#wooin

It started with something dumb.

Like, real dumb.

The kind of dumb that’s just supposed to be his usual post-race wind-down—kick off the shoes, scroll through Instagram, look up that fine chick he saw from LOS the day after their first race.

Yumi Lee—not exactly a state secret. Her @ was right there in the crew’s tagged posts, and hey, not his fault the Tarantula girls had a roster worth a good five minutes of his attention.

Enough for him to jump from one profile to another, clicking whatever account was tagged in a photo he deemed hot enough to catch his eye.

Five minutes turned into twenty. Twenty turned into how the hell did I end up here?

Because somewhere between “just looking” and “I swear I’m not creeping,” he clicked too far. Dug too deep. Swiped himself straight out of Yumi’s world and face-first into yours.

Your profile.

The same one he remembers blocking three years ago—back when his pride was bigger than his sense of direction and the breakup was still fresh enough to feel like chewing glass.

He hadn’t thought about that in a while.

Or, well—he told himself he hadn’t.

Now? He’s scrolling your feed like it’s his morning newspaper. Clicking through your highlighted stories like he’s an archaeologist uncovering relics from a life he used to live.

Latest post? Cute. Oldest post? Ouch. He’s not even sure when he started smiling at stupid little things in the captions—inside jokes that aren’t his anymore.

And then—because his life is a sitcom with no laugh track—Hyuk happened.

One second, Wooin’s sitting at the dining table, hunched over his phone like a gremlin. Next thing he knows, Hyuk’s leaning over his shoulder, peering down without a single ounce of personal-boundary awareness.

And then—tap.

Double tap.

A bright, cheery little heart blooms right on your smile in a picture from two years ago.

The sound Wooin made was somewhere between a choke and a gasp.

“What the—?! HYUK!”

Hyuk just blinks, shrugs, and takes a bite of his banana like he didn’t just ruin Wooin’s social life in under three seconds.

Meanwhile, Wooin’s staring at his screen like it’s a live grenade, watching that stupid heart sit there, broadcasting his relapse to the world.

He jabs at the screen, unliking it in a panic.

“She’s gonna see that! You know Instagram tells you instantly, right?!”

Hyuk swallows his bite. “Then she already saw it.”

“That’s not—shut up!” Wooin’s fingers are flying now, opening your profile, closing it, reopening it like that’ll somehow erase the notification from your end.

He’s mid-scroll when Hyuk leans over again, smirking. “Oh, this one’s nice,” he says, tapping another post before anyone can stop him.

Another heart blooms.

“FUCKER, I WILL—” Wooin practically tackles the phone out of his hand, nearly spilling the rest of Hyuk’s stupid banana onto the table.

“Are you trying to make me look like a desperate stalker?!”

Hyuk snorts, leaning back in his chair. “You’re already scrolling two years deep. The damage was done before I got here.”

“That’s different!” Wooin hisses, already unliking the second post with trembling fingers. “Scrolling in silence is stealth. This is a fucking crime scene now.”

He sets the phone down like it’s contaminated, rubbing his face. “She’s gonna think I’m crawling back.”

Hyuk raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Wooin opens his mouth, closes it, glares at him instead. “…That’s not the point, but I'm not.”

Two days passed.

Two whole, dragging, quiet days.

No notification from you.

No snide message calling him a creep.

No passive-aggressive post about “certain people” lurking. 

Not even a single sign you’d noticed Hyuk liking those buried photos from years ago.

Wooin should’ve been relieved.

Hell, he should’ve been celebrating—no drama, no embarrassment, no reason for you to block him, and salt the earth behind you.

But no.

Instead, he was exactly where he’d been that night—slouched over the dining table, hood pulled low over his head, a lollipop cracking between his teeth from how hard he was biting down on it.

Fuck. 

Why weren’t you reacting?

Wasn’t that enough to piss you off at least a little? To make you text him something, just so he’d know you still had it in you? Or had you forgotten him completely? Did Hyuk’s little stunt just get buried under a pile of other notifications—other people, other lives, all of them pulling you further from where he still was?

The thought made his head throb.

He dragged his hand down his face, trying to shake it off, when a familiar, smug voice cut through the low hum of his place.

“Oh? Back at it again?”

