#writhyv

The roar of engines filled the Monaco circuit as qualifying rounds neared their end. Park Jongseong—Jay to the world—sat in the cockpit of his Hybe Hyphen Model 7, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel with mechanical precision. The carbon fiber felt cold beneath his gloves, much like everything else in his life had become over the past four years.

"Radio check, Jay. How are we feeling?" His race engineer's voice crackled through the headset.

"All systems optimal," Jay responded, his voice devoid of the excitement that should accompany being mere hours away from the most important race of his career. The Monaco Grand Prix finale—the race that would determine this year's Formula 1 World Championship. After four years of near-misses, third places that felt like defeats, and second places that tasted like ash, this was his moment.

The pit crew moved around his car like a well-oiled machine, checking tire pressure, adjusting aerodynamics, and fine-tuning every possible element that could give him the edge he needed. Jay watched them through his helmet's visor, feeling oddly detached from the chaos surrounding him. These people had dedicated their lives to getting him to this moment, yet he felt nothing but the familiar hollow ache that had become his constant companion.

When had it started? The question plagued him during every quiet moment, every split second between gear changes, every breath between corners. Was it at sixteen, when he first stepped into a Formula 3 car and felt the addictive rush of speed? Was it at nineteen, when he claimed his first victory and the champagne tasted like liquid gold? Or was it later, when success became routine and victories felt more like obligations than achievements?

No. He knew exactly when it started.

"We can't do this. My... my career will be taking off soon and... I just don't want you to feel the burden of having me as your partner. So I'm letting you go."

Four years, two months, and thirteen days ago. Not that he was counting.

Jay closed his eyes behind his visor, trying to push away the memory of your face—the way confusion had flickered across your features before settling into hurt, then acceptance. You'd nodded, gathered your things from his apartment with devastating efficiency, and walked out of his life with a dignity that made his chest ache even now.

"Jay, we need you for the final briefing," his team principal's voice cut through his reverie.

He climbed out of the car with fluid grace, his movements economical and precise. At twenty-five, Jay had perfected the art of being Park Jongseong—Hybe Motors' golden boy, the driver who could make a car dance through corners that should have been impossible, the face that graced magazine covers and endorsement deals. Off the track, he was equally polished: a skilled vocalist who'd released three albums during his racing career, a dancer whose performances had gone viral countless times, a polyglot who conducted interviews in five languages with charming ease.

To the world, he was perfect. To himself, he was nothing but an expertly crafted shell.

The briefing room buzzed with controlled energy. Engineers pointed at telemetry data while strategists discussed tire strategies and weather patterns. Jay absorbed the information with computerlike efficiency, his responses sharp and accurate. He knew his role in this symphony of speed and precision, and he played it flawlessly.

"The car's handling beautifully," his chief engineer reported. "Downforce package is optimal for Monaco's tight corners, and the new hybrid system is giving us an extra twelve horsepower on the straights."

Jay nodded, studying the track layout projected on the wall. Monaco—the jewel of Formula 1, where careers were made and legends were born. The narrow streets offered no forgiveness, demanded absolute precision, and rewarded only the fearless. It should have excited him. Instead, he felt the same mechanical focus that had carried him through the past four years.

His teammates—Sunghoon and Jake—were practically vibrating with anticipation. Sunghoon, the quiet pillar of the trio, had never won Monaco despite three previous chances. Jake, the charmer rookie, was experiencing his first championship battle. Their excitement should have been infectious, but Jay remained untouched by their enthusiasm.

"You've been quiet," Sunghoon observed as they left the briefing room. "Even for you."

"Just focused," Jay replied, which wasn't entirely untrue. Focus was all he had left.

Jake fell into step beside them, his youthful energy a stark contrast to Jay's composed exterior. "I can't believe we're actually here. Championship on the line, Monaco finale—it's like something out of a movie."

"It's just another race," Jay said automatically, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

Both drivers looked at him strangely, but Jay was already walking away, seeking the solitude of his driver's room. The space was sterile and efficient—exactly like everything else in his life. Championship trophies lined the shelves, but they felt more like participation awards than symbols of achievement. Photos from victories showed him smiling and raising champagne bottles, but even he could see the emptiness behind his eyes in those captured moments.

His phone buzzed with messages—well-wishes from celebrities, encouragement from fans, strategic updates from his management team. He scrolled through them with mechanical thoroughness, responding where necessary with the polished charm that had become second nature. Everything was perfectly curated, professionally managed, and emotionally vacant.

The afternoon practice session passed in a blur of hot laps and data collection. Jay's times were consistently fast, placing him in provisional pole position for tomorrow's qualifying. The car responded to his inputs like an extension of his body, every turn and brake point executed with mathematical precision. His engineers cheered over the radio, but their excitement felt distant, muffled by the protective barriers he'd built around himself.

"Beautiful driving, Jay!" his race engineer exclaimed as he pulled into the pits. "The car looks phenomenal. If we can maintain this pace tomorrow, pole position is ours."

Jay nodded from the cockpit, accepting the praise with the same detachment he'd cultivated for everything else. Pole position, podium finishes, championship points—they were all just numbers on a screen now, metrics to be optimized rather than dreams to be chased.

As the sun began to set over Monaco's harbor, painting the Mediterranean in shades of gold and amber, Jay found himself on the hotel balcony overlooking the circuit. The track lay quiet now, but tomorrow it would come alive with the symphony of racing engines and the dreams of millions of fans worldwide. He should have felt anticipation, nervousness, excitement—anything. Instead, he felt the familiar emptiness that had become his closest companion.

His phone rang, pulling him from his contemplation. The caller ID showed his mother's name, and he answered with automatic warmth.

"Hey, Ma."

"My champion!!" She said, her voice bright with pride. "I just wanted to wish you luck for tomorrow. Your father and I will be watching every lap, okay?"

"Thank you," he replied, injecting enthusiasm into his voice that he didn't feel. "I'll … do my best."

"You always do. But Jay..." Her voice softened with maternal concern. "When was the last time you took a rest? Really took a rest, not just for a day between races?"

The question caught him off guard. When had he last rested — truly rested, picturing home with him sitting at the kitchen table while his mother fussed over him and his father shared stories from his engineering days? Not the sterile perfection of his Monaco apartment or the temporary luxury of five-star hotels, but the warmth of the house where he'd grown up dreaming of speed and glory.

"I've been busy," he said, which was true but incomplete.

"I know, but busy isn't the same as living. Your father worries that you're pushing yourself too hard. We both do."

Jay closed his eyes, leaning against the balcony railing. His parents had sacrificed everything for his racing career—his father's engineering expertise, his mother's unwavering support, their savings, their time, and their dreams, which had been reshaped around his potential. They deserved a son who appreciated their sacrifices, not one who felt hollow despite achieving everything they'd worked toward together.

"I'm fine, Ma. Really."

The lie came easily, polished by years of practice. He was Park Jongseong, F1 driver, recording artist, global sensation. He had to be fine.

After ending the call, Jay remained on the balcony as Monaco transformed around him—the harbor filled with superyachts belonging to celebrities and billionaires drawn to Formula 1's glamour. Restaurant terraces buzzed with animated conversations about tomorrow's race. The principality pulsed with anticipation while he felt increasingly disconnected from it all.

His reflection in the balcony door showed a man who looked every inch the champion—perfectly styled hair, designer clothes, the kind of effortless elegance that magazines loved to photograph. But the eyes looking back at him were empty, going through the motions of a life that had lost its meaning somewhere along the way.

"So, I'm letting you go."

The words echoed in his memory, as sharp and painful as they'd been four years ago. He'd thought he was being noble, sacrificing personal happiness for professional achievement. He'd convinced himself that love was a luxury he couldn't afford, that emotional attachments would weaken his focus and compromise his performance.

How wrong he'd been.

The irony wasn't lost on him—in gaining everything he'd thought he wanted, he'd lost the only thing that had ever truly mattered. And now, on the eve of potentially claiming his first World Championship, he felt more alone than ever.

Jay's phone buzzed again, this time with a message from his management team about tomorrow's media schedule. Interviews, photo shoots, sponsor obligations—the machinery of modern Formula 1 that transformed drivers into brands and races into content. He responded with professional efficiency, confirming his availability and requesting his usual preparation routine.

The next morning arrived with Monaco's characteristic blend of luxury and urgency. The paddock hummed with controlled chaos as teams made final preparations for qualifying. Jay moved through his routine with mechanical precision—physical therapy, nutrition consultation, technical briefing, media obligations. Each step was calculated to optimize his performance, leaving nothing to chance.

"How are you feeling about today?" a journalist asked during the mandatory press conference.

"Confident in the car and the team," Jay replied smoothly. "We've had a strong pace all weekend. The championship is within reach, and we're going to give everything to achieve it."

The words sounded hollow even to him, but they satisfied the media's appetite for sound bites and competitive spirit. He fielded questions about race strategy, tire management, and championship pressure with the polished responses that had made him a media darling. Every answer was perfect, every smile precisely calibrated.

But as he left the press conference, Jay couldn't shake the feeling that he was performing his own life rather than living it.

Qualifying unfolded with typical Monaco drama. The narrow track magnified every mistake while rewarding perfection with laptime improvements measured in hundredths of seconds. Jay's first run put him provisional pole, his car dancing through the Swimming Pool chicane and Monaco's famous Casino corner with balletic grace. The radio crackled with excitement from his engineers, but he felt only professional satisfaction.

"That's provisional pole, Jay! Beautiful lap!"

"Copy that," he responded, already analyzing the data for his next attempt.

The session's final minutes brought the championship battle into sharp focus. His closest rival, Leclerc, found extra pace to match Jay's time within milliseconds. The grid positions would be decided by fractions, margins so small they seemed almost arbitrary yet crucial for tomorrow's championship outcome.

Jay's final qualifying lap was perfection distilled into ninety seconds of absolute precision. Every corner optimized, every braking point pushed to the absolute limit, every gear change timed to extract maximum performance from the Hybe Hyphen Model 7. When he crossed the timing line, the trackside screens erupted with his new pole position time—a lap record that left his competitors scrambling for answers.

"POLE POSITION!" his race engineer screamed over the radio. "That was absolutely incredible, Jay! Lap record! Championship pole!"

Jay acknowledged the achievement with professional calm, but as he climbed from the car in parc fermé, surrounded by photographers and television cameras capturing every moment for global broadcast, he felt the familiar emptiness that achievement brought. Another milestone reached, another box checked, another step toward a championship that felt increasingly meaningless.

The post-qualifying interviews blurred together—questions about tomorrow's strategy, pressure management, championship emotions. Jay provided the expected responses with media-trained precision, his smile never wavering despite the void behind it. He was Park Jongseong, poised on the brink of Formula 1 immortality, and he had to look the part.

But that night, alone in his hotel room overlooking Monaco's twinkling harbor, Jay stared at the ceiling and wondered when achievement had stopped feeling like victory and started feeling like just another obligation fulfilled.

His championship trophy case would gain one more piece tomorrow—the ultimate prize that millions dreamed of but few achieved. Yet as he drifted toward sleep, Jay couldn't shake the certainty that even winning the World Championship wouldn't fill the hollow space where his heart used to be.

Race day dawned crisp and clear, Monaco's Mediterranean climate providing perfect conditions for what promised to be a championship battle for the ages. Jay woke before his alarm, his internal clock calibrated by years of racing routine. The morning ritual began with physical preparation—stretching, nutrition, hydration calculated to optimize his body for the physical demands ahead.

The paddock buzzed with championship energy as Jay arrived at the circuit. Fans pressed against barriers hoping for glimpses of their heroes, photographers captured every moment for posterity, and television crews broadcast live updates to millions of viewers worldwide. Jay moved through it all with practiced ease, acknowledging fans with waves and smiles while maintaining the focused demeanor that had become his trademark.

"Big day," Sunghoon commented as they walked toward the Hybe Motors hospitality unit.

"Every day is big," Jay replied automatically.

His teammate studied him for a moment, concern flickering across his features. "When was the last time you seemed excited about anything?"

The question caught Jay off guard. When had he last felt genuine excitement? Not the manufactured enthusiasm for cameras or the professional satisfaction of lap times achieved, but real, unguarded joy? The answer came unwillingly—four years, two months, and seventeen days ago.

Before he could respond, Jake joined them, practically bouncing with nervous energy. "I can't believe this is it. Championship deciding race, Monaco, everything we've worked for coming down to the next two hours."

His youthful enthusiasm should have been infectious, but Jay felt only the familiar detachment that had insulated him from both disappointment and joy. "It's just another race," he said, the lie automatic and unconvincing.

Both drivers exchanged glances but said nothing more as they entered the team area. The Hybe Motors garage hummed with purposeful activity—engineers analyzing weather data, strategists discussing tire compounds, mechanics making final adjustments to the cars that would determine their championship fate.

Jay's pre-race routine unfolded with ritual precision. Technical briefing with his engineers, reviewing telemetry data and race scenarios. Strategy meeting with the team principal, discussing everything from pit stop windows to weather contingencies. Physical preparation with his trainer, ensuring his body was optimally prepared for the demands ahead.

Each step was performed with mechanical efficiency, his responses sharp and professional. But as Jay went through the motions, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was preparing for someone else's race, someone else's championship, someone else's dream.

"You seem different today," his race engineer observed during their final technical review.

"Different how?" Jay asked, though he suspected the answer.

"More distant than usual. And that's saying something."

Jay had no response that wouldn't sound either defensive or revealing, so he simply nodded and returned his attention to the data screens. Tire degradation curves, fuel consumption calculations, weather probability matrices—the technical aspects of racing provided refuge from more uncomfortable introspections.

The final hour before the race brought its own rhythm. Jay changed into his racing suit with methodical precision, each piece of safety equipment checked and double-checked. The familiar weight of his helmet felt comforting, the sanctuary it provided from the outside world's chaos and expectations.

As he walked toward the grid for the formation lap, Jay caught sight of the media pen buzzing with activity. Journalists from around the world had gathered to witness what many were calling the most significant Monaco Grand Prix in decades. Among them, he noticed the distinctive blue and black of Vogue's branding, their correspondent presumably preparing to capture the fashion and glamour that surrounded Formula 1's most prestigious race.

The formation lap passed in a blur of sighting laps and warm-up procedures. Jay's Hybe Hyphen Model 7 felt perfectly balanced, responding to his inputs with the mechanical sympathy that separated great cars from good ones. The pole position slot stretched ahead of him, thirty-nine other drivers arrayed behind in the grid formation that would determine the championship battle's opening moves.

"Radio check, Jay. How are we feeling?"

"All systems nominal," he responded, his voice carrying the same professional calm it had maintained for four years.

The five red lights began their sequence—one, two, three, four, five. The silence stretched for an eternity measured in heartbeats. Then, in an instant that felt both eternal and instantaneous, the lights went out.

Jay's start was perfection incarnate—wheelspin controlled to the precise threshold, racing line maintained through the first corner, championship position defended with clinical precision. Behind him, thirty-nine other drivers fought for every meter of track position on Monaco's unforgiving streets.

The race unfolded with typical Monaco characteristics—strategy dictated by track position, overtaking opportunities created more by misfortune than pure speed. Jay controlled the pace from the front, his lap times consistent and controlled, building the gap necessary to maintain his championship advantage.

"You're doing perfectly," his race engineer reported after twenty laps. "Gap to second place is eight seconds, championship rival is running fourth. Everything is under control."

Under control. The phrase seemed to define his entire life—every emotion regulated, every response calculated, every moment managed to optimize outcomes rather than experienced for its own sake. Jay acknowledged the update and continued his metronomic pace, feeling more like a highly sophisticated machine than a human pursuing his dreams.

Lap thirty brought the first strategic complication. A backmarker's mechanical failure brought out the safety car, bunching the field and erasing Jay's carefully built advantage. Suddenly, the championship leader found himself surrounded by hungry competitors ready to capitalize on any mistake.

"Safety car window is open if you want to pit," his engineer reported.

"Negative," Jay responded. "Staying out."

The decision was calculated—track position trumped tire advantage on Monaco's narrow streets. But as the safety car pulled in and racing resumed, Jay found himself defending against faster cars on fresher tires. The clinical precision that had served him perfectly suddenly felt insufficient against drivers motivated by desperation and opportunity.

For the first time in years, Jay felt something beyond professional focus. Not excitement, exactly, but a heightened awareness that came from being truly challenged. His car responded to increasingly precise inputs as he defended his position through Monaco's signature corners—the Swimming Pool, Rascasse, the tunnel section where braking points determined everything.

"Leclerc is closing," his engineer warned. "Gap down to two seconds."

Jay could see the Ferrari in his mirrors, growing larger with each passing corner. This was racing stripped to its essence—two drivers in perfectly matched machines, fighting for position that would determine championship glory. It should have excited him, this pure distillation of everything he'd worked toward.

Instead, he felt only the mechanical focus that had carried him through four years of emotional emptiness.

With ten laps remaining, disaster struck from an unexpected quarter. A backmarker lost control exiting the chicane, his car sliding into the barriers and bringing out another safety car. The field bunched once again, erasing Jay's careful management and setting up a final sprint that would decide everything.

"This is it," his engineer said unnecessarily. "Ten lap sprint to the championship."

Jay acknowledged the obvious and prepared for the restart. His hands felt steady on the steering wheel, his breathing controlled and even. Everything was exactly as it should be for a driver on the verge of achieving his ultimate goal. Yet something felt fundamentally wrong, though he couldn't identify exactly what.

The safety car pulled in with five laps remaining. Jay controlled the restart perfectly, timing his acceleration to maintain track position while preventing the cars behind from getting a slipstream advantage. The championship was within reach—five laps of precision driving, five laps of the focus that had defined his career.

But as he navigated turn one of the restart, something unexpected caught his attention. In the periphery of his vision, beyond the barriers and spectator areas, he glimpsed a familiar figure in the media area. The recognition hit him like a physical blow, breaking through the emotional barriers he'd maintained for four years.

It couldn't be. After all this time, after everything that had happened, you couldn't be here. Not now, not when he was so close to achieving everything he'd sacrificed for.

