#vernon

He stays silent as he averts his gaze to your boots, muddy from the rain and possibly jumping in every puddle available. You always liked doing that when the rain was light, and it usually ended up with him offering you a pair of sweatpants when you got home. 

Or, to his apartment. It’s not home to you, not anymore. 

He doesn’t say anything as he moves to the side, opening the door wider for you to step inside. You’re seemingly rooted in place until he turns his head to face the inside of his apartment. Slightly messy, with blankets and sweaters strewn everywhere. Candles burning on his coffee table fill the place you once called home with smells of salted caramel, vanilla and a hint of cedarwood. 

You’re quiet as you slip your feet out of your pink rain boots, your mismatched yellow and purple socks doing nothing to keep you warm from the freezing tile of his foyer. You shake off the umbrella, wrapping it closed and leaning it against the brick of his building. 

“No one will take it, right?”  “You know no one will.” 

You shove your hand in your pocket as you duck into his apartment, feeling the sting of tears prick at your eyes as you look around his living room. He’s got his journal open on the coffee table, the list of films you promised you’d watch together displayed in his handwriting. Smudges of blue and splats of ink from what you presume to be tears cover the page. 

The Netflix account you once shared is paused forty minutes into Mary and The Witch’s Flower. 

“I thought we said—”  “We said a lot of things, let’s not go down that rabbit hole.” 

You suck in a breath, nodding as he shuts the door. You hear the lock click, before hearing him skirt into the kitchen. 

“Drink?”  “Any soju?” 

A scoff is heard, before the familiar clinking of the green bottles you know he hasn’t touched and possibly been sitting since you left. Hansol never did like to drink alone. 

Even if it meant drowning in every sinking thought he had about you. 

He comes out of the kitchen with the bottled gripped between his knuckles, and a bottle of juice in his other hand. It’s new, and it’s one of your favorites. One that he hates. 

“Force of habit, huh?”  “I guess.” 

You inch towards the couch, the Persian rug beneath your feet soft and cushiony. You remember buying it with him, browsing a website he’d gotten from Seungkwan and buying three things while stoned out of your mind. The tiger blanket draped across the couch was one of the three, and a personalized cushion with your initials was the other. 

That was nowhere to be found. 

You perch on the edge of the couch, suddenly feeling hot as he sets the drinks on the coffee table. He still smells the same, soft aftershave and cotton deodorant. 

Cotton deodorant you used to buy for him, in bulk at Costco. 

He had half a stick on the vanity before you left. He’s had to have bought more since. 

He’s almost too close as he opens the bottles, flicking the caps onto the table and leaning back into the couch. Your fingers brush the sweating neck of the soju bottle as you grab for it, cold and slippery. He takes it from you abruptly, a bit of it spilling down his hand as he shakes his head. 

“Wrong one.” 

You look at the bottle in his hand, his fingers just barely covering the word Fresh scrawled on the label. Your cheeks heat as you nod, grabbing for the other one. 

Yogurt. 

“Do you need a glass?”  “No, I’m okay.” 

He hums, picking at the label on his bottle with his ringed forefinger. He doesn’t press play on the movie; he doesn’t move to comfort any sort of awkward situation. Hansol knows you’ll speak when you’re ready. 

“What’s the movie about?”  “The kid’s a witch.”  “Oh, cool.”  “Yep.” 

Silence. 

Agonizing, excruciating, debilitating silence. 

“Do you hate me?”  “What?” 

His eyes are wide as he quickly faces you; your eyes glued to the burning flame of the salted caramel candle on his coffee table. You bought that one. You bought it at a home goods store, and you remember scowling at him when he raised an eyebrow at you when you beelined for it – you'd told him you’d just wanted to get new pillows for the bed. 

Pillows you left behind. 

“Do you hate me, Hansol? I’d hate me?”  “I could never hate you.” 

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the bottle of soju. He sighs, setting his down on the coffee table before running a hand through his hair. Or lack thereof, he’s buzzed it off since – chocolate brown hair you’d run your fingers through before bed or swipe out of his eyes when he was too concentrated on Mario Kart. 

He looks good. 

He looks...tired. 

“I could never hate you.” He repeats, and suddenly, the air feels thicker around you. Everything feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, your chest tight as you force yourself to look up at him. His eyes are rimmed with unshed tears, your jaw dropping slightly as you inch forward. 

He looks away, wiping his eyes quickly before clearing his throat. 

“You did what you thought was best. I can’t hate you for taking care of yourself, that’s what you’re supposed to do.” He mumbles thickly, shrugging his shoulders as he traces the spout of the bottle. You follow his fingers carefully, your heart sinking at the slight tremble in them. 

“I’m sorry I disturbed you tonight, Hansol.” You murmur back, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans, still damp from sprinkles of the rain. He shakes his head, sighing. You’re both staring at the condensation dripping on his coffee table. 

His coffee table that you bought together. His bottle of juice that he’s never going to drink. His television, and the remote that you always changed the batteries to because he would forget. 

His apartment. Speckled with you, everywhere. Everywhere you looked, you saw yourself. 

“You didn’t.”  “I did.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel, Y/N. I’m so tired of everyone telling me how I feel, or how I’m supposed to feel, or whatever. I’m human, too. I can feel whatever I want. And you didn’t disturb me, okay? I wouldn’t have opened the door if I didn’t want to.” 

Your chest aches at the sound of your name from his lips, eyes wide as you look at him; his own still trained on the condensation gathering on his coffee table. You watch him as his eyes follow the drops sliding down the bottles, your tongue darting out slowly to wet your lips. 

“Why...did you?”  “Why did I what?”  “Open the door.” 

“It’s storming. You only like rain when it’s light.” He whispers to himself, before glancing at you. “You still...right? You still don’t like thunder?” 

It’s only been a year, but he acts like it’s been an eternity. 

Maybe it has been. 

Maybe it’s been a millennia for him, as it has been for you. 

“Right,” you nod, picking at your nail polish as your leg starts bouncing. He used to stop you – when he was your boyfriend. He’d splay his hand on your kneecap; his thumb would rub gentle circles into the side before giving it a squeeze. You found solace in the touch. 

Now? He’s more than a cushion and a half away, and the space between you is hot; it’s burning hot. And you so badly want to close the gap, to feel his hand on your knee and feel the comfort of him spread through your body. 

In any way. You’d allow it in any way. 

“It’s been a year. Today.” You clear your throat, and he closes his eyes – folding his hands in his lap as he leans back into the couch. He nods before resting his head on the back of his couch and opening his eyes to look at you. 

“...Is this where we do the whole ‘how have you been’ bullshit?” 

There is a lilt of a smile in his voice, but it doesn’t show on his face. You shake your head, shrugging your shoulders. 

“I don’t know.”  “You don’t know how you’ve been, or you don’t know if—” 

“I miss you, Hansol.” You blurt, wincing inwardly as you shove your hands under your thighs; your fingers cold from the bottle and the rain and the way all the blood in your body rushes to your chest to aid the fire of anxiety in growing. You shift, wondering how long you could stare at the coffee table before your eyes wore holes into it. 

“...Is that why you’re here?” 

You suck in a shaky breath, opting to close your eyes. If you’re going to cry, you don’t want to see his reaction to it. You don’t want to see the flame in his eyes when he tells you to get out, to leave – that you’re too little, too late. 

That he doesn’t want you anymore, and you’ll have to live with the regret of leaving him for the sake of nothing for the rest of your life. 

“I know I don’t get to say that. I know it’s my fault. I left, and I...I’m sorry, Hansol. I’m sorry that I was a coward and I jumped ship when things started getting serious. I was a douche, and you don’t have to miss me. You don’t have to feel anything, I just...” Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, the salty taste of a stray tear coating the tip. 

“I wasn’t even in the neighborhood. I was six blocks away; I’d gotten coffee with Seungkwan. He told me you still lived here, and that you were good. That you were doing well.” 

“And you wanted to...what? Check and make sure for yourself? Ruin it, if I was?” 

There’s no poison in his voice. Hansol has always been diplomatic, respectful. Sometimes you wondered if there was a single bone in his body that ever felt rage. The urge to make everything look like a war zone, the subtle need to want to destroy every relationship he’s ever built from the ground up. 

Sometimes, you feel that kind of rage. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, tightly squeezing your eyes shut as you feel him shift on the other edge of the couch. A roll of thunder is heard outside, your fingers gripping the fabric of the cushion beneath your thighs as it fades. 

You don’t catch the way he instinctively reaches for you, before sinking back into the cushion. 

“I don’t know what I wanted to do. I don’t know what I’m doing here.” 

He hums, and you sniffle. One of your hands reaches to swipe at your face, wiping the tears on your jeans as you face away from him. You open your eyes, looking at the wall through the blur of tears. All the frames on the wall are still the same, and they hold all of your pictures together. Your face is still cemented in the memories, and you wonder how he felt looking at those pictures every single day. 

“Do you want to talk about everything?” He asks softly, and you glance over your shoulder to see him resting his cheek on his palm. His eyes are just as gentle and understanding as they’ve always been. 

As warm as they’ve always been. 

“It could help you...uh, figure yourself out.” 

Help you figure yourself out. 

“What is there to talk about? I left for no reason.”  “Don’t do that. You left to find yourself. You left to take care of you.” 

“And it was selfish,” you scoff, and he clicks his tongue. 

“You think so?”  “I know so.” 

“I think it would’ve been worse if I kept begging you to stay, knowing you wouldn’t have been happy here. I mean, look around,” he gestures to the apartment. There is so much of you, and so much of him. “Everything in this apartment was a display of what our relationship was. Everything was you and me, me and you and us. It was never just Y/N, and it was never just Hansol. I could not, in good faith, keep you here if it was me that was suffocating you. It was not fair.” 

“You could never suffocate me,” you mumble to yourself, feeling a few tears trickle down your face as you speak.  

It’s silent for a moment. 

“What about you, Sol?” 

The nickname slips from your bitten lips, and he sighs. 

“What about me, Y/N?”  “If the tables were turned. If I had begged the way you did, would you have stayed?” 

It’s not a fair question. You know it’s not, and you can tell he thinks it’s not as his eyes shut, and he silently nods his head. He tongues his cheek, running a hand over his buzzed hair and down his face. 

“That’s not a fair question.”  “I know.” 

You nod, choosing to refocus your gaze on the coffee table. There was a sticker you’d peeled off an apple a few weeks before you left, still stuck to the table leg. It looks glossed over, like it’d come unstuck and somehow been put back. Glue, maybe. Clear nail polish. 

“Why didn’t you change the apartment?”  “In case you ever found your way back.” 

There was a hint of hope in the back of his throat, and you realize that he’s wearing the same hoodie he wore the day you left. Baby blue, over a white t-shirt. You bought it for him, just a few weeks before you decided that things were too overwhelming. That the idea of forever was too similar to the feeling of impending doom, that seeing him so irrevocably in love with you when you couldn’t even understand the ache in your chest when you looked at yourself in the mirror...it felt unfair. It felt unfair to lose yourself in him. 

It felt unfair to have the goodness of Hansol’s heart in the palm of your hand. 

And it was unfair to get to break it into pieces as he knelt in front of you that very day, his forehead pressed against your thighs int he very same jeans you’re wearing now. The way his tears soaked through the material the same way the rain had, and how you bit back your own sobs as you carded your fingers through his hair that night – before untangling his arms from around your knees and walking out of the navy grey door you wish would open so you could bolt out right now. 

“If I beg now—”  “You never have to beg for anything. Not from me.” 

You felt your throat ache as you forced yourself to swallow, holding back a sob as he sighed quietly. 

“Can I...talk about what it was like not having you around?” His voice is tentative, almost like he was talking to a deer he didn’t want to spook. You nod in silence, letting the tears drip onto your pants freely as you continue to stare at the coffee table. 

“I still go by the grocery list you left on the fridge. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam and that gross fucking juice.” 

His words are enough to get a snorted laugh out of you, your hand reaching to dig into your pocket for the napkin you’d taken from the café you’d been at earlier. You wipe the tip of your nose with it, shaking your head. 

“I haven’t used pots or pans. I bought a crappy set from the dollar store to get myself through the days alone. I haven’t used the silverware, but I haven’t polished it either...so it’s just gathering dust in the drawer. I haven’t slept in the bedroom, either. I usually sleep here, on the couch. You left a tube of lipstick on the bathroom counter, and your shampoo is still in the shower caddy.” 

He nods, and you can feel the heat of his gaze leave your face. You peek at him through the corner of your eye, seeing him looking behind you – at the wall of photos. 

“I bought a sample size of your perfume, so the bathroom would still smell like it did in the morning when you would leave for work.” 

You can feel your chest ache; almost like someone had reached into your ribcage and squeezed your heart so tight, it could burst in their hand. 

“I refill the same disposable soap you bought the week you left. The detergent is still the same cotton scent, because you said that the other scents made your head hurt. I bought a new air freshener a few months ago but went back to return it because it was Febreze, and you don’t like Febreze unless it’s the Linen & Sky scent. I replaced the baking soda in the refrigerator, but the only food in there is what I mentioned earlier. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.” 

“And the juice,” you utter, and you can sense a dull ache start to thump at your temples. You bring your fingers up to your face, rubbing slow circles. Your eyes are low as they flicker up to the wall next to the door – his caps are hung up in the exact order they had been when you left. His navy New York Yankees, blue Texas Rangers, black Chicago White Sox and a pink one he rarely wore unless the two of you were going somewhere together. 

It had your initials embroidered on the bill. 

“I left everything exactly the same. I wanted it to still feel like home to you, if you ever came back.” 

You turn to face him, seeing his eyes brimming with tears as he clears his throat, but interrupt him before he can speak. 

“I carry a Polaroid of us in my wallet,” you start, running a hand over your face as you bring your knees to your chest, leaning back fully into the couch. “I carry a Polaroid of us, and I would show it to guys when they asked me if I was dating anyone. I couldn’t bring myself to delete any of our photos, so I put them all in a locked folder and forced myself to never look at it. I’ve eaten so much peanut butter, and it doesn’t even taste good. I hate it, actually. I hate peanut butter.” 

He covers his mouth with his fingers, pursing his lips so as to not let his laughter out. You feel a smile try to fight its way onto your lips, but you swallow it down as you pick at a loose thread on the couch. You used to snip them when you still lived here. You’re sure if you reach just under the middle cushion, the gold pair of sewing scissors would still be tucked away safely. 

“I left, and I was miserable. I was miserable because I was doing everything to let go of something...of someone I was so sure I didn’t deserve. I was trying to erase you from my life, but you were already missing. I would order too much food and wonder what to do with the leftovers. I would see a poster for a new indie movie I thought you’d like, and I’d go to text you, typing in the message box before I realized I couldn’t just do that. It wasn’t fair.” 

“I saw the bubble pop up a lot,” he confesses softly. You must look confused, because he clears his throat before shrugging, “I once opened the chat while I was in the grocery store. I was going to ask you if we needed anything else. You were typing and then you stopped. I cried in the dry cereal aisle, a little girl called me a wimp, and I left without groceries. It’s kind of funny, now that I think about it.” 

“I’m sorry.”  “That’s the last time you say that to me. I’m sick of hearing it.” 

His eyes are serious, no longer glazed with tears. You nod slowly, before you run your tongue over your lips for a third time. It’s suddenly too dry in his apartment, and you feel your skin start to itch as you clear your throat. 

“I miss you, Sol.” 

You feel your eyes flood, a fat teardrop splatting onto your hand. You wipe it off on your jeans, before sniveling one last time and pushing off the couch. 

“Thank you for listening, and for letting me in.” 

He nods silently, before standing up. He doesn’t move towards the door – instead beelining for what used to be your shared bedroom. You wipe at your eyes haphazardly, drying your hands of what few tears were left on the back of your jeans. You can hear him rooting around, and you opt to move towards the hallway mirror to check your reflection. 

In the corner of the mirror’s frame is a Polaroid of you and him. Your cheeks squished together, with your birthday scrawled in blue marker across the bottom in his handwriting. A lopsided heart follows the date. 

It’s been so many years since that photo. It feels like so long ago. 

He’s wearing the same blue hoodie, and your shoulders brave the same hot pink windbreaker. 

He’d spotted it at a thrift store, the windbreaker. And the jeans you have on. And the t-shirt you wear to bed, still sullied with the scent of his deodorant and his toothpaste stain that doesn’t come out no matter how many times you wash it. 

And you realize – that you are entangled. 

You are everything he is, and he is everything you are. You mirror one another – from the love of cinema to the way you find each other in every universe; whether it’s in a baby blue hoodie and a hot pink windbreaker, in bottles of Fresh and Yogurt soju, or in a pink cap with your initials embroidered on it and the locket he got you with his engraved. 

It burns the skin of your chest under your shirt. 

Your bedroom at your mother’s house is riddled with more of him – from the single love letter you took when you left, to the odd collection of his shirt and hoodies you’d stolen from him over the years. He picked the forest green paint on the walls a few summers ago, and he made you a shitload of tchotchkes to line the floating shelves he’d helped you put up. You’d escaped there when you left him a year ago. 

Only a few miles from him. 

From home. 

You bring your hand to your chest, feeling around for the gold locket and finding it twisted in your cleavage. It held two pictures – one of him as a baby, and one of you together. Close to your heart, close to your soul – you carried him. 

You would beg. God, you would beg. 

You would – if it meant you didn’t have to leave. If it meant you could leave your umbrella outside and know that Mrs. Kim next door would borrow it in the morning to get her newspaper before putting it back. You would beg on your hands and knees if it meant that Hansol wrapped his arms around you in this very moment, and let you breathe in the cotton and salted caramel and vanilla and everything he’s ever been. 

