your tiny star

The tension between you had started this morning when you made the mistake of reading one of his texts over his shoulder. Your mom asked if you’re single again?” you’d said, your voice already edged with something sharp.

He’d tensed up immediately, like he knew what was coming. “She wants me to meet some girl from her church,” he muttered. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Not when this wasn’t the first time. Not when you’d been together for three years and she still referred to you as “that girl from the city.”

So naturally, you snapped. And then he snapped. And then came the hours of passive aggressive silence followed by sharp edged comments about your flirting habits, like how you couldn’t possibly go a night out without batting your lashes at some bartender to get free drinks.

“Maybe if you had a better job, I wouldn’t have to,” you’d shot back and immediately felt bad for saying it but too damn stubborn to apologize.

Now you were in his passenger seat, legs crossed, arms tight against your chest in your barely there black dress, because fuck his mom, and fuck being the respectable church girl she wants him with. You were wearing sin like perfume.

The air conditioning was blasting but your skin was hot. From anger, from guilt, from him. From the way he kept shifting in his seat like the veins in his arms were trying to keep him from doing something reckless. Like dragging the car over to the curb and telling you exactly who you belonged to.

“You gonna talk to me at some point,” you asked, eyes trained out the window, “or are we just going to arrive in awkward silence and pretend we haven’t been at each other’s throats all day?”

His hand flexed on the gearshift. “You wanna keep fighting?”

You turned your head slowly. “You’ve barely said ten words since we left.”

He scoffed. “Because if I open my mouth again, I’m gonna say some shit I can’t take back.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Try me.”

His head snapped toward you, his voice low and deadly. “You think it’s cute, don’t you? Playing dumb, dressing like that, laughing at every goddamn joke some guy tells you like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you snapped. “I’ve spent the last three years watching your mom try to set you up with her fantasy nun in training while I’ve bent over backward for you, so yeah, maybe I like it when people treat me like I’m worth something.”

The tires screeched slightly as he pulled into the club lot, slamming the gear into park with a growl deep in his chest. “You think I don’t know your worth?” he asked, finally looking at you. Really looking, like he was seeing you through the fury, the hurt, the weeks of pushing it down and pretending things were fine. “I know exactly how much you’re worth. That’s why I haven’t ripped the head off every asshole who so much as breathes in your direction.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper now, as his eyes dragged down your body. “But tonight? You so much as smile at the wrong guy… I might just stop holding back.”

Your breath caught. Not fear. No, nothing like that. It was want. Ugly, bitter, bone deep need. For him to snap. To do something reckless. To remind you why no sweet little church girl could ever survive the heat of his hands on her skin.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The music hit first, bass thick enough to rattle your ribs, lights strobing like the club was trying to induce collective blackout. It was already packed inside, bodies pressed together in sweaty celebration, and the second you stepped in, Yunho’s hand brushed yours like he might take it.

But he didn’t.

He just pulled it away, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and set his jaw like he’d rather chew glass than touch you right now.

Mingi spotted him immediately from the upper section, two empty shot glasses in his hands and that stupid birthday grin that could charm the pants off anyone. “Yunhoooo!” he called out over the music, barreling down the steps. “There’s my man!”

You didn’t even get a second to adjust your dress or shake off the frost between you and Yunho before Mingi wrapped a heavy arm around your boyfriend’s neck and tugged him into a hug so aggressive it probably knocked his spine back into alignment.

“Come on,” Mingi grinned. “There’s a bottle with your name on it upstairs. I’m two tequila shots from legally changing my name to Park Seonghwa, so you’re babysitting tonight.”

Yunho opened his mouth like he might say something, to you, maybe, or to protest, but Mingi was already dragging him off by the shoulder, weaving through bodies like a man on a mission. And just like that, Yunho was gone.

You stood there alone for a beat, the throb of the music suddenly too loud in your ears.

“Rough night?” came a voice beside you.

You turned to see Seonghwa standing with a fresh drink in his hand, dressed in all black and already looking faintly amused, like he could read the tension radiating off you like heat waves. Hongjoong was beside him, half a head shorter and smirking like a little gremlin who knew everything.

“Oh, the roughest,” you said, shaking it off and forcing a smile. “Remind me why I didn’t just stay home and drink in my bathrobe?”

“Because I texted you three times that I’d be offended if you didn’t show up,” Hongjoong said, sipping his drink. “And because you knew you’d look hot in that dress and make Yunho insane.”

You raised a brow. “I’m not trying to make him insane.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Seonghwa muttered into his glass, eyes casually dragging down your body. “That dress is weaponized.”

You shrugged one bare shoulder. “He was already mad before I put it on.”

Hongjoong leaned in. “Still mad about his mom?” Him recalling the conversation, well you snapping about everything earlier on the phone.

You didn’t answer at first, just accepted the drink Seonghwa handed you, a dangerously pink thing with way too much vodka and sugar, and downed half of it in one go.

“He won’t say it, but yeah,” you muttered. “She invited him to brunch with that girl from her church. Again. Vanessa, Veronica or whatever.”

Seonghwa made a noise that sounded vaguely like a dying cat. “Does she think he’s gonna marry someone who plays acoustic guitar in the church choir and makes casseroles?”

“She made her own rosary beads,” you said flatly.

Hongjoong choked on his drink.

“I can’t compete with that,” you added. “I’ve said fuck six times since I walked in the building.”

“Seven,” Seonghwa corrected, then winked. “Make it eight and I’ll buy your next round.”

You laughed, finally, genuinely. It felt good. It felt like your ribs weren’t made of stone anymore.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Yunho was watching.

And he was. From the top floor, half a glass of whiskey in hand, pretending to listen to Mingi and San argue about who had better taste in partners. But his eyes?

They hadn’t left you once. Not since the moment you smiled at Seonghwa. Not since you leaned in a little too close to Hongjoong and tossed your hair like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Not since you crossed your legs in that dress and gave someone else the laugh he hadn’t earned all day.

And the way his jaw clenched?

It said you were about to learn what happens when Yunho stops pretending to be calm as he kept watching you now as the three of you grabbed shots.

Three shots in, the burn didn’t hurt anymore.

The first one had seared its way down like punishment, sharp and heavy in your chest, maybe for everything you wanted to say to Yunho but didn’t. The second tasted a little like regret and mango syrup. And the third? That one just made you warm.

You were sitting at the bar now, legs crossed, back arched just enough to be comfortable and just enough to make that slinky dress of yours hug the dangerous parts. Seonghwa had pulled up a second stool beside you, and Hongjoong stood between you both, drink in one hand and your wrist in the other like he was trying to show you how to fold a damn origami crane with a cocktail napkin.