The momentary distraction cost him nothing measurable—his lap time remained consistent, his racing line unchanged, his championship position secure. But something fundamental shifted in that instant of recognition. The mechanical focus that had insulated him from both joy and pain cracked, allowing emotions he'd buried to surge toward the surface.

Three laps to go. Jay forced himself to concentrate on the racing line, on the precise brake points and gear changes that would deliver the championship. But part of his mind remained stuck on that glimpse of a figure that couldn't possibly be who he thought it was.

Two laps to go. The checkered flag was practically within sight, the championship almost certainly secured. Jay's lap times remained consistent despite the emotional turmoil threatening to overwhelm his carefully constructed defenses.

One lap to go. Jay could see the finish line ahead, could almost taste the champagne that awaited the new World Champion. But instead of elation or relief, he felt only the crushing weight of an achievement that had cost him everything that truly mattered.

The checkered flag fell as Jay crossed the line, his Hybe Hyphen Model 7 carrying him to the Formula 1 World Championship that had defined his dreams for over a decade. The radio exploded with celebration from his team, their voices filled with the joy and relief that should have been his.

"WORLD CHAMPION! WORLD CHAMPION! Jay, you've done it! World Champion!"

Jay acknowledged the congratulations with professional calm, bringing the car slowly around the circuit on his victory lap. The grandstands erupted with celebration, fans waving flags and cheering for the new champion. It was everything he'd imagined, everything he'd worked toward, everything he'd sacrificed for.

So why did he feel nothing but emptiness?

The victory celebration unfolded with familiar choreography. Jay climbed from his car in parc fermé, surrounded by photographers and television cameras capturing every moment of his championship triumph. His team surrounded him with hugs and congratulations, their genuine emotion a stark contrast to the mechanical satisfaction he felt.

Interviews followed—the standard questions about how it felt to be World Champion, what this meant for his career, how he planned to celebrate. Jay provided the expected responses with media-trained precision, his smile never wavering despite the hollowness behind it.

But throughout the celebration, his eyes searched the media area for confirmation of what he thought he'd seen during the race. It couldn't have been you—after four years of carefully maintained separation, after building a life that specifically excluded the possibility of encountering you again. Yet the possibility gnawed at him, threatening to unravel the emotional control that had gotten him through this moment.

The podium ceremony approached, and Jay prepared for the culmination of his championship journey. As he walked toward the podium structure, he caught sight of movement in the media pen. His breath caught as he recognized the unmistakable profile that had haunted his dreams for four years.

You were here. At his championship moment, covering the race that represented the pinnacle of everything he'd achieved at the cost of everything he'd lost.

Jay's steps faltered for just a moment before his media training reasserted control. He continued toward the podium with apparent calm, but internally, his carefully constructed emotional barriers were crumbling. After four years of mechanical focus and professional achievement, seeing you here threatened to overwhelm him with everything he'd buried.

The championship trophy felt heavier than expected as it was placed in his hands. The weight of achievement, of sacrifice, of dreams fulfilled and hearts broken. As champagne sprayed and photographers captured his moment of triumph, Jay's eyes found you in the crowd below.

For an instant that felt eternal, your eyes met across the chaos of celebration. Four years of separation, four years of carefully maintained distance, four years of pretending that breaking both your hearts had been worth it—all of it collapsed into a single moment of recognition and regret.

You looked exactly as he remembered—professional composure masking depths of emotion, camera in hand, but attention focused entirely on him. The years had been kind to you, adding maturity to features that had never left his memory despite his best efforts to forget.

Jay raised the championship trophy above his head, the gesture expected and performed flawlessly. But his attention remained fixed on you, wondering what you were thinking, what you were feeling, whether seeing him achieve everything he'd chosen over you brought you satisfaction or regret.

The podium ceremony concluded with Jay's championship confirmed and celebrated. As he descended from the platform, his mind raced with possibilities and fears in equal measure. You were here, in Monaco, covering his race. The universe had a cruel sense of timing, bringing you back into his life at the exact moment when he'd achieved everything he'd thought he wanted.

Jay moved through the post-race obligations on autopilot—more interviews, more photographs, more celebrations that felt increasingly hollow. His championship medal felt like a consolation prize, tangible proof of everything he'd gained and everything he'd lost in pursuit of this moment.

As the formal celebrations wound down and the paddock began to empty, Jay found himself walking slowly toward the media area. He told himself he was simply fulfilling professional obligations, ensuring he'd satisfied every interview request and promotional requirement. But truthfully, he was hoping for another glimpse of you, another confirmation that the moment on the podium hadn't been an exhaustion-induced hallucination.

The media pen was quieter now, most journalists having filed their stories and departed for evening celebrations. Jay nodded politely to the remaining reporters, his championship composure never wavering despite the emotional chaos beneath.

And then he saw you again, packing camera equipment with the methodical efficiency he remembered so well. You moved with professional purpose, but something in your posture suggested the same emotional turbulence that threatened to overwhelm him.

Jay approached slowly, each step feeling simultaneously inevitable and terrifying. Four years of separation, four years of career focus, four years of convincing himself that he'd made the right choice—all of it leading to this moment in a half-empty media area where past and present collided with devastating force.

"You're here," he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

You looked up from your equipment, and for a moment, time seemed suspended between recognition and reaction. Your professional composure remained intact, but Jay could see the emotions flickering beneath the surface—surprise, old hurt, something that might have been longing quickly suppressed.

"I am, yeah." You replied carefully. "How are you doing? We're both busy today, aren't we?"

The question was neutral, professional, and safe. But for Jay, it represented the first genuine human connection he'd felt in four years. Not the manufactured interactions of media obligations or the strategic relationships of professional networking, but actual contact with someone who had known him before he became Park Jongseong, Formula 1 World Champion.

"Congratulations, by the way," you continued when he didn't immediately respond. "World Champion. Hooh. Everything you worked for."

The words should have brought pride, satisfaction, joy. Instead, they highlighted the hollow victory that his championship had become. Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd sacrificed for, everything he'd broken hearts for—all of it achieved, and all of it feeling meaningless in the face of what he'd lost.

"Thank you," Jay managed, his voice steadier than he felt. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"It’s a Monaco assignment," you explained with professional efficiency. "Vogue wanted coverage of the fashion and glamour aspects. I'm just doing my job."

Just doing your job. The phrase stung more than it should have, reducing their unexpected encounter to professional coincidence rather than the earth-shattering moment it felt like to him. But what had he expected? That you'd be here specifically to see him, to witness his championship, to somehow validate the choice he'd made four years ago?

"The race was … incredible," you continued, your voice carefully neutral. "You drove beautifully. Very controlled, very precise."

Controlled. Precise. The words that had defined his driving, his career, his entire existence for four years. Hearing them from you felt like a diagnosis rather than a compliment, confirmation that the mechanical focus he'd cultivated had cost him more than just emotional connection—it had cost him his humanity.

"It's just another race," Jay said automatically, the response so practiced it emerged without conscious thought.

You studied him for a moment, and he saw something flicker across your features—disappointment, perhaps, or recognition of how much he'd changed. The man you'd known four years ago wouldn't have dismissed his World Championship as 'just another race.' That man had been passionate, emotional, alive in ways that Jay had forgotten how to be.

"Right," you said quietly. "Well, I should finish packing. Long flight back to New York tomorrow."

The mention of departure jolted Jay from his emotional paralysis. You were leaving, returning to the life you'd built after he'd pushed you away. Soon this encounter would be nothing but another memory to file away, another reminder of what he'd sacrificed for achievements that felt increasingly hollow.

"Wait," he said, the word emerging with more desperation than he'd intended.

You paused, camera bag half-packed, looking at him with carefully guarded expression. Jay realized he had no idea what to say next. What could he possibly say that would justify interrupting your departure? What words could bridge four years of silence and hurt?

"I..." he began, then stopped. The polished responses that served him so well in media interviews felt inadequate for this moment. How did he explain four years of mechanical existence? How did he admit that achieving everything he'd thought he wanted had left him feeling more empty than ever?

"I think about you," he said finally, the admission escaping before his professional composure could stop it. "Every day. Every race. Every achievement that should have felt like victory but just felt... hollow."

Your hands stilled on the camera equipment, and for a moment, your professional mask slipped enough to reveal the hurt that still lingered beneath. "Jay..."

"I know I have no right," he continued, words spilling out after four years of careful silence. "I know I made my choice. I know I hurt you. But seeing you here, today, after everything... I can't pretend anymore that I made the right decision."

The admission hung between them like a confession and an apology rolled into one. Jay felt simultaneously relieved and terrified—relieved to finally voice what he'd carried for four years, terrified of what your response might be.

You finished packing your equipment with deliberate movements, not meeting his eyes. When you finally spoke, your voice was carefully controlled. "You were … very clear four years ago about what you wanted. Career first, no distractions, no burdens. Congratulations—you achieved exactly what you said you wanted."

The words hit him like physical blows, each one precisely aimed at the choices that had brought him to this moment. You weren't wrong—he had said those things, had believed them at the time, had convinced himself that emotional attachments were obstacles to overcome rather than sources of strength.

"I was wrong," he said simply. "About everything. The career, the focus, the idea that love was a burden instead of... instead of what made everything else worthwhile."

You shouldered your camera bag, the motion suggesting departure despite his words. "Four years is a long time, Jay. People change, build new lives, and find new purposes. You can't just... You can't just show up after all this time and expect everything to be waiting for you."

The truth of your words cut deep, but Jay pressed on. "I'm not expecting anything. I just... I needed you to know. Not a day has passed without me regretting what I said to you. That every victory has felt empty because you weren't there to share it. That becoming World Champion today should have been the greatest moment of my life, but all I could think about was how meaningless it felt without you."

You studied him for a long moment, and Jay saw years of hurt and healing warring in your expression. "You look tired," you said finally, and the gentleness in your voice nearly undid him completely.

"I am tired," he admitted. "Tired of pretending that achieving everything I thought I wanted was worth losing everything that actually mattered."

The paddock around them had grown quiet, most of the celebration having moved to Monaco's exclusive restaurants and nightclubs. The setting sun cast long shadows across the circuit where Jay had just achieved his greatest professional triumph, yet all he could focus on was the person standing before him—the one who had known him before success had hollowed him out.

"I should go," you said, but something in your voice suggested reluctance.

"Could we..." Jay began, then stopped. What right did he have to ask for anything? What could he possibly offer that would justify disrupting the life you'd built without him?

"Could we what?" you prompted when he didn't continue.

"Talk. Properly. Not here, not in a paddock with people around. Just... talk. Please."

You were quiet for so long that Jay began to think you'd refuse—and he couldn't blame you if you did. He'd forfeited any claim to your time or attention four years ago when he'd chosen career advancement over emotional connection.

"There's a café in Monaco-Ville," you said finally. "Le Petit Prince. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. I fly out at two."

The offer was small, limited, and hedged with practical constraints. But to Jay, it felt like salvation—a chance to explain, to apologize, to perhaps find some closure for the choice that had haunted him for four years.

"I'll be there," he said, the promise carrying more weight than any championship victory.

You nodded once, professionally polite, and walked away without looking back. Jay watched you go, feeling something stir in his chest that he hadn't experienced in four years—hope, fragile and tentative, but unmistakably real.

That night, in his championship celebration that felt more like a wake for the man he used to be, Jay declined invitations to exclusive parties and celebrity gatherings. Instead, he sat alone on his hotel balcony, championship medal forgotten on the table beside him, staring out at Monaco's harbor and thinking about tomorrow morning's conversation.

For the first time in four years, he felt something other than hollow accomplishment. It wasn't joy—not yet—but it was feeling, raw and real and potentially devastating. After so long numbing himself to emotion, the prospect of genuine human connection felt both terrifying and essential.

The sun rose over Monaco with typical Mediterranean beauty, painting the principality in shades of gold and promise. Jay arrived at Le Petit Prince thirty minutes early, choosing a corner table that offered privacy while still allowing him to watch for your arrival. His championship medal remained in his hotel room—today wasn't about professional achievements.

You arrived precisely at nine, punctual as always, looking effortlessly elegant in a way that made Jay's chest tight with memory and regret. You'd always moved with such purpose, such grace, and seeing you navigate the café's intimate space brought back countless memories of mornings they'd shared before his career consumed everything.

"Thank you for coming," Jay said as you settled across from him.

"I almost didn't," you admitted, and he appreciated your honesty. "I'm not sure what the point is, after all this time."

Jay had spent the night preparing for this conversation, rehearsing apologies and explanations that felt inadequate in the face of four years of separation. But sitting across from you now, seeing the wariness in your eyes mixed with something that might have been curiosity, he realized that prepared speeches wouldn't suffice.

"The point is that I owe you an apology," he said simply. "A real one, not the corporate-speak that's become my default language for everything."

You studied him over your coffee cup, and Jay felt exposed in a way he hadn't experienced since becoming a public figure. Your gaze had always been able to see through his carefully constructed facades, to find the person beneath the performance.

"You look different," you observed. "Older, obviously, but more than that. More... contained."

Contained. Another word that felt like a diagnosis rather than a description. "Four years of media training and public relations management," Jay said with bitter honesty. "I've become very good at saying the right things and feeling nothing while I say them."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is. But it's also safe. Can't be disappointed if you don't invest emotionally. Can't be hurt if you don't care too deeply about anything."

You were quiet for a moment, processing his admission. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you don't care?"

The question cut straight to the heart of his carefully constructed defenses. "I tell myself a lot of things. That I made the right choice. That my career required complete focus. That emotional attachments were obstacles to overcome." He paused, gathering courage for complete honesty. "But mostly I tell myself that what we had wasn't real enough to justify the regret I feel every single day."

Your coffee cup clinked against the saucer as you set it down. "And do you believe that?"

"No," Jay said without hesitation. "What we had was the most real thing in my life. And I destroyed it because I was twenty-one and stupid and convinced that love was a luxury I couldn't afford."

The words hung between them, four years of buried truth finally spoken aloud. Jay felt simultaneously relieved and terrified—relieved to finally voice what he'd carried, terrified of how you might respond to his admission.

"You didn't just destroy it," you said quietly. "You destroyed me. For a while."

The confession hit Jay like a physical blow. He'd known, intellectually, that his decision had hurt you. But hearing you say it aloud, seeing the echo of old pain in your eyes, made the consequences of his choice devastatingly real.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. "I'm so sorry. I thought I was protecting you from the burden of dating someone whose career would always come first. I thought I was being noble."

"You were being a coward," you said, and the honesty of it stung because it was true. "You were scared of dividing your attention, scared of failing, scared of being vulnerable. So you made the choice for both of us without giving me the chance to decide for myself."

Jay nodded, accepting the accusation because it was accurate. "You're right. I was scared. Terrified, actually. The career was taking off so fast, and there was so much pressure, so many people depending on me. I couldn't see how to balance it all."

"So you chose not to try."

"I chose the sure thing over the uncertain one. Professional success over personal happiness. And I've regretted it every day since."

You were quiet for a long time, staring out the café window at Monaco's narrow streets. Jay waited, giving you space to process, to feel, to decide how much of yourself you were willing to invest in this conversation.

"I built a good life," you said finally. "After you. After the hurt faded enough to function again. I threw myself into work, traveled the world, covered amazing stories. I learned to be happy on my own."

"I'm glad," Jay said, and meant it despite the way your words made his chest ache. "You deserved that. You deserved so much better than what I gave you."

"The thing is," you continued, still looking out the window, "I never stopped caring about you. Following your career, watching your races when I could, feeling proud when you won and worried when you crashed. I told myself it was just lingering attachment, that it would fade with time."

Jay's breath caught. "And did it? Fade?"

You finally met his eyes, and he saw honesty there that made hope surge in his chest. "No. It never did. Which is why this conversation is so dangerous for me."

"Dangerous how?"

"Because seeing you yesterday, seeing how empty you looked even in your moment of triumph... it made me want to care again. Really care. And that terrifies me."

Jay leaned forward, encouraged by your admission but careful not to push too hard. "What if I told you that I don't want to be empty anymore? That winning the championship yesterday felt meaningless because I had no one who really mattered to share it with?"

"I'd say that's something you need to figure out for yourself, not something I can fix for you."

The response was measured, self-protective, entirely reasonable. And it made Jay realize how much emotional work he'd need to do, how much of himself he'd need to rebuild, before he could ask anyone else to invest in his healing.

"You're right," he admitted. "I can't ask you to fix what I broke in myself. But I can ask you to consider... whether there might be room in your life for someone who's finally ready to figure out how to be human again."

You studied him for a long moment, and Jay felt the weight of four years' worth of choices being evaluated. "What would that look like? You have a career that spans the globe, commitments that don't leave room for emotional complications. How would this time be different?"

It was the crucial question, the one that got to the heart of whether he'd learned anything from four years of hollow achievement. Jay had spent the night thinking about this, about what he could offer that would be different from the fear-driven choice he'd made before.

"It would be different because I finally understand what matters," he said. "Not the trophies or the fame or the perfect media image. The connections that make everything else worthwhile. The people who see you as more than your accomplishments."

"That sounds good in theory. But your life is still the same—travel, pressure, media obligations, sponsorship requirements. What happens when the reality of dating a public figure becomes difficult again?"

Jay had no easy answer for that, no guarantee that the practical challenges that had seemed so insurmountable at twenty-one wouldn't arise again. But he did have something he'd lacked four years ago: perspective.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I can't promise it would be easy, or that I wouldn't make mistakes, or that my career wouldn't create complications. But I can promise that I wouldn't run from those challenges again. That I wouldn't make unilateral decisions about what's best for you without giving you a voice in the choice."

Your expression softened slightly, and Jay saw some of the wariness give way to something that might have been consideration. "You've grown up."

"Some. Not enough, probably, but some."

You glanced at your watch, and Jay felt time slipping away like sand through his fingers. "My flight..."

"I know. I'm not asking you to change your plans or make any decisions today. I'm just asking you to think about it. To consider whether what we had might be worth exploring again, with the maturity we didn't have before."

You stood, gathering your things with the same efficiency he remembered. But this time, the motion didn't feel like escape—it felt like thoughtful conclusion.

