Beth 🥀

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

wooyoung loves his friends and he loves his partners. ultimately, he wants them to know each other, to grow close, to have that wonderful blending of worlds so everyone important to him is connected.

unfortunately, he isn't expecting the starry look in your eye or the pretty blush that crosses your cheeks when yeonjun introduces himself, a charming smile across his face.

wooyoung isn't expecting you to gush about how much you love yeonjun's recent solo or about how well you thought he dances.

when yeonjun invites you to the next TXT fanmeet - "backstage passes included of course," he winks - and you hurried to agree, wooyoung is pretty sure his face is going to hurt from how tight he clenches his jaw.

when you go to the bathroom, he's quick to land a solid punch to yeongjun's muscular arm.

"Ouch," his friend yelps, hand cupping his arm and mouth open in astonishment. "What was that for?"

"stop making my girl blush," he demands.

"I have no control over that," yeonjun argues back.

"I already have to deal with changbin, now you," wooyoung complains.

"what are you talking about?" yeonjun's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"baby said binnie's strong, I'm strong too," wooyoung pouts.

yeonjun looks amazed. "honestly, how do you exist in a polycule with a jealous streak like that?"

"they're all like it," you slide back into your seat and give wooyoung a bright smile. "usually, you just have to do something cute and they reset back to normal."

"I'm not that easy," wooyoung defends himself, even as his shoulders relax and the hard line of his lips is curving upwards in a dopey smile.

you nudge your cheek against his shoulder affectionately. "yes you are pretty boy."

3.

hongjoong loves to see you happy, he's just not sure if he likes why you're happy right now. they're backstage at a show, in one of the green rooms as ateez waits for their performance time. you couldn't sit out front with them so you'd squirrelled yourself away in their green room - "I always want to see you preform," you'd said happily.

and then seventeen had come out on stage to perform.

hongjoong knew you liked the group, had done since their debut when you were young, but it was something completely different watching you sing along to every word. he shouldn't feel jealous, he tells himself, even as he can feel it irrationally bubbling.

he shouldn't because you're theirs and no other talented group is going to snatch you away.

"it's so good, right?" you gush, "jihoon-shi is such a good producer."

that hit him hard. it starts with the tense shoulders, then the side glances before he bundles himself into your side. his fingers curl around your opposite shoulder and you are content to lean into his broad chest as you sing the words to another group's song.

"you like our songs better right?" hongjoong murmurs, voice buried into your hair.

you roll your lips into an amused smile. "jealous baby?"

you laugh when hongjoong pouts and whines, "answer the question."

you look up at him and lay a sweet kiss to the bottom lip he stuck out. "yes hongjoong," you say as if you were speaking to a child, "I like your songs the most."

he complains about you mocking him, even as he grins triumphantly and presses delighted kisses to your willing lips.

4.

yunho let out a dramatic sigh, full body slumping beside you. you didn't look up, eyes focused on the queue number ticking down slowly.

he nudges his knee against yours. you still don't raise your gaze to look at him.

"jagiya..." he coos. he lowers his head to press his cheek into your shoulder and makes his eyes wide to blink up at you, the look that you said reminds you of a puppy.

you make a noise of acknowledgement, adjusting your phone so you can reach up and pat your boyfriend's cheek. "I'm number 135 in the queue. as soon as I get these, i'm with you."

"but I want you to pay attention to me now," he whines.

you tap his cheek a little firmer. "patience yuyu," you scold, "this is important."

"i'm important," he argues back.

"you are," you agree, "but if I don't get these tickets, mina is going to be disappointed."

mina, one of your oldest friends, is likely in a similar situation to you - phone gripped in hand and waiting for their spot in the queue to finally open up to ticket purchase. you had explained the day before, after setting your alarm early, that the BTS comeback concert tickets were bound to sell out immediately so you and your friend were trying to be one of the first few in line.

"hopefully at least one of us will get the tickets," you had crossed your fingers.

mina didn't have partners that would annoy her until she paid attention to them. yunho was always the worst, preferring to cling and affection bomb you until you gave him the attention he so desperately wanted.

yunho sighs with all the conviction of an actor and throws himself back onto the sofa. he stays there until you squeal, declaring with excitement that you'd gotten through and pass his credit card for you to buy them.

tickets secured, you snuggle yourself against his chest and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "I'll send you the money later," you promise.

yunho lets out a long, satisfied breath. his hands flex around your waist and then lower as he pulls you on top of him. "don't worry about it," he dismisses, "just kiss me."

5.

"here you go darling."

you pause, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as you accept the drink pressed into your taller boyfriend presses into your hand. mingi beams at you as you take a sip, eyes darting around his pretty face.

"are you okay?" you ask.

mingi tilts his head. "why wouldn't I be?"

"what's wrong with your voice?" you comment.

you knew immediately something was up with how the tips of his ears turn pink and he bites down on his bottom lip shyly. "nothing," he assures, "I always sound like this."

"only when you're preforming," your eyes narrow slightly.

mingi slips his hand around your waist, fingers splaying wide on the bare skin there. "don't know what you're talking about darling."

your lips twitch into an amused smirk. "wait, is this about Jackson?"

mingi is great at many things, you knew, but he is a terrible liar. it is obvious in his face, the way it freezes for a moment before settling back into feigned nonchalance and the way his fingers twitch as if holding on to you with solidify the lie. "as in Jackson wang? no, what has he got to do with anything?"

it's bad that you found his jealousy so cute. "I don't know," you hum, "he did invite us to this party. we should go say thank you, no?"

mingi looks momentarily panicked, eyes widening as he stumbles over his excuses. you're still giggling when new but familiar arms slip around your waist. the cologne hits you first, a musk that has you settling back comfortably in Seonghwa's strong arms. he nuzzles his nose into your cheek. "are you teasing mingi beautiful?"

"just a little," you admit happily.

"hyung," mingi's voice was almost a whine as he shuffles closer, his feet sliding on either side of yours and looks down at seonghwa with pleading eyes. "she wants to speak with Jackson."

"he's your friend," you remind.

"an attractive friend with a deep voice," mingi mumbles. "like, that's your weakness! and you're stunning tonight, shit, he'd be so lucky..."

seonghwa huffs a laugh. "he is right, you do like amazing tonight," he muses, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your lips, "maybe too amazing."

"only for you," you assure him and when hwa smiles, his whole face brightens so beautifully.

in front of you, mingi drops his forehead to rest against yours. "only?" he challenges.

you look up under your eyelashes. "you think Jackson will mind if we use one of his rooms?"

"fuck if he does," mingi says as he presses his lips to yours, firm and in control, a sign of what was to come.

+1.

jongho notices you first. you are pressed against the barricade on the left side of the stage when he makes his way down to greet fans and, like he is attracted by magnets, he is drawn to you immediately.

he can't pinpoint an exact moment when you enveloped yourself in his senses like this but he knows that he's forever grateful for your presence in his - in everyone's - lives.

you beam up at him, excitement alluding from every pore. you look beautiful like that, he thought, looking like he was the only person in the room.

the others find you too, once jongho points you out. there's a selfish part of him that wants to keep you a secret for himself but it was worth it, to see the way each of his lovers' faces brighten for you. san and mingi are grinning like fools. wooyoung moves his water bottle to the left side of the stage. yunho throws hearts anytime the stage camera is on him. yeosang keeps looking at you and pretending he's not. hongjoong is smiling so much that he forgets words in English when talking to the stadium. seonghwa always went to the left side first, offering excited waves and smiles, before he moved anywhere else.

it is one thing, jongho thought, that he's able to share the stage with his people. it's another entirely to know the one they love is out their watching and cheering them on.

during the encore, when they can safety move around the barricade, jongho makes a beeline for you. the fans around you are screaming, hands and phones reaching out, and you join in with them. he can't stop himself from reaching for your hand too, linking his fingers within yours. he doesn't care who sees or what they think, all that matters is the pretty flush that brightens your cheeks.

he can't hear you over the backing music but he knows what you're saying anyway. you said the same thing that morning when he had to leave the bed and then to each of them as they filed out the door, pressing sweet kisses to their pursed lips.

I love you, you say.

jongho can't say it back, not right now, though he feels it in the pit of his stomach. he can hear san's part finishing and his next lines swiftly approaching, so he reacts on his instinct.

jongho raises your hand to press a kiss to the back, hoping his eyes convey the truth he can't verbalise right now.

then he's up and climbing back on the stage, lyrics and melody tumbling out of him like nothing had happened.

later, the photo of him and you goes viral. flushed and pretty in his bed, you say, "you boys always have to do things the most dramatic way possible."

jongho traces circles on your bare thighs. "maybe," he agrees, "but its worth it. I want everyone to know that you're mine."

"ours," yeosang corrects from the other side of him. the quiet man drops a kiss to jongho's bare shoulder.

"yours," you agree. "always have been, you jealous babies."

"your jealous babies," yeosang says.

"exactly, mine," you confirm.

because while they might be a little jealous, you might just be a little possessive too.

---------------------------------------

bf!Seonghwa who kisses your forehead softly and drapes a blanket over your body when you fall asleep on the couch and he gets home late.

bf!Seonghwa who tries his best to make you your favorite childhood meal and facetimes yor mom to make sure he's doing everything right so that he can see your face light up with pride and excitment that he's yours.

bf!Seonghwa who never lets you go to bed angry or upset even if you’re not upset with him. He will stay up all night to try to resolve the problem and help you with what you need.

bf!Seonghwa who buys you lego sets to put together and eat your favorite takeout on the living room floor together for a little at home date night.

bf!Seonghwa who will stop by your favorite bakery to grab you a sweet treat just because he thought about you, even if the bakery is an hour away plus horrendous traffic. He loves you that much.

bf!Seonghwa who would NEVER touch your strawberry cake (@San) because he knows he couldn't take the little pout that would inevitably be on your lips. He would kiss it away anyways.

bf!Seonghwa who holds you until you're asleep and plays with your hair while you sleep.

bf!Seonghwa who takes good care of you when you're sick and makes sure you're comfortable with all the blankets and pillows you could ever need.

bf!Seonghwa who makes Wooyoung make you your favorite soup because he knows Woo can do it better than him and you deserve the best.

bf!Seonghwa who takes you to the most beautiful restaraunts and takes you on vacations for special ocassions because he'd rather experience life with you than give you material things to show his love.

bf!Seonghwa who is shy about it but will write you poems and leave them around the apartment for you to find before work to brighten your day.

bf!Seonghwa who always texts or calls when he will be home late so you aren't worried about him.

bf!Seonghwa who always says "I love you more than anything" before hanging up the phone.

bf!Seonghwa who includes you in every aspect of his life. "Can you please come to the studio today? I want to hear your thoughts on how I deliver this particular line."

bf!Seonghwa who makes sure that if he's away, his gf has everything she could possibly need and if he forgets something, he has it delivered to the apartment asap.

bf!Seonghwa who asks the boys to check in with you if he's away for personal projects. He trusts you most with Hongjoong and Yunho because they treat you most like a little sister.

bf!Seonghwa who will sing to you and dance around the kitchen at 3 am when you say you can't sleep.

bf!Seonghwa who will cry if you cry because he can’t stop himself from empathizing.

bf!Seonghwa who is the sweetest, most gentle man you have ever met who loves you whole heartedly and would do anything to make you happy.

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡

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The advice given to him had been plain and simple:

Walk swiftly through it if he wanted to see it so bad.

Do not stop.

Do not, under any circumstances, let anyone pull you into a conversation. Not even children.

(That one had felt especially ominous.)

So he was doing exactly that: walking, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, gaze lowered just enough to avoid unnecessary eye contact while still taking in everything in soft, peripheral glances—when you stepped directly in front of him. And he'd needed to stop completely lest he run straight into you, and that would have been a spectacularly embarrassing way to draw attention to himself in a country he didn't live in.

He looked down at you, alert for the half-second it took his brain to run through all the scary warnings again. This could absolutely be the setup they had described: a pretty face stops you while a secondary accomplice else lifts your wallet. Classic.

His gaze flicked briefly over your shoulder, scanning the crowd in a way he hoped didn’t look like scanning. People moved about normally, and nobody hovered too close. No one looked particularly interested in him as far as he could tell.

Suspicious.

Or... not suspicious?

He couldn’t tell anymore.

For all he knew, you had already stolen something. He subtly shifted his wrist inside his sleeve just to make sure his watch was still there.

When he looked back at you, though, you were holding your phone out slightly in front of you in what was a universal sign among tourists.

"Excuse me," you said in English.

Your voice was polite, a little tentative, like you were still deciding if he was the right person to ask. You tilted your head slightly, gesturing behind you, and Hyunjin followed the motion. Two people stood near the monument a few steps away, already half-posed with a readiness that said they had done this exact thing at least twenty times on this trip.

He glanced back at you.

"Would you mind taking a picture for us?"

If this was a scam, it was the most attractive one he'd ever encountered.

“Sure,” he said, reaching out.

Your fingers brushed against his as you handed him the phone, the kind of contact that should have meant absolutely nothing. But you smiled at him simultaneously, looking truly grateful before he had even done anything, and for some reason that was the part his brain decided to hold onto.

(It did not, however, stop him from subtly checking that his watch was still on his arm and wallet still in his inside jacket pocket. Just because being pretty did not make you innocent.)

“Thank you,” you chirped, already turning and jogging back toward the other two.

Hyunjin looked down at the phone for a moment, noticing the camera app was already open, the screen smudged faintly with fingerprints that caught the sunlight. Then he lifted it again.

You had slipped neatly into place between the other two, near perfectly, like the space had been made for you specifically (though Hyunjin was confident you could fit into any space like that). The man’s arm came around your shoulders automatically, pulling you in closer, while the woman leaned in from the other side with a cheery smile.

He watched the three of you for a second longer than necessary.

Parents, he decided after a moment, seeing the resemblance—the toothy smile you shared with your mother and the sparkling eyes of your father that somehow shined brighter than the sun. A very pretty family, he decided next, before telling himself to focus.

He stepped back a little, adjusting his position to fit the monument cleanly into the frame. He couldn’t help it. The light was good, the view was beautiful... as was the subject—this could actually be a nice photo if he tried.

And he did try.

“Uh,” he called out.

All three of you looked at him.