“No, no, you have to crease it like this,” Hongjoong insisted, smirking as he pressed his thumb over yours. “You don’t just fold and hope for the best. It’s not your love life.”

Seonghwa snorted, and you flipped Hongjoong off, but not before laughing, real and unguarded.

It felt good to laugh. You needed it. And if Yunho wanted to stew in his own petty silence all night, that was his choice.

You snuck a glance upward, toward the balcony section. He was still up there. Still with Mingi, still nursing the same whiskey, still watching, but only occasionally. Not like before.

Which annoyed you. Which, you could admit it, hurt a little too. You wanted him to look.

You wanted him to care that you were here, having a good time without him, even if every laugh felt just a little bit hollow.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asked, nudging you with his shoulder, sharp eyes reading yours too easily.

“Yup,” you said, and took your fourth shot.

He didn’t believe you. Neither did Hongjoong. But bless them, they didn’t push.

The music was better now, less aggressive, more rhythmic. The kind that made your hips start to sway on instinct, even seated. Around you, the club pulsed with sweat and bodies and light. It felt like the kind of night that could go anywhere. Dangerous. Loose. Free.

You leaned in toward Seonghwa. “Do I look like I’m trying too hard?” His mouth twitched. “No. You look like a girl trying not to care about the fact that her boyfriend’s being a dick.”

“Good,” you said, lifting your chin.

Because you were. Trying not to care. Failing miserably, but trying.

And Yunho? He was back at the railing now. Still quiet. Still unreadable. Still stewing. He’d seen your fourth shot. He’d seen the way you smiled after it. The way Seonghwa leaned in to whisper something in your ear and you tilted your head, giggling into your shoulder.

He wasn’t mad at them. Not really. He trusted them, maybe more than anyone. But you? You were his. And watching you fall into that easy charm you always used when you were trying to prove a point…..

It fucking burned.

Mingi, oblivious and a little drunk, slapped his chest and offered him another shot. Yunho waved it off.

“I’m good.”

Mingi raised a brow. “You don’t look good.”

Yunho didn’t respond. Because his fists were clenched again. Because you were smiling again and it wasn’t at him.

And because deep down, somewhere under the bruised ego and unsaid apologies, he knew the longer this night went on, the closer he was to snapping.

You’d just finished twisting your straw into a coil of plastic frustration after Hongjoong and Seonghwa went to talk to Yeosang, when you felt a familiar weight drape dramatically across your back.

“Babe…” Wooyoung’s voice drawled against your ear, theatrical and soaked in tequila. “Why is your man up there glaring at everything like he’s about to set the entire club on fire with his mind?”

You didn’t even turn around. “Because he’s mad at me.”

“I can see that,” Wooyoung said, arms winding loosely around your shoulders as he leaned his chin on your head. “He’s staring like he wants to fight me just for being this close. Which, rude, considering I’m your favorite.”

You snorted, finally twisting in your stool to face him. “You are not my favorite.”

“Your mom thinks I’m your favorite.”

“My mom thinks you’re my gay best friend.”

“Exactly.”

Wooyoung flopped onto the stool beside you, already halfway through someone else’s abandoned drink like it belonged to him. He looked devastating, as always, black mesh shirt clinging to his chest, eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, and those lips already curled into a shit eating grin.

“Did you two fight again?” he asked, voice sing song as he tapped your glass.

You hesitated, then nodded. “It’s been building all day. All week, actually.”

Wooyoung raised a brow, his voice dipping. “And yet here you are. Looking like sex in heels. Drinking without him. Laughing with Seonghwa. Flirting with Joongie. Mm, baby girl… you trying to start a war?”

You arched a brow. “I’m just living.”

“You’re poking the bear,” he said, eyes glittering as he leaned closer. “And the bear is feral. I haven’t seen Yunho look this pissed since that guy asked if you were single at karaoke night after you first started dating and you said….”

“‘Depends who’s asking,’” you finished for him, grinning.

“He didn’t speak to me for three days after that,” Wooyoung huffed, tossing back the rest of his drink. “I’m not even the one who said it! I just invited the guy to join!”

You giggled, your chest finally starting to relax. The club felt better now. Lighter. Fuzzy around the edges. Yunho was still up there, sure, but right now he felt like a shadow. A beautiful, brooding statue of rage and repressed emotions.

Until you made the mistake of glancing up again. Because he was watching. Elbows on the railing, drink forgotten, eyes locked straight onto you. He looked darker now. Not jealous. Not possessive.

Just done pretending he was okay.

Wooyoung followed your gaze. “Oh damn.”

“What?” you muttered.

“He just licked his teeth,” Wooyoung whispered, sipping someone else’s drink now. “You are so getting railed tonight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Unless he fights me first.”

“Oh, he’ll fight you,” Wooyoung purred. “With his dick.”

You shoved him, laughing, but your gaze flicked back up.

Still Yunho. Still watching. But now? Now he wasn’t just watching. Now he was moving.

Slow. Purposeful. Drink gone, hands flexing as he handed Mingi something and murmured something to San.

The bear had left the cave.

And he was coming straight for you.

You lost him somewhere between the bar and the DJ booth.

One second Yunho was a looming shadow stalking down the stairs, eyes fixed on you like a storm cloud with legs, and the next, he was swallowed by the crowd. A flash of flannel. The glint of his cross necklace. Then gone.

Which, fine.

If he wanted to play emotionally constipated beast, then you were going to be a brat right back.

You set your drink down and turned to Wooyoung, your lipstick stained grin already halfway to dangerous. “Come dance with me.”

He blinked. “Now?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “On my deathbed. Yes, now.”

Wooyoung let out a laugh that turned heads and gave a little bow. “Lead the way, queen of chaos.”

You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor, already packed, already pulsing, the music vibrating up through your heels and into your bloodstream. Lights flickered hot pink and violet overhead, bodies moved in rhythm, and you let it all wash over you. Let yourself be loose. Let yourself forget Yunho’s cold shoulders and sharp words and that pinched, disapproving scowl.

Wooyoung spun you effortlessly, laughing when you bumped into him, hips brushing. He was warm and silly and sweet, your anchor and your weapon, all rolled into one. And unlike your boyfriend currently brooding somewhere in the shadows, Wooyoung danced with you like you deserved to be seen.