This time, when Hyuk leaned in over his shoulder, Wooin was quick—phone flipped closer to his chest, chin dipping under his hood like an animal guarding a kill. His scowl was sharp enough to cut, but Hyuk didn’t even blink. 

Joker stood just behind him, blank as ever, while the fuckass wore that infuriating look of someone ready to keep poking until something broke again.

“Fuck off, asshat,” Wooin groaned, raking his fingers through his hair like it might clear his head. “I’m gonna hit you for real this time.”

“With what? Your whining?” Hyuk’s voice came flat as a brick wall, unbothered, as he reached over Wooin’s counter to pluck another banana without so much as looking at him. 

He peeled it with the same slow, deliberate motion of someone who knew they were about to piss you off and was savoring every second. 

“Still stalking your lil girlfriend?” he deadpanned around the first bite.

Wooin barely turned his head, shoving at Hyuk’s shoulder with a lazy flick that carried more irritation than force.

“Ex—I said fuck off,” he groaned, dragging a palm down his face. “You’re so fucking invested in this, you psycho.”

“He didn’t deny the stalking, great.” Joker deadpanned.

“Of course I am.” Hyuk didn’t even blink. He leaned his hip against the counter like he owned the place, banana halfway gone already. “The only time you were calm was when you were dating her.”

From where he shifted, Joker’s voice cut in again, flat as ever. “He can be calm?”

Wooin shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but Joker didn’t even flinch—just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, looking bored in that way only Joker could.

“Yeah,” Hyuk went on, chewing noisily for effect, “and his face wasn’t full of holes yet.” His gaze flicked to the piercings on Wooin’s lip and brow, the faint glint of metal catching the low light. 

“Back then you looked like some harmless golden retriever. Now?” He gestured vaguely with the banana, like he was pointing out a crime scene. “Now you just look like you’re trying to scare off feelings.”

“Or people,” Joker added, and though his tone was even, there was something about it that made the air tighten for a beat.

Wooin bit down on his lollipop hard enough to hear the crack, trying not to let the sting of their words show.

“Wow, this must be really stressing you out,” Hyuk’s voice cut through the silence like nails down a chalkboard, just as Wooin’s jaw tensed around his lollipop.

Wooin didn’t even look up, just muttered, “Shut up,” under his breath.

“Want me to lend you hands?” Hyuk said casually.

“You mean lend a hand,” Joker corrected without missing a beat from where he leaned on the counter, eyes half-lidded in that deadpan way he always spoke.

But Hyuk just shook his head, hooking a banana between his teeth as his free hand shot out—smooth as if he’d done this a hundred times—snatching Wooin’s phone right from his grip. 

“No,” he said around the fruit, his voice muffled, “I meant hands.”

“Oi—what the fuck—!” Wooin nearly knocked his chair back as he lunged, but Hyuk was already spinning away like it was a game.

“Hold him for a sec, Joker. I’ll pay you later,” Hyuk called over his shoulder, thumbs flying across the screen without an ounce of shame.

Joker didn’t even hesitate.

One second Wooin was on his feet, the next his arms were wrenched back and his hoodie collar was half choking him. 

“That’s a million won, you freak,” Joker said flatly, like this was just another business.

“AHH FUCK—STOP IT!” Wooin kicked back, trying to shake Joker off, but the man had a grip like steel.

Hyuk was grinning now, tapping away with infuriating calm. “Relax. I’m just doing what you’re too chicken to do.”

“I swear to God—Hyuk, I’ll kill you!” Wooin thrashed again, his hair falling into his eyes.

“Then kill me later,” Hyuk replied, still typing. “She’s gonna think this is cute.”

“CUTE?! I’M GONNA FUCKING—” Wooin jerked forward hard enough to make Joker grunt, almost slipping free—until Joker shifted his weight and reeled him back in.

And then it happened—Hyuk froze for just a second, smirking at whatever he’d just sent. The sound of a notification leaving the phone seemed to echo in Wooin’s ears like a gunshot.

By the time he managed to twist halfway out of Joker’s hold and grab Hyuk by the collar, dragging him in close enough to strangle him on the spot—

—Hyuk was already holding the phone up like a trophy. 

“Too late. She’s seen it.”

