you chose a table by the glass, giving you a perfect view of the area outside.

Barely two minutes passed before you spotted him. He was walking toward you, but no apron this time, just a simple outfit that still made him look unfairly good. His hair was slightly tousled, a few strands falling perfectly over his forehead, and there was that ridiculously sweet and disarming smile gracing his lips. He definitely knew the effect he had on people and didn't even try to hide it. 

He stopped in front of you. “I’ve got a better spot for us,” he says softly, nodding for you to follow him.

You stood and trailed behind him as he led you deeper into the café, away from the area you had been in a few seconds ago and into a semi-private space tucked to the side. The vibe was warm soft beige and creamy whites, cozy lighting, and a calm atmosphere that immediately made you feel at home.

Once seated, Jeonghan flashed another smile. “What do you want to order? My treat.”

“But I’m here to treat you, remember?” You said.

“Exactly,” he grinned. “You’re already getting the coffee. Let me at least cover the dessert.”

You started to argue, but he gave you that playfully persuasive look, and insisted until you finally gave in and settled on tiramisu.

The conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about your work, your absurd deadlines, your coworkers’ obsession with bubble tea. He told you stories about running the café chain, how he sometimes snuck into different branches just to work as a barista because he missed the human side of it. There was both laughter and comfortable silences rising between you, and before you knew it, he had completely disarmed you.

Then, as you were taking a sip of your latte, he leaned forward just a bit and said it; softly but with no hesitation. “I think I fell in love with you the first time I saw you.”

You nearly choked on your latte. “W-What?”

He chuckled but didn't take it back. “I’m serious. You were pretty and nervous, trying to save face in front of your family... but there was something about you that just stuck to me.”

Your heart stirred, but not enough to change where it was currently locked away. You set your cup down gently. “Jeonghan, you seem like a good man… and you’re,” you gestured vaguely at him, “well, unfairly handsome, if I'm being honest, but… I’ve closed off that part of my heart for a while, and I’m not ready to open it yet.”

He didn't ask why or pry, he just smiled that same soft understanding smile. “I figured you’d say that. So how about a deal?”

You tilted your head. “A deal?”

“I’ll keep playing the part of your boyfriend anytime your family needs to see me.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “But you give me 100 days.”

“One hundred days for what?”

“For me to woo you,” he said, eyes gleaming in a way that shook you a little more than you’d like to admit. “No pressure and definitely no expectations, just let me try. That’s all.”

You hesitated, looking down at your hands. “I’m not promising anything, Jeonghan. Like I said, my heart is… closed.” You took a breath, thinking it over; it was too much of a good deal to completely turn down. After a pause, you looked up again. “But I’m not completely closed-minded. If you want to try, you can. Just know I might not change.”

He leaned back with a satisfied smile. “I can work with that.”

You exhaled a soft laugh and nodded. “Alright then. Deal.”

The countdown began.

Two

Day 5 of 100

Your pencil glided across your sketchpad as you worked on a draft for the new balcony design of a hotel lounge. The afternoon light spilled in through the office windows, hitting your page just right as you adjusted the lines of the railing. You were lost in thought, debating whether to go for a rustic wood finish or a sleek glass border when a paper bag was dropped onto your desk with a soft thud.

“Delivery for you,” a coworker said. “From your boyfriend, apparently.”

Before you could even process, Celeste, your best friend and your cousin, launched up from her seat like she had been electrocuted. She didn't even give you a chance to reach for the bag. “Boyfriend?! Excuse me—the fuck do you mean boyfriend?” she exclaimed, already halfway through tearing open the top of the paper bag. “When the hell did you get a boyfriend? I thought you were done with love! You said you were done with love!”

You exhaled sharply, snatching the bag from her hand before she could dig in further. “Cel, can you not violate my lunch?”

“So it is lunch! And it’s from him!” she paused then looked at you accusingly, “who even is him? And why do I not know about this?”

You glanced down, eyebrows raising when you saw a folded note tucked inside, the handwriting a neat scrawl: Don’t skip meals today. — Jeonghan

You honestly weren’t expecting to hear from him after that coffee—maybe in a week or so. So when a paper bag landed on your desk today, the very next day, your brain had to short-circuit. You swallowed, the corners of your lips twitching, and pulled out the lunch box. Inside was a beautifully packed meal—teriyaki chicken with seasoned rice, grilled veggies, and a small matcha cookie tucked in on the side. Your stomach growled on cue.

Celeste was practically bouncing behind you, peering over your shoulder. “You better start talking before I call your mom.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured to her seat. “Sit the fuck down.”

She obeyed, sliding animatedly into her chair, arms crossed. “I’m listening.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Okay, so… remember how my family’s been bugging me to get married for like… two years?”

“Yeah. They’ve been on your ass because it’s their full-time job.”

“Well,” you started, picking up your chopsticks and stabbing a piece of broccoli, “I kind of told them I already had a boyfriend of two years.”

Her eyes widened. “You lied?!”

“I didn’t mean to lie-lie. I just… said a random name, and said he worked at a café.”

“And?”

“And then my parents dragged me to that café.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God—”

“And there actually was a Jeonghan working there.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth. “NO.”

“YES.”

She wheezed.

“And before I could do anything, he walked over, introduced himself to my parents, and I panicked and told them he was my boyfriend.”

Celeste fell sideways in her chair, clutching her chest like it was too much for her weak heart to handle. “This is insane! Keep going.”

You shoved a bite of chicken into your mouth. “Later, I went to apologize to him for the scene and it turns out… he’s the owner of the café chain.”

“What the actual—?!”

“So I took him up on a coffee treat a few days later, and while we were there, he told me he fell in love with me at first sight and made me a deal.” You said and calmly took another bite as Celeste shrieked. “He’ll fake-date me in front of my family whenever I need — in exchange for 100 days to woo me.” Now all you heard is silence, and so you glanced at Celeste, who was staring at you like she just witnessed a plot twist in a K-drama in real life. “…You okay?”

She nodded slowly. “I have never been more emotionally fed in my life.”

You snort. “Well, now get physically fed before I steal your lunch.”

-

Juggling your sketchpad under one arm and your nearly dead phone in your other hand, you found the front door was locked, which was weird because your parents were always home this time of day. Frowning, you unlocked it and pushed the door open.

The first thing you saw was a note, stuck right on the shoe rack in your dad’s familiar handwriting: Buy a bouquet of flowers on your way to your aunt’s. Don’t stay home—come straight there.

Your brows furrowed as you stepped in and dropped your bag. You instinctively reached for your phone to call your mom but of course it had finally died. You stared at it for a few seconds before groaning. With a reluctant sigh, you grabbed your charger for later, locked the door again, and left for your aunt’s.

-

You had expected a cozy dinner with maybe a few people. Instead, you were hit with the sound of dozens of voices the moment you stepped into the front gate. Laughter, chatter, shoes—a mountain of them—outside the door. You walked in and it was everyone. Uncles. Aunts. Cousins you hadn't seen in months. Your second cousin from abroad was there too. It was a family gathering, you realised. You blinked, recovered quickly and offered a polite smile and greeting to anyone who turned toward you. You bowed your head, murmuring ‘Hellos,’ as you shuffled through the familiar hallway, doing your best to keep your confusion hidden.

You finally found your mom in the kitchen, pulling roasted chicken from the oven. She turned around and let out a tiny yelp when she saw you. “Oh— you scared me!”