"I'll think about it," you said, and the promise felt like more than Jay had dared hope for.

"That's all I can ask for."

You paused at the table's edge, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you finally won the championship. Even if it didn't feel the way you expected."

"For what it's worth," Jay replied, "it would have meant everything if you'd been there to share it."

You smiled then—the first genuine smile he'd seen from you since your unexpected reunion. It transformed your face, reminding him of all the reasons he'd fallen in love with you before fear made him push you away.

"Take care, Jay," you said, but it didn't sound like a final farewell.

"You too," he replied, watching you walk away for the second time in two days, but this time with hope rather than regret.

Jay remained at the café long after you'd gone, processing the conversation and the possibilities it had opened. For the first time in four years, he felt something approaching peace—not because he'd fixed everything, but because he'd finally been honest about what he'd broken.

His phone buzzed with messages about championship celebrations, sponsor events, media appearances. The machinery of Formula 1 success demanded his attention, pulled him back toward the carefully managed life he'd constructed. But something fundamental had shifted during his conversation with you.

Jay began responding to messages with a different energy than he'd felt in years. Not the mechanical efficiency that had carried him through four seasons of emotional emptiness, but genuine engagement with the life he'd chosen. If he was going to rebuild himself into someone worthy of love—yours or anyone else's—he needed to start living authentically rather than just performing his own existence.

The championship celebration that night felt different. Jay still fulfilled his obligations, still smiled for photographs and gave interviews and posed with sponsors. But beneath the professional performance, he felt something he'd forgotten was possible—genuine engagement with his own life.

When team members asked about his plans for the off-season, Jay found himself talking about things beyond training regimens and sponsor obligations. Maybe he'd spend more time at home with his parents. Maybe he'd record music that meant something to him rather than just fulfilling contractual requirements. Maybe he'd learn to be a person again rather than just a brand.

"You seem different tonight," Sunghoon observed during a quiet moment between official festivities.

"Different how?" Jay asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"More present. Like you're actually here instead of just going through the motions."

Jay considered the observation, recognizing its accuracy. "I think I'm finally waking up."

"About time. We were starting to worry you'd forgotten how to be human."

The comment was delivered with typical teammate irreverence, but it carried genuine concern that Jay hadn't recognized until now. How many people had been worried about him while he'd been focused on maintaining his perfectly controlled facade?

As the evening progressed, Jay found himself actually enjoying aspects of the celebration rather than just enduring them. Conversations with team members revealed depths he'd missed during four years of professional distance. Interactions with media became opportunities for genuine expression rather than exercises in damage control.

But throughout it all, his thoughts returned to you—to the possibility you'd offered, the hope you'd allowed, the future that might exist if he could become someone worthy of it.

Three days later, Jay's phone rang while he was packing for the flight home to Seoul. Your name on the caller ID made his heart race in a way that had nothing to do with professional pressure and everything to do with human connection.

"Hello," he answered, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

"Hi," you said, and he could hear something in your voice that hadn't been there during your café conversation—warmth, maybe, or possibility.

"How was your flight back?"

"Long. Really gave me a lot of time to think."

Jay's breath caught. "And?"

"And … I think maybe we're both different people than we were four years ago. Maybe different enough to try something new."

The words hit Jay like winning the championship should have—pure joy mixed with disbelief and the overwhelming sense that everything important was finally falling into place.

"Are … are you sure?" he asked, because he needed to know this wasn't pity or nostalgia driving your decision.

"No," you said honestly. "I'm not sure about anything. But I'm tired of living safe, and I think you might be too."

"I am. God, I am so tired of safe."

"So here's what I'm thinking," you continued, and Jay heard the smile in your voice. "I have three weeks of vacation coming up. I was planning to stay in New York, catch up on rest, and be boring. But there's this new World Champion I know who probably needs to learn how to celebrate properly."

"Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm. Word is he's forgotten how to have fun, how to be spontaneous, how to do anything that isn't carefully planned and media-approved."

Jay laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in years. "That sounds like someone who could use a good teacher."

"I happen to be available for consulting work. If he's interested."

"He's very interested. When do you want to start?"

"How about as soon as you get back to Seoul? I hear it's beautiful this time of year."

Jay closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the possibility spreading before him. Not just a romantic possibility, though that felt miraculous enough, but the chance to rebuild himself into someone capable of genuine connection again.

"I'll send you my address," he said.

"I'll book a flight."

After ending the call, Jay sat in his Monaco hotel room—the same room where he'd felt nothing but emptiness after achieving his greatest professional goal—and felt something he'd forgotten was possible. Not just happiness, but anticipation for a future that wasn't mapped out in sponsorship contracts and race calendars.

He looked at his championship medal sitting on the dresser, and for the first time, it felt like the beginning of something rather than the end. Not the culmination of everything he'd sacrificed for, but the foundation for everything he might still build.

Jay picked up his phone and began typing a message to his team, requesting a meeting about restructuring his schedule to allow for more personal time. Then he called his parents, hearing their surprise and delight when he asked about spending more time at home during the off-season.

For the first time in four years, Jay was planning a life instead of just managing a career.

The flight to Seoul felt different than any homecoming he'd experienced since becoming a professional driver. Usually, returns home were brief stops between races, quick visits squeezed into demanding schedules. This time, Jay found himself looking forward to arriving not because it represented rest between obligations, but because it represented the possibility of living rather than just existing.

Your flight was arriving two days after his, giving him time to prepare—not with the meticulous planning that characterized his professional life, but with the nervous excitement of someone anticipating something genuinely meaningful.

Jay spent those two days doing things he hadn't done in years: visiting his parents without a departure countdown, walking through Seoul's neighborhoods without security escorts, eating at small restaurants instead of perfectly curated dining experiences. Each activity felt like reclaiming pieces of himself he'd lost during his rise to championship level.

"You seem different," his mother observed over dinner at their family home.

"Good different or bad different?" Jay asked.

"Young different. Like you remember how to enjoy things instead of just accomplishing them."

The observation was more accurate than she probably realized. Jay had become so focused on achievement that he'd forgotten enjoyment was possible—not just the brief satisfaction of goals met, but genuine pleasure in experiences shared.

When Jay picked you up at Incheon Airport, he felt nervous in a way that had nothing to do with performance pressure and everything to do with human vulnerability. You emerged from customs looking slightly tired but unmistakably beautiful, and Jay felt his carefully rebuilt composure threatening to crumble.

"Hi," you said, and the simple greeting carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of the risk you were both taking, appreciation for the chance to try again, anticipation for what might unfold.

"Hi," he replied, and then because words felt inadequate for what he was feeling, he simply hugged you.

The embrace lasted longer than politeness required and felt like coming home in a way his championship victory never had. When you finally separated, Jay saw something in your expression that matched what he felt—hope mixed with nervousness, excitement tempered by caution, but underneath it all, genuine affection that had survived four years of separation.

"So," you said as they walked toward his car, "what does a World Champion do with three weeks of vacation?"

"I have no idea," Jay admitted. "I've never taken three weeks of actual vacation. Usually it's just a few days between sponsor obligations and training requirements."

"Well then, we'll figure it out together. First lesson in being human again: spontaneity."

"I'm terrible at spontaneity."

"I know. That's why you need practice."

The following weeks unfolded like a gradual awakening. You challenged Jay to experience Seoul like a tourist rather than a returning celebrity, visiting markets and museums and cafés without itineraries or objectives beyond enjoyment. He rediscovered the pleasure of wandering without destination, of conversations that meandered through topics without strategic purpose, of laughter that came from genuine amusement rather than media-trained responses.

"You're getting better at this," you observed one afternoon as they sat by the Han River, watching people walk their dogs and play music and live their ordinary, extraordinary lives.

"At what?"

"Being present. Actually experiencing moments instead of just getting through them."

Jay considered the observation, recognizing its truth. For four years, he'd moved through life with efficient purpose, checking boxes and meeting obligations without actually inhabiting his experiences. But sitting beside you, watching Seoul's daily rhythms unfold around them, he felt anchored in the present moment in a way he'd forgotten was possible.

"I'd forgotten what this felt like," he admitted.

"What what felt like?"

"Contentment. Not achievement-based satisfaction or professional pride, just... contentment with where I am and who I'm with."

You were quiet for a moment, and Jay worried he'd said too much, pushed too hard into emotional territory you weren't ready to navigate. But when you spoke, your voice carried warmth rather than caution.

"I'd forgotten what it felt like to want to share experiences with someone specific. To see something beautiful and immediately think about how you'd react to it."

The admission felt like a gift, acknowledgment that the emotional connection they'd once shared was reasserting itself despite four years of separation and growth. Jay felt hope expanding in his chest—not the desperate hope of someone trying to reclaim the past, but the patient hope of someone building toward a future.

As their time together progressed, Jay found himself changing in ways that went beyond relaxation or temporary lifestyle adjustment. The mechanical precision that had defined his professional life began incorporating space for spontaneity. The emotional distance that had protected him from disappointment gave way to vulnerability that made joy possible.

You seemed to be undergoing your own transformation. The careful wariness that had characterized your early conversations dissolved into something approaching trust. Your professional competence remained intact, but it was now balanced by willingness to be silly, to take risks, to invest emotionally despite the potential for disappointment.

"I should probably start thinking about going back," you said one evening as they walked through Myeongdong, the statement feeling both practical and reluctant.

"Should you?" Jay asked, though he knew the answer. Your vacation time was ending, your professional life in New York required attention, and they couldn't exist indefinitely in the suspended reality of these three weeks.

"Work doesn't stop just because I'm having the best vacation of my adult life."

The qualification made Jay's heart race. "The best?"

"By far. Which is dangerous, because it makes me want to stay longer."

"Then stay longer."

"Jay..."

"I know it's complicated. I know you have a life in New York, responsibilities, commitments. But what if we figured out how to make this work long-term? What if distance doesn't have to mean ending this?"

You stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "What are you suggesting?"

"I don't know exactly. But I know I don't want this to end just because your vacation time is up. I know I want to find ways to see you, to talk to you, to be part of your life in whatever way works for both of us."

"Long-distance relationships are hard. Especially when one person travels the world professionally and the other has a demanding career in a different time zone."

"Hard, but not impossible. And maybe worth trying for something that feels this right."

You studied his face, and Jay saw you weighing possibilities against practicalities, hope against experience, the potential for happiness against the risk of repeated heartbreak.

"If we're going to try this," you said finally, "it has to be different from before. More communication, more honesty about difficulties when they arise, more commitment to working through problems instead of running from them."

"Yes," Jay said immediately. "All of that, yes."

"And you have to promise me that if it gets difficult—when it gets difficult—you won't make decisions for both of us again. We figure it out together or not at all."

"I promise. No more unilateral choices, no more protecting you from difficulties you should get to decide about for yourself."

You nodded slowly, and Jay saw resolution forming in your expression. "Okay then. Let's try to figure this out."

The kiss that followed felt like sealing a pact—not just romantic connection, but genuine partnership between two people who had learned enough about themselves and each other to attempt building something sustainable.

Your departure from Seoul was emotional but not devastating. The difference between goodbye and separation, between end and transition. Jay drove you to the airport with plans already forming for his visit to New York during the off-season break, for your potential attendance at selected races, for the Skype calls and text messages and small gestures that would maintain connection across distance.

"This feels different," you said as they stood in the departure terminal.

"Different how?"

"Like the beginning of something instead of the end. Like we're both choosing this instead of just hoping it works out."

Jay pulled you close, breathing in the scent that had become associated with contentment and possibility. "We are choosing this. Every day, we're going to choose this."

"Even when it's difficult?"

"Especially when it's difficult."

The months that followed tested that commitment in ways both expected and surprising. Time zones created complications, but they established communication rhythms that worked around their schedules. Media attention proved challenging when you attended your first race since their reunion, but Jay's newfound willingness to address questions about his personal life with honesty rather than deflection made the attention manageable rather than overwhelming.

Most importantly, when difficulties arose—and they did, because long-distance relationships involving public figures were inherently complicated—they talked through them rather than making assumptions or unilateral decisions. Each challenge became an opportunity to strengthen their partnership rather than a threat to it.

Jay's racing improved dramatically once he remembered how to invest emotionally in his life outside the cockpit. The mechanical precision remained, but it was now fueled by genuine passion rather than hollow dedication. He drove not just to win, but to share victories with someone who understood their significance.

You thrived in the balance between your independent career and shared relationship. Your work retained its excellence and ambition, but it was now complemented by emotional fulfillment that made everything else more vibrant rather than less focused.

Just a year after their reunion in Monaco, Jay won his second World Championship. But this time, when he climbed from his car in parc fermé, he felt the joy that had been missing from his first title. Not because the achievement itself was different, but because he had someone who mattered to share it with.

You were there in the media pen, officially covering the race for Vogue but personally invested in his success in ways that made every moment more meaningful. When your eyes met across the celebration chaos, Jay felt complete in a way that had nothing to do with trophies and everything to do with love.

Later, during the quieter moments after the official celebrations had ended, you found each other in Jay's driver's room. The space was filled with flowers and congratulations cards, but Jay's attention was entirely focused on you.

"So," you said, settling beside him on the small couch, "how does this championship feel different from the last one?"

"Like it actually matters," Jay said without hesitation. "Like it's worth celebrating because I have someone who understands what it cost and what it means."

"It was always worth celebrating, Jay. You just couldn't feel it before."

"No, I couldn't. But I can now. Because of you, because of us, because I finally remembered how to care about more than just achievement."

You leaned against him, and Jay marveled at how natural it felt—this combination of professional success and personal happiness, of individual achievement and shared joy.

"I'm proud of you," you said quietly. "Not just for winning, but for figuring out how to be human again."

"I had a good teacher."

"You did the work yourself. I just reminded you what was possible."

Jay pressed a kiss to the top of your head, breathing in the scent that now meant home regardless of which country they were in. "What's possible now? For us, I mean. What comes next?"

"I don't know," you admitted. "But I'm excited to figure it out together."

"Together," Jay repeated, the word carrying weight and promise and everything he'd learned about what really mattered.

Outside the driver's room, the Monaco circuit was winding down from another race weekend. But inside, two people who had found their way back to each other were planning a future that balanced ambition with love, success with humanity, achievement with connection.

Jay's championship medal sat on the table beside them, but this time it felt like what it should have always been—not the ultimate goal, but a milestone in a life rich with purpose and meaning and love.

For the first time since he'd started racing professionally, Park Jongseong felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

He had won back his own heart, and in doing so, had found his way home.  

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — and another one hits the ground BOOM!! oh i love you jay … RAAAAAAA also i think this is my longest?! BRUH

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — and here's the legacy one!

The glaring brightness of the laptop screen hurt your tired eyes as you hunched over the coffee table, surrounded by textbooks and crumpled sticky notes. Your International Business Strategy project was due Monday, and you still had mountains of work left. Like literally, it felt like mountains.

The urge to just rub your eyes won and your attempt to focus on the paragraph about market penetration in Southeast Asia was wavering, with all those jargons and words just blurring altogether. Four hours in the same position had definitely left your shoulders aching.

The real problem, though, was currently sprawled on the couch looking annoyingly perfect in a tight black shirt and grey sweatpants. Yang Jungwon, your boyfriend of almost four years, had been on break from ENHYPEN activities all week. And he seemed determined to spend every moment in whatever room you occupied.

Afternoon sunlight caught his profile as he scrolled through his phone, dark hair falling across his forehead. Even doing absolutely nothing, he looked like a magazine cover.

"Focus," you muttered, turning back to your screen. This project was worth thirty percent of your grade—you couldn't afford distractions, no matter how pretty they were.

You managed two sentences about joint ventures before your gaze drifted back to the couch. Jungwon had shifted to lie on his back, phone held above his face, and his hoodie had ridden up just enough to show a strip of pale skin.

You shook your head and forced yourself to stare at the screen. You were a senior in college, not some lovesick teenager. Your scholarship depended on maintaining your grades.

But then Jungwon made this soft, content sound as he stretched, and you completely lost your train of thought.

"Having trouble concentrating?" His voice cut through the silence, tinged with amusement. You looked up to find him watching you with knowing dark eyes and a smirk.

"I'm fine," you replied quickly. "Just trying to understand cross-cultural business negotiations."

His smirk widened. "Is that why you've been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes?"

Heat crept up your neck. "I haven't been—"

"Tell me what you just read about cross-cultural negotiations."

You opened your mouth, then closed it when you realized you couldn't remember a single detail. Jungwon's grin became radiant.

"That's what I thought," he said, tone playful. "Maybe you should take a break."

"I can't take a break. This is due Monday and I still need to analyze three different case studies and develop a comprehensive strategy proposal." The weight of everything you had left to do pressed down on your shoulders.

Jungwon was quiet for a moment. Then you heard his bare feet on the hardwood as he moved from the couch to the armchair directly across from you.

You tried to ignore him, really did. You read an entire paragraph about distribution networks without looking up once. But then he started shifting in the chair, leather creaking softly with each movement. Then came the humming—a melody from one of their recent B-sides, soft and sweet and impossible to ignore.

"Wonnie," you said without looking up, "could you maybe hum more quietly? Or in another room?"

"Oh?" His voice was pure innocence. "I'm just sitting here minding my own business. I wasn't even aware I was making noise."

You finally looked up to find him sprawled in the chair with exaggerated confusion, hair tousled and knees pulled to his chest, looking younger than his twenty years.

"You know exactly what you're doing," you accused, though there was no real annoyance in your voice.

"I'm not doing anything," Jungwon protested, eyes dancing. "I'm just existing in my own living room. Is that not allowed?"

"Our living room," you corrected.

"Right, our living room." He emphasized 'our' in a way that made your stomach flip. "Which means I have just as much right to be here as you do."

You couldn't argue with that logic. The apartment was both of yours, purchased six months ago when his ENHYPEN income made it possible.

"Besides," he continued with that teasing lilt that made your pulse quicken, "isn't it your fault you're getting distracted? You could have used the desk in the bedroom, but you chose to camp out here where I am."