You would beg, plead, pray to whatever God was out there to feel the warmth of his lips against your forehead. To hear that he missed you, he misses you. To stay up well into the night watching Princess Mononoke on his iPad in the kitchen while you bicker about how bad he is at polishing the silverware. 

To lay in bed with him and count his eyelashes. To stuff a towel on the windowsill so you can open the window and breathe in the petrichor but not ruin the paint. To throw the duvet off the bed and run your hands under his shirt, likely stained with splatters of kimchi stew and the juice he fucking hates but drinks because it reminds him of the way you taste. 

But it’s much sweeter when he thinks of it that way, he told you once. It tastes a lot better when it’s on your lips. 

He loves that gross fucking juice when it’s lingering on your tongue. 

You sigh, finally looking at your face in the mirror. Hansol is standing behind you, brows slightly furrowed as he seemingly stares at the back of your head. You jump, your hand splaying on your chest as you suck in a breath too quickly. 

“You jerk, you scared me!” 

“I’ll wear a bell next time,” he rolls his eyes, before holding up something in the mirror. Purple with white flowers, yellow with cats – your socks. 

Ones you lost a year ago. 

“Where did you find those?”  “Mrs. Kim next door found them in her basket after she pulled her clothes from the dryer yesterday. She said she remembered you running in your underwear for the newspaper and you were wearing the purple ones.” 

Your eyes widen, “I’ve never run outside in my underwear! And I had shorts on that day!” 

“My boxers do not count as shorts,” he snorts, before holding them out to you. “Underwear is still underwear, no matter who wears it.” 

“Pft. Whatever.” You mutter before hesitating to take the socks. It could mean the end of whatever this was – you would have to stuff them in your pocket and walk towards his front door. You would have to turn his doorknob and hold onto the threshold of his apartment as you slipped your feet back into your wet rain boots. You would have to stand in his stoop as you shook out and opened your umbrella. 

You would have to look into his eyes and say goodbye. 

And for how long? 

How long will goodbye be this time? 

You reach behind you and carefully take the socks, your thumb brushing him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react – only watching as you tuck the socks into the pocket of your windbreaker. His eyes return to the mirror, the Polaroid in the corner catching his attention. 

“I haven’t looked at that photo in so long,” he murmurs, stepping forward slightly. You can feel the heat of his body on your back, before nimble fingers pluck the photo from the corner of the frame. He looks like he’s in pain as he takes it, as if it hurts him to move anything that was there when you left. 

His thumb wipes dust off the photo, particularly off your face. You look at the mirror and see the perfect outline of the Polaroid, formed by the dust. You reach over and wipe it off, before wiping your hand on your jeans. 

I’m ready to come home. 

Please. Ask me to come home. 

He glances up at the motion, tonguing his cheek as he manages to place the picture back perfectly. 

“Nice try.” 

You don’t respond, but he doesn't say anything else, either. He simply stares at the photo before sighing softly. He looks hesitant, and you continue to let your eyes linger on the heart-shape of his smile in the photo as you mutter under your breath. 

“It’s still raining.”  “It’s only going to get worse. I’m surprised you agreed to go out with Seungkwan at all.” 

You nod, before your eyes flit back to the mirror. He’s not looking at the photo anymore – but at you. His eyes are full of emotions you can’t place as he scans the entirety of your face, as if he’s taking you in; as if he can’t believe you’re real. 

As if he can’t believe you’re home. 

“You changed your mascara.” 

You blink, opting to clear your throat as you nod, “how’d you know?” 

“The other one was kind of blue, I think. This one is brown.” He shrugs, “I liked the blue one.” 

“I’ll wear it more often,” you reply smoothly, before realizing it was one of the responses you’d give him when he complimented something you donned during your relationship. The hot pink windbreaker, the jeans you have on, OPI polish in Cos-mo Money on your fingernails. 

“I mean, I didn’t...ugh. Sorry.”  “Mhm.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, and you feel your throat dry as his eyes continue their path around your face. Eyes, nose... 

Lips. 

“I miss you,” he murmurs. 

You feel your back stiffen as he shifts away, hearing his footsteps round the edge of the couch. He doesn’t sit down – instead, blowing out his candles as he gathers the bottles of untouched soju and tucks the unopened juice under his arm as he speaks. 

“I miss you, and I don’t want you to leave. I understand if you have to, and I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.” 

You’re rooted in place as you watch him slink away into the kitchen, hearing him pour the liquor down the drain. The clinking of the bottles is mocking you as he rinses them, before sliding them into the glass-only recycling bin. The sound of the refrigerator opening pains you, hearing the clunk of the heavy juice bottle being slid into the door before it shuts again. 

For what seems like the thousandth time today, you feel your eyes sting with tears. Your nose burns as you wait for him to slip out of the kitchen, your fingers toying with the zipper of your windbreaker before it gets the chance to start feeling too sticky on your skin. You tug it off, bunching it up and tossing it over the back of the couch before running your hands over your face in frustration. 

“Too sticky?” 

He appears next to you; eyes rimmed red as he sidles up. Or at least you wish he would – he's a good foot and a half away. The tip of his nose is pink, and there is a soft sheen on his cheeks – from tears finally spilling, you assume. 

It makes you ache. 

It makes your teeth hurt, the bittersweet pain of watching the man who you were sure put the stars in the sky every night feel like he had to act like you were a stranger while still yearning for you – just to make you comfortable. Why does he do that? 

How can he do that? 

“Hansol?”  “Mmh?” 

You should feel pathetic, selfish, with the way the words crawl up your throat so easily. 

“Can I stay?” 

He doesn’t respond; his eyes glancing at the clock above the television. It was one of the first things you bought together – at yet another thrift store. It had a badly painted version of Shrek and Donkey on the face; the numbers shakily smeared, but the two of you bought it for giggles. It became a statement piece; your friends always commented on how ugly the thing was in comparison to everything else in your home. 

But it was so you, and it was so Hansol. 

So, who cares? 

“Please. Please, let me stay, Sol.” 

“You don’t need to beg. This is your home.” He shakes his head, and you can feel your voice shaking before you can even get the words out. 

“You don’t have to miss me because I miss you. You don’t have to love me, because I love you. It’s not transactional.” 

You almost miss the way he rolls his eyes, before he glances down at you by the slope of his nose. His brow is raised, your skin prickling at the sight. 

“Don’t tell me how to feel.”  “I’m not.” 

He shrugs, perching on the back of the couch. His hands are hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, and the proximity is enough to make your knees grow weak – worsening as a hint of that soft aftershave floats up your nostrils. 

“You are. I’m allowed to miss you, you know. I’m allowed to think about you before I go to bed at three in the morning. I’m allowed to feel the twist in my stomach when I look at the toothbrush you left that I haven’t had the balls to replace, as if you’re still here. I’m allowed to still love you, after all this time.” 

“I was gone for a year. You should hate me.” You lament, absently picking at your cuticles, “an entire year, Hansol. Two birthdays, yours and mine. So many holidays so many special events...all over my own insecurities of not knowing who I was and if I was even worth your time.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head, “a year, ten years, a millennia. My heart has only ever been my own when you’re not the one holding it. Only then, could you have told me how to feel, and I still wouldn’t have listened to you. I will love you even if you do not love me, and even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. Even when you know who you are, and especially when you don’t. Because I know.” 

You feel your lip jut out in a pout as you try to hold back the pathetic sob in your throat, only to see his hand slip out of his pocket and stop you from picking at your skin. He’s warm, like he always is. 

He’s warm, inviting. Comforting. 

You look up cautiously, only to see the same gaze you’d been used to in the mornings just a year ago. Soft, gentle, loving. Unadulterated adoration. 

Glazed over with a hint of uncertainty. Of the present, of the future. 

Of us, and everything we are. Everything we could be, and everything we are. 

You look around the apartment, the weight of his hand on yours seeping into your bones. You take everything in again – the coffee table, the condensation left from the bottles, the remote. The television. The journal, with smudged blue ink. The candles. The hideous Shrek clock. 

Your coffee table that you bought together. Your television, and the remote you always changed the batteries to because he would forget. The journal you bought him at a bookstore while he was preparing to visit his sister in New York City. The candles you bought around the time of that trip, because they reminded you of him – though he smells like cotton and they smell like candy. 

The blanket you knitted yourself when he complained about being cold one evening – it took you four months, but it was well worth it to see the giddy grin on his face when you finally threw it over him before bed. The glass chess set that had been gathering dust in the corner for far longer than you’d been gone – one that you lost three games to him on, and sulked for hours as he peppered kisses all over your face. 

Your bright red coat hung by the window, one that you’d gone frantic looking for as the colder months crept in – right next to his black one. 

Coats you bought together. 

“Can I see the bedroom?” 

He nods silently, pushing off the back of the couch as you nervously intertwine your fingers. He says nothing, only squeezing your hand softly as he leads you down the hall – as if you’d never been there. He twists the doorknob open; the room illuminated only by the gloomy sky outside. 

You reluctantly let go of his hand to step inside, your fingers flexing at your sides as you walk on the soft beige carpet. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and watching you stare at the floating shelves on the walls. Everything is still where you left it – wooden plane models, a few Smiski figurines, a singular LEGO wildflower bouquet. A deck of tarot cards that you used to fool around with him on long nights, stoned and flipping your bar of selenite through your fingers while he actively asked what upright Lovers meant. 

The bed is made – the sage green sheets neatly tucked and folded under the mattress. The pillows are fluffed and stacked exactly the way you left them the day you went out the front door. Your pitcher of water had been refilled, and the glass wasn’t fogged over – it was new water. 

Clean water. 

The window is open, and a familiar pink towel is rolled carefully and stuffed onto the windowsill – the room smells of petrichor and your perfume. You spot the wall still lined with your shared collection of vinyl records, the player still holding Dizzy Up the Girl by The Goo Goo Dolls. 

He bought you that one the day before you left. You remember laying on the floor with him, your head on his stomach while his fingers ran through your hair. You had told yourself you wouldn’t cry that night – but you did anyway, at half past four in the morning as he lay asleep in your arms. 

Your fingers gently run over the needle, before you pick it up carefully and place it on one of the grooves. The first few notes of All Eyes on Me play through the small speakers before you lift the needle and stop it. You let it fall back into its slot in front of the record, before folding your hands behind your back and turning to face him – your eyes immediately dropping to the floor. 

“Are you ready to come home?” 

You look up wearily, feeling your breath catch in your throat. 

“I love you, Hansol.”  “That doesn’t answer my question, Y/N.” 

You move forward abruptly, circling your arms around his waist and tucking yourself into his chest. He reciprocates carefully, almost as if he’s afraid. 

His hands tremble slightly as they ghost over your back, your own fisting the back of his hoodie as you press your face into the fabric. You feel his cheek rest on the top of your head, hearing a sigh slip from his lips as his hand slides up your back. Your voice is muffled as you speak into his chest, but you know he can hear you just fine. 

Hansol has always understood you, deeper than words. 

“I have to pick some stuff up from my mom’s.”  “Y/N. Answer the question.” 

“I’m ready to come home, Sol.” You murmur, before feeling the tips of his fingers move your hair away from your neck. He smooths it down your back with one hand, the other swiping stray tendrils from your forehead. You look up at him, resting your chin on his chest as he pads his thumbs over your cheeks. 

“I hate it when you cry. It makes my stomach hurt.” 

His honesty makes you snort, and you struggle not to roll your eyes as he continues to caress your face. He runs his thumbs over your brows, across your eyelids, down your cheeks... 

On your lips. 

“You cut your hair,” you whisper, and he nods. 

“I was having one of those moments. Like when girls give themselves bangs because they need to feel in control of something,” he shrugs, before his eyes light up slightly. “Didn’t you bleach—” 

“Shut up. You promised me we wouldn’t talk about it after it happened. Plus, you look like Buzz Lightyear. Leave me alone.” 

“I’ll have you know that being called Buzz Lightyear is actually a compliment,” he gloats, making you huff. 

“Yeah, because being compared to a delusional space cowboy is the way to go.”  “You did not just call him a delusional space cowboy, bro.”  “You did not just call me bro, Hansol.” 

He bites back his smile, carding his fingertips through your hair. You close your eyes at the sensation, preening at the way it sends subtle shivers down your spine. 

“Call me babe, or something. Honey. I like doll, too, that was a good one.” You’re murmuring into his sweater, hoping you’ll open your eyes, and he won’t suddenly disappear. Your fingers reflexively tighten around the fabric of his sweater in your fists, and you hear the rickety laughter you’ve missed so much ring through the air. 

“I’m not going anywhere, just relax.” His fingers tug gently at the hair on the nape of your neck, making you scowl. Your lip juts out as you look up at him through damp lashes, eyes full of guilt. 

“Do you forgive me?” The words weigh on your tongue, and you feel the tiniest bit pathetic laying yourself out like this – but it’s Hansol. 

“Nothing to forgive, you know.”  “You don’t resent me at all?”  "Not one bit.” 

Your eyes scan his; narrowing at the hint of mischief in the depth of them as you pull back slightly. Your brows furrow, a scoff leaving your lips as you poke your finger into his chest. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not. If anything...I just missed you.” He admits quietly, pressing his forehead to the top of your head before wrapping his arms around your neck and pulling you close, “I miss seeing you when I come home from work. I miss finding you passed out while folding laundry on the carpet. I miss holding you, like this.” 

He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks strands of your hair behind your ears before thumbing at your pierced earlobes. Small hoops loop through them – gold ones, a gift from him many years ago. 

“I miss sleeping next to you, in our bed. That couch has awful cushions, why did we buy it?” 

“...We didn’t. Seungkwan made us take it when you moved out, remember? Because we...you know. On it.” You glance up at him quizzically, his cheeks tinging pink as the memory settles in the forefront of his mind. He grimaces, baring his teeth slightly as he shudders. 

“I still can’t believe he didn’t knock.”  “It was his apartment, Sol.” 

“...And it was his couch, huh?” He snorts, glancing down at you. You nod, letting a smile paint your lips as your laugh slips out. He smiles at the sound, leaning slightly closer. His fingertips tug on your earrings lightly. 

“You missed me, right?” 

“Is this when you fake me out two or three times before you kiss me?” You raise a brow, palms clammy as he shrugs. 

“I could, or I couldn’t. Depends on your answer, and how much.” His face is ever so slightly closer to yours, and you never really know how to react to this side of him – now, or a year ago – despite being the only receiver of it for over half a decade. Everyone views him as someone so cool, so calm, so collected – no one really understands how easily flustered you get at his subliminally flirtatious comments, or the way he looks at you like he could eat you alive...or the way he eggs you on with his provocative insinuations and those stupid eyes of his until you fold like a house of cards. 

He’s an enigma of a man, a lover, a soul. 

“A lot.”  “A lot.”  “So much. I’ll get a billboard and make it say I love Hansol Chwe.” 

“Oh, you missed me so bad.” He chides, making you scoff as you dig your fingers into his sides lightly. He squeals, his hands grabbing your wrists and holding them away from his body, “don’t do that!” 

His eyes are considerably lighter than when you’d arrived – and you feel your cheeks grow warm as he lets your arms go, once more carding his fingers through your hair. 

“You’re still awful at detangling,” he murmurs, before cradling your face in his hands. “Horrible, awful, no good at detangling your hair.” 

“Yeah, well...” you huff, crossing your arms as you look away. “You kind of get used to someone else doing it for you.” 

He hums, “do you need to go get your stuff tonight?” 

You shake your head, glancing up at him with a small smile, “if I go tonight, the silverware won’t get polished. And we need that, so we can have dinner.” 

“I am not polishing silverware tonight.”  “Oh, yes, you are. I can’t imagine how dusty my forks are.” 

“Our forks, first of all. Second of all, we’re not polishing them tonight. We have other things to do,” he rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to your hairline. 

You swallow the hitched breath in your throat, feigning nonchalance as you raise a brow at him. 

“Oh, do we? What other things, Hansol?” 

“The usual, you know.” He plants another kiss to your temple, “first order of business is actually ordering takeout.” 

“Takeout, he says. Have you got money for that?” You close your eyes as his lips brush the soft arch of your brows, your eyelids, forehead...the tip of your nose. “Last I checked, we were very frugal. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.” 

“You made us expand our budget for your nasty ass juice. I think takeout can be an option tonight,” he mumbles against your cheek, and you feel your stomach start to flutter as he brushes his lips against it. “Second order of business is actually a shower. We can listen to that true crime podcast you like while I detangle your hair. This is just unacceptable.” 

“Maybe I should shave my head.”  “I’d hate for you to think that you’re a delusional space cowboy, babe.” 

Your eyes widen slightly at the pet name, but he doesn’t allow you to speak as he presses his lips to yours softly – smooth with the scent of strawberry lip balm. It’s chaste, it’s fast. 

Too chaste, too fast for your taste. 

“Third order—”  “No, no. Kiss me.” 

He raises a brow, but does as you ask. His lips mold against yours, your hands finding home on his chest. He moves to pull back, but you chase after him – pulling him back and deepening the kiss. You feel like you’re on fire as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him; your fingers pawing at his sweater as you slip your tongue into his mouth. 

The groan from his throat still tastes like home. 

He still tastes like home; like strawberry jam and your disgusting juice. Sweet, tart. Loving. 

“I missed you, Sol.” 

