#yeonjun x reader

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✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 10, 2026. 3:30 PM

You’d spent most of Thursday in Professor Lee’s office, reviewing your students’ presentations until the PowerPoints blurred into one another.

Sungjae, the student who’d been raising his hand since the first lecture you’d taught (very rarely did it include a question), had come in last and insisted on taking you through every slide, every transition, every font choice, and every graph. You couldn’t tell blue apart from green by the end of it.

He was still explaining the philosophical implications of his contents slide, of all things, by the time you shut Professor Lee’s office door behind you.

“I feel like, visually, it creates an epistemological hierarchy,” he said, falling into step beside you as you crossed the lobby, “before the audience has even consciously registered it.”

You made a polite noise.

Sungjae had seemingly discovered the joy of over-intellectualising and decided that every sentence needed seasoning with words like paradigmatic and phenomenological. He reminded you a lot of someone.

You’d barely stepped out of the building when a car horn split through the air. A flock of pigeons launched off the roof. Heads turned across the quad.

You looked up.

When you’d agreed to attend one of the races Yeonjun was working, you hadn’t realised that also meant he intended to pick you up from university.

Now he was leaning halfway out of the driver’s window of his Mercedes in the parking lot across the quad, one hand planted on the steering wheel while the other waved high enough to change the direction of the wind. Then, because he clearly hadn’t yet drawn quite enough attention, he pressed the horn again.

Your shoulders dropped.

Beside you, Sungjae raised his eyebrows. “For you, I assume.”

You lifted an almost pleading hand towards Yeonjun, hoping he would understand the signal for please stop embarrassing me.

“For me,” you admitted.

“Boyfriend?”

You looked at Sungjae, momentarily thrown by how casually he’d asked this, before glancing back towards the Mercedes.

Yeonjun had already climbed out. Arms folded, he watched the two of you from beside the hood. Even from here, you could see him debating whether another blast of the horn would be excessive. Knowing him, he probably thought it wouldn’t be.

“Have a nice day, Sungjae,” you said instead of answering, already making your way down the stone steps. “Your presentation’s good. Just don’t spend longer explaining your design choices than your research.”

A faint blush appeared on his cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

“I’ll see you next week in class.” You crossed the quad before he could think to ask another question.

The grass shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, freshly cut and fragrant in the breeze. Students lounged beneath the trees with their shoes and notebooks abandoned beside them, enjoying the last of the warmth. You had to veer sharply left as a cyclist swept past, offering you an amused apology that sounded more like laughter.

By the time you reached the Mercedes, Yeonjun had pushed himself off the hood. His gaze flicked past you towards the Law building.

“Who was that?” he asked.

You gave him a pointed look. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said. “Who was that?”

You let your backpack slide from your shoulder. “My student.”

His attention returned to the boy, who, honest to God, looked like a primary school kid. He was pretending to check his phone while glancing up at you and Yeonjun every few seconds.

“Persistent bloke, isn’t he?” Yeonjun murmured. “What’s his name?”

“Why’s it matter?”

Yeonjun looked back at you then, properly.

“I enjoy meeting new people,” he said simply.

“Mhmm.”

“Should I go over, then, introduce myself?”

You ran your tongue over your teeth. “If you want to never see me again, sure.”

He clicked his lips. “Right. Another time, then.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response and slid your staff lanyard off your neck before tucking it into your backpack.

Yeonjun pulled the passenger door open. “Come on, then.”

The leather seats of his Mercedes had been baking in the sun, and the warmth seeped pleasantly through your jacket as you sat down, dropping your backpack between your feet. The scent of cedarwood lingered in the cabin, familiar enough by now that your lips curved automatically.

Yeonjun shut your door and rounded the hood. The car woke the moment he slid behind the wheel and turned the key, emitting a low sound that swallowed the rest of the campus noise.

He slipped his seatbelt on and shot you a glance. “Work okay?”

You exhaled, fumbling with your own seatbelt until it clicked into place.

“Yeah,” you said. “Shouldn’t you have been at work already, though?”

“Not for another half an hour.” He pulled away from the kerb with an easy turn of the wheel. “Figured I’d save you the trip home and pick you up from here. We can grab your student, too, if you’d like.”

You rolled your eyes as the car drove past the Law building. Sungjae still stood by the door.

“M’s sure he’ll find his way home,” you said.

"Mhmm." Yeonjun watched him until he disappeared from his field of vision.

“Thanks for coming,” you said, pulling his attention back to you as you tugged the seatbelt where it had begun sawing into the side of your neck. “D’you think Violet will be alright at mine?”

The Mercedes rolled through the narrow cobbled streets. The plush seats absorbed every uneven stone.

“Probably,” Yeonjun said. “I genuinely don’t think she even notices we’re gone, s’long as it’s still light outside.”

Your expression eased.

“Alright.” You settled back. “Tell me what to expect at the race, then.”

“Okay. So—”

“How many women will be there?”

“I—” His eyes flicked towards you before returning to the road. The queue at the main junction leading out of campus had already coagulated into a procession of brake lights. “I’m actually not sure. Why?”

“Trying to work out how quickly I’ll get bored if there aren’t any women to keep me company.”

Yeonjun understood the sentiment, but he didn’t much care for the idea of someone else providing that particular service for you.

“I’ll keep you company,” he said.

You turned to him. “You’re not a woman.”

He considered that.

“Okay. That’s true.” He gave a slow nod. His left hand rested loosely at the top of the steering wheel, his wrist bent at a careful angle. “But I am still your friend. Right?”

“Right.”

“So I still count.”

“You’ll be working.”

“I can still—”

“With other men,” you added.

That made him smile.

“Ah,” he said. “So their manliness will contaminate me, s’that it?”

You gave him a flat look. “It might.”

He chuckled. The traffic crawled forward another car length.

Watching the billboards on the side of the road, he found himself thinking about the conversations he’d overheard around the paddock. Half of them had been about engines, the other half about places with flashing lights and overpriced drinks.

Before taking the job, he’d had no idea there were this many strip clubs in the city. Now he was convinced that most of them were financed solely by his drivers. Admittedly, that was quite comforting. The only good his drivers were for was keeping local businesses afloat.

All in all, Yeonjun decided, you were making a solid point.

“I’ll try not to stand too close to them,” he said finally, “and hopefully they won’t infect me.”

You snorted. The traffic moved, and he was finally able to merge onto the main street.

“You’ll be busy anyway,” you said. “How will you have time to keep me company?”

A faint crease appeared between his brows. “I always have time for you.”

Your fingers found the edge of your jacket. The stitching by the zipper felt fascinating—considerably more fascinating, in fact, than the memory of the first time he’d brought you to his race in grad school, and then skipped it altogether to walk around the woods with you instead.

“So,” you inhaled sharply, “no women, then?”

Yeonjun exhaled as the traffic lights turned red.

Resting one elbow on the open window, he drummed his fingers absently against the door while cyclists threaded between the standing cars.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Couple of teams have women around the garages, but I couldn’t tell you whether they’re engineers, mechanics, partners, or—I don’t know.” He lifted one shoulder. “Never asked. Bit awkward to go, hi, s’nice meeting you, d’you work here?”

You smiled. “Okay, fair, yeah.”

“Yeah. So I genuinely don’t know who’ll be there.”

“That’s fine, then.”

The lights flicked to green.

Yeonjun pulled forward, easing past a hesitant black BMW before its driver had registered that the traffic was moving again. Then he glanced across at you, his teeth catching briefly on his lower lip.

“Not particularly excited about this, then?” he asked.

You met his eyes for a moment before his attention returned to the road. The Mercedes turned onto a narrow lane flanked by warehouses whose corrugated walls shimmered in the sun, throwing ripples of reflected light across the windscreen.

“I am,” you said. The road felt older here, patched so many times that it looked like a black quilt. “Just nervous, I suppose. Crowds of people. You know.”

Yeonjun nodded.

To be honest, midweek races rarely drew much of a crowd. The only people who came were devoted regulars (all staggering ten of them), a handful of university students skipping lectures, relatives of the drivers, and the occasional curious passer-by who’d wandered over after seeing a social media post. Hardly the roaring masses you seemed to be imagining.

“I’ll be with you whenever I can,” he said. “Promise.”

The asphalt gave way to gravel. Loose stones crunched beneath the tyres, kicking pale dust into the air behind you.

“Thank you,” you said. “Don’t let me interfere with your work, though. I’ll survive.”

He shrugged. “My work will survive, too.”

You looked across to him. “You’re alright getting fired because you spent your shift babysitting me?”

“I am.” He caught your eye, his grin unbearably smug. “Problem?”

You looked away before he could enjoy your reaction for too long, folding your hands together in your lap.

“Well, not a problem for me,” you said. “But you quite obviously need professional help.”

“Mhmm. Think I’ve heard that before.”

“Might be worth considering.”

He laughed. Distracted by the sound, you didn’t notice the clouds sliding over the sun until the car around you dimmed.

Another ten minutes later, a broad metal gate appeared between shipping containers ahead, practically invisible until you were nearly on top of it. Little showed behind it, only flashes of colour and the occasional plume of smoke drifting into the sky.

The smell of hot rubber and petrol drifted through the open window. You could almost feel it in your throat.

“We’re here,” Yeonjun said, stopping just outside the gate and killing the engine. “Bit underwhelming from this side, I know, but hang on for me.”

You unclipped your seatbelt and looked across the uneven dirt parking lot. Cars had been abandoned wherever there’d been room, some leaning with one wheel sunk into the soft ground.

The dirt was vibrating as you stepped out of the car, deep enough to reverberate through the soles of your trainers.

It took you back to university at once. You almost expected to look up and find Beomgyu’s beaten-down Audi parked beside Taehyun’s unreasonably orange Corvette.

Yeonjun let you through the gate, which swung from a single tired hook that looked like it wouldn’t even keep pigeons out, let alone people. The smell of fuel seemed to sink into your clothes almost immediately. Yeonjun’s dark leather jacket, on the other hand, continued to smell of his cologne. Perhaps he’d grown immune to the scents here.

“Alright,” he said, extending his hands. “Welcome.”

The paddock was lively. It set you on edge at first, the loud noises, but about ten minutes of weaving through garages and trailers later, you had to admit that this wasn’t so bad after all.

There was a cosiness to the chaos around you: mechanics borrowed tools from each other without asking, drivers traded insults one minute, and shared energy drinks the next. Even the people dressed in casual clothes greeted the staff with enthusiastic high-fives. Everyone seemed to know everyone here.

It reminded you, absurdly, of your village.

You were surprised, then, once the two of you walked straight out of the paddock.

Before you could ask Yeonjun where he was taking you, he reached for your hand. Feeling your skin tingle all of a sudden, you let him guide you around the grandstands, between coils of electrical cable and past more fencing. He then turned up towards a grassy slope at the edge of the circuit.

“Why,” you asked, already out of breath as your trainers slipped against a tree root, “are we climbing a hill? Surely they aren’t racing uphill?”

Yeonjun tightened his grip to steady you. “Of course not.”

“So, what’s the—”

“You’ll see.” He stepped over another exposed root and paused to draw you around it. “Trust me.”

You brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face. “M’not a fan of surprises, you know.”

Yeonjun grinned. Instead of replying, he reached back again and gave your hand a gentle tug up the steepest stretch of the slope. The wind was stronger here, carrying the smell of damp grass. With every step, the paddock noise fell further away.

You understood why he’d brought you here the moment you reached the top.

The entire circuit unfolded beneath you: two long straights carved through the greenery before feeding into a string of quick chicanes. From up here, the tarmac looked almost painted onto the landscape, a dark ribbon between fields that ran on towards the horizon. Beyond them, the trees—some of them already golden—swayed under the steadily thickening clouds. The grandstands had shrunk to rows of silver benches, speckled with tiny, moving dots.

“Wow,” you breathed.

Yeonjun smiled and, for the first time that afternoon, looked oddly unsure of himself.

“Yeah?” He let go of your hand, a little awkwardly, and slid both of his into his pockets. “This is my favourite spot to work. At least until someone calls me back down.”

Your gaze drifted across the track. “I can see why. Got the best view here.”

“Yeah.” He nodded towards the nearest grandstand. “Not too bad over there either, if you sit near the top. Front row’s got the better soundtrack, though.”

You laughed softly. “I can imagine.”

He smiled to himself. Almost without thinking, he drew his right hand back out of his pocket and found his left wrist, rubbing his thumb over the skin.

You caught the movement out of the corner of your eye.

“Bothering you?” you asked without turning. “Your wrist.”

He looked down.

“A bit.” He flexed it experimentally. The joint answered with the same dull ache that had followed him all day. “Shouldn’t have fucked with the brace while it was on. My own fault.” His thumb kept working slowly over the bone. “I’ve also realised it gets worse whenever it’s about to rain, so m’thinking of starting a weather forecasting business.”

You snorted, eyes returning to the horizon. The leaves on the trees around the hill had begun shivering.

“It does smell like rain,” you said. “Your wrist’s probably right.”

He took a slow breath through his nose and lifted his head towards the sky.

It always seemed to darken here first. The circuit sat low enough that the storms found it before the rest of the city had even noticed the clouds.

“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes at the western horizon. “Could be a wet race.”

“Those are usually fun,” you said.

“Well,” he gave a short laugh, “they’re fun until the team wants updated analyses every three minutes because the grip’s changing every lap. First wet race I worked, I finished convinced I’d be handing in my resignation the next morning.”

“Shit. Yeah?” You looked from the clouds back to him. “Excellent day to bring me here.”

He grinned.

“No, it is an excellent day,” he said. “You’ll be my reason not to quit.”

Your eyebrows lifted. Catching the amusement in your eyes, he gestured vaguely towards the paddock below.

“Meant that in a friendly way,” he explained. “Got to prove I’m incredibly cool and completely calm under pressure.”

You scoffed. “Of course, yes. All very important qualities. Couldn’t possibly be friends with you otherwise.”

“I’d think so,” he said, “considering Reina became Assistant Director, what—six months after joining her nonprofit?”

You smiled before you could help yourself. If promotions had been awarded by public vote, you were convinced Reina would’ve been running the organisation by now.

She’d get there eventually, you were sure.

“Well,” you said. “She’s built different. We can’t all be her.”

“And Nara and Beomgyu are about to start their own conglomerate.”

You frowned. “Are they? M’still not convinced whatever they’re doing is legal.”