You immediately reached forward and steadied the pan in her hand. “Sorry! That could’ve burned you.”

She exhaled in relief, then smiled wide. “Everyone’s been waiting for you. Go change and plate the dishes, okay?”

You didn't move. “Wait. What is going on? Why is everyone here? Why didn’t you tell me we were coming here today?”

She looked at you, confused. “I did tell you. I sent you a text this afternoon. I told you we were all coming to celebrate your cousin’s graduation. Everyone’s in town.”

You stared at her, stunned for a moment, then groaned. “Oh my God—I didn’t see it. My phone’s been flooded with client messages and drafts and edits and now it’s dead and—ugh.”

As you were about to turn around and change, your mom gasped, her eyes going wide. “Don’t tell me Jeonghan’s not with you!”

You froze mid-step. “...What?”

“I told the family your boyfriend would be coming too. I wrote it in the text. You didn’t see that either?”

You facepalmed so hard it echoed. “Obviously I didn’t. Why would you tell them he’s coming?!”

“I thought he was! It would be so cute for everyone to meet him tonight.”

Your heart lurched. This is bad, this is very bad. “I’ll fix it,” you muttered and spun on your heel, practically running through the hallway. You darted into a spare room and locked the door behind you and slumped against it for a second. You plugged your phone in and the screen flickered to life. 1% and you didn't wait, your fingers were already flying across the screen as you found Jeonghan’s number and pressed ‘Call.’

“Hey,” his voice came through, warm and a little sleepy.

You didn't let him finish. “Jeonghan, I’m so, so sorry to bother you at this hour—seriously, I wouldn't call unless it was important. Are you busy? Or like… home and maybe willing to go on a sudden field trip?”

He chuckled. “Hey, breathe. What happened?”

You exhaled shakily. “So apparently—my cousin graduated and the entire extended family is at my aunt’s place. My mom had texted me about it but I hadn't seen it because my phone was dying and drowning in work notifications. And now I’m here, and so is everyone.”

“Okaaay…”

“And my mom—bless her—told the whole family you were coming… as my boyfriend.”

There was a beat of silence and you cringed. “So… you want me to come over and save you?”

“YES, Jeonghan. Everyone’s here. My uncles, aunts, their kids, and my mom just dropped, ‘Don’t tell me Jeonghan’s not here with you!’ I’m two seconds away from faking a stomach ache and crawling out the window.” You heard him laugh lightly as you blabbered on. “I’m seriously sorry,” you apologized again, your voice small. “Can you—would you maybe come over? You don’t have to stay long, just… show face, say some sweet things about me, eat a cookie, and then disappear. Please?”

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. “Hmm...”

“I’m begging you, Jeonghan. I swear I owe you so much after this. You can blacklist me from your café if you want, I’ll go willingly.”

He laughed again, soft and amused. “You don’t need to beg. I got you. Send me the address.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “I told you I’d play the boyfriend whenever you needed me. I’m on my way.”

 “You’re the best. Like actually the best. I owe you dinner, bubble tea, and a kidney.”

“I’ll take the bubble tea. Keep your kidney.”

You were already typing the address with trembling fingers. “On it. Thank you. I mean it.”

“I know,” he teased. “Now hurry up before your aunt tries to set you up with your cousin’s dentist or something.”

You groaned. “Don’t even joke about that.”

He just laughed again, and the call ended. Now, all you had to do was survive the next twenty minutes of nosy relatives until your fake boyfriend-slash-lifeline walked through that door.

So, what was the next best distraction? Your little cousins, of course.

You made your way to the living room where a couple of them were sprawled on the floor playing some weird version of Uno that definitely didn't follow official rules. You crouched beside them and instantly snatched a card from the youngest, who gasped and tried to get it back while shouting, “Unfair! You’re not even playing!”

“That’s because I’m a wildcard,” you smirked, holding the card high above your head while the others laughed. You spent the next few minutes stirring up chaos like, peeking at their cards, mixing up the draw pile, and accusing them of cheating just to mess around. They were yelling at you, but laughing too hard to mean it. It was the perfect distraction from your own nerves for the night.

That was, until you heard footsteps and a familiar voice that made you groan. “Well, well, well... I hear someone’s boyfriend will be here soon.”

You whipped your head around to see Celeste strolling into the room, a smug little smirk curling her lips as she sauntered up to you. She bumped your hip lightly with hers and raised her brows in exaggerated curiosity. You cussed her under your breath through a clenched smile, already bracing yourself. Unfortunately, your aunts were quicker than your panic.

“Oh, he's coming tonight, right?” one piped up from the couch.

“We’ve been dying to meet him!” another added cheerfully, leaning forward.

You internally screamed but plastered on a polite smile. “Yes, he’s… on his way.” Before the interrogation could go any further, you grabbed Celeste's wrist and muttered, “Excuse us,” before dragging her away from the living room crowd, down the hallway and toward a corner near the bathroom. “You’re actually insane,” you hissed once you were alone. “Why would you bring him up?! They were quiet, Celeste. They were probably forgetting!”

Celeste just giggled, “I’m sorry, I had to. You know I’ve been dying to meet the guy who managed to sneak past your titanium heart.”

You groaned and rubbed your forehead. “First of all, you already know it’s not like that. Second of all—okay, listen—this is what happened.” You exhaled and spilled the entire story from start to finish: how your phone had died, how you hadn't read your mom’s text about tonight’s gathering, how she’d apparently told everyone that Jeonghan would be joining, and how you had called him to come save your ass.

Celeste listened wide-eyed and gasped at all the right moments, nodding along. “So he’s at least coming, right?!”

“Yes,” you sighed. “And please don’t make it worse. Don’t act like this is some grand romance. He’s doing me a favor, okay?”

“Mhm,” she hummed with a sarcastic grin. “Of course, of course.”

Before you could smack her with a dish towel, Joshua, her long-term boyfriend, showed up with his usual sweet smile. “Hey, sorry to interrupt the secret meeting,” he said, wrapping an arm around Celeste's waist. “But I’m gonna steal her for a sec. Your mom’s calling you, by the way.”

You nodded and smiled politely at him. “She probably wants to scold me again.”

Joshua chuckled and led Celeste away as you headed back to find your mom. As expected, she was standing by the kitchen counter, hands on her hips. “Did you have to rile up the kids like that?” she asked, though her tone is more bemused than angry.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “They started it.”

“Go plate the dishes,” she said, trying to hide her smile at your childish behaviour. “And behave.”

You grabbed the fried rice and sides, neatly plating them and arranging them on the dining table. The smell was warm and rich and comforting, but it still didn't calm your nerves. 

Ding dong.

You nearly launched yourself down the hallway to the front door, ignoring everyone’s curious glances behind you. There was only one person you were hoping to see on the other side, so you reached for the handle and opened it and—thank god—there he was. Jeonghan; your lifeline for the night. Your heart might have been closed... but damn, it still knew how to skip.

Jeonghan stood tall and effortlessly charming in a beige cardigan over a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A silver chain peeked just slightly from under his collar. He was holding a bouquet: roses and baby’s breath, just like your mom's type, and was wearing a calm smile like he hadn't just agreed to join a family gathering at the last minute.

“You’re… kinda late,” you muttered, your hand still on the doorknob, but your heart was doing somersaults from relief.

He leaned slightly forward, the smile growing. “I brought flowers. That buys me five minutes of forgiveness, right?”