“Can you stand a little closer together?” he asked, lifting one hand to gesture the idea, fingers curling inward in a universal scoot in motion just in case his wording wasn’t perfect.

The man reacted heartily, pulling both you and the woman further inward to his side. You laughed as you were squeezed between them, the sound bright enough that Hyunjin could swear he physically felt it.

For a moment, you forgot about the camera entirely.

Your head tipped slightly toward the woman as you laughed, your eyes crinkling at the corners, sunlight catching in your hair in a way that made the whole scene feel oddly cinematic. Hyunjin almost thought some of the buskers across the plaza played louder in that moment, flooding his ears, but then he realized it was just his brain playing tricks on him.

He shook his head and crouched slightly to adjust the framing.

Now the monument rose behind you with the three of you centered perfectly in the shot.

Hyunjin only managed to tap the shutter button a couple times when the phone suddenly vanished from his hands.

For a split second, his brain simply refused to process it. His fingers were still curved around where the phone should have been, his hand suspended uselessly in the air as if the device might somehow reappear if he just waited long enough.

A blur of movement cut across the edge of his vision, and he turned his head just in time to catch sight of a man already sprinting away, your phone clutched tightly in his hand.

Pickpockets and thieves, right.

Management had not been exaggerating. Nor had they been wrong about him being a perfect target. How embarrassing. 

For the remainder of the split second he simply stood there, staring after the fleeing figure as the thief wove between clusters of tourists who had no idea what had just happened. The whole exchange had been so fast that it left a strange, suspended silence in its wake.

Then he looked up and your eyes found his instantly.

You were staring at him with the same stunned expression he probably wore himself, the two of you locked in a moment of mutual disbelief.

Beside you, your parents were also frozen in place. The man still had his arm half draped around your shoulders as though the picture were still being taken, while the woman blinked rapidly in confusion, jaw slack.

Hyunjin opened his mouth, the apology already forming on his tongue. He didn’t even know what he was going to say yet—I’m sorry felt too small, I’ll fix it felt too vague—but the thought had already taken shape in his mind. Whatever was on that phone—photos, messages, small pieces of your life you probably hadn’t thought twice about until now—he would replace it. He would make it right.

"I—"

You moved before he could finish.

You turned sharply and took off straight into the crowd in the exact direction the thief had disappeared.

The reaction surprised him enough that it delayed his own, and for a moment, Hyunjin just watched you go. Most people, when their phone or wallet was stolen, would shout or freeze or look around helplessly for assistance before going to the authorities to let them handle it. You, apparently, had decided that the correct solution was to chase the guy down.

You were crazy.

And definitely fast, but the thief already had a significant head start and clearly knew how to navigate the crowd. He moved with the kind of confidence that came from doing this before, slipping through gaps between groups of people who barely noticed him passing.

And Hyunjin—

Not only had he ignored every piece of advice about stopping for strangers in this plaza, but he had also somehow managed to become personally responsible for the theft of someone else's phone.

And now that someone else was chasing the thief.

This was somehow worse than if he'd been robbed himself.

He exhaled sharply through his teeth, the frustration coming out in a quick breath.

"Wait—!"

The word barely left his mouth before he was already moving, leaving your parents behind.

Hyunjin pushed forward into a sprint, weaving between startled pedestrians as he followed the path you had carved through the crowd. It only took him a few seconds to close the distance between you, partly because you had been forced to slow down slightly to avoid colliding with a family dragging two enormous suitcases across the walkway.

He reached you just as you recovered your stride, head turning to glance at you.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless but still clear.

You twisted toward him immediately, your eyes wide with urgency.

"My phone—" you started.

“I know,” he said quickly, already looking ahead.

He could see the thief now.

The man had glanced back over his shoulder, probably expecting no one to bother chasing him through a crowded plaza. The moment he realized that not one but two people were gaining on him, his expression shifted from cocky confidence to visible irritation.

Hyunjin looked at you again.

“You should, uh... probably stay here,” he said, the words coming out a little less authoritative than he intended.

The look you gave him made it very clear that you had absolutely no intention of doing that.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

He leaned forward and accelerated, his pace lengthening as he cut through the crowd with far less difficulty than the thief likely expected. Years of dance training had given him an unusual awareness of his body in motion, and right now that sense of balance made it almost effortless to slip through narrow spaces between people.

The distance between them closed quickly.

The thief darted sharply to the right, trying to lose him by weaving through a souvenir stand where a group of tourists had gathered around racks of postcards and keychains. Hyunjin followed without breaking stride, slipping through the same gap with enough momentum that the vendor barely had time to shout in surprise.

The man glanced back again, and this time his eyes widened.

Hyunjin was only a few strides away when the thief abruptly changed tactics. Instead of continuing to run, the man suddenly flung the phone behind him, cutting his apparent losses.

The device hit the stone pavement with a sharp clatter and skidded several feet across the ground. Hyunjin stuttered to a stop as he nearly overshot it, lunging forward to grab it before someone accidentally stepped on it in the confusion.

When he straightened again, the thief had already disappeared down a narrow side street that branched away from the plaza.

He stood there for a moment, catching his breath as he looked down at the phone in his hand. The bottom right corner of the screen had shattered along with the screen protector, but it still turned on to show the lock-screen (a very picturesque photo of a sunset, and thankfully, his brain unhelpfully cheered, not of a boyfriend) when he tapped it.

He turned around just as you came jogging toward him through the thinning crowd, slightly out of breath but still looking ready to continue the pursuit if necessary. You were tenacious, he'd give you that.

Hyunjin lifted the phone slightly.

"I believe this belongs to you," he said, holding it out toward you.

You took it quickly, relief flashing across your face so openly that it almost made the entire chase feel worth it. But then you looked down, and your expression crumpled.

Your thumb brushed carefully along the cracked corner, turning the device slightly so the light caught the fractured glass. The damage was not catastrophic, but the spiderwebbing sure was ugly.

Hyunjin felt himself wince before he could stop it.

You looked up immediately afterward, your gaze flicking past him toward the street beyond, scanning the crowd as though you expected to find the crumpled body of an apprehended villain. Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Where—?” you started, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. “Did you catch him?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, already feeling the faint embarrassment of a disappointing answer coming. He didn't feel all that heroic.

"Not exactly," he admitted.

He jabbed a thumb loosely over his shoulder.

"He saw I was getting close and... threw it," he explained, miming the motion. "I think he decided... not worth the trouble anymore."

Your expression shifted through a brief sequence of emotions as you processed that information. First surprise, then mild disappointment, then a quiet sort of acceptance that suggested you had realized tackling criminals in the middle of a crowded tourist plaza might have been a slightly unrealistic expectation.

Still, you glanced once more toward the street the thief had vanished down, as if half hoping he might reappear so you could get some of your own licks in.

No such luck.

You looked down at the phone again.

"Ah," you murmured.

Hyunjin braced himself for frustration, maybe anger, maybe that awkward moment where you reassured him it was fine while clearly not meaning it.

But instead—

“Well,” you said after a second, turning the phone in your hand, “at least I still have it.”

“You are... not too upset?” he asked, a little unsure.

You gave a small shrug.

“I mean, I’m not thrilled about the screen,” you admitted, tapping the cracked corner with your nail, “but it still works. That’s better than losing everything.”

Your tone carried the kind of pragmatic optimism that surprised him, because he had to reconcile that with the version of you he had just watched sprint after a thief like your life depended on it.

“Plus,” you added, glancing up at him with a small, almost sheepish smile, “that was kind of exciting.”

Hyunjin had to physically stop himself from saying the first thing that came to mind, which was that it had been significantly more dangerous than exciting and you were, in fact, a little insane (yeah, insanely hot! his brain choked out).

Instead, he just let out a quiet breath.

“Right,” he said.

“Anyways,” you continued, slipping the phone carefully back into your bag, “thank you. Really. You didn’t have to do that.”

The sincerity in your voice made the small knot of guilt in his chest tighten rather than disappear. Because the truth was that none of this would have happened if he had simply held the phone tighter, or if he had noticed the thief a second earlier, or if he had not stopped in the first place.

He glanced at your bag where the phone had just disappeared, then back at your face.

He hesitated for a second, running a thought through his head before deciding it was a perfectly reasonable solution.

"Listen," he said.

You looked up again.

"The screen needs to be replaced," he continued, nodding toward your bag. "And that's my fault."

Your eyebrows lifted immediately. "Oh, no, it's not—"

"I was holding it," he pointed out. "If I notice faster—"

"You couldn't have known," you interrupted quickly.

Hyunjin tilted his head slightly, considering that, but not fully accepting it.

“Maybe not,” he said after a moment. “But I still feel... responsible.”

He paused briefly, searching for the right phrasing, something that wouldn’t sound too blunt or too excessive.

“It wouldn’t really be a problem,” he added, “for me to get you new one.”

The suggestion hung between you for a second.

You blinked at him.

“A new phone?” you repeated, clearly caught off guard.

He shrugged lightly, though his attention flicked between you and your bag again because the cracked screen ruining the pretty photo of the sunset was still visible in his mind. He didn't want to think about the two pictures he'd captured of you and your parents shown through a cracked screen.

“Or... at least repair,” he amended quickly. “There’s maybe... a shop nearby.”

You studied him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he was joking or simply being far more generous than the situation required, or maybe you were just misunderstanding him with the language barrier.

Behind you, the sounds of the plaza continued: tourists chatting, cameras clicking, someone laughing loudly near the monument where your parents were likely still waiting or maybe freaking out that you had just dashed off in a foreign country with the possibility of not being able to contact them.

You shook your head after a second.

"No, really, it's okay," you said, lifting a hand in a gentle dismissal. "You already helped me get it back. That's more than enough."

He frowned slightly.

"It's not really okay," he said. "I mean," he continued, "I was holding it when it got stolen."

"That doesn't make it your fault," you replied.

Hyunjin gave you a small, doubtful look.

"Maybe not for sure," he said. "But I'm still the last person who had it."

You let out a soft, amused breath. "I promise it's fine. The screen's cracked, but it still works. I'll deal with it when I get home. I'm only here for another few days."

That piece of information settled something in his mind rather than discourage him.

"Then that's even more reason to fix now," he said.

You opened your mouth to object again, but he continued before you could.

"You're traveling," he pointed out. "You need your phone."

You hesitated.

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Maps," he added, holding up one finger.

You paused.

"Translation apps," he continued, lifting another.

You pressed your lips together, already seeing where this was going.

"Camera." Another finger.

The smile you shared with your mother started to reappear.

“Contact your parents,” he finished, gesturing lightly over his shoulder toward the monument. “If you run away again.”

Your gaze flicked back, like you had just remembered that you had, in fact, left them behind in a crowded spot after chasing a criminal.

“And if the screen gets worse,” he added, softening slightly, “maybe you can’t use it properly.”

You looked down at your bag again, clearly imagining that possibility.

“It’s not that bad,” you said, though there was less certainty in it now.

Hyunjin watched you for a second, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“Let’s just check something,” he said.

You watched him with visible curiosity as he unlocked it, though there was still a polite resistance in your expression that suggested you had not fully accepted his offer yet. Hyunjin did not comment on that; instead, he opened the map application and zoomed in on the area around the plaza, his thumb moving across the screen while he searched.

For a few seconds, he didn’t speak. And from the corner of his eye, he could see you shifting your weight, glancing once toward your parents and then back to him, clearly torn between staying and going. He reached out his other hand to stop you should you try and run off again.

The cracked screen of your phone had clearly bothered him more than it seemed to bother you, and now that he had decided he was going to fix the situation, he had no real intention of letting the idea go.

"There," he said quietly after a moment.

He turned the phone so you could see the screen.

Several small location markers appeared along the nearby streets, clustered within a few blocks of the plaza.

“Two repair shops,” he explained, tapping one, then the other. “And... electronics store here.”

You leaned slightly closer, reading the names but he could tell you were mostly doing it to be courteous.

“All walking distance,” he said.

"Phone repairs are expensive," you said, crossing your arms loosely.

Hyunjin blinked once, mildly caught off guard by how quickly you had pivoted to that argument.

"Sometimes," he replied.

You shook your head immediately. "These days? Everything's expensive."

He exhaled quietly through his nose, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He could feel the conversation shifting now, away from logistics and into something else entirely.

"Sometimes they charge so much that you might as well just deal with it until you upgrade," you went on.

He tilted his head slightly, listening more carefully now. The more you spoke, the clearer it became that this wasn’t just you being polite—you genuinely didn’t like the idea of someone spending money on you unnecessarily. But it wasn't unnecessary! he wanted to shout.

When you finally paused, he spoke.

"Money isn't really an issue."

At your sudden eyebrow raise, he realized how that probably sounded. Cocky bastard.

"I mean," he amended, rubbing the back of his neck for a second as he tried to phrase it in a way that sounded less obnoxious, "it's not something I would... struggle to cover."

That didn’t sound much better, idiot.

He resisted the urge to sigh at himself.

You looked at him for a second longer after that. Your gaze dipped, slow and thoughtful, tracing over details he had never really considered noticeable. The line of his jacket, the stitching, the small metal accent near the collar. Then lower, toward the watch on his wrist that had caught the light earlier.

Hyunjin held still without meaning to, suddenly very aware of the way he was being looked at. Your sudden attention was intimidating, and he resisted the urge to fix his hair, even though you weren't even looking at that.

Your eyes came back up to his.

"Money isn't an issue," you repeated lightly, mimicking his earlier tone. "Okay, hotshot."

His head drooped at the tease, the faintest hint of embarrassment warming the back of his neck. It wasn’t that you were wrong—it was just that hearing it out loud made it very obvious that he was trying to impress you.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said, fibbing a little.

"I know," you replied easily.

And, to your credit, you did not sound particularly offended. If anything, you sounded amused.

You glanced back toward the monument again and sighed. “Let’s just... go let my parents know we didn’t die chasing that guy,” you said. “They’ve probably already assumed the worst.”

You started walking before he could respond, and he fell into step beside you without thinking, his pace naturally matching yours.

The plaza felt different on the way back. Maybe it was the adrenaline still lingering, or maybe it was just the awareness of you walking beside him now.

He glanced sideways at you, thoughtful.

You hadn’t actually agreed. To his repair or the replacement.

He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets as you approached the monument again, already considering his next move. Because if convincing you had proven difficult, he wondered if convincing your parents might be easier. Parents tended to care a lot about things like working phones when their child was traveling in a foreign country.