He laughed. The wind caught the sound and scattered it down the hillside. Your eyes followed it move through the grass.

“Yeah, s’true, I actually don’t know either,” he said. “Point is, you’re surrounded by very ambitious people. I’ve got to fit in.”

The determination in his tone made you pause.

“They—but just happened to be like that, though,” you said, looking up at him again. “But we’re friends because they’re good people. It’s not—not because they’ve got impressive dreams or careers. If Reina quit tomorrow and became a groupie for some rock band, I’d follow them on tour with her.”

Yeonjun smiled at the image, but didn’t answer right away, his gaze settling on the grandstands.

He hadn’t considered that, although he should’ve known that you’d never cared much about being impressed.

He wanted to impress you anyway.

The wind shifted across the hillside, stirring the grass around his ankles.

“Do you think I’m a good person, then?” he found himself asking.

You turned to him. The breeze tugged at the open flaps of your jacket as you searched his face, trying to work out whether he was joking or simply fishing for compliments the way he usually did.

The relentless focus in his eyes, however, made it difficult for you to keep looking at him.

“I—I think you’re trying to be a good person,” you said, eyes dropping to the track. “Which is probably the most any of us can do.”

“Yeah?” Your careful wording pulled another small smile from him. “Would you have said that back in grad school?”

Below the hill, a marshal carried a stack of orange traffic cones under one arm, walking along the edge of the circuit.

“Definitely not,” you admitted. “But I wasn’t a good person back then, either.”

That surprised Yeonjun.

He turned fully towards you. “What makes you say that?”

“I was prejudiced and proud,” you said with a shrug. “Probably still am, if I’m honest. But now I’m at least trying not to stay that way.”

You glanced back at him, and Yeonjun found himself smiling again.

He liked hearing that being good wasn’t a destination you eventually arrived at, but something you kept moving towards. That sounded promising.

“Hm.” He folded his arms against the breeze. “I always thought it was more permanent. Like—”

“Choi Yeonjun!”

You both flinched.

Instinctively, you looked downhill. Below, one of the race officials stood outside a portable office, one hand planted on top of his bald head as though holding it on against the wind.

“Yeah?” Yeonjun shouted back.

“Come down here for a sec, would you?” the official bellowed. “The bloody computers have all frozen again. Sorry!”

Yeonjun sighed. “Yeah—coming!”

He looked sideways at you. There was an apology already settled into his face.

“Go on.” You nodded towards the increasingly distressed man below. “Didn’t realise you were IT, though.”

“Oh—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m everything here.”

You smiled. “Well, go ahead, then. Save the world.”

He held out his hand.

“Come with me,” he said, nodding towards the slope. “Let’s get you down first.”

You glanced downhill. From here, it didn’t look especially intimidating. Granted, the climb up had left your calves tense, but that’s typical for hills as you knew them. Always easier to get down.

“I can walk,” you said.

“I’m sure.” His smile deepened. “Let me help anyway. Since it’s on my way.”

Your eyes dropped to his outstretched hand.

You realised, with a faint hitch in your breath, that you couldn’t refuse him. Never had before, and still couldn’t.

“Fine.” You slipped your hand into his. His fingers were warm as they closed around yours. Your chest was, too. “Let’s go.”

His grip tightened for half a second. Then, without another word, he launched himself downhill at full speed.

You gasped, stomach lurching as you stumbled after him, your trainers skidding across flattened grass before you found your footing again. An involuntary laugh burst from your chest.

Yeonjun darted around a patch of mud without warning, tugging you after him so abruptly that your shoulder bumped hard against his.

“Yeonjun, for fuck’s—”

“Y’alright, love?”

You tightened your grip on his hand and swatted his shoulder without stopping. He laughed so hard that he missed the low-hanging tree branches. His jacket sleeve caught on them, yanking him half off balance.

Stumbling backwards, he instinctively caught you with his free hand, steadying you both.

“You’re such a—such a shithead,” you puffed, dropping his hand as the ground finally levelled under your feet. Your heart was still pounding. “Could’ve warned me.”

Yeonjun bent slightly to catch his breath. He was still laughing.

“For the record,” you added, shooting him a look, “I don’t think you’re a very good person right now.”

Naturally, that made him laugh even harder.

When he finally looked up and saw the grass clinging to the legs of your jeans, the loose strands of hair plastered across your face, and the reluctant smile you couldn’t smother, he almost wanted to drag you back up the hill just so he could race down it with you again.

“M’really sorry about this.” He didn’t mean the hill. “I’ll be right back soon, though. I swear.”

You planted your hands on your hips while your lungs tried to accept a proper breath.

“Take your time.” You inhaled slowly. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Not climbing any more hills.”

Already about to walk away, he suddenly pulled back. His eyes were practically sparkling.

“What if it’s a smaller one, though?” he asked.

“No.”

“But what if I asked you to climb it with me really, really nicely?”

“No.”

“What if I gave you some sweets for it—”

You found yourself laughing again. “Go, Jun! Jesus. You’ve got work.”

Laughing and promising five minutes one last time, Yeonjun reached out to squeeze your arm and finally jogged across the gravel to find his team.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 10, 2026. 5 PM

Yeonjun’s five minutes quickly became ten, then thirty.

Surprisingly, you found you didn’t mind it all that much.

After walking along the pit lane, you discovered the food stalls behind the grandstands. One battered caravan had a queue trailing halfway back towards the paddock. Its white paint was peeling, the faded stickers coated in a thin film of grease. It looked as though it had been parked here longer than you’d been alive.

You soon understood why the queue had been so long – the hot dogs were fantastic. The bread was warm enough to send up steam on the first bite, and the pickles actually had flavour to them. You made a mental note to tell Yeonjun this should be the first stop of his tour when he brought someone here for the first time.

The only draining part of being here on your own, predictably, turned out to be the men.

It started pleasantly enough: a middle-aged man asked if you’d been here before. He was friendly and genuinely welcoming about it; even complimented your choice in hot dogs.

The second man caught up to you by the toilets and began explaining Qualifying to you before you’d even worked out why he was talking to you in the first place.

By the third (and fourth and fifth) man, the conversations had turned to the classic, could I get your number?

You declined each time with a polite smile. They smiled back and asked again, usually with a come on, sometimes with a don’t be like that.

By the time one of them asked whether you lived nearby, your smile felt more like a grimace.

“Sorry,” you said at last. “I’ve got a boyfriend.”

That didn’t work, either; something about a goalpost having a goalkeeper.

You hadn’t realised women were goalposts now, but you were not above taking a penalty kick at the next man’s head.

Eventually, though, once you’d repeated the boyfriend spell three more times, they decided to leave you alone, mumbling under their breath about who they thought you were. You had half a mind to hold yourself back, mostly out of respect for Yeonjun, who’d have had to be the one to bail you out of jail.

You retreated to the grandstands overlooking the track. Halfway up, you could see almost everything and spot anyone approaching long before they reached you.

Below, the cars had taken their places on the grid. Mechanics still moved between them, wheeling toolboxes across the tarmac. To your surprise, Yeonjun was back, and already pounding up the grandstand steps on the left, taking three at a time.

By the time he reached you, a sheen of sweat clung to his forehead. He dropped onto the bench beside you with a heavy exhale.

“God, I’m so—” He sucked in a breath. “—so sorry. Wasn’t expecting that to take so fucking long.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, lifting the empty polystyrene tray balanced on your knees. “I’m fine here. The food’s great.”

Yeonjun looked down at the tray.

“You got a hot dog without me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He heaved another exhale. “Wow. Don’t know if I can forgive that.”

“And it was great, too. The pickles were excellent.”

“Oh,” he attempted a scowl, “were they?”

You grinned. “Did you get everything sorted?”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah, eventually.”

Nodding, you turned back towards the track. It was surprisingly warm here; you were considering losing your jacket.

“Uh,” Yeonjun said. You glanced at him again. “Actually, for the last twenty or so minutes, I’ve been in there,” he pointed over his shoulder towards one of the portable offices, “listening to my engineers discuss you.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Yes,” he said. “And your boyfriend. How—how’d that happen in the time that I was gone?”

You groaned, tipping your head back against the aluminium bench.

Yeonjun wasn’t sure what to make of the sound. You looked uncomfortable, which made something in his stomach tighten, almost painfully. He shouldn’t have been gone this long.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that, despite everything that had happened over the past few weeks, you might’ve actually been seeing someone. The kiss at Reina and Soobin’s engagement party hadn’t necessarily proved anything—people kissed people they shouldn’t all the time.

He thought it would’ve made sense. You were you, after all. Beautiful and smart and caring and kind and funny, and he’d sit here, staring at his shoes, all night if he kept going.

“I lied to get rid of the idiots you work with,” you said eventually, some of the irritation still clinging to your voice. “No one taught them how to take no for an answer, apparently. Obviously m’not actually dating anyone.”

Beside you, Yeonjun plucked a speck of lint from his trousers. “Why, um—why obviously?”

You turned to him, puzzled by his puzzlement.

“Why would I decide to be friends with you,” you said, “and then immediately go off and date someone else?”

A sharp current climbed Yeonjun’s spine. Every thought in his head scattered at once, like a startled murder of crows. Or pigeons. Or sparrows, those were fidgety—

And he was thinking about fucking birds now.

“Does that—” He abandoned the sentence and tried again. “W-what does that mean?”

You’d expected the question. The moment you said the words, you knew they’d sounded larger than you’d meant.

“I don’t know,” you said, returning your gaze to the track below. “Means exactly what I said.”

Beside you, Yeonjun shifted closer to the edge of the bench. He could only see your profile from here; the wind kept sweeping strands of hair across your cheek, then dropping them again.

Stupid.

He wouldn’t have dropped them.

“It sounded,” he said carefully, “like you were saying you’d date me, if you could date anyone.”

You lifted one shoulder. “Suppose it did.”

His stomach lurched so violently that he worried he was about to be sick. That would definitely impress you.

“Is—” His voice almost disappeared. “—is that what you meant?”

You met his eyes, and Yeonjun physically felt his throat dry.

“It is,” you said.

There was no promise in your words, only the simple truth of it: it is.

If choosing someone had been as simple as wanting them, you’d have chosen him.

Yeonjun looked away. His fingers began tapping against his knees without him noticing. Below, the engineers gathered their equipment and stepped away from the cars. Someone, he knew, would come looking for him soon.

He didn’t think about that.

Instead, he thought about every joke he’d ever made over the years. Thought about the bet. About every time he’d wrapped the truth in humour and games, because it felt safer that way.

If there’s no beginning, Soobin had once summarised it for him, there’s no end.

You were protecting yourself from that version of him now.

He realised he was protecting himself, too.

There could be a beginning now. And there could be an end.

And if there was an end, there would be no friendship left for the two of you to fall back on. There’d be nothing.

“Does—does this work, then, do you think?” he asked after a long minute. “Us being friends.”

The wind picked up around you, nearly stealing his words. Down the grid, the yellow flags fluttered, snapping softly against their poles.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Think we’re trying our best, all things considered.”

Yeonjun smiled.

He thought that sounded a bit like a journey as well, just like being a good person, and decided he quite liked that. Quite liked that there were things to consider, too.

“Alright.” He stretched his legs onto the row below and exhaled some of the heaviness in his chest. “So, since we’re trying our best, yeah? You should start telling me everything you tell Reina.”

You turned to him with a scoff, then looked away the moment he started laughing.

“I don’t tell anyone what I tell Reina.”

“Ah.” He slapped a palm dramatically against his thigh. “Well, then m’afraid we’ll never reach our full friendship potential.”

You turned sideways on the bench, tucking one leg under yourself. Your jeans lifted over your ankles.

“There’re layers to this, though,” you said. “Reina is Reina. No one else gets to be her.” You pointed at him. “You’re Yeonjun.”

His grin widened. “Oh, thanks for reminding me, love. Knew I shouldn’t have wandered so far from the psych ward agai—”

“Alright, tone it down.” You rolled your eyes, but he’d already caught the smile threatening your lips. “M’saying our friendship is naturally different.”

“Different how?”

“Well…” You tugged your white sock a little higher where it had slipped beneath the hem of your jeans. “Okay. Do you think Soobin and I are the same?”

He was already shaking his head before you’d even finished the question. “Definitely not.”

“Am I less of a friend to you, then?”

His gaze drifted towards the woods beyond the circuit.

You weren’t less, he thought, but you weren’t more, either. You just sort of were; an entire category of your own.

“Alright,” he conceded anyway. “You’re not.”

You spread your hands in humble triumph. “There you go, then.”

“Right.” He stared into the middle distance for another second. “There I go, then. Yeah. ‘Course.”

You dropped your hands back into your lap. “What now?”

A smile tugged at one corner of his lips as his gaze returned to the cars below.

“Nothing,” he said. “Was just thinking how offended you looked when you said you obviously wouldn’t date anyone else.”

He gave you a profoundly meaningful look—just to get you to roll your eyes. To his immense pleasure, you did.

“If you’re planning to keep bringing that up,” you said, “I might ask one of your drivers out purely out of spite.”

“No, but you couldn’t.” He leaned back against the bench, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Why would you turn me down and then date someone else?”

You clicked your tongue and let your gaze follow the last of the rain clouds as they slowly broke apart above the circuit.

You should’ve expected this, really. It was the chocolate syrup all over again.

“M’questioning my life choices every day with you,” you mumbled.

His laughter rang out across the rows of benches. “You should be.”

You refused to look back at him, despite the weight of his gaze pressing against the side of your face.

Below, the pit lane quieted for just a second. The mechanics hurried back into the garages. Drivers lowered their helmet visors. One by one, the engines roared into life until the vibration climbed up through the stands.

Beside you, Yeonjun drew a long breath.

“Duty calls?” you asked, nodding ahead.

His gaze shifted down towards the garages.

Maybe he should just quit. He was starting to have fun with this conversation and planned to bring up your magical apricots soon.

“It does.” There was reluctance in his voice as he stood, brushing a hand down his trousers. “Come with me?”

You finally looked up. “Where?”

He tipped his head towards the row of portable offices. “Inside.”

You followed his gaze. There were hardly any people in the pit lane now.

“Can I do that?” you asked.

“Have you lost your ability to walk?”

You stared at him. “I meant, am I allowed?”

He waved the question off before holding out his hand.

“I decide what’s allowed,” he said. “And I want you with me.”