You snorted under your breath and grabbed his wrist, pulling him inside quickly before anyone else saw him and turned this into a press conference, but you knew it was too late when you heard a chorus of gasps and not-so-quiet whispers rise like a wave from the living room.

“Oh, he’s so handsome,” someone whispered.

“Is that him?!”

Your aunt gasped. “He looks just like a celebrity—”

“Is that the Jeonghan?” one of your cousins said in awe.

Jeonghan’s eyes swept over the room politely which happened to be straight ahead from the main door before turning to you with a smug little glint in his eye. “You didn’t tell me it was going to be a fan meeting.”

“Oh come on,” you murmured under your breath, forcing a smile so strained you swore your cheeks might just snap as your relatives descended like hawks circling prey.

He slipped off his shoes, and just as he was about to step onto the wooden floor in his socks, one of your aunts rushed to the door. Her eyes practically sparkled as she beamed at her niece’s so-called ‘secret boyfriend.’ You, the niece who apparently had hidden him away for two years. Without hesitation, she bent down and placed a pair of white guest slippers in front of him. Jeonghan gave her a smile so sweet it could rot teeth, and you realized he'd never be one to falter in charm. You’d admit it, no matter how many times you saw it, he really did have a beautiful smile.

As you both stepped inside, the small herd of kids and elders who had been in the living room just a minute ago, started trailing behind you. You started feeling a little self-conscious. It had been two years since you last dated anyone, and suddenly you couldn't remember how you used to act with Minho, your now ex boyfriend. If you thought about it, two years was a long time; long enough to forget the feel of someone’s hand in yours, or how you used to laugh back then when they were around. But memory had a cruel sense of loyalty, because it never forgot the pain.

How had you even fallen for someone like Minho? Someone who had pursued you first, only to break you later. If you could go back, you’d beg yourself not to say anything that night, to stay strangers.

As you poured Jeonghan a glass of water, your thoughts still swirling, you barely noticed him watching you. He smoothly tugged at the hem of your sleeve, Are you okay? his eyes asked.

You glanced at him and smiled, the smallest shake of your head telling him you were fine, even if you weren't entirely sure it was true.

Just then, your mom appeared in the living room, eyes wide and lit up with relief and happiness when she spotted Jeonghan sitting on the couch. “Oh lord!” she exclaimed, rushing over to you both. “I went to the bathroom for one second—one second, and missed the chance to greet you properly!” Her hands fluttered as she talked, clearly flustered. She was genuinely upset, as though it was absurd that she actually left the moment before Jeonghan rang the bell. The timing was almost too poetic, but that was your mom for you.

She clapped her hands then and ushered everyone to the dining room. “It’s so late now, come on, come on—everyone to the table. Dinner’s ready!”

You and Jeonghan followed her, along with the rest of your extended family. The dining table, of course, wasn't nearly big enough for this many people, so the kids were more than happy to scatter to the living room where the TV held more importance than proper seating.

It was funny how easily you were getting along with Jeonghan. He didn’t seem intimidating when you first met him, but still, you didn’t expect to feel this comfortable around him so soon. This was only the third time you had seen him in person, and yet it felt like you had known him longer. Too long maybe, and too close too fast. You had learned your lesson the hard way. You try not to get attached to people anymore, or at least not easily or carelessly like you did before. And yet... here you were, telling yourself he was just a friend. A good one, sure—genuine, polite, naturally teasing in a way that didn't sting. Like just now, when he handled your relatives’ questions with ease. It made you wonder if he had rehearsed all this in front of a mirror.

They were asking him how you two had met, or, to rephrase it correctly—how he had met the love of his life, as one particularly nosy aunt put it. He was smooth with his answers though, like he had been back at the café when he first met your parents. His voice was calm, a smile curved so sincere, and in some way, every word he said sounded real like it actually had happened. You blinked, trying to hold onto the moment, because truth be told, nothing like what he was saying ever had happened with Minho; not even close. That boy never even tried, and still, despite all the pain he had left you with, despite the way he did you dirty and walked away without a shred of guilt, he still lived rent-free in the back of your mind.

You glanced back at Jeonghan, now answering what he did for a living and why he never had appeared by your side before. His words were golden, the kind that had your relatives gushing and giggling. Words that belonged in fairy tales. But he was no prince, and those stories didn't exist in real life. 

You sighed, picking at the little pile of broccoli on the edge of your plate. You hated broccoli. No matter how it was cooked, it tasted so bitter, bitter like betrayal. But you ate it anyway because your mom would scold you if you didn't. So you pushed through, chewing your fourth and final piece like a true soldier that you were. What you did love, however, was carrots. Carrots were divine. And apparently, Jeonghan had taken notice of that.

Just as you were about to take another bite, two sets of chopsticks appeared over your rice bowl at the exact same time, both holding out perfectly cooked carrot slices. You paused, blinking, your eyes following the utensils back to their owners. Your dad. And Jeonghan.

Smiling, you glanced at your father first, but he wasn't looking at you. He was looking at Jeonghan—with a raised brow and that intimidating dad stares only fathers like yours could master. You shifted your eyes to Jeonghan next. He met your gaze, smiled still gently as ever, and dropped the carrot into your bowl before lowering his chopsticks. He didn't even flinch under your dad’s stare. Your father held his gaze for another second, then, wordlessly, added his carrot to your bowl too.

Shy and oddly happy, you pulled your rice bowl closer to your face, half hiding behind it, trying to focus on eating so no one saw your flustered expression. The table erupted into hushed chuckles including your mom, because she couldn't help herself but to throw marriage blessings your way. People nodded and laughed, and soon everyone shifted focus back to their food, making sure neither you nor Jeonghan felt awkward. 

But in the middle of it all, there was one thing no one noticed.

The small, soft smile curved at the corner of your father’s lips. Because no matter how much of a threat Jeonghan might have seemed in this little game of hearts, to your father—you had always been his little queen.

-

After dinner, everyone began clearing the table, piling dishes into the sink. Thankfully, dishwashing duties didn't fall under your job description in this house. You were technically a guest too, at least that was the excuse you clung to as you quietly tiptoed away from the mess.

You glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight.

That was when it hit you, you hadn't seen Jeonghan in a while, and worse, you hadn't even offered to walk him out yet. The man probably had sacrificed his peaceful night’s sleep just to show up at your family gathering and play pretend boyfriend. The least you could do was make sure he got home safe and as early as possible… or at least wasn't cornered by another round of interrogation.

You wandered through the halls, gently pushing open doors until you found him sitting cross-legged on the floor of the guest room, now completely claimed by your little cousins and their stuffed animals. You blinked, quietly leaning against the doorframe. He looked oddly at peace there, in a room filled with cartoon blankets and sticky fingers.

One of your younger cousins was enthusiastically chatting with him. “So my birthday is next month!” the little boy said, eyes bright. “You have to come, okay?”

Seriously, how does he do that? Kids, moms… even aunties? God. It’s actually scary how easy it is to like him, you wondered. Jeonghan gave him a soft smile, but you could read the hesitation on his face. He was trying to be polite, trying to find a way to decline without crushing tiny dreams. “That sounds fun,” he said slowly, “but I might need to check with—”

Before he could finish, your cousin cut in with an easy solution. “You can just come with Y/N! You’re her boyfriend, duh. You have to come!”

Jeonghan chuckled softly, but before he could respond, you stepped in from the door and cleared your throat. “Alright, birthday boss,” you said with a playful smile. “Jeonghan’s going to be super busy that day, okay? You’ll have to deal with just me.”