By the time you reached them, your father had already spotted you weaving through the crowd.

“There you are!” he called out immediately, relief cutting through his voice as he stepped forward. “What happened? You took off after that guy—”

Your mother's eyes moved quickly between you and Hyunjin, piecing together a story without words. "You're okay?" she asked, a slight edge of worry in her tone.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, waving a hand as if to brush the whole thing off. Then you gestured toward Hyunjin. “He got the phone back.”

Both of them turned to him immediately, and he inclined his head politely, straightening slightly without even realizing it.

“He threw it,” he explained. “I just... pick it up.”

Your father exhaled, the tension leaving him visibly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Well, thank you for that,” he said, his tone sincere.

“Yeah, thank you,” your mother echoed.

You reached into your bag and pulled the phone out again, holding it up for them to see.

“The screen cracked a little,” you admitted, tilting it so they can see the damage.

Your mother leaned in, grimacing slightly.

“Oh,” she murmured.

“It still works, though,” you added quickly, tapping it to wake the screen, as if that alone should settle the matter.

Hyunjin watched the exchange quietly, his gaze moving between the three of you. He could see it—the way your parents processed things differently than you had. Less dismissal, more concern.

This was good.

He took a small breath and stepped in.

“There’s repair shop... about four minutes walk,” he said. “We stop there so they can fix the screen before it breaks more. I can cover the costs.”

He watched your mother's lips press together for a moment, a polite little hesitation that spoke volumes. She clearly wanted to decline, to spare him the trouble, the expense, or perhaps simply to uphold the kind of courtesy you seemed to have inherited. He smirked just slightly to himself, thinking that trait clearly ran in the family—it explained a lot about your stubborn refusals.

"Just down the street, you said?" your father asked, though.

"Yes, sir," he said smoothly, inclining his head toward him.

Your father's eyebrows lifted slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging into a small, approving smile. "That's... thoughtful of you, son," he said. "I think we should go ahead. It makes sense."

"Dad," you mumbled, exasperated. But with a single look from the man that Hyunjin did his best to copy when you glanced back at him, you gave in. "Whatever. Fine."

"Perfect," he said simply, already turning to lead the way. "We go now."

He glanced at you occasionally, noting the way your bag bounced lightly against your hip as you walked, the slight tilt of your head when you looked around to still do your tourist-y thing like you'd come here to do.

"So," he said after a moment, falling into step beside you, "where are you from?"

You answered without looking at him at first, your gaze still moving over the street ahead, but your tone came easily, conversational in a way that felt natural despite everything that had just happened and your clear disdain for his offer. You gave him your name, too, and he repeated it once under his breath to make sure he had it right, earning a quick glance from you that looked like amusement.

In return, he offered just enough about himself to keep the exchange balanced: where he was from, how long he would be in this country, though he kept it vague in the way he had learned to do. You clearly didn't know him by name or face, but that didn't mean you couldn't figure out his status through context.

He learned quickly that this was the last stop on your trip, that you had been traveling with your parents for a while now as a way to celebrate graduating university, and that up until today, everything had gone smoothly. 

"It was probably overdue,” you said lightly. “Feels like we were getting away with too much.”

Hyunjin huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Then I’m... sorry I was the one to break the streak,” he said.

You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly, like you were deciding whether to let him off the hook.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “You also chased the guy down and got it back. That feels like it cancels out.”

He considered that for a second, his lips pressing together as if he were genuinely weighing the math of it.

“... Half credit,” he decided.

That earned him a quiet laugh from you, softer than before but just as bright, and he found himself a little entranced before forcing his attention forward again.

The street narrowed as you walked, the crowds thinning just enough that the hustle and bustle of the plaza turned into something more manageable. A few storefronts came into view, their signs layered in languages he still wasn’t fully comfortable reading at a glance, but the familiar glow of screens behind glass made the destination obvious before he even checked his phone again.

“There,” he said, nodding slightly toward a shop just ahead.

It wasn’t the kind of place he was used to.

There was no towering glass façade, no perfectly curated minimalist displays, no staff in coordinated outfits waiting to greet and attend to you the second you stepped inside. The store was smaller, a little cramped, with bright overhead lighting and a window crowded with various devices—phones, tablets, chargers, cases—arranged in a way that was more practical than aesthetic or showy.

But it looked legitimate and the reviews had been good.

He held the door open, letting you and your parents step in first before following behind.

A small bell chimed overhead and a far off voice welcomed them inside in English. A few people stood near the counter already, speaking with an associate, while others browsed quietly along the walls.

You moved toward the counter after a moment, clearly ready to wait your turn, your parents following close behind as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder. He stepped in, finding a spot just behind you, feeling a little awkward, if he was honest. It was more than obvious that he was the outlier in your small group.

Your father, apparently feeling the same awkwardness, turned to him. “Where are you from?” he asked.

Hyunjin straightened just a fraction, instinctively polite.

“Korea,” he said. “Seoul.”

Your mother’s eyebrows lifted slightly, interest sparking immediately.

“Oh, that’s a long way from here,” she said.

He smiled a little, nodding.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Very far.”

“And you’re just traveling?” your father asked.

Hyunjin hesitated for the briefest moment, not long enough to be suspicious, but long enough that he could choose his next words carefully.

“For work,” he said. “But... some free time.”

That seemed to satisfy them, but you tilted your head slightly, looking at him over your shoulder.

“What kind of work?” you asked.

He glanced at you, something almost playful flickering across his expression.

“Performance,” he said, deliberately vague. “Dance. Music.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“Oh,” you said, a little more impressed than you probably meant to sound. “That’s cool. Makes sense.”

He shrugged lightly, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though a small (big) part of him—somewhere—was quietly pleased by the reaction.

“It’s... busy,” he added.

“I bet,” you said, smiling faintly.

The line shifted forward, and the four of you stepped up together.

Time passed easier after that.

Conversation came in pieces. Your parents asked him more questions, the kind that came from genuine interest rather than obligation. Where he had been so far, what he liked about traveling, when he was set to head back home.

He answered as best as he could, his English occasionally stumbling but never quite failing, and when he couldn’t find the exact word, he substituted something close enough, watching the way you seemed to understand him anyway.

You asked things too, though yours were more specific, which he appreciated, frankly. Favorite food places. How long he'd been learning English (which you complimented him on!). Whether he’d ever gotten lost somewhere completely unfamiliar.

“Yes,” he admitted, smiling slightly. “Many times. My friends, too. We are always lost."

Like stray kids, he internally snickered.

The line moved again.

And finally, you reached the counter.

The associate greeted you, and you stepped forward, pulling your phone out of your bag. The cracked corner caught the overhead light again as you handed it over, explaining what had happened, though you left out the action-packed story of how it got thrown in the first place.

The associate nodded, turning the phone over in his hands, inspecting it. He tapped at the screen, pressed lightly along the edge where it had hit the ground, then glanced up.

“The screen is damaged,” he said, his English accented but clear. “But also... there may be internal issue.”

“Internal?” you repeated.

He nodded, turning the phone so you could see as he tapped again. The display flickered for half a second—hardly noticeable, but definitely there making an unnatural line appear on the sunset.

“Impact like this,” he continued, “sometimes affects... inside components. It still works now, but...” He gave a small, apologetic shrug. “Could stop later.”

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Your parents exchanged a look behind you, the kind that spoke without words.

“And... to fix?” your father asked.

The associate hesitated, then gave a number and a timeframe.

Hyunjin watched your reaction more than he listened to the price. As soon as he saw the corner of your lips even tick downward, he had to step forward.

“How much,” he said, “for new one?”

You turned your head toward him immediately, shaking your head in his peripherals.

The associate blinked a little in confusion, likely confused by him joining the conversation. “New?” he repeated.

Hyunjin nodded once. “Same brand,” he clarified, gesturing toward your phone. “Latest model.”

The associate nodded, pointing to the display across the store.

“We have,” he said. “I can show you.”

“Yes, please.” Hyunjin inclined his head.

The associate stepped out from behind the counter with a small nod for you all to follow him across the store. Hyunjin fell into step easily, his attention flicking once toward you as he moved, just to gauge your reaction.

You were still shaking your head.

He pretended not to see it.

The group drifted toward the display together, but somewhere along the way your parents slowed near a separate section toward the back, drawn in by a row of cameras and lenses.

“Wow, look at these,” your father said, already veering off slightly.

Your mother followed, curiosity catching just as quickly. “Oh, those are nice,” she murmured, leaning in closer.

And just like that, it was only you and Hyunjin continuing forward with the associate.

The associate stopped at the display, unlocking one of the newer models and placing it carefully into Hyunjin’s hand before picking up another to demonstrate. Hyunjin stepped closer to you so that you could both look at and play around with the phone; you kept your hands to yourself, but that was just fine.

“This is latest version,” the man explained, tapping lightly at the screen. “Better processor, better battery, camera improved—especially low light.”

Hyunjin nodded along, his attention split in two.

One part of him listened, genuinely interested despite knowing he did not need a new phone.

The other—

That part was very aware of you standing beside him and the look you were giving him.

He caught it the moment the associate glanced down to adjust something on the display and then every time the man would turn away. Hyunjin just met your gaze every time and smiled. He found this whole back-and-forth—this silent argument, this refusal you were clinging to—a little endearing.

He turned back to the associate.

“Can we... see color options?” he asked.

The associate brightened immediately at the question, turning toward a lower drawer beneath the display and pulling it open with a soft click. Inside, several boxed units were arranged neatly, each labeled with small color indicators. He began setting a few out on the counter, lining them up.

“We have these,” he said, opening one partway to reveal the finish. “Black, silver, blue... and this one is new color this year.”

Hyunjin picked one up, turning it slowly in his hand.

It was a softer color than the others. Not flashy, but not plain either. For a second, he didn’t say anything. You were watching him again, he could tell. Those shining eyes had a weight to them, and he couldn't say he hated all this attention, even if it was mostly out of frustration.

“This one,” he said, holding it up for you to see. “Nice.”

The associate nodded, clearly pleased. “Very popular,” he assured.

“Storage?” Hyunjin asked, tapping lightly on the box.

The associate began explaining again, numbers and options, differences in capacity, while Hyunjin listened just enough to follow along. At some point, the associate had to grab something from behind the counter across the store, leaving the two of you in a brief pocket of quiet.

You didn’t waste it.

“You are unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

Hyunjin didn’t even pretend to misunderstand.

“You are still saying no,” he presumed.

“Yes,” you said immediately.

"Yes?" he parroted, grin tugging at his cheeks.

"No!" you whispered. "I mean, yes, I am still saying no."

"Why?" he asked softly.

You exhaled, looking away for a second, then back at him. “I can’t let you do this,” you said. “It’s too much.”

Hyunjin studied you for a moment, the humor in his expression easing just slightly into something more thoughtful.

“It’s not too much,” he said.

“It is,” you insisted,  firmer. “I don’t even know you.”

Unfortunately. “That’s true,” he said.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then Hyunjin glanced down at the phone in his hand, turning it once more before setting it gently back on the counter.

“Then we fix that,” he said.

“What?” You blinked.

He shrugged lightly, like it was the simplest solution in the world.

“You don’t know me,” he said. “So... we know each other a little.”

You stared at him for a second, clearly trying to decide if that made any sense at all.

“We talk,” he continued. “Now we are... acquaintances.”

Your lips parted slightly, like you were about to argue the definition of that, but he kept going before you could.

“And if I am acquaintance,” he added, a little more carefully, “then it is less strange.”

Hyunjin’s mouth curved slightly at the edges, but inside, his chest was doing flips and somersaults.

“Also,” he added, like an afterthought even though it was perhaps the biggest forethought he's ever had, “you can repay.”

Your brows pulled together.

“I just said I can’t.”

He shook his head once, slow and certain.

“You can,” he said again.

“How?” You narrowed your eyes slightly.

Hyunjin shrugged, easy and relaxed, though his heartbeat was anything but.

Instead of answering straight, he reached out and picked up the same phone again, turning it over in his hand as if he were just considering it, though his attention had clearly shifted back to you. The screen lit up under his touch, bright and white, reflecting a faint, distorted version of both of you standing there.

Then he glanced sideways at you, needing to see your reaction.

“When you set up new phone,” he said, “I am first contact.”

For a second, you just stared at him, and he felt a little triumphant in the silence, though his chest was still doing that quick, nervous fluttering thing.

Then your eyebrows lifted, and something like disbelief flickered across your face.

“That is not an equal trade," you said.

Hyunjin shrugged, the motion loose, unbothered.

“Seems fair to me,” he said.

He watched the way you pressed your lips together, the faint crease in your brow as if you were concentrating on not laughing or smiling or whatever this was. He studied every line of your face in that moment, the way your jaw flexed slightly as you debated silently with yourself.

“You’re very convincing,” you murmured, finally, and he caught the lift of your shoulders, the tiniest tilt of your head, the way your nose crinkled. A thrill ran through him at that little concession, even if it was only the tiniest acknowledgment of his cleverness.

“I know,” he said, savoring the taste of victory.

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡

⊹₊⟡⋆Seonghwa

(San’s Sister)

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡

⊹₊⟡⋆Yunho

(Mingi’s sister)

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡

⊹₊⟡⋆Yeosang

(Wooyoung’s sister)

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡

-------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

•

You never asked for soulmates.

In a world where thin red threads faintly mark your wrist until they flare to life near the person fate ties you to, most people spent their lives waiting for that spark. But not you. The thought of destiny dictating who you should love — who you’re meant to belong to — felt more like a cage than a gift. So, when your thread began to thrum with heat one quiet afternoon in your second semester of college, your first instinct was fear.

And you ran.

It didn’t matter that the sensation wasn’t painful — just a soft, glowing warmth, buzzing with promise. It didn’t matter that it happened in the middle of the busy student union, surrounded by strangers and noise. What mattered was that it meant something — and you weren’t ready to face it.

Not if it meant them.

Wooyoung and San were hard to miss. Magnetic in completely different ways. Wooyoung, with his playful grin and boundless energy, could light up a room just by walking into it. San, all sharp focus and quiet depth, always seemed to notice what others didn’t. They were inseparable — best friends, roommates — already connected by a thread that glowed bright and sure.