He had a point. Your desk had better ergonomics and fewer distractions. But after a week of Jungwon being home constantly, studying without him nearby felt lonely.

"The lighting is better out here," you said weakly.

"Uh-huh." His expression clearly showed he wasn't buying it. "And it has nothing to do with wanting to be in the same room as your incredibly handsome boyfriend?"

The complete lack of humility should have been obnoxious, but coming from Jungwon, it was just endearing.

"Your ego is showing," you said, fighting a fond smile.

"Is it wrong, though?" He leaned forward, resting his chin on his knees with that intense gaze. "You do think I'm incredibly handsome, don't you?"

There was genuine curiosity beneath the teasing, as if your opinion was the only one that mattered. It was moments like these that reminded you why you'd fallen for Yang Jungwon.

"You're alright, I guess," you said, keeping your expression neutral.

"Just alright?" He gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "After almost four years together, that's all I get? I'm wounded. Devastated. My heart may never recover."

His theatrical despair was so over-the-top you couldn't help but laugh. This was exactly what you'd been trying to avoid—getting drawn into his banter when you had work to do.

But God, you'd missed this. The past few months had been hectic with senior year and his packed schedule, making moments like these rare.

"Okay, you're moderately attractive," you conceded. "Now can I please get back to work?"

Instead of settling back, Jungwon stood and padded over to sit beside you on the floor, close enough that you could smell his familiar scent—something clean and warm.

"Samsung's Indian expansion, huh?" He leaned over to peer at your screen. "That's actually interesting. I remember reading about how they had to restructure their pricing strategy to compete with local brands."

You blinked in surprise. "You know about Samsung's market entry strategy?"

"Just because I'm an idol doesn't mean I'm completely ignorant about business," Jungwon said with a slight huff, eyes sparkling. "Entertainment is still business, you know."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine." He bumped your shoulder. "I know I don't usually talk about this stuff. But I pay attention when you're working on things that matter to you."

Your chest tightened with affection. Of course he'd been listening during all those times you'd rambled about classes.

"So what's your analysis so far?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

You hesitated, torn between productivity and the desire to share your thoughts. But his interested expression was hard to resist.

"Well, the fascinating thing is how they balanced maintaining their premium brand image with making products accessible to regular consumers. They couldn't just slash prices without devaluing their brand."

Jungwon nodded thoughtfully. "So they created different product lines specifically for the Indian market?"

"Exactly. Budget and mid-range devices that maintained Samsung quality but were priced competitively. The clever part was maintaining brand cohesion across price points."

"That's smart. Like how we adapt our concepts for different audiences but keep ENHYPEN's distinctive identity."

The parallel hadn't occurred to you. "Right, like modifying performances for different countries while keeping the core consistent."

He shifted closer, ostensibly to see your screen better, but the movement brought his thigh against yours. "What about distribution? That must have been challenging in a market as complex as India."

You tried to focus on his question rather than the warm pressure of his leg. "They had to build relationships with local retailers and develop networks reaching beyond metropolitan areas. Rural penetration was crucial for scale."

"Sounds like it required local partnerships," Jungwon mused, hand coming to rest on the carpet behind you. "Any acquisitions?"

The thoughtful questions should have made you happy—this was the intellectual engagement you'd always hoped to share. But instead, you found yourself distracted by his proximity. His arm curved around you without quite touching, creating an intimate space that smelled like his shampoo and felt charged with possibility.

"They did make strategic acquisitions," you managed breathlessly. "Particularly in manufacturing. Local production was essential for keeping costs down."

"Makes sense." His voice had dropped to a lower register, and when you glanced at him, you caught him staring at your profile instead of your screen. "You're really passionate about this stuff, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your whole demeanor changes when you talk about business strategy. You get this intense, focused expression. It's really attractive."

Heat flooded your cheeks. "I should be focusing on writing, not talking."

"Should you?" His tone was light but there was something underneath that made your pulse quicken. "Because it seems like talking through your ideas is helping you think more clearly."

He wasn't wrong. But continuing felt dangerous when he was close enough to count his eyelashes.

"I really do need to get this written up. The deadline—"

"Is still more than forty-eight hours away," he finished. "You have time for a break."

His hand moved to your wrist, fingers circling gently. The innocent touch sent heat through your nervous system.

"Wonnie," you said, voice more warning than intended.

"What?" Pure innocence, but his thumb started tracing circles on your pulse point. "I'm just suggesting you take care of yourself. You've been working non-stop for weeks."

The concern was genuine, making your chest tighten even as your body responded to his touch. "I know you're worried, but I can't afford to fall behind. This project is worth thirty percent of my grade, and if I don't maintain my GPA—"

"You'll lose your scholarship," he finished seriously. "I know. But running yourself into the ground won't help you produce better work."

He was probably right. Your thinking had declined as exhaustion accumulated.

"What kind of break did you have in mind?" you asked cautiously.

His smile turned mischievous. "Nothing too exciting. Food that isn't delivered in cardboard? A shower longer than five minutes? Actual conversation with your boyfriend who's been watching you work yourself to death?"

All perfectly reasonable suggestions. But the way he was looking at you suggested additional activities he wasn't mentioning.

"Food does sound good," you admitted. Your diet had been mostly convenience store sandwiches and energy drinks lately.

"Great. I'll cook while you shower and change into clothes that don't smell like the library."

You looked down at your outfit—the same jeans and hoodie you'd worn for two days. "Okay. But just for an hour or two."

"Of course," he agreed, though his expression suggested he wasn't planning to make returning to work easy.

As you gathered your materials, you tried to ignore how Jungwon's gaze followed your movements. There was something predatory about his attention that made you hyperaware of your body.

"Stop staring," you said without looking at him.

"I'm not staring. I'm observing. There's a difference."

"What exactly are you observing?"

"How beautiful my boyfriend is, even when he's been living on caffeine and stress."

The casual compliment made your cheeks burn. "Flatterer."

"It's not flattery if it's true," he said, rising and extending a hand. "Go shower. I'll make us something that doesn't come in plastic packaging."

His hand was warm and slightly callused, and he held on just a moment longer than necessary. For a heartbeat, you stood close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes.

Then he stepped back with a knowing grin, and you fled toward the bedroom.

The hot shower felt like heaven, washing away days of accumulated stress. You stayed longer than planned, letting the heat work out the knots in your shoulders. When you emerged, you felt more human than you had in days.

You changed into fresh sweatpants and one of Jungwon's hoodies you'd claimed months ago. It smelled like his cologne and fabric softener—safe and loved.

The smell of cooking drew you to the kitchen, where Jungwon stood at the stove looking focused. He'd changed too, into those grey sweatpants and a fitted black shirt that showed off his dancer's physique.

"Kimchi fried rice with dumplings," he said, glancing back with a smile. "Nothing complicated, but actual food."

Your stomach growled in response. "It smells amazing."

"Should be ready in a few minutes." He did a double-take at your outfit. "Is that my hoodie?"

"Maybe."

"It looks better on you than me," he said fondly. "Keep it."

"I was planning to anyway."

He laughed. "Of course. You've already stolen half my wardrobe."

You settled at the dining table, content to watch him move around the kitchen with economical grace. There was something deeply satisfying about being cared for in such a basic way.

When he set a steaming plate in front of you, the first bite was revelatory. You'd forgotten what real nutrition tasted like.

"This is incredible," you said around a mouthful of rice. "I think I'd forgotten what actual food tastes like."

"You're being dramatic. It's just fried rice."

"It's the best fried rice I've ever had."

He laughed. "Your standards have definitely been lowered by convenience store meals."

The conversation flowed easily as you ate—his plans for the rest of his break, your post-graduation job search. It felt like the first real conversation you'd had in weeks.

"So what's next after you finish this project?" he asked, refilling your water glass.

"Two more finals, then I'm officially done with undergrad. It feels surreal."

"You'll still be the same person. Just without constant deadline stress."

The prospect was both exciting and terrifying. "Are you nervous?" he asked, reading your uncertainty.

"A little. Everything's going to change. New job, new routine. And with your schedule being so unpredictable..."

You didn't finish, but he understood. His career would always involve separation, irregular schedules, public scrutiny.

"Hey." He reached across to take your hand. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

His simple confidence was reassuring. You'd navigated plenty of challenges over four years.

"You're right. I'm probably overthinking."

"You definitely are. It's one of your most endearing and frustrating qualities."

After dinner, you handled dishes while he dried. The domestic routine felt comfortable, a glimpse of the partnership you hoped for once schedules allowed.

"Okay," you said when everything was put away, "I should get back to work."

You expected him to nod, but instead he moved to block your path.

"Actually, I was thinking you could take the rest of the night off."

"Jungwon—"

"Hear me out. You've been working non-stop for weeks, you just had your first real meal in days, and you're clearly exhausted. Pushing yourself won't produce your best writing."

His logic was sound, but deadline anxiety made it hard to consider taking the entire evening off.

"What if I helped?" he interrupted. "I could read what you've written, help you brainstorm."

The offer was tempting, especially since his earlier questions proved he understood the material.

"You really want to spend your break helping with homework?"

"I want to spend time with my boyfriend. If that means discussing market strategies, fine."

His simple sincerity made your chest tighten. This was why you'd fallen for Yang Jungwon—he genuinely cared about what mattered to you.

"Okay. But we work in the bedroom. The living room has too many distractions."

His grin was brilliant. "Deal."

You gathered materials while Jungwon collected snacks. The bedroom felt more intimate but also more conducive to focused work.

He settled on the bed with your research while you opened your laptop. For the first hour, it worked perfectly. He asked thoughtful questions, pointed out places to strengthen arguments, helped brainstorm transitions.

"This cultural adaptation section is strong," he said, looking up from your Samsung analysis. "But you could expand on marketing strategies. It wasn't just product features—they had to completely rethink consumer communication."

"That's a really good point." You made a note to research Samsung's advertising campaigns. "I've been so focused on operational challenges."

"Marketing is everything in entertainment. No matter how good your product, if you can't communicate value to your audience, you won't succeed."

The insight was valuable, but as the evening wore on, you became increasingly aware of Jungwon on your bed. He'd started sitting properly but gradually shifted until he was lying on his stomach, papers spread in front of him, chin propped on his hands and feet moving idly in the air.

The position should have been innocent, but something about the curve of his back and the way his shirt rode up made it difficult to focus. Every movement drew your attention from your screen.

"Earth to stressed college student," his voice broke through your distraction. "You've been staring at that sentence for five minutes."

You blinked at your screen, realizing you'd typed half a sentence about market research and lost track completely.

"I guess I'm more tired than I thought."

"Yeah. Tired. Is that what we're calling it?" His tone was skeptical.

When you looked at him, his expression was far too knowing. He'd figured out exactly what was distracting you.

"I am tired."

"Mmm." He made no move to shift positions. If anything, he settled more comfortably, shirt riding up further.

You forced yourself back to your laptop, managing two sentences about local market research before his voice interrupted again.

"You know, this situation is kind of ironic."

"What situation?"

"You complaining about being distracted when you insisted we work in the bedroom."

You could hear his smile. "The bedroom has better lighting for reading."

"Right. Lighting. That's definitely why you wanted somewhere more private and intimate."

Heat crept up your neck. "I'm trying to be productive."

"Are you though?" He rolled onto his side, propping his head up to look at you directly. "Because it seems like you're having the same concentration problems as the living room."

The new position was even more distracting—the long line of his body stretched across your bed, hair falling across his forehead, playful challenge in his eyes.

"Maybe if you weren't being deliberately distracting—"

"Me?" Pure innocence. "I'm just lying here helping with homework. How is that distracting?"

"You know exactly how."

"I really don't. Maybe you should explain it to me."

The challenge was unmistakable. You knew engaging would lead somewhere that definitely didn't end with completed business analysis. But the way he was looking at you made it hard to remember why productivity was supposed to be priority.

"Jungwon," you said, his name more warning than intended.

"What?" He shifted closer to your desk chair. "I'm just trying to understand why my mere presence is so disruptive."

"Your 'mere presence' has never been mere anything."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's fact."

His smile turned softer, more genuine. "You know I'm proud of you, right? How hard you work, how dedicated you are. It's really admirable."

The unexpected sincerity caught you off guard. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"But I also think you've been taking yourself too seriously lately. When's the last time you did something just for fun?"

You tried to remember and came up empty. The past months had been such a blur of obligations that leisure had disappeared entirely.

"I don't really have time for fun right now. Maybe after graduation—"

"After graduation, you'll be job hunting, then starting your career. There's always something demanding attention. At some point, you have to make time for what matters too."

"My education matters."

"Of course. But so does your mental health. So does remembering how to enjoy life." He reached for your hand. "So does us."

He had a point. You'd been treating every non-productive moment as wasteful, but the constant pressure was taking a toll.

"What are you suggesting?"

His grin returned full force. "Nothing too scandalous. Just spend some time together. Talk about something other than market strategies. Remember why we like each other."

The suggestion was reasonable, but his tone suggested broader definitions of "spending time together."

"I really should finish this section tonight."

"Should you?" He sat up and scooted closer, bringing him within arm's reach. "Try that again?"

Before you could answer, he gently took your hands, pulling you to face him directly. The movement brought you close enough that your knees nearly touched.

"When's the last time you looked at me—really looked at me—without thinking about homework?" he asked softly.

The question hit harder than expected. You tried to remember the last time you'd given him full attention without mentally cataloging tasks. It had been weeks.

"I'm looking at you now," you said, though part of your attention drifted toward the unfinished document.

"Are you?" His hands framed your face, gently but firmly turning your head so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. "What color are my eyes?"

"Dark brown."

"What am I wearing?"

"Grey sweatpants and that tight black t-shirt."

He laughed. "How do I smell?"

You breathed in automatically, catching that familiar scent uniquely his. "Like home," you said honestly.

His expression softened. "There you are. I was starting to think I'd lost you to academic stress entirely."

The gentle affection made guilt twist in your chest. You had been neglecting him, treating him like pleasant background presence.

"I'm sorry. I know I've been distracted. I just—"

"I know. I understand why your studies are important. But I miss you."

Simple honesty was more effective than any guilt trip. You'd been so worried about securing your future that you'd sacrificed the relationship that made it meaningful.

"I miss you too. I've been so focused on deadlines that I forgot to appreciate having you home."

"I'm not going anywhere tonight," he said, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "Your project will be there tomorrow. But right now, I'm here, you're here, and we have the whole evening."

Academic conditioning made it difficult to embrace, but his logic was appealing. "But—"

"No buts. You're too smart and hardworking to screw everything up in one night. One evening off isn't going to derail your academic career."

He was probably right. You'd never actually missed deadlines or failed obligations, even with occasional breaks.

"Okay. One evening off. But tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow you'll work with a clearer head and renewed focus. But tonight is ours."

The way he said "ours" made something flutter in your chest. You'd forgotten how good it felt to be claimed by someone who loved you.

"So what exactly did you have in mind for 'our' evening?"

His voice dropped to that lower register that sent shivers down your spine. "Well, I was thinking we could start with this."

Before you could ask what "this" meant, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft and sweet and entirely too brief.

"That's a good start," you said breathlessly.

"Just a start. I have plenty of other ideas."

The promise made heat pool in your stomach. Your body had been craving this connection just as much as proper nutrition.

"Show me," you said, the words coming out as challenge.

His grin turned predatory. "With pleasure."

This time the kiss was nothing brief or hesitant. His lips moved with confident familiarity, tongue teasing until you opened with a soft sigh. The taste of him was intoxicating—mint and something uniquely Jungwon.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing harder. Weeks of suppressed tension had built to this moment, and now that the dam had broken, the flood of want was overwhelming.

"I've missed this," you admitted. "I've missed you."

"I know. I could tell. You've been so focused on everything else that you barely seemed to see me."

The subtle hurt made your chest ache. You hadn't realized how your stress had affected him.

"I'm sorry. I never want you to feel invisible."

"You can make it up to me," he said, tone shifting toward playfulness though you could see genuine need for reassurance.

"How?"

Instead of answering, he stood and moved to close your laptop, saving your work first. Then he turned back with pure mischief.

"First, you're going to stop thinking about anything that isn't happening in this room right now."

The command sent a thrill through you. "And if I can't?"

"Then I'll have to be more creative about capturing your attention."

Before you could respond, he moved closer until he was standing directly in front of your chair. The position put him at perfect height for you to wrap your arms around his waist, which you did without thought. The solid warmth of him was grounding.

"I think you have my attention already."

"Do I?" His hands came to rest on your shoulders, thumbs finding tension knots and working at them with gentle persistence. "What am I thinking right now?"

The massage felt incredible. You had to suppress a groan of pleasure. "That I need better work-life balance?"

"Close. I'm thinking that I love you, and I've missed having you present in our relationship, and I want to remind you why taking breaks is important."

His words and touch were dissolving your resistance to taking the evening off. Weeks of stress flowed out of your muscles as his hands found every point of tightness.

"This is a very compelling argument for work-life balance."

"I haven't even started making my real argument yet."

Something in his tone made you look up sharply. His expression was absolutely wicked, and before you could ask what he meant, he was moving again. In one fluid motion, he shifted to straddle your lap in the chair, legs bracketing your thighs and hands coming to rest on the chair back on either side of your head.

The position brought you face to face, close enough to see every gold fleck in his eyes, close enough that each breath was filled with his scent. More importantly, it made focusing on anything other than him impossible.

"Better?" he asked, as if he didn't know exactly what effect his proximity was having.

"That depends on your definition of better. If your goal was making it impossible to think about anything other than you, mission accomplished."

"Good. That was exactly my goal."

His hands moved from the chair back to your face, fingers threading through your hair in a way that made you want to purr. You'd forgotten how much you loved having your hair played with.

"You're being very distracting."

"Am I?" Pure innocence, even as his fingers continued their exploration. "I thought I was being helpful. Isn't this better than staring at a screen until your eyes water?"

It was definitely better, though admitting as much would only encourage him. Not that you wanted him to stop.

"It's certainly more pleasant."

"Just pleasant?" His hands moved to your shoulders, then down your arms, leaving warmth in their wake. "I think I can do better than pleasant."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was leaning in to press soft kisses along your jawline, each precisely placed to make you shiver. He knew your body so well, knew exactly where to touch to reduce you to putty.