Trying to control your pulse, you failed to control the smile on your lips. Your hand lifted to his, almost instinctive by now.

“So entitled,” you muttered, gathering your empty tray.

“Mhmm.” He pulled you to your feet. “You get special treatment when you’re here with me. Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it.” You matched his pace down the steps. “How will I ever express my overwhelming gratitude?”

He grinned at you over his shoulder. “You think about that, love.”

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 10, 2026. 8:30 PM

Yeonjun’s team didn’t do so bad in the end—they finished second-to-last, which, according to what the other engineers told you, counted as a respectable result for a team whose drivers had spent most of the race ‘eating shit.’

Very satisfied with the day he’d personally had, Yeonjun pulled you back to the Mercedes, insisting the two of you ate something proper. His original plan had been to stop at some place near the circuit, but the thought of Violet being alone for too long sent you back to the flats instead. You picked up takeaway on the way.

Violet, as it turned out, was still perfectly fine without you. Curled into a neat brown-and-white ball on the sofa, she barely acknowledged the creak of your front door. She only lifted her head to meow irritably at the volume of your voices—she’d been having a perfectly pleasant evening until the pair of you barged in.

“Sorry, little one,” you murmured, approaching her while Yeonjun balanced the stack of takeaway containers against one hip. “Ready to go home?”

The plan was to eat at his, so the cat would remember where home is. Your job was to transport said cat.

Chirping faintly, Violet allowed you to carry her downstairs and remained limp against your chest while Yeonjun fumbled for his keys with one hand. She weighed more than she looked, and you had to pause halfway down to adjust your arms around her.

“The one bloke on your team who just decided to brake halfway down the straight,” you continued, picking up the earlier topic, “is my Driver of the Day. Whatever’s his problem?”

Yeonjun snorted, holding the door open for you.

You stepped inside. Violet finally raised her head from your arms, blinking lazily at the dimness of his flat.

“Told you my team’s shit,” Yeonjun said, nudging the door shut behind him with his heel. “He told us he was setting up for the chicane. Was nowhere near the apex, but who are we to question his artistic interpretation.”

You snickered as you set Violet onto the floor. The instant her paws met the tile, she marched straight for her water bowl as though you’d left her parched for a week.

“His gearbox’s been fucked for weeks,” Yeonjun went on from the kitchen. “We finally fixed it, and now he’s braking for corners that aren’t anywhere near him.”

“Keeping you on your toes, then.”

“Always is, yeah.”

While he unpacked the takeaway across the kitchen island, you dropped your backpack to the floor and searched for a spot to leave your jacket. There still wasn’t anywhere. Without the mattresses occupying half the living room, the flat echoed around you again.

“You know,” you said, folding the jacket over your arm, “I remember how you’d filled the entire stairwell with boxes when you were moving in. Yet your flat’s empty.”

Yeonjun smiled to himself, setting down paper-wrapped chopsticks on the island. “That was mostly clothes. Some books. It’s all here.”

“Mhmm. Thoughts on furnishing this place properly as our next shared activity?”

Snorting, he relieved you of your jacket and draped it over the back of one of the stools.

“D’you reckon I need more pillows?” he asked.

“Sure. A few mattresses, to even out the number, too.”

He laughed at that.

To be fair, he didn’t think his flat was quite as empty as you insisted. It didn’t have much furniture, that was true, but it had you in it.

“Well, we could do that, but m’not in a rush.” He gestured ahead. “Already got everything I need anyway.”

You missed the look in his eyes as you glanced around again.

Everything he needed, you noted, seemed to be the twenty-odd mattresses stacked in the corridor outside his bedroom, a bed, a piano, several chairs, a kitchen, and a fern.

The large pink bear from the arcade sat propped against a carton of orange juice in the middle of the kitchen island, too, its arms splayed out. You pretended not to see it.

“Hmm. Least the fern’s doing alright.” You nodded towards the window. “Even in your cave.”

“Yes, I set an alarm on my phone to water it,” he said, peeling the lids off the food containers. “Due diligence.”

“Ah, very responsible of you.”

“I know, yes.”

Steam rose off the kitchen island as you helped lift the remaining lids, inhaling the rich scent of garlic and soy sauce. Your stomach immediately reminded you just how little the hot dog from earlier had accomplished.

Yeonjun turned back to the drawers for cutlery.

“Hasn’t improved the ambience much, though,” he muttered, gesturing at the fern with one of the spoons. “But the bear’s done miracles.”

“Well.” You continued to ignore the bear. “One plant can only do so much. And with those curtains—I mean, Batcave is ambience, too, technically, but, uh…”

Yeonjun laughed, setting the spoons and knives down on the island before unwrapping the chopsticks.

“Got a piano here, too.” He nodded towards his room. “This is an open, creative space.”

“Oh, s’right.” You looked over at the polished lid of the instrument, its edges catching the warm kitchen light. “I, uh—I heard you playing the other day, actually.”

That surprised him. Then he remembered how thin the walls between the flats were, and what surprised him instead was how self-conscious that made him feel.

“Yeah?” He turned to toss the packaging into the bin under the sink. “Sorry if it was—”

“I didn’t mind it,” you cut in. “Couldn’t work out what you were playing, though.”

“Chopin, I think.” He returned to the island. “Been thinking about him the past few days. Wanted to see if I still remembered the Raindrop Prelude.”

“Sounded like you did.”

His smile returned, quieter.

Together, you divided the dumplings between two plates and settled onto the stools at the island. The food was still far too hot, but that didn’t stop either of you.

You bit into a dumpling straight away and hissed through your teeth as the filling spread across your tongue. The meat was worth the suffering: spicy, rich with garlic and ginger, tender enough to fall apart as it burned the roof of your mouth.

“W-where’d it come from?” you managed, lifting a hand over your mouth while you tried to swallow. “The Chopin piece.”

“Oh.” He finished chewing first, breathing heavily through his nose. “I—shit, s’hot—I made Alain teach it to me after I heard it in the Halo 3 trailer.”

You looked up. “Halo—the video game?”

“Yes.”

You stared at him for another second before lowering your gaze back to your plate.

“Alright,” you said. “Can’t say that’s where I’d expect anyone to discover anything by Chopin, but if it works, it works.”

Grinning, Yeonjun reached for another dumpling. He blew on it a few times, which did nothing whatsoever, and stuffed it into his mouth.

Trying not to smile at his bulging cheeks, you blew thoughtfully onto your own dumpling and took a slow bite.

“So, then.” You reached for a paper napkin by the bear’s leg as you finished chewing. “You said you play when you’re in a good mood.”

Yeonjun met your eyes for less than a moment, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up his chopsticks. “Usually.”

You nodded quietly.

It was comforting, for reasons you couldn’t explain to yourself, to know that the music drifting through your floorboards was proof he was happy.

“S’a little strange, I guess,” he said after a moment, turning his chopsticks slowly between his fingers. “Never thought I’d willingly touch the piano again. But recently, if I’ve had a decent day, I kept remembering pieces I learnt years ago. Then I end up sitting down just to see if I still remember them right.”

You looked back at the piano. It was easy to picture him there, on quiet evenings, playing fragments that refused to leave him alone.

“That’s still crazy to me,” you said, “that you know some of those pieces by heart.”

His smile softened.

“Just bits of them,” he said. “Not the whole thing. Usually my favourite parts.”

“I’d love to hear them.”

He looked up at you, half-convinced you were teasing.

“We—we’d be here all night,” he said.

You reached for your phone in the back pocket of your jeans, angling the screen towards yourself to check the time.

Across the island, Yeonjun forgot about the dumplings or the carton of noodles beside his plate.

“I’ve got lunch with Reina tomorrow,” you said, “but after that, I haven’t got anything important.”

“No class on Fridays?”

“I said nothing important.”

Yeonjun stared at you as you locked the screen and slipped the phone back into your pocket. Then a grin spread across his face, so bright that it seemed to light up the whole flat.

“You’d skip class for me?” he asked, voice climbing half an octave. He’d stopped bothering to care about his dignity.

“For the music,” you corrected. “Seeing as you’re the prodigy here.”

He placed one hand dramatically against his chest. “Oh, wow. We’ve come so far.”

You snorted and picked up your own carton of noodles. Steam still rose above it.

You wouldn’t argue. You had come far.

“I’ll play for you,” Yeonjun decided, pointing a chopstick at you, his eyes faintly narrowed. “But I’m expecting something in return.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, tit for tat, is that it?”

His grin returned. “Sure. Been doing all these favours for you, after all.”

“What favours?”

“Got to experience a professional race,” he said, “and now you’re in the presence of a highly skilled piano player.”

Scoffing, you scooped up a mouthful of noodles and chewed for a thoughtful second. They were thicker than you were used to, but pleasantly chewy.

“Alright.” You swallowed. “Appreciate all that you’ve done for me. Let’s negotiate.”

Yeonjun did his best to arrange his face into something reasonable.

“Help me get ready for my birthday,” he said.

You lowered the noodle carton onto the island. “What’d you need help with? Thought you said it’ll be casual.”

“Yeah, but...” He reached for his phone in his back pocket. “I booked that club, but it’s, uh—empty.”

After unlocking the screen, he opened his gallery and placed the phone between the takeaway containers. Photographs of the venue filled the screen: tall dark timber walls, grey concrete floors.

“Needs decorating?” you said.

“Yeah.” He pinched to zoom in on the decorative moulding running along one wall. “S’not bad as is, but needs—balloons? Or something that looks cool, but isn’t too over the top.”

You smiled. “Don’t want people to think you tried too hard, yeah?”

“Precisely, yes.”

He picked his noodle carton back up and slurped down another mouthful while you continued studying the photographs. He hoped you wouldn’t swipe too far and find the screenshots of the photos he’d saved from Reina and Soobin’s engagement party.

“Alright,” you said, pushing the phone back towards him. He reached out to lock it. “I can help with that.”

“Good,” he said and swallowed the noodles. “S’a deal, then.”

He extended one chopstick across the island. You regarded it for a second, then laughed under your breath and tapped your own against it.

Violet returned as the two of you resumed eating.

Yeonjun had mentioned on the drive home that she usually fled the kitchen whenever he made ramen—something about the scent of soy sauce that she found objectionable—but tonight curiosity seemed to outweigh her standards.

With one effortless leap, she landed on the island between you, her nose twitching. She wound her tail around the pink bear’s neck as she inspected the empty plate of dumplings, then his carton of noodles. Realising she did not have a designated plate here, she lifted her head to look directly at Yeonjun: explain yourself.

He slurped down the noodles.

“Already gave you enough today, love,” he mumbled, reaching out his free hand to scratch her neck. “You know there’s a limit to the treats.”

Violet lifted her chin just a little higher to guide his fingers to her favourite spot. She did not think there should’ve been a limit to the treats.

“Told my mum about her, by the way,” he added. Violet tipped her head, seemingly confirming it. “Earlier today.”

You looked up from your noodles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t as bad as I expected, actually.” He rested the chopsticks across the edge of the carton. “She rang this morning, said she was working nearby and wanted to grab a coffee. I told her to come over instead, but warned her I’d got a cat.” He scratched absently at the side of his left wrist. “Thought she’d change her mind, but she actually came.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah.” He snickered. “Got cat hair all over her coat, but only complained about it after I’d shut the door. Heard her out in the corridor, going, oh, for God’s sake.”

There was a smile pulling at his mouth that made you smile back, almost on reflex.

“She wasn’t a big fan of the building, either,” he continued. “Said she thought it’d been bulldozed years ago.”

You sucked your lips in. “Yeah, even my grandad’s not a fan of this building.”

Yeonjun laughed properly. Violet gave his chopsticks a cautious sniff.

“Hopefully she liked the coffee, at least,” you said.

He nodded. “Yeah, my dad actually texted me later, said Mum told him I make great cappuccinos. Apparently, that surprised her.”

Your smile returned. “Should’ve had her try one of your pies.”

A soft glimmer appeared in his eyes. “Shit—yeah. Maybe next time.”

“Mhmm.” You lowered your gaze to the cat. “M’sure Violet left a good impression in the meantime.”

Violet turned her blue eyes towards you at the sound of her name. You reached over to stroke the soft fur between her ears. She immediately leaned into your hand.

“Yeah.” Yeonjun watched her for a second. “Doubt Mum will be rushing to come back again, but, uh—no lectures about how unhygienic animals are, so I’ll take it.”

In the middle of allowing Violet to inspect your chopsticks, you realised you’d never once minded animals and their hygiene invading your personal space; not even when the chickens back at the farm—especially Eugenie and Camille—would sit down on your still-warm laptop out in the garden.

“Oh.” A quick laugh escaped you. “She’d hate my grandparents’ farm.”

Yeonjun snorted. He didn’t need to picture it; he knew that not a single Horseman of the Apocalypse could’ve persuaded his mother to set foot outside a big city.

When he’d been little, just driving past fields on the motorway had been enough. She’d spot cows through the window and physically lean away from the glass, as though they might somehow cross three lanes of traffic and contaminate her Maybach.

“She definitely would,” he said. “But she’s not the one going. Unless, uh—unless you’ve changed your mind about taking me?”

The laughter settled.

“Why would I?” you replied.

His eyes dropped to the countertop.

His uncertainty surprised him, too. He hadn’t realised, until the question had already slipped out, that some part of him feared that if he took your invitation for granted, the universe might notice it and take it back.

You recognised that particular tone of fear in his voice anyway; you’d heard it on the last night at his old house.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” you said after he didn’t speak.

He looked back up.

“Okay.” His shoulders loosened a touch. “Good.”

You traced a fingertip around the rim of your noodle carton.

“Was it nice, then?” you asked. “Having your mum over?”

Yeonjun leaned back against the stool, crossing one ankle over the other.

“Nice has never been the word I’d use about her,” he said, smiling despite himself. “But, uh—she did laugh when I told her about the mattresses.”

You smiled, too. “She did?”

“Yeah. Well, it’s Soobin’s fault I’ve got them anyway, and she’s always liked him.”

“That still sounds like progress.”

“Yeah, hope so.” He tapped his fingers lightly against the island. “She, uh—she asked about you as well, actually.”

He’d said the words softly, but your stomach tightened all the same. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to the takeaway containers between you. “Told her we’re friends, and that that’s new for us. She said she’d assumed we’d always been friends.”

You raised both eyebrows, then snorted before you could stop yourself.

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpanned. “Close as siblings, us two.”