And now, you were supposed to be the missing piece.

The second all three threads sparked to life, Wooyoung had let out a breathless laugh, San’s eyes had gone wide — and you’d turned on your heel and fled the building like it was burning.

---

You let out a long sigh as you closed the door behind you, the weight of the day settling on your shoulders like a stormcloud. The lock clicked into place — not just to keep them out, but to hold yourself in. Safe. Unreachable.

Hyojin, your best friend and roommate, barely glanced up from the couch, where a cheesy romcom played softly in the background. She raised an eyebrow, an all-too-knowing look on her face.

"Let me guess," she said, voice light but edged with concern. "Running from them again?"

You didn’t answer. You just dropped down beside her with a quiet thud, the couch dipping under your weight. The screen lit your face in soft colors — two strangers falling in love like it was simple, like it didn’t terrify them.

You wished you were that brave.

Hyojin didn’t press. She never did. She just nudged a blanket toward you with her foot, eyes still on the screen as if your whole world wasn’t quietly unraveling right beside her.

"You know, in these movies, the running only works for so long," she murmured, half-teasing, half-serious. "Eventually, the love interest shows up in the rain with a boombox or something dramatic."

You scoffed, curling up under the blanket. "Good thing it hasn’t rained."

"Yet," she added, casting a quick side glance your way. "And let’s be honest, if anyone’s showing up with a grand gesture, it’s Wooyoung."

You groaned, burying your face into a pillow. Just hearing his name made your thread pulse. Not painfully — it never was — but a low, steady ache that reminded you they were still there. Waiting.

"San wouldn’t," you muttered into the cushion. "He’d just stare at me until I broke into pieces."

Hyojin laughed, a soft and knowing sound. "Yeah. He has that vibe. All intense eye contact and poetic heartbreak."

You didn’t reply, but your silence was loud.

You wanted to say it wasn’t fair. That you didn’t ask for this — the connection, the glowing thread, the weight of expectation. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t about fair. It was about fear.

Because Wooyoung and San were real. They saw you. And worse — they wanted to.

And you weren’t sure you could handle what came next if you stopped running.

So instead, you sat there, pretending the movie was enough to keep your heart quiet, while your soul tugged in the direction of two people who refused to stop hoping.

---

Wooyoung paced.

Back and forth across the small dorm room, hands ruffling through his hair, his wrist glowing with that telltale red thread that never seemed to fade anymore. It hummed lightly — not in sound, but in feeling. Always there. Always warm. Always pointing toward you.

San sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, watching silently.

"She’s avoiding us again," Wooyoung muttered, more to himself than anything. "She saw me outside the art building and ran. Not walked, not slipped away. Ran. Like I was chasing her with a chainsaw."

San tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm but thoughtful. “You were holding a bouquet of red carnations.”

"...Okay, maybe that was a little intense."

San finally smiled, a flicker of amusement in his usually unreadable expression. But it faded quickly, replaced with the same quiet worry he’d been carrying since the threads lit up.

"She’s scared," he said simply. "It’s not us. It’s what we mean."

Wooyoung dropped down onto the bed beside him with a frustrated sigh. “But why be afraid of something that’s supposed to be… good? We’re not trying to force her. We haven’t even— We’re giving her space.”

"I know," San said. "But space doesn’t always feel like safety. Sometimes it just feels like distance. Like abandonment."

They both went quiet for a long moment.

Outside, campus life went on — students laughing in the hall, music drifting in through a slightly cracked window, the world moving forward while they stayed suspended in this waiting game.

"I just…" Wooyoung trailed off, looking down at the soft glow on his wrist. "I just want her to know we’re not here to trap her in some fate-shaped box. I want her to choose us. Not because of this—" he lifted his arm, the thread catching the light, "—but because she wants to."

San nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his own wrist. The thread stretched out into the unknown, toward you.

“She’ll come back,” he said quietly. “She just needs time.”

“And what if time doesn’t help?” Wooyoung whispered.

San’s answer was immediate, steady. “Then we wait longer.”

---

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

The romcom had ended. Hyojin had gone quiet beside you, her phone screen dimming as she dozed off mid-scroll. The apartment was wrapped in a soft kind of stillness — the kind that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen.

You stirred when a faint knock tapped against the door.

Once. Then twice. Soft, hesitant. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there at all.

You sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off your shoulders. Hyojin blinked awake, squinting toward the door.

"Expecting someone?" she mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

You shook your head, already knowing — somehow — who it was. You couldn’t explain how you knew. The way your thread felt suddenly alive, humming low and warm, like it was holding its breath.

You padded to the door quietly, heart thudding too loud for how little had happened. You didn’t unlock it right away. Just pressed your forehead against the cool wood, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Wooyoung’s voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “I’m not here to push. I just… I wanted to leave something.”

There was a pause.

Then the rustle of a paper bag.

“I made too many honey muffins. Thought you might want one. Or not. Either way—” he hesitated, then gave a short, nervous laugh, “—I figured it’s harder to be scared of someone who shows up with baked goods.”

You opened the door a crack just in time to see him walking away down the hall, hoodie pulled up, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn’t holding his breath too.

On the floor, in front of your door, was a small brown bag. The smell of warm sugar and cinnamon leaked through.

No note. No pressure.

Just muffins.

Just Wooyoung.

You didn’t call after him. But you picked up the bag and held it close, something in your chest trembling with the gentleness of it all.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like running.

Later that night, the muffins sat on your desk — one half-eaten, the others untouched, like maybe if you didn’t finish them, the moment wouldn’t end.

You stared at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The soft light of your desk lamp cast a pale circle around you, everything else fading into a blur of shadows. The world outside your dorm was silent. Even Hyojin was asleep now, curled under a mountain of blankets.

And still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About them.

You opened your messages, fingers hesitating before typing:

Y/N

You didn’t have to do that. But… thank you. They were really good. My favorite, actually. I don’t hate you. Or San. I’m just… scared. Of what this means. Of what I might become if I let myself want it.

You paused.

Deleted the last line.

Rewrote it.

Y/N

I think I’m afraid that if I fall for you — both of you — I won’t know how to be myself anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You stared at the message, reread it once, twice. Your thumb hovered over the send button, a storm of emotion brimming just under your skin.

Then you locked your phone and set it face down.

It wasn’t time. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

You curled up under your blanket, heart still buzzing from the echo of Wooyoung’s quiet kindness and San’s patient silence.

And even though the message remained unsent, for the first time… you thought about what it would feel like to stop being afraid.

---

San couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, one arm draped across his eyes, the other resting on his chest — right over the thread that hummed beneath his skin. It never stopped. Not since that day.

The moment it lit up — glowing bright red between him, Wooyoung, and you — something in him had shifted. Not like flipping a switch. More like discovering a second heartbeat he didn’t know he had.

And then you ran.

He didn’t blame you. Not really.

But the silence since then had been a strange kind of ache. Not sharp. Just there — constant, quiet, heavy. Like waiting for a storm that might never come, only clouds.

Wooyoung had tried to fill the space between you with light. San tried to respect the space at all.

But every day that passed, he caught himself watching doorways, scanning lecture halls, hoping for a glimpse. Hoping you'd look at them again the way you did, just before you fled — like your soul recognized something your fear wouldn’t let you reach for.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He reached for it instinctively — the thread always made him hope.

Nothing. Just a group chat notification. Someone sending memes. Wooyoung, probably.

He glanced at your name in his messages. Still unopened. Still unread.

Still… nothing.

San sat up, feet touching the cold floor. His wrist glowed softly in the dark, casting a faint red light across his palm.

He whispered, to no one, to maybe you, “I’d wait forever, if that’s what you need.”

Because it wasn’t about the thread.

It was about you. Choosing him. Choosing them.

And until then, he’d keep the space open. Quiet. Gentle.

Ready.

---

The café was already buzzing with early morning energy — espresso machines hissing, students half-awake and wrapped in hoodies and oversized scarves, soft indie music playing through the speakers. You stood in line, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, scrolling through your notes to mentally prep for your first class.

Then it hit you.

That now-familiar jolt. Not harsh, but unmistakable — a spark beneath your skin, dancing along the glowing thread.

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Still, you did — and there he was. San, standing just a few people behind you, hair messy from sleep and hoodie half-zipped like he’d just rolled out of bed and sprinted here.

Your breath caught.

You turned quickly, tugging your own hoodie up over your head and shrinking a little into yourself, silently pleading with the universe to let him not see you.

But the universe had other plans.

“Hey! Y/N.” His voice was bright, but not too loud. Casual. Like this was just any morning, any moment. “Let me get that for you.”

You turned halfway, offering him a sheepish smile, one hand wrapped around your phone like a lifeline.

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already stepping forward and tapping his card before you could protest again. “Consider it as my apology for scaring you yesterday after class.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t me being scared.” You lied.

He shrugged, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Still. I figured coffee would be a safer follow-up.”

You glanced at him, searching for any signs of pressure, of expectation — but there was none. Just San. Open. Easy. Real.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, shifting your weight as the barista called out your name.

“For both?” he asked.

You nodded. “Mine and Hyojin’s. She’ll appreciate it.”

He smiled wider, but not in a flirty way — more like someone genuinely happy just to do something kind for someone they cared about.

As you reached for the drinks, your fingers brushed his — just for a second — and the thread pulsed gently between you.

You didn’t run this time.

And San didn’t comment on it. Didn’t ask for anything more.

He just said, “Hope your morning’s a little better now,” then stepped aside with a soft wave, giving you space to leave first.

And somehow, that simple act made your heart ache more than any grand gesture ever could.

You rushed back to the dorm in a hurried shuffle.

Hyojin was still wrapped in her blanket like a sleepy burrito when you returned, the TV already playing reruns of some old sitcom she liked to put on in the mornings — just enough background noise to keep things from feeling too quiet.

You handed her the coffee.

She sat up immediately, eyes narrowing as she took the cup from your hands. “Wait… you didn’t buy this.”

You blinked, trying to play innocent. “What makes you say that?”

She gave you a look over the rim of her cup. “Because you always get the oat milk latte when you’re paying. This is almond milk. That’s a San move.”

You sighed, sinking into the beanbag chair across from her.

“…He was at the café.”

“And he paid?” she asked, eyebrows rising. “And you didn’t sprint out the door like someone lit your thread on fire?”

You threw a pillow at her. “It wasn’t like that.”

She laughed, catching the pillow and hugging it to her chest. “Okay, so tell me — what was it like, then?”

You hesitated. Chewed the inside of your cheek. The words felt fragile, like they might shatter if you spoke them too fast.

“It was… calm,” you said finally. “He saw me. Didn’t make a big deal. Just… offered to pay. No weird comments. No guilt-tripping. No soulmate speech.”

Hyojin nodded slowly, sipping her coffee like she was giving you space to unravel it all.

“And you know what’s weird?” you added, softer now. “It felt normal. Like we were just two people… being nice to each other. Not fate. Not pressure. Just—”

“San being San,” she finished for you.

You nodded, thumb running along the rim of your coffee cup.

“And… I didn’t run. I wanted to. At first. But then he smiled, and it wasn’t… intense or hopeful or anything dramatic. Just real. And I guess… I wanted to stay in that moment a little longer.”

Hyojin smiled gently, eyes warm. “That’s not nothing, Y/N.”

You nodded, a small flicker of something brave flickering in your chest.

“It’s not everything yet,” you whispered. “But maybe it’s a start.”

---

The smell of sizzling eggs and butter filled the dorm, warm and familiar. Wooyoung stood at the stove in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, humming quietly as he flipped pancakes with practiced ease.

The door opened behind him with a soft click.

San stepped in, cheeks slightly pink from the cold outside — or maybe from something else.

"Smells good," he said, dropping his bag by the couch.

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder. “Got up early. Figured we could use a proper breakfast for once instead of vending machine muffins.”

San chuckled, toeing off his shoes. “You’re turning domestic on me.”

“I’m adorable like that,” Wooyoung said with a wink, flipping another pancake onto a plate. “So? Where were you this early?”

San leaned against the counter, eyes twinkling.

“I don’t want to make it sound like a competition,” he started, a teasing lilt to his voice, “but I had a nice meeting with Y/N.”

Wooyoung froze mid-motion, spatula hovering in the air. His head turned slowly, eyes wide.

“You what?”

San grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Ran into her by the cafe. She was alone. Didn’t bolt. We talked for a few minutes.”

Wooyoung put the spatula down a little too carefully.

“Was she… okay? Was she scared? Did she look like she wanted to leave? Did you freak her out?”

San laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “No. She was actually calm. Quiet, but not closed off. And…” He looked down, ears reddening slightly. “She was… cute.”

That made Wooyoung pause. Really pause.

He leaned back against the counter, hands resting on the edge as he stared down at the stove, lips pressed together. “I wish I’d been there.”

San glanced over at him, his smile softening. “You kind of were.”

Wooyoung looked up.

“She mentioned the muffins,” San said gently.

Wooyoung exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“I don’t want her to feel chased,” he said quietly. “I just… I miss her. And we barely even had her yet.”

San reached out, nudging Wooyoung’s arm.

“She’s not gone. She’s just… figuring it out. You were patient with me. You can be patient with her too.”

Wooyoung smiled at that — tired, but genuine.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “For her? I can wait.”

And as he plated the last pancake and set the table for two, something in his chest settled. Because maybe slow was okay. Maybe slow was exactly what you needed.

---

Class had just ended, and students spilled out of the lecture hall like a slow-moving tide of tired bodies and caffeine breath. You adjusted your backpack, hoping to make a quiet escape down the side hallway—until you felt that buzz again.

The thread. Alive. Warm. And pulling in two directions at once.

You looked up and froze.

Wooyoung was leaning against one wall, arms crossed, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.

San was on the opposite wall, perfectly still, casually scrolling through his phone like he wasn’t clearly waiting for you, too.

You blinked.

They blinked.

Then both pushed off the wall at the same time.

“Y/N! I was just about to head to the café. Wanna walk with me?” Wooyoung beamed, already taking a half-step toward you.

San cleared his throat softly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Actually, I was going to check out that new study space in the greenhouse. Thought you might like it.”

You stared at them.

They stared at each other.

Then back at you.

It was obvious what was happening. And it was also very obvious they hadn’t coordinated this.