You threw your arms around his neck, tilted your head back, and let your hips roll to the music. The tequila shimmered in your bloodstream, making you bold, shameless. It was harmless. Just you and your best friend blowing off steam.

Until he appeared.

Not Yunho.

Some random half drunk guy with no boundaries.

You didn’t even catch his face at first, just the hands. One on your waist. Then another settling lower. Close. Too close.

You tensed, instinct flaring. But before you could even react, Wooyoung turned, “Uh…. hey man….” just as the guy leaned in behind you, his breath too close to your ear.

“You wanna dance, baby?”

You froze.

Baby.

BABY.

That’s what Yunho calls you when his voice drops into his throat and his hands are on your thighs and he’s about to wreck your entire existence.

You turned, slow and unimpressed, swaying slightly from the shots. Your hand rose to brush his arm off as you said, “Can you back the fuck off….”

CRACK.

The sound was deafening. Not from the volume, but from the shock.

Because in one heartbeat, Yunho was behind him.

And in the next, his fist was flying, slamming straight into the guy’s cheek so hard his head snapped sideways, body stumbling back.

“Yunho!” you shouted, but he didn’t even blink.

The guy barely regained his balance before throwing a punch back, landing hard into Yunho’s jaw with a sickening thud, and then it was on.

Not a scuffle. Not a push.

A full on, fists flying, tables shifting, club goers screaming BRAWL.

“OH SHIT!” Wooyoung yelped, immediately grabbing your arm and dragging you back as the two of them collided in the middle of the dance floor.

Drinks went flying. A table toppled. Yunho didn’t care.

He was all muscle and fury as he swung again, rage in every movement, pure instinct. You’d never seen him like this. Not even close.

Yunho. Sweet, loving Yunho.

Yunho, who once sobbed when he stepped on a roach and tried to bury it with dignity.

Yunho, who cried watching the last scene of Coco and apologized to a vending machine when he kicked it.

That Yunho was gone.

And in his place?

An unhinged, terrifyingly hot version with blood on his knuckles, fire in his eyes, and only one thing on his mind, protecting what was his.

And oh God, you were shamelessly, absolutely, wildly turned on.

“Holy shit,” Seonghwa breathed behind you, as he, Hongjoong, and Yeosang pushed their way through the crowd to join you and Wooyoung.

“Is that?” Jongho’s voice cut through, followed by the unmistakable bark of San yelling, “YUNHO, STOP!”

But he didn’t. Not until security came rushing in, two thick men grabbing the other guy, one grabbing Yunho by the arm. And still, Yunho fought to get one more punch in, his chest heaving, sweat glistening down his throat, lip split, hair wild across his forehead as he growled, “Touch her again, and I’ll fucking bury you.”

“Yunho!” Mingi was there now too, panting, trying to wrestle his best friend back with an arm across his chest. “You’re done, man! You got him!”

The guy, dazed and bleeding, was being dragged out through the crowd.

Yunho finally stopped fighting.

But he didn’t take his eyes off you.

His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, jaw clenched, fists still flexing at his sides as everyone turned to stare.

You should’ve been mortified. Shocked. Maybe a little horrified.

And sure, you were a little shocked. But mostly? You were wet.

Like ruin your underwear, (if you had any on), legs squeezing together, core clenching WRECKED at the sight of your usually quiet, soft spoken boyfriend losing his mind because someone dared to touch you.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang asked beside you, genuinely concerned.

You blinked at him slowly. “I think,” you said, voice dazed, “yeah….. I’m….” Need to climb right now. Make him know that you didn’t want that dude. Show him he was the only thing you wanted.

Yunho brushed past the others, not saying a word as he grabbed your hand, rough, fingers locking with yours like steel, like he needed to feel you to stay grounded. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t thank Mingi. Didn’t acknowledge Seonghwa’s wide eyed “what the fuck was that?”

He just pulled. Out the side door. Through the alley.

And straight to the car.

No words. No hesitation.

Just heat radiating off him like asphalt in the August heat, his grip ironclad and silent until he threw the driver’s door open, got in, and waited until you did the same before slamming it shut.

The engine roared to life. And still not a word.

The only sounds in the car were the pulse of your heart in your ears and the low crunch of his cracked knuckles gripping the steering wheel.

You swallowed thickly, sneaking a glance at him.

His lip was split, the crimson trailing into the corner of his mouth like a slash of warpaint. His knuckles were smeared with drying blood, his or the other guy’s, you didn’t know. His chest was still rising and falling beneath his black tee and flannel like he hadn’t quite come down yet.

And that look, his eyes glued to the road, the tight line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth twitching like he still wasn’t finished.

You clenched your thighs. Hard. Because it was too much. He looked like sin. Like a punishment.

Like a man who’d been holding it together all night and finally snapped, and now didn’t trust himself to speak because if he did, he might pull over and fuck you against the hood.

You watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he shifted gears, the bracelet on his wrist catching the streetlights in flashes of silver. Your thighs pressed tighter, core throbbing with each quiet second that passed.

You wanted him to say something.

You wanted him to do something. But the silence? It was worse. It was foreplay. Hot. Charged. Lethal.

You shifted in your seat, breath shallow.

“Yunho,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just turned the wheel, took the last corner toward your apartment and parked hard, tires squealing a little as the car jerked to a stop.

He finally looked at you then.

And oh God, the look in his eyes…. Still silent.

Still storming.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The door slammed behind you with a thud, the echo still ringing in the apartment as Yunho strode in like he was trying not to pace. His jaw was still clenched. His shoulders still tight. He was breathing through his nose like every breath might be the one that gets him under control.

You stood there in the entryway, your heels clicking on the wood floor as you watched him pull off his flannel, slow, tense, controlled, then reach behind his head and tug off his shirt.

It stuck to his skin for a second. Bloody, sweaty, soaked in a night that had ruined you both.

And still, he didn’t speak.

He tossed the shirt in the direction of the laundry basket in the hall but didn’t check if it landed.

Just walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, took a sip.

You were still standing there like a fucking Victorian ghost in a slutty dress and smeared lipstick, your thighs pressed together, heat pulsing between them like a warning siren, and he, HE, had the audacity to act like nothing happened.

He ran a hand through his hair, still silent, and finally said, muttering almost to himself, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

You blinked.

Hard.

And then your body moved before your brain did.

“Are you serious?”

He froze.

Slowly turned to face you.

You didn’t even give him time to process it.

“No. No, no, no. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to beat the shit out of someone for touching me, drag me out of the club like I’m about to be claimed in the wild, drive me home in brooding silence, and then, what? Shower? Like this is just a normal fucking Wednesday?!”