Yeonjun laughed. Violet’s ears flicked towards him. Abandoning your chopsticks, she padded back towards his side of the island instead.

“Right, yeah.” He shook his head, giving the cat a smile. “In any case, I didn’t tell her we’re neighbours, too.”

“Still don’t trust her?”

“Not yet.”

“Hmm.”

He offered Violet the back of his hand. She sniffed it, considered him for a second, then decided she had more pressing matters elsewhere and hopped gracefully down onto the floor.

“She looks like she’s trying,” Yeonjun said, watching the space Violet had just vacated, “but I don’t want to push my luck.”

“That’s, uh—” you searched for the word without looking at him, “—reasonable.”

Yeonjun sensed there was something uncomfortable in the kitchen with the two of you now, and it wasn’t Violet padding with solemn purpose towards the litter tray in the corridor.

He shifted on the stool, rubbing a thumb over the edge of the marble island. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned his mother; she had a remarkable ability to sour a room without ever stepping into it.

“Um.” His hand wandered to the back of his neck. “That’s not to say that, uh—I don’t want it to sound like you’re some dirty little secret, or anything like that. I just figure this isn’t any of her business.”

You glanced up, suddenly amused by the phrasing.

“Shit.” You tilted your head. “Am I not your dirty little secret anymore?”

He pressed his lips together.

“No, no,” he said. “Those days are over. We’re public knowledge now.”

“Oh, wow.” You matched his exaggeratedly grave tone, though your pulse had quietly picked up. “Should I start expecting paparazzi outside my flat?”

“Please.” He waved the idea off. “S’over as well. We’ve become dull, haven’t you noticed?”

“No more tabloid headlines?”

He pretended to consider it. “Well, ‘Former Rivals Share Noodles’ sounds like a tiring read, I think.”

Your nose scrunched.

Yeonjun thought that looked incredibly endearing on you and wanted to suggest several more headlines to see you do it again.

“Because that’s awful,” you said. “Makes it sound like we’d been in a rap battle at some point before.”

“I’d have won that, too,” he said, “if we had been.”

“Too?” You folded your arms. “What else have you won?”

“Well, most things against you, really.” He shrugged, careless. “But the competition, admittedly, wasn’t fair, since I’m obviously naturally gifted at everything.”

You stared at him for a long second. Then you shook your head, more fondly than you’d intended to let show.

“I’d almost forgotten how arrogant you are,” you said.

“One of my finer qualities, I’ve heard.”

“Mhmm. How’re you so full of fine qualities and still single?”

He grinned, a challenge sparking in his eyes. “Want to play a game and see why?”

You scoffed. “Yeah? For two weeks?”

“Of course.”

You made a show of thinking about it, one finger tapping against your pursed lips.

“Eh.” Your wrist flicked dismissively through the air. “No, thanks.”

Yeonjun clicked his tongue.

“Okay, see—” He uncrossed his ankles. “—my dirty little secret never would’ve refused.”

“Your dirty little secret didn’t know any better.”

His smile widened automatically. Then, just as quickly, it faltered.

His thoughts returned to your balcony—to every question you’d asked him, every answer he’d given, and all the questions he hadn’t found the courage to ask in return.

Slowly, he met your eyes. “Do you regret it?”

“The bet?”

“Yeah.”

Your gaze fell to the marble countertop. Grey veins wandered through the stone, almost like rivers on a map. Without thinking, your fingertip began tracing one of them until it disappeared under the carton of noodles; then you found another one.

There had never, you realised, been a version of your life in which you wished you hadn’t met him. You’d wished for countless other things instead. That the bet hadn’t ended. That he’d trusted you. That he’d stayed.

“No,” you said.

The knot in Yeonjun’s chest let go, all at once. Only then did he notice how tightly his fingers had been laced together. He laid both palms flat against the warm stone of the island.

“No?” he repeated.

You lifted your eyes again. “No. Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the bet.”

The relief he felt was dangerous. It brought hope with it, along with the memory of the way you’d looked at him earlier, when you’d said you wouldn’t date anyone else.

“That, uh…” He swallowed. “That almost sounds like you’re glad we’re here.”

Your gaze dropped again.

Violet emerged from the corridor, wearing a contemplative expression. She sat down in the bedroom doorway with her back turned to you both.

“Well.” You nodded towards her. “Meeting Violet’s been the highlight of my year. Very happy she’s here.”

Yeonjun’s expression skipped straight past surprise and landed in theatrical outrage. He let out a generous scoff.

Your laughter bounced softly off the bare walls. He rolled his eyes at it, but quietly memorised the sound anyway—for the next evening he sat at the piano. And for every evening after that.

“Right.” He clicked his tongue, pointing vaguely between you and himself. “Let’s ignore the elephant in the room, then.”

“You’re the elephant, are you?”

“Obviously.” The wounded dignity in his voice set you off laughing again. “Are you not happy I’m here?”

You watched him for a long moment, your smile softening at the corners.

“I’m happy,” you said, “that you’re very resilient.”

“Thanks. That’s very—” He frowned. “How’d you mean?”

Your fingertip found the same grey line on the marbletop and followed its winding course once more.

“I, uh…” The marble felt warm under your finger. “I seem to have spent quite a lot of time pushing you away.” You glanced up. “Yet here we are.”

Yeonjun couldn’t remember the last time you’d looked at him like that: this openly, this warmly. Couldn’t remember the last time his chest had responded this way, either: with enough force to pull him forwards before he’d even realised he’d leaned over the island.

“Did you actually want me to leave you alone?” he asked.

“I think I did in the beginning,” you admitted. “Every time I snapped back at one of your stupid comments back in uni, I’d think to myself, right, that’ll do it. He’ll piss off now. But you wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t, and you wouldn’t.” Your thumb brushed idly across the edge of the stone. “And then, I think, uh—somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting for you to leave me alone. Started hoping you wouldn’t again.”

Yeonjun stopped moving altogether. Breathing struck him as unnecessary, too.

“That—” he started and realised he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to finish. He drew a hurried breath and tried again: “T-that’s terrible of you. Enjoying the chase as much as I was.”

He clicked his tongue in exaggerated disappointment.

Your laugh was warmer this time. “Mhmm. Doomed from the start.”

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the balcony doors. For a moment, it seemed intent on being let inside, on joining in. Then it hurried on.

“Don’t know if that even makes sense, actually,” you admitted.

Yeonjun looked almost offensively delighted. “I like that it doesn’t.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You like not making sense?”

“I like that you don’t know what it is about you that’s kept me around.” He propped his chin on his palms. “Means you’re still trying to work it out, and who knows how long that’ll take. I’m your longest-running research project.”

Despite yourself, you laughed again. “You’re my longest headache.”

Yeonjun accepted that with pride.

“D’you think we’d still have ended up in the same building,” he asked, “if there’d been no bet? No New York, no nothing?”

You glanced towards Violet, now asleep in the doorway of his bedroom. Then to the heavy curtains on his windows, no longer crooked, and finally to the lonely fern in the corner.

There was a chance, you had to admit, that if university had gone differently and your lives had never once tangled together, you would’ve still met on that Monday morning, when Yeonjun had been wrestling his window loudly enough to disturb at least three floors, yet somehow only bothering you.

“We might’ve,” you admitted.

“I think so, too,” he said. “Clearly, we’re destined to keep running into each other.”

You frowned. “This is the first time we’ve run into each other.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, starting uni counts, too. We’d both dropped out and ended up studying Sociology. How’s that not destiny?”

You rolled your eyes, yet the smile tugging at your lips refused to leave.

You’d never really believed in destiny, if you were honest. But you’d always wanted to.

“Right, yeah.” You leaned back on the stool. “All written in the stars, then, is it?”

He nodded again, with complete conviction. “Star-crossed enemies.”

You winced, and this time the scrunch of your nose nearly made him vault straight over the kitchen island.

“Christ,” you mumbled. “And you pull out the most embarrassing phrases out of nowhere. I’d forgotten that, too.”

Yeonjun laughed.

“Yes, I am multi-talented,” he said, running his tongue over his lips. “Remember to keep up, yeah, love?”

You looked at him for a long, defeated second.

You were remembering, he could tell.

Then you returned to your forgotten noodles.

For the rest of that Thursday evening, Yeonjun sat at the piano and played the pieces that he’d carried with him for years. Every now and then he’d strike the wrong note, mutter a quiet fuck under his breath, shake his head, and begin again, refusing to skip over the mistake.

You sat on the edge of his bed with Violet snoring softly across your lap, and listened to all of it: the music and the pauses and his confidence returning with each familiar chord. And as the notes drifted through the flat, you remembered, too – all of it. How to keep up with him, and how it had felt, the first time you’d heard him play, back in Taehyun’s theatre, after the conversation in your old flat about whether you believed he liked you.

You remembered the way his eyes had looked that night, with reflections of the streetlights and the night sky scattered against the dark brown. Remembered, too, the way you’d kissed him in the stairwell. The way you hadn’t wanted him to go once the night was over.

A year and five months had passed between that night and this one.

It felt like less than a heartbeat.

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so right now… as you rode his cock relentlessly with your hand gently resting on his flushed neck, he was definitely beyond aroused thinking about you giving in and actually choking him. he would probably cum on the spot if you applied even the tiniest bit of force, if your fingers twitched just the right way.

yeonjun looked completely blissed out under you. his hooded and glossy eyes blinking slowly, his face a lovely shade of pink, his plump lips parted and steadily releasing the prettiest moans and gasps. he had his arms raised above his head, fingers entangled in the soft pillow under his head where you told him to keep them. his knuckles were white from how hard his grip was, you were sure he could tear the seams of it if he wanted to.

slowing your movements, your eyes trail over him until they reach your hand that was on his neck. you were aware of yeonjun's choking kink, it wasn't hard to notice. and often this game you play where you let him wonder if you let him have what he, oh so desperately, wants is quite entertaining.

you tilt your head in question and yeonjun notices, seemingly knowing what you were thinking about, and starts fluttering his eyes in need. he timidly nods his head, his eyes watering a little and pulse kicking up in anticipation. with a smirk, you apply the smallest bit of pressure to yeonjun's slim neck.

the response is immediate. yeonjun practically keens, his eyes rolling back along with his head and his back arching up off the bed. you can feel him trembling slightly and you can tell this wasn't enough for him. his body was practically begging you.

"more," he breathily whines, his gaze finding yours and reflecting his plea.

"quite demanding, aren't you?" you reply, quirking an eyebrow at him. yeonjun's eyes widen and he licks his dry lips, preparing to apologize profusely. he can't get his words together though, before he can form a consonant you already had a firm grip around the base of his throat.

"f-fuckkk…" yeonjun chokes out with a sudden and sharp thrust upwards, his brows drawing together. he felt like he could see stars, his vision almost blurring with pleasure. his body was burning, he couldn't stop writhing beneath you and he couldn't control his breathless gasps. this was exactly what he had been craving and he wanted more, he could take more, whatever you wanted-

he mewls when you release him, whimpering from the loss. he could feel cool tears sliding down his face, but he wasn't sure when he started tearing up. his fingers were starting to hurt from the way he was gripping the pillow and he loosened it just a tad, but didn't dare to move them. you didn't tell him he could yet.

he sniffles, "why'd you stop?"

you laugh, sliding your hands off of his neck and down to his exposed chest. you tweak a nipple between your fingers, making moan and his cock twitch.

"do it again," he almost begs, squirming underneath you as you tease his brown buds.

"so many commands, yet i haven't heard any please's or thank you's…" you tsk. your drag both your hands up his torso and place both of them on his neck this time. yeonjun's breath hitches, his head craning back to allow you more access to his throat.

he whispers apologies, his wet lashes fluttering as his brain empties. it was hard for him to concentrate on being on his best behavior when you had both hands on his throat and drumming your fingers against his soft skin. his breathing comes out in uneven staccatos as he waits as best as he can for you to do something, anything.

you start to smoothly roll your hips while gently doing exactly what he wanted. and it felt like electricity was being sent through yeonjun's body, his cock threatening to release at any second. the feeling of your hands on him and your hear around his cock was too much for poor yeonjun to handle right now. too much after all the teasing.

"now," you start, pressing on his sides a little more. yeonjun bucks up into you with a pathetic whine, his eyes practically crossing as a violent shiver wracks his body. "are you gonna be good for me?"

© lucidwntrr est. 2025 - please do not steal, repost, or copy !

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 7, 2026. 4 PM

The next week returned to normal, and you were forced to admit that, these days, normal meant finding Yeonjun loitering in the lobby every time you came home from university.

His excuse on Monday was a delivery. He claimed to be waiting for a very important parcel, and the courier, the bloody idiot, was running late.

Nodding sympathetically, you dropped your bag onto the small table beneath the noticeboard. The surface was carved through with initials and obscene drawings that did not look particularly anatomically correct.

“Well, in that case,” you said, “I’ll wait with you.”

Yeonjun pressed his lips together the moment he felt the corners trying to betray him.

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I appreciate your support in my time of need.”

“You’re welcome. What’d you order?”

He launched into a wholly incomprehensible explanation about online shopping: the misleading product photos, the contradictory reviews, the fictional delivery windows. He spoke with such determination and at such speed that there wasn’t a gap wide enough to interrupt. By the time he began a passionate indictment of courier companies on the whole, you’d almost forgotten what you’d asked.

Several of your neighbours passed through in the time you’d been standing there, checked their letterboxes, and headed upstairs—notably, all of them avoided the lift. A few older ladies shot the two of you curious glances as they went. You smiled politely while Yeonjun continued to state his case.

Half an hour later, the courier still hadn’t come.

“Think he’s just lost track of time,” Yeonjun insisted, glancing at his phone. “I say we wait another half an hour, just to be on the safe side.”

Sighing, you jerked your head towards the stairs. “Come on.”

“But what about my parcel?”

“You’ll get another call.” You gathered your backpack. “We’ve got a film to watch.”

His expression finally surrendered to a smile as he pushed himself off the wall.

The lobby had been perfectly nice—although there had, of course, never been any parcel to begin with—but Yeonjun was far more thrilled by the prospect of a few more hours with you upstairs.

Today was the day of your Lord of the Rings marathon.

As it turned out, building the pillow fort exactly as described in his childhood bucket list wasn’t difficult. Yeonjun didn’t own a single table or much furniture at all, but, for some reason, he had enough mattresses to furnish a small hotel. He brought them in from the storage room, his wardrobe, from behind doors, and even from the balcony.