"Jungwon," you breathed, hands gripping his waist.

"Hmm?" The sound vibrated against your skin.

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, expression serious despite the playful context. "I'm trying to remind you that there are other important things in life besides academic achievement. Things that make all the hard work worthwhile."

The sincerity caught you off guard. "You think I've forgotten what's important?"

"I think you've gotten so caught up in securing your future that you've stopped appreciating your present. And I think you've forgotten you don't have to carry all this pressure alone. I'm here. I want to support you, but I also want to be more than just pleasant background presence."

His words hit home. You had been treating your relationship as something stable that would always be there while you focused on more urgent concerns.

"You're right. I have been taking you for granted. I'm sorry."

"I don't want apologies. I want presence. I want to feel like I matter to you as much as your grades do."

"You matter more than my grades," you said immediately, then paused as you realized how much you meant it. "You matter more than anything."

The smile that spread across his face was radiant, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again with renewed intensity. This kiss was deeper, more demanding, as if he was trying to claim you completely.

You responded with equal fervor, hands fisting in his shirt as you poured weeks of suppressed longing into the connection. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard and looking at each other with renewed hunger.

"So," he said, voice slightly rough, "are you convinced that taking breaks is important for your well-being?"

"I'm starting to see the benefits. But I might need more evidence."

His grin turned absolutely predatory. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Instead of moving to pick you up, you surprised him by standing first. The look of confusion on his face was adorable as you stepped closer, and his eyes widened when you bent down to scoop him up bridal style in one smooth motion.

"Hey!" Jungwon's startled laugh filled the room as his arms automatically came up to wrap around your neck. "What are you—"

"Capturing your attention," you said with a grin, carrying him the short distance to the bed. Despite his dancer's build, he felt lighter than expected, and the way he clung to you with surprised delight made something warm bloom in your chest.

You deposited him gently on the mattress, and he bounced slightly, looking up at you with bright eyes and mussed hair. The grey sweatpants had ridden up slightly, and his tight black shirt was askew, revealing a tantalizing strip of pale skin above his waistband.

"That was unexpected," he said, but his tone was pleased, almost purring with satisfaction as you crawled up to hover over him.

"You're not the only one who can be surprising," you murmured, settling your weight partially on top of him. The position felt natural, right—Jungwon soft and pliant beneath you, looking up with those dark eyes full of mischief and want.

"I like this side of you," he said softly, hands coming up to frame your face. "Taking charge. It's really attractive."

"Good," you said, leaning down to brush your lips against his. "Because I plan to take charge for the rest of the evening too."

The promise made him shiver beneath you, and when you kissed him properly this time, he melted into it with a soft sigh that sent heat racing through your veins.

"Much better," you said with satisfaction, looking down at how perfectly he fit beneath you, hair spread across the pillow and cheeks flushed. "Now I have your complete attention."

"You've had my complete attention for twenty minutes."

"Have I? Because I could swear I saw you glancing at your laptop."

Had you? The past minutes were a haze of sensation. It was possible your study habits had caused you to look toward work even while being actively seduced.

"Maybe once or twice," you admitted.

"I thought so. Clearly, I need to work harder to keep you focused on what's really important."

"And what's really important?"

"This," he said simply, leaning down for another soft kiss. "Us. This moment. The fact that we love each other and we're here together and nothing else matters right now."

When he put it like that, it seemed foolish that you'd ever thought anything could be more important than the person you loved most.

"You're right. This is what's important."

The smile he gave was soft and genuine, full of the love that had sustained you through four years of challenges. It was the smile that had made you fall for him originally.

"I love you," you said, words coming from somewhere deeper than conscious thought.

"I love you too. Even when you're being a stressed-out perfectionist."

"Especially when I'm being a stressed-out perfectionist?"

"Especially then. Though I do prefer you like this, relaxed and present and looking at me like I'm the only person in the world."

"Right now, you are the only person in the world."

His expression grew soft and wondering. "Really?"

"Really. Everything else fades away when you look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something precious. Like you can't believe I'm real."

"I can't. Sometimes I still can't believe you chose me. Out of everyone you could have fallen for, you picked an idol with a crazy schedule and more complications than someone your age should deal with."

The vulnerability in his confession caught you off guard. "I didn't choose you because your life was easy. I chose you because you're kind and funny and talented and you make me want to be better. I chose you because I can't imagine loving anyone else the way I love you."

His eyes grew bright, and he had to clear his throat before responding. "You can't just say things like that out of nowhere."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it makes me want to keep you in this bed forever and never let the outside world intrude again."

The idea was more appealing than it should have been. "That doesn't sound terrible."

"Don't tempt me. I'm already planning ways to convince you to take tomorrow off too."

"Tomorrow I really do have to work."

"We'll see," he said with a mysterious smile that suggested additional powers of persuasion.

Before you could ask what that meant, he was leaning down to kiss you again, and all thoughts of tomorrow's responsibilities dissolved under the gentle pressure of his lips.

This kiss was different—slower and deeper, as if you had all the time in the world. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard and looking at each other with renewed hunger.

"I think you've successfully convinced me that breaks are important for my well-being."

"Good. Because I plan to spend the rest of the evening providing additional evidence."

Your phone buzzed with a text from somewhere in the sheets.

"Ignore it," he said immediately, recognizing the automatic responsibility that crossed your face.

"It could be important—"

"More important than this?" He cut you off by pressing kisses down your throat that made you forget what you'd been saying.

"Nothing's more important than this."

"That's what I thought. Now stop thinking about the outside world and focus on me."

It was a command you were more than happy to obey, especially when he emphasized it by nipping gently at your neck in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine.

Your phone buzzed again, but this time you didn't even glance toward it. Whatever was demanding your attention could wait until tomorrow. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the weight of Jungwon's body against yours and the quiet sounds he made when you touched him in all the ways you'd learned he loved.

For the first time in weeks, your mind was blissfully quiet. No deadlines lurking in your consciousness, no anxiety about academic performance, no worry about the future. There was only this moment, this connection, this person you loved more than anything.

And as Jungwon's lips found yours again in a kiss that tasted like promises, you realized this was exactly what you'd been missing. Not just physical intimacy, but the complete presence that came from giving yourself entirely to someone else.

Tomorrow, you would return to responsibilities and deadlines. But tonight was yours and Jungwon's, a perfect bubble where nothing existed except the two of you and the love that had sustained you through four years of challenges.

As you lost yourself in the warmth of his embrace, you couldn't think of anywhere else you'd rather be. Jungwon's hands tangled in your hair as you kissed him slowly, thoroughly, taking your time to relearn the taste and feel of him.

"I've missed this so much," he whispered against your lips, voice slightly breathless. "Missed you being present with me like this."

"I'm here now," you murmured back, pressing soft kisses along his jaw. "Completely here."

And for the first time in weeks, you truly were. The project, the deadlines, the stress—none of it seemed to matter when Jungwon was looking at you like you were his entire world, soft and trusting beneath you.

"Promise me something," he said softly, hands still playing with your hair.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll remember this feeling tomorrow when you want to skip meals and work until you collapse. Remember that taking care of yourself isn't selfish—it's necessary."

You looked down at him, taking in his serious expression, the genuine concern in his dark eyes. "I promise."

His smile was radiant. "Good. Now stop thinking about tomorrow and focus on right now."

It was an easy command to follow, especially when he pulled you down for another kiss that tasted like forever and felt like coming home.

 EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — YANG JUNGWONN!!!! i just love this bean so much so now that i had time to actually write, i wanted to make this concept and i couldn't think og anyone better. i mean he's a TEASE, A BRAT, and most definitely a DOWN BAD bf if given the chance. idk why but UGHHHHH HE'S HEREEEEEEE

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — and here's the legacy one!

The fluorescent lights of the dorm hallway buzzed like trapped wasps, casting a sickly pallor over the scuffed linoleum. Your heart hammered a frantic tattoo against your ribs, a drum solo of pure panic echoing the slap of your worn sneakers against the floor. You risked a glance over your shoulder. He’s still there.

Park Sunghoon, uni’s golden boy, ice prince of the hockey rink, and certified heartbreaker, was chasing you. Not in the playful, flirty way he pursued the endless stream of girls who sighed over his sharp jawline and effortless cool. No, this was different. This was raw, relentless, fueled by a confusion that radiated off him like heat haze. His usually immaculate dark hair was ruffled, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his shirt and jacket, his eyes locked onto you with unnerving intensity.

"Please, just stop for a second!" His voice, usually smooth and controlled, held an edge of desperation that scraped against your nerves.

You didn't stop. You couldn't. Seven days. Seven days since that stupid, life-upending truth or dare game in Jake’s cramped apartment—seven days since the spin of an empty bottle had landed on you like a curse. Dare. And the collective, drunken cackle that followed: "Kiss Sunghoon! Right now!"

It was meant to be a joke. A hilarious, slightly cruel prank targeting both the notoriously unattainable Sunghoon and you, the guy most famous for sitting out dares and loved lingering on the edge of the party. You’d expected disgust, a flinch, maybe a cold dismissal. You hadn’t expected… what happened.

He’d done it quickly, and mechanically, you felt compelled as well — fueled by the cheap taste of alcohol and a desire to get the humiliation over with. Within a second, you’ve pressed your lips against his, firm and brief.

And then, it lasted three seconds. But in those, something snapped. You felt it – the unexpected softness of his lips against yours, the faint intake of his breath, the way he hadn't pulled away instantly.

He was frozen, his dark eyes wide and utterly stunned as you jerked back, face burning hotter than the soju. The room had erupted in drunken cheers and whoops, the moment swallowed by the party’s noise. But the look in Sunghoon’s eyes… wasn’t anger. Hell, it wasn’t even disgust.

It was pure, unadulterated shock. And something else, something deeper and infinitely more terrifying: confusion.

And now he wouldn’t leave you alone.

He’d tried cornering you after your shared econ lecture yesterday, but you’d ducked out the side door. He’d lingered near your usual lunch spot, but you’d scarfed down your sandwich in the library basement. He’d even shown up at the campus coffee shop where you worked part-time, four times, but you’d conveniently been on your break.

Each time, you saw that same look – the mask cracked, revealing a bewildered man chasing a phantom feeling he couldn't name.

Your dorm room door was in sight. Sanctuary. Just ten more strides. You fumbled in your pocket for the keycard, fingers clumsy with adrenaline.

"I know you can hear me!" Sunghoon’s voice was closer, almost at your shoulder. "I just need you to listen to me—"

You slammed the keycard against the reader. The light blinked green. You wrenched the door open and lunged inside, spinning around to slam it shut.

A hand shot out, stopping the door with jarring force. Sunghoon wedged his shoulder into the gap, breathing hard, his face inches from yours through the narrowing space. His eyes, usually so cool and assessing, were wide, almost wild.

"Go away!" you snapped, pushing against the door with all your weight. It was futile. He was taller, broader, and an athlete used to physical dominance. "Leave me be!"

"Just listen to me—" He insisted, his voice low and strained, pushing back. “Please.”

He pleaded. That made you stop in less than a second.

"About... about what happened." He cleared his throat.

"There’s nothing to talk about." You spoke like it was done, yet the memory of the kiss, the unwanted heat it had sparked in your own traitorous body, all came flooding back.

"It was a stupid dare … and a stupid game! So carry on and just forget about it!"

"Well, that's a shame, because I can't!" The admission burst out of him, raw and ragged. He stopped pushing for a second, his expression crumbling into pure, agonized confusion. "I can't forget it. That's the fucking problem.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice, so alien coming from him, made you hesitate for a fraction of a second. It was enough to lose leverage. He shoved the door open fully, forcing you to stumble back into your small, utilitarian dorm room. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the sudden silence. He leaned back against it, blocking your only escape, his chest still heaving.

The space felt instantly smaller, charged with his presence and the frantic energy he brought with him. Posters of stuff you liked suddenly seemed childish. The textbooks stacked on your desk felt like irrelevant clutter. All that existed was the tension coiling between you and Park Sunghoon, pressed against your door like a hunted animal, just as lost as you felt.

"We have nothing to talk about, Sunghoon," you repeated, your voice tight, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. You took another step back, putting the small desk between you. Your crush on him? That had died months ago, suffocated by witnessing the careless way he’d shattered your friend Mina’s heart when she’d confessed her feelings. He’d been kind, perhaps, but brutally clear. Not interested. Then he’d been seen with another girl the very next weekend. He was a beautiful chaos, and you wanted no part of it. Especially not now, tangled up in this bewildered display of sexuality.

"We do," he insisted, pushing off the door. He didn’t advance, but his presence filled the room. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "I have time, and it seems you do too. We’re here right now.”

He looked at you, his face still ridden with confusion. “Why are you running? Why won’t you just… talk to me?"

"Because there’s nothing to say!" Your voice rose slightly. "You kissed a fucking guy on a dare. Big deal. It happens. Move on!"

"But I can't!" The words exploded from him. He took a step forward, then stopped himself, clenching his fists at his sides as if physically restraining himself. His gaze was intense, almost pleading. "That’s what I’m trying to tell you! It wasn’t just… nothing. It wasn’t just a stupid dare kiss."

He paused, swallowing hard. The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. You could see the conflict warring on his face – the ingrained confidence of the popular guy battling this terrifying new uncertainty. His voice dropped to a near whisper, rough with confusion.

"It… it felt different. It lingered. Like… I can still feel it." He unconsciously raised his fingers to brush against his own lips, his eyes distant for a second before snapping back to yours, wide and searching. "Why? Why does it feel like that? Why can’t I get it out of my head? Why are you the only thing I’ve thought about for almost seven fucking days?"

The directness, the raw admission, hit you like a physical blow. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t playing games. He was genuinely, desperately confused. And it was … really terrifying.

"You’re straight, Sunghoon," you stated flatly, clinging to the known quantity, the safe label. "Fucking straight as hell. Everyone knows it. You date girls. You kiss girls. That’s your lane. This?" You gestured vaguely between you. "It was a weird blip. A misfire. Adrenaline, maybe. The shock of it. Just… let it go."

"But it didn’t feel like a blip!" he countered, frustration boiling over again. He paced a short, agitated path in the limited floor space. "It felt… I don’t know! Intense. Real. More real than half the kisses I’ve had that weren’t fucking dares!" He stopped pacing, pinning you with his gaze. "How did you feel? Did it feel like nothing to you?"

The question caught you off guard. Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked away, focusing on the chipped paint on the windowsill. How did it feel? It felt like lightning in a bottle. It felt like every stupid, repressed fantasy you’d ever entertained about him condensed into three unbearable seconds. It felt like falling off a cliff. And then it felt like hitting the ground when you remembered who he was, what he did. But you couldn’t tell him that. You wouldn’t give him that power.

"It felt like a fucking dare, that’s what." You lied, forcing your voice to be steady. "Uncomfortable. Embarrassing. Something that should be easy to forget."

He stared at you, his expression shifting from frustration to something like disbelief, then suspicion. "You’re not a good liar, I can tell." It wasn’t an accusation, more a quiet realization. "You flinched when I asked, and you keep avoiding my eyes. It wasn’t nothing to you either, was it?"

Panic flared. "It doesn’t matter how I felt! The point is, you shouldn’t be feeling anything! You’re Park Sunghoon! You skate through life charming everyone, breaking hearts without a second thought! You don’t get to be confused! You don’t chase people, let alone a guy like me, down hallways because of a stupid kiss!" Your own frustration, fueled by weeks of avoidance and the sheer absurdity of the situation, spilled out. "You rejected Mina, remember? Sweet, amazing Mina who actually liked you? You broke her heart without blinking, and then you were probably kissing someone else by Friday! That’s who you are! So why are you suddenly having an existential crisis over me? What’s so special about this kiss?"

The mention of Mina seemed to land like a physical blow. Sunghoon flinched, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his features before being swallowed by sheer bewilderment. "I… Mina… that was different. That wasn’t…" He trailed off, running both hands over his face. "This isn’t about Mina! This is about that kiss! And I don’t know why it’s different! That’s why I’m here! That’s why I’m chasing you, okay? Because I need to understand! I need… I need to know if it was just the shock, or the alcohol, or…" He looked at you, his eyes filled with a terrifying vulnerability. "Or if it was you."

The air crackled. His words hung between you, charged and dangerous. If it was you. Your carefully constructed walls trembled. The crush you thought was dead stirred uneasily in its grave.

"Pure and utter shit. You don’t know what you’re saying," you whispered, your voice hoarse.

"I know I don’t!" he shot back, taking another step towards the desk. The barrier felt flimsy now. "That’s the whole point! I’ve never felt like this before. Never questioned… questioned this." He gestured vaguely at himself. "I liked the feeling … of kissing you. A lot. More than I should have. More than makes any fucking sense. And it’s driving me crazy that I can’t figure out why. And you… you won’t even look at me. You run. You hide. It’s like you know something I don’t. Like you have the answer and you’re just… torturing me."

"I don’t have any answers!" you protested, finally meeting his eyes. The pain and confusion you saw there were staggering. "What do you want me to say, Sunghoon? That maybe you’re not as straight as you thought? That maybe you liked kissing a guy? Is that what you want to hear? Are you ready for that?"

He paled slightly, the implications hitting him. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of your desk. "I… I don’t know," he admitted, the words dragged out of him. "All I know is what I felt. And what I feel now. This… this obsession. It’s not normal. Not for me. You’re all I think about. That kiss. The way your lips felt. The look in your eyes when you pulled away. I replay it constantly. I can’t sleep. I can’t focus in practice. Coach yelled at me today because I missed an easy pass. Because I was thinking about you." He laughed, a short, humorless sound.

“Your kiss felt like a lingering side effect of some kind of strong venom.” He spoke lowly. “And it tasted so fucking sweet that I couldn't forget it.”

The sheer desperation in his confession was disarming. He wasn’t the cool, collected, silent charmer right now. He was a lost boy, adrift in uncharted territory, and he’d latched onto you as the only landmark in the fog. Your anger began to ebb, replaced by a confusing mix of pity and that treacherous, reawakened spark.