He doesn’t reply, his hand gingerly wrapping around your throat as he pulls you back in. The way he kisses you is desperate; holding you against him tightly as he pushes off the doorframe. He starts moving you backward, your hands wrapped around his wrist as the back of your knees hit the foot of the bed. 

“Sol—”  “Shh.” 

His lips never leave yours, his hand moving from your neck to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. He lays you back against the comforter gently, your hand fisting the collar of his hoodie. You tug at it as he licks into your mouth, a soft groan falling from your throat as his fingertips breach the hem of your t-shirt and graze over the skin of your belly. 

You pull back from his lips with a quiet pant, your own swollen as you blink up at him. You feel his fingers squeeze your side carefully, eyes searching your face. 

“Y/N?” 

His voice is soft as he hovers over you lightly, his knee slotted between yours, and you feel your throat burn as your hand strokes his jaw. 

“I’m sorry for leaving.” 

He shakes his head, his hands moving to hold your face, “stop it. Stop being sorry for taking care of yourself. I love you. I know you, and I know that if you felt the need to leave...you had to do it. Please stop being sorry. Just...just let me love you, even if you have to leave again in another year. In ten years, in a month...tomorrow.” 

You breathe out shakily, peering at him through teary eyes. His gaze is still everything it’s ever been. 

Warm, gentle. 

Home. 

“Please, just let me.”  “I love you.”  “I know, babe. I know.” 

You sit up abruptly, your hand moving to pull at the hem of his sweatshirt. He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side as you move up the bed. His lips find yours again as your head hits the pillow, slower than before. Like he’s savoring the moment, his fingers toying with the button of your jeans before he pops it free. He breaks the kiss briefly, pulling your jeans down with ease. You kick them off the edge of the bed as his hands slide up your thighs slowly, warm and soft. A finger snaps the waistband of your underwear against your hip, making you scowl as you swat his hand away. 

“Don’t be mean.” 

“M’not being mean, baby.” He bites back a smile, watching as you sit up on your elbows, feeling the bed sink slightly under him as he hovers over you, the tip of his nose brushing yours. You look up at him through your lashes, moving to bridge the gap as he pulls back slightly. 

“Sol?”  “I love you.” 

Your chest heats as he presses his lips against yours, his hand pushing your thighs apart slightly. It slides up your hip; his thumb rubbing circles into your lower belly before he slips it under the hem of your shirt. He deepens the kiss, pushing your shirt up to the bottom of your breasts as the cool air makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. You move to pull it over your head, tossing it somewhere across the bedroom before pulling him back to your mouth, slipping your tongue between his lips.  

His hands wander, softly clawing at your sides and enveloping your hips in the warmth of his fingers as your own pull at the short ends of his hair. His lips trail up your jaw, soft and feathery, before his teeth nip at your earlobe. Your knee digs into his side as he tugs lightly at your earring, and you twist away from him – only to feel the scrape of his teeth against your neck, earning a whine from your throat as your legs tighten around his hips. 

“Take your pants off,” you whisper, a frown tugging at your lips as you feel him shake his head. 

“Not yet,” he speaks against your skin, his lips trailing down your neck and across your clavicle. His hold on your hips loosens as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them further to slot himself between them as he peppers kisses down your chest – flattening his tongue on your nipple before you can speak. A choked sound leaves your mouth as he rolls his tongue over the sensitive bud, his thumb brushing over your neglected nipple with precision. He’s gentle, your thighs trying to close around his hips as he hums against your skin. 

“Missed seeing you like this,” he murmurs, switching sides and pulling your nipple into his mouth with a soft suck. Your breathing is shaky, embarrassingly shaky – and you feel him smile against your skin, “really? Already? I’m flattered.” 

“Shut up,” you bite, earning a chuckle as he trails his lips back up your neck with a tentative roll of his hips against yours. Your cheeks grow hot, feeling the weight of his cock against your clit through your flimsy underwear. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders lightly as you try to grind your hips up against him, only for him to pin you to the mattress. 

“God, I missed you.” His voice is gravelly, rutting his shaft against you harder before his hand suddenly slips between your legs and slide over the damp patch of arousal soaking through your panties. He presses his fingers against it, a gasp catching in your throat – your cheeks burning as you feel him pull away from your neck. Your fingers move to pull at his sweatpants, but he moves your hand away with a quick shake of his head as his hands slide down your legs. He follows their path with his lips, dragging open-mouthed kisses up your thighs and calves, even pulling your socks off to kiss the sides of your feet. 

His fingertips hook around the cotton fabric of your panties, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as he pulls on them gently. You lift your hips to let him pull them down entirely; the fabric flung somewhere across the room as he spreads your thighs, settling between them with a kiss to your hip. You cover your face with shaky hands as his lips trail across your skin, peering up at you through his lashes as he ghosts over your center. You peek out from between your fingers to see him biting back a smile as he shakes his head, “baby, it’s just me.” 

“Yeah, well—” Your sentence is cut short with a choked gasp as he flattens his tongue against your cunt, licking a fat stripe through your folds and gathering your arousal before sucking your clit into his mouth carefully. His eyes flutter shut at the taste, your teeth sinking into your lip to stop the embarrassing whine trying to claw its way out of your throat. He sucks harder, your fingers flying to his hair and tugging the short strands as best as you can before you feel his fingers prodding at your entrance. They slide in easily, your thighs closing around his head with a soft whimper. He forces them apart with his shoulders, pinning your rutting hips to the mattress with his arm as he curls his fingers inside you, his tongue working you over almost painfully slow — and the warmth in your lower just starts to spread as he pulls away.

“Did you touch yourself while you were gone?” His voice is much steadier than you trust your own to be, his fingers expertly working you open as you nodded, feeling his lips trail down your shoulder. “Did you think about me while you did it?” 

“E-Everyday,” you hate the meekness in your tone, your nails digging uselessly into his bicep as he smiles against your skin. His free hand trails up your arm, gently pulling your hand away from his body and kissing your knuckles. 

“Show me.” 

You force yourself to peer at him through your lashes, eyes low as he brings you closer to the edge — only to see him kiss the tips of your fingers, before pulling them into his mouth. Your lips part with a soft groan, rolling your eyes as you feel his tongue slide between them, perfectly coating them with his salvia before pulling them out and snaking your hand between your thighs. His eyes are dark — desperate, even. Needy. 

“Show me.” 

His fingers slow inside you as you swallow hard, dragging your fingertips through your folds, spreading them slightly and circling your swollen clit. His eyes don't leave yours as you cover your mouth with your hand, your thighs twitching at the stimulation. You break eye contact, your body feeling hot as you let your head hit the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut as the mix of your fingers with his bring you closer to the edge. 

“Sol, I’m—” 

He didn’t let you finish your sentence, pulling his fingers out of you just as the taste of your orgasm tried to hit the back of your tongue. You let your lips part, brows furrowing as the feeling died right at his fingertips. His fingers are wet against your thigh, and he has a small smirk toying with the corner of his lip as you pout. 

“Sol…” your voice is whiny as he trails his lips up your body, ghosting over your chest as you huff. “I thought you said you weren’t mad at me.” 

“Oh, I’m not.” He shakes his head quickly, but he’s not looking at you. His hand pulls at the waistband of his sweatpants, low enough to let his leaking cock spring free. It’s hot and heavy against your thigh, your mouth watering slightly as he looks up at you, “I could never be mad at you.” 

“Then why—” 

“Because I can,” he interrupts, wrapping his fingers covered in your juices around himself. He brushes a kiss to your lips, “because I want you to ruin me all over again.” 

Your eyes fluttered as he rolled his hips against yours, his length dragging through your wet folds and his tip bumping your puffy clit with a hiss from his lips. Your hands fist the sheets as he speaks against your jaw, “I thought about you every single day. Just like this.” 

“Sol—” 

“Fucked my hand thinking about you. Every night. Even the smell of your perfume made me want you, I missed you so much.” He’s whispering, and you can hardly hear him over the blood rushing to your ears, “missed seeing your pretty lips all swollen after sucking me off. Will you? Have I earned it?” 

He doesn’t let you respond, his hand gently tilting your chin up to slot your lips with his before snaking down your bodies and wrapping around his cock. He guides himself through your slit, teasing the thick head against your hole as you gasp into the kiss. 

“Please—” 

“Don’t beg.” He mutters against your mouth, “I won’t do anything if you beg.” 

“Sol, please—”  “Y/N.” 

His tone is warning as he circles your entrance, smearing beads of precum on your slick skin before gently easing himself inside you. Your thighs close around his hips instinctively, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as he slowly sheathes himself in your gummy walls — before he stops, not even halfway in as he looks you dead in the eyes. 

“Tell me you missed me." His hands hold your thighs tightly, the rings on his fingers digging into your skin. Your mouth falls open as he gives a tentative roll of his hips, but he pulls right back out before you can savor the feeling. He shakes his head with a click of his tongue, "tell me you missed me, Y/N."

"Missed you," you whisper, tears pricking at your eyes as you tilt your head up to kiss him. He lets you, slotting his lips with yours as you wrap one leg around his hip, "missed feeling you. Haven't stopped thinking about you."

The admission is enough to make him grind his cock against you, the fat head bumping your clit over and over as you slip your tongue in his mouth. The kiss is all teeth and tongue as he rocks against you, a groan falling from your throat as you taste yourself all over him and making you clench around nothing. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you roll your hips with his, only for him to pull away with a chaste kiss to your lips, still ghosting over your face as he peered at you through thick lashes.

"I love you." Your hand cups his jaw gently, his own trailing up your arm to wrap around your wrist. He kisses your palm, leaning into your touch as his eyes close, "I love you, Y/N."

You pull him down to you, brushing your lips to his, "I love you, Sol."

He nods, tapping your hip with his hand and squeezing the flesh, "turn around."

You roll your eyes, a smile trying to fight its way onto your lips as his hands slide up your hips, helping you turn onto your belly, "you never change."

"Man of habit, what can I say?" His voice is low as he presses his lips to the dip of your spine, your skin littering with goosebumps as he moves your hips flush to his. He drags his mouth up your back, his fingers caressing the skin of your sides as he moves them up to your shoulders, gently wrapping his hand around your throat with a soft squeeze, "missed you so much. Missed touching you…kissing you. Having you."

"I'm here." You whisper back as he presses kisses to the side of your face, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brush your eyebrow. "Have me."

"M'not gonna last very long," he murmurs against your cheek, your hand reaching back and tugging gently at his hair. His hand snakes between you, wrapping around his cock and dragging it up your slit with a hiss. You push your hips back against him, biting down on your lip as he nudges your clit, his lips pressing kisses to the curve of your jaw, "might not last at all, actually."

"Just wanna feel you," you let him tilt your head back, brushing your lips with his as he pulls you up, your back flush to his chest as he finally bottoms out. You clench around him, his nose buried in your neck as he inhales shakily. His hand falls away from your throat, slipping down to cup your tits, squeezing gently as he gives an experimental roll of his hips. You're embarrassed at the tremble in your thighs, the sharp breath you suck in as he mumbles against your skin, "there she is…missed this."

"Have it…use me," you whisper back, your jaw falling slack as he starts moving his hips into you. He keeps you close as he grabs at your soft skin, kissing up the slope of your shoulder, inhaling deeply at the dip of your neck before gently pinning you to the mattress. Your fingers grip the sheets as he kisses down your spine, hiding your face in the pillows as you meet his thrusts halfway. His rings are digging into your skin as he palms at your ass, the sharp sound of the smack registering before the sting of his palm, soothed by his grip as he kisses your shoulder.

You feel yourself growing fuzzy, your limbs melting into the fabric as he sucks the sweet spot just under your ear — his cock dragging perfectly against your walls and making your skin litter with goosebumps, the pillow absorbing your whines as your skin muffles his.

"Just take it, please…" he breathes out, his fingertips digging into the meat of your hips as his movements grow sloppy, "it's yours. I'm yours."

"M-Mine," you mewl weakly, and he only groans as he pulls out abruptly, flipping you onto your back and slotting his lips with yours as he slides back in. Your nails dig into his back, sinking down the expanse of his shoulders as he swallows your whimpers — the kiss is all teeth and tongue as he spreads your thighs with his hands, his lips trailing down your jaw and nipping at your earlobe.

"Should've knocked you up years ago, fuck." He buries his face in your neck, mouthing at the skin there as your breathing grows shaky, your walls clenching around him. He nips at your collarbone, "need to fill you up every day. Make you mine forever…you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Y-Yeah," your voice is full of air as your cunt squeezes around him, earning a spent laugh from his throat. His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your puffy clit and making you jerk as he rubs tight circles into it, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. You let out a shuddered whimper, feeling his lips brushing the column of your throat, "missed this pussy so much, baby. So perfect for me. Made for me."

His lips are frantic, kissing every inch of skin he can reach as your breathless pants fill the room, the air smelling like sex and sweat as you wrap your legs around him. He snakes his slips into your mouth in a sloppy kiss, your thighs tight around his hips as you let go, soaking his cock in your release with a whine pouring into his mouth. He twitches inside you, mumbled reassurance as your thighs tremble, his forehead damp against your shoulder as he spills inside you.

He kisses the dip of it, stamping his lips along the column of your throat as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, squeezing softly as he meets your mouth again.

"I love you," you murmur, cupping his face in your hands as he hovers over you slightly. He nods limply, kissing you smoothly as his hands spread your thighs, holding your knees to your chest as he gives another slow roll of his hips — making you jolt with overstimulation as he lets out a weak laugh.

"Gotta make sure it takes, baby." He speaks into your mouth, kissing you chastely as your legs shake around him, "love of my life. I love you."

He mumbles something else, but it's lost as he kisses you firmly, overstimulating you both as he keeps making a mess between your thighs. You pull away, holding him away from you by the short hair, "what did you say?"

He blinks at you, raising a brow before his cheeks tinge with embarrassment. He shakes his head, trying to brush a kiss to your lips but you move away.

"Don't let me ruin this, Y/N." He sighs, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead to yours. He peels them open again, the swirl of adoration and worry circling the light amber of his irises. You give him a pointed look, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, "what did you say?"

"…Please don't leave me again." He buries his face in your neck, your eyes burning as he whispers against your skin, "please, please, please…don't leave."

You pepper your lips to the side of his face, pulling him away from your neck to connect your lips. Tears wet your lashes as you hold him close, your hands pressing against his cheeks as you pull back.

"Don't beg," you mumble, your voice thick as tears brimmed his eyes, "you never have to beg for anything. Not from me, never again."

"I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

YOU'RE ANXIOUSLY SCRUBBING PANS THE NEXT MORNING WITH A JOINT HELD BETWEEN YOUR LIPS.

You know he said you could come back, you know he said that you can stay…but something about it makes you nervous. The way his shirt barely covers the curve of your ass but still smells like him, the way you've relit all the candles around the apartment as he sleeps soundly in your shared bedroom. His lips were pouted when you slipped out of his arms early that morning, your body sore in places it hadn't been in months. The bathroom mirror confirmed the tightness of his grip — bruises littering your hips, nips of his teeth along your ass and thighs, even a mark sucked into the dip of your hip.

You foolishly texted Soonyoung if he could drop off something to take the edge off at the apartment — and you realized you'd forgotten to tell him that you would be there. His jaw had dropped as he held out the bag of pre-rolls, expecting to see Hansol in his comfortable sweatpants glory — only to see you, in the shirt that didn't even remotely cover the black fabric of your underwear. You'd paid him in a wad of cash and closed the door before he could say anything, shooting him a text the moment you lit one of the pre-rolls to please keep his mouth shut.

The vibrations of your phone on the counter, messages from your groupchat and Seungkwan — told you that he hadn't been able to do that for very long.

You'd opened the windows, the sky still gloomy but the air fresh and cool — settling the anxiety in your stomach as you dried the last pan. He'd been right — he hadn't touched them since you left, the dust settled on them from sitting in the cabinet for so long. You fumbled around the kitchen, pulling the silver polish from the top shelf of the pantry when you felt hands on your waist. You jumped, your hand settling on your chest when you realized it was him.

"You really need to get a bell," you mutter, feeling his lips curve into a smile against the back of your neck as he takes the silver polish from your hand and tosses it somewhere on the counter. His arms wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest as he squeezes gently.

"Called Soonyoung?" His voice is raspy, the way it always is when he's just woken up. You smell mint on his breath, and you figure you must've not noticed when he started moving around in your anxious state. You nod, holding the joint out to him over your shoulder as he sways you both.

"He already ran his mouth, can't keep a secret to save his fucking life." You mutter as you feel his lips brush your fingers, wrapping around the end of your joint and pulling back. He grimaces, "is this that gross ass strain you like?"

"Everything I like is gross to you. My juice, my weed, my favorite PopTart." "I'm not gross, and Brown Sugar Cinnamon isn't even close to being the best." "I'm gonna ignore that, and good thing I don't like you, Sol."

"I know you think that's a compliment and sick segue to say you love me, but not liking me is embarrassing as fuck," he snorts, gingerly placing the gross thing back between your lips. "Keep that shit to yourself."

"You're so fucking annoying," you mutter, smiling despite yourself. Your skin prickles slightly as you feel his hands slide down your hips and bunch his shirt under his palms. He slips his hands under it, thumbs barely hooking on the waistband of your panties before he presses his lips just under your ear.

"You wanna polish all this shit now?" "We didn't do it last night." "I'd argue we did better things last night—"

"Get off me, you little freak." You huff, trying to wiggle out of his hold but failing miserably as he only turns you around. You tongue your cheek, tapping the joint out on an ashtray you'd fished out from under the double-decked coffee table before letting him pull you close again. "You're not getting out of doing this today, Chwe. I mean it."