The pizzas arrived somewhere in the middle of this operation, and all you could do was hold the boxes and stare at him. “Yeonjun.”

He glanced up. “Hm?”

“How—how many of those have you got?”

Grinning, he dropped another mattress onto the growing pile. “Well, a few.”

“Mhmm.”

You left the boxes on the kitchen island and grabbed one end of the nearest mattress, pulling it upright to form a wall.

An odd scent lingered in the flat under the tomato sauce and melting mozzarella—buttery and sweet, faintly caramel-like. It wafted through the room whenever the breeze stirred the curtains hanging over the cracked balcony door.

You sniffed the air distractedly.

Yeonjun paused on his way back to the storage room.

“Baked earlier,” he explained. “Strawberry tart.”

You looked up from the mattresses.

It still made your brain stall a little, hearing him mention baking. It seemed like a hobby for patient people. Slow-living people. People who, perhaps, did not hoard mattresses.

“How’d you start baking, then?” you asked, stepping carefully over Violet, who had arranged herself in the middle of the floor as the Head Supervisor. No one crossed the room without obtaining a permit first.

Yeonjun lugged another mattress inside, blowing a loose strand of hair out of his eyes.

“Just happened, sort of,” he said. “Usually haven’t got time to cook, but baking is—s’ten minutes of chucking everything together, and then you just wait forty-five minutes for it to finish. S’easy. And soothing, I guess. Bit like meditation.”

He caught the mattress against his knee when it slipped. His arms were beginning to complain.

You crouched beside him, catching the opposite corner.

“Thanks,” he huffed.

Together, you manoeuvred the mattress into place in front of the projector, which was balanced on an upturned cardboard box, its lens aimed at the blank white wall of his living room.

“Must’ve had a lot of practice,” you said, “if you can get everything measured and mixed in ten minutes.”

A grin spread across his face. “Natural talent.”

Then he disappeared onto the balcony again and returned with yet another mattress.

You were becoming increasingly reluctant to ask why he owned so many. The last time you’d been here to find a place for his fern—which was still alive, against all odds—you hadn’t paid enough attention to notice any of them. Now you were worried they were breeding somewhere just out of sight.

Yeonjun adjusted the mattress against his shoulder.

“I used to do my homework in the kitchen,” he said, letting the latest addition fall with a soft thump against the floor. Then he heaved it upright to shape the opposite wall. “Nina, our chef back then, always baked desserts in the afternoons. I watched her a lot. Didn’t think much about it again until about a year ago, when I couldn’t shut my brain off.”

Your gaze drifted to the floor, where Violet was inspecting the mattresses.

You were thinking about all the rituals you had built over the past year: losing yourself in books, in research, in work. You supposed you’d come close to picking up baking, too.

“Alcohol didn’t help anymore,” Yeonjun went on, “and I still had that plan not to become an alcoholic before m’thirty.”

The corners of your lips twitched. “Right.”

You squatted beside Violet and nudged the mattress at the back a few inches to the left until the walls resting against it stopped wobbling.

“So I tried baking instead,” Yeonjun said. “Started with a pound cake, I remember. Tasted like sandpaper because I’d left it in too long. Kept sticking toothpicks in it, and they kept coming out damp. I don’t know.”

You smiled, bringing a hand over Violet’s chin before you stood again. “That happens. The edges get burnt, but the middle stays soft.”

“Exactly, yeah.” He dragged the mattress upright to brace the back wall, then stepped away to assess the angle. “But—anyway. I kept going and got the hang of it eventually. Turns out my old oven was rubbish. Then I moved here and the oven’s brilliant. Turns out it’s my whisking that’s shit now.”

You looked up at him. “You’re doing alright, though. The cobbler was great last time. And the biscuits.”

Yeonjun looked at you over the top of the mattress. Something softened almost imperceptibly in his gaze—you’d have missed it if you hadn’t been looking.

You’d been looking.

“Yeah?” A small smile tugged at his mouth before he glanced away. “I’m glad. Let’s put a roof on this.”

The two of you threw the largest blanket—thick and grey with faded white stripes—over the standing mattresses. It billowed for a moment, caught in the draft, then settled across the top, dipping slightly in the middle and casting the inside of the fort into shade.

The arrangement looked very respectable.

Yeonjun thought that thirteen-year-old him would’ve been very proud.

He switched on the projector. The fan whirred softly before a pale rectangle appeared across the opposite wall, filling the flat with flickering light. Dust drifted lazily through the beam.

Tilting your head, you surveyed the fort. “Have you got any pillows? Or did they not make it into the mattress budget?”

Snorting, Yeonjun raised a finger and disappeared down the corridor. You heard cupboard doors banging open in his bedroom, then something heavy dropping, followed shortly by a muffled ow, shit.

“Y’alright?” you called out.

“Perfect, love! The rolling pin—forgot I’d left it here.”

He reappeared a second later with his face barely visible behind an armful of pillows. One slipped free. He made an attempt to catch it with his foot and nearly demolished the western wall of the fort in the process.

“Shit.” He straightened. You reached out to grab the top few pillows from him. “Thanks.”

“Right, then.” You tossed them onto the mattresses on the floor. “Reckon you’ve got enough stuff to furnish three bedrooms with all this. Opening up a B&B in the future, or what?”

He laughed and, impressively, still didn’t explain. Instead, he dumped the remaining pillows into the fort and leaned down to arrange them.

Violet, understandably, climbed aboard to test it out first. After several thorough sniffs, she declared the fort structurally sound and returned to the kitchen to investigate the pizza boxes as well, hopeful that one might open up if she was just persistent enough.

Yeonjun intercepted before she succeeded, carrying the boxes and the cans of cola over to the fort. You followed with two slices of strawberry tart. The crust was still warm when you pressed a fingertip against it to stop the slice from sliding across the plate.

The living room looked ridiculous now with the mattresses covering most of the floor. The blanket on the roof nearly grazed the ceiling. It smelled of something distinctly comforting, though: fresh laundry, warm pizza, strawberries, and beneath it all—faint enough that you only noticed when Yeonjun leaned past you to set the boxes down—apricot, for some reason.

It felt lived in now, the flat. Cosy.

Without quite realising it, you smiled as you settled beside him under the blankets.

The first film started quietly.

The two of you talked in low voices, instinctively leaning closer as though there was someone else in the fort you might disturb.

Violet was the only other occupant of the fort, and she was not disturbed. She stretched luxuriously across the pillow between you, indifferent to the hobbits but inexplicably riveted by Gollum’s brief appearances. Her whiskers were faintly pink from the strawberry she’d stolen off Yeonjun’s plate.

She looked very satisfied with her evening.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and reached for your second slice of pizza. It came out painted green by the projector light.

“Have you got a favourite character?” Yeonjun asked about half an hour into the film.

“Aragorn.”

That made him look over. “Wow—just off the top of your head, then?”

Shrugging, you took a bite. Cheese stretched between the slice and your teeth before finally snapping. It tasted spectacular, just acidic enough from the tomato sauce.

“Didn’t like The Fellowship the first time I saw it,” you admitted once you’d swallowed. “My cousins made me watch it. Aragorn was the only reason I stuck with it.”

Yeonjun hummed in understanding. He’d fallen asleep during his own first attempt at the trilogy, too.

“Not Legolas, then?” he asked, picking up another slice while gently steering Violet’s investigating nose away from the box with his wrist.

You brushed a few crumbs onto your joggers.

“No,” you said. “Always thought something’s off about hair that pretty. Never trusted him.”

Yeonjun snorted into his pizza.

Then he straightened.

“Hang on.” He lowered the slice. “Is my hair not pretty?”

Your gaze drifted to his neatly parted fringe—save for the single rebellious strand that tumbled over his forehead every few minutes, testing your self-control each time.

You turned back to the film. “I’ve always found you suspicious too, to be fair.”

His laughter bounced off the blanket roof, bright enough to fill the fort. Your own smile spread despite Frodo’s increasingly worried face on the wall ahead.

“Have you got a favourite, then?” you asked.

Yeonjun watched the screen for several thoughtful seconds.

“Pippin, I think,” he decided.

“Yeah? Not Merry?”

“Merry’s too serious.” He smiled when you snorted. “Always preferred Pippin’s whimsy.”

“Alright, yeah.” You nodded, reaching for another slice. “Pippin’s great.”

As the Fellowship set off from Rivendell on the screen, Yeonjun launched into an explanation of the complete evolution of his favourite characters – from Gandalf when he’d been six, because his nanny, Leigh, always put on fantasy films and had a soft spot for the wizard, to Sam briefly in secondary school, and finally to Pippin around his mid-twenties.

“I did briefly dabble in Aragorn,” he admitted. “But he’s too cool for me, I feel. Too collected.”

“Gandalf isn’t?”

“No, he’s got crazy eyes.”

You laughed and, somewhere during the conversation, stopped paying attention to the film altogether. It didn’t feel like much of a loss.

The first pizza box emptied not long afterwards.

“Have you got a favourite film in the series?” you asked, lifting your can of cola while distant mountains lingered on the screen, throwing dark, faintly indigo shadows over Yeonjun’s face.

He drained the last mouthful from his own can and clicked his lips thoughtfully.

“The first one, I think.” He folded the empty can into his palm. “Mostly because I’ve seen it most times.”

“Hmm.”

“What about you?”

“Definitely not the first one.”

His eyebrows rose. “Why not?”

“Boromir dies.”

His eyebrows fell again. “Ah, shit. Yeah.”

“I was eleven the first time I watched it,” you recalled, “and I refused to watch the other two films for months.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, s’fair. That one hurt.”

You took a sip from the can. The cola prickled lightly against your tongue, sharper than you were used to. You’d been too responsible lately—too much water, not enough joy. You’d missed fizzy drinks.

“Think Return of the King’s my favourite,” you decided finally. “I like happy endings.”

Yeonjun looked at you for a second longer than he’d planned to before speaking.

“Aragorn gets married, though,” he said.

You nodded, smiling again.

“That used to be my favourite part,” you said. “Always rooted for him and Arwen.”

He considered that for a moment before returning his attention to the screen. Aragorn, as though summoned, strode across the projection.

“Really?” he said. “I figured, with him as your favourite, you’d have wanted to be the one to marry him.”

You shook your head. “I was a very self-aware child. Knew I couldn’t marry a fictional character.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. So I planned to marry Zayn from One Direction instead.”

Yeonjun laughed so suddenly that his elbow slipped on the mattress. He caught himself by throwing a leg over the edge.

“Yeah, that—” The mattress dipped beneath him anyway, and he rolled down into the pile of pillows and blankets with a muffled yelp.

Your burst of laughter prompted Violet to lift her head.

As Yeonjun fought his way back to the surface, he felt her cold paws pressing into his ankles, not quite helpful, possibly even vindictive. He suspected she wanted him to suffer a while longer for denying her the pleasure of a second strawberry.

“You need help?” you asked, leaning closer.

Something unintelligible emerged from beneath the blankets. A moment later, he made his way back onto the mattress, shoving a pillow off his face. Bored, Violet abandoned him to sniff at your ankles instead.

“M’great.” He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and returned to roughly his original position. “S’a very nice fort we’ve got. Very nice.”

You devoted your best efforts to not laughing again.

“Anyway.” He pointed at you. “Yes. One Direction’s obviously a lot more realistic.”

“Yes. I thought so, too.”

He breathed out a wistful sigh and eased his head back onto the pillows. Above him, the blanket roof rippled whenever the breeze drifted in through the balcony door. The projector painted forests and distant mountains across the fabric. It felt a bit like a portal into Middle-earth.

“I wasn’t that self-aware as a kid,” he said.

“No?”

He shook his head.

“Which character did you want to marry?” you asked.

“The female robber from the third Home Alone film.”

It took you a few moments to place the film: the remote-controlled toy, the hopeless 911 calls.

Watching your eyebrows climb in recognition, Yeonjun grinned.

“Why her?” you asked.

“Well,” he scratched thoughtfully at his jaw, “first of all, eight-year-old me thought she was really fit.” He glanced over to watch you snicker. “And she actually knew what she was doing. I’m convinced if it hadn’t been for the idiots with her, she’d have pulled the whole thing off.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded a few times, trying to keep your expression neutral.

“Mhmm. Right.” You took a long breath. “I can see the appeal.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Wasn’t she a bit mean, though?”

Yeonjun clicked his tongue. “Have I not made it clear by now that that’s very much my type?”

You turned back to the film before you could laugh again.

“My bad,” you said. “Definitely makes sense.”

Smiling to himself, he folded one arm beneath his head.

“Why Lord of the Rings, then?” you asked, nodding towards the projection. “And not Home Alone? You could’ve updated your list.”

Yeonjun shrugged. “Watching films just because I’ve got a crush on one of the characters isn’t very cool.”

You tsked. “Clearly, you’ve never known what’s cool.”

He looked across to you. “Yeah? So, did you agree to watch Lord of the Rings just for Aragorn, then?”

“No.” You met his eyes. “I did it for you.”

He opened his mouth automatically, then discovered he’d lost his voice. Warmth climbed his neck before he had any chance of stopping it.

He turned back to the film with sudden, renewed interest, watching the raging blizzard while he tried to school his expression back into something dignified.

“I see,” he managed. “That’s gr—good.”

One corner of your lips lifted into a smirk. Yeonjun watched it through his peripheral vision and thought that he was having, by all means, the best night of his entire year.

Soon, the first film blurred into the second one. With Yeonjun’s blackout curtains drawn across the windows, it was difficult to tell the time. You had no idea where you’d left your phone; it didn’t even occur to you to look for it.

By then, the two of you were talking too much to pay attention to the screen.

“Are you sick of being back at uni yet?” Yeonjun asked, brushing tart crumbs from his palms.

You watched the changing landscape wash across the blanket roof.

“Honestly, a bit.” You exhaled. “The other doctoral students are all about ten years older than me, and surprisingly conceited, too. I wasn’t expecting that, after our lot.”

His lips stretched into a soft smile. “Yeah. We got lucky with our year.”

You hummed in agreement.

It was lonely, sitting through seminars without someone beside you to exchange glances with whenever the professors drifted into a topic they’d already covered half a dozen times that month. No Beomgyu nudging your shoulder to borrow chewing gum. No Soobin coughing politely whenever you and Reina started giggling too loudly. No Yeonjun, either.