Wooin’s heart slammed into his throat, his rage short-circuiting into cold panic as he saw your name at the top of the screen, the little “typing…” bubble already appearing.

And just like that, all the fight drained from his knees, Joker’s grip the only thing keeping him upright as the realization hit:

You were typing back.

And if the universe had any sense of mercy, you’d be typing something short.

But knowing his luck? He was about to fucking die.

To be fair, the moment his name lit up your notifications after years of radio silence, your first instinct was to bury your face in a pillow and scream.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know what he’d been up to—you weren’t living under a rock. His social media had been public enough, his posts loud in more ways than one. Photos of races, nights out, friends draped over him, that wild grin plastered across his face—he was living.

And you were happy for him. 

Honestly, you were—but you never planned to wedge yourself back into his orbit. 

Even if things had ended cleanly—kindly, even—and you’d made peace with being a quiet bystander. Every so often you’d check in from afar, see if he was still cycling, still chasing the things he loved back when you were both younger and tangled up in each other’s days. 

That was enough—Or it had been, until now.

Y.WOOIN — 2m ago

“Are you a banana? Because I’m going bananas over you🍌”

A corny pick-up line as his first words after years? Hell yeah.

The laugh hit you so hard you had to bury your face into your pillow again, shoulders shaking as you scrambled to type back something that matched the absurdity.

Your thumbs flew, mashing out a chaotic HAHAHSHSHASHAHSAHSHASHASHASHAHSA before you flopped onto your back, phone still in hand, grinning like an idiot at the ceiling.

And maybe it made you easy.

Or maybe it was just that you were still… too tangled up in the old you-and-him—still holding onto the shape of those memories like they hadn’t already yellowed with time. 

Whatever the reason, here you were. Only a day after that ridiculous, awkward little reconnection, sitting across from him in a cramped café near your workplace. 

As if the two of you hadn’t been quietly dodging each other’s existence for the past three years. As if three years of silence could be erased with one stupid message and a seat between chipped mugs and the smell of burnt espresso.

“…Bananas, huh…” you started weakly, your voice dipping into that uncertain place between teasing and testing the waters. 

The steam from your coffee curled in the air, a small amused grin barely hidden behind the rim of your mug.

Across from you, his reaction was instant. His eyes squeezed shut like you’d just stabbed him with the memory, a groan escaping as his hand came up to cover his face. Even with his palm hiding most of him, you could still catch the faint flush that had bloomed high on his tanned cheeks, creeping up to the tips of his ears.

You snickered, the sound bubbling out without effort.

“Jesus—I told you, it was Hyuk!” he said, voice breaking with mock outrage as he peeked at you through his fingers. “He was the one who sent that after taking my phone.”

“Or so you’ve said,” you hummed into your drink, deliberately letting the skepticism drip from your tone. “If you said so…”

That earned you the kind of look you remembered too well—the one where his brows pinched, like he was torn between annoyance and the urge to smile. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him, and muttered something about “unbelievable” under his breath.

The café wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t quiet either. The hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of cups, the low hum of someone’s playlist—it all wrapped around you like a buffer, a reminder that this wasn’t the same bubble you used to live in with him. 

Back then, conversation came so easy. Now, it felt like the two of you were prodding at each other’s edges, testing if you still fit anywhere in each other’s lives.

You lowered your mug, resting your fingers against the warm ceramic. “So… Hyuk’s still around?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We ride together sometimes. He’s still an idiot, though. Some things don’t change.”

You smiled faintly at that. “Guess not.”

For a moment, it was just the sound of you both sipping your drinks. That weird, careful silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly—just… foreign.

The last time you’d sat across from him, you’d been able to read his mood without thinking, fill in the gaps without asking. Now, it was like you were working from a faded copy of the map.

He was the one who broke the silence next.

“So—you’ve been… good?”

The words were simple enough—small talk, harmless—but the way he said them, low and unhurried, with his eyes flicking to yours only to drop away again, made your stomach tighten in a way you weren’t ready for.

His voice didn’t sound like it used to. Deeper now. Less restless.

“Yeah,” you said after a pause, like you needed to check the word before letting it out. “Busy. Work’s been… you know.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, fingers drumming once against the side of his cup. “You back for good?”