"Seungkwan invited us to lunch," he murmurs, caging you between him and the counter. You raise a brow, "Seungkwan invited us?"

"You, my girlfriend, and me, your boyfriend. Me and you. Us. We," he gestures between the two of you, "are cordially invited to lunch at the Boo Seungkwan residence. Expect ridicule, badgering and half a cold pizza slice because Soonyoung is already over there and stoned out of his mind."

You stopped listening after me, your boyfriend.

"You love me, right?" You ask softly, tugging at his shirt gently. Another plain white one, but there's a red stain on the collar that belonged to you. Red lipstick that didn't come out after you washed it twice, leaving a lingering of your presence behind.

Just like the bruises that littered your hips, and the toothpaste stain on your shirt that belonged to him. Just like your initials on his cap, the locket around your neck, the windbreaker, the hoodie. His journal, the stickers from your apples stuck to the leg of your coffee table. The sample bottle of your perfume that you'd seen sitting on the bathroom counter, and every single vinyl in your collection. The gross juice in your fridge that he didn't like but you loved, the Shrek and Donkey clock, the chess set…and everything you are. Everything he is.

You and him.

Him and you.

Together, in everything. Lingering, cohabitating, sharing…

Entangled, enamored, bounded by souls not willing to be apart…

Cosmically meant to exist as lovers.

"I do. I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

"…Enough to not polish the silverware tonight?"

You assumed that when you moved to the city, that notion would be like finding a needle in a haystack. New York City was bustling with life. Everyone moved here from all walks of life, looking to find another purpose, a deeper meaning. That’s how everyone became a New Yorker, one way or another. But live music existed in this city around every corner. You couldn’t go into a bar nowadays without seeing some new-age indie singer who looked like he hadn’t trimmed his beard in years and probably wasn’t wearing deodorant at the mic stand. Even on campus, where you were attending you final year of grad school, there was someone practicing their guitar in a dining hall.

Perhaps it was a cruel twist of fate that the only place that would hire you part-time was a record store. But you needed the cash and a job was a job. You were utterly unhelpful to customers who were looking for a certain artist or genre, but you were organized and did what you were told. No one kept the store as spotless as you did. Your boss, Aileen, might’ve even considered bumping you to manager status if you at least tried to learn a thing about the records you were selling. There wasn’t enough time in the day though. Your mind was almost entirely booked up by school work that you couldn’t even begin to think about learning the cultural significance of the Velvet Underground & Nico.

As the saying goes though: if you won’t do it, someone else will.

After a long day of classes, you ran from campus to the record store. It was only about a mile, but the autumn chill was coming fast and of course, the bus wasn’t working today. Which meant you had to sprint just to make your 4 PM to close shift. You busted through the doors, hair disheveled and your face halfway buried in a faux fur coat, only to see your boss handing over a key to some man by the cash register. Actually, not just a key. The key. To a man you didn’t know.

Was Aileen on some kind of new drug she didn’t tell you or the other employees about?

Your cheeks were red from running as you approached the counter, one eyebrow already cocked in confusion. Stuffing your hands inside your pockets to warm them up, you asked, “Um … what’s going on here?”

The man with Aileen turned around and you almost buckled. Almost. There wasn’t anything all that special about him. He was just … handsome. And truthfully, not many handsome people came into this record store, so it threw you off just a little. He didn’t notice though. You had learned to school your expression since undergrad, warding off any frat guy that tried to step within two feet of you.

“Oh, right on time,” Aileen said, gesturing between you two. “Meet Hansol, your new manager.”

You looked to where your coworker, Mingyu, was putting up new posters in the back of the store. He shrugged before going back to work, almost shoving a pin through the corner of his thumb by accident.

When you turned back to your new manager – apparently – his hand was out for you to shake. “You can just call me Vernon,” he said in a voice much deeper than you assumed.

You only had to take one look at him to know everything about him. Vernon thought he was special. Vernon wanted to be interesting. Vernon probably listened to artists that only had less than one thousand monthly listeners. The kind of person that made your teeth grind.

His brown hair was cropped and gelled into a few spikes, mimicking a look one of your ex-boyfriends had in high school. Probably. One hoop earring dangled from his ear and he smiled at you almost cat-like, both sides of his lips curling and looking like an upside down three. A small scar was near his mouth, right where a previous lip ring would be. He was wearing an oversized black tee with a washed-out picture of Green Day and baggy cargo pants.

Not management material. Incredibly pretentious. Even for a record store.

Eventually, you slipped your palm from your jacket pockets and shook his hand, telling him your name. He nodded and turned back to Aileen, who continued to give him the lowdown on everything in the store. You took that moment as your reprieve and hurried to the backroom, throwing your jacket and backpack in a locker. Pinning your name badge to your chest, you walked out and approached Mingyu, still pinning posters to the wall. He swore under his breath when he thought he got a paper cut.

“Hey,” you whispered up at him on the small step ladder. Your eyes never left where Vernon stood with Aileen, until he looked over at you and you felt your stomach curdle. “Mingyu,” you called, tugging on the bottom of his ripped jeans.

“I don’t have time to gossip with you about your Art History professor,” he whispered back, rather loudly. “My shift ends in 20 and I have to finish decorating or Aileen is gonna kill me.”

You ignored him and yanked on his jeans again. “Since when was she hiring a new manager?”

“Oh, him?” Mingyu looked back to the register before shrugging. “Beats me.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “He looks pretentious.”

“I don’t know. He’s kinda hot though.”

Your brow furrowed as you looked up at him. “You think with your dick.”

“Most men do.” He jutted his chin towards the counter again. “I’d head over there before our new manager yells at you.”

Rolling your eyes, you headed to the register where Vernon was bringing a crate of vintage records behind the checkout. A lot of these were purchased for display purposes only, but you guessed that anyone could be bought, given the right price. His arms were kind of skinny, but he was able to lift up the crate without protest. Mingyu was built like a god and he didn’t go a second without complaining.

“Aileen told me you were really good with organizing. It’s half the reason why the store looks as put together as it does,” he said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the area. Turning back to you, he referred to the crate with one hand. “I was asked to go over inventory in the back. So as you man the register, I need you to display these records on the wall here in release date order.”

You glanced from the stack of records, and then back to him. You did this about three times until he realized he lost you somewhere. There would a few covers you recognized, a few you didn’t – you had never seen Surrealistic Pillow before – but this couldn’t be that hard.

“Of course,” you replied, surprising him. “I just need to use my phone to Google the release dates.”

“You don’t know them from the top of your head?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, a good handful of them.” He picked up one from the crate. “Bleed American from Jimmy Eat World was released in … 2001, I think.”

You took your phone out, searched the release date, and … holy shit, he was right.

Meeting his eyes again, you replied, “How the hell do you know that? I can’t remember stuff like that.”

“I just like music a lot,” he shrugged, placing the record back in the stack. “You can’t even remember when Dookie was released?”

You narrowed your eyes. Was he trying to make you look stupid? Of course, you didn’t know this off the top of your head. You had a life. This was part-time.

He blinked, not waiting for you to answer. “You work at a record store.”

“I’m in a grad program,” you clarified, crossing your arms again. “I needed a job, and Aileen needed an employee that was type A. It was a match made in heaven.”

“I just don’t understand why you would wanna work somewhere when you’re not passionate about it –”

Your hands clenched. “Not everyone is passionate about their job, Vernon –”

“No one is really passionate about records anymore though,” he added, brushing past you, and your arms lowered to your sides. “I mean, look at this store. Reverb Records was one of a kind in the 70s, a staple in the New York music scene. To work here is like walking through history. And now it’s been reduced to … a fraction of the store dedicated to vintage comics and POP figures.”

“We needed to venture outside of music to stay in business,” you defended, remembering the day Aileen broke the news that they almost lost the property. “If we didn’t, none of us would even be working here.”

Vernon nodded, but you could tell he was struggling to not roll his eyes. “Whatever. I’ll be in the back if you need me. Feel free to use your phone for those dates.” 

You watched him as he headed to the backroom, walking past Mingyu, who was finally getting down from the step ladder. He put out his fist, which your coworker gladly bumped his own against. When Vernon disappeared into the backroom, Mingyu turned to you with a thumbs up.

You frowned. He never learned.

It was a particularly dead night at the record store, especially for a Friday. Reverb was located on a pretty popular shopping area in the city, surrounded by thrift stores and a chic coffee shop that a niche Fashion Week model went to once so now it was filled everyday with students. You had your notebook out for Medieval Art History next to the register, your eyes skimming over the barely legible writing. You supposed you could simply print out the slides Professor Lee made, which were far easier to read than your own handwriting, but copying down his notes helped you study better. 

Mingyu’s hand smacked down on the counter, startling you. Your head snapped up and you placed a hand on your chest. He giggled at your expense. “Not funny,” you chastised, looking back down at the page.

“It’s a Friday,” he whined. “Why are you concerning yourself with homework?”

“Maybe because I have a test Monday morning and I’m working every day this weekend.”

He tapped a finger against the counter, but you were steadfast, continuing to ignore him. Did that actually say Lindisfarne Gospels or was your handwriting really that bad?

Suddenly, Mingyu whipped the notebook closed and you viewed up at him with an aggravated expression. “What could you possibly want from me?”

“I have a free ticket to the DJ set at the Blitz Club tonight,” he said, picking up his backpack that you didn’t notice had been at his feet. “I’m heading out now, but I could meet you at the club tonight. You know you want to.”

Your nose scrunched up. “Too loud.”

“You had a blast the last time though.”

“I was drunk out of mind,” you recalled, “and I made out with said DJ.”

Mingyu shrugged. “Sounds like a normal Friday to me.”

You shook your head and opened your notebook back up. “I can’t. My shift doesn’t end until 10 PM anyway. The line for the Blitz Club is so long if you don’t get there right at 9:50.”

“Your loss,” he scoffed before heading for the door.

Your head tilted up again, and with a grin plastered on your face, you called out, “Try not to almost kiss your roommate like last time.”

Mingyu’s hand partially pushed open the entrance, making the bell chime as he sneered at you. “You’re hilarious. He’s hanging out with that girl he met at the office anyway.” He lifted his hand in a mock wave. “I’ll find someone to lock lips with. Trust me. See you!”

A sigh escaped your lips as your favorite coworker left. You busied yourself for a moment, finding Chan’s name badge that he’d been looking for near the cup of pens. You put in your reminders app to give it back when you shared a shift with him next week. Picking up your notebook, you said out loud to yourself, “Okay, Insular Art. The Book of Kells. Allegedly created in 800 AD. 340 folios –”

The store’s music volume immediately went up.

Your head shot up, jaw shifting, and you smacked the notebook back down on the counter. The store was deserted and you couldn’t even be left alone to study for a test that you were so terrified of failing. You turned on your heel, striding to the backroom as you wondered why you decided to go to grad school in the first place.

Vernon was sitting in the small office he shared with Aileen when she wasn’t working. The desk was made of metal and was probably as old as the store, with cabinets that creaked when opened. The computer, thankfully, was updated, but their internet went in and out sometimes when Aileen forgot to pay the bill. Currently, Vernon was leaning back in the chair, feet up on the desk, going through their long inventory list and checking off what needed to be restocked. (A project Aileen constantly abandoned.) He drummed his fingers on the tabletop while chewing on the end of a pen.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing you arms over your chest. “You know, if you keep chewing on those, you’ll get ink in your mouth.”

His gaze lifted, a smirk playing at his lips. “Not the first time I’ve ingested it.”

Your nose wrinkled. “Anyway,” your arms released to your sides, “did you turn up the music? I can’t focus.”

“I figured our customers would enjoy a little bit of Blink this evening.”

You leaned forward to where the monitor with the security camera footage was displayed, showing no one inside the store. Your eyes flickered back to his. “We haven’t had a single customer since 5,” you informed him. “And I’m trying to study.”

“I think you’re just trying to kill my vibe.”

“I think you’re trying to kill my vibe.”

You were both competing in a staring contest that you were desperate to win, until you realized that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, especially this argument. Shoulders sinking, you sulked. “Can you please just turn down the volume a little?”

“Sure,” he replied in a tone much more friendly than anticipated. He sat up straight, leaning towards the computer, and adjusted the store volume. You tried to ignore the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed when he smiled, how his earring glinted in the shitty lights of the office. Turning around, he gestured to you with the pen. “Please is such a pretty word. You should use it more often.”

Your eyes narrowed. It was your turn to drum your fingers on the doorframe, afraid they would form into fists. “What is your problem? You’ve had a vendetta against me ever since your first day.”

He raised a single brow. “Name three things I’ve done.”

“One,” you lifted a finger, “you chastised me on that first day for not knowing the release dates of vintage LPs. Two …” Another finger. “You’re constantly turning the music up and down. Pretty sure just to annoy me or it’s when you really like a song because I can see you playing air guitar on the security cameras.” Your third finger went up. “And three, you practically pop quizzed me on our new release stock as soon as you entered the store last week.”

He exhaled heavily, finally standing from the chair and at his full height. “Honestly,” he shrugged, “I just think you’re pretentious.”

Your jaw nearly dropped. This man … this Vernon … was seriously calling you pretentious just because you didn’t know release dates off the top of your head. He was insane. Where did he get off?

“Well, I think you’re pretentious,” you snapped back.

“Shocker.”

After a long moment of silence, he let his head fall back and groaned with frustration. For a second, your mind wandered. Just for a second. But you didn’t even let yourself entertain that thought because this was your manager and he just insulted you.

“Listen,” he continued, rounding the desk and holding a hand out. “Let’s call it a truce. Working together is going to be hell if we don’t.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and studied him. “I’m not agreeing to anything until you admit that you were being a dick to me –”

“I was being a dick.”

Your lips pursed, not expecting that. He looked down at you, almost leaning into your space, and you felt your cheeks warm. Shaking your head, you clicked your tongue before letting your hand meet his. “Fine,” you said evenly, “truce.”

You felt your hands start to get clammy already, so you pulled it away. He tried to wipe his palm on the back of his pants, but you noticed. You always noticed. Bowing your head slightly, you muttered, “I’ll get back to it. Thanks for turning the volume down.” You spun around and walked towards the exit, hoping you didn’t find a teenager behind the register with a wad of cash in their hands. (Happened on a Chan-only shift, which meant he definitely nodded off in the backroom for an hour.)

Vernon called your name as you had one foot out of the backroom, and you turned your head. He was now leaning against the door frame, a smile tugging at his lips, and he stuck a hand in his front pocket. Your breath stilled for a moment. Only a moment. 

Maybe you should’ve agreed to go with Mingyu tonight. Obviously, you needed another drunk make out if you were starting to fawn over your shitbag manager.

“Who’s your favorite artist?” He asked.

You didn’t expect that question. “I … I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I’m almost always listening to the same couple of albums for the nostalgia. Maybe Avril Lavigne?”

“Interesting.” He nodded, amused. Why was he smiling at you? “You should let me show you some music sometime.”

You snorted. “What? So you can chastise me again?”

“Nooo,” he quipped, dragging out the word as he stepped closer to you. “We made a truce, remember?”

“R–Right …” Your voice got smaller the closer he was. Even just a foot away from you felt a little suffocating, but maybe that was because he was wearing a heavy cologne.

“I’m not going to chastise you. I promise.” He put his hands up in surrender. “I just want us to chill out, listen to music, and maybe you’ll be able to see why I appreciate working here so much. Why I’m so pretentious in your eyes. And I’m not saying that’s not a fair assessment, but I just want to show you some music and you can decide for yourself. Simple as that.”

You hummed then, almost wanting to laugh that he wanted to prove himself to you. It was … sweet. Somehow. Something about his voice here made you forget why you didn’t like him in the first place. “Sounds like something friends would do,” you muttered.

He smacked a hand on his head, feigning surprise. “I totally didn’t tell you,” he exclaimed before grinning down at you. “In the fine print of our truce, it said we had to become friends.”

In a shocking turn of events, you gave Vernon your number, but maybe that should’ve been a given since he was your manager. Even worse, you were currently spending your single day off this week by taking the subway to his apartment in Bushwick. You buried your face in the collar of your jacket, trying not to inhale the stench of cigarettes from the person next to you. This was an exquisite form of torture. You were being set up. Why else would you be doing this in the first place?

Maybe because your conversation over text went a little like this –

Vernon (Manager): you’re off today, right? want to spend it on your first music lesson, or is your brain too fried from school? You: he has jokes. hilarious. You: I can come over a little after 3.  Vernon (Manager): see you then!

You shook your head when your voice of reason fought against you. This was so dumb. Why were you doing this? So he could prove a point? You might’ve called a truce, but this was stepping out of bounds for work ethics. And he was still pretentious. So were you. Kind of.

Despite your reservations, you still got off at the right stop, walking up the stairs and into the cold autumn air. You pulled out your phone, struggling to bring up walking instructions, even with your screen-friendly gloves on. In the time span it took you to walk to his apartment and wait for him to let you in, you could’ve turned around and immediately took the subway back home, simply see him at work later that week. But you didn’t. And that was something for you to dwell on another day.

“You’re a fast walker.”

You turned, seeing him hold open the door to his building. Your cheeks were red from the chill – not for any other reason – and you squeezed past him just to feel the warmth of the old, rickety brownstone. “Yeah, well,” you said, already beginning to climb the stairs because you assumed he lived on the second floor. “I’m all legs anyway.”