Taehyun and Kai were your only reprieve whenever you happened to cross paths in the corridors nowadays.

“Speaking of our year, though.” You shifted slightly against the pillows to face him. “Have you decided what you’re doing for your birthday?”

Yeonjun sighed so deeply that the blanket overhead stirred with the force of it.

“Suppose I’ll round everyone up over the weekend and pass drinks around as always.” He picked absentmindedly at the edge of his cola can label until it peeled away in thin silver strips. “Some music on. You know.”

“The usual, then.”

He shifted on the mattress. The back of his hand brushed yours where it rested between you on the pillow. Neither of you moved.

“Probably.” His eyes flicked to your fingers before he settled back and returned his attention to the projection, careful not to move too far away from you. “Definitely not organising a dinner, that’s more Nara’s thing. We’ll go to a bar, I guess. Or a club. There’s this place not too far from here, said they rent private rooms.”

You nodded, watching Aragorn and Legolas cross the plains of Rohan, shades of green and grey flickering across the room.

It was almost comfortable how easily his birthday party had become part of your schedule, too.

“Oh.” Yeonjun glanced over again. “Amy’ll probably come as well.”

You looked back at him. You hadn’t heard anything about Amy in so long that, for a moment, you weren’t sure what to make of that at all.

“Yeah?” you said. “You’re still in touch?”

“Sort of.” He ran his fingers over the seam on the pillowcase between you. His left hand remained pressed against the side of yours. “Less now that I don’t really speak to my parents. She’s engaged now, by the way—don’t think I told you.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Yeah, to the bloke she’d been seeing in grad school.”

“I thought they’d split up.”

“They had, yeah.” He nodded. “Got back together last summer. Engaged this June.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Wow.”

It brought a strange sort of familiarity, this news. Amy almost felt like a distant acquaintance at this point; a small part of your life without ever directly being in your life.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun said, a crooked smile on his lips. “My parents were devastated. Amy said they’d even stopped by her parents’ place to ask if they were certain their daughter’s making the right choice.”

Humming, you nudged your empty plate farther from Violet. She lingered between you and Yeonjun, waiting for just one lapse in concentration. The smell of pizza was testing the limits of her polite restraint.

“Right,” you said, stroking Violet’s back as she brushed past you. “Some things never change, I guess.”

“Hmm. Hopefully some others do, though.”

The projector washed Yeonjun’s face in shifting bands of blue when you glanced at him. His eyes lingered somewhere beyond the film. He combed his fingers through his hair, only for the same strand to fall back across his forehead again.

You turned away.

“You don’t sound very excited about your birthday,” you pointed out.

He sighed again. “Yeah. I don’t know. Been thinking there are better ways to spend it.”

“The mead again?”

He snorted.

“Yeah. Maybe. But also—” He lifted his hands to gesture at the pillows, the projector. Violet, sitting at the edge of your mattress. You. “This.”

You followed the direction of his hands. “Watching Lord of the Rings?”

His hands dropped back into his lap. “Just talking to you.”

You looked at him for a second, just long enough to feel each beat of your heart echo around your ribcage, as though it had briefly lost its way home.

Yeonjun looked back at you, feeling as though the lost beats of your heart were responsible for the extra ones crowding into his own.

Then your gaze drifted to the pizza boxes scattered between the mattresses and the crumbs littering the floor.

“We can talk at your birthday, too,” you said, tucking your feet under the blanket. “Doesn’t have to be constant drinking.”

“Yeah.”

The word came out quieter. He didn’t quite know what else to add after it.

Perhaps it was the novelty of this—spending time with you in this easy, unhurried way—that had made him start having these thoughts.

Then again, he suspected that even years ago—especially years ago—if given the choice between a crowded room where he could drink until his thoughts dissolved into static, and a dimly lit flat where the two of you discussed Legolas’ hair, he’d have picked you every time.

That wasn’t very friendly of him, he realised.

He cleared his throat and straightened, one shoulder nudging the mattress at the back.

“D’you remember Professor Javez’s class in undergrad?” he asked eventually.

You tore your attention away from the projection and glanced down at Violet, now sprawled on her side with one paw stretched imperiously across the mattress.

“Which one?” you asked. Then realised. “Oh, watching films every class?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “This kind of reminds me of it. Still my favourite elective I’ve ever taken.”

You smiled, turning back ahead.

“I thought it was a waste of time,” you admitted. “Waking up at seven just to watch films for an hour and a half.”

He laughed. That was fair, admittedly; he’d wanted to drop the class every time he heard his alarm. But he’d still loved every minute of it. He could even remember exactly where you’d sat: right by the door, so you could always be the first to leave (and you usually were).

“I remember you slept on your desk most of the time,” he said, his grin widening. “I sat right behind you. It was the best part of my week.”

You gave him a look. “Was your life that boring?”

He smirked.

“It was actually very stressful.” He sank deeper into the pillow. “That class was the only time I could relax and just watch the films. And the way you were drooling onto your desk.”

You scoffed with enough indignation to startle Violet again. “I did not drool.”

Laughing again, Yeonjun brought his hand over the cat’s back until she settled again.

“M’not accusing you of anything, love,” he said. “Merely recalling historical events.”

“Slander isn’t a historical event.”

He snickered. “You were asleep, how would you know if you’d drooled or not?”

“I’d feel drool on my face.”

“It was on your desk.”

You snorted despite yourself, but shook your head anyway. Truthfully, you hardly remembered the class anymore. Perhaps you really had slept through most of it.

Unexpectedly, you found yourself remembering the look on Yeonjun’s face, back in his car, after your first night at his house, when you’d told him he snored. He’d protested with exactly the same wounded determination you imagined you were using now.

Come to think of it, lying across these mattresses felt strangely similar to his old guest bedroom, too.

It’d been cold in his house, you remembered; you’d set the thermostat in the room to a temperature that finally let you stop shivering. Then you’d woken up with his arm slung over your waist.

Yeonjun’s current flat, by contrast, was very warm.

“I can open another balcony door,” he said.

Only then did you realise you’d lifted a hand to fan yourself.

You dropped it a touch too quickly. “No, it’s alright.”

His smile softened. He wondered if he’d been any part of whatever thought had put that faraway look in your eyes.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah.” You cleared your throat and shifted upright, pressing your palm into the pillow beside you. “Tell me something instead.”

“What?”

“What’s with all the mattresses? Honestly.”

Yeonjun laughed.

“Well.” He pushed himself up a little straighter, too. “When Bin and I moved out, someone had to take them. We’d bought all the furniture ourselves, and we ended up leaving most of it there. But Soobin insisted on saving the mattresses. Said new owners usually throw them out anyway, and mattresses are expensive.”

He picked a loose thread on the blanket draped over his knees.

“Fair enough, I figured. But the house had five bedrooms.” He shook his head, a smile already spreading on his lips. “Some of them had single mattresses on the beds, stacked on top of each other.”

You frowned. “Four per bed?”

He nodded.

“Soobin took two,” he said. “That already tested Reina’s patience, considering their flat has one bed with one mattress right now. So I had to take all the rest.”

Your gaze travelled slowly around the fort: the mattresses reinforcing the walls, the ones lining the floor. It looked like a proper padded cell.

So much for joking about psychiatric wards.

“Mhmm.” You gave a contemplative nod. “So, now you’ve got one bed and about fifteen mattresses.”

He laughed, gathering a loose pillow onto his lap.

“Yeah, give or take.” He glanced towards his bedroom, forgetting momentarily that he couldn’t see through the mattress wall. “I keep most in the corridor outside my room, but bring them all out whenever Soobin comes over. Just—” He gestured around with both hands. “—spread them out. He’s the one who insisted we keep them, so he should be pleased to see them thriving here.”

Soobin had mentioned once that he couldn’t stand spending too much time at Yeonjun’s flat. You’d sympathised back then; you hadn’t had much patience for Yeonjun, either.

Really, he must’ve meant the mattresses.

“And is he pleased, then?” you asked, lips twitching.

“No, never.”

You both laughed. The projector fan seemed to hum louder, as though joining in.

“He said my flat looks like a wealthy pig furnished its own pigsty,” Yeonjun said, pausing while you laughed harder. “Said it gives him the creeps. S’why I make sure the mattresses are out every single time he’s here.”

You covered your mouth, still snickering, and Yeonjun found himself absurdly fond of the mattresses all of a sudden. For the first time, he was grateful Soobin had been so stubborn.

“But, hey.” You nodded towards the blanket roof above you. “They’ve found a purpose, after all.”

Yeonjun looked up, too. “Yeah. Happy for them.”

When he looked back down, you were already watching him. It sent you both straight into a fresh fit of laughter.

It made sense, you realised, to think about his old house, then. These were the same mattresses.

The soundtrack filled the flat, strings swelling beneath the occasional crackle of the projector, while Yeonjun searched for the right words to bring up something he’d been thinking about all morning.

He’d got distracted by the imaginary parcel back in the lobby. Had to do it now.

“By the way, um…” He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip, his gaze lingering on the screen even after you’d looked over. “Remember the race I mentioned the other day? S’this Thursday.”

You nodded. “Okay. In the evening?”

“Yes,” he said and looked at you with enough hope in his eyes to make you pause.

You thought you’d already agreed to come with him the last time he’d mentioned it. But looking at him now, you wondered whether this invitation meant something more than just watching cars drive around in circles.

Your eyes drifted briefly to the suit jacket he’d left hanging from the balcony door handle. The edges of the sleeves were painted blue from the projector.

You wanted to go regardless of what the invitation meant.

“Alright, then,” you said. “I’d like to see this alleged work you do.”

He scoffed, though excitement robbed him of any proper comeback.

“Right, mhmm.” He fought a grin that refused to stay hidden. “I’ll text you the details later after I’ve checked.”

“Okay.”

The plan lingered quietly between you, almost tangible now. Oddly, it didn’t pull either of you out of the moment. It was remarkably easy to stay in the present when the present already felt like something you’d been looking forward to.

The film went on.

Somewhere near the beginning of The Return of the King, Yeonjun shifted in search of a more comfortable position. His left ankle had gone completely numb. His arm brushed yours and, after only the briefest hesitation, he let his head drop to your shoulder.

You didn’t move, aware, suddenly, of every breath. Aware, too, of the comforting weight of him beside you.

For once, the two of you watched the film in silence.

By the middle of the film, he’d gradually slid lower until his head rested across your thighs instead, one arm folded loosely over his stomach.

This time, you couldn’t resist smiling.

“Comfortable?” you asked.

He only grinned.

You adjusted your legs slightly beneath him so he wasn’t lying against the sharp edge of your knee. The projector painted midnight blue forests across his face; he was almost part of the film now.

Before you’d consciously decided on it, your fingers drifted to his hair, sliding the strand off his forehead, away from his eyes. Your other hand came to rest lightly over his collarbone.

Already half asleep, Yeonjun registered only the warmth. His hand lifted slowly until it covered yours, heavy enough for you to feel the steady rhythm in his chest.

Sleep had been avoiding him for months. He wished it’d been slower now that he found it.

“Thank you,” he murmured, squeezing your hand gently, “for this.”

Your throat tightened. For several seconds, you sat without moving, feeling your pulse respond to the steady rhythm beneath your palm.

Then you swallowed. “Happy to.”

He squeezed your hand one more time, making sure it was still there.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 8, 2026. 4 PM

Yeonjun’s excuse for waiting in the lobby on Tuesday was that he was stretching his legs.

“Been sitting in front of my screen too long,” he explained, rubbing the small of his back. “I’m moulding into the shape of my chair.”

You looked him up and down. “Hm. Perhaps a quick jog would help?”

“I tried. Didn’t work. I’m already too chair-shaped.”

You snorted. He grinned.

“Walking around in circles down here seems to do the trick, though,” he said.

“Interesting.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes, quite.”

“Can you manage the climb upstairs, then?” you asked. “Or would you rather walk some more?”

He glanced around the lobby, pondering. You watched the pale pink of his T-shirt catch the feeble light from the lobby windows.

“Would you walk with me?” he replied. “Just in case I have a back-related emergency and need help?”

“I would not.”

“I can manage the climb upstairs.”

Snickering, you made your way to the stairwell.

By now, this had become part of your routine as well. Even on days when university left you so exhausted that every step felt twice as steep, you realised you were almost looking forward to the pointless arguments. Today, it was about the exact number of steps in each flight of stairs (Yeonjun counted out loud, determined to prove you wrong—he didn’t; he’d been off by two steps).

Violet was waiting on the doorstep when you unlocked your stubborn door. She twined her tail around your ankles before moving to Yeonjun.

She’d been exploring your wardrobe again, you noticed; there was a trail of blue-and-white socks leading all the way from your bedroom to the front door.

“Have you been up to no good again, love?” Yeonjun asked, bending to scoop her into his arms.

Violet meowed in response.

Yeonjun gasped. “You have? What’d you do?”

Another meow.

“Violet,” he said sternly, “you’ll have to apologise.”

He turned her in his arms until she faced you. You were already smiling.

Looking mildly perplexed by the proceedings—she’d have liked a lawyer—Violet meowed once more.

“You’re good, sweets,” you said, reaching out to scratch under her chin.

Purring softly, Violet arched into your touch.

“That’s better.” Yeonjun leaned down to press a kiss between her ears before looking up at you. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah.” Your smile lingered. “Tomorrow.”

Left alone as the two of them headed down the stairs, you slipped into your flat, closed the door, and dropped your backpack beside the sofa.

It was quiet here. Calm. Your original plan to spend the rest of the afternoon mindlessly scrolling through your phone seemed considerably less appealing all of a sudden.

You wanted to sleep. You haven’t had a chance to get much of it lately; Professor Lee needed you in at eight every morning.

Exhaling, you slipped out of your shoes, gathered the scattered socks, and stretched out across the sofa for a quick nap before dinner.

About an hour later, you woke to music.

For several sleepy seconds, you couldn’t work out where it was coming from. The living room had grown noticeably darker, the setting sun striping the floor tiles with long bands of golden light. Your phone didn’t seem to be vibrating, yet the melody kept drifting through the flat.

You sat up.

It was a piano.

The notes blurred into each other, softened by the building before they reached you. They were coming, undeniably, from downstairs.

You remembered the piano in Yeonjun’s flat and remembered, too, him saying that these days he could only bear playing when he was in a good mood. Pissed him off otherwise, he’d said.

You wondered what made him play today.