He stared at you.

And God help you, he looked even hotter under your kitchen light, busted lip, bruised knuckles, small blood smudged across his forearm, a red fingerprint on his neck where someone tried to pull him off. Bruised jaw. Like war torn sex.

“I am soaked, Yunho,” you snapped shamelessly, stepping toward him. “I’ve been soaked since you threw that guy across the floor like a ragdoll and growled at him like you were about to bite his throat out. And now you’re just gonna rinse off?!”

Yunho blinked once. Twice.

Then he let out a single laugh, dry and sharp, like it had been dragged from his chest against its will.

But it died in his throat almost as soon as it escaped.

Because something shifted in him.

His eyes darkened. His body stilled.

His hand snapped up to grab your jaw, not harsh but firm, fingers curled just beneath your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You want me like this?” he asked, voice low and hoarse, barely more than a growl. “Blood on my knuckles and barely holding it together?”

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, chest brushing yours, the heat of him swallowing you whole. The scent of sweat, blood, his skin, him, was dizzying.

“You want me when I’m this fucked up?” he whispered, words pouring hot against your lips. “When all I can think about is burying myself so deep inside you I forget why I was pissed off in the first place?”

Your knees damn near buckled.

“I almost blacked out on that floor tonight,” he murmured, eyes flicking to your mouth. “Because some asshole touched what’s mine. You think I want to just walk away from that? Go take a fucking shower like I’m not starving for you?”

You whimpered, actually whimpered, and his grip tightened just slightly, dragging your gaze back to his.

“I want you,” he said, voice thick and full of everything he hadn’t said all night. “But you’re gonna say it.”

You blinked up at him, lips trembling.

He tilted his head. “Tell me.”

“I want you,” you breathed.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Your voice cracked.

“I want you to fuck me so hard I forget we ever fought.”

His eyes snapped shut like the words hit him between the ribs harder than that guy hitting him in the jaw as he let you go. The words hung between you like smoke. thick, intoxicating, fatal.

He didn’t see you drop.

He only felt it after.

The sound of your knees hitting the floor. The rush of air as you sank down in front of him, fingers trailing down his stomach as you settled between his legs like it was the only place you belonged.

His eyes shot open.

And what he saw?

You.

Looking up at him through your lashes, mouth already parted, pupils blown wide with lust and vengeance and that sick little spark that always lit up when you wanted to ruin him.

“Fuck.” Yunho choked, the word cracked and useless, falling from his lips as he stared down at you like he couldn’t believe what you’d just done.

But you weren’t teasing.

You were starving.

And so was he.

You let your hands drag up his thighs, slow, deliberate, until you reached the waistband of his jeans, already tented, already twitching with how unbelievably hard he was.

His busted lip split wider when he bit down on it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice shaking, hands hovering at his sides. “You don’t have to…”

You looked up at him, lips brushing the fabric of his pants.

“I want to.”

One hand slipped beneath the waistband, fingers wrapping around him, hot, heavy, pulsing against your palm. He hissed, hips jerking slightly.

You pulled him out slowly, unzipping him, the way you knew drove him crazy, dragging your hand down his length and watching his body shudder from it.

And when you leaned forward and licked the tip, just the tip, his entire body snapped tight like a livewire.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, one hand flying to the back of your head, not pushing, just there, grounding himself, gripping your hair like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You didn’t take your time.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you were making a point.

You took him into your mouth, deep and filthy, lips slick and cheeks hollowed as your hand followed, twisting at the base. His breath punched out of him in a moan so ragged it almost sounded like your name.

“F… fuck, baby…” he grunted, head falling back as your tongue swirled, as you gagged slightly and kept going, tears pricking your eyes but your grip never faltering.

The blood on his knuckles. The bruise on his jaw. The taste of him on your tongue and the weight of him hitting the back of your throat, everything about him was violent, raw, and so goddamn yours.

He looked back down, his jaw slack, lips parted as he watched you ruin yourself on him, lips stretched and dripping, your eyes fluttering closed like you’d die if he didn’t come undone.

“You want me to forget the fight?” he growled, voice low and rough. “You’re doing a fucking good job of it.”

You moaned around him in response, sending vibrations up his spine and causing his breath to hitch.

Your mouth was wrapped tight and hot around him, cheeks hollowed and lips swollen, spit trailing down your chin like sin in liquid form. Your hand worked the base, slow and tight, just the way he liked it, just enough to keep him teetering on the edge while your tongue licked along the underside like you wanted him twitching from the inside out.

“Fuck…” he groaned, eyes fluttering closed, hips stuttering forward involuntarily. “You’re gonna make me…”

But he didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he couldn’t.

Instead, he pulled back, not all the way. Just far enough that his dick slipped from your lips and dropped heavy against your mouth, wet and flushed, smearing across your cheek and lips in the filthiest, most possessive display you’d ever felt.

You gasped softly, breath hot against him, tongue darting out instinctively to trace the head, and then slowly, you flattened your tongue along the side of his dick, licking him like a goddamn lollipop.

And when your eyes locked with his? You smiled. “I don’t know why you get so jealous anyways…” His breath stopped as you licked him again. Slower. “your dick’s already ruined me for anyone else.”

Silence. Dead, soul leaving his body silence as Yunho stared down at you like he’d just heard the voice of God and it was moaning his name. His chest heaved, pupils blown wide, chest gleaming with sweat, busted lip dark red and parted in pure shock.

He looked feral. Possessive. His jaw clenched, hand tightening in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you exactly who you were playing with.

“I ruined you?” he asked, voice rasping out like he barely had the air to speak.

You nodded, dragging your tongue up his shaft again before pressing a soft, open mouthed kiss to the head.

“Completely,” you whispered. “You think any other man could make me drop to my knees like this?”

That did it. His hand fisted in your hair. He pulled you up finally but not gently, and not like a man with self control. Like a man who was done holding back.

His mouth crashed into yours, rough, biting, blood smeared, and when he shoved you against the kitchen counter, your back arching and your legs spreading instinctively, you knew exactly what was coming.

“Say it again,” he growled into your mouth, grinding against you through your dress.

“Say you’re mine.”

You barely got the words out between gasps, his mouth devouring yours, the heat of him pressing against you like he was seconds from splitting in two.

“Yours…” you breathed, voice already breaking as his tongue slid hot and hungry against yours. You clung to his shoulders, grinding up against him like your body didn’t care that you were in the kitchen, on the edge, half drunk and half mad.