He didn’t agree, just chuckled at your reply and followed behind you. Once you were both on the second story, he took the lead, gesturing for you to come inside apartment 202. Unwrapping the scarf from your neck, you let your gaze flit around the room. His studio looked the same as every other one in Bushwick, right down the peeling white wallpaper in the tiny kitchen. Where he differed, though, was the large record player in front of the couch, in lieu of a flatscreen TV. You walked over to it immediately, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater, and investigated the soft hum of whatever was playing. Oasis. Time Flies… Your dad liked to listen to Oasis when you were a kid.

“You ever heard that one before?” Vernon asked from behind you, crinkling some kind of paper.

“I’m … not sure. But my dad really liked this band,” you explained, not bothering to look back as you studied the large bookcase next to the player. Instead of novels, he filled these shelves to the brim with records. They weren’t organized, and some had more wear than others, but the collection was impressive.

Vernon noticed you admiring the shelves. “I’m not made of money. I get a lot of these as gifts or from yard sales.”

“Oh, I wasn’t assuming –”

You whirled, noticing the silver tray and ground weed on the coffee table before your eyes fixed on the joint he was rolling in his hands. Blinking slow, your gaze flicked up to his as he sealed the end of the joint with his tongue, wrapping his lips around it slightly. You swallowed, and he smiled. 

“Have you not smoked a joint before?” He lifted a brow. “I just thought – I can put it away –”

You tsked. “Oh, my god. Yes, I’ve smoked a joint before. I’m not a prude, Vernon.” You walked forward and opened the window slightly, allowing fresh air when he finally lit the end. “Truthfully, I was just surprised that you could roll one yourself. Bet you used to smoke cigarettes and hand-roll those too, right?”

“Now, that I take offense to. You really think I’m that pretentious?” He shook his head as you took a seat on the carpet beside him. After a moment, he smirked at you. “Yeah, I hand-rolled them in high school. You got me.”

You chuckled, hand over your mouth to hide your snort. When he smiled – really smiled – it was so wide that you could see his gums. His eyes even crinkled at the corners. For a moment, you wondered why you two ever disliked each other in the first place. It felt unfair to hate someone who beamed like that, who laughed with you as if you didn’t just tease him like a child.

He set down the joint to get to his feet, fingers brushing over the spines of his vinyls on the shelf. “I looked through some of the top sellers on Record Store Day this year. Figured that would be a cool place to start because you might recognize some of the album names,” he said, finally pulling out one in particular. “I really liked this one by the Cure. The Head On the Door.”

Your eyes squinted as he showed you the cover. “Oh, yeah, I recognize that one. I thought you might play something by – um … oh, Charli xcx. We sold out of that album of hers with the red cover in less than a few hours this year.”

He lifted the tonearm and looked back at you with a grin. “We can listen to that one next. I managed to snag that record a few years back on eBay.”

After lowering the stylus onto the spinning vinyl, the apartment was suddenly filled with the upbeat sounds of the first songs, slowly introducing a hyper-strummed acoustic guitar. Vernon lowered the volume slightly, and you weren’t sure if it was to cultivate a vibe or he was still cognizant of that time you stormed into the backroom to complain about the music inside the store. Sitting back down beside you on floor, he placed the joint in his mouth and lit the end with a lighter that had seen better days. Smoke wafted into the air before being pulled out the open window with the help of his overhead fan.

He held the joint out to you and you took it instantly. “What kind of strain is this?”

His shoulders sagged as he coughed softly. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” With the joint resting between two fingers, you brought it to your lips and inhaled. It was a little harsh, but not bad. You couldn’t remember the last time you smoked weed; it had to be a while though. Maybe you actually needed this just to chill the fuck out finally. If you kept worrying so much about your thesis, your head would surely explode.

He propped one elbow on the edge of the couch, facing you, as you handed the joint back to him. “Is this what you do when you’re not at the store?” You asked in a slightly hoarse voice.

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t just work at a record store and smoke weed all day. Do you really think I’m a walking stereotype?”

“None of those words just came out of my mouth.”

“Well, you sound a little judgey.”

“I’m not being judgey.”

“You sure?”

“Just answer the question.”

He laughed after taking a drag, and then another. You focused on the way smoked billowed from his nostrils, until he started speaking again. “I also do photography on the side. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to afford to live in this city.”

“I get it,” you nodded, playing with the joint between your fingers when he passed it over. “Reverb is for extra cash. Student services for my grad program pays half of my living expenses. Thank god.”

He adjusted his stance, his chin resting on his fist as he studied you. The record transitioned into the third song, but he barely noticed in that moment. He let you smoke the joint for as long as your heart desired. Something told him that you needed it. With one finger tracing his lips, he said, “You never told me what you study.”

He was smiling at you. Again. All cat-like.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“You gotta stop assuming things about me.” He tapped your arm jokingly. “Tell me. I’m interested.”

When you felt your insides start to turn to mush, you couldn’t help but mimic his posture: one elbow propped on the couch, the side of your head pressing into the heel of your palm. Your eyes were hazy now, a dull pink entering the whites. His words were swirling around in your head, haunting you like a ghost.

Tell me.

You breathed in another drag.

I’m interested.

You exhaled.

“I’m studying European History,” you finally replied, handing the joint back to him. Your fingers brushed, but only for a moment. “I want to become a professor.”

“A professor,” he nodded, his brow shooting up as he inhaled. Coughing away from her direction, he added, “That’s … oddly fitting. Are you almost done with the program?”

You nodded, unable stop looking at him as he flicked the end of the joint against an ash tray. “I’m working on my thesis while taking a few concurrent classes in my fall semester only. It makes things a little harder, but the courses are relevant and do help with research. I could do without having to take tests, though.” You shrugged. “I’m managing.”

“That’s a lot on your plate, on top of work,” he mused. One knee curled up to his chest and he rested his arm on top, the joint in his fingers halfway gone already. “You’re kind of a superhero.”

Your gaze flickered up to his again, breath stilling for a moment. The air was so warm, despite the open window, and your body was starting to feel fuzzy. He turned his head to yours, that grin on his lips so dangerous that it sent a shiver through you. Maybe it was the weed, but he looked like he was moving closer to you, invading your space. 

Not that you wanted that. No, you couldn’t want that. Because if you wanted that, it would ruin everything in the carefully crafted plan you made in your head long ago. 

Vernon’s eyes squinted then, and he finally replayed his words over. “Well,” he paused, “a superhero in the sense that you’re taking on a lot with probably no ‘thank you.’”

Blinking, you realized he was making a joke. You snorted and hit his arm, but he captured your hand before it could fall on your lap. For a moment, you wondered if time had stopped – it was the weed; it had to be the weed – because he was slipping the joint back into your palm so smoothly while saying the dorkiest line possible: “For you, my lady.”

He stood, walking over to the record player, leaving you with a half-lit joint in your open palm while your head was far too in the clouds to comprehend anything. You were so high that you didn’t even realize the album ended, and he was now switching it over to something different – Charli xcx, the red album. A melodic symphony hummed through the speakers, followed by a woman’s voice harmonizing, “I’m a dreamer … Step, step out the Beemer …”

When he came back to sit next to you, he noticed you still staring at the joint in your hand. His gaze flickered from your face, to the joint, before he started laughing. “You’re probably done, right?” He tried not to snicker, but it was hard not to when you were giving him this far-off look in your eyes. Plucking the joint from your hand, he put it between his lips and relit it.

It took you a whole minute to realize it wasn’t in your hand anymore, and you viewed up at him sheepishly. “I’m so sorry,” you whined. “I got … I think I got too high.”

He couldn’t hold back his laughter anymore. “It’s okay. Think you needed this more than I did.”

“My brain feels like slop. But in a good way.” Gravity got the upper hand as you let your whole head fall onto the cushion now. “How are you comprehending anything right now?”

Vernon smiled, all cocky. “My tolerance is infinitely better than yours.”

“Whatever. Dick.”

You flipped forward, letting your spine press into the edge of the couch as the back of your head rested on the cushion, which was just hard enough to ground you in this state of mind.  Neither of you said a word. The record played another song, and another, as Vernon finally ashed what was left of the joint. He let his head fall too, your gazes pinned to the ceiling. The overhead fan started to swirl in his vision, and he grinned to himself.

“Vernon?”

“Yeah?”

“You know a lot about music.”

He turned his head and dramatically held a hand to his chest. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said. I’m touched.”

You chuckled under your breath, hitting his forearm again. “No, I’m serious. I … This is nice.” You paused, listening to the song playing. All over … Deep under my skin … You got me so emotional … Your lips pursed. “I really like this album.”

He raised a brow. “Not just the weed talking?”

“No. Surprisingly,” you added. “We should keep doing this. Until you tire of me.”

“It’s a plan.”

You were beginning to realize that Vernon was true to his word. Almost every day – even after work, closing shifts and all – the two of you got together to listen to a few of his favorite records while he rambled on about the artist. Sometimes you got high, sometimes you didn’t. You simply liked being there besides a calming presence, listening to another person talk about their favorite subjects. A complete contrast to the hustle of grad school work, but you liked it.

There was a certain comfort that came to being around him, one you hadn’t experienced before. His voice was deep, yet soft, and he spoke about music with confidence. Like it was his favorite thing in the world. He could go on tangents without taking a breath, and you’d notice the way he’d sometimes pause when he talked for far too long. You didn’t stop him though. You only  smiled, let your head fall back against the couch, and listened.

What had you let yourself become?

Perhaps, it all started on the day you both met up in Central Park. Neither of you had a shift that day and you had managed to get done a good chunk of thesis research in the morning. Around 2 PM, you found him lying on a flannel blanket near the edge of Central Park, carrying two Italian subs from the pizza joint near your apartment that you swore had the best in the city. Vernon didn’t hear you approach; his eyes were closed as he listened to the music blasting through his headphones with one arm behind his head. A sliver of his stomach peeked out from underneath his grey hoodie, making you stumble – for what reason, you weren’t sure – and almost drop the tightly-wrapped sandwiches.

Vernon sat up then, finally hearing the rustle of your sneakers on the fallen leaves, and chuckled. “Woah, no need to rush.” He stood and grabbed the subs from your grasp. “You’re holding precious cargo.”

Your laughter was awkward, tense. You were simply not understanding why the mere sight of  his exposed skin had your stomach in knots, even though you knew the truth. Of course, you did. But you were going to sit there and pretend you didn’t because that was easier than confronting what was real. 

After demolishing both your sandwiches – “These actually might be the best in the city,” Vernon had agreed – you sat back on the blanket as he handed you one of his headphones. He hadn’t upgraded to Bluetooth ones yet, said he was going to use these until they died, but you did notice that the sound on right bud he gave you might be softer than the left. He asked if you wanted an edible and after all the schoolwork you did this morning, you took it before even answering him. 

“I’ve always thought that music sounds better on a record,” he said, scrolling through his library to find one artist in particular. “Besides this album. Maybe it’s because this is the first album I ever listened to and it was through headphones. Something about the nostalgia factor of it all.” He turned his head to yours and smiled. “But I want you to hear it this way.”

Intimacy, closeness, was always laced in his tone. Little statements like, “This is for you,” or “I’m interested,” or “I want you to hear it this way,” meant so much more when they came from his lips. Words lost meaning. Just a simple “hello” as he passed you at the register blurred into, “Do you want to hang out later?”

You managed to see the album cover before he turned off his phone. That blue album by the Smiths. You’d seen it before. Every douchebag with a mullet that came into Reverb bought it. But as you laid back and let the edible take over, you began to appreciate the music in a whole new way. Maybe you were becoming one of those douchebags with a mullet, but there was something about the melody of these songs, how some were recorded acoustic while others were with a full band. Everything blended into a kaleidoscope of powerful vocals and lyrics that made your brain melt.

Vernon would cut in at some parts to tell you fun facts about the song, and other times he would just stay quiet. Neither of you were comprehending much anyway, focused solely on the pretty words pouring into your ears. As the album finally hit the last song, you realized Vernon was singing under his breath. Your head slowly turned, watching the way his lips moved to form the words, “So please, please, please … Let me, let me, let me … Let me get what I want …” It helped that your earbud wasn’t as loud, letting you tune into more of his voice.

You were staring at him now. Nothing could tear your eyes away. He was drumming his fingers on his stomach, that small sliver of skin poking out yet again as he bent his arm behind his head. He was in his own world, singing softly, while the autumn leaves started to fall around his head. It was the last week of November. Leaves shouldn’t be falling, especially when it was forecasted to snow next week. But fate had a funny way of doing things, and the red and yellow cascading around his spiked hair looked like a painting. 

Maybe it was the edible hitting the home stretch, but you were noticing things about him that you didn’t before. His nose scrunched when he sang. His fingers tapped to the beat of the drum, the pads calloused and cold. His other ear was pierced once, but he only wore an earring on his right one. His skin was pretty, and yet, you liked that he still had some acne scars littered around his cheekbones. He needed chapstick – bad – but his lips were still pink and nice and –

What if you kissed him?

Jesus. That had to be the edible. Because no way in your right mind would you ever consider kissing Vernon. Just a couple months ago you were fighting the urge to wring his neck. But now you were … staring at his lips again, learning the way he mouthed, Please, remembering when he told you that itwas such a pretty word. It was even prettier when he sang it. 

Kissing him would be so easy. You could kiss him, and then get it all out of your system.  You could lick the smile off his lips, taste whatever made him secretly ache. Every lingering thought that you had about him would vanish. You didn’t have to worry about accidentally holding his hand when he passed you a joint, or hope that you wouldn’t moan his name the next time you touched yourself. You could kiss him right now and everything could go back to normal –

His eyes opened as soon as the song finished and he looked over at you. For a moment, you assumed he was going to ask why you were staring at him. Instead, he moved to his side and propped himself up on one elbow. “Do you even know who the Smiths are?”

Moment ruined. His inner douchebag with a mullet made a triumphant return. Thank god, you didn’t kiss him.

You frowned. “I might not know as much as you do about music, but I know who the fucking Smiths are, Vernon.”

His grin widened. “Just making sure you’ve been paying attention.”

Time seemed to blur. Autumn faded into the first frost, and snow started to gather on the streets of New York City. The air got even colder, making you revisit memories of stubbed-out joints and sharing headphones in nicer weather. If you tried hard enough, you didn’t think about kissing Vernon ever again, but most days, you found it too difficult to put in the effort. It was wrong, icky, harboring feelings for your friend and manager. But you told yourself that they weren’t deep; they were just a product of your yearning for intimacy, for the quick press of another’s lips against yours.

That’s all that it was. That’s all that it would be. It might take a few months, maybe a year, but feelings falter and you had more important things to worry about.

Was this what ego death felt like?

Mingyu had called out today because of the snow, saying that his “bike was frozen solid to the ground.” Thankfully, Chan had been available for his shift, and you watched him from the register as he helped a customer look through your stock of records from the 90s. He was truly a guru for all things 90s pop. And he could sing too, a mini Timberlake in the flesh.

“I was thinking …” Vernon started.

You stood up straight, looking away from your laptop. The store wasn’t so busy today because of the snow, so your delightful manager had given you permission to work on your thesis while manning the register. He was sitting on the edge of the counter behind the checkout, dangling his feet slightly while he studied one of the new releases they got in stock a few days ago. For a moment, you let your eyes follow his two fingers that skimmed down the track listing.

Finally, you blinked, leaning against the register and crossing your arms. “That isn’t good.”

He lifted his head, glaring at you. “Funny.” Setting the record back in the box, he bent forward and gripped the edge of the table. “Are you opposed to playlists?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Second question: are you opposed to someone making you a playlist?” He asked, and when you simply tilted your head, not understanding what he was getting at, he sighed. “I was attempting to build up suspense. I made you a playlist.”

“Oh.” You released your arms, letting them fall at your sides. “Why?”

He was looking at anything but you now. “Because I …” His back was tense as he pulled out his phone. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be a nice way to share all the music we’ve listened together so far.” He lifted his head again. “Don’t read into it.”

Before you could reply, he slipped off the counter while pulling up your texts. You looked down at your own phone, seeing a new text from him on the lock screen.

Vernon (Manager Friend): [Spotify Link: Your New Favorite Playlist]

“It seemed almost wrong to make it on Spotify.”

You lifted your head up and met his eyes, brow furrowing.

“Burning music onto CDs is a lost art,” he explained, and just that one sentence completely killed every romanticization you had about him. “I’m simply too lazy to do all of that now.”

“Well, that’s good then,” you said, turning back to your laptop when you still felt your cheeks start to heat. Why were you blushing? This was unlike you; this didn’t mean anything. You reminded yourself this as you turned your head, finding him over your shoulder. “I don’t own a CD player. Most people don’t nowadays.”

He thought for a moment, and then flicked your arm. “Right.”

Despite yourself, despite what he told you – you read into it. There was no way to not when he told you it consisted of songs that he always wanted to show someone like you. You kept the playlist on repeat, wondering if it could be burned into your brain like a CD. Most were songs you’d heard before, but there were some that stood out, some that you wanted injected into your veins to be a part of you forever. Was this how he felt? Hearing a song so beautiful that you never wanted to part from it? You listened to the playlist more times than you liked to admit, allowing the last one in particular to replay until you got tired of it: Night Drive by Jimmy Eat World.

Come alive on the driver’s side … So close I taste your breath … Your lips go dry, but there’s sweet inside … Wine must go right to your head …

The lyrics were pouring through your right AirPod when Mingyu started waving a hand in front of your face. You had begun to listen to the playlist during shifts, distracting yourself from whatever album Aileen had plugged into the speakers to repeat throughout the day. Pausing the song, you took out your AirPod and asked, “Do you need me to yell at you again for your shitty organizational skills?”