Your cousin looked disappointed for a beat before shrugging with a sigh, “Fine… but please at least don't annoy me that day ”

“Deal,” you said, laughing, as you gestured for Jeonghan to follow you out.

He rose, and followed you through the hallway. You led him around the corner of the house, to the narrow balcony space near the laundry room, just private enough without being suspicious.

He quirked an eyebrow at you that resulted in you giving him a dry look. “What?”

“You really won’t let me come to his birthday?” he queried, lips tilting with amused defiance. “I’ll clear my schedule for the kiddo if that’s what it takes to make my pretend girlfriend’s family happy.”

“You looked uncomfortable. I thought you’d want an easy out.”

“I was uncomfortable because I didn’t know if you were okay with me going,” he said honestly, voice softer. “But if you are, I want to come. It’s not a bother.”

Caught slightly off guard, you tried to blink it away, “I’ll… think about it,” you murmured 

“Fair,” he said, leaning against the wall. “So, what’d you really pull me aside for?”

“Oh, I was just gonna tell you to head out before someone tried to chain you to the dining table with dessert.” He snorted, and you glanced at him again, your voice dropping more to the soft range. “Thanks for coming, though. I’m sorry I called last minute and dragged you into this. You were probably asleep, weren’t you?”

“About to be,” he admitted with a laugh. “But it’s okay. I told you, didn’t I? If you ever need saving, just say the word.”

You didn't respond right away, instead you just smiled before whispering, “Let me walk you out.” 

He nodded, and turned to walk toward the front door, but just as he was about to reach for the handle, he paused and glanced back. “Where are your parents?” he asked, almost like he just realized he should say goodbye properly.

You tilted your head, scanning the hallway. “They’re probably… somewhere.”

He didn't take your vague answer, though, so he disappeared back down the hall, and a minute later, you heard familiar voices of your mom’s tone and your dad’s low chuckle and then, Jeonghan’s goodbye. Your aunt insisted he stay the night, even offering him an extra toothbrush and spare pajama set, but Jeonghan politely declined, because of course, he knew what was appropriate and what was not.

Still, your mom told him to come by their house sometime, which also happened to be your living space too. He promised he would, and then finally, walked back to the front door where you were waiting for him.

You caught his eyes one last time and bid, “Goodnight, Jeonghan.”

He gave you a little salute as he walked out of the door. “Goodnight.”

You watched as he stepped outside into the quiet of the night, and then you closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Three

Day 8 of 100

You had hoped this would be your winning year. You had landed the job you had always dreamed of, and now, there was a business trip to Italy; something you had kept on your vision board for years. It felt like everything was aligning at last, but luck never played fair. You had misunderstood the timeline because you had thought the trip would be next month. Turns out, it was this week—right on your mother's 45th birthday.

The company was sponsoring everything—flights, accommodations, even the visa. In return, you and your team would be working on a high-level project that could redefine your career portfolio. It was an opportunity you’ve only dreamed of, and yet, here you were, sitting in front of your laptop with the screen glowing in your dim room, torn between the offer and a woman who meant the world to you. You had been planning her birthday for so long. You had wanted this year to be extravagant, joyful, and different. She had always put everyone else first, and this time, you had wanted her to feel like the star of the world.

Your heart ached. Of course, your mother’s happiness was more important than any job title, any overseas project. You were already drafting a polite email to decline the offer when a soft knock tapped on your door.

She entered, holding a glass of milk, wearing that same smile that always reached you before her words did. "I got the mail from your company earlier," she said, sitting on the edge of your bed. "I opened it by mistake, but... I know it's about your trip to Italy." You stayed quiet, already knowing where this was headed. “I know you’re worried about my birthday,” she continued, offering the glass to you. “But listen to me. This trip is important. You’ve worked so hard for this moment, so don’t let it go just because you want to buy me a cake and hang some balloons.”

“Mom, it’s not just a cake and balloons. I wanted to do something big this year. You deserve that,” you whispered.

“Sweetheart, I don’t need big. I just need to know you’re happy and that you’re doing what you love. That’s enough of a gift for me.” You lowered your gaze, hands wrapped around the warm glass. “Go to Italy,” she said firmly. “Prioritize your future. You can celebrate with me next year, or the year after. But right now, it’s your time.”

You nodded, giving up. “Okay… I’ll go.”

She kissed your forehead, a gesture that still made you feel like a child wrapped in safety. And as she left, you sat back, gulping the milk, your heart swelling.

You would always count your stars that she had chosen to be yours, that she was the one you got to call, Mom. Your life had been stitched with love since the moment you were born, her heartbeat syncing with yours. Everything you were, and everything you would become, was because of her, and because of them; your parents. For their love, their sacrifices, their endless belief in your dreams. You were you… because of them.

Just as you were lost in that warm pool of gratitude, your mother broke the silence again. “So… is Celeste going with you?”

You shook your head slightly, “no, she’s not. She’s already involved in another project. It’ll probably just be me and a few others from the team.”

Your mother hummed, nodding. “And… does Jeonghan know?”

You let out a light exhale. “Not yet. I’ll tell him once it’s finalized.”

There was a moment of pause before she spoke again. “You know,” she began with a familiar lilt, “Jeonghan… I really like him. He’s the best boyfriend you’ve had so far. It’s a mother’s instinct.” She chuckled at her own words like she always did when she said something she believed was completely obvious.

You blinked, looking at her, lips parting with a small smile. There was a wave of relief washing over you, because who knew the random name you nervously muttered would actually turn out to be attached to someone like Jeonghan who was decent, polite, respectful. Not a creep. “Yeah,” you muttered, glancing down. “He’s… nice.”

You knew your mother was right, because every boyfriend you had, you ended up walking away from for one reason or another. But when it came to Minho, your parents were obsessively against the relationship, and still, you didn’t care. You didn’t listen. You were too blinded by a love that you now knew was never truly mutual.

Minho was the only man you genuinely, wholeheartedly fell in love with. You dared admit—no one else ever came close. You loved him in a way that scared you, you loved him in a way that consumed you, and yet… he made you so sad.

He was a fucking terrible person, and yet, you loved him more than anyone deserved to be loved if they were going to treat someone the way he treated you. You remembered the nights he left your messages on read, the way he made you feel like your needs were too much, like your softness was some kind of burden he had to bear. You remembered holding your breath during phone calls, hoping today he wouldn’t be in one of his moods, laced with that mockery he always passed off as jokes.

He didn’t scream or break things, but he broke you in pieces so small you didn’t even notice at first. Little digs at your work, guilt-tripping you for being emotional, never showing up when it actually mattered—when you were sick, when your dad was hospitalized, when you cried and said I really need you right now. And he didn’t come. You were fucking dying inside and he didn’t show up. You still remembered how small you felt clutching your phone, praying he would text, but he didn’t. And when he finally did, it was something so simple like, Did you eat? Like he hadn’t gone missing for days, like he didn’t just leave you all alone to drown in pain that he had promised to be there for.

You knew you deserved better, but you didn’t want better. You wanted him to be better. And that was your downfall, because you held onto hope, onto potential, onto memories from the beginning, when he was kind and sweet and said things like I’ve never met anyone like you. But all of that turned to dust the moment you looked closely. He won you over with his words, but it was his actions that made you walk away.