“All yours.”

Yunho grabbed your waist and lifted you like you, slamming you down on the kitchen counter, the thud echoing through the apartment.

He shoved your knees apart in one motion, his frame crowding yours completely. Then came that dress. That little black fucking dress.

He pushed it up, rough, almost angry, and when his eyes landed on the space between your thighs, everything stopped. His jaw locked. His nostrils flared. “You didn’t wear panties,” he growled.

You met his gaze, all fire and challenge, heart hammering. “Nope.”

A sound left him, low and dark and almost a snarl.

“You went to that fucking club,” he said, voice sharp with disbelief, “after everything today… dressed like that… with nothing on under this fucking dress?”

You didn’t flinch. Just held his stare and whispered, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

His hands gripped your thighs so tight you gasped, bruises incoming, and he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter with a force that nearly knocked the salt shaker over.

His eyes dropped back between your legs, where your pussy glistened under the low light, slick, swollen, already needy just from the weight of his voice. He licked his lips, his busted one splitting slightly again from the pressure. Blood be damned, he needed a taste.

“You walked around all night like this?” he muttered, dragging two fingers up your slit so slowly you saw stars. “With this pussy dripping for me the whole time?”

You moaned, helpless, arching, wrecked from the pressure of just that.

“Answer me,” he snapped, fingers teasing at your entrance but not pushing in, his breath hot against your throat.

“Yes,” you whimpered. “I wanted to mess with you…. to watch you lose your mind.”

He laughed, low and wrecked and dangerous.

“You want to see what that looks like, baby?” he whispered, kissing your neck before his voice dropped darker. “I’ll fucking show you.” He dropped to his knees. Right there, on the tile.

Dragging you to the edge of the counter, spreading you wider, arms locked under your thighs as he dove into you like a starving man, like he was angry, desperate, and starved for the taste of you.

You screamed.

His mouth was brutal, tongue flattening against your clit with every pass, lips sealing around you like he was trying to suck your soul out through your cunt. And when you tried to close your legs, he growled, deep and low, holding you open as his nose brushed your folds and his tongue pushed deep inside you.

You nearly came right there as his tongue fucked into you with a rhythm that felt dangerous, mouth slick and hot as he pinned your thighs wide and buried his face deeper like he wanted to drown in your pussy. And God, he was so good at it.

Every flick. Every suck. Every guttural sound he made as he licked you like a man starving, it hit every nerve, every shaking muscle, until you could barely even breathe. And then you felt it. His fingers.

Two of them, wet from his mouth, slick and long, sliding into your cunt like he owned it. Curling deep and pounding harder, pushing against that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your skull.

You clawed at the counter, heels digging into the drawers, hips jerking helplessly as he tongue fucked your clit and finger fucked your pussy with ruthless, relentless thrusts.

“Oh my God…. Yunho, I’m… fuck, I’m….”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down.

And you were too wrecked to notice that while one hand worked your cunt, the other, wet from your own slick, had slid lower, fingers circling your ass. He pushed one inside. You gasped, the sound jagged, more like a sob than a moan. Not pain. Shock. Pleasure so sharp it made you twitch.

Your pussy clenched wildly around his fingers as his tongue licked harder, and then he added a second finger to your ass. Slow at first, then pushing deeper. The stretch. The fullness. His tongue fucking into you. You shattered.

Screaming. Shaking. Legs trembling so hard your heel knocked over a jar of cinnamon that crashed to the floor unheard. Your orgasm hit like lightning, ripping through you as his tongue kept moving, his fingers kept fucking your ass full, your pussy dripping, your voice gone.

But Yunho didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. He slid his fingers out of your ass and thrust three of them back into your cunt, sticky, soaking wet, so thick it burned deliciously as he shoved them in to the knuckle.

He pulled his mouth away and looked up at you from between your thighs, face soaked, lips swollen, eyes wild as he stood back up.

Then his free hand gripped your chin, hard enough to tilt your head and force your dazed, tear filled gaze to lock with his. “Fuck yourself on them,” he growled.

Your thighs trembled against his forearms, your back arched, sweat clinging to your skin as you tried, really tried, to move. To fuck yourself on his fingers like he told you to. But your body was wrecked.

Still twitching. Still fluttering from your orgasm. Your clit throbbed, your pussy clenched tight around his fingers, still soaking wet and stretched wide, and he hadn’t even really fucked you yet.

“Come on,” Yunho rasped, voice wrecked, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to make you look at him. “You said you were mine. Show me.”

You moaned, high and breathless, as you reached down, trembling hands fumbling for his wrist, trying to ground yourself.

Your fingers wrapped around his thick forearm, nails digging in, and you rocked, hips lifting off the counter, pushing yourself down on his hand with a broken cry. But it wasn’t enough.

Your body jolted from overstimulation. Your legs were too weak. Your core too sensitive. You whined in frustration, grinding down again but gasping halfway through the motion, overwhelmed and desperate.

“I…. I can’t….” you choked out. “I want to, I just… fuck, Yunho, I can’t do enough!” Your voice cracked as he stared down at you like a man seeing divinity for the first time.

You. Completely undone. Trying so hard to please him you were shaking. Still soaked. Still needy. Still his as he leaned in slowly, lips brushing yours as he whispered, “You’re trying for me even when you’re falling apart.”

You whimpered. His fingers curled inside you just right and your legs jerked.

“You know how fucking beautiful that is?” he whispered. “You look so sweet when you’re desperate for me.”

You moaned into his mouth, still pushing, still riding the edge of madness as your walls fluttered helplessly around his fingers, so close to the edge again it was embarrassing.

“Let me take over,” he murmured against your lips.

And when you nodded, meek and broken and begging, he growled, low and feral.

“Good girl.”

He pulled his fingers from your pussy with a filthy sound, and you gasped, collapsing against his chest, body shaking. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you like you and you wrapped your arms around his neck, still dazed, lips brushing his throat.

“Bed,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “Please, Yunho…”

He didn’t answer, just carried you down the hallway and into your bedroom like a man on a mission, and made a hard left.

Straight past the mattress.

Straight to the far wall.

To the floor length mirror.

You blinked, confused, until you met the cool surface of the mirror and Yunho pressed into you, hips grinding against you as his hands slid down to your ass.

Your eyes opened wide.

And you saw it.

You saw everything.

Your ruined dress hiked around your waist.

Your slick thighs trembling.

Your lipstick smeared from moaning into his mouth.

Your chest rising and falling like you were trying not to cry from how badly you needed him again.