“…Yeah. I plan to stay here for work.” You tilted your head toward him. “You?”

His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough. “Still cycling. Still… me, I guess.”

You let out a small laugh, one that felt oddly self-conscious. “Still you.”

He leaned forward a little then, forearms resting on the table. And it wasn’t the gesture that caught you so much as the way he was looking at you—steadily, quietly—like he was searching for the edges of something you hadn’t said yet. That same watchfulness you remembered from before, but sharper now. 

“You didn’t have to say yes, you know,” he murmured.

Your brows knit. “To coffee?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, though the motion felt heavier than it should have. “We could’ve just… left it at that message.”

Your thumb traced the curve of your mug’s handle, more to keep your hands busy than anything.

“Maybe,” you murmured, glancing up at him. “But I wanted to see you.”

Something shifted in his face at that—his eyes softening, just enough to be noticeable. He didn’t answer right away, only gave a single, slow nod, like he was filing the words away somewhere private.

The air between you felt different after that. Looser in one way, tighter in another. You found yourself leaning in too, elbows on the worn wood between you, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne. Definitely not the same one he wore in high school.

“I thought you’d hate me,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His head tilted slightly. “Why would I hate you?”

You shrugged, gaze dropping to the swirl of coffee in your cup. “Because I left. When you were… when you weren’t at your best.”

“I never hated you,” he said, cutting you off, the firmness in his tone pulling your eyes back to his. “I was the one who told you to go. Who was I to stop you from getting out of here for your own damn future?” 

The last part came out like a short, almost disbelieving laugh. But then he went quiet. His gaze slid away, not like before, but in a way that felt hesitant.

“I just thought… you didn’t want me around anymore. Even when you got back from the US.”

Something stuttered in your chest. 

You looked at him—really looked at him. The lines in his face were different now. His hair was styled and short instead of messy. His shoulders broader, hidden under his baggy clothes but wide enough for you to notice. 

A man.

Not a boy hunched over a desk anymore—not even close.

“I did,” you said softly. “Want you around, I mean.”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he almost wanted to.

“Yeah?” he scoffed lightly, tilting his head, the lenses of his yellow-tinted glasses catching the light.

You looked away before you could stop yourself, warmth crawling up your neck like it had been waiting for the perfect excuse to humiliate you. And it was definitely not because you’d just realized he was… more attractive now. 

Absolutely not.

It was just coffee. Or the heating. Or maybe the way the sunlight caught the steam curling up from your cup—anything except the fact that his jaw looked sharper than you remembered, or that his voice had deepened just enough to sit lower in your chest.

From there, the conversation began to soften at the edges, bleeding into safer territory. You traded small updates like they were foreign currency—careful, tentative, but with a surprising amount of value.

Mutual friends. Jobs. The weather. That one teacher who’d mysteriously vanished mid-year

And then—

“Remember that time we got caught sneaking snacks into the library?” you asked, hiding your smile behind the rim of your mug.

He huffed a laugh, leaning back into his chair. “You mean when you nearly choked trying to eat a whole bread roll before she reached us?”

“You’re the one who told me to hide it in my mouth!”

“And you listened,” he said, grinning in that way that made the lines by his eyes crinkle—a detail that, absurdly, felt like proof that time had actually passed.

Each story shaved away a little more of the stiffness, until you could almost pretend the gap hadn’t been years wide. Almost.

Because underneath the easy laughter, there was something else. Something heavier. You could feel it in the pauses, in the way his eyes kept catching yours and holding just a fraction too long.

When your cups were empty, neither of you moved to stand. The afternoon light shifted through the wide cafe window, streaking warm gold across the table. He noticed you looking, and for once, didn’t glance away.

“You’ve changed,” he said, voice quiet enough to almost be lost under the soft clink of dishes behind the counter. It wasn’t unkind—if anything, it sounded… careful.

“So have you,” you returned, equally soft.

His gaze lingered, steady. And you were suddenly aware of the sound of your own heartbeat, like it had chosen this exact moment to move into your throat. There was something unsaid there—something fragile, still wrapped in the same kind of silence that had kept the two of you apart for three years.

But you didn’t get up. And neither did he.