Your parents begged you to let go. Your friends tried to shake some sense into you, but love didn't always listen to reason, and you… you were stupid in love. And now, looking back, the part that hurt most was how long you stayed naive, how long you let him stay in your life, how long you made excuses for him when he didn’t deserve a single one. You hated him, but you hated yourself more for loving him.

Snapping you back, your mother took the empty glass from your hands as she stood up. “Get some sleep, okay?”

You nodded, offering a ‘Goodnight’ before she walked out and closed the door behind her.

Without even glancing back at your laptop or your skincare shelf, you pushed yourself off the bed, trudged into the bathroom, brushed your teeth half-asleep, and threw yourself onto the mattress as soon as you were done.

- 

Your manager in charge was a certified piece of shit. There was no other way to put it. He had been dumping a mountain of unnecessary workload on you for the last three days, which was an obvious attempt to wear you down before the Italy project even began. You know his type; a man who thought women were only good for pretty presentations and coffee runs. It was disgusting. It got under your skin in ways you couldn't even articulate without gritting your teeth.

Right then, he was yelling, loud and pointless. Screaming at you for things that weren't even part of your damn job description—the audacity. Beside you stood Celeste and Seungkwan, both fuming in silence. Their fists were clenched so tightly, you were convinced their fingernails were permanently embedded into their palms. From the corner of your eye, you could see them both with their heads lowered, trying not to explode, but you knew them. If it weren’t for their upcoming promotions hanging in the balance, Seungkwan would’ve already flattened that pitiful nose into something even more pathetic, and Celeste would've kicked him where the sun didn't shine. God bless their restraint. If what they had worked so hard for wasn't hanging by a thread, they would've already thrown hands right there, right then, in front of HR, God, and everyone, and they wouldn’t even have regretted it. They would've walked to the police station whistling.

Just when you thought the day couldn't get any more heated, the CEO walked in. Mrs. Kim. Your boss’s boss. The actual authority in the building; a woman. The very species your manager seemed to despise with his whole shriveled heart, and maybe that was why he was divorced and hadn't gotten laid since forever.

She walked in, looked at the three of you, then her eyes moved to the manager. “What’s going on here?”

Before any of you could speak, he jumped in, sugarcoating everything, and hearing his version of events, how he was ‘just trying to guide his team to success’ made all three of you visibly nauseous.

Seungkwan was the first to speak, voice sweet as syrup but sharp as a knife. “Oh, yes, we're definitely being guided.”

That statement with that tone, made the CEO raise a brow. Celeste didn't wait, she stepped in calmly and confidently. “We understand deadlines, but lately the amount of off-task work being pushed onto us has started affecting the actual projects we’re assigned to. It’s just becoming difficult to prioritize what’s actually important.” She didn't whine or plead, she simply spoke facts with clarity and class.

Mrs. Kim turned to the manager, “why are they doing extra work that doesn’t align with their primary responsibilities? These three are handling a high-level project—one that has international visibility. I expect their full energy to be focused on that.” The manager sputtered, trying to defend himself, but Mrs. Kim shut it down gracefully, yet firmly. “Respect your team. Don’t misuse their time because you misunderstand their value. Let this be the last conversation we have about this.”

A girl’s girl, through and through. A CEO who got it, and as she walked away, Seungkwan muttered under his breath, “I’d die for her.” You didn't even have the strength to laugh, because you were too busy mentally high-fiving her in your head.

Your manager in charge still didn't look remotely ashamed, just let out an ignorant sigh and shooed the three of you away like he was the victim, but whatever, you were too tired to deal with male mediocrity right then, so you just complied.

On the way back to your desks, Seungkwan leaned closer and threw a “Lunch date?” your way. It was actually pretty normal and nothing new. Platonic lunch dates were kind of your and Seungkwan's thing—matching eye rolls and stealing each other’s fries. Celeste might have been your closest cousin, and your ride-or-die since childhood, but Seungkwan was your bestie, your lunch break soulmate, the lawless good to your tired neutral. Who said you needed only one close person when life handed you more than one decent human being?

You nodded at his offer and plopped back into your seat, immediately drawn to the growing pile of papers on your desk, the ones about the Italy trip and your high-profile project. You uncapped your signature green pen [because black and blue are for amateurs] and started scribbling notes. Mid-marking, your phone buzzed, and without thinking, you assumed it was your mom because who else would it have been at that hour aside from Celeste or Seungkwan—and they were right there, but no, it wasn't your mom. It was Jeonghan.

He was asking if you were free for lunch. You glanced at Seungkwan, who was already halfway through planning his order in his head, you texted back.

You smiled. Sipped the lukewarm coffee from your desk, and went back to highlighting your to-do list.

-

Seungkwan scanned the menu and orders a burger that was apparently ‘new and calling his name’. He recommended the same one to you, so you checked the picture on the menu and yeah, you weren't not gonna lie, it did look scrumptious.

He immediately started ranting about how he was on a diet and how Vernon didn't diet with him, and how that clearly meant Vernon didn't love him enough.

You laughed right in his face. “Vernon doesn’t need to starve himself to prove he loves you, babe.”

Seungkwan glared but sulked in silence, grumbling about how he was probably just in ‘male menstruation mode.’

You took a bite of your burger—he wasn’t wrong, it was divine. But before you could get too far, Seungkwan nearly spat out his iced americano as something suddenly went through his head, “Okay, so Celeste told me you have a boyfriend now? Since WHEN? You literally said, and I quote, ‘I’m done with love.’ Like, girl, what?!”

You gave him a look and shrugged. “You should know better than to believe Celeste with her three and a half brain cells.”

But the truth was, you did say that. Two years ago, drunk off your ass, crying over an asshole, bawling into Celeste’s shoulder, snot and all, swearing off love because it was a contagious disease, and you meant every single thing back then. Part of you still did, you didn't believe love was for you.

You sighed and finally explained what really happened; how Jeonghan became your boyfriend. Fake boyfriend to be, and how Jeonghan, saint that he was, actually agreed to play along.

Seungkwan stared at you for a solid five seconds, then: “Girl… I want to judge you, but I’m weirdly impressed.”

You just groaned and plopped back in your chair, sipping the last of your watered-down coffee.

He then asked if you were going to the team building party that week. “Obviously,” you said, “you think I’d miss out on free food and gossip?” He snorted, satisfied with your, you kinda answer, and the two of you finished up lunch before heading back to the office.

You buried yourself in paperwork, prepping everything for the Italy trip. Your green pen glided across the documents—marking the hotel addresses, underlining budget breakdowns, drawing tiny stars next to notes. You were so into the zone that you didn't notice when your work chat pinged. It was from the front desk. The CEO wanted to see you.

You low-key froze because that was a big deal. It wasn't not everyday the CEO called you up, and while she wasn't the biting-heads-off type, it was still nerve-wracking.

You climbed the stairs—the elevators were reserved for upper management at that time of the day. Classism at its finest. You rolled your eyes, like, please, how much money was the company really saving by keeping one elevator out of use? It was giving ‘penny-pinching villain arc’.

Finally, you reached her office, knocked politely, and heard a warm, come in.

You entered, instantly wrapped in that elegant aura Mrs. Kim always carried. She was poised, sharp, and always smelled like fresh roses and justice; a woman you wanted to write poems about. She smiled. “Have a seat.” You did—respectfully, obediently. She was the boss for a reason.