Yunho stared into the mirror, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread open against the glass.

His voice was low, rough, and feral.

“I’m not taking you to bed,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Yunho…”

“No.” His eyes burned into yours. “I want you to watch.”

“I want you to see how I fuck you,” he growled. “I want you to look in that mirror and watch me really ruin you for anyone else.”

You were breathless.

Heart pounding.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, still expecting him to slide into you, to lift your leg and finally, finally take what was already his.

But instead? He stepped back. And started taking off the rest of his clothes.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Your breath caught as you watched his busted knuckles.

Dried blood flaking down the side of his ring finger. A smear near his wrist. A dark bruise already blooming on the back of his hand.

And then your eyes dragged upward, over the slope of his jaw to that beautiful mouth. His lips, still swollen. The bottom one split and drying now.

You clenched your thighs so hard it almost hurt.

And the worst part?

You knew his mother would call this blasphemy. She’d throw holy water at you through the phone, clutch her rosary, say three Hail Marys and ask Saint Veronica or whatever the hell that girl’s name is, to shield her baby boy from the succubus in the mirror.

Too late.

Because you weren’t sorry.

You were more turned on than you’d ever been in your entire life.

You couldn’t stop staring, at the bruises, at the blood, at the way he stood before you, naked now except for the weight of his rage and the throb of his dick, hard and leaking.

“Fucking look at you,” Yunho muttered, stepping closer. “Pressed up against that mirror, staring at me like I’m a goddamn drug.”

You whimpered as he stepped behind you again, his dick brushed the swell of your ass. One big hand came up to cup your throat, not tight, just there, possessive and warm and so him.

“That what I am to you?” he whispered against your neck. “Something you can’t quit?”

You moaned.

And in the mirror, your eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he growled, hand tightening just a little. “Keep them open. I want you to see exactly what kind of man you’re letting ruin you.”

Yunho’s voice was dark silk, frayed, trembling on the edge of something unholy. His hand was still wrapped loosely around your throat, not choking, just there, a reminder. A claim.

And behind you, you felt him line up.

Thick. Hot. Ready.

He didn’t thrust, not yet. Just slid the head of his dick through your folds, slow and teasing, smearing your slick everywhere as you twitched against the mirror, your breath fogging up the glass.

“You feel this?” he muttered, rubbing the tip against your clit with just enough pressure to make you gasp. “You’re soaked. Messy all over me.”

You moaned, pushing back against him, thighs shaking.

“Still begging for more even after I finger fucked your ass and made you come all over my face.”

Your eyes rolled back and he growled, deep, rough, animalistic.

“Eyes on the mirror. Now.”

You obeyed. Because how could you not? The reflection was pure sin.

You, flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and dazed.

Him, bruised, blood streaked, dark and towering behind you, dick thick, big and twitching against your pussy. He pushed in. Just the tip.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan, your fingers clawing at the mirror, trying to stay upright as he held you still and slowly, agonizingly slowly, slid in another inch. Then another. Stretching you wide, your body pulsing around him.

“Still so fucking tight,” he rasped against your ear, voice strained like it was costing him everything not to slam into you. “You take me like you were made for me.” And you loved it.

Every possessive word. Every filthy groan. The bruises, the blood, the way his dick made you feel owned. A little toxic. But you didn’t care. You arched your back, pressing your ass against his hips.

“You like this,” he said, tone dark and almost accusing, like he couldn’t believe the shameless, needy moans falling from your lips. “You like knowing you’re mine. That no one else’ll ever get this pussy again.”

You looked right into the mirror. Met his eyes. And grinned. “Your mom would be so disappointed in me,” you panted, voice high and wrecked. “Guess Saint Vanessa, or Veronica, or whatever the hell her name is, doesn’t get off to blood and bruises.”

Yunho snapped.

His hand clamped tighter around your throat, not choking, but claiming, and he slammed into you with one brutal thrust that shook the mirror and knocked every coherent thought from your skull.

You screamed. Loud. Messy. Wrecked. He didn’t stop.

He fucked you hard, each thrust knocking your body forward as he held you up like a doll, his dick driving so deep it punched the air from your lungs. You heard the slap of skin, the creak of the mirror, your own choked moans.

And through it all, you watched in the reflection of the glass.

Watched your body shake. Watched your mouth fall open in silent pleasure. Watched the dark, dangerous man behind you lose himself in you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

He wasn’t coming yet. This wasn’t about that. This was about making you remember exactly who you belonged to.

Your moans cracked apart into sobs. Your hands slipped down the mirror, leaving streaks in the fog from your breath and the heat of your body. He just kept fucking you. Deep. Brutal. Possessive.

One hand gripped your thigh, the other curved tight around your waist like he was afraid to let go. And all you could do was take it, choke on your own cries, mouth falling open with every thrust as your pussy fluttered around his dick, so wet, so swollen, so wrecked.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” Yunho groaned, lips brushing your ear. “Dripping. Shaking. Dumb for my dick.”

Your eyes rolled back. Your hips pushed back on instinct.

“And you love it, don’t you?” he growled. “You love when I’m like this, fucked up, furious, making you take every inch like a good fucking girl.”

“Y…. Yes… yes, fuck, Yunho!”

His grip on your waist tightened as he drove deeper. “You want sweet? That’s for Saint Vanessa. You want me? This is what you get.”

You came again with a scream, your entire body spasming against the glass, legs giving out, completely ruined, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave of sin and surrender.

Yunho kissed your shoulder, soft for just a breath. Then he pulled out.

And you whimpered, the loss unbearable. But before you could collapse completely, he scooped you up, carrying you to the bed like you were made of glass. Only you weren’t. You were made to be broken.

He didn’t throw you down. He placed you, on your hands and knees, your dress bunched around your hips, your body still twitching. But the mirror…

The mirror was still in view.

You caught sight of yourself, face flushed, eyes wide, hair wild, tears dried on your cheeks, and behind you, him. Towering. Silent. Bloody. Bruised. Hard.

Yunho climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your legs wider. His palm came down on your ass, hard, the crack echoing and you yelped, your body jolting forward.

He growled, grabbing your throat from behind, fingers wrapping firm around it, not choking, just owning as he leaned in close to your ear, voice so low it made your spine arch.

“I don’t need church,” he whispered. “Not when I see God every time I fuck you.”

And then he slammed into you from behind. Hard. The bed shook. You screamed.

Yunho set a rhythm that had no mercy, his dick punching deep, every thrust sending shockwaves through your entire body. You could barely hold yourself up on your arms, your thighs shaking, your hands gripping the sheets like lifelines.