Wooyoung smiled a little too wide. “You can’t even study with plants, San. What is she gonna do, photosynthesize her notes?”

San, calm as ever, didn’t even blink. “Some people find greenery relaxing. Unlike… a loud café full of undercooked croissants and overconfident baristas.”

“That barista was flirting with me,” Wooyoung shot back.

“Exactly,” San said.

You raised both hands, barely hiding your laugh. “Okay, okay, please stop fighting with each other in front of the academic building like I’m the final boss.”

They both quieted instantly. Then Wooyoung scratched the back of his neck and mumbled, “We just… wanted to hang out with you. Not in a weird way. Not in a ‘soulmate pressure’ way. Just… you.”

San nodded. “We can walk you somewhere. Or nowhere. Or just… exist near you for a bit.”

You looked at them — standing there, trying so hard to not try too hard.

And it hit you again: they weren’t asking you to choose. They were just trying to be close. To be present. To be themselves around you, and hope you’d let yourself do the same.

“…Come on,” you said softly, starting to walk. “You can both walk with me. But no more competing, got it?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Define ‘competing.’”

San sighed. “He’s already losing.”

And just like that, the tension melted into something warmer, easier.

You didn’t say much as you walked between them — not yet — but you didn’t run either.

And for them, that was already a win.

The three of you walked along the tree-lined path that cut through campus, leaves crunching softly underfoot. The air smelled like autumn and coffee, and for once, the thread around your wrist wasn’t overwhelming — just a soft, steady pulse. Like background music you didn’t mind anymore.

Wooyoung was rambling about some club’s haunted house fundraiser — complete with inflatable ghosts and “jump scares that would definitely make San scream.”

You smiled, listening but not saying much. It was easy to let his voice fill the space, to let it feel normal.

Then there was a pause. Just long enough to be noticeable.

You glanced to your left. San had fallen a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, gaze distant. Thoughtful.

Wooyoung slowed too, looking back. “Hey, you good?”

San looked up and gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Wooyoung joked, nudging him lightly.

But San didn’t laugh. Not this time.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said softly, eyes still on the path ahead, “if maybe the reason soulmates exist… isn’t to force people together. But to remind them they can be seen.”

You stopped walking. Slowly.

So did Wooyoung.

San finally looked at you.

“Not just loved,” he added, “but… understood. The way you think no one ever will. That kind of scary, messy, real understanding.”

His voice didn’t waver, but something in it was raw. Honest.

“And I think…” He exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment. “That maybe you’re scared of the bond because it already feels like we see you. And that’s terrifying when you’ve spent so long trying to keep certain parts hidden.”

Your breath caught.

Wooyoung was unusually quiet beside you.

San didn’t step closer, didn’t reach out. He just stood there, his own thread glowing faintly against the falling dusk light, as if saying — I see you, and I’m still here.

“I’m sorry if that’s too much,” he added softly.

You shook your head, your voice low. “It’s not.”

It was everything.

And though you didn’t say another word the rest of the walk, something shifted. Not in the bond.

In you.

---

You sat on your bed, legs crossed under you, hoodie still on like a shield even though the room was warm.

Hyojin was at her desk, scribbling notes half-heartedly until she noticed you hadn’t said much since you got back. She turned in her chair, watching you over the top of her laptop with that familiar “I know something’s up” expression.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you pulled your legs in tighter and rested your chin on your knees. “San said something earlier.”

That got her full attention. “Oh?”

You nodded; eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

“He said…” You took a breath. “That maybe soulmates aren’t about forcing people together. That maybe they’re just about showing someone they can actually be seen. Not just loved but understood.”

Hyojin didn’t speak, waiting patiently like she always did when you needed time to untangle your thoughts.

“And he said he thought maybe I was scared because I already felt like they saw me.” You paused. “And he’s right.”

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of a dorm heater.

You finally looked up at her, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t think anyone ever really could see me. I got used to keeping the real stuff hidden. Even from you sometimes.”

Hyojin didn’t flinch. She just stood up, walked over, and sat on the edge of your bed, nudging your foot with hers.

“You don’t have to be scared of being seen, Y/N. Not with them. Not with me. But it’s okay if you still are.”

You blinked fast, feeling your throat tighten.

“I didn’t run today,” you whispered.

Hyojin smiled softly. “I know.”

“And it didn’t feel like the world was ending. Just… heavy.”

She leaned over and rested her head on your shoulder. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide from the weight of being known.

---

It was later in the week when it happened.

You had a late class that let out just after sunset, and the campus was quiet in that sleepy kind of way — golden lights flickering on, students trailing back to their dorms with earbuds in and backpacks slung low.

You didn’t expect to see him there.

Wooyoung, sitting alone on one of the benches near the fountain outside the arts building, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds dangling around his neck. A takeout container sat next to him, mostly untouched.

He looked up when he heard your footsteps — and when he saw it was you, he smiled.

Not the usual bright Wooyoung grin. This one was softer. Tired.

You almost walked past him. Almost.

But something in you stopped. Turned. Sat beside him, even though your heart thudded a little too loudly in your chest.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Neither did you.

Just the sound of the fountain and the wind brushing through the trees.

Then, finally—

“I always thought being soulmates with someone would fix something in me,” Wooyoung said quietly, gaze fixed on the water.

You looked at him, surprised by the weight in his voice.

“But it didn’t. You showed up, and everything still felt… confusing. Unfinished. Scary, even.”

He rubbed his thumb over the glowing thread on his wrist, the light faint but constant. “And I realized, maybe soulmates don’t fix you. Maybe they just… stand next to the broken parts and say, ‘I still want you anyway.’”

You felt your breath catch.

“I don’t want you to love me because you’re meant to,” he went on, voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to love me because one day you choose to. Because you look at me and San, and you don’t see a bond — you see us. Messy, flawed, ridiculous… but real.”

He finally turned to you, eyes soft and so achingly open, like he wasn’t afraid of you seeing the cracks.

“And if that day never comes… I’ll still be glad I met you. I’ll still think you’re brave for even sitting here right now.”

His voice caught at the end, just slightly — enough to make your chest tighten.

For a heartbeat, it looked like he might cry.

But then he smiled. Just barely. A little sad, a little accepting. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, almost like it wasn’t meant for you to hear — like it was something he’d already accepted in the quietest parts of his heart.

“Even if you end up finding someone else… I will still think about this.”

You didn’t know what to say. Words felt too small for the weight of what he’d just given you — something so gentle, and yet so devastating.

You didn’t speak.

You reached out instead — hand brushing his, fingers trembling — and laced your pinky with his.

He looked down at the touch. Then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence with words or jokes.

He just held on.

---

The sky was bruised with early morning light when you found yourself in the greenhouse.

You weren’t sure what pulled you there — maybe San’s voice echoing in your head from days ago, maybe the part of you that couldn’t stop thinking about the way Wooyoung had looked at you like he was letting you go just to make you feel free.

Maybe you were tired of being afraid.

The glass walls let in soft gold light, and the air smelled of damp earth and something alive. The space was quiet, warm. Peaceful.

San sat near the back, legs crossed beneath him on a bench, a book in his lap. He didn’t look surprised when you entered — like maybe he already knew you were coming.

You stood awkwardly for a moment before stepping closer.

“I didn’t come to study,” you said.

He smiled faintly, setting the book aside. “I didn’t either.”

You sat across from him, the little table between you filled with scattered pages, succulents, and a small ceramic frog someone had left there weeks ago.

For a long time, you just looked at each other.

Then you spoke.

“Wooyoung told me he’d be okay if I didn’t choose you both,” you whispered. “Said he’d still be grateful. Even if I found someone else.”

San’s brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening, but not with anger — with emotion.

“I think that broke my heart a little,” you admitted, voice shaking. “Because… he meant it.”

San nodded, slow and steady. “He did.”

You took a breath. It felt heavier than it should have. “I didn’t realize… how much love can look like letting go.”

San leaned forward, arms resting on the table, voice low. “That’s what makes it real. Not just the bond. Not fate. Choice.”

You looked at him, and this time, you didn’t shy away from his gaze.

“I’m scared that if I let you both in… you’ll see all the parts I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. And you’ll love me anyway. And then I won’t know who I am without that love.”

San’s eyes softened, his expression still and grounding — like he was holding space for you without trying to fix you.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “loving someone doesn’t erase who they are. It just gives them more room to be.”

You stared at him for a moment. “How are you so calm about this?”

His lips curved into the faintest smile. “I’m not. I’ve just spent more time thinking about you than my fear.”

You looked away, overwhelmed.

But then you felt it — his hand, reaching out across the table, palm open. Not grabbing. Just waiting.

You didn’t think.

You placed your hand in his.

Warm.

Steady.

No pressure.

Just San.

And for the first time, you thought: maybe I can do this.

---

It started with a text.

San: We’re heading to get icecream in a bit. You’re welcome to join. No pressure. We’ll be at the parlor by the cafe.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea.

It was just… an open door.

You stared at the message longer than you needed to. Then you packed your bag and left before you could talk yourself out of it.

The icecream parlor was quiet — all hushed voices, the occasional sounds of the freezer running, and late-afternoon sun filtering in through tall windows. It cast a warm glow across the marbled tables and wooden floor, soft enough to make it feel like a different world.

Wooyoung looked up first when you approached.

He didn’t react dramatically — no wide smile, no flirty comment, just a soft blink of surprise followed by a warm, quiet grin. The kind that said you’re here without a single word.

San gave a small nod, already clearing a spot at the table between them.

You sat.

No one spoke for a while. Not in the way that felt awkward — in the way that felt comfortable.

San was already with you eating icecream as Wooyoung was ordering his.

You looked at them once Wooyoung sat down, San offered to pay for yours as a "Thank you for letting us take you here" gift.

At one point, Wooyoung offered you a bite of his icecream. San rolled his eyes thinking he was trying too hard. You glanced at both of them, your chest tightening a little — not with fear this time, but with something warmer.

There were no dramatic declarations. No glowing threads buzzing like sirens. Just the gentle presence of two people who wanted you close, even if it meant sitting in silence.

And somewhere in the middle of that quiet, you realized:

This — this space, this peace — was its own kind of love.

You didn’t say anything.

But you stayed.

And that, for now, was more than enough.

---

The walk back to your dorm was… peaceful.

Wooyoung talked about some ridiculous online quiz he took that said he was a golden retriever (he wasn’t even mad — just proud), while San chimed in occasionally with dry remarks that made both of you laugh harder than necessary. The thread around your wrist pulsed gently with their presence, but not in a demanding way — just there, like a heartbeat.

No fighting. No forcing. No fear.

Just three people walking home under the orange glow of streetlights.

When you reached your building, they didn’t linger.

“Thanks for coming today,” San said softly, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung added, leaning back on his heels. “You have no idea how much that meant to us.”

You smiled. “It meant something to me too.”

You didn’t have to say more than that.

They nodded, like they understood.

Inside the dorm, you barely had the door shut behind you before Hyojin popped up from the couch, eyes wide with anticipation.

“You’re glowing,” she said instantly, pointing at you. “Suspiciously.”

You rolled your eyes and kicked off your shoes. “I was literally just studying.” You lied. You were technically already on a first date with them eating Icecream.

“With two soulmates who are in love with you,” she sang, wiggling her eyebrows. “Don’t play coy with me. I’m emotionally invested in this fanfiction of a life you’re living.”

You laughed, a little breathless, a little tired.

“I’m serious though,” she said, walking into the kitchenette. “You need a change of scenery. Some dopamine. Some dancing. Good timing — Yunho and Yeosang are throwing a party tomorrow night. You’re coming.”

You blinked. “Yunho and Yeosang?”

“Yep.” She tossed you a granola bar. “One’s an extrovert golden retriever in human form — basically Wooyoung but louder — and the other’s a soft-spoken intellectual who wears sweaters even when it’s 90 degrees. He literally pulls Yunho away from dance circles by his collar.”

“…So, you and me, but more chaotic.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “Yunho’s been asking if I’d bring you around anyway. Says Yeosang needs new people to judge quietly.”

You gave her a look.

“Come on,” she said, flopping onto the couch again. “You’ve spent weeks hiding. You deserve one night of music, weird drinks, and watching some guys do the worm badly on a hardwood floor.”

You hesitated.

And then… nodded.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s go to a party.”

Hyojin beamed. “Hell yeah.”

---

The music was way louder than you expected.

As soon as you stepped into the off-campus house, the bass hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. Lights glowed warm and golden, laughter spilled from the kitchen, and someone had already spilled something sticky on the floor by the entryway — probably juice, possibly regret.

Hyojin tugged your wrist. “Okay, rules,” she shouted over the music. “Don’t drink the neon stuff. Don’t make eye contact with anyone doing interpretive dance. And if Yunho challenges you to karaoke — run.”

You laughed, nerves dissolving into adrenaline.

That’s when he appeared.

Yunho, tall and glowing like someone physically made of sunshine and Red Bull, bounded toward you both with open arms. “HYOJIN! You brought your mysterious roommate!”

“She’s not mysterious,” Hyojin shouted back. “She’s emotionally complicated!”

You gave a weak wave. “Hi.”

Yunho spun dramatically and pointed to the guy standing stiffly behind him, sipping from a plain paper cup like he didn’t want to be perceived.

“And this is Yeosang. He hates this.”

Yeosang gave you a polite nod and a “hello” so soft it nearly got swallowed by the music.

“I don’t hate this,” he muttered. “I’m simply observing this social chaos with anthropological detachment.”

“I once caught him reading Plato in a hot tub,” Yunho said proudly, already turning away like he hadn’t just exposed Yeosang’s deepest philosophical sins.

Yeosang stared ahead, expression perfectly blank, save for the smallest twitch of his eye. “…He tells everyone that.”

You tried — tried — not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

Before either of you could recover, Yunho took off like a rocket across the crowded living room, yelling, “Mingi!” like it was both a greeting and a battle cry.

Your eyes followed him just in time to see him tackle a very surprised — but delighted — Mingi onto the floor. The two of them dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, limbs flailing as people parted around them like it was normal for grown men to recreate WWE in the middle of a house party.

You glanced sideways at Yeosang, who hadn’t moved an inch, his cup still delicately held in one hand as he watched his best friend roll around on the hardwood floor.

“…Is he?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Yeosang sipped his water like it was a fine wine, voice deadpan. “Drunk? Yes.”