"You think it’s easy for me?" you asked quietly, your own defenses lowering. "Having you chase me? Uncovering by myself that it’s my kiss… that affected you? That it wasn’t just meaningless to you? I avoided you for a reason. Because seeing you confused, seeing you like this… it brings it all back.” You took a long second to sigh. “I had this … stupid crush on you when I first got here. Then I came to know who you are, and I still looked at you that way. It was like gambling all my savings and chocking it down a pit to hell."

Sunghoon’s eyes widened slightly. "You… you had a crush? On me?" He sounded genuinely surprised, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

"Had," you emphasized firmly. "Past tense. Mina was my friend. Seeing how you treated her… it killed it. Dead and buried. Or so I fuckin’ thought." You sighed, rubbing your temples. "You have become an undeniable burden inside my head right now."

Silence descended again, thicker this time, charged with shared confusion and the ghosts of past feelings. Sunghoon leaned heavily on the desk, his head bowed. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt Mina," he mumbled, not looking at you. "I just… I wasn’t into her like that. I told her the truth. Thinking about it … maybe I could have been… gentler. But I wasn’t trying to be cruel. That’s just… dating. People get rejected."

"Not everyone moves on to the next conquest quite so quickly," you pointed out, unable to keep the slight edge from your voice.

He winced. "Okay." He finally looked up, his gaze searching yours. "But this… this thing with you… it’s not like that. It’s not about conquest. It’s about… figuring out why my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. Why you." He took a shaky breath. "Look, I don’t know what any of this means. Maybe I’m having a breakdown. Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe… maybe I just need to know if it was a one-off thing. If it was just the context."

“What do you mean—”

His eyes held yours, intense and pleading. "Please. Just… let me try again?"

Your breath hitched. "Try what??"

"Isn’t it obvious?" He spoke in such cadence that you couldn’t believe your ears right now. "Not… not as a dare. Not in a game. Just… me. Trying to understand. One more time. So I can know. So I can figure out if it was the kiss… or if it was you."

The audacity was breathtaking. The vulnerability, terrifying. He was offering himself up like a test subject, risking everything he thought he knew about himself. Your mind raced. It was insane. Reckless. Potentially disastrous. He was Park Sunghoon. He broke hearts. He didn’t do confusion. He didn’t chase guys into their dorm rooms begging for experimental kisses.

But the look in his eyes… the raw, bewildered need for answers… the echo of that kiss that had felt electrifyingly real…

"You’re out of your mind," you breathed.

"You might be correct," he agreed, a ghost of his usual wry smirk touching his lips, but it vanished instantly, replaced by earnestness. "But I need this. I need to know. And you…" He hesitated. "You seem to be the only variable in this equation. Please. Just… help me figure this out?"

He wasn’t demanding. He was asking. Pleading. The silent yet deadly Park Sunghoon, the untouchable heartthrob, was reduced to asking for your help navigating his own identity crisis. The absurdity was almost comical. The danger was palpable.

"What if you kissed me again," you asked slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, "and you still like it?"

He swallowed hard, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He looked terrified. "Then… then I guess I have some serious thinking to do."

"And what if you kiss me," you pressed, your heart hammering again, "and you don’t like it? What then? Do I just become the weird guy you kissed twice? Another story for the locker room?"

His expression hardened with unexpected seriousness. "No. Never. This… whatever this is… it’s not a joke to me. It’s not a story. It’s… it’s real. And it’s scary as hell. But I need to know. And also, I don't do locker room talk. That's what attention seekers are for." He took a tentative step around the desk, closing the distance slightly. "Whatever happens… it stays between us. I promise.”

The space between you crackled. His scent – rich parfum, faint sweat, something uniquely Sunghoon – filled your senses. You saw the faint tremble in the hand resting on the desk. You saw the vulnerability warring with his ingrained confidence. You saw the genuine, bewildered need in his dark eyes.

It was madness. Pure, unadulterated madness.

But the kind of madness that felt inevitable.

"One kiss," you said, the words escaping before you could stop them. "Just… to see. Then you leave. And we figure out… whatever comes after. Or we don’t."

Relief, stark and overwhelming, flooded his features, followed immediately by a fresh wave of nervous tension. He nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin. "Okay. One kiss."

He didn’t move. Neither did you. The air felt thick, charged with anticipation and fear. The memory of the first kiss – quick, public, fueled by alcohol and peer pressure – was a blur. This was deliberate. Conscious. Terrifyingly intimate in the quiet solitude of your dorm room.

Slowly, hesitantly, Sunghoon closed the remaining distance. He stood before you, tall and imposing, yet radiating a fragility you’d never seen. His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips and back again, a silent question hanging in the air.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t speak. You simply held his gaze, your own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. This was his experiment. His journey. You were just… the catalyst.

He took a final, shallow breath, then leaned in.

It wasn’t like the first kiss. Not at all.

The first kiss had been a collision. This was an exploration. His lips met yours softly, tentatively, a brush of warmth and pressure that sent an immediate jolt through your system. It was hesitant, questioning. He pulled back slightly, just a fraction, his eyes searching yours, looking for permission, for a sign.

Yet you didn’t pull away. The spark you’d felt before ignited instantly, brighter, hotter. Your traitorous body leaned into it, just a little.

Encouraged, or perhaps driven by the same bewildering pull, he leaned in again. This time, the kiss deepened. Still soft, still questioning, but with a growing certainty. His lips moved against yours, not demanding, but learning. One hand tentatively came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheekbone. The touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine.

He tasted faintly of mint. His breathing hitched, warm against your skin. The world narrowed to the point where your lips met, to the feel of his hand on your face, to the frantic beating of your own heart. The confusion, the fear, the past hurts… for a moment, they all receded, drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming sensation. It wasn’t just physical. It felt… profound. Like a connection snapping into place, something fundamental is shifting beneath the surface.

Sunghoon made a small, involuntary sound against your lips – a sigh, a gasp, a gravelly moan that was something raw and unfiltered. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t indifference. It was discovery. It was liking. And it was more than liking. His hand tightened slightly on your jaw, not painfully, but possessively, as if anchoring himself to the moment. To you.

The kiss lasted longer than the dare. Seconds stretched into moments that felt suspended in time. When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant, almost hesitant to part ways. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, breathing ragged. His hand remained on your jaw, trembling faintly as he felt it with his thumb.

You were both breathing heavily. The silence in the room was deafening, filled only by the sound of your shared breaths and the frantic thudding of your hearts.

Sunghoon slowly opened his eyes. They were wide, dark pools reflecting pure, unadulterated shock. But beneath them, shimmering like sunlight through deep water, was something else. Wonder? Dawning realization? Terror mixed with awe?

He didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, his gaze tracing your face as if seeing you for the first time – the curve of your lips, the shape of your eyes, the faint flush on your cheeks. The confusion was still there, yes, but it was transforming, morphing into something deeper, more profound.

He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, a soft, almost reverent touch.

"Oh," he breathed, the single syllable laden with a universe of meaning. It wasn’t a conclusion. It wasn’t an answer. It was the beginning of a terrifying, exhilarating question.

Oh.

He didn’t leave. He stayed there, forehead resting against yours, his hand warm on your face, breathing in the shared air of the small room where his entire world had just tilted on its axis.

The chase for answers wasn't over. If anything, it had just become infinitely more complex. But the frantic, confused pursuit had ended. Now, there was only the quiet, shared dawning of something entirely new, fragile, and terrifyingly real.

The settlement wasn't a neat resolution, but a hesitant, breathless agreement to step onto uncharted ground together. The panic was still there, thrumming under the surface, but it was now intertwined with a fragile, burgeoning hope.

“It is you.” He spoke in just the right tone.

He’d found his answer, or at least the first step towards it. All in the lingering warmth on his lips and the wide, startled wonder in your eyes.

The playboy was gone. In his place stood a young man utterly lost, yet somehow, finally found.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — HAHAHAHA ANOTHER SUNGHOON FIC ARRIVES also for the kiss, imagine that one kiss they did in lovely runner after she jumps back in time and ryu sun jae just kisses him by the door!? HELLO!?!  and yeah, I made YOU a good kisser, AND WHAT OF IT

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — and here's the legacy one!

The Italian countryside rolled past the tinted windows of the black Aston Martin as it carved through winding roads toward the Byrne estate. You adjusted your earpiece for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous habit you'd picked up during training that apparently hadn't disappeared with graduation.

"Stop fidgeting," Jay's voice cut through the comfortable hum of the engine from the driver's seat. His eyes found yours in the rearview mirror, sharp and observant as always. "You're making me nervous."

"I'm not fidgeting," you protested, immediately dropping your hand from your ear. "I'm... ensuring optimal communication functionality."

Jake snorted from the passenger seat, his broad frame somehow managing to look relaxed despite being crammed into the sleek vehicle. "That's the most elaborate way I've ever heard someone say 'fidgeting,' mate." His Australian accent added a casual lilt to his words that never failed to make you smile, even when he was calling you out.

From your position in the back seat, you watched the familiar dynamic unfold. Jake had been needling Jay about his driving for the past hour – too slow, too cautious, too by-the-book. Jay, in response, had been making increasingly subtle digs about Jake's "reckless Australian approach" to fieldwork. It was like watching a cat and a dog circle each other, all bristled fur and wounded pride.

"At least when I'm behind the wheel, we don't end up having to explain property damage to headquarters," Jay said mildly, taking a curve with mathematical precision.

Jake's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "That was one time. And I got us out of there alive, didn't I?"

"Alive, yes. Subtle, no."

"Sometimes subtle is overrated."

You cleared your throat before this could escalate further. "Ladies, perhaps we could focus on the mission? We're almost there."

Both men fell silent, though you caught Jay's grateful glance in the rearview mirror. This had been happening more and more during the planning phase – Jake pushing boundaries, Jay pushing back, and you finding yourself in the middle, smoothing ruffled feathers and keeping everyone focused on the bigger picture.

The truth was, this felt surreal. After five years of grueling training under The Hand's watchful eye, countless simulations, and mock operations that felt more real than reality itself, you were finally here. Your first real mission. And not just any mission – one that could potentially dismantle one of the most dangerous arms dealing networks in the Atlantic.

More surreal than the mission itself was the company. Jongseong Park, whom insisted you call him Jay, was here, the ‘smooth’ Operator himself, whose precision and stealth had become legendary among The Hand's ranks. You'd harbored what you told yourself was a professional admiration for him during training, though the way your pulse quickened whenever he looked at you suggested otherwise. And Jaeyun Sim, who you've always remembered as Jake, the Retriever, whose easy smile and devastating fighting skills had made him both the most popular and most feared trainee in your class. As your former roommate, he knew exactly which buttons to push to get under your skin – and apparently, Jay's too.

"Remind me again why I'm the one stuck playing valet?" you asked, adjusting the simple black uniform that would be your disguise for the evening.

"Because you're the best at reading people," Jay said, his tone sincere despite the earlier tension. "We need someone outside who can spot trouble before it starts."

"Plus," Jake added with a grin that was slightly more genuine now, "if things go sideways, you're the only one who can sweet-talk our way past security without starting an international incident."

"Unlike some people," Jay murmured.

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

You sighed dramatically. "And here I thought this mission would be exciting."

"Oh, it will be," Jake said, turning around to face you with that devil-may-care smile that had gotten him in trouble more times than you could count. "Trust me on that one."

"That's what I'm afraid of," you muttered, earning a chuckle from Jay.

The Byrne estate materialized ahead like something out of a fairy tale, if fairy tales included armed security and enough surveillance equipment to make Big Brother jealous. Towering iron gates opened to reveal a circular driveway lined with luxury vehicles that cost more than most people's homes. The mansion itself was a monument to excess – three stories of marble and glass that screamed new money and old crimes.

"Well, would you look at that," Jake whistled low. "Byrne certainly doesn't do things halfway."

"Money laundering and arms dealing tend to be lucrative businesses," Jay observed dryly, slowing the car as they approached the valet station. "Remember, we're here for information about Clyde Vantill's disappearance and any evidence linking Byrne to arms trafficking. Low profile, in and out."

"Low profile," you repeated, shooting a pointed look at Jake. "That means no flirting with half the party, no picking fights with security, and definitely no accidentally starting any diplomatic incidents."

"That was one time!" Jake protested. "And technically, I didn't start anything. I just... finished it."

"With a chandelier," Jay added helpfully.

"It was structurally unsound to begin with."

"It was a priceless antique."

"Now it's priceless modern art. I call that an upgrade."

You rubbed your temples. "Please tell me you two can keep it together for one evening."

"We're professionals," Jay said, adjusting his cufflinks with that fluid grace that made everything look effortless.

"Speak for yourself," Jake replied, checking his appearance in the rearview mirror and somehow making his slightly askew bow tie look deliberately fashionable. "I'm here to have fun."

"Fun is a secondary objective," Jay said sternly.

"Fun is what makes life worth living, mate."

"Mission completion is what makes life worth living."

"You two are going to give me premature gray hair," you muttered as the car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion's grand entrance.

Jay stepped out first, looking every inch the sophisticated party guest in his perfectly tailored tuxedo. He moved with that fluid grace that made everything look effortless, from the way he adjusted his cufflinks to the confident stride that carried him up the marble steps. Jake followed, his bow tie already slightly askew in a way that somehow made him look even more devastatingly handsome. His easy smile was back in place, the dangerous operative hidden beneath layers of charm.

You slipped into the driver's seat as they disappeared through the ornate front doors, immediately missing their presence. The weight of the earpiece felt heavier now, your only connection to the two people who had, despite all the complicated feelings and group dynamics, become the closest thing to family you had.

The valet position wasn't glamorous, but it had its advantages. You could observe every arrival and departure, memorize faces, note suspicious behavior. Plus, the other valets were gossipy as hell, which meant access to all sorts of interesting information about the guests.

"Magpie, radio check," Jay's voice crackled through the comm, using your operational callsign.

"Loud and clear, Operator," you responded, settling into the monotonous routine of parking overpriced cars. "How's the party?"

"Typical rich people nonsense," Jake's voice joined the channel. "Champagne that costs more than our monthly salary and enough pretension to choke a horse. I've already spotted three senators and at least two arms dealers. This Byrne guy certainly knows how to throw a party."

"Focus, Retriever," Jay's tone carried a hint of amusement. "We're here for Vantill, not to critique the guest list."

"I'm perfectly focused. Unlike someone who's been staring at the same waiter for five minutes because he thinks the guy 'looks suspicious.'"

"That waiter has checked his watch seventeen times in the past ten minutes. That's not normal behavior."

"Maybe he's got somewhere else to be. Maybe he's meeting someone after work. Maybe he's got a hot date—"

"Maybe you're both overthinking this," you cut in smoothly, taking keys from yet another oil executive's wife. "Jake, what's your position on the intel gathering? Any luck mingling with the right crowd?"

"Working on it. I've just made contact with Senator Rodriguez's aide – apparently she's very chatty after a few glasses of champagne. And there's an arms dealer from Montenegro who can't seem to stop bragging about his latest acquisitions."

"Excellent. Jay, what's your read on the security situation?"

"Tight but manageable. I count twelve visible guards, probably twice that number inside. They're well-trained but not expecting trouble. Standard protection detail for a high-profile social event."

"With military-grade communication equipment and enough firepower to level a city block," Jake added cheerfully.

"Standard for Byrne," Jay corrected.

Over the next hour, their updates painted a fascinating picture of the party's dual nature. While you directed traffic in the circular driveway, Jay and Jake worked their respective magic inside the mansion.

"For your daily dose of updates tonight," Jay's voice came through with that characteristic calm. "I've gained access to Byrne's private office on the second floor. Currently bypassing a rather impressive electronic lock system."

You could hear the soft clicking of lock picks through the comm, followed by an almost inaudible beep. Jay's lock-picking skills were legendary at The Hand – there wasn't a security system invented that he couldn't circumvent given enough time.

"How impressive are we talking?" you asked, waving another Lamborghini toward the far end of the lot. "I know this is Italy but there's JUST too many Lambos, even for me."

"Military-grade biometric scanner with a twelve-digit backup code and pressure-sensitive floor plates," Jay replied matter-of-factly. "I say impressive but it's child's play, really."

"Show off," Jake's voice cut in, slightly breathless. "Meanwhile, some of us are doing actual fieldwork. I'm currently dancing with the wife of a Turkish arms manufacturer who's had just enough champagne to start talking about her husband's recent business trips to South America."

"Dancing?" Jay's tone carried that familiar note of disapproval.

"It's called building rapport through physical connection. Very effective intelligence-gathering technique."

"It's called—"

"Boys, play nice," you interrupted. "What kind of information are we getting?"

"Jay first, since he's being all sneaky and professional," Jake said with audible grin.

Jay's voice came through with that focused intensity that meant he was in full operative mode. "I'm inside Byrne's private safe now. Multiple encrypted hard drives, several passports under different names, and... interesting. There's a file labeled 'Magpie Protocol.'"

Your blood ran cold. "Magpie Protocol? That's my callsign."

"Could be ... coincidence," Jay said, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it. "I'm photographing everything for analysis later. Also found correspondence between Byrne and someone identified only as 'The Professor' – could be our missing scientist."

Meanwhile, Jake's approach was yielding different but equally valuable intelligence. "My dancing partner just mentioned that her husband received a very large payment last month for 'consulting services' in Peru. Around the same time our boy Vantill went missing."

"Excellent work, both of you," you said, though the mention of the Magpie Protocol had your mind racing.

"Any sign of Byrne himself?"

"Negative," Jay replied. "But I'm detecting increased security chatter on their private channels. Multiple references to 'the package' being moved tonight."

"The package?" you asked.

"Could be Vantill," Jake suggested. "Or whatever he's been working on for them."

Jay's voice came through more urgently now. "I'm hearing footsteps in the corridor. Multiple personnel heading this way. I need to extract myself from this position."

"Copy that. Jake, what's your status?"

"Currently being propositioned by a very forward arms dealer's wife," Jake replied cheerfully. "She wants to show me her husband's 'private collection' upstairs. Could be exactly what we're looking for."