And in the mirror, you watched it happen. You. Bent. Spread. Eyes rolled back. Him. Hand on your throat. Blood on his mouth. Possessed.

Wrecking you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Look at you,” he growled. “So fucking beautiful when you’re ruined.” He slipped your dress on off, tossing it somewhere on the floor.

Your mouth dropped open as he slapped your ass again, then gripped it to pull you back harder on his dick, fucking into you so deep your arms nearly gave out.

“Who do you belong to?” he asked, panting, voice shaking now.

“You,” you sobbed. “Yunho…. fuck, you!”

And the mirror reflected it all. Your confessional. Your surrender. Your salvation.

“Fucking perfect,” Yunho growled behind you, hips snapping into yours with a rhythm so brutal it made your vision blur. “You’re taking me so deep, baby. You feel that?”

You did. God, you did.

Every inch. Every vein. Every stretch of his dick had you clenching, fluttering, crying around him.

You could barely hold yourself up anymore, arms trembling as your body rocked forward with every thrust. The mirror still showed the wreckage, your open mouth, your glassy eyes, the way his hand on your throat kept you steady even as he unraveled you from behind.

“I can feel you about to come again,” he panted, breath catching in his throat. “This pretty little pussy’s choking me.”

You sobbed something, his name, maybe, or just a plea, and Yunho groaned, hips faltering just once as his hand slid down your belly, curling around your waist.

And he slowed. Not stopped. Not gentle.

But that punishing pace softened, replaced by something deeper. More intimate. More devastating.

His hand left your throat and slid around your front to cup your chest, pulling you up slowly until your back was flush against his chest and you were both kneeling on the bed, still joined, still locked together.

The mirror reflected everything now. Your body, shaking, your mouth, open, your skin, marked. And Yunho? A mess.

His busted lip pressed to your shoulder. His hand trembling where it gripped your breast. His eyes burning as he stared at the reflection of you both, his forehead pressed to your temple, hips grinding slower now, deeper.

Right there. Right on the edge.

“Look at us,” he whispered, voice raw and broken. “Look what we are.”

You whimpered, body so close to unraveling again you could barely breathe.

“After everything today,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder, “you’re still mine. Still here. Still letting me love you like this.”

You blinked tears. “Yunho…”

“I’m close,” he groaned. “Fuck, baby, I’m…”

He pulled out of you gently, and you gasped, ready to beg for him back, but he turned you around, guiding you down with such care it made your heart seize.

Your back hit the mattress. Your legs fell open.

And Yunho, bruised, blood stained, beautiful, hovered over you like you were the only thing in the world that could save him.

He looked into your eyes as he pushed back in, deep and slow.

You moaned, hands flying to his shoulders, your body stretching around him again like it was made to.

“I love you,” he whispered. “No one’s ever gonna touch you. Not after this.”

You nodded, tears streaking your cheeks. “Only you. Always you.”

He kissed you then, desperate, open mouthed, sweet and ruined as he started to move again. Slow. Deep. Loving.

You clung to him.

And as your body clenched around him, tight and wet and so incredibly his, you felt him gasp.

“Come with me,” he begged. “One more time, baby. Just once more.”

And you did.

Together. Wrapped in each other. Shaking, crying, kissing between gasps as he spilled into you and you shattered around him, lips whispering love and reverence like prayers as your bodies gave out.

You didn’t need anything else.

Just him.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The sun was pouring through the curtains in soft gold, casting lazy stripes across the bed, the sheets… the clothes still scattered all over the floor like the aftermath of a spiritual and physical exorcism.

You were half sprawled across Yunho’s chest, one thigh tossed over his waist, your mouth slack against his collarbone, his hand still curled around your hip possessively even in sleep.

He was knocked out cold, busted lip healing, but otherwise calm, peaceful.

Which was ironic.

Because last night, this bed had been ground zero for a war zone. And the mirror still across the room bore the faint handprint smudges to prove it.

It was a rare kind of silence. Too rare. The kind that should’ve been a warning. The front door opened. You didn’t stir. Neither did Yunho.

But fate didn’t need your permission today.

“Yunho, sweetheart?” a familiar voice called gently. “Are you home? You didn’t answer my calls.”

The sound of heels on hardwood. A gasp. The kind only a Korean mother with a key she wasn’t supposed to have and a deeply Catholic soul could make.

“Oh… oh sweet Virgin Mary!”

You jerked awake.

Yunho startled hard, blinking groggily, hand tightening on your thigh like he’d just woken up in a battle field. “What the fuck….”

That’s when you heard it.

“JEONG YUNHO!”

He sat up so fast he knocked your arm off his chest, blanket sliding down to reveal your entire very naked, thoroughly marked body.

And standing frozen in the doorway?

His mother.

In slacks. With a handbag. And a face that looked like she’d just seen Lucifer himself and he was balls deep in her son’s girlfriend.

“Mom?”

She raised a hand. “Don’t even, don’t you dare speak right now!”

Her eyes swept the room, his busted lip, the mirror across the room with streaks still fogged up, and the unmistakable smell of sex so thick in the air it could’ve been bottled and sold at Sephora.

You, bless your brave, exhausted, freshly fucked soul, pulled the sheet up just enough to cover your chest and rested your chin on Yunho’s shoulder.

Yunho made a choked noise as his mom’s eyes bugged.

“I… You….” she sputtered, clutching her bag like it might save her. “I came to drop off side dishes! I didn’t come to witness my son’s moral collapse!”

“Too late for that,” you mumbled under your breath.

“What was that?!”

“Nothing,” you said, batting your lashes.

Yunho groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Mom, seriously. Why do you even have a key?”

“Because I thought my son was in need of spiritual nourishment, not….” she gestured wildly between your bodies, “living in debauchery!”

You smiled sweetly, full of pettiness. “Would you like some coffee before you go?”

She backed out of the room like she was escaping a crime scene, muttering to herself about incense and repentance and how many Hail Marys it takes to erase what she just saw.

The door slammed. Silence. And then? Yunho looked at you, utterly deadpan.

“She’s never going to cook for me again.”

You shrugged, curling back into his chest. “That’s fine. I’ll ruin your soul and your cooking standards.”

He laughed, truly laughed and kissed the top of your head.

“Worth it.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

you never expected yunho to turn up at your door like that. especially not after one of his shows in london just the day before and his next show was just four days away in paris. and certainly not at 2a.m. in the morning. 

you tried your best to rub the sleep from your eyes as you opened the door in your duck pajamas.