“No,” he quipped, “and I find it rude that you would assume I would change my ways. I’m leaving now anyway. My bike is still frozen outside, so Wonwoo is picking me up.” He pondered, and then added, “Well, him and his girlfriend are picking me up in her car. But at least I don’t need to take public transit.”

Your brow lifted. “Your nerdy roommate finally bagged that girl from his office?”

“He is not important.” Mingyu tapped his fingers on your screen, noticing the album cover to the song you’re listening to pop up. “What the hell? Since when do you listen to anything other than Avril Lavigne?”

“Excuse you, I listen to more than just her. I just keep my favorites in rotation.” You then shrugged. “I’ve been trying to venture outside of my bubble.”

“You? Outside of your bubble?” He almost wanted to laugh, but that would earn him the kind of look that made him feel like knives were piercing his stomach. Instead, he smirked a little. “That seems like a song Vernon would listen to.”

You didn’t look at him, knowing you’d been caught redhanded. Mingyu could be such a gossip; telling him things meant the entire city knew. Busying yourself with cleaning up around the register, you replied, “Not sure what that could mean.”

“Well, you two have been hanging out after Reverb closes.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps still visible even underneath his ripped denim jacket. “Oh, come on. I see your Instagram stories. You would never willingly be in Bushwick, unless …”

You shot him that signature glare. Already, he felt a pain in his gut. “What are you trying to suggest?”

He narrowed his eyes, and then said, “You guys are hooking up.”

“Can you lower your voice?” You whispered back harshly. “We do still have those security cameras, you know.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No!”

“I thought we were lowering our voices.” His grin widened. “Honestly, he was the last person I expected you to go after, but I am kinda into the whole manager and employee thing.”

You frowned. “I am not hooking up with Vernon.”

Mingyu realized you were serious. His expression fell. “Then, what is it?”

“We’re just friends,” you scoffed, opening up your phone to check the time. It was then, as you were staring down at your screen, reading the title of the Spotify playlist, that you realized Mingyu was probably looking at the same thing. He saw it, noticed Vernon’s name as the creator, and you felt every bone in your body freeze as if you were standing outside.

Both of your heads lifted at the same time. Mingyu was the first to say, “He made you a playlist.”

There was no way out of this one, not even as you locked your screen again. “Um –” You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“And you’re not fucking?”

“No, Mingyu, we’re not fucking,” you grumbled. “He told me not to read into it.”

Suddenly, it dawned on him, and Mingyu damn near giggled with how innocent both of you were being. Something about this was so pure, despite the obvious tension between you and Vernon. “So he likes you,” he stated confidently, “and you like him.”

“No,” you replied so quick he almost didn’t finish speaking. “We’ve been just hanging out for a couple months. He’s been showing me music on the off days I’m not at school and after work. That’s all.”

He chuckled under his breath. “A guy would never do all that unless he liked someone.”

“We’re just friends –”

“And you would never willingly go out of your comfort zone unless …” He scrunched up his nose, trying to think. “Well, unless you had a crush. I’ve known you for over a year now. This isn’t that hard to figure out.”

You blinked at him. “I resent that statement. I don’t have a crush.”

“Maybe I’m wrong.” Mingyu put his hands up in surrender, and then immediately lowered them. “But I’m not though.”

Your mouth opened to retort, but the bell above the door was chiming as a tall, lanky man sprinted through it. Wonwoo, Mingyu’s roommate, stopped short by the entrance, his glasses fogging from the heat inside the store. His voice was slightly muffled by the scarf wrapped around his neck, “Mingyu, come on. She has the car running outside and with our luck, she could get a ticket.”

“A tragedy,” Mingyu muttered, adjusting the strap of his backpack and heading for the door. Wonwoo sighed, stepping back into the cold air, and as Mingyu reached the door frame, he looked back at you. His expression was smug, and you felt every hair on the back of your neck stand up. “See you tomorrow, lover girl.”

So maybe you did have a crush.

But that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything, and you simply didn’t have the balls to approach the conversation otherwise.

Mingyu had to be full of it. A guy would never do all that unless he liked someone, was such bullshit. You had been friends with men before, and you were sick of the assumption that the opposite sex couldn’t be friends. Just because you were defying your own rule with your crush meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. You knew that Vernon saw you as a friend anyway.

You didn’t want to ruin this. You couldn’t remember the last time you were this relaxed in your two years of grad school. The last thing you wanted was this to slip from your fingertips.

You needed a distraction – anything to not think about the stupid feelings growing inside you, the kind that made you want to claw at your stomach to stop the butterflies. For the first time, you were working the closing shift on a Saturday with Mingyu because Vernon had taken the day off. You were trying to focus on writing your thesis behind the register, but the store had been swamped today, leaving you with your racing thoughts and the best customer service smile you could muster. Mingyu was in the backroom doing god knows what, but you did notice that the music throughout the store had changed to club songs when he was in charge.

When you finally had a moment of reprieve, you slouched against the back counter and scrolled through your phone. You stopped when you noticed an ad for a local band Vernon had recommended to you a couple weeks ago called Broken Antenna. They were playing a show in Queens tonight, conveniently right after your shift ended at Reverb. Tapping your fingers on the counter behind you, you wondered if this was crazy, impulsive even. You were never like this, making spur of the moment plans, but something was telling you to live a little.

If not for yourself, just to get these thoughts about Vernon out of your head. At least for one night.

After looking around to make sure no one was in the store, you walked to the back and found Mingyu spinning in the office chair that Aileen or Vernon typically occupied. He stopped the second you knocked a fist on the doorframe, looking up at you with wide eyes. “Having fun?” You said with a brow raise.

“We all need a break every once in a while,” he quipped, standing up and sliding his phone in his back pocket.

“Speaking of breaks,” you replied, and now he was lifting a brow, “you got any plans tonight? There’s a band playing in Queens and I don’t want to go alone.”

Mingyu grinned big.

It didn’t take much convincing. You definitely could’ve texted one of your friends from school to go, but truthfully, you knew Mingyu was dying for another night out with you. Despite how drunk you got the last time you both went to a club, you could admit that it was still fun and he was one of the few people that could get you to let loose for a few hours. 

Once your shift was over, you hid your belongings in the backroom, bringing only your jackets, before locking up the store and heading to the subway. It didn’t take long to get there, and you probably arrived at the bar-turned-venue only forty minutes after the set started. After showing the bouncer both your IDs, hands shaking from the cold, you were let inside the packed bar. Mingyu was tall, so he took the lead with pushing through the crowd. The band was loud and slightly off pitch, but the crowd was lively and made the experience all the more fun. Tugging you towards the bar, Mingyu order four tequila shots and two beers.

It was going to be one of those nights with him.

You both downed your shots immediately, and by the time Mingyu was pulling you into the crowd, you felt your vision start to blur. Maybe it was because you drank almost half of your beer now too. Or maybe you were simply a lightweight. Both could be true. As the band shouted at the crowd, Mingyu hollered back, angling his phone over the throng of people to capture someone crowd surfing on video. How someone could be crowd surfing in this packed bar, you had no idea, but you clutched Mingyu just to get out of the way. 

Looking up at your coworker, you couldn’t fathom how he wasn’t tripping over himself right now. His height allowed him to tower over everyone and his muscle mass was extensive, but it was like the two shots hadn’t effective him in the slightest. This was your sign to start going to the gym more often, build up some muscle, because you couldn’t keep getting this tipsy after just a couple shots. 

He pulled out a nip of whiskey from one of the pockets in his cargo pants, and then offered it to you. “Want some?” He asked, going up to your ear to yell over the music. Your eyes squinted, and even he looked confused why the nip was on him. Everything inside you told you to slow down, but if you didn’t, you’d have to be burdened with the aching realization that you liked fucking Vernon.

So you took the nip and drank half of it.

You were swaying now, hands in the air as the music rang through your eardrums. You couldn’t even hear your own thoughts at this point. Which, honestly, had been your goal. Lacing one of your arms with Mingyu’s, you both began bouncing up and down to the band together, screaming when the singer pointed to you two in the crowd. 

The next time you jumped up, your ankle twisted on the ground, almost making your knees buckle. You clutched onto Mingyu hard, but he didn’t really notice you fall. The alcohol was getting to you, and you had now just spilt the ounce left of your beer all over your favorite work sweater. You hissed at the soreness in your ankle, not realizing as you started to stand that another person was pushing through the crowd. There was a new pair of shoes next to you, and you tilted your head up to meet a familiar face.

“Are you okay?” Vernon asked over the guitar blaring through your ears.

He didn’t look surprised to see you, but you were blinking, trying to get your vision to cooperate. “I – yes,” you shouted back. Your eyes couldn’t focus on anything right now, especially with the alcohol coursing through your body. “What – what are you doing here? I didn’t – didn’t expect …”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence, your mouth just deciding not to move anymore. Vernon searched your eyes, pupils wide from intoxication, and he plucked the beer glass out of your hands before you could pull away. “Hey!” You snarled, but he held his arm back, even in this packed crowd.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing here?’ I showed you this band!” He replied, hostility laced in his tone. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I came here with –” You looked to your left, seeing Mingyu’s arm not intertwined with yours anymore. Confused, you looked over the swarm of people and saw him now bumping shoulders with the small pit that formed in the middle of the floor. Your jaw dropped – when did he leave your side? You hadn’t even felt it.

Before you could register it, Vernon tucked your fingers through his and began pulling you out of the densely packed crowd of drunk adults. Even through the fog of tequila and whiskey, a small flutter rose in your stomach when you realized your hand was locked around his. His palm was warmer than you expected, nothing like your cold skin, constantly pricked with goosebumps.

The December air was so cold that it burned your skin, making your cheeks flush even more than alcohol. Vernon’s hand was still in yours, still tugging you, the wind whipping back your hair and almost taking your feet off the ground. But he guided you, kept you upright. Only about a block later and he was ushering you towards his old Chevy parked on the street, helping you into the passenger seat. You huffed when he reached over you to grab your seatbelt, “I can just –”

“Please, shut up,” he muttered, locking the seatbelt in place.

Your lips sealed immediately.

He rounded the car quickly before jumping inside and starting the engine. He held his hands out, waiting for the heat to crank on. After a minute, he started blowing into his hands and glanced over at you, watching you shiver as you forced your head to stay up. Grabbing your freezing palms, he placed them over his mouth and blew his own hot breath into them. Your eyes were wide now, unsure of what to do. 

Something about sharing his warmth with you felt so intimate. More intimate than kissing, even sex.

Once heat began to sputter out of the vents, he let go of your hands and pulled into the deserted city street. Your looked at your palms, now face up on your lap, and wondered if this was one of those daydreams you had when you were blackout drunk. It had only happened twice, but it was enough to become a pattern. A buzzing sound emerged beside you, and it took you a long moment before you realized Vernon was talking to you.

“H-Huh?” You hiccuped, shoving your hands in the pockets of your jacket.

“I asked what your address is.”

“Oooooh,” you nodded, a line forming between your brows as you concentrated. “I … hmm, I can’t remember right now. I think it’s … jeez.”

Vernon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where’s your wallet?”

“Uhhhhh …” Your words slurred, trailing off as you pulled your wallet from your pocket.

He grabbed it immediately, filtering through the cards with his eyes still on the road. You watched his fingers flip through your wallet, trying to ignore the warmth brewing inside you, until he located your license. Looking down for a quick moment, he found your address and nodded, throwing the wallet back to you. “Ow,” you murmured.

As you leaned your head against the seat rest, you noticed that he was rolling his eyes at you, white knuckling the steering wheel. You were so drunk that you considering prying his fingers off, holding one of his hands to release the tension inside of him. But your brain felt like goo and you couldn’t make sense of a damn thing.

“You’re … you’re b-being m … mean,” you stuttered, and then poked him in the arm. 

He made an annoyed sound under his breath. “I’m not being mean. I’m literally driving you home.”

You studied him for a moment, as much as an intoxicated person could. Your eyes narrowed. “Iffffff you’re not being m-mean, then what … what are you? Jealooooooous?”

The car halted at a stop light and he looked over at you immediately. His stare was blank, serious and critical. “Yeah,” he stated, no hesitation. 

You chuckled for a moment, your breath tainted with the stench of cheap whiskey, until you realized that he wasn’t joking. His gaze was still locked on yours, until the light turned green  and he was pressing on the gas again. Your laughter died instantly as you faced the road with him, playing with your hands on your lap.

Silence echoed throughout the car.

The fog in your head was telling you to close your eyes, but you willed yourself to keep them open. “Is t-this …” Your throat was suddenly dry. “Is this about Mingyu?”

Vernon sighed. “Fuck, it’s – it’s not about Mingyu.”

A dull pain emerged in your forehead. How could this be happening already? Rubbing at your temples, you whined, “Then whaaaaaat could it possibly be about?”

“I’m going to sound like a dick.”

You snickered, “Never stopped you before.”

He didn’t even register your words, because he was shaking his head and rubbing a finger over his top lip, frustration clawing at him. “I thought …” He paused, and somehow, having to look at the road and not into your drunken gaze made this so much harder. “I just thought you would’ve asked me. To go see the band, I mean. I didn’t even know you were interested in going. If I had known, I would’ve asked you or hoped you would ask me.”

“B-But I … I only went because I saw an ad for the c-concert. And I wanted a distraction from …” Your voice got quiet as you wrinkled your nose. “I still don’t understand  … hoooow you’re … y-you’re jealous.”

“I’m jealous that someone else got to spend this time with you when it should’ve been me.”

You were staring at him again, his words almost suffocating you, compressing into your head and matching the throb between your temples. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to hurl yourself right out of this vehicle. Tonight was about freedom and not coming to terms with whatever was happening inside you. Not a confession.

Vernon licked his lips, meeting your eyes for a split second. “I thought listening to music was our thing.”

Your breathing stilled, your lips falling open in shock. Fingers digging into the seems of your pants, you felt the bile rise up in your throat, and you desperately tried to shove it down. This was sick. This was twisted. Why the fuck was he telling you this right now? Why couldn’t he just pretend that he wasn’t mad, drop you off, and be on his merry way?

“That’s it?” He added, turning down the heat slightly. “You’re gonna say nothing –”

God, you actually were going to puke.

“Can you pull over? I think I’m gonna vomit.”

His brow furrowed, startled, but he pulled onto the side of the road without saying a word. He had parked on the bridge, just as small flurries of snow started to fall. You practically punched the door open, stepping out, and not even being able to make it to the edge of the bridge. Vomiting all over the sidewalk, you were surprised when another pair of shoes materialize beside you and a hand began to rest on your back. But you supposed this was his thing: appearing when you needed him most. You coughed and looked up at Vernon, the anger vanishing from his expression. 

You hacked again, phlegm dribbling on your chin. “You’re gonna get puke on your shoes.”

“I know,” he exhaled heavily, before swiping away the drool on your lips.

He let you continue to hurl your guts out as snow gathered in your knotted hair. Vernon refused to move away, kept a firm hand on your back as you extracted all the alcohol left in your body. When you were finally done, you straightened your back and he tucked hair behind your ears. You wiped your mouth, looking up at him all doe-eyed, and his resolve almost crumbled. He ushered you back inside the warm car before you could start shivering, intent on getting you home more than ever.

You weren’t sure how long it took you to fall asleep in his passenger seat. But when you woke up the next morning with no recollection of the conversation from the night before, the single thing you did remembered was someone tucking you in.

At some point in every adult’s life, you learn that you’re just not as young as you used to be. When you went through the entire weekend and realized you had gotten blackout drunk at that concert, you came to the conclusion that you shouldn’t go that hard ever again. The body you had in undergrad could handle things that you simply couldn’t today.

Your memory of that night ended when Vernon appeared beside you in the crowd, after you almost fell on the dirty ground of that bar. Mingyu had been at your side. Or had he gone away around then? Again, you couldn’t remember. But at some point, Mingyu was with you, and then Vernon had helped you to your feet. The rest was a tequila and whiskey-induced blur. When you swallowed, you still got a tinge of it on your breath, no matter how many times you mouthwashed.

Your next shift with him was on Tuesday evening. Running from your last class of the day, you slipped and fell on a patch of ice, not taking a moment to collect yourself before you were sprinting to Reverb again. Your ass was already hurting and there would surely be a bruise, but you couldn’t worry about that right now. The wind bit at your cheeks and you stuffed your frozen hands in your pockets, until you reached the door of the store –

At the same time as Vernon.

You both stopped short, your hands reaching for the handle. His cheeks were red, and something told you it wasn’t from the winter air. Averting his gaze, he held the door open and said, “After you.”

You nodded, “Thanks.” Your tongue darted out as you passed him, licking your lips, and he noticed. (Of course, he noticed.) He entered into the store after you, brushing snowflakes from his cropped hair. You spotted Mingyu talking to Aileen at the front before you turned to Vernon beside you. 

Despite the rush you’d been in, both of you lingered by the doorway, kicking the snow off your shoes. Vernon was looking at his boots, refusing to meet your eyes, and you didn’t want to beat around the bush. Lowering your head slightly, you said, “You haven’t texted me in few days. Is something wrong?”

Finally, his eyes flicked up. Instead of answering your question, he replied, “I didn’t … I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

“You don’t remember anything from Saturday?”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Not exactly,” you muttered, a red flush creeping onto your cheek. “I might’ve had a bit too much to drink. I think Mingyu drove me home. Or we took the subway back. It’s kind of a blur.”