You snorted, covering your mouth as a laugh slipped out.

Yeosang’s lips quirked, just slightly. “He gets like this when he’s happy. Or when he’s had anything mixed with blue raspberry.”

“Both, then?”

“Undoubtedly.”

The two of you stood there, quietly united in mutual secondhand embarrassment, watching Mingi attempt to pin Yunho while yelling, “SURRENDER TO YOUR DESTINY.”

You leaned in slightly. “Should we… help?”

Yeosang took another sip. “No. They’d just drag us into it.”

You nodded. “Smart man.”

For a moment, the party seemed to blur in the background — too loud, too fast — but right there, beside Yeosang and his cup of water, everything felt still. Safe. Strangely comforting.

And then a voice called from behind you—

“Y/N! San’s about to lose at flip cup, come watch!”

Wooyoung, of course.

Yeosang sighed lightly. “Good luck.”

You smirked. “Want to come?”

He shook his head. “I’m the designated plant guardian tonight. Someone has to keep the fern alive.”

You left him to it, weaving through the chaos toward the rest of the night — but not without glancing back and seeing Yeosang gently move a party cup away from the fern like it was sacred.

You were definitely coming back to talk to him later.

You didn’t mean to start a conversation with the guy in the flannel.

He’d bumped into you near the kitchen, offered a quick apology, and then started chatting about the playlist. He was funny. Not in a flirty, overbearing way — just easy to talk to. You weren’t thinking about anything beyond the song and the shared complaint about how warm the room had gotten.

But across the room, Wooyoung saw it happen.

He’d just returned from cheering San on in an incredibly one-sided flip cup match (San was losing. With dignity.), when he spotted you near the counter, laughing softly as Flannel Guy leaned in a little closer — just a little — to say something in your ear.

Wooyoung paused mid-step, the grin on his face faltering for half a second.

He wasn’t angry.

But something in his chest tightened.

He knew — he knew — you weren’t his. Not in the possessive way. Not in the way soulmates get written in stories, where the bond means instant belonging. That wasn’t how he saw you.

But he also knew how hard you’d worked to be open. How slowly you’d let your walls down. How every glance, every conversation, every inch of closeness with him and San had been earned with time, not thread.

And now Flannel Guy was standing too close, and you were smiling in that soft, slightly shy way Wooyoung had come to treasure like a secret.

San appeared beside him, holding two drinks. He followed Wooyoung’s line of sight, instantly zeroing in.

“That him?” he asked, tone even but eyes sharp.

“Who?”

“The guy you’re absolutely not staring at like he’s a threat to your entire bloodline.”

Wooyoung blinked, then snorted. “Okay, dramatic.”

San handed him one of the drinks. “You are going over there?”

“Nope,” he said quickly, then added, “Yes.”

He didn’t storm across the room. Didn’t interrupt.

Just appeared next to you, sliding into the space beside you with practiced ease, that trademark Wooyoung smile back in place — charming, casual, just a little too bright.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your arm. “You vanished. Thought maybe you were pulled into a karaoke cult.”

You looked up, surprised. “I was just—”

“Talking about the playlist,” Flannel Guy offered, clearly catching the shift but trying to play it cool. “You’re her friend?”

Wooyoung glanced at you, then back at him. “You could say that.”

The guy nodded, but the energy had shifted. You could feel it — subtle, but unmistakable.

Flannel Guy made a polite exit a moment later, something about checking on his friends, and you turned to Wooyoung with a lifted brow.

“You, okay?”

Wooyoung shrugged, sipping his drink. “Fine. Just… don’t want you getting stuck talking to a guy who thinks ‘early Drake’ is a personality.”

You raised a brow, amused. “That’s a very specific accusation.”

“I know his kind,” he said seriously. “They carry acoustic guitars to bonfires.”

You laughed — but you didn’t move away.

And Wooyoung smiled at that.

Just a little.

The party had started to wind down.

The music was still thumping, but slower now, more background than center stage. People drifted toward couches, clustered in corners, or disappeared into late-night walks and whispered laughter.

You found Wooyoung and San on the back patio — Wooyoung perched on the arm of a bench, San leaning against the railing, both of them quiet in that familiar way they got when the world slowed down around them.

They looked up when you stepped outside, your expression unreadable.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Can I talk to you both for a second?”

Wooyoung blinked, then stood up straighter. San gave a small nod, eyes steady on you.

You walked past them, to the far end of the patio where the light didn’t quite reach — private, but not dramatic. They followed, like they would’ve gone anywhere you asked.

You turned to face them, heart hammering in your chest.

“I need to say something,” you began, voice quiet but sure. “And I don’t know if it’s going to come out perfectly, but…”

You exhaled, looking between the two of them.

“I see you. Both of you.”

They didn’t speak — didn’t move — but something in their eyes softened.

“I see the way you’ve been holding back. The way you’ve waited for me to be ready. How you’ve never pushed. How you’ve been patient and kind and just… here.”

You looked down for a second, then back up, meeting San’s gaze first.

“You listen more than you speak. You give space even when it probably hurts to. You look at me like I’m already enough, even when I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

Then to Wooyoung.

“You make everything feel lighter. You make me laugh even when I don’t want to. And even when you’re hurting, you still show up like you’re the one trying to make me feel safe.”

Wooyoung’s lips parted, a quiet breath catching in his throat.

“I know this bond is supposed to mean something,” you continued. “But you two are the ones who made it feel real. Not fate. You.”

They were both completely still now — not out of shock, but because they didn’t want to break the moment.

“I’m scared. I’m still scared,” you admitted, voice cracking just a little. “But not of you. Not anymore. I think I’ve just been scared of being loved the right way. Of being known.”

You let the silence sit for a second.

And then: “But I think I’m ready to stop running.”

Wooyoung was the first to speak — barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to jump in all at once. We’re not going anywhere.”

San stepped closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the steady calm of his presence. “We’ll meet you wherever you are.”

You nodded slowly; eyes misty.

And then — for the first time — you reached out, you bridged the gap.

You took both of their hands.

One in each of yours.

And when the threads pulsed between all three of you, soft and steady, no one flinched.

---

The dorm was quiet when you got back.

Hyojin had left a note on the whiteboard stuck to the door: “Crashing at a friend. Try not to emotionally combust without me. 💖”

You smiled faintly as you slipped inside, flipping on the little lamp near your desk. The overhead lights stayed off — too harsh for how full your chest already felt.

Wooyoung and San followed behind you, quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward or heavy, just… comfortable. Familiar. Like the air after a storm.

You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes, curling up on the edge of your bed as they settled in, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Wooyoung sat cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, chin resting on the edge of the mattress. San leaned back in your desk chair, spinning slowly, rhythmically, his gaze soft as it drifted between the two of you.

No one spoke for a while.

And it was nice.

Eventually, Wooyoung broke the silence. “I missed this,” he said, voice low, like anything louder might shatter it.

You looked at him. “We didn’t really have this yet.”

He smiled. “Still missed it.”

San added quietly, “This is the first time we’ve all felt… aligned. Together. Without fear between us.”

You nodded slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.

There was no grand gesture. No dramatic music. Just the three of you sitting in the soft haze of a new beginning.

Eventually, Wooyoung nudged your leg with his elbow. “Can I—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You reached down and laced your fingers through his.

At the same time, San stood and walked over, crouching beside the bed on your other side. You held your free hand up, and he took it without hesitation.

And just like that — the three of you, linked quietly, hearts in sync — you sat there in the dim dorm light.

No pressure.

No fear.

Just a beginning that felt soft. Safe. Real.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to run from it.

San turned toward you gently, his hand still holding yours — grounding, warm, sure. You met his gaze, and something inside you melted at the way he was looking at you. Like you were something sacred. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be this close.

You took a breath, your heart fluttering like soft wings in your chest.

Then, without thinking — no overanalyzing, no running — you leaned in.

And San met you halfway.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Like he was afraid to break you. But underneath that caution was something deeper — a longing that made your fingers tighten just slightly around his.

You felt him breathe against you.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, like he didn’t want to stop, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And you let him.

You wanted to.

San’s heart was beating so fast you could almost feel the rhythm through his skin, like it was trying to leap out of his chest and into yours.

Then—

A very dramatic throat-clear.

“Okay, my turn,” Wooyoung announced, tapping San’s shoulder like he was cutting in at a dance.

San broke the kiss slowly, his face flushed and dazed, as he turned to look at his best friend.

“You’re seriously—”

Wooyoung was already leaning in, eyes twinkling but filled with something sincere behind the playfulness. “It’s only fair.”

You turned your head toward him, and before you could say anything, he kissed you too — but not the same.

Where San had been slow and steady, Wooyoung was soft and sweet and just a little smug about finally getting his moment. His hand gently cupped your cheek, his lips brushing yours like he’d dreamed of it but never dared to rush it.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Worth the wait.”

You blinked, breath catching in your throat.

And then San — who still hadn’t let go of your hand — leaned his head against your shoulder with a deep sigh.

“I hate how smooth he is sometimes,” he muttered.

You laughed, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming warmth, the safety, the sheer realness of it all.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But right here, in the quiet warmth of your dorm, with both of them beside you — one grounded, one glowing, both yours — you knew one thing for sure:

You weren’t afraid anymore.

You leaned down in bed with them as they both held you in their arms from opposite sides.

---

The sunlight slipped through the blinds, golden and slow, warming the room just enough to make getting up feel illegal.

You were barely conscious, your face smushed into a pillow, your body tangled between limbs that weren’t entirely your own. One of San’s arms was looped around your waist, his breath soft against the back of your neck. Wooyoung’s legs were thrown over both of yours like he’d lost a battle with gravity sometime during the night and just made peace with it.

There was a quiet creak — the door opening.

“Morninggg—” Hyojin’s voice cut off mid-yawn, followed by a beat of silence.

You blinked slowly, groggily lifting your head and squinting at her like a confused meerkat peeking out of a blanket nest.

Hyojin’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk.

“Well, well, well,” she said, arms crossed. “Looks like Y/N got herself a whole cat harem.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a muffled, exhausted noise.

San groaned softly behind you, pulling the blanket higher over all of you without even opening his eyes. Wooyoung cracked one eye open, saw Hyojin, and mumbled, “This isn’t a harem. It’s a heat-efficient cuddle pod.”

Hyojin snorted. “Sure, okay. Let me know when you start charging admission.”

And with that, she shut the door with a cackle, disappearing down the hall like the menace she was.

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, caught somewhere between embarrassment and the warm, sleepy contentment of knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

San hummed softly. “Did she say cat harem?”

“Don’t ask,” you mumbled.

Wooyoung shifted, nestling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “We should’ve locked the door.”

“Next time,” you sighed.

Neither of them moved.

Neither did you.

Because honestly? It was kind of the perfect morning.

The day started simple enough.

You'd suggested brunch. Wooyoung had offered to cook. San immediately declared he would supervise, which actually meant doing absolutely nothing useful. Hyojin, coffee mug in hand, sat on the counter like a queen surveying her kingdom of idiots.

“What are you making again?” you asked, tying your hair up and peeking into the fridge.

“Kimchi fried rice, soft scrambled eggs, and maybe some pancakes,” San replied, already slicing scallions with precision.

“Wow,” Hyojin said, sipping her coffee. “You’re really out here being a better partner than half the men on this campus.”

Wooyoung spun dramatically toward her. “Excuse you, I am also contributing.”

“To the chaos,” San muttered without looking up.

Wooyoung gasped. “I am the heart of this kitchen! The ambience! The charisma! The—”

“You’re the reason we’re out of clean spatulas,” you pointed out, holding up the one he used last night to “mix” instant ramen seasoning directly in the bag.

He winked. “Innovative, not destructive.”

You rolled your eyes.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung was trying to focus, but San kept stealing bites of the chopped kimchi and turning up the volume on his “Cooking with Soulmates” playlist, which currently featured 2000s boy bands and at least one anime opening.

“San,” Wooyoung said patiently, “please stop dancing while I’m using a knife.”

“You can’t stop the rhythm, bro.”

You laughed as Wooyoung gave you a look like, see what I deal with?

Then—sizzle, pop, clatter.

San had turned too fast and knocked a bowl of eggs onto the floor.

“Oops.”

Wooyoung dropped his head onto the counter.

Hyojin didn’t even blink. “There it is. I was wondering when chaos would strike.”

Wooyoung crouched down to clean it up with a dramatic sigh. “I’m too pretty for this world.”

“Too clumsy, you mean,” you said, grabbing paper towels and helping.

Despite the mess, laughter kept bubbling up. The apartment was full of it — warm, genuine, the kind that made you forget about everything else. By the time the food was finally plated (only slightly delayed by Wooyoung burning one pancake into a hockey puck), the four of you were crowded around the table, mismatched mugs and all.

San looked over at you, smile soft.

“You good?”

You nodded, already reaching for your chopsticks. “Yeah. I’m really good.”

And as you listened to Hyojin roast Wooyoung for the third time that morning while he fake-cried into his orange juice, and San calmly ignored them both while handing you the best parts of the kimchi rice—

You realized this was your new normal.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

---

It happened on a Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday where the sky was impossibly blue, students were sprawled out on the quad like sleepy cats in the sun, and the stress of midterms hung just slightly less heavy in the air because someone was handing out free donuts by the library steps.

You’d just finished your psych lecture, notebook tucked under your arm, earbuds half-in. San had texted to say he and Wooyoung were waiting for you by the big tree near the fountain — the one you always ended up circling like a moth on days you didn’t want to head straight to class.

You spotted them instantly.

San, legs crossed in the grass, flipping through his annotated copy of something you definitely weren’t going to read unless threatened. Wooyoung, lying flat on his back beside him, sunglasses on, hoodie hiked up just enough to show the thread on his wrist glowing warm in the daylight.

When you approached, Wooyoung sat up. “There’s the smartest person in our polycule.”

“We’re not—” you started, but San just smirked and patted the spot beside him.

You sat down between them, letting your bag slide off your shoulder.

San casually reached over to tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your jaw for a beat longer than necessary.

You froze for half a second. Not because you didn’t like it — but because people were around. Out here, in the open.

San’s hand dropped, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

But Wooyoung saw it. Saw you.

And without saying a word, he reached out and slid his fingers through yours.