Digging your phone from between the sofa cushions, you unlocked it and opened your messages. Then paused. Asking him, or even mentioning the music at all, you suspected, might make him stop playing.

The melody wandered on around you, unfamiliar; it faltered in places, then found itself again like he was remembering it in real time.

You didn’t want him to stop.

Yawning, you climbed off the sofa. The kitchen stool scraped softly across the floor as you pulled it away from the island and sat down. The music sounded clearer here, somehow, the floor carrying the vibrations more cleanly than the sofa had.

Your laptop still sat abandoned on the worktop; you’d been too tired to carry it back to your desk after finishing your reading the night before.

The cursor blinked patiently on the Google search bar.

You’d been meaning to find something for Yeonjun’s birthday. You suspected that the chewing gum he’d mentioned, with the tattoo stickers, would make an objectively funny present. Meaningful, too, in a ridiculous way.

As the search results began filling the screen, you remembered something else.

Once, back in grad school, on the morning he’d insisted you wear his scarf before walking you home to pick it up, Yeonjun had joked that he’d happily wear one of yours in return. You’d rummaged through your drawer for the most embarrassing scarf you owned and realised that none were nearly terrible enough.

You’d promised, you remembered, to get him one for his birthday.

Perhaps this was the birthday.

By the time the piano fell silent nearly half an hour later, you’d found a white-and-pink Hello Kitty scarf that ought to do nicely.

The chewing gum, on the other hand, proved much harder to track down. Most of the websites that still stocked it either didn’t deliver to your area or charged so much for postage that you almost expected the Prime Minister to hand-deliver it himself.

You’d reached the third page of Google, a hopeless place by any measure. None of the results had anything to do with what you were looking for.

You were just about ready to surrender when a familiar shop name caught your eye among the stockists listed on another website.

You sat up straighter.

It was the little sweet shop on the ground floor of Reina’s office building. You and Reina sometimes stopped there after your Friday lunches for some chocolate; you remembered the bright pink logo with cheerful yellow lettering.

They had the chewing gum; they just didn’t deliver.

Suddenly hopeful, you copied the link, sent it to Reina, and added a message underneath.

YOU [6:20 PM] could you get this for me please? venmoing the money rn

The transaction had barely gone through before your phone buzzed.

REINA [6:22 PM] sure ran out of orbit?

Biting gently into the tip of your tongue, you texted her back and quickly set your phone beside the laptop again—as though the mention of Yeonjun would start burning your fingers if you held onto your phone longer.

YOU [6:23 PM] it’s for yeonjun birthday gift

Without the piano, the flat suddenly felt much quieter. You hadn’t realised how comfortably the music had settled into the background before.

You filled the kettle and switched it on, letting its hiss fill the room instead, then reached into the cupboard for a saucepan and a dark blue packet of penne.

Your phone vibrated against the worktop behind you.

REINA [6:27 PM] should i ask why gum

You picked up the phone to answer.

YOU [6:27 PM] no thank you!!

Her reply came a minute later.

REINA [6:28 PM] right be careful you little freaks

You paused with the packet of pasta half open.

The defensive part of your brain began generating explanations of the ‘it’s really not what you think’ kind, but the increasingly troublesome part—the one that had been laughing far more easily than usual lately—interrupted before it got very far.

It’d genuinely been entertaining, finding the present for him. You didn’t want to defend it.

You set your phone back down and poured the penne into the saucepan.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 9, 2026. 4 PM

On Wednesday, Yeonjun claimed he was in the lobby because he was just returning home from the shops. To his credit, he really did look the part: black cap, dark blue denim jacket, matching jeans, and a faint flush across his cheeks.

Before you had the chance to ask what he’d bought (he wasn’t carrying any bags, nor did his pockets look remotely full—details he’d hoped you’d miss), he held up his phone. “Have you seen this?”

You stepped closer. On the screen was Reina’s mother’s Facebook profile, opened to a newly uploaded photo album from Reina and Soobin’s engagement party.

“I haven’t.”

You lowered your backpack beside the noticeboard and fished your own phone from your jacket pocket. Yeonjun stepped a little closer until your shoulders were almost touching as the two of you looked down at the screen.

The photographs loaded one by one.

You smiled at the very first one. In it, Reina was laughing so hard she’d folded almost in half, one hand pressed to her stomach. The pink dress she’d worn looked just as stunning as it had beneath the changing-room lights earlier, perhaps even more so. Beside her, Soobin already had tears in his eyes.

Then there were several shots of Nara waving her champagne flute, her eyes bright. Taehyun dancing with Reina’s mother, looking flustered, yet oddly proud. Beomgyu smiling solemnly in the background while Reina and Soobin drank champagne from each other’s glasses.

Soon, you reached a photo of yourself. You were standing in front of Kai, clearly mid-conversation, lips parted, hands raised in a quiet gesture. Yeonjun stood beside you, his head tipped slightly back, his gaze focused on you.

The lobby faded for a second.

Yeonjun realised he’d forgotten how striking your blue dress had been. Seeing it again made him briefly wonder whether he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. He took a careful breath, just in case.

“You looked nice in that suit,” you said. “Shame you’d been wasted all night.”

Remembering very well some of the other things that had happened that night, he turned to look at you.

“Yeah?” he said. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been?”

You looked up from your phone, unamused. “I would’ve told you you looked nice earlier.”

“Mm.” Still smirking, he glanced back down. The blue of your dress still filled the screen. “Shame.”

You scrolled on.

The final photos in the album were Reina’s mother’s attempts at group selfies—all of them came out blurry, but you could still make out Soobin’s parents in the background, glasses raised, looking progressively more relaxed from one picture to the next.

You were there, too, Yeonjun saw. A blur of blue.

He found himself thinking about all the salmon facts he’d kept in his mind that night, in case he needed help prolonging conversations with you.

“Nice night,” you said eventually, unable to help the smile on your face.

“It was,” he said, unable to help his wandering gaze. “Very.”

You slipped your phone back into your pocket. The silver charms on your bracelet caught briefly on the zipper.

“We still on for today, then?” you asked.

Yeonjun took a polite step away from you. He was a little dizzy.

“Yeah.” He glanced towards the stairs. “Let me just get Violet home first, or she’ll forget where she lives.”

Together, you started upstairs.

As usual, your door resisted. Yeonjun had already slowed, expecting the familiar battle. You leaned your shoulder into it and rattled the handle until the lock finally surrendered with its usual begrudging click.

The noise summoned Violet. She peered around the edge of the door with patient, blue eyes.

“Sorry, little one.” You crouched to scratch behind her ears. “Dreadful noise, wasn’t it?”

She answered with a single meow and padded over to Yeonjun. He gathered her into his arms, still distracted by the winds in his thoughts. He was going to go home, he knew, and look through the Facebook photo album another dozen times.

In the meantime, the two of you exchanged nods and agreed to meet back in the lobby in a couple of hours.

The plan for the evening was the arcade.

Strictly speaking, the item on Yeonjun’s Coolest List specified winning the biggest toy at a fair. Unfortunately, there weren’t any fairs nearby. You decided the claw machines at the retro arcade downtown were close enough.

Before leaving your flat, you’d raided every drawer and jacket pocket for loose change. By the time you reached the lobby, you were jingling like an overly enthusiastic elf at Christmas.

Yeonjun laughed before patting his own jacket. Coins clinked in reply, equally as unserious.

The arcade was only ten minutes away, standing beside a café that had already closed for the evening, its neon blue coffee cup still glowing softly in the window.

The noise, once you stepped inside, took a few minutes to get used to.

Electronic music blasted from every direction. Buttons clicked. Victory fanfares erupted every few seconds, interrupted by the high-pitched jingles of other machines and even higher-pitched screams of children. One machine blasted a horrid nightcore version of I-I-I, I’m Your Little Butterfly. It was stuck in your head for the rest of the night.

To your surprise, you and Yeonjun weren’t the oldest people there. A grey-haired couple were locked in a ferocious game of air hockey nearby (the woman in a gorgeous bright pink dress was demolishing her husband). A little further along, a middle-aged man threw both fists into the air after winning a racing simulator, then high-fived his colleagues.

You liked it here immediately.

You saw Yeonjun glance at the racing simulators once, twice, as you walked past, an almost palpable longing in his eyes. Before you could mention it, he gently nudged your shoulder and pointed ahead.

The claw machines lined the back wall, glowing pink and blue from afar. Not one of them was taken.

The two of you headed there.

The machines charged more per attempt than either of you had expected. Still, after the trash-talk you’d exchanged on the drive over, Yeonjun thought that a handful of extra coins felt like a reasonable price for the privilege of beating you and claiming the biggest toy—at first glance, that appeared to be the enormous pink bears wedged into the bottom corner of every machine.

“I’m beginning to think we were very optimistic,” you said, rolling your sleeves to your elbows before taking up position at the claw machine opposite his. “We’re assuming we’ll actually win enough toys to compare sizes.”

“Aw.” He slipped a coin into the slot. The machine swallowed it with an enthusiastic beep. “Losing faith in your skills already?”

You scoffed, one hand settling around the joystick. “No. Just questioning how long we’re about to imprison ourselves here.”

You nudged the controls. The claw drifted over the mountain of plush animals with no sense of urgency whatsoever.

“Should we set a time limit?” you asked. Neon blue flashed rhythmically across your face as you lined the claw up above an upside-down pig with tiny legs. “I’ve got a lecture tomorrow morning.”

“Right.” Yeonjun leaned closer to his own machine. “And then we’ve got my race in the evening. Hope you didn’t forget.”

“I didn’t.”

You pressed the button. The claw descended, closed around nothing, and floated back up again.

The machine let out an electronic neigh loud enough to make you jump.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” You blinked at it. “This thing’s obnoxious.”

Yeonjun snorted, veering his joystick forward. “Off to a great start, yeah?”

“Hmm.” You checked the time on your phone. “Let’s say 11 PM is the deadline, alright? Gives us about three hours.”

Beside you, he completely missed the thirty-second timer. His claw barely brushed the toy he’d been aiming for before it leapt up again.

Another triumphant neigh echoed around the arcade.

Yeonjun recoiled. “Jesus.”

You looked over, grinning. “Nice, wasn’t it? It vibrates when you lose, too.”

“Right, yeah.” He glanced back at you. “Wait—so you want to do this for three hours? I love being here with you, love, but m’afraid we’ll both go deaf by then.”

“I’m saying three hours is the limit.” You pointed at him with another coin. “If you still haven’t beaten me by then, there’s no hope for you. We’ll go home.”

A grin spread across his face. “Confident.”

“Of course.”

“Alright.” He fed another coin into the slot and cracked his knuckles. “11 PM it is. Doubt I’ll need that long, but sure.”

You glanced sideways without letting go of the joystick. “Confident.”

“Mhmm.” He nudged his joystick into position. “Birthday week and all. Has to be my lucky streak.”

Your machine screamed again.

With a frown, you reached for another coin. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because your birthday’s coming up.”

He leaned around the side of his machine, cheeks stretching. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because of your concerning skills.”

Ignoring that, you guided the claw towards the giraffe waiting in the opposite corner, its sides painted blue from the lights.

Yeonjun, in the meantime, overshot. He realised too late that he’d been watching your machine instead of his own. It shuddered, rewarding his failure with another neigh.

Cursing, he inserted another coin, pointedly ignoring your laughter as he wrapped his hand around the joystick. The claw seemed to be living its own independent life. He’d have to learn its moods.

The first half an hour passed surprisingly quickly.

All the two of you had managed was concluding that the claw machines were financial scams, likely someone’s preferred method of laundering money.

Your pockets were growing noticeably lighter.

You stepped back after the fifteenth attempt—or sixteenth; you’d lost count shortly after Yeonjun gasped so dramatically that you briefly thought he might need an ambulance.

“Right, then,” you said. “Going to the loo. Have to reconsider my financial choices.”

“Come back soon.” Yeonjun kept his eyes fixed on the claw. “Let’s see if I don’t break this while you’re gone.”

“Let’s see if it doesn’t break you while I’m gone.”

“Love—” The machine screeched. He groaned. “Please. I need you to be on my side a little bit. This thing’s cursed.”

“It is.” You patted his shoulder as you walked past. “Stay strong. Don’t win.”

Snickering at the wounded sigh behind you, you cast one last longing glance at the pink bear before turning the corner towards the restroom.

When you returned, Yeonjun was leaning casually against his machine. There was a grin on his face that immediately made you suspicious.

You slowed. “What?”

Without a word, he reached behind his back and produced a small grey rabbit.

Your face fell. You stepped closer and grabbed it from him, turning it over in your hands. It was ridiculously soft; nothing like the cheap toys you remembered winning in your childhood.

“How’d—” You looked up. “You didn’t bring this from home, did you?”

Yeonjun frowned. “Of course not. Who do you take me for?”

“A cheater.”

He scoffed. “I won it fair and square.”

You handed it back to him, not entirely convinced.

“It’s tiny,” you said.

“Yes.” He carefully placed the toy on top of his control panel—for luck. “But it’s still one more than you’ve got, so I’m winning.”

Huffing, you returned to your own machine. The neon lights seemed brighter as you approached, almost threatening.

“Leave you alone,” you muttered, dropping another coin into the slot, “and apparently you discover how this thing works.”

Yeonjun’s grin returned. “S’what happens when you abandon me.”

“I was gone for two minutes.”

“And if you leave me again,” he said, “I might actually win the pink bear.”

Your grip tightened around the joystick. The bear continued smiling smugly from the corner of the machine.

“Not a chance.” The familiar jingle began again. “Never leaving you alone again.”

Yeonjun’s hand stalled. He hoped that you wouldn’t notice what you’d just said and immediately take it back.

You didn’t. Your gaze was already locked on the claw.

Satisfied, Yeonjun proceeded to lose another dozen times in a row.

Beside him, you came very close to winning, and he swore he felt his heart fall through his stomach as he watched the giraffe’s head thud against the edge of the prize chute. Then it dropped back into the pile of toys.

For a second, your groan—and his subsequent laughter—drowned out the arcade noise.

Another half an hour later, the two of you called a temporary truce. Your wrists ached, and the toys were starting to cost far more than they were worth. Neither of you had won anything worth boasting too much about anyway (you said as much to Yeonjun after he dramatically stuffed the rabbit into his jacket pocket).

There was a café in the corner of the arcade, beside the racing simulators and the entrance to the neighbouring PC gaming room. It seemed as good a place to recover as any.