Hurt flashed across his face for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “Oh, yeah, he did,” he nodded, scratching behind his ear. “I’m glad you got home safe.”

You felt the tension between you dissipate, the air suddenly feeling cleaner, relaxed. A smile made it’s way to your lips as you both began to walk towards the backroom. You waved to Aileen and mentioned, “I’m pretty sure I saw you there, right? Everything kind of gets hazy after you appeared next to me. But it was cool to see some of those songs live after listening to them together.”

“Yeah,” Vernon exhaled heavily, “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Aileen held you up all day,” you said while still staring at your laptop behind the counter. 

Mingyu paused by register, adjusting the strap of his backpack, and nodded. “We’re trying to figure out what shipment this week got held up at the port. I don’t know. I guess her husband is gonna help her figure it out.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Way out of my pay grade.”

You finally glanced up and shut your computer, making sure to save your thesis document first. There were lines under Mingyu’s eyes that hadn’t always been there. He was always in pristine condition, a partier that never sacrificed his beauty sleep. Rather than talking around the subject, you were blunt: “No sleep this weekend?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Got my first proper night on Monday. On Saturday, I almost stayed up for a full 24 hours.”

“That’s not like you,” you replied, and he agreed with a chuckle under his breath. Leaning your hip against the checkout, you played with the buttons on the computer and added, “Speaking of Saturday, thanks for taking me home after the concert. I know I can be very annoying when I’m drunk. Next shift, I’ll bring you Shake Shack for lunch.”

“You really do know the key to my heart.” He placed a hand on his chest and pouted. He looked so much like a puppy sometimes. And then, his expression fell. “I didn’t take you home though.”

Your eyes darted around, confused. He was probably too tired to remember right now. “I was so sure you did. Even Vernon confirmed it.”

Mingyu’s brow knitted. He was pausing by the register, not caring that Wonwoo was most likely waiting in the freezing cold to pick him up from his shift. Tapping three fingers on the counter, Mingyu huffed out a short laugh. “Well,” he clicked his tongue, “I don’t know why he would say that. Because he drove you home.”

You blinked, making sure you were understanding him. Your arms crossed over your chest and your eyes narrowed, assessing his answer. No, he was telling the truth. Mingyu was the worst liar on the planet; you could tell by his stance. The last time he tried lying to Aileen, his back hunched so much you thought he had an underlying medical condition.

“Then why would he tell me the opposite?” You asked, agitation laced in your tone.

Mingyu shrugged. “Beats me. Do you think he said something to you while you were drunk that he’s glad you forgot? You guys are basically in love.”

“You are so fucking dramatic,” you scoffed. “He did ask me if I remembered anything from Saturday. Maybe he –”

“You know I’d love to stay and chat about your emo boy struggles,” Mingyu cut in, already walking away from the register and wrapping a scarf around his neck. “But Wonwoo definitely has the car running. Just text me. I’ll answer. Don’t give me that look. I promise.”

The bell above the door rang as it closed behind him, leaving you with the question still on the edge of your tongue. What the fuck did Vernon say to you when you were drunk?

After a long week of classes, thesis writing, and your weird manager-turned-friend kind of icing you out, you were surprised to receive a text from said friend on Sunday evening. You had spent the majority of the weekend reading through a portion of research for your thesis, the words so mind numbing that they began to blend together. You found this study interesting, honesty, but research writing had a way of making just about anything boring sometimes. There was only so many times you could read about the impact of the printing press on the Protestant Reformation. 

When you finally looked down at your phone – twenty minutes after it lit up – you saw the preview of Vernon’s text and straightened up. You had been sitting in the same position on your couch for so long that your back cracked.

Vernon (Manager Friend): are you doing anything tonight? You: thesis Vernon (Manager Friend): let me rephrase: are you doing anything important tonight? You: this is important. rude. Vernon (Manager Friend): I want to see you tonight You: that’s all you had to say, vernon. no need to beat around the bush Vernon (Manager Friend): who am I if not beating the bush? Vernon (Manager Friend): that came out weird Vernon (Manager Friend): meet me at the borough exchange in bushwick around 9. there’s a show I want you to see You: can I bring some friends? promise I hang out with not just mingyu Vernon (Manager Friend): I’ll believe it when I see it

You texted your friends, tried not to get offended when they acted surprised that you wanted to go out on a Sunday night, and then ransacked your closet for something to wear. Nothing was right. It was either too casual or too fancy. The jeans you liked didn’t hug your waist the same just out of the dryer and your favorite going-out top didn’t fit your chest like it used to. Eventually, you decided on your favorite pair of jeans – the ones that fit perfectly but were a little ratty at the bottom – and a tight, white thermal long-sleeve that was casual enough but made your boobs look good, even without an open neckline. There was no reason to overthink this. It was a Sunday, and this was just Vernon.

Just. Vernon.

After throwing on your parka, you met up with your friends, Hana and Seungkwan, at the subway. Hana had been one of your classmates since undergrad, while you met Seungkwan a few years ago at an art gallery and you both quickly bonded over medieval art and thrift shopping. The three of you saw each other when you could, during planned dinner reservations made weeks in advance or nights like these when you were going out of your small bubble and needed some company. 

A missed train or so later, your group finally managed to get off at the right stop and headed for the Borough Exchange. It was a dive bar near Vernon’s apartment that you maybe visited once before. (Mingyu was right. You didn’t typically go out of your way to see Bushwick.) You shivered as soon as the warm air hit you when you entered the small pub, music blaring from the back where a live band was playing. You could only guess that was where Vernon wanted to meet.

Pushing through the bodies of tipsy patrons, you vowed to not have a drop of alcohol tonight after last weekend. Even the thought of whiskey made your head throb. As you guys settled near the wall of the dance floor, Hana shouted over the loud guitar solo, “Where’s you friend?”

“Not sure,” you shrugged, and then checked the time on your phone. “It’s past nine. Maybe he’s running late?”

“Uh, based on your description of him,” Seungkwan called out, pointing towards the front, “I think that’s him on the stage.”

Your head whipped around, gaze meeting Vernon's immediately as he sang into the mic. His fingers danced across the strings of the red electric guitar in his hands, calloused and dry, but  he was so talented you almost didn’t believe it. He was backed by a band behind him, who you remembered from a picture he showed you once. His best friend, Minghao, played the base, while Seokmin was on the drums and Jihoon commanded a keyboard. They sounded great. They sounded professional. Vernon’s singing was out of this world, reminding you of all the old bands he spent showing you, but so authentically him. When did he start possessing such raw talent?

Your voice was unrecognizable, almost in awe, as you said, “Wow, he’s so –”

“Hot,” Seungkwan finished, and you turned to him with wide eyes. “Oh, come on, I knew you were going to say it.”

“Of course, she was,” Hana said, bumping her hip against yours. “He’s the one she’s been spending so much time with. She even came to see him at the drop of a hat.”

Seungkwan’s cheeks were so big as he poke you in the arm. “This is so fun! Almost like high school all over again, just without all the trauma. You liiiiiiike him.”

“Shhhhhhhh!” You scoffed, tugging on both their sleeves, your attention back on the stage. Your lips widened into a huge smile. “There’s a concert in front of us. Pay attention.”

Vernon and his band were only allowed to play for fifteen more minutes, until the bar manager came near the stage during one of their songs and started twirling his finger for them to wrap it up. They finished their covered of Complicated by Avril Lavigne before Vernon grabbed the mic and thanked the small crowd for listening. “Feel free to pick up our EP at the door,” he added, lifting up one hand. “We’re Awkward High-Five.”

Seokmin came up from behind the drums to slap his hand against Vernon’s. Minghao bumped his shoulder as they all jumped off stage, muttering, “We have to change the name. I was busy when you guys voted on it. It’s terrible. Even Woozi agrees with me.”

Jihoon pinched the bridge of his nose, already walking off to the bar for a drink.

“You’ll get over it, Hao,” Vernon replied, his stare completely focused on you. Minghao rolled his eyes before heading outside to have a cigarette, Seokmin quickly following behind. You were so nervous that you weren’t sure how to unclench your fists. It felt like it was only you two in the room as he walked over, your gazes unwavering. Even your friends stepped off to the side to give you privacy, or maybe Hana just wanted to talk to Jihoon. It didn’t matter, because you couldn’t focus on anything but the way Vernon was smiling at you. And now you were grinning even bigger. And the world felt like it was so small, fit for only you and him.

“Hi,” you murmured.

“Hey.” One of his hands reached out to caress your wrist. Just barely, only for a second. But enough to make your cheeks heat. “You came.”

“You called.”

He nodded, “Indeed. I knew it’d be tough to tear you away from your computer though.”

“It was, but …” You tried stopping yourself, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, and he noticed, eyes flickering just for a moment. They softened for you. And finally, you admitted, “I missed you.”

His mouth formed into that cat-like smile again, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Let me buy you a drink.”

He bought you a Shirley Temple because you expressed that you didn’t want alcohol tonight, and he joined you. The drink was sweet and syrupy, and gave you a quick glimpse of him being able to tie a cherry stem with his tongue. He didn’t let you dwell on it though – that’d be too dangerous – and he tugged on your hand to force you to introduce him to your friends. He spent an hour chatting with all of you, making an effort to tease Seungkwan because he noticed the way your friend laughed when he did. All the while, you felt his free hand skim the small of your back. Hardly there, a ghost of a touch. You felt it though. You always felt him.

When both of your glasses were empty, he turned to your friends instead of you and asked, “Would you guys mind if I drove her home?”

You shook your head. “Do I have a say in this?”

“No,” they said in unison, and then Seungkwan added, “You should drive her home, Vernon.”

“Better than taking the subway,” Hana added. “Not many people have a warm car in this city.”

You rolled your eyes before you gaze locked with his, allowing him to lead you out of the bar with a firm hand on your back this time. Minghao and Seokmin were tossing their instruments back of a van while Jihoon smoked what was left of the joint in his pocket. He offered it to Vernon as he said goodbye to all of them, but he simply waved his hand. “Nah,” he answered, “gotta drive home.”

He never turned down a joint before.

Blasting the heat as soon as you both got inside his car, the memories of Saturday night became a little more clear. You didn’t voice it, but you suddenly remembered the plushness of his passenger seat, the way his glove box didn’t close fully, the stench of weed and cologne that lingered in the fabric walls. You gave him your address, wondering if he’d give himself up, but he simply nodded and pulled out of his spot on the curb. 

He handed you his phone with Spotify open. You looked at him with confusion, pushing the aux cord in when it tried to pop out. “Show me an album you like,” he said with a jut of his chin. 

“Really?” 

He nodded eagerly. “Really.” His eyes flickered over to you quickly, noticing the way you lit up as you scrolled through his phone. Your tongue stuck out slightly from the corner of your mouth when you concentrated, and he hated that he had to tear his eyes away from you to drive. You had no idea, and how could you have know, how much it meant for you to show him music you liked. How you were engaging in a love language he never realized was there.

After much deliberation, you set his phone down and the familiar sound of Katy Perry’s voice filled his old speakers. He recognized this song from somewhere – Hackensack? – but it was acoustic. He’d never heard any of Katy’s softer work. Flicking his phone screen on for a moment, he saw an album cover that said, Katy Perry: MTV Unplugged 2009.

“I realize how random this is,” you began when his eyes met yours before turning back to the stop sign ahead. A smirk played at his lips. “Don’t laugh. I’ve listened to this album at least every week since I was a kid. I just really love it.”

The songs faded into each other – from Lost to Waking Up in Vegas – taking him back to his childhood too. He remembered when his sister used to sing these songs into her hairbrush, screaming in his ear just to piss him off. Did you experience them a different way? Or did you, too, jump around your room with your hairbrush pressed against your mouth as you belted? He wondered how much this album meant to you, if you listened to it in times of distress, if you had your first car make out to a song as silly as I Kissed a Girl. There were a million memories that you probably had with this album and he was now hearing it for the first time, through your eyes.

He slowed down at a red light as the chorus to Thinking of You picked up, and you sunk into the passenger seat, watching the streetlights twinkle outside as you warmed your hands inside your jacket sleeves. Vernon had never heard this song like this before, had never taken the time to hear the lyrics or how the guitar riff slowed: Cause when I’m with him, I am thinking of you … What you would do … If you were the one who was spending the night …

Vernon was looking at you now – really looking at you – and he wondered if the world had stopped because all he could hear was white noise in his ears. The way your lips tugged into a smile made your cheeks dip. The way your eyes lit up at the smallest of things. How proud you got when you did something right. When you got excited to talk about your studies. Everything hit him in that moment and he realized how icing you out this week because he was being an awkward asshole made him miss you. Miss this. Just you and him.

The ringing stopped, and the song filtered through.

Oh, I wish that I was looking into your eyes …

Vernon pursed his lips. “Do you want to go somewhere else instead of your apartment right now?”

You turned to him, beaming, all warm like the shit heating system in his car. “Sure.”

He nodded, finally looking back as the light turned green. Instead of going straight, he took a right, heading for one of the parks in Brooklyn. Pulling into the parking lot, you were greeted with the sight of Prospect Park Lake at night, something you hadn’t considered seeing before. The lake was man-made, sure, but the stars shined down on it just right, making the water glitter like diamonds.

Vernon parked right in front of the snow piles, but you both could still see the lake from here. He leaned back in his seat, his elbow resting on the edge of the window while his cheek pressed onto his fist. “I used to practice guitar here when I was a teenager,” he mused, watching the water. “I didn’t have the money for lessons, so I had to teach myself. The lake was the only place where I found peace and quiet in the city. Usually, it would just be me here and someone’s dad fishing.”

“How did you afford a guitar back then if you couldn’t get lessons?”

He sneered. “I have always been a yard sale fiend.”

Settling into a comfortable silence, the Katy Perry album ended and transitioned into his liked songs. You could tell because the Cure was now playing, a song he had showed you months ago. Your hands twitched, and you eventually turned on your side in the passenger seat to face him. He was still staring at the water lick against the rocks, running a hand over his spiked hair. “Did you bring me here to kill me?” You asked, brows narrowing.

“What?” His head whipped to yours. “Why would you ask me that?”

You tilted your head. Was he that oblivious, or did he want you to say it? This had to be one of your worst nightmares. “You’ve been acting so strange around me recently,” you answered, now playing with the broken zipper dangling by your waist. “I mean, for instance … why didn’t you tell me about your band before?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Tell me,” you said quickly, your mouth forming in a soft smile “I’m interested.”

You made his words more beautiful, like wind chimes on the first day of spring.

So he told you. Turning in the driver’s seat, he spoke about when he met his friends, how they decided to make music. It had been Jihoon’s idea; he was the mastermind behind everything. When they weren’t practicing covers of songs they all grew up listening to, Jihoon was writing their music or putting together melodies. He would get home from his 9 to 5 accounting job and immediately open his notebook to write, finding joy in this as much as his other friends. They had only been doing this for a year as a hobby, and just recently decided on a name, but he wondered if maybe, just maybe, if they applied themselves … “I don’t want to get my hopes up though,” Vernon waved his hand. "Especially with Hao’s bad attitude about the name.”

“He’ll get used to it. Hopefully,” you snickered. “The name is … well –”

“Not you too,” he sighed. 

He was looking at you again, and suddenly, it felt like you were the Mona Lisa. Like you were an LP being ogled by a customer chasing a deal. His eyes were intimate, almost hungry, and his words were slightly laced with the impulse to be closer: “I missed talking to you this week. I know we didn’t share a lot of shifts, but I didn’t text you. I know I was being weird.”

His palm was open and resting on the center console. You couldn’t help but reach out and coast your fingertip over one of the lines. Without looking at him, you asked, “Why did you lie about driving me home after the concert last weekend?”

“Caught red-handed,” he muttered, closing his fingers around yours, but only for a moment. Your gaze flicked up and met his. “I was embarrassed.”

“Because …?”

“Because I was jealous that you didn’t ask me to go with you,” he admitted, running a hand down his face. “Because I was being possessive over your time when … well, when that’s not for me to dictate.”

“You can be possessive over my time, Vernon. Just ask me first.” You flicked his arm, and he opened two fingers over his eyes to look at you. “And no more lying.”

He let the hand fall from his pretty brown eyes, grinning so big that he was showing his perfect teeth. You were almost jealous of him now, his nice, straight teeth, not one out of place. But he was staring at you like your smile lines didn’t mean a thing, like your front teeth weren’t stained from years of black coffee or that stress zit near your chin didn’t exist. His hand closed around your wrist again, thumb running over your pulse point. It was so intimate and yet so far away and oh, my god – you were finally going to say it –

“Vernon.” Your voice was so quiet you almost didn’t recognize it. “What are we doing?”

He stifled a laugh. “I’m not sure.” 

You didn’t respond, unsure how to take it, but his thumb was still caressing your wrist and sending shivers up your spine that you hadn’t felt in years. When was the last time someone touched you this way? With reverence, with actual desire?

“Pretty certain you can’t go back to being friends after admitting I got jealous over you,” he clicked his tongue, and then tilted his head up. Brow furrowing and his other palm out on the console, he added, “It was never about Mingyu, FYI. But did you really have to go with him? I mean, like, the guy’s a god.”

You giggled. Actually giggled. The sound was unfamiliar, but never with him. “I don’t like Mingyu in that way.”