No big gesture. No loud announcement. Just a simple act of affection.

And you didn’t pull away.

You let him hold your hand, and you leaned a little into San’s side.

Someone nearby whistled. Another person did that thing where they nudge their friend like, “Look, it’s the soulmate trio.”

You didn’t run.

You didn’t hide.

You just smiled, cheeks a little warm, heart a little full.

“PDA level one unlocked,” Wooyoung whispered proudly.

“Don’t make it weird,” San murmured, but he was smiling too.

---

It was after your late lab, and the sky had dipped into that perfect indigo blue — the kind where the stars were just barely starting to show, and the streetlights cast soft halos on the brick paths winding through campus.

San and Wooyoung had waited for you outside, like always.

Wooyoung had your favorite drink in hand — slightly melted but still sweet — and San had that patient look on his face, the one that said take your time, we’re not in a rush.

You walked between them, your bag slung over one shoulder, all three of you heading toward the front gates where Wooyoung had parked his bike like a chaotic gremlin on two wheels.

It was quiet. Not awkward — just that kind of peace you’d learned to love. The kind that only came from being around people who didn’t need to fill the silence to feel close.

You passed the student center — a few people milling around, sitting on steps, laughing in small groups. Someone waved at Wooyoung. San nodded to a guy from one of his lit classes.

And then you stopped.

Not because of anything specific — no grand thought, no particular reason.

Just… because you felt it.

You turned toward Wooyoung first, reaching out to brush a bit of his hair away from his eyes where the wind had pushed it.

He blinked, lips parting slightly, like he was about to make a joke — something light, something very him.

But you didn’t let him.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Right there, in the middle of campus, under the glow of a streetlight.

Soft. Sweet. Real.

His breath caught — just for a second — and then he kissed you back, one hand resting lightly on your waist like he was afraid to hold too tight.

When you pulled away, his eyes were wide, stunned, lips still parted.

“Whoa,” he breathed. “I wasn’t— That was—”

“I know,” you said softly.

San, behind you, let out the softest exhale of a laugh — warm and fond.

“You’re not even gonna warn us anymore, huh?” he teased gently.

You turned, reaching for his hand. “It just felt right.”

And it did.

Not because of the thread.

Not because of the bond.

But because it was you. And them. And this life you were slowly building, piece by piece, kiss by kiss.

---

It was later that night, after the campus had quieted and the stars had taken over the sky completely.

San walked you back to your dorm — not because he had to, but because he always did when it was just the two of you. The quiet walks had become a thing between you. No pressure. No rush. Just matching footsteps and the occasional shoulder bump under the moonlight.

Neither of you had brought up the kiss yet.

Not the one with Wooyoung.

Not the way it had happened — publicly, openly — like your heart had just decided it was done hiding.

You unlocked the door to your dorm, letting it click behind you softly, and dropped your bag onto the floor with a tired sigh.

San leaned against the wall beside your desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his head slightly downturned like he was thinking through every word before he even said it.

You turned to him, waiting.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then—

“That kiss today,” he said softly, not looking at you just yet, “it wasn’t mine. And I still felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

You blinked, heart stuttering in your chest.

“Not because I was jealous,” he added quickly, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. “But because… it was real. And I’ve never seen you look so sure before. So free.”

You stepped closer, slowly.

“I was,” you said. “I am.”

San smiled — that small, quiet smile that didn’t need to be wide to mean everything.

“I’ve been waiting for you to let yourself want us,” he whispered. “Not just accept the bond. Not just stay. But want.”

You were close enough now to touch. You reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering at his temple.

“I do,” you said, just as quietly. “Want you.”

That was all it took.

San leaned in, slow, searching your face one last time — like he needed to see you give him permission even after hearing the words.

You closed the space for him.

The kiss was soft. Warmer than the first one. Deeper. Calmer. It didn’t burn, it settled — like sinking into something safe.

When you finally pulled back, you stayed close, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

“Feels different when it’s just us,” you whispered.

San nodded, lips brushing yours again as he spoke.

“It always does.”

It was raining when you arrived at their dorm.

Not the dramatic, thunderous kind — just a gentle, steady rain that made the windows blur and the world feel slower, quieter. San had texted you earlier: “Come over. Stay the night. Bring your comfiest hoodie.”

So you did.

Wooyoung opened the door before you could even knock, like he’d been waiting with his ear pressed to it. He was wearing pajama pants and one of San’s old t-shirts, and his smile lit up the dim hallway like sunshine in a storm.

“You’re here,” he said, and it wasn’t a question — it was a confirmation of something he’d been hoping for all day.

You stepped inside, brushing raindrops from your hoodie as San appeared behind him, hair damp from a shower, holding a mug of tea that he wordlessly handed to you.

“Chamomile,” he said. “For settling in.”

That was exactly what this night was — settling in.

No pressure. No grand gestures. Just warmth.

The dorm lights were low. A candle flickered on the windowsill — something cinnamon-sweet and comforting. The sound of rain tapping against the glass filled the quiet spaces between your words.

Wooyoung made popcorn — burned the first batch and blamed the microwave. San changed the playlist three times before settling on soft acoustic songs. You curled up on the bed between them, a blanket draped over all three of you, legs tangled and laughter easy.

At one point, Wooyoung tried to explain the plot of a movie he only half-watched last week, and San kept correcting him with actual facts until Wooyoung gave up and fake-sulked into your shoulder.

You kissed the top of his head. Just because you could now.

San was leaning against the wall behind you, fingers lazily tracing shapes on your thigh beneath the blanket. He wasn’t saying much — but his presence wrapped around you like gravity. Quiet, grounding, always there.

Eventually, the conversation faded, the rain still whispering outside, the playlist down to nothing but soft instrumentals.

You shifted, nestling closer to both of them, and whispered, “This feels like home.”

Wooyoung hummed sleepily, half-asleep already. “That’s because it is.”

San kissed your temple. “You’re not visiting anymore,” he murmured. “You’re just… with us.”

And that night — wrapped in their warmth, the bond humming quiet and content — you believed it.

---

The rain had stopped sometime in the early morning.

The world outside the dorm window was still, soaked and silver-blue in the soft pre-dawn light. Inside, it was warmer — cocooned in quiet breaths and shared blankets, the air heavy with sleep and something else.

You lay between them in the tangle of sheets, Wooyoung’s arm draped lazily over your waist, San’s fingers still linked with yours from the night before. None of you had spoken in hours. Not even in whispers. Just soft sighs, slow heartbeats, a peace so deep it didn’t need words.

And then it happened.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was a feeling — deep in your chest, blooming behind your ribs like light warming the darkest part of you.

The thread.

That red, pulsing thread you’d feared for so long.

It tightened.

Not in a choking, panicked way. Not like it was pulling you in.

More like it was settling. Finding its shape around the three of you. Completing a loop that had taken its time, been patient, never forced you — just waited.

A quiet click, almost metaphysical — like the final piece falling into place.

You felt it hum beneath your skin, and this time, instead of fear, you felt complete.

You shifted slightly, just enough to see both of them. San stirred first, eyes still half-lidded but aware. Wooyoung blinked slowly, sleep still soft around the edges of him.

“…Did you feel that?” you whispered.

San nodded, voice gravelly. “Yeah.”

Wooyoung’s smile was slow, drowsy, genuine. “Finally.”

None of you moved to sit up. None of you needed to.

You just breathed together, wrapped in each other — the bond no longer glowing, but settled.

No more tugging. No more questions.

Just quiet connection.

A single thread. Three hearts.

And everything that came next.

•

Why is she talking to me. Did I do something wrong. Wait she said she likes my shirt. She’s smiling. Why is she smiling.

You gesture again toward the design.

“You listen to them, right? You have good taste.”

He stares at you for half a second longer than is probably normal.

Then—

He nods.

“Yeah.”

Amazing. Another masterpiece of communication. You grin, clearly excited.

“I love them.”

He clears his throat slightly.

“They’re good.”

You nod enthusiastically.

“They’re so good.”

Then, because the professor is walking in and everyone is starting to quiet down, you give him a quick friendly smile.

“Sorry for bothering you.”

“You didn’t,” he blurts out immediately.

Too fast. Too intense. You blink and he immediately looks like he regrets existing.

“…It’s fine,” he adds quickly, voice quieter.

You smile again.

Then turn back toward the front of the room as the lecture begins. For the rest of the class, you take notes. You listen. You underline a few important points. You voice record the entire lecture. You stay focused.

Mingi does not.

Because he is having a full internal crisis beside you.

She likes the same music as me. She talked to me. She said I have good taste.

He stares at the front of the room while the professor talks about the syllabus.

He hears none of it.

His thoughts spiral instead.

She’s sitting so close.

Does she think I’m weird.

Why did I only say three words.

I should have said something normal.

He glances sideways.

You’re writing something in your notebook, slightly hunched over your desk. Your hair falls forward a little as you concentrate. You look… comfortable. Relaxed like sitting next to him isn’t a big deal at all.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Because people usually avoid him—not intentionally, maybe. But they do.

He knows how he looks.

Six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Deep voice. Serious face. People tend to assume things. They assume he’s intimidating. Cold. Unapproachable. But you just…

Tapped his arm like it was nothing.

He quickly looks back at the front before you can notice him staring. The lecture continues.

By the time it finally ends, the room erupts into movement. Chairs scrape. Backpacks zip. Students stand and begin filing toward the exits.

Mingi shoves his notebook into his bag quickly, standing up so the people in the row can pass.

You sling your bag over your shoulder too, then glance up at him again. He’s even taller standing. You hadn’t fully realized that before.

You tilt your head up slightly.

“Hey.”

He freezes.

Why is she talking to me again.

“Yes?” he says.

Your brows knit together thoughtfully as you look at his face more closely.

“…Wait.”

Oh no.

His brain immediately assumes the worst.

Did I do something weird. Did I say something wrong. Did I accidentally offend her.

You squint slightly.

“Didn’t we go to school together?”

He blinks.

“…What?”

“Like middle school? Or high school?” you say, studying his face. “You look really familiar.”

His mind goes completely blank.

Because he knows exactly who you are. He recognized you the moment you sat down but just assumed you didn’t remember him.

Why would you?

You were friendly with everyone when they approached, even when they were quiet. Even when they were loud. Even when they were… creepy about the fact you were attractive.

Meanwhile he was the tall quiet kid who kept to himself in the back of class.

You snap your fingers softly.

“Oh my god—wait. Were you in Mrs. Carter’s English class junior year?”

He stares.

“…Yes.”

Your face lights up.

“I knew it!”

You grin at him like this is the most normal discovery in the world.

“You sat by the window, right?”

His heart is doing something very strange.

“…Yeah.”

You shake your head in disbelief.

“That’s so funny. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Internally:

Why does she remember where I sat. Why is she still smiling at me. Why is this happening.

You adjust the strap of your bag.

“Well, it’s nice seeing a familiar face on the first day,” you say warmly.

Then you pause.

“And also nice meeting someone with good music taste.”

His cheeks feel warm.

You step slightly closer so the people behind you can pass in the aisle. Up close, the height difference is… noticeable. You’re shorter than him by a decent amount—but you don’t seem bothered by it at all.

“You heading out?” you ask.

“…Yeah.”

“Cool.”

You smile again.

“I’ll probably see you next class then.”

And with that, you turn and start walking up the aisle with the rest of the students, leaving Mingi standing there completely stunned.

His brain slowly reboots.

She remembered me. She talked to me. Willingly.

And worst of all—

He thinks he might still be in love with the same girl he liked in high school.

He exhales quietly and runs a hand through his hair.

“…I should’ve said something cooler.”

——

A week later, you realize something.

Song Mingi is in three of your classes.

At first it feels like coincidence.

Then it starts to feel slightly ridiculous.

The second time it happens is in your Introduction to Literary Analysis lecture. You walk in, scanning the room for a seat, and immediately spot him near the middle row again—long legs tucked awkwardly beneath the desk, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands while he flips through the reading packet.

You pause.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

For some reason, the sight of him sitting there makes you smile.

You slide into the empty seat beside him.

“Hey.”

His head lifts immediately.

For half a second his eyes widen in that same startled way they did on the first day.

“Oh—hi.”

You grin.

“Guess we’re doing this again.”

He glances around the room, realizing what you mean.

“…Yeah.”

He sounds mildly confused by the universe. You tap your notebook against the desk.

“That’s two classes now.”

He nods slowly.

Then after a moment he adds quietly, “We also have Professor Kim’s seminar tomorrow.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“…You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head.

“Three.”

You laugh.

“That’s insane.”

He doesn’t laugh, exactly. But the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly.

Over the next few days the pattern settles naturally.

You sit together. You exchange quiet comments during lectures. Sometimes you compare notes afterward while everyone packs up.

It’s easy.

Which is why, one afternoon after your seminar ends, you turn to him as you both stand from your seats.

“Hey, random question.”

Mingi freezes slightly.

“…Okay.”

You pick your bag up off of the floor.

“Do you want to study together sometime?”

His brain immediately starts buffering.

“Study?”

“Yeah,” you say casually. “Not like because we need help or anything. Just… study buddies.” You shrug. “It’s kind of nice having someone to sit with.”

He processes this information slowly.

You want to spend more time with him. Intentionally. His internal voice is screaming. Externally he nods.

“…Sure.”

Your smile widens.

“Cool.”

You hesitate for a second.

“Actually—there’s a coffee place near the library. Do you want to meet there tomorrow afternoon?”

For a moment he forgets how words work. Then, summoning approximately two percent confidence, he says:

“Yeah. I can—uh. I can get there early.”

You laugh softly.

“You don’t have to do that.”

He absolutely will.

“Okay,” he says.

——

The next afternoon, Mingi arrives fifteen minutes early.

Naturally.

The coffee shop is busy already—students filling most of the tables with laptops and textbooks but he ends up finding a small table near the window.

Perfect.

Two chairs. Good lighting. Not too crowded.

He orders a drink he barely touches and sits there pretending to read while checking the door every thirty seconds. His brain runs through several different panic scenarios.

What if she changed her mind. What if she forgot. What if I say something weird.

Then the door opens and you walk in.

You’re scanning the room, looking for him. Before he can wave, someone else reaches you first.

Some short guy with bleached teeth and hair gelled within an inch of its life.