You ordered brownies (with extra chocolate) and milkshakes (with extra ice cream), and carried your trays to a small table beside the low partition separating the two spaces.

It wasn’t much quieter here. The machines continued to chime every few seconds, people laughed, basketballs kept bouncing somewhere nearby. A girl walked right past your table with something in her bag that looked like a golden Chihuahua; its eyes blue from the neon lights.

It felt a little magical.

The brownies were still warm enough for the chocolate filling inside to stretch in glossy ribbons each time you lifted your fork.

“This is better than a fair, m’thinking,” Yeonjun said, glancing around. “My list might’ve been wrong.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm.” He took another bite from his plate. “Glad I’ve waited this long to complete it.”

Your heart lifted at that, guileless.

“I’ve been thinking about that, actually,” you said, gathering the crumbs on your plate into a little pile.

He leaned forward instinctively. “You have?”

“Yeah. I’m planning to go home soon,” you said. “To see my grandparents.”

He paused. “Right.”

“Next week, probably.” Your fingers wrapped around the milkshake glass. The straw tapped against the side. “And I thought—uh, would you like to come with me?”

“I—” Yeonjun sat upright so quickly that his chair edged backwards on the carpet. “With you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. We’ve still got the lawnmowers and the picnic on your list. Got enough grass for both back at the farm, I reckon.”

His mind had suddenly forgotten the list altogether. It had caught, instead, on come with me.

“Right, yes,” he said. “Tw—two birds, one stone.”

“Yeah.”

His eyes stayed on you, bright yet strangely unfocused.

You shifted in your chair.

Perhaps it had been a strange thing to ask. Going to the arcade was fine, but your village might’ve been too much.

You almost explained that you’d bought every one of your friends home at some point—even Taehyun had sneezed his way through a weekend there, allergic to half of your grandparents’ garden. But the explanation caught somewhere in your throat.

If he didn’t want to come, he shouldn’t have to.

Yeonjun, meanwhile, was dealing with the sudden suspicion that he’d gone deaf. He couldn’t hear the music or the machines, the basketballs or the chatter.

After a few bewildered seconds, he realised that the dull rushing in his ears was only his own heartbeat.

“I would—I’d really like that,” he said, and then repeated it, for no reason other than his inability to stop himself, “I’d really like that.”

Your shoulders loosened.

Yeonjun noticed and frowned.

Surely, he thought, you weren’t worried about him refusing. Surely, you knew that if you’d asked him to follow you across the country—or straight into hell, for that matter—he’d have already been looking for his car keys.

Where were his car keys, actually?

Discreetly, he patted his pockets.

“Yeah?” you said. “That sounds alright?”

“Of course, yeah.” He leaned back into the table, cut off another piece of his brownie, then forgot to eat it. “As long as your grandparents don’t mind me.”

You dismissed the concern with a wave of your hand so immediate that Yeonjun finally felt himself smile again.

“Not at all,” you said. “My gran will talk your ear off if you let her, though. Be mindful of how many follow-up questions you ask.”

“Okay,” he said, knowing very well that he was going to sit and listen to everything your grandmother had to say, and perhaps take notes.

“You sure you’d like to come, though?” you asked. “You looked—a bit doubtful, I guess.”

“Oh—I—no.” With an embarrassed laugh, he slapped both palms lightly against his thighs. “Guess I’m just realising I’ll meet your Violet. S’a big deal.”

“Oh, yeah!” You laughed. “And Britney! She’s been limping this past week because she’d stepped on a bee. But Grandad says she’s getting better now.”

Yeonjun remembered Britney, the cat, supposedly Violet’s best friend. The lightness inside him expanded.

“Britney, too, then,” he said. “Quite a lot of pressure.”

You smiled.

“Don’t worry.” You took another sip of your milkshake. It was cold enough to make your temples announce themselves. “They’ll love you.”

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You sound awfully sure, considering the first impression I’d made on you.”

You leaned back in the chair.

“Well,” you said, “don’t try to prove my cows will fall in love with you in two weeks, and you’ll be alright.”

He pursed his lips. “Right, right. You don’t think I’d succeed?”

“Think you’d struggle finding the time to date all of them while you’ve still got to complete the list with me.”

“Ah.” He grinned again. “Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about, then. You’ll always be my first priority, love.”

You scoffed, turning back to your plate.

“Mhmm.” Your lips were determined to curve; you poked your tongue into your cheek to keep them straight. “Thank you ever so much. Big honour.”

“You’re very welcome.”

You returned to your brownie. Finally, Yeonjun remembered his own.

“So, then.” You nodded back towards the arcade. “What would you do with the big toy if you won it?”

“The pink bear?”

“Yeah.”

“Sell it,” he said, still chewing. “And use the money to go on holiday. To the sea, m’thinking.”

“Nice, nice.” Your smile finally won against your restraint. “The bear’s obviously worth a fortune.”

“Obviously, yeah.” He took another bite. “I’d take you with me. To the sea.”

You raised your eyes from your plate. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, a fresh grin spreading across his face. “Out of pity that you lost.”

An affronted noise escaped you. Yeonjun laughed hard enough to inhale a brownie crumb and had to cough into his fist, still laughing through it.

“We’ll see about that.” You pushed your empty plate aside and wrapped both hands around your milkshake. “Still got another few hours left.”

“What would you do with the pink bear, then?” he asked.

You considered it as you sipped from the straw. The paper was already soft around the edges; you could taste cardboard more than strawberry.

“Hm.” You pushed the glass back. “I’d keep it on my doorstep. To remind you I’d won every time you came over.”

Yeonjun nodded with enthusiastic approval. He very much enjoyed the thought of becoming part of your doorstep.

“Reckon Violet would love it,” he said.

“Yeah, I think she would.” You could already picture Violet abandoning the monstera pot in favour of the bear. “One of us has to win it for her.”

“Well.” Yeonjun stirred the melting ice cream in his glass with his straw before taking another sip. “Not me, then, ‘cause I’m selling it.”

“Got to be me, then. To show Violet who actually loves her.”

“Hey—no.” He pulled back from the table, his lips shifting into an impressive pout. “S’not fair. Don’t bring love into this now.”

You scoffed, leaning forwards in your seat—the two of you looked absurdly like two ends of a seesaw now.

“You’re the one who brought it into it,” you said. “Said she’d love the bear.”

“I meant she’d love having it on your doorstep.”

“Which means I’ve got to win it,” you countered, “to get it on said doorstep.”

“It doesn’t mean I love her less if there’s no bear at all.”

“Yes, it does, actually.”

“No, it—”

A deafening pop cut him off.

You both jumped. For one second, you were convinced one of the machines had exploded. Instead, a shower of balloons burst across the ceiling. Triumphant music erupted from somewhere near the racing simulators. A cluster of teenagers shrieked in delight.

Apparently, someone had just broken the arcade’s high score.

Balloons drifted lazily through the room. Children abandoned their games halfway through, and even the adults joined in—one man sprinted after a balloon skimming across the floor as though it was a lucky lottery ticket.

Smiling, you turned back and finished the last of your milkshake.

Across from you, Yeonjun bent under the table.

You leaned sideways to glance down. “What’re you doing?”

“Hang on.” His voice came muffled. “Just—”

A second later, he resurfaced holding a bright red, heart-shaped balloon by its ribbon. He examined it for a second. Then pressed it to his chest.

You watched him, your eyebrows rising. His expression remained perfectly solemn. A second later, he bumped the balloon softly against his chest, then once more.

“Think I’ve got tachycardia,” he said.

Your lips twitched. He thumped the balloon against his chest until you finally snorted, shaking your head.

He grinned, extending it towards you. “For you, love.”

You leaned closer to inspect the balloon. “You’re giving me your tachycardia?”

“Yes. I’ll cope without it.”

“Keep it.”

“No.” He pushed the balloon towards you again. “Take it, or I’ll pop it.”

Snorting again, you accepted it. The rubber creaked softly beneath your fingers.

“Popping your own heart would probably hurt,” you said, turning it over in your hands. It smelled of latex.

“Probably.” He grinned. “So I’m trusting it to you.”

The words were ridiculous. Your own heart, somehow, even more so. You thought he really had given you tachycardia.

Determined not to look at him, you busied yourself with winding the ribbon once around your wrist. The balloon bobbed against your jacket sleeve.

“Alright.” You gave it an experimental tug. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to it.”

“Good.”

You finally glanced up. Yeonjun was still smiling. The corners of his eyes had relaxed, his lashes appearing darker in the dim light of the arcade.

Your composure lasted for two seconds. Snickering quietly, you dropped your gaze again.

Yeonjun leaned back in his chair. He felt so light that he might as well have drifted away with the rest of the balloons.

When the two of you returned to your designated claw machines another ten minutes later, the arcade had mostly been cleaned. Tiny flecks of red, blue and silver rubber still glittered across the dark carpet whenever the neon lights caught them.

You and Yeonjun started the second round.

The machine reminded you why you hated it at once: every time you pushed the joystick left, the claw lurched slightly right first. You pushed it forwards; it seemed to contemplate the suggestion, wasting precious seconds before it crept half an inch forward and stopped.

The machine neighed.

You groaned.

Competing here had been an appalling idea. Unfortunately, you’d already invested too much money, too many hours, and far too much pride to admit defeat now.

You fed in another coin.

Another attempt, another failure. And another, and another.

Your concentration was beginning to fray under the monotony. Only once did you manage to lift the leg of a frog plushie; it slipped free almost instantly.

Soon, your attention wandered to the balloon tied loosely around your wrist, the red heart bobbing gently against the machine whenever you moved. Then you looked up at Yeonjun beside you.

The neon from your machine washed him blue, his own painted the other side of his face pink. Every so often, another cabinet flashed gold behind him, briefly outlining his jaw.

It was terribly distracting. You almost wanted to—

A dreadful miracle occurred.

Yeonjun’s claw machine broke. He moved the joystick, and for the first time all evening, it actually obeyed.

“What—” He hardly managed the word.

The timer expired, but the claw kept moving regardless.

You looked at him just as his mouth slowly spread into a grin. He guided the claw over the pink bear.

“Yeonjun,” you warned.

“Think I’ve frightened it,” he said.

“It just glitched, use a diff—”

“Oh, wait, wait—” He inhaled in theatrical anticipation while the claw descended.

It missed the bear.

Yeonjun squinted; he’d been off the bear’s ear by half an inch.

You cleared your throat and turned back to your own machine.

“Can’t even win with a broken claw,” you murmured. “Sounds about right—”

Yeonjun’s claw jumped to the top. The machine continued jingling in support. He nudged the joystick without inserting a new coin; the claw moved again.

You turned back to him, eyes narrowing. His claw finally managed to catch the bear by the ear and, most horribly, lift it. You held your breath.

The bear wobbled. It dropped before Yeonjun was ready to let go.

He cursed. You exhaled.

The bear caught against the edge. Bounced off another toy. Then, with one final clunk, it dropped straight into the prize chute.

You weren’t breathing.

The machine erupted into a triumphant tune that made you momentarily consider smashing it to pieces. The fucking Little Butterfly played even louder somewhere behind you.

You stared in complete silence while Yeonjun bent and lifted the enormous bear from the compartment. It barely fit past the little doors.

“This—that doesn’t count,” you said. “The machine broke.”

He looked from the bear to you.

“I’ve won the bear,” he said.

“The machine—”

“I’ve won the bear.”

His delight echoed loudly enough for a couple by the Pac-Man machines to glance over.

You lowered your voice. “It doesn’t count.”

“The bear,” he announced, lifting it triumphantly above his head, “belongs to me.”

“It wasn’t supposed to—”

“Listen, love, I’ll make you a deal.” His grin turned positively threatening as he stuffed the toy under his arm. “I’ll give you the bear. You can put it on your doorstep or give it to Violet—but on one condition.”

You didn’t trust this for a second.

“What condition?”

“You admit defeat.”

You stared at him. “But you didn’t even—”

“You admit defeat,” he spoke over you, hoisting the bear again, “and you admit that I’m much better at claw machines than you will ever be—”

“No.”

“—and that it has been the greatest honour of your life to compete against me.”

“No.”

“You may also compliment my technique, though, of course, that’s voluntary.”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest.

“You had no technique,” you said. “The machine broke. And even then, you couldn’t get it on your first—”

“Don’t be a sore loser, love.” He wiggled the bear in his arms; it nearly slipped in his excitement. Laughing, he caught it again. “Come on.”

You turned away to gather your coins from the control panel. As annoyed as you were, it was good not to have to waste more money.

“I don’t care about the bear,” you said.

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

Yeonjun laughed again.

You heard his footsteps before you felt him. One of his arms settled lightly across your shoulders as he wedged the bear between your arms and your chest.

He caught the familiar roses of your perfume and realised he couldn’t reasonably force himself to pull back. His chin hovered beside your shoulder, his cheek brushing yours for the briefest moment—warm enough to send your pulse stumbling out of rhythm.

“You didn’t even want the bear,” you mumbled, relaxing your arms to take hold of the toy.

“I know.” He made no move to step away, his chest solid against your back. “I’m excellent at getting things out of spite. What else do you want while I’m on a winning streak? The frog looks—”

You turned around and pressed the bear back into his arms.

“Alright,” you said. “Keep your stupid, illegal bear. M’perfectly content knowing that you’d never win a toy in a fair fight.”

He snorted.

“All due respect, love…” He balanced the bear under one arm and reached into his jacket pocket for the grey rabbit. “I got two stupid toys today. How many have you got?”

You clicked your tongue, then deliberately raised your balloon. It dipped under your wrist.

“Well, I’ve got this,” you said before nodding towards him, “and I’ve got you. So that brings us to the same number of stupid things we’ve got.”

He was glowing. Being included in your list of possessions delighted him far more than the bear had.

Trying to suppress the twitching at the corners of your mouth as Yeonjun laughed beside you, you zipped your pockets and turned towards the exit.

He caught up within a few strides, still chuckling, and draped an arm across your shoulders. You leaned into him automatically so the two of you—and the absurd bear between you—could squeeze through the doors.

It was dark outside, but the air felt cleaner away from the stale warmth of the arcade. It was lovely not to have your ears assaulted by the noise, too.

All you could smell now was Yeonjun’s cologne. All you could hear was his attempts to stop laughing.

The bear, yours, really, just like every other stupid thing he owned, was entirely beside the point now.

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