“who— yunho?”

he stood there in your apartment hallway, shifting from foot to foot, backpack slung across his shoulders, his mask tucked under his chin. 

“surprise…?” he said softly, smiling that big goofy smile at you. as if he didn’t catch the last flight out to see you.

your jaw dropped. you blinked. hard. twice. just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. that it wasn’t just a dream and the lack of sleep was catching up to you.

he gave a little wave with the hand not holding his phone.

“well,” he continued. “you said wish you were here. and you sent me loads of that jet2holiday meme on the internet all week. it was cheap. so, i, uh, booked a jet2flight to see you.” he scratched the back of his neck, his voice hoarse from the cold, or maybe the lack of use during the flight.

you stared.

he stared back. sheepishly smiling. “you’re wearing your duck pajamas.”

you groaned. “i swear the duck pajamas is always at the scene of the crime.”

you gently pulled him into your apartment and as soon as the door clicked shut, you immediately buried yourself into his chest. “i missed you.” you mumbled softly.

he wraps his arms tightly around you, like he’s trying to make up for every second spent apart, as if you would disappear if he didn’t hold you a little tighter. “i think i missed you more.”

you huffed into his hoodie, a soft laugh muffled against him. “so much that you booked a jet2 flight to see me?”

“they’re not wrong when they said nothing beats a jet2holiday.” he replied, pulling back enough to look you in the eye, his grin still evident on his face. “except you.” 

you bury your face into his hoodie, trying (and failing) to hide the blush creeping up your face. “jeong yunho… when did you get so smooth?”

“i’ve had time to prepare my material. i haven’t seen you in too long.” he said, arms still wrapped snugly around you. 

all of those phone calls couldn’t compare to this.

“yunho…”you hesitated, glancing up at him. “does your manager know?”

he blinked.

paused.

“no.”he replied shamelessly. “but hongjoong does.” 

“you told hongjoong but not your manager? i think your manager wants to kill me.” you groan.

“he would never. you’re too important for my heart.” he kissed the top of your head. “plus, i would need someone to cover for me if i didn’t make it back in time.”

your jaw dropped. “yunho!”

“relax, i’ll be back before paris.” he said casually, like he’d just popped out to the convenience store and not literally fled the country for you. plus risked a manager-induced death sentence. “and hongjoong enabled this. hongjoong believes in love.”

you narrowed your eyes. 

“…unbelievable.”

he grinned, letting you tug him gently toward your room, and trailing behind you like a lost puppy. 

“what if i wasn’t home?” you asked, handing him a towel from your shelf.

he looked up.

“what?”

“i mean, seriously. what if i didn’t open the door? what if i was out? or asleep? or just… simply didn’t hear you knock?”

yunho stopped behind you. his lips twitched.

“you? out?”

you blinked.

“you begged me not to drag you out of the house when we’re together. you actively protest fresh air. the odds of you being anywhere but here at 2 a.m. are lower than the price of my jet2 flight.”

you opened your mouth to argue, and then promptly closed it again.

“…okay, fair.”

he stepped closer, leaning in to nudge his forehead against the side of your head.

“you were home. i knew you’d be home.”

“yeah, but what if—”

“i would’ve sat outside like a tragic gwishin with unfinished business until you opened the door.”

“yunho.”

“i would’ve survived. i had snacks in my bag.”

“oh my god.”

you laughed despite yourself, nudging him with your elbow as you pushed open your bathroom door.

yunho’s eyes softened as he watched you turn to grab the spare toothbrush you kept tucked behind the mirror, like you were preparing for this exact moment without ever admitting it. 

“i’ll be right outside.” you muttered softly, giving him a soft smile and making your way back into your room.

the bathroom door clicked shut behind you as you padded back to your bed and crawled under the covers, heart thudding just a little faster than it had any right to. 

he was here.

in your bathroom. using your toothbrush. your towel. sharing your toothpaste. 

he came all the way here. for you.

the bathroom door creaked open a few minutes later, steam curling out into the room. yunho stepped out in one of the spare clothes he brought along with him, which happened to be the duck pajamas matching set you bought for him last tour. 

yellow. comfy. adorable.

his hair was still damp from the shower, just falling below his eyes. he grinned at you. “this reminds me about the time when you came along last tour.” 

you smiled at the memory. “when you bribed my roommate?” 

“mmhm.” he hummed. “no regrets though.”

“you gave her your single room. and chocolate.”

that had been such a whirlwind trip. stolen moments between rehearsals, shared meals in dimly lit hotel rooms, falling asleep to the sound of him humming whatever song had been stuck in his head that week, him being stuck with you in economy seats. you hadn’t even meant to go. but yunho had asked you, and smiled that same boyish smile he was giving you right now.

“the hairdryer is in the bottom drawer.” you nodded towards the dresser.

he padded over and crouched to open it, tugging the handle with one hand while the other pushed his damp hair out of his face. you watched as he fished out the dryer, then paused to glance over his shoulder. “do you mind if i dry my hair in here?” 

“not at all.” you patted the empty space next to you. “come here.”

he hesitated for a second, then crossed the room, hairdryer in one hand, heart basically in the other.

the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat beside you. you took the dryer from his hands without a word, and plugged it in, moving to kneel behind him and gently running your hand through his hair as the low whir of warm air filled the room.

“you’re really good at this.” he murmured softly, leaning into your touch.

you smiled, smoothing your fingers through his damp hair as you moved the hairdryer slowly. “i should be. i’ve had practice. you made me do this in like four different countries.”

he huffed a quiet laugh. “you always did it better than i could. and your touch is always better than the hotel air.”

“well, you bribed me with room service.”

“and forehead kisses.”

“true. that too.” 

eventually, you clicked the dryer off and set it aside, running your hands through his now-dry hair to shake out the last bit of dampness.

“all done,” you whispered. 

he turned his head slightly, looking up at you with a small smile, his hair fluffed and curling slightly at the ends, his eyes soft and half-lidded from sleep. “thank you.”

“only for my favourite international fugitive.” you teased.

“favourite? so there are others?”

“well,” you drawled, settling beside him, “the one who brought me macarons from paris last year still holds a special place in my heart.”

he groaned dramatically and dropped his head to your shoulder.

“i knew those macarons would come back to haunt me. don’t my business class cookies make up for it?” he pouted at you with the most ridiculous kicked-puppy expression.

“they were pistachio. i don’t forget pistachio.”

he nuzzled closer, pulling you down