Mingi’s posture straightens slightly.

The guy says something he can’t quite hear from across the room. You pause politely and answer him. Mingi watches the interaction carefully.

The guy steps closer. Too close. You shift your weight, clearly a little uncomfortable now. He keeps talking and you laugh awkwardly.

Mingi’s jaw tightens.

The guy gestures toward your phone. Even from across the café, Mingi can guess the question.

Can I get your number.

Your smile has turned into that specific polite expression people use when they’re trying to end a conversation without being rude.

The guy doesn’t take the hint.

Mingi stands up.

By the time you glance back toward the room again, he’s already there. He doesn’t storm over. He just… appears. Expression completely unreadable.

He steps beside you naturally, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. His presence alone shifts the entire interaction.

The guy looks up.

“…Oh,” the guy says.

Mingi’s voice is calm.

“Hey.”

He slides an arm loosely around your shoulders. It’s gentle—not possessive.

Just… familiar.

Like it belongs there.

The gesture is so casual that it almost convinces you.

“Sorry,” Mingi says, looking at you instead of the guy. “I was waiting for you.”

Your brain catches up quickly.

“Oh—yeah,” you say, playing along. “Sorry, I got stopped.”

The guy glances between the two of you. The height difference alone is intimidating. Then there’s Mingi’s expression. Not angry. Just very… blank.

“…Right,” the guy mutters. “Well—uh. Have a good day.”

He disappears toward the door almost immediately. Mingi waits until he’s fully gone before dropping his arm. And then his entire demeanor changes. The serious expression melts instantly into concern.

“Are you okay?”

The shift is so fast it almost gives you whiplash. He’s looking down at you now, brows slightly furrowed.

“Was he bothering you?”

You blink up at him.

“…You just teleported over here.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

His ears are faintly pink.

“I just walked.”

You laugh softly.

“No, but seriously—thank you.”

You glance toward the door where the guy left.

“He wouldn’t take the hint.”

Mingi’s jaw tightens slightly again.

“…People should take the hint.”

You smile at him.

“You were very convincing, by the way.”

He immediately looks embarrassed.

“I just thought it would make him leave.”

“It did.”

You nudge his arm lightly.

“My hero.”

He looks like he might combust.

“…You’re welcome.”

You glance around the café.

“Wait—were you already here?”

“…Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“…Not that long.”

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“Mingi.”

“…Fifteen minutes.”

You burst out laughing.

“You came early to secure the table, didn’t you?”

He looks mildly defensive.

“It’s a good table.”

You look at the window. The lighting. The empty chairs. The perfect study setup.

“…Okay, it is a good table.”

He relaxes a little, then gestures toward the seat across from him.

“You want coffee?”

You grin as you drop into the chair.

“Absolutely.”

As you pull out your notebook, you glance up at him again.

“Also?”

“…Yeah?”

“You make a very convincing fake boyfriend.”

His brain shuts down again.

Entirely.

“…Oh.”

You smile innocently and open your book. He sits there for a second, still processing, and realizes two things at once.

One: You’re safe.

Two: He might actually want that role for real someday.

He quickly looks down at his notes before you notice the small smile forming on his face.

——

The coffee shop becomes a routine.

Not an official routine.

Neither of you ever says let’s make this a weekly thing.

It just… happens.

Two or three times a week after class you both end up there, notebooks open, laptops glowing, coffee cups slowly emptying while you talk about readings and assignments.

Sometimes you actually study. Sometimes you spend forty minutes discussing a poem interpretation. Sometimes you just talk.

About music.

About professors.

About the weird freedom of being in college after spending your whole life in structured classrooms. And the more time you spend with Mingi, the more something becomes obvious.

He’s not intimidating.

Not with you.

With you, his voice is quiet. Gentle. The kind of calm tone people use when they’re trying not to startle a stray cat.

“Do you want my notes from Tuesday’s lecture?” he asks one afternoon, sliding his notebook slightly closer to you across the table.

You glance up.

“You took notes?”

He tilts his head slightly.

“…Yes.”

“I thought you were staring into space the entire time.”

“I was thinking.”

“About the lecture?”

“…Not exactly.”

You grin.

“Wow. Inspirational.”

He huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. You’ve learned that’s basically the equivalent of a full laugh from him.

You’re both walking across campus later that week when it happens.

The sidewalks are crowded with students moving between classes, voices overlapping, backpacks bumping shoulders as everyone flows in different directions.

You and Mingi are talking about a short story from your literature seminar.

“Well I just think the narrator is up to something in the background while he’s telling us about the other characters,” you say, gesturing with one hand as you walk. “Like obviously he’s hiding something—”

“Or he doesn’t realize he’s hiding it,” Mingi replies calmly beside you.

His voice is low and steady, the same gentle tone he always uses when it’s just the two of you. You open your mouth to respond—

“Excuse me!”

You both look up.

Three girls step in front of you. They’re wearing matching shirts with Greek letters.

Sorority recruitment.

One of them smiles brightly at you.

“Oh my gosh, hi! We just wanted to say you’re literally so pretty.”

You smile.

“Oh—thank you.”

“We’re recruiting this week,” another girl continues eagerly. “Have you thought about rushing?”

You shift your bag slightly on your shoulder.

“Um, not really.”

“Oh you totally should!” the first girl says. “You’d fit in so well.”

You shake your head politely.

“I appreciate it, but I’m not really interested.”

“Are you sure?” the third girl asks. “We have a bunch of events this week—”

“I’m good,” you say gently.

They exchange quick looks. Then the first girl tries again.

“Even just one meeting—”

“She said she’s not interested.”

The words land flat.

You glance sideways. Mingi hasn’t moved—but something about his presence suddenly feels… larger.

His expression is completely neutral, a quiet finality.

The girls look up at him.

He’s standing slightly behind you, but his height alone makes him impossible to ignore.

“She already answered,” he continues evenly. “That’s it.”

The silence stretches for half a second. Then one of the girls clears her throat.

“…Right. Sorry.”

“Have a nice day!” another adds quickly.

They leave almost immediately.

You watch them disappear into the crowd. Then you turn slowly toward Mingi. He’s already looking down at you again. And just like that—

The serious expression disappears.

His brows knit together slightly.

“Were they bothering you?”

The switch is so fast it makes you blink.

“…You just scared them off.”

“I didn’t scare them.”

“You absolutely did.”

His ears turn faintly pink.

“They were being pushy.”

You shrug.

“They’re just doing their recruitment thing.”

“They should listen when someone says no.”

His voice is softer again now. You look at him curiously.

“You do realize I could’ve handled that, right?”

“I know.”

“Then why did you jump in?”

He hesitates for a moment. Then asks something unexpected.

“Why are you so polite to people who aren’t respecting you?”

You pause.

“…What?”

He gestures slightly behind you where the girls walked away.

“You already told them no.” His tone stays calm. “But you kept smiling like you were apologizing for it.”

You blink at him.

“Well… yeah.”

He frowns slightly.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be polite to people who are ignoring what you said.”

You stare at him for a moment. Then something clicks.

“…Oh.”

He tilts his head in confusion.

“…What?”

You cross your arms, studying him with sudden interest.

“Oh, I see what this is.”

“…What?”

“You’re a big softie.”

His brain stalls.

“…No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You just got all protective and lectured me about respecting my boundaries.”

“That’s normal.”

“And then you immediately checked if I was okay.”

“That’s also normal.”

You grin at him.

“You’re soft.”

He looks mildly offended.

“I am not soft.”

You lean a little closer.

“You’re literally the sweetest person I’ve met here.”

His face heats up.

“That’s not—”

“You’re like a six-foot-tall marshmallow.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

You laugh.

“So why do you care so much then?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. He suddenly answers without thinking.

“…Because I like protecting things I love.”

Silence.

His brain catches up with his mouth.

Did I just say that. Oh no.

He stares straight ahead, immediately very interested in a tree across the path. You’re staring at him.

“…Wow.”

His internal monologue is screaming.

Abort. Abort the conversation. Why would you say that.

“…Sorry,” he mutters quietly. But you’re smiling.

“I think that’s really cute.”

He glances down at you cautiously.

“…It is?”

“Yeah.”

You bump his arm lightly with yours as you start walking again.

“I feel very protected now.”

He exhales slowly, trying to pretend his heart didn’t just sprint a marathon.

After that day, the study sessions change.

You’re still studying.

Technically.

But sometimes you end up sharing a pastry instead of focusing on your notes. Sometimes you walk across campus together after the café closes. Sometimes Mingi starts buying your coffee before you even arrive.

“Is this a study date?” you ask him one evening as he hands you your drink.

“…No.”

“So just a date then?”

He chokes on his own sip of coffee.

Weeks pass. Midterms come and go. The campus trees slowly shift toward autumn colors. And somewhere along the way, the line between study buddy and something else quietly disappears.

By the end of the semester, it’s not even a question anymore.

You’re sitting in the same coffee shop one evening, textbooks pushed aside while you talk about absolutely nothing.

Mingi reaches across the table absentmindedly, brushing his fingers over yours, then freezes.

“…Sorry.”

You turn your hand over and lace your fingers with his.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you reassure him. “This is… nice.”

And this time, Mingi doesn’t hide his smile.

——

The coffee shop is busy that afternoon.

Not loud, exactly, but full enough that the background noise settles into a steady hum—espresso machines steaming, quiet conversations overlapping, chairs scraping against the floor.

You and Mingi have claimed your usual table near the window.

Your books are spread out between you, highlighter caps scattered everywhere like little pieces of neon confetti.

Mingi is focused on his notes, long fingers loosely holding a pen while he reads something from the textbook.

You’re trying to focus.

You really are.

But the window beside your table reflects just enough of the inside of the café that your eyes keep drifting toward it.

At first it’s accidental.

Then it’s not.

Your reflection is faint in the glass, layered over the movement of people walking outside.

You shift slightly in your chair.

Pull your sweater down a little.

Then sit up straighter.

Then adjust again.

Your brain does that annoying thing where it starts picking at details you normally don’t think about.

Your stomach looks weird when you sit like that.

Your thighs look big from this angle.

Maybe you should sit differently.

You tuck one leg under the other.

Then untuck it.

You don’t notice Mingi watching you.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

He just observes quietly for a moment.

The way you keep glancing toward the window.

The small adjustments in your posture.

The way your shoulders tense slightly.

Finally he sets his pen down.

“…Hey.”

You look up.

“Hm?”

He nods slightly toward the window.

“You’ve been fighting with your reflection for five minutes.”

Your face immediately warms.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

You sigh quietly.

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m probably being distracting.”

“You’re not.”

You glance at the window again automatically. Then quickly look back down at your book.

“It’s stupid.”

Mingi studies you for a second. Then says something simple.

“You look fine the way you are.”

You blink.

“…What?”

His tone is completely casual as if he’s stating a basic fact.

“You keep adjusting your sweater,” he explains.

“Oh.”

You feel a little embarrassed now.

“I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

He shrugs slightly.

“It’s okay.”

You stare at your notebook for a moment, then mumble quietly, “I just didn’t like how I looked sitting like that.”

Mingi’s brows knit together faintly.

“…Why?”

You glance up at him.

“You ever notice how almost everyone looks like a supermodel?”

“…No.”

“Well, they do.”

He considers that. Then shakes his head slightly.

“I think people look like people.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“That’s a very philosophical answer.”

“I’m serious.” His voice stays calm. “You look fine.”

Your face warms again.

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not.”

He gestures toward the table between you.

“You look the same as you did ten minutes ago.”

You stare at him.

“…That’s your argument?”

“Yes.”

You laugh softly, covering your face for a second.

“That’s the least smooth compliment I’ve ever heard.”

“I wasn’t trying to be smooth.”

“I can tell.”

But you stop adjusting your sweater after that. And even though Mingi goes right back to reading his notes like nothing happened—

You notice something.

He quietly shifts his chair a little.

Just enough to block the window’s reflection from your view.

Like he’s removing the problem entirely.

You don’t point it out.

But the small gesture sits warm in your chest for the rest of the afternoon.

——

By the time the semester is halfway over, people start noticing.

Mostly because you and Mingi are almost always together. Walking across campus. Sitting side by side in lectures. Studying in the café by the window.

It isn’t loud or dramatic.

You’re just… there.

Together.

One afternoon you’re standing outside one of the humanities buildings waiting for Mingi to come out of class. Students move around you in loose groups, conversations drifting through the cool air. You’re scrolling through your phone when someone stops beside you.

“Hey.”

You glance up.

It’s a guy from one of your literature classes. You vaguely remember him from a group discussion a few weeks ago.

“Oh—hi.”

He shifts his backpack strap.

“So uh… random question.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay?”

He gestures vaguely across the courtyard.

“I’ve seen you around with that guy a lot.”

You already know who he means.

“Mingi?”

“Yeah.” The guy hesitates. Then lowers his voice. “…Why are you dating him?”

You blink.

“What?”

“I mean—” he rushes to clarify, “not in a bad way! It’s just… he’s kind of scary.”

You stare at him for a second.

“Scary?”

“Yeah. Like he always looks really serious. And he’s huge.”

You can’t help it. You laugh—not rudely—just genuinely amused.

“Not really.”

The guy looks unconvinced.

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“He kind of looks like he could beat someone up.”

“He could,” you say casually. The guy’s eyes widen slightly. “But he wouldn’t.”

You glance over his shoulder and smile. Mingi just stepped out of the building.

He spots you immediately, posture relaxing a little as he walks over. The guy beside you notices the shift too.

The difference is subtle, but obvious if you’re paying attention.

Mingi moves toward you with that same calm, serious expression he always wears around other people. But when he gets closer—

It softens.

Like the tension drains out of his shoulders. He’s holding something behind his back.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.”

He pulls his hand forward.

A bouquet of flowers. Not small either. A very large bouquet.

You blink.

“Mingi.”

“They were selling them outside the student center,” he explains, suddenly sounding a little unsure. “For some fundraiser.”

You take the flowers carefully.

They’re beautiful. Bright. Completely unexpected.

“You bought the whole thing?”

“…Maybe.”

You laugh softly, hugging the bouquet against your chest.

“They’re gorgeous.”

His ears turn pink.

“I thought you’d like them.”

You stand on your toes and he leans down so you can kiss his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Behind you, the guy from class is still standing there.

Frozen.