"Or it could be a trap," Jay warned, his voice now coming from what sounded like a ventilation system.

"Only one way to find out. Besides, I can handle myself if things go sideways."

What followed was a masterclass in how two completely different operative styles could both be devastatingly effective. Jay moved through the mansion like a ghost, slipping past security cameras, neutralizing motion sensors, and gathering intelligence with surgical precision. You could hear him occasionally – the soft sound of a guard being quietly incapacitated, the barely audible beep of an electronic device being hacked, the whisper of fabric as he moved through shadows.

"Second floor secured," he reported in a voice so quiet you had to strain to hear it. "I've planted surveillance devices in three strategic locations and gained access to their main computer terminal. I should be able to infiltrate and breach their firewalls to access their financial records now. Give me a minute."

"A minute?" Jake intercepted with a sly tone. "You're getting rusty." "You can't even tell what a terminal is from a console." Jay retaliated with his own dig. "You ... got me." Jake sighed, defeat lacing his voice.

"You two..." You pinched your bridge, easing what seems to be some slight throbbing inside your head.

Meanwhile, Jake's approach was all charm and calculated risk-taking. His updates came with background noise of clinking glasses and sophisticated conversation, but the intelligence he was gathering was just as valuable.

"Jackpot," Jake's voice crackled through the comm, barely containing his excitement. "I'm in Byrne's private gallery with Mrs. Kozlov, and she's showing off some very interesting 'artwork.' We're talking military-grade weapons disguised as sculptures, shipping manifests hidden in picture frames, and a very detailed map of South American ports marked with delivery dates."

"Can you get photos?" you asked, adjusting your earpiece.

"Way ahead of you. Although I had to compliment her husband's 'artistic taste' while photographing evidence of international arms trafficking." Jake's voice dropped to a disgusted whisper.

"She actually giggled when I called that RPG launcher 'bold and provocative.' I feel like I need a shower. Eugh."

"Less commentary, more documentation, Retriever," Jay's voice cut in sharply. "I'm picking up increased radio chatter about security sweeps. They may be onto us."

"Or they're just being paranoid," Jake replied, the sound of a camera shutter clicking faintly in the background. "Mrs. Kozlov mentioned that Byrne's been on edge all week, expecting 'government interference' with his business operations. Apparently he's been having his security team do random sweeps every two hours."

"He's not wrong to be paranoid," you observed, scanning the crowd from your position. "The Hand operates across almost all countries under UN jurisdiction. Guy's got targets painted on his back from about six different agencies."

"Speaking of targets," Jay's voice came through with a hint of frustration. "Still negative on Vantill. Swept the main floors twice - either he's not here or he's somewhere off the books."

Jake's voice brightened slightly. "Well, I might have the answer to that. Mrs. Kozlov just mentioned something about 'private consultations' happening in the 'special wing' tonight."

"Also, I did find something else. There's a service tunnel that leads to an outbuilding not marked on any of the official floor plans. Maintenance access, but it's got electronic locks. Might be worth investigating."

"How electronic are we talking?" you asked.

"Biometric scanner, keypad backup. Nothing I can't handle, but I'll need cover."

"Mrs. Kozlov's asking if I want to see the 'crown jewel' of the collection," Jake reported. "Something tells me I should say yes."

"Do it, but stay sharp," you replied. "And Jake? Try not to compliment any more weapons of mass destruction."

"No promises. This woman has... questionable taste in home decor."

That's when everything started to go sideways.

You were about to respond when a sleek black limousine pulled up to the valet station. The driver got out and handed you the keys with a significant look.

"VIP arrival," you murmured into your comm. "Limo, diplomatic plates. Could be important."

The passenger door opened, and a man in an expensive suit emerged. Tall, silver-haired, with the kind of predatory smile that made your skin crawl. You'd seen his photo in the mission briefing.

"Holy shit," you breathed. "Topacio just arrived."

Renato Topacio, Marzo Byrne's right-hand man and chief enforcer. The man responsible for at least seventeen confirmed assassinations across four continents. He moved with the casual confidence of someone who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve with violence.

"Copy that," Jay's voice was immediately sharper. "Maintain visual contact but keep your distance."

"He's heading inside. Should I—"

"No," both Jay and Jake said simultaneously.

"Jinx," Jake added automatically, then continued more seriously. "That man could kill you with a dinner fork. Keep your head down and your eyes open."

As Topacio disappeared into the mansion, you settled back into your role, but the nervous energy was building. If Byrne's enforcer was here, something big was definitely happening tonight.

The next hour passed in a blur of luxury vehicles and increasingly paranoid radio chatter. Jay had managed to neutralize two more security personnel and plant additional surveillance equipment, while Jake was working the crowd like a professional politician, gathering gossip and making mental notes of who was talking to whom.

"Any sign of our host?" you asked during a brief lull in both valet duties and their bickering.

"Negative," Jay replied. "Byrne's keeping a low profile tonight. Several guests have mentioned he's conducting private meetings, but no one's seen him on the main floor."

"And by private meetings, they mean the kind that happen in soundproof rooms with men who carry guns," Jake added. "I've counted at least five people who've been escorted upstairs and haven't come back down."

"That's... concerning."

"That's Tuesday for a man like Byrne," Jay said grimly.

You were about to continue the conversation when nature called with increasing urgency. The combination of pre-mission nerves and three cups of coffee was finally catching up with you.

"I need to take a quick break," you announced, already heading toward a secluded corner of the property where a line of decorative hedges offered some privacy.

"Copy that, Magpie. Make it quick," Jay responded.

"Don't do anything stupid while you're out there," Jake added. "No investigating mysterious noises or following suspicious shadows."

"I'm just taking a piss, not launching a one-man assault on the compound."

"With you, there's not always a difference."

You found a spot behind the ornate garden wall, far enough from the main action to avoid any embarrassing encounters with guests or staff. As you took care of business, your eyes wandered over the estate's grounds. The property was massive, stretching back into darkness beyond the reach of the mansion's exterior lighting. Perfect for someone who wanted to conduct business away from prying eyes.

That's when you saw it.

A brief flash of light from what looked like a service building near the property's rear boundary. Just a quick flicker, like someone opening and closing a door, but enough to catch your attention. According to the intelligence briefing, that building was supposed to be unused storage.

You finished up and moved closer to the fence line, crouching behind an ornamental fountain to get a better view. The building was definitely occupied. You could make out shadows moving past windows, and there was definitely activity happening inside. Activity that wasn't on any of the floor plans that The Hand had provided.

Before you could report in, your comm crackled to life with Jake's voice: "—telling you, the champagne fountain is completely unnecessary. Who needs a fountain of champagne?"

"It's about making an impression," Jay responded. "Demonstrating wealth and excess. Basic psychology."

"It's about being a pretentious wanker, is what it is. I mean, seriously, what's next? A chocolate waterfall? A caviar slip-and-slide?"

"Everything okay out there?" you asked, settling in to watch the building while your partners continued their debate.

"Oh, just Jake critiquing the party planning while I'm trying to conduct surveillance on what might be a money-laundering operation disguised as a charity auction."

"I can multitask! Unlike some people who can't have a conversation and watch a room at the same time."

"I can do both perfectly well, thank you very much."

"Really? Because you missed the waiter with the suspicious watch completely switching positions while you were lecturing me about champagne fountains."

"I didn't miss anything. He moved to section C-4, northwest corner, still checking his watch at irregular intervals. Probably waiting for a signal."

"...Okay, fine, you didn't miss him."

"Ladies," you said, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice despite the tense situation, "while this has been deeply educational, I've got eyes on a possible secondary location. Service building, approximately two hundred meters southeast of the main house. Showing signs of occupation."

The bickering stopped instantly. "Details," Jay's voice was sharp and focused now.

"Lights, movement, definitely not abandoned like the floor plans suggested. I can see equipment inside, computers, lots of high-tech stuff."

"That settles it," Jake said. "I'm coming to your position."

"Negative," Jay cut in. "Stay here and maintain your cover. I'll—"

"Will you two stop it for five seconds?" you whispered urgently. "I'm going to get a closer look."

"Absolutely not," came the immediate chorus from both of them.

"It's just reconnaissance," you protested, already moving toward the fence line. "Thirty seconds for a visual confirmation, then back to my post."

"That's what reconnaissance teams are for," Jay said tersely. "Teams that aren't currently playing valet at a high-security event."

"Sometimes you have to take calculated risks," you replied, throwing Jake's earlier philosophy back at them.

"See?" Jake's voice cut in. "I told you he was listening when I said that."

"This isn't the time for 'I told you so,'" Jay snapped.

"There's always time for 'I told you so.' It's like my personal motto."

"Your personal motto is 'hold my beer and watch this.'"

"That's my other personal motto."

The fence was tall but not insurmountable. You'd scaled worse during training, usually while Jake shouted encouragement and Jay provided tactical advice that you mostly ignored. The memory brought a smile to your lips as you found handholds in the decorative ironwork and pulled yourself up and over.

"Magpie, I'm tracking your GPS marker," Jay's voice was tight with concern. "Your position is changing rapidly."

"Just getting a better angle," you replied, creeping closer to the service building. The windows were high, but there was a stack of crates nearby that would give you the boost you needed.

"Define 'better angle,'" Jake said suspiciously.

"It had better be the kind that doesn't involve me explaining to headquarters why their newest agent got himself shot on his first mission," Jay added.

"Relax, both of you. I'm basically trained for this."

"You're a trained professional with a tendency toward spectacular overconfidence," Jay corrected.

"That's what makes me charming."

"That's what's going to get you killed."

You climbed up on the crates for a better view, and your breath caught in your throat. Through the grimy window, you could see the interior of what was definitely not an abandoned storage building. Banks of computers lined the walls, displaying what looked like shipping manifests, financial records, and surveillance feeds from around the globe. In the center of the room, a familiar figure hunched over a desk covered in documents.

"Holy shit," you breathed, forgetting comm protocol entirely.

Both voices stopped immediately. "Report," Jay said tersely.

"I've got eyes on the package," you whispered urgently. "Vantill is here, and he's not a prisoner. I repeat, the missing scientist appears to be a willing participant."

The silence on the comm was deafening. Then Jay's voice, carefully controlled: "Are you certain?"

"Positive. He's working on what looks like weapons schematics. This isn't a rescue mission anymore. It's a recovery operation."

Clyde Vantill, the brilliant researcher who'd supposedly been kidnapped from his laboratory in Peru seven months ago, was very much alive and apparently very much complicit in whatever Byrne was planning. The implications hit you like a freight train – if Vantill had turned, then everything he knew about Hand operations, locations, and personnel was potentially compromised.

"Bloody hell," Jake muttered. "That changes everything. If Vantill's turned, then half our South American operations could be blown."

"More than half," Jay's voice was grim. "He had access to classified protocols for the entire western hemisphere."

You were so focused on relaying information that you almost missed the sound of footsteps approaching the building. Almost.

"Company incoming," you hissed, dropping down from the crates and looking for cover. "Multiple hostiles, armed."

The building's door burst open, and armed men poured out, flashlights sweeping the area. You pressed yourself against the wall, heart hammering, as voices spoke in rapid Italian.

"—saw something by the window—"

"—check the perimeter—"

"—alert Topacio—"

Topacio. If Byrne's chief enforcer was being called in, your cover was well and truly blown.

"Get the hell out of there, Magpie. Now," Jay's voice cut through your earpiece.

You waited until the search team moved past your position before making a break for the fence. But you'd underestimated how thorough these people were. A shout went up behind you as someone spotted your movement, followed immediately by the distinctive sound of weapons being armed.

"Contact, contact!" you yelled into your comm as you sprinted across the open ground. "I'm blown and taking fire!"

The first shots kicked up dirt at your feet as you zigzagged toward the fence, using every evasion technique you'd learned in training. Behind you, more voices were shouting, coordinating the pursuit.

"We're moving to extract," Jake's voice cut in, no longer playful.

"Negative! Too many hostiles. Make for the vehicles – this is about to get very messy!"

You vaulted the fence in a move that would have made your training instructors proud, landing hard on the other side just as bullets punched through the ironwork where you'd been a second before. The valet station was in chaos now, other staff members screaming and diving for cover as armed men poured through the estate's main entrance.

As the mansion erupted into chaos behind you, you sprinted toward the Aston Martin, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The convoy of black SUVs was already pulling away from the rear exit, their tail lights disappearing into the darkness.

"Come on, come on," you muttered, diving into the driver's seat and immediately going for the ignition. But of course, Jay had the keys.

You were about to attempt a field hotwiring when Jay appeared at the passenger door like a ghost, holding up the key fob with a slight smile. "Looking for this?"

Before you could respond, there was a tremendous crash as Jake came sliding through the now-shattered rear window in a shower of safety glass, landing in the back seat with surprising grace for someone who'd just demolished a car window.

"Jake!" you exclaimed, staring at him in disbelief.

Jake brushed glass off his tuxedo jacket with casual indifference. "I got a big booty, so what?"

Jay turned around to survey the damage, his expression pained. "You better pay for that back at HQ."

"Like hell I will," Jake replied cheerfully, settling into the back seat as if sliding through car windows was a perfectly normal method of entry.

"Unexpected entrances aside," you said, snatching the keys from Jay politely and jamming them into the ignition. "Right now, we've got bigger problems."

The engine roared to life, and without warning, you floored the accelerator. The Aston Martin shot forward like a bullet, pressing all three of you back into your seats as you tore out of the estate grounds in pursuit of the fleeing convoy.

What followed was a chase sequence that would have made Hollywood stunt coordinators weep with envy. The SUVs had a head start, but you were driving like a man possessed, threading the needle through narrow Italian mountain roads at speeds that defied both physics and common sense.

"There!" Jake pointed ahead, using his binoculars to track their quarry. "Four SUVs, moving in tactical formation. Professional drivers, definitely."

"Can we get close enough for identification?" you asked, taking a hairpin turn that had Jay gripping his door handle and Jake bracing against the back of your seat.

"Working on it," Jake replied. "But they're not making this easy. They're using evasive maneuvers, trying to prevent us from getting close enough for visual confirmation."

The chase careened through the winding mountain roads, but the SUVs knew the terrain better. They started to pull ahead, taking shortcuts through narrow village streets that forced you to improvise creative solutions.

"Hard right!" Jay called out, spotting an opening.

You yanked the wheel, sending the Aston Martin up and over a concrete retaining wall in a move that had all three of you airborne for a heart-stopping moment before landing hard on the street below.

"Holy shit!" Jake started, then caught himself as they bounced back onto the main road.

"Language, Retriever," Jay said mildly, though his knuckles were white where he gripped the dashboard.

The pursuit took you through a bustling marketplace, vendors diving for cover as you wove between stalls at breakneck speed, fresh produce exploding against the windshield. Jake was whooping with laughter in the back seat while Jay maintained his characteristic composure despite the chaos.

"Left turn ahead!" Jay called out, consulting what looked like a GPS unit he'd produced from somewhere. “And watch out for the produce next time!?"

"Uhh … aside from that..”

“Yeah?”

“I think we have a problem," you replied, his eyes following your own.

"WATCH THE FENCE!!" Jake shot forward, pointing at the obvious display in front of your eyes.

You took the gears, sending the car crashing through a wooden fence and across someone's vineyard, grape vines snapping against the car's hood as you cut across the hillside to intercept the convoy on the road below.

The SUVs were forced to brake hard as you came flying off the hillside and landed on the asphalt in front of them, all four vehicles now in a tight formation as the chase continued toward what looked like an industrial area ahead.

"Bridge ahead!" Jake called out, pointing toward what looked like a concrete overpass.

As you got closer, it became apparent that the bridge was under construction – half-finished, with a gap in the middle that no sane person would attempt to jump.

"Please tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking," Jay said, recognizing the look of determination on your face.

"Hold on," you replied, flooring the accelerator. "HERE WE GO!!"

The Aston Martin hit the ramp at full speed, launching into space with all the grace of a very expensive missile. For a moment that seemed to last forever, you were flying through the night air, the lights of the Italian countryside spread out below you like a carpet of stars.

You hit the far side of the bridge with a bone-jarring impact that sent sparks flying from the undercarriage and had all three of you seeing stars. But the car held together, and more importantly, you'd gained significant ground on the convoy.

"Everyone still alive?" you asked, taking inventory as you regained control of the vehicle.

"Define alive," Jay replied weakly.

"Present and accounted for," Jake added with a slightly hysterical laugh. "Though I think I left my stomach somewhere over that gap."

The final stretch took you down a winding hillside toward what looked like a small airfield, the convoy's destination finally becoming clear. As you descended the hill, cutting through switchbacks and taking corners at angles that had the car practically sideways, disaster struck.

You took one particularly sharp right turn at high speed, and the G-forces proved too much for the passenger door. It simply ripped off its hinges and went sailing into the darkness, leaving Jay sitting in the open air with his hair whipping in the wind.

"What the—" Jay started, then stopped himself, looking shocked at his own near-lapse in language.

"Did you just almost curse?" Jake asked with delight.

"No." Jay replied firmly, despite the evidence to the contrary.

"You totally did! I heard it!"

"Focus, ladies," you said, though you were grinning despite the circumstances. "We've got an airfield ahead and our targets are about to fly away."

The final approach to the airfield became a desperate race against time. The convoy ahead had reached the plane, and you could see figures moving quickly between the vehicles and aircraft, loading equipment and documents with military efficiency.

"They're destroying evidence," you observed, watching through Jake's binoculars as men threw briefcases and computer equipment into the aircraft. "Whatever they were working on, they're not leaving any traces behind."

"All the more reason to stop them," Jay said tersely, but even as he spoke, you could see they were too late. The jet was already taxiing, turning toward the runway for takeoff.

"Ram them?" Jake suggested with dark humor.

"With what? A sports car versus a jet engine?" Jay replied. "I'm good, but I'm not suicidal."

"Speak for yourself," Jake muttered, but he was already rolling down his window, service pistol in hand.