You’d always admired her, but not just for her presence, but for how she consistently sided with the employees whenever an overzealous senior acted out of line, e.g. like that morning. She knew you by face, name, and the quality of your work, though your interactions had mostly been limited to the occasional office circus or passing greetings in the hallway. 

She started, “I know you’ve been reviewing the design documentation for the Italy project,” and you nodded. You updated her on what you’d done so far: layout revisions, material specs, budget adjustments—everything. She nodded along, then sighed lightly. “I’m sorry to throw this at you, but I wanted to speak to you directly. There’s a new assignment,” she paused before continuing again. “I know it’s not what you signed up for right now,” she said, “but a very important client specifically requested you for a new project. He saw your portfolio and won’t take no for an answer.” She continued, “It’s a bar. Both interior and exterior design. He wants it done by you, and only you.”

Men and their obsession with being picky, you muttered in your head.

“But,” she added, “you won’t have to start until after the Italy trip. The schedule is flexible, the budget is very accommodating… and he’s paying double your usual fee.”

Now that caught your attention. “Okay,” you said slowly, “I’ll happily consider it once I check the brief and make sure I’m actually capable of delivering what he wants. I’ll speak to my manager—”

She stopped you there. “Actually, no. You won’t need to discuss it with him. It’s already been approved. The details will be sent once you return from Italy.”

Huh? You nodded, but your brain was half-screaming. This sounded a little too good to be true; great pay, great flexibility, total creative freedom—but no option to say no, and no brief until you’re back? Yeah. Red flag. He might have been rich, but he was still giving mild bastard energy. Still, you nodded again. “Understood.”

You thanked her, left the room, and walked back to your desk. At least the pay was great, all was well for now.

Day 10 of 100

You were wearing a silk ivory blouse with a subtle sweetheart neckline, tucked into high-waisted slate-grey tailored trousers that hugged your waist just right. Over that, a light beige trench coat draped you, the sleeves slightly pushed up to show off your simple silver bracelet. You had paired the outfit with pointed-toe nude heels, pearl stud earrings, and your hair was done in a half-up loose twist, soft waves cascading down your back. You were so glad you had worn something put together that day. After successfully convincing Seungkwan to switch your lunch date with Celeste instead, with the promise of paying for dessert next time, you headed out of the office with a slight skip in your step. You strolled down the pavement, one hand in your coat pocket, the other holding your phone with Jeonghan’s pinned location glowing on the screen. You finally arrived, stopped and gaped.

The restaurant in front of you was stunning. Soft cream stonework, vines grew over the edges of a wooden pergola, delicate white drapes danced with the wind. There was outdoor seating bathed in golden sunlight; the whole vibe screamed expensive, and summer-soft. 

You were too caught up in soaking in the place to notice footsteps approaching, until a voice leaned over your right shoulder. “You like it?”

You jolted and instinctively, you stepped back and pivoted to your left, hand brushed against the edge of your coat as you turned to face the source of the surprise. “Jesus, you scared me!” you half-laughed, pressing a hand to your chest as you exhaled.

Jeonghan, in a light blue linen shirt tucked into beige trousers, grinned down at you. “Sorry,” he chuckled, “wasn’t trying to scare you.”

The sunlight kissed your cheekbones as you smiled, a little breathless from the jump scare. But Jeonghan, he went completely still. His smile faded, but not in a bad way, but in a speechless kind of awe. His gaze softened, eyes lingering on you, trying to memorize every detail: your earrings catching light, how your blouse moved with the breeze, the way you’re smiling not even knowing what you were doing to him.

You waved your hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Jeonghan? Are you good?”

He cleared his throat, finally snapping out of whatever trance he had been in. “Right—yeah. Sorry. You just…” He scratched the back of his neck, then held out a bouquet wrapped in rustic white paper—pale pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath peeking out. “…You look beautiful.” 

You took the flowers, smiled, but not bashful or not giddy, just unfazed; you refused to let any man, no matter how sweet or charming or kind-eyed, have that kind of effect on you again. You had spent too long rebuilding yourself, too long sealing every crack Minho had left behind, and you were not about to let someone slip through them again just because he smelled good and brought you flowers. So you didn't blush anymore, there was no blush creeping up your cheeks but your ears betrayed you. The tips of your ears were red as fuck.

Jeonghan led you to one of the umbrella-covered tables nestled beneath the sunlight, which filtered just enough to feel warm, not harsh. The breeze was soft, carrying the scent of fresh herbs and baked bread. It felt really like a European afternoon even though it was just noon here, but you let yourself enjoy it.

He pulled your chair out like a proper gentleman, and for a second, your breath caught but because of the wrong reason; your ex used to do that too. But you shook the thought off. This wasn't Minho, not everything needed to circle back to him. This is just a nice gesture, you told yourself. A decent man doing a decent thing.

You settled in. Jeonghan smiled and gestured toward the menu. “Order what you want,” he said, resting his chin on his hand, watching you with the smile he always seemed to carry.

When the waiter came, you ordered with a small smile, “Can I get the smoked salmon sandwich with scrambled eggs, and a vanilla iced latte?”

The waiter nodded and Jeonghan chimed in, “Same for me. And can you add a basket of your warm mini scones too? Thanks.”

Your gaze shifted to him, taking him in again. He was dressed well. It wasn't a suit, but it was still effortlessly stylish. Still, you couldn't help but chuckle internally—he ran a café chain, you had expected suits and ties like a K-drama CEO 24/7 but everytime you saw him, his aura was of a human, of a nice man.

The silence settled in as the waiter walked away, and it was kinda awkward. Not bad, just not easy either. You fidgeted slightly with your napkin and broke the silence, “By the way, I forgot to thank you the other day at my aunt’s place… thanks for sending lunch to my office. That was really sweet.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, brushing it off with a soft chuckle. “It’s no big deal. Like I said… I’m wooing you, remember? That means I’ll do things like that. You’re my love interest now.” He said it with a teasing smile, but the sincerity didn't go unnoticed.

You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond for a second. “I mean… you can do whatever you want,” you murmured, eyes going to the complimentary glass of water. “It’s just—like I said before, my heart’s kinda… closed. I’m not really looking for anything, so… I don’t want you to be disappointed if I don’t change my mind.”

He nodded. “I get that. But I said I’d try. We made a deal, and I still have… what, 90 days?” he grinned. “Just let me do what I want. No pressure.”

You nodded again, this time shyer. “Okay…”

Another short silence followed, but Jeonghan filled it with a question. “So how’s work been?”

“Oh, I’m heading to Italy for a project. It’s sort of a business trip but I’m hoping I can sneak in some vacation time.”

His eyebrows raised slightly, impressed. “ Italy? Fancy.”

You nodded, stirring your straw. “Yeah. I’m excited but… I was supposed to celebrate my mom’s birthday this week with her. And now I won’t be here, which sucks.” You looked at him hesitantly. “Would you mind… joining a video call with her? Just to wish her a happy birthday with me. She really likes you and it’d make her smile.”

Jeonghan didn't even hesitate for a second. “Of course, and you don’t need to ask if I’d like to do something for you,” resting his elbows on the table, he leaned slightly forward. “The answer will always be yes. So don’t think twice. Just tell me.”

That might have been the nicest thing anyone’s said to you in a while. The waiter returned with your food, placing the plates in front of you. The sandwiches were golden and buttery, eggs perfectly soft. The smell alone made you sigh.

Jeonghan clasped his hands. “Let’s dig in, shall we?”

After brunch, Jeonghan insisted on giving you a ride back to the office. His car, already parked earlier before he stepped into the restaurant, sat sleek and waiting. You remembered how he'd found you standing there, mouth parted in awe at the view of the restaurant—now it made sense, he’d arrived early whereas you walked there. He drove a black Audi A8 L, and everything about it, from the glossy sheen to the whisper-quiet engine, spoke of understated luxury. Being the owner of chains, you always assumed he was very well-off, but after sitting in his leather-wrapped cabin, there was no doubt—he was rich rich. Not just wealthy, but smelled polished and wealthy too.

The ride was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. He talked to you about small things, light things. He mentioned how he wanted to do more for you, soon, once a little more time had passed.

You were a woman of few words, and he respected that. You didn't say much, but you were already... comfortable. Being around him felt like sunlight through a window, warm and golden; wrapped in a blanket still carrying the warmth and scent of the sun on a winter morning.

Back at the office, time passed like pages fluttering in a breeze, and soon, it was almost time to leave for the evening’s team building party. You had missed the last one because of a fever, but that night, you were ready. Those nights, especially with Celeste and Seungkwan by your side, always promised laughter and fun. They were the most fun people to be around at parties.

-

Your body reacted before your mind caught up, and you moved back, a step, maybe two. The closer this man came, the more your instincts coiled tightly within. A breath's space became half a step, then a full one. Your fingers curled tightly around your purse strap, your throat drying with each beat of the music thudding like a war drum in your chest. You were disgusted to say the least. 

Celeste had vanished into the crowd, tipsy and gleeful, her laughter now a memory swallowed by bass and bodies. Seungkwan was in the restroom, and you whispered silent prayers into the air. Please come back. Now. Please. But instead, he came closer.

His breath reeked of alcohol and something sourer; bitterness, maybe. The look in his eyes was familiar, kind of that once stripped you of peace. "You look good," he sneered, lips twisted, voice drenched in mockery.

You felt it then: rage, disgust, and fear rising from the pit of your stomach. "Shut the fuck up," you stepped back again. "Don’t touch me."

He ignored it like he always did. His feet shuffled closer, lazily. Your back brushed against a counter. You were running out of space. “I’ve been thinking about us,” he slurred. “We can fix this. You know we can.”

You almost laughed, but your voice trembled like a blade. “You broke everything. You ruined me. You fucking hollowed me out and smiled about it.” Still no tears spilled, they hung in your eyes.

He tilted his head mockingly. “Still dramatic, I see.”

“I was miserable with you.” Each of your words was a stone hurled. “You gaslit me, degraded me, manipulated every breath I took and still had the gall to call it love.” Your voice rose the more you speak. “You were a fucking asshole. Are a fucking asshole.”

That was when his expression shifted, something flashed in his eyes; violence barely contained, he moved faster. With a growl, he swooped in, his arm slamming against yours, pinning it down to the counter behind you. The marble was cold beneath your skin. His hand caged your wrist. You're leaned back, your spine arching slightly, nowhere to run. His body hovered far too close, and that was when the tears began to spill.

He leaned in until his breath warmed your cheek. “Those words… they don’t suit your pretty little mouth,” he whispered with a sneer. Then, his fingers gripped your face, cruelly and crudely, pressing your cheeks together, forcing your lips into a shape you didn't own. “Who is it, huh?” His voice was poison dipped in curiosity. “Who are you fucking now, since it’s not me?”

Your limbs shook but your spine stayed straight. Somewhere in the haze of lights and laughter, his friends—if you could call them that—stood at a distance, watching, and laughing. Your pain was once again, another kind of entertainment.

All you were hoping now was for someone in this sea of people, to be decent enough. Just one man with a spine, a conscience, something resembling a soul.

Or, God, let Celeste or Seungkwan find you. Because if they saw this… If they saw your trembling form pinned, tears running down your cheeks, your lips being forced into a shape not your own; hell wouldn’t just break loose, it would bleed.

Celeste would have turned into a beast, rage that ripped through bone and skin with heels sharp enough to slice throats and a fury only a woman can wield after watching her sister break. She’d scream murder, tear at his face like it was paper, her nails dragging blood down his cheek, down his pride. She’d laugh while doing it, vengeful and beautiful.

And Seungkwan—he’d see red, nothing but red. He wouldn’t stop until someone dragged him off, until every punch left a mark, until the bastard begged on his knees with his face bloated and black. He’d spit down on him.You touch her again, and I’ll break every single one of your fingers until you forget how to be a man.

But they weren't here.

Just as he was about to forcefully kiss you while your head was twisting away but his hand trying to clamp your jaw still, trying to oppress you to submit; he’s suddenly gone.

Pushed hard, a weight crashed against the floor with a hollow thud. Your breath caught, chest was rising and falling in erratic jolts. You barely registered what had happened, but then, your eyes met his. That face etched in concern, eyes gentle for a moment until they flicked down to the filth on the floor. Then they shifted to rage again; controlled.

The man on the ground groaned, his ego bruised deeper than his spine, tried to get up, but he crouched beside him with chilling ease. Fingers reached out and plucked the name tag pinned to the bastard’s chest. “Park Minho,” he murmured like a curse.

Minho snarled. “Who the fuck are you to mess with me?” His fist launched but his hand moved faster, catching it mid-air, holding it steady, not violently but commandingly.

“Jeonghan. Her boyfriend.”

Minho lunged again, but this time, Jeonghan didn't flinch. He just moved, twisting enough to let the man’s weight tip himself off balance, and that’s when the owner rushed in. The music cut off, lights flashed red and blue outside the sheer window. Police.

“Mr. Yoon, I’m so sorry,” the bar owner panted, glancing between Jeonghan and the wreck on the floor. “I had no idea he would—he’s fired. He’s done. He’ll never work here again.” Two officers grabbed Minho by the arms, he thrashed, cursed, but it was over.

You didn't even realize your legs had given out earlier, until Jeonghan was kneeling before you. You were on the floor, knees scraped, mascara streaked, eyes wide and blank. He said nothing at first, just held your arms gently. He picked you up, but your head fell on his shoulder. Then you started shaking. Sobs erupted, no longer contained. You clutched at his shirt, trembling, your soul was trying to crawl out of your body.

Jeonghan pulled you closer, one hand on the back of your head, the other around your back. He rocked you gently, a murmur at your ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His voice was low, raw, not above a whisper. “I’ll always protect you. No one will ever lay a finger on you again.” He kissed the side of your head, his breath trembling along yours, too. “If anyone dares touch you again—if anyone dares hurt you—I’ll bury them myself. I don’t care if my hands get bloody. I will end them for you.”

You didn't answer, not because you couldn't, but because words felt too fragile to carry the weight of what just happened and what he said. The lights spun like distant planets and the crowd hummed around you, oblivious and indifferent. He was achingly kind, his shoulder was there, warm, a borrowed sanctuary in the aftermath. You were grateful, but you didn't want to be seen by anyone like this right now. Your voice was small, trembling only at the edges. “I want to be alone… I don’t want to see you right now. But… thank you.” You didn't meet his eyes.

Everything had happened in the span of ten minutes, but to you, it felt like ten years; slow, stretched, jagged. Time warped cruelly in the dark, by then the din had drawn others. You heard them before you saw them—your coworkers murmuring, shifting, clustering like confused birds after a storm, and then, Celeste appeared.

Disheveled, tipsy, and horrified, she rushed forward and dropped to the ground beside you, wrapping you in the scent of vanilla and liquor and the desperate ache of guilt. Her arms pulled you away from him and into the safety of her embrace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered over and over, stroking your hair like you were a breakable glass. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have disappeared.”

Jeonghan, who was silent and observant, took a step back. He didn't fight your decision. He just watched from a respectful distance, assessing the new guardian that had taken his place. Her eyes were glassy, and even in her inebriated haze, she was more present than most sober men here ever were. “Is there someone I can trust,” Jeonghan asked the crowd, scanning, “to take both of them home?”

A voice rose from the group, mostly from her coworkers that had been present at the party. “Seungkwan. He didn’t drink, so he’s probably the best to—”

Jeonghan was already walking toward the assumed coworker. “Who is Seungkwan?” he asked, tone neutral but outlined with the protectiveness of a man who didn't want to hand over what he’d just protected, to a stranger. And as if conjured by name, he arrived.

His knees hit the ground the moment he saw you slumped against Celeste. His hands trembled as he reached out, stopping himself just before touching you, as if your pain might be contagious. He looked at you, then at Celeste, then at the space around, putting the pieces together without a single word being spoken. His expression hardened into pure fury concealed beneath tight control. “What the fuck happened here?!” His voice cracked through the air. “Tell me who the hell did this. Tell me, and I swear on every grave beneath this city—I will tear him apart with my own hands.” His fists curled. “I’ll fucking gut that bastard and bury what’s left. You think I won’t? You think I can’t? I’ll make it look like an accident and sleep just fine at night.”

Celeste flinched but reached out a hand to him, still cradling you. “Kwan… please. Just wait.”

But Jeonghan had seen enough of this, so he stepped forward in careful assessment. He laid a hand on Seungkwan’s shoulder. Seungkwan’s gaze dropped to the hand as if it was an insult. He didn't look up for three full seconds. He was waiting for a response from Jeonghan, and Jeonghan spoke before that moment died. “Do you have a girlfriend? Or do you like either of them?”

The question felt abrupt, even intrusive, but Jeonghan knew better than to let two emotionally unstable women be left in the care of someone who might have had complicated feelings for them. It wasn't a call to be made lightly, and certainly not one a level-headed man like him would ignore.

Seungkwan’s eyes flashed from the implication, his jaw locked, blood rising to his eyes, but before the storm erupted—“This is Jeonghan,” Celeste cut in hoarsely. “And Seungkwan has a boyfriend.”

There was a pause, then a shared oh between the two men; mutual clarity, and just like that, Jeonghan stepped away, surrendering you both into the care of someone he now deemed safe.

Celeste informed, “I called Joshua. He’s on his way to pick us up.”

Jeonghan nodded once, eyes on you. You still hadn't looked at him since, and he doesn't press for more. You had asked not to see him, and he honoured it, and walked away for now.

Something in you broke tonight, and something in him awakened.

Writing has always been my escape. It’s been how I ran away from reality into a place I can shape and form however I want for as long as I could hold a pencil, my little bunker in the tornado of life. My teachers had called it a gift, my parents called it useless, and I just continued writing through it all. It’s how I process your emotions, I guess, although now I’m starting to realize it may be how I avoid them. And yet, here I am, writing again.

The first time you met Joshua, it was the summer between your sophomore and junior years of college. Your friend, Soonyoung, invited you amongst a handful of his friends to go on a road trip from campus down to his parents' vacant vacation home and stay for a few weeks, enjoying the beach.

You said yes because the thought of going home to see your parents made your skin crawl, even if it meant sharing a house with near-strangers and dealing with sand in your shoes. Soonyoung had promised late nights, grilled food, and sunsets that didn’t need filters. You figured you could use a break—from school, from expectations, from yourself.

Joshua wasn’t who you noticed first. He wasn’t loud like Soonyoung, the Zoology major who’d attached himself to you the year prior, or constantly moving like Jun, who you’d never met before this but his constant foot tapping was starting to grate on your nerves. He didn’t make a big deal of his entrance when he showed up late, either—just walked up with his guitar case and an apologetic smile, soft-spoken as he said hi to the others. You were sitting on the porch steps, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup and trying not to feel out of place even though you knew a couple others there from shared classes.

He sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not crowding, not even really facing you—just close enough that you could hear him breathe between sips from his water bottle. You remember glancing over, expecting a brief hello or maybe one of those awkward small-talk moments where you both pretend the silence isn’t loud. But he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked out toward the driveway where Soonyoung was loudly arguing with Seungcheol about how to pack the cooler.

“Do you think they’ll still be fighting about ice packs when we’re thirty?” he asked suddenly, voice light, almost amused.

You snorted into your coffee. “I think they’ll still be fighting about everything when we’re thirty.”

That was it—your first exchange. Just a few words, a shared joke at someone else’s expense, and then the quiet again. You didn’t know what to make of him yet. He wasn’t unreadable, exactly. Just... settled. Like he knew how to take up space without demanding it. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone here, not even himself.

You ended up crammed between him and Minji—who you talked to a few times over the semester in stats—in Seungcheol’s beat up SUV. Jihoon, a music major, had aux, Soonyoung belting along as Wonwoo (comp. sci.) tried to drown them out with noise-cancelling headphones. Joshua’s smile was fond as he looked at them, occasionally joining in.

He had one of those quiet presences that didn’t feel the need to compete with chaos. You noticed it again during the drive, when Minji fell asleep with her head against the window and your shoulder began to ache from staying too stiff, too polite. Joshua, without a word, shifted slightly and leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough to make it feel like you weren’t holding yourself alone in the noise.

At one point, Jihoon passed the phone back for song requests, and Joshua didn’t even hesitate before handing it to you. “Pick something you won’t regret screaming later,” he said with a teasing grin, the first real note of mischief in his voice.

You scrolled, stalling, then picked a song from your high school playlists—too nostalgic, too dramatic—and halfway through, when you were laughing with your head thrown back at Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s friends from finance, trying to rap and Jihoon snapping at him to stop, you realized Joshua was looking at you. Not in a way that felt like pressure. Just… observing. Like he liked the way you looked when you weren’t trying so hard.

The house was nicer than you expected. Weathered wood, sand already in the doorway, old photos of Soonyoung and his family in every corner. You all chose rooms with the urgency of kids at summer camp—first come, first sleep—and you ended up with Minji, who said she snored and wasn’t sorry.

Those first few days blurred together: grilling badly, racing to the ocean, eating popsicles in the shallow end of the pool while the sun melted down your shoulders. You’d catch Joshua sometimes with his guitar by the fire pit, or humming a melody while washing dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He always smiled when he saw you—not a flirty kind of smile, something gentler. Something that made you feel like he saw through you a little, and didn’t mind what he found there.

It took three days before he asked you to join him for a walk on the beach.

It was after dinner—everyone else hanging back for a movie night with popcorn and the last bottle of Soonyoung’s dad’s expensive wine. You’d wandered outside for air and found him there, barefoot in the sand, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the right kind of silence.

“Want to come with me?” he asked, nodding toward the shoreline.

And you did.

You walked in companionable silence for a while, the sky streaked purples and oranges, the wind teasing at the hem of your hoodie. Every now and then your arms would brush, and you’d both pretend it didn’t mean anything. But you felt it. Every time.

“I like it here,” he said after a while, his voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Feels like you can breathe more slowly. You know?”