The air between you seemed to thicken, not with tension, but with a strange pull. Like both of you were standing at the lip of a memory, toes curling at the edge, wondering if you should step back or let yourselves fall.

“So…” he began, voice lower and rougher than before, like the word had been sitting on his tongue for a while, “was it really that funny?”

It took you a second to catch on—your mind still lingering in the calmer rhythm you’d both slipped into—but then the corner of your mouth curved when it clicked. 

The banana line. Of course.

“Yes,” you said, your voice carrying a little too much certainty.

His eyes darted away with a sharp exhale through his nose, half a scoff, half a laugh. “I swear it wasn’t me.”

“Sure,” you replied. But your tone was softer this time—less pointed, more like you were leaving the door cracked for him to keep going if he wanted.

He took it.

“You know how ridiculous Hyuk is,” he muttered, the words coming with a grumble that didn’t quite match the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Mm,” you hummed knowingly, leaning back against your chair. “Hyuk’s always been the one pushing you around, after all.”

That earned you an exaggerated roll of his eyes, his head tilting just enough that you could catch the tiny twitch of his mouth like he was fighting a grin.

“Pushing me around, huh…” he echoed under his breath, but there was no real bite to it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re still riding together,” you said after a beat, your tone slipping into something gentler. “At least… you weren’t alone.”

The words seemed to settle heavier between you than you expected. His gaze didn’t lift immediately, and when it did, it was only long enough to flick toward you before he raised his mug higher, letting it shield the lower half of his face.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you took a sip from your own cup, watching the way the light through the window cut across his profile this time—the sharpness of his jaw, the glint of piercings on his features that weren’t there before. He looked different, older, but there was still something in his eyes that felt the same, even when they kept avoiding yours.

Somewhere in the middle of reminiscing about a class trip, he shifted, leaning forward just slightly, elbows on the table. His voice softened when he asked more about your time away, his interest not the polite kind you offered to acquaintances but the sort that made you feel like he was tucking every detail away to keep.

You answered, and when he smiled at something you said, it was faint but real. The kind of smile that carried the weight of knowing what you used to sound like when you were truly happy.

When you asked about him, he hesitated. Not long enough for it to feel deliberate—just long enough for you to notice. His stories were lighter, less personal. You didn’t push. But it made you wonder what had filled those three missing years for him, and if he’d ever tell you.

The minutes blurred. Outside, the shadows of passersby stretched long across the sidewalk. A couple nearby got up to leave, the scrape of their chairs loud in the comfortable quiet between you.

“You ever think about…” he started, then stopped, his jaw tightening like the words were caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth.

“About?”

His eyes found yours again. 

“Never mind.” He smiled—small, almost sheepish—and it was the kind of smile you’d seen on him years ago, right before he’d dared you to do something stupid.

Your chest tightened.

The truth was, you’d spent years teaching yourself to think of him less. You’d filed away his laugh, his voice, the way he used to look at you when you said something unexpectedly funny. You’d told yourself it was just another chapter, something that didn’t need revisiting.

And yet—here you were.

When the barista cleared your cups, she asked if you wanted another round. Neither of you answered right away. You could feel his gaze even as you glanced down at the menu, pretending to consider it.

“I could,” you said finally.

“Me too,” he replied, but his voice carried something quieter underneath.

Relief, maybe. Or maybe just the smallest thread of hope.

By the time the second round of drinks arrived, the air between you felt different. Not heavier—more like the careful hum before a bridge in a song. You weren’t sure if it was coming from you or him, but it was there, steady and low.

He caught you looking at him again, and this time, he didn’t smile.

Instead, he said, “I missed this.”

Your fingers tightened around the warm ceramic of your cup. There were a dozen ways you could’ve answered—light, teasing, deflecting—but none of them felt right. 

“I missed you.” you murmured.

And he seemed to hear it, with how his hand snaked closer to yours—not quite touching, but lingering eough to keep the warmth.

And you both knew then—it’s a start.

If Wooin noticed two shady-looking idiots peeking out from the café’s bathroom hall, trading smug and lazy smirks in his direction, he didn’t let it show. 

He just kept his eyes on you.

Joker was as good as dead—but maybe, if he was feeling generous, Hyuk would live long enough to regret it.