He squinted one of his eyes, a snarky reply on the tip of his tongue. But he wanted for you to continue; too scared to admit more of the truth. Rejection was fleeting, not painless, and he could see that you were fighting the same battle with the way you were biting your lip. God, did that make him want to kiss you more –

“I like you,” you whispered back, resting your palm over his other one. “And I’ve just been … too scared to ruin this. But I know I can’t be anymore. So if you didn’t bring me here to kill me, the least you could do is –”

He didn’t let you finish your sentence, leaning over the center console to crash his lips onto yours. Noses bumped, teeth gnashed, but when his hand came up to cradle your jaw, you let yourself melt into it. His kiss was slow, despite all the pent-up tension that had been riddling inside him. Morrissey’s voice filtered through the speakers – And you never knew … How much I really liked you … Because I never even told you … – as Vernon licked into your mouth in a way that had your thighs pressing together in the cramped passenger seat.

He tugged on your bottom lip, and then let go. He pushed himself back against his seat, realizing he’d gotten a little more excited than planned. But he’d finally got to kiss you, and your lips were so soft, and the way your soft sounds filtered into his mouth made him undoubtedly hard –

He noticed you bring a hand to your bottom lip, swiping a droplet of blood, and that was all it took.

Cranking his seat back, you let him pick you up as if you were nothing but a doll, sliding you over the console until your hips were flush against his. You had to lean forward to prevent your head from bumping against the roof of the car and your legs were even more cramped as you kneeled on his lap, but you were doing this. How could you not when his hands were so slow, precise? They trembled slightly from pure excitement as he unzipped your jacket, letting them glide up the tight thermal you were thankful you chose to wear.

The windows began to fog up from the heat, but he didn’t notice a damn thing except for the way you were sitting so perfectly on his lap. He sat up a little, and you guided his hand to cup the swell of your breast. “Christ,” he muttered, now against your lips, “you have no idea …”

“About what?” Your hot breath fanned his cheek. His touch was barely there as he ran his thumb over your nipple, feeling it harden underneath your shirt. It felt like he was ripping you open and putting you back together just from a graze of his finger.

“How much … how much I’ve wanted to touch you,” he confessed, nibbling on your lower lip for a brief second. You pushed yourself more against him, and he almost moaned from the weight of your breasts in his palms. “I held myself back because we were friends and I didn’t want to become one of those guys. But every time we were alone, I couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to kiss you, especially when your eyes got all glassy after we smoked a joint, and sometimes I’d have to excuse myself to go to the bathroom because just being near you got me fucking hard. And it was so pathetic and needy, and so unlike me, but I started thinking about you when I jerked off –”

“I thought about you when I touched myself too.”

“Oh, fuck.”

You kissed each other like it was pure instinct, and it was rough, desperate, but needed. So needed. It was like watching the Discovery Channel, even Animal Planet – two mammals surviving on basic intuition and barbaric bliss. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for centuries, one hand pulling your hips against his while the other squeezed your breast. You pressed down on him, waiting until you heard that – oh, there it was – groan of his enter your mouth and his cock hardened in his jeans. You chased it, feeling it strain against his zipper, grinding down on it as he kissed you without trying to pathetically moan into your mouth. But it was hard – he was fucking hard – and you were so pretty on his lap that he could almost cum without being touched.

He needed to distract himself from his impending doom of cumming too early, so he  took off his jacket – quite haphazardly, enough to make you chuckle – before he peeled off your thermal top, leaving you in just a lace bralette you threw on, not even thinking another soul would see it tonight. But here you were, and now he was swallowing hard, drinking in the sight of your hard nipples pressed against the flimsy fabric. And he simply couldn’t help himself, leaning forward and yanking down the lace, dragging his tongue around one nipple. You shivered in his hold, nails raking through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Vernon,” you whined. 

“Hansol,” he corrected, looking up at you as he shifted, tongue flicking against the other nipple.

“Huh?”

“Hansol tonight. Please.”

“Okay,” you whispered, the need in his voice making the hair on your arms stand up. Or maybe it was just his tongue, switching between both breasts as he lathered them with his spit. He wouldn’t stop, like he couldn’t get enough of you, like the goosebumps rising on your sensitive skin was the only thing keeping him alive. Eventually, you cut in, “But, Vern – Hansol –”

He chuckled, low and husky. “Yeah?”

“How the hell am I going to get my pants off?”

“Oh.” He leaned back, seeing the zipper on your jeans just halfway undone, hardly any room for you to move around. “That would be helpful.”

You practically snorted, pecking his lips before sliding off his lap and back into the passenger seat. Having you leave his lap was torture, but he tried to divert his attention away from his aching cock by struggling to take off his long-sleeve tee. Even you were grappling with kicking off your pants in the small vehicle, your panties so soaked just from dry humping that you had to shuck them off.

Vernon didn’t think this moment would ever come: you, sitting in his passenger seat, fully naked. It was something out of one of those wet dreams – and he had many about you – but he knew this was real because you were already climbing over the console and perching yourself right back on his lap, bare pussy pressed against his clothed erection. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, sitting up again as he watched your arousal seep into his jeans.

He was never washing these again.

Actually, he didn’t want to be gross. He would wash these.

(Theoretically, he wasn’t washing these jeans again.)

“I’ve never called you Hansol before,” you mused, pushing back his hair. “Why tonight?”

He grinned, all teeth. “I like the way you say it.”

“What if I mistakenly call you Vernon at one point?”

“That’s okay.” His hands skimmed up your sides again. “I just want to touch you.”

“Your pants are still on though.”

“Emphasis on touch,” he quipped. “We can worry about that after this.”

Holding onto your waist, he looked down and let one of his fingers trail over your folds, smearing the wetness. You breathed out a sigh, leaning back against the steering wheel, opening yourself up to him as much as you could in this confined space. It occurred to you then that if you guys had simply gone back to your apartment, he could’ve fucked you into the mattress, but it seemed fate simply wanted you both to have sex in a car at Prospect Park Lake. 

As he watched you leak onto the pads of his fingers, you couldn’t help but blurt out, “It can become like Niagara Falls down there. You’re in the splash zone.”

He immediately let out the loudest laugh, leaning back in the seat as his nose scrunched up. The way he laughed made more butterflies rise in your stomach, igniting a fire in you that not even his fingers could do. You were unable to contain yourself, smiling from ear to ear. “Holy shit,” he breathed out when his amusement subsided, and then subtly tasted you on his fingers when he thought you didn’t notice. He had to fight the urge to groan at the flavor. “Good to know. Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” you joked, lifting up a hand.

He reached down again, but before he went any further, he met your gaze. “You still want to do this?”

“Yeah, Hansol,” you replied, and his eyes fucking lit up when he heard that name come from your lips. “I want to.”

“Okay,” he smiled, straightening his back and lifting his dominant hand up. Before you could ask what he was doing, he said, “Open up.”

Your brow furrowed, but you opened your mouth anyway.

He placed three fingers on your tongue, and you closed your lips around them automatically. No hesitation needed. He watched you, felt your tongue swirl around his digits, transfixed and fantasizing what else you could fit in your mouth. But that was for another time. And if he didn’t get his fingers inside you soon, he just might die.

A trail of salvia connected your mouth to his fingers as he slipped them out, but he made sure to wipe it away with his thumb. Snaking his hand between your bodies, both of you practically folded like pretzels, he tested the waters by dipping a single finger inside your tight channel, looking up to check if you were okay. You arched slightly against the steering wheel,  careful not to hit the car horn and ruin the entire moment. He swirled that finger deeper, and you keened, pushing against him. 

You cracked one eye open. “I can take more than one finger, you know.”

“Well,” he huffed playfully, “now you’re just sounding ungrateful.”

“I’m not –”

He shoved three fingers inside of you and curled. You gasped like the wind had been knocked out of you. “Fucking Christ, Hansol –”

“Not so ungrateful anymore, huh?”

You opened both eyes, seeing him smile at you, and your own expression reflected his. Grabbing the interior handle above your head, you rocked you hips into his hand. He let out a ragged, heartbreaking breath as he began to piston those three fingers inside you. His gaze was laser focused, watching your essence drip onto his palm. The sounds you made only spurred him on, wanting to go deeper, to find that spot that made you see stars. You were still a little tense, and that might have to do with the limited space you were in. So he pressed his thumb down, flicking your clit like it was the only thing he knew how to do, and viewed up when he heard you whine.

“Like that?” He asked, and your response came in the form of another mewl. “Okay, I got you. Come closer.”

Before you could shift, he was wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you forward. He sat up, letting your chest become flushed with his, leaving no room for you to escape his long fingers. He shoved them back inside, crooked them even deeper, and your hips jumped in a way that told him he found it. That place. And now, you were whispering his name just as pathetically as he did with yours when he jerked off. “Hansol, please –”

“I know,” he cooed, tilting his head to graze his lips against yours. “Lemme make you cum. Soak my fingers.”

You nodded weakly, pressing your cheek against his as he fucked those three fingers into you. Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, as your hips began to roll in time with his hand. His praise was like a soothing rhythm in your ear, but you could tell he was desperate. He was so hard underneath you that you felt his precum soak through his jeans. His fingers moved faster, pressing down on your clit while you heaved out his name. And then you were letting go, stars exploding behind your eyes when his fingers curled just right inside of you, his thumb rubbing harshly on your swollen clit at the same time. You gushed around his fingers and he was huffing like it was his first time all over again, and god, if this is how you felt around his fingers, he didn’t want to imagine how you were going to feel wrapped around his cock –

“Hansol?”

He lifted his head up again, meeting your half-lidded eyes. It took everything in him to pull his fingers out of you, to lick your release off his fingers and try not to moan loud enough to scare you off. Your stare was already so fucked out and there was sweat at your hairline and holy shit, your lips – parted with just a tiny bit of drool lingering at the corner. Fuck, he was – “I’m so fucking obsessed with you,” he murmured, and then his face twisted. “I’m sorry. I sound like such a loser.”

“No, you don’t,” you chuckled softly. “You’re usually so confident. Where did all that go?”

“I think I turned to mush when you came on my fingers.”

Your brow shot up.

“I just …” He struggled to find the words, eyes darting around the car. “I didn’t really expect this to happen. Like ever. And the last place you’ve probably ever wanted to be is in my car, and –”

“Hansol,” you said, grabbing his face so he would look at you. “This is the only place I want to be. Do you want to have sex?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “I kind of need to be inside you.”

You both laughed together, sitting back on his lap as he unzipped his jeans and wrestled with shucking them down enough. Your eyes raked down him then, finally noticing just how toned he was without a shirt. His skin was soft, but almost had a pearly hue in the moonlight streaming through the foggy windows. His chest was wide and his arms were slender, yet toned. His collarbones were pronounced, and you realized there was a silver chain dangling on his neck. You reached out, playing with it, as he eventually pulled his cock out.

He was longer than you assumed – at least, longer than average – with not a lot of girth, but enough to make you gawk a little. A few veins ran up the shaft, and a pretty pink head with precum running down his knuckles now. His erection, once neglected, was now demanding attention, and Vernon held it as if he was scared of being inside you, as if the mere thought of you wrapped around him was too much of a fantasy to bear. He met your eyes and you slid forward, his cologne beckoning you closer.

At one point, it was that very cologne that made you want to move further away. How the tables had turned.

You reached out, hesitated, until he realized what you were doing and allowed you to wrap your nimble fingers around him. You gave an experimental stroke, and then another, and another. His cock was hard and throbbing, but the skin was as soft and delicate. Vernon’s breath hitched, making you whisper, “Hansol …” Your thumb rubbed circles on the tip and more precum drooled out. “I thought … thought about doing this … when I touched myself,” you mewled for him, and his head fell forward.

“Jesus Christ,” he moaned, his warm breath hitting your nipples in the best way possible.  Your strokes were lazy, but enough to make his balls ache. “If you … if you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna fucking last.”

You chuckled. “Okay, I won’t torture you any longer.”

“You can. Some other time,” he promised with a grin. “But don’t expect to get nothing in return. I think I need to spend a few hours with my face between your legs.”

The giggle you released turned into a snort, and you flicked his nose before aligning his cock with your entrance. “I can agree to those terms, if you survive tonight.” You hovered above him, your head bent over the roof of the car in perhaps the most uncomfortable position possible. You made it work though, allowing your lips to just barely graze his tip, the friction making you both keen.

Vernon sighed heavily. “Fuck, I might not.”

Slowly, reverently, you sank down on Vernon’s cock, taking him inch by inch. You let out a deep whimper as he filled you, the angle making you feel the length of him almost in your stomach. The moment he was seated fully inside, he let out a groan that was unrecognizable. A pathetic tilt resounded at the end, his breathing getting heavier and heavier the longer you simply didn’t move. He swallowed hard and demanded, “You need to move.”

“Are you going to cum just from that?” You asked, nearly out of breath.

“I might,” he confessed. “I wasn’t joking that I’ve been thinking about this forever. If you don’t move, I’m going to move you.”

You lifted your head to give him a look. “You’re so –”

His hands seized your hips, kneading hard, as he lifted you slightly off his cock before slamming you back down. You practically choked on your own spit, looking at him underneath you. He was smirking, and your jaw was unhinging. You didn’t have to say it; he could tell from your eyes that they were saying, Do it again. So his grip on you got firmer, and he began fucking you onto his cock.

Your hips ground against his, not wanting to be separated from him, and your arms wound around his neck. His moans turned louder, tongue lapping at one of your nipples again as you writhed on top of him. “Hansol,” dripped from your mouth like honey, causing his fingers  to dig into your hips deeper with each pass. His breathing was so heavy, so pretty, close to a whine and making him sound absolutely ruined even though he was the one wrecking you like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. Because you were trembling and drenching his cock in your essence and fuck, you felt like a vice around him. 

“I want –” He hit a spot inside you that made you almost double over. You met his eyes as he tweaked your nipple with his teeth. “I want you to cum inside me.”

He leaned back releasing your nipple that was now red and coated in his spit. “Probably not a good idea.”

“I’m on the pill.”

“Fuck, oh my god,” he murmured – anguished, desperate. “Why did you tell me that?”

It was like you flipped a switch inside him. He bounced you on his cock with renewed vigor, not even giving you the room to rock against him. There was a finish line now; there was a reason to keep touching you and a reason to have you gripping his hair like this was a ride you wouldn’t survive. He was panting now in your ear, taking a few moments in between to bite on the lobe, and when he felt his balls draw up, he somehow was able to snake a hand in between you without you noticing. His thumb was back on your clit, rubbing hard circles, and you whined and moaned, feeling like melted ice cream on a hot summer day.

Sparks blotted your vision. You saw white, and then realized what was happening. You were clenching around him so taut that you both moaned in unison. You soaked his entire shaft, and he was still fucking you through it, pinching your clit just right to prolong your orgasm. Your body was reeling, tears pricking at your eyes, not sure how much more you could take and wondering if you’d been cumming for hours. His voice sounded gruff and distant in your ear. 

“Oh, my fucking – you’re so tight when you cum. I think I’m gonna die – shit,” he muttered, a whine echoing at the end. “When was the last time you got f–”

“A while,” you huffed, forehead falling into the crook of his neck as his movements slowed a little. He was rocking you into him now, trying not to cum so quick, but you knew he’d been at the edge for a while now, and Christ, you just wanted him to fill you so badly. “So make this worth it, Vernon.”

He snickered, “Yes, ma’am.”

You gasped when you felt him fuck up into you, thrusting his hips somehow in this cramped space. Teeth biting into his shoulder, you cried out his name. You were overstimulated and fucked out, but he needed to cum. So you clenched around him again, making him breathe hard and then – there it was. That groan again. So desperate and loud and whiney as his release spilled into you. Your fingers were in his hair now, tugging, and his head fell back enough so your lips could connect. His moans poured into your mouth and they tasted sweet like grenadine. Warmth filled you, dripping between your legs when he finally stopped bucking up into you. 

Mouths detached then, hot breath fanning both your faces. Your hands now cradled his face as your lips barely ghosted over his. It took all your strength to finally sit up, feeling his softening cock begin to slip out of you, and he laid back in the seat to give you a better angle. When you were finally free, you slid over the center console and fell into the passenger seat. Neither of you bothered to put your clothes back on. The car was warm enough, the windows completely fogged, and you agreed that the only thing you wanted to do right now was just lie back. 

Eventually, you both began to laugh, tickled at the absurdity of what just happened. Vernon flipped open his glove box in front of you and pulled out a small metal tin. He flicked the lid open, revealing two hand rolled joints and a quarter of one left. He took one of the full ones and lit the end with a lighter he conveniently had in one of his cupholders. After taking a heavy drag, he handed it over to you.

Bending your seat back all the way like his, you took the joint and let the smoke fill your lungs. You opened the window a crack, just to flick a few ashes out. The leather of the seat became sticky as some of your combined releases trickled out, but neither of you, not even him, cared enough to do anything but smoke this joint and giggle.

As you relit the end, he turned to you, his lips tugging up. “So,” he began, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, “since I survived tonight, mind if I take you home to do as I promised?”

You inhaled and choked at the same time, passing the joint back to him as you coughed. He patted your back, concerned, until you started laughing uncontrollably. “We finally have hook up,” you said in between snorts, “and that’s the first thing you say?”

“Do you not want to then?” He asked with the joint hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“I would be a fool to say no, Hansol.” You made an effort to call him his chosen name even when you weren’t being intimate, and that, above all, was what made his cheeks flush. The thought of his face spending hours between your thighs made your skin prick. Your pinky slowly found his on the console. “I’ll agree to your terms, if … if you promise to take me on a real date. Not some listening party in your apartment, although those are fun. Even if it’s just pizza at Tony’s. I want it to be real.”

With the joint still in between his teeth, he held up your locked pinky fingers and smiled. “You got yourself a deal.”