The plane accelerated down the runway as you watched helplessly from the chain-link fence that surrounded the airfield. Jake managed to get off several shots, but hitting a moving aircraft from a moving car at this distance was essentially impossible.

Within moments, the jet was airborne, banking sharply toward the horizon and taking with it any chance of immediate answers about Clyde Vantill's betrayal and whatever weapons technology he'd been developing for Byrne.

But your problems weren't over. As the plane disappeared into the night sky, you realized that the convoy vehicles hadn't followed it. They were still here, positioned strategically around the airfield perimeter.

"Uh, guys?" you said, pointing toward the black SUVs that were now moving to surround your position. "I don't think we're done yet."

"Topacio," Jay said grimly, recognizing the tactical deployment. "He stayed behind to clean up loose ends."

"And we're the loose ends," Jake added cheerfully, checking his ammunition. "How delightfully direct of him."

The SUVs closed in from multiple directions, cutting off escape routes with professional efficiency. As they came to a stop, armed men poured out of the vehicles, weapons trained on the Aston Martin.

"Out of the car!" came the shouted command in accented English. "Hands where we can see them!"

"Well," you said, looking at your partners, "this is awkward."

"I vote for the direct approach," Jake said, his hand on the door handle.

"I vote for not getting shot," Jay replied.

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Staying alive is fun," you pointed out.

"Debatable," Jake grinned, then kicked open his door and rolled out in one fluid motion, coming up with his pistol drawn.

The firefight that erupted was brief but intense. Jake's combat skills were every bit as impressive as his reputation suggested – he moved like a dancer, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next as he took cover behind the car and returned fire with devastating accuracy.

Jay proved equally capable, his approach more methodical but no less effective. Where Jake was fire and motion, Jay was ice and precision, each shot carefully aimed and devastating in its effect.

You found yourself caught between their two styles, adapting on the fly and providing covering fire as they systematically eliminated the threat. It was like watching a perfectly choreographed dance of violence, each partner complementing the other's strengths.

But there were too many opponents and too little cover. A bullet caught you in the arm, spinning you around and sending you crashing into the car door with a grunt of pain and surprise.

"Magpie's hit!" Jake yelled, immediately adjusting his position to provide better covering fire.

"How bad?" Jay called back, never taking his attention off his targets.

"Just a graze," you replied through gritted teeth, though the wound was bleeding freely and hurt like hell. "Still operational."

The tide of the firefight turned when Topacio himself appeared, moving with the fluid grace of a professional killer. The man was everything his reputation suggested – fast, accurate, and absolutely ruthless.

"There," you pointed, spotting the enforcer as he maneuvered to get a clear shot at Jay. "Topacio, three o'clock."

Jake spun and opened fire, forcing the assassin to dive for cover behind one of the SUVs. But the distraction cost them – more men were arriving, pouring out of additional vehicles that had been hidden in the darkness beyond the airfield.

"We need to move," Jay said urgently. "Now."

They fought their way back to the Aston Martin, Jake providing covering fire while you and Jay got the engine started. As bullets shattered what remained of the rear window, you gunned the engine and sent the car screaming toward the airfield's exit.

"Everyone still breathing?" you called back as you put distance between yourselves and your pursuers.

"Define breathing," Jay replied, checking himself for wounds.

"Alive and functional," Jake clarified, twisting around to check on you. "Christ, you're bleeding all over what's left of the upholstery."

"I'll buy Jay a new car," you muttered, pressing your hand against the wound in your arm.

"You couldn't afford the floor mats," Jay replied, but his concern was evident in his voice. "How bad is it really?"

You examined the wound more carefully. The bullet had gouged a furrow along your upper arm – painful and messy, but not life-threatening. "I'll live. Probably need stitches, but I'm not going to bleed out."

"Good enough for now," Jake said, then added with typical irreverence, "Besides, chicks dig scars."

"I'm not looking to impress anyone," you replied.

"Sure you're not," Jake grinned, shooting a meaningful look toward Jay in the passenger seat.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks and quickly changed the subject. "So what's our next move? The mission's blown, Vantill's in the wind, and Topacio knows who we are."

"Now we report back to headquarters and plan our next move," Jay said, turning toward their extraction point. "This isn't over. Byrne may have won this round, but he's shown his hand. We know Vantill's turned, we know about the arms dealing operation, and we know they have an evacuation protocol in place. That's valuable intelligence."

"Plus," Jake added with his trademark optimism, "nobody betrays The Hand and gets away with it forever. We'll catch up with them eventually."

"Damn right we will," you agreed, settling back into the seat as adrenaline finally began to ebb.

As you drove through the Italian night toward your extraction point, you reflected on the evening's events. Your first real mission hadn't gone according to plan – but then again, you suspected that was par for the course in this line of work.

More importantly, you'd seen how Jay and Jake worked under pressure. Yes, they bickered and competed and drove each other crazy with their different approaches. But when it mattered – when lives were on the line and the mission was at stake – they worked together with a synchronization that was beautiful to watch.

And somehow, you'd found your place in that dynamic. Not as the junior partner or the third wheel, but as the bridge between their different strengths. The mediator, the voice of reason, the heart of the team that kept them focused when their competitive instincts threatened to derail the mission.

"So," Jake said as the lights of their extraction point appeared ahead, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over the car, "anyone want to bet on what our next assignment will be?"

"Hopefully something that involves less running through forests," you replied, wincing as the movement aggravated your wounded arm. "And fewer cliffs."

"Where's the fun in that?" Jay asked, and you caught him smiling despite everything they'd been through.

You laughed, and some of the tension finally left your shoulders. This was your team now.

Whatever came next, you'd face it together.

The Magpie, the Operator, and the Retriever.

The mission might not have gone according to plan, but in all the ways that mattered, it had been a complete success. You'd proven yourself under fire, earned your place in the partnership, and discovered that sometimes the best missions were the ones that didn't go according to the manual.

Plus, you'd finally gotten to see Jake and Jay in action, and despite their constant bickering, they made one hell of a team. A team that you were now officially part of.

"Next time," you said as you pulled into the extraction point, "I get to go to the party."

"Next time," Jay replied, looking at the doorless car with resignation, "you get to explain to headquarters why we destroyed a priceless Aston Martin."

"Next time," Jake added with a grin, "we bring more explosives."

You shook your head, laughing despite the pain in your arm. "You two are going to be the death of me."

"Probably," they replied in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.

"Jinx," you said before either of them could claim it, earning twin glares of mock indignation.

Yeah, you thought as medical personnel swarmed the car to tend to your wound, this was definitely going to be interesting.

The mission was over, but somehow, you had the feeling that your real adventure was just beginning. With partners like Jay and Jake, how could it be anything but?

As the medic worked on your arm, you caught Jay and Jake exchanging a look over your head – one of those wordless communications that spoke of respect earned and trust built through shared danger. You'd passed some kind of test tonight, proven yourself worthy of standing beside two of The Hand's most elite operatives.

"Not bad for your first," Jake said with genuine warmth, clapping you on your uninjured shoulder.

"You aced it," Jay agreed, his usual reserve softened by something that might have been pride.

You grinned, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the Italian night air and everything to do with belonging. This was where you were meant to be, with these people, doing this impossible, dangerous, absolutely essential work.

The Magpie had found his flock.

And heaven may help anyone who tried to break it apart.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — and another one hits and its long too! Its fine, I made sure you can read this in one sitting sjfhasjf anyways any suggestions about this particular work is welcome!! I definitely would love to add more characters in the mix wheheh

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — and here's the legacy one!

 The sun hangs heavy over the court, the hallowed grass beneath your shoes worn down in patches from hours of battle. The crowd is a living thing—breathing, roaring, murmuring—their collective gaze locked onto you and your opponent across the net.

You bounce the ball once. Twice. Three times. Your grip tightens around the racket, the leather damp with sweat.

Breathe. Just like how you practiced it.

The serve rockets off your strings, a blistering ace down the T. The linesman’s call is instant. "Fifteen-love!"

A fist clench. A silent yes. But no time to celebrate—your opponent, a seasoned titan of the game, stares you down as he adjusts his strings. He doesn’t blink. You can’t either.

The next few games blur into a war of attrition. Every point is a battle. Every rally, a test of will.

You chase down drop shots, slide into volleys, grind out baseline exchanges until your lungs burn. The score ticks back and forth—3-2, 4-3, 5-5—neither of you yielding.

The tiebreak is brutal. You trade mini-breaks, each point a knife’s edge. A misjudged slice drifts long—6-5, his set point. The crowd holds its breath.

You serve. Body. He lunges, blocks it back. You’re already at the net—a backhand stab volley. The ball kisses the line.

The umpire calls it. "Time. Players may take a break."

Then, at 6-6, the first-set tiebreak looms.

Your legs already feel like warm jelly under this sweltering heat. Your pulse thrums in your temples. The pressure is suffocating, but you force it down.

You can’t stop now.

You collapse into your chair, toweling off sweat as your team murmurs encouragement. The set isn’t over. But neither are you.

One deep breath. Then another.

This is Wimbledon. And you’re not done yet.

The shade of the player’s canopy is a small mercy as you gulp down your trusty bottle of cold water, your chest still rising and falling with the echoes of the tiebreak battle. The noise of the people around you hums in your ears, a distant roar that feels both suffocating and electric—until a voice cuts through it.

"Hey."

Channy, your assistant, leans in, her voice low under the din. "Don’t freak out, but—he’s here. Third row, near the VIP section. Wanted you to know before you went back out there."

Your head snaps up. "What? Wait who—"

Channy then spoke with wry voice and a mischievious wink. You drop your jaw momentarily.

It’s the last thing you expected. Between his packed schedule, the endless promotions, the distance—there was no way. But when you squint past the glare of the afternoon sun, past the sea of faces, you see him.

Jay.

Dressed in crisp, understated linen—light enough for the sweltering London heat but sharp enough to match the prestige of the event. Armed with only the slickest of sunglasses, his hair styled loose just like always — just him, watching. Here for you.

At that point, you don’t even think. You just move.

The second your feet hit the gravel path behind the stands, security tenses—but they recognize you, and you’re not running away, just toward something more important. Jay’s already standing when you round the corner, like he knew you’d come and find him.

The second you see him, your world tilts on its axis.

“You—” Your voice cracks.

You try again, clearing out your throat for a bit. “What are you doing here?”

Jay’s grin is slow, effortless, the kind that makes your stomach flip even now. “Surprising you, obviously.”

You reach for him on instinct, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, half-convinced he’ll dissolve if you don’t hold on. “B-but—your schedule! The promos, the—”

“Got comped a few days off. The management said we deserved it after hitting a few records and so…” He shrugs, but his eyes never leave yours. “Leaving me to think about— ‘Where do I actually want to be right now?’ And, well.” A nod toward the court, and then a look towards you—with a bit of flushed shyness only he knew how to do. “I’m here now.”

Your throat feels tight. “You flew across the world to watch me play tennis.”

“Correction.” He leans in, close enough that his whisper ghosts over your skin. “I flew across the world to watch you win tennis.”

And god, you crumble.

Your forehead drops against his shoulder, your whole body sagging into him like the exhaustion and adrenaline and sheer disbelief finally caught up. His arms wrap around you, solid and familiar, and for the first time all day, the noise of Wimbledon fades into static.

“I’m so fucking nervous,” you admit, muffled into his collar.

Jay’s hand slides up your back, steadying. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me. You looked like a god out there.”

You huff, pulling back just enough to glare at him. “I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

“Mmm. Sexy.” He thumbs away a bead of sweat from your temple, his touch lingering. “But you’re fine. You’re better than fine. That tiebreak was stupidly hot, by the way.”

“Oh my god—”

“What? It was! That backhand? The way you grind when you’re pissed? Deadly.” His grin turns wicked. “Might’ve yelled. Loudly. In public. Sorry not sorry.”

You groan, but you’re laughing now, the tension in your chest unraveling stitch by stitch. “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

Jay just shrugs, unrepentant. “Insane for you, yeah.”

And—fuck.

Fuck, the way he says it, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. Like he didn’t just cross time zones to sit in the blistering heat for hours, just to watch you chase a ball around. Like he isn’t here, in this moment, when you needed him most without even knowing it.

You swallow hard. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll win.” His fingers squeeze your hands, tightly snug like he’ll never let go. “Then take me somewhere quiet after and tell me all about it.”

A whistle cuts through the air—Channy, waving frantically from the tunnel. Time’s up.

You don’t want to let go.

But Jay’s already stepping back, smoothing his hands down your arms like he’s memorizing the feel of you. “Go,” he murmurs. “They’re waiting.”

You catch his wrist before he can pull away completely. “Stay close. Where I can see you.”

His smile softens. “Always.”

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — bruh how LONG have i been gone!?!? hopefully the writhyv drout will be over soon as i'm cooking up some new stuff!! anyways i hope you're still there to see them soon! AAAA IM GLAD TO BE BACKKKKKK RAAAAAAA

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ check my new masterlist — and here's the legacy one!

The library had become your second home—not by choice, but by necessity. Stacks of textbooks, half-finished essays, and the relentless ticking of the clock above the study carrels had become the soundtrack of your existence. Finals were creeping closer, and with them, the suffocating weight of expectations.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

No, the worst part was him.

Park Jongseong.

Jay.

You’d tried to ignore it. Tried to push it down, bury it under rational thought, convince yourself it was just a stupid crush that would fade. But every time you saw him—leaning against his locker with that effortless smirk, breezing through exams like they were nothing, laughing with his friends like he owned the world—your chest tightened in a way that made it hard to breathe.

And today? Today had been the breaking point.

You’d walked into your shared economics seminar only to see her—some gorgeous senior from the debate team—sliding into the seat beside Jay, leaning in too close, laughing at something he said. And Jay? He’d smiled back, easy and bright, like it was nothing.

Like you were nothing.

It shouldn’t have hurt. It didn’t make sense for it to hurt. You’d never even spoken to him beyond a mumbled “sorry” when you’d bumped into him in the hallway once.

Or twice. It didn't really have to matter.

But God, it ached.

Which was why, at 6:20 PM on a Thursday, you found yourself sitting in the old garden behind the dorms, staring at your phone screen like it held the secrets of the universe.

“A Guide to the Whisper Method: A proven technique to implant thoughts into someone’s subconscious. Effective for love, success, and persuasion."

You scoffed. Loudly.

This was insane. You weren’t the kind of person who believed in this stuff. You rolled your eyes at astrology, laughed at tarot card readings, and had once gotten into a heated argument with a classmate about the “law of attraction.”

But right now?

Right now, you were desperate.

Because the truth was—you had nothing to lose.

Jay was untouchable. A star in every sense of the word—brilliant, magnetic, gone before you could even think to reach for him. You’d already accepted that nothing would ever happen. So what was the harm in whispering a stupid little wish into the universe? If it didn’t work, you’d just go back to admiring him from afar, same as always.

And if it did work? Well, you didn’t let yourself think about that part.

With a shaky exhale, you shoved your phone into your pocket and closed your eyes.

Okay. Focus. The instructions had been clear—

Find a quiet space. (Check. The gardens were empty, the only sound the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of campus life.)

Clear your mind. (You inhaled slowly, counting to four, then exhaled. Again. Again.)

Visualize them.

And so you did.

You imagined Jay standing in front of you—his dark hair slightly messy from running his hands through it, all with his casual outfit hanging off his impressive frame like he ran from straight a cover of Vouge. You pictured the way his lips curled when he was amused, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, the way his voice dipped low when he was teasing someone.

It was too easy to see him. You’d memorized him without meaning to.

And then—before you could second-guess yourself—you leaned forward, as if he were really there, and whispered to the wind.

“Jay?” You see him perk up, smiling at you like you held the world. You cleared your throat before saying those words right at the tip of your tongue.

"I really like you."

The sound was barely audible, just a breath against the evening air. But saying them out loud—even to an imaginary Jay—sent a jolt through your chest.

You swallowed, then continued, softer this time:

"And I wish—"

A pause. Your fingers curled into the grass beneath you.

"—I wish I could love you more than you can imagine."

It wasn’t some grand confession. No dramatic declaration. Just the quiet, aching truth of it—the kind of love that wasn’t about possession or desire, but about something purer. Something that just was.

You exhaled, your shoulders relaxing.

There. Done. Now you could—

"Maybe take me to dinner first?"

Your eyes flew open.

And there he was.

Jay.

The real Jay.

Not just your imagination. Not even a daydream.

Him.

Sitting on the bench right in front of you, one leg crossed over the other, chin propped on his hand, watching you with an expression caught between amusement and something softer.

Your brain short-circuited.

No. No no no—

You lurched backward so fast you nearly ate dirt, scrambling away from him like he was some kind of ghost. Which—honestly—he might as well have been, given how impossible this was.

Jay’s lips twitched. "Whoa. You good?"

"You—" Your voice cracked. Great. "You weren’t supposed to hear that! You heard nothing!"

Jay tilted his head, eyes glinting. "I don’t know about that, you said it right in front of me."

Your face burned. "I thought I was imagining you! I wasn’t expecting … well, you!"

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to vanish.

Jay blinked. Then—slowly, deliberately—his smirk widened. "...Huh."

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. "If this manifestation thing works, I wish to DIE! RIGHT NOW!" Shame, it doesn’t work that way.

Jay laughed—not the polished, charming laugh he used in public, but something real, something warm and unguarded. "You were kinda cute, though."

Cute.

Maybe you deserve HELL for this one. Swallowed up by the flesh of the earth, right here, right now.

Before he could say anything else—before your soul could fully leave your body—you bolted.

Literally.

You ran. Away.

You didn’t stop until you were halfway across campus, lungs burning, heart hammering, brain screaming WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!

Meanwhile, Jay stayed on that bench, watching you go with a look of quiet fascination.

Then his gaze dropped to the forgotten bag you’d left behind.

His smile turned smug.

Gotcha.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — manifesting jay becomes real … wait

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EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — OH THEYRE SO JEALOUS anyway i was racking my brain to come up with something BECAUSE i just have too much ideas on what they'll be jealous about and i just can't take it asfjhkfas

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ exclusive story taglist — want to get the latest updates on this story? i do frequent posts so just be warned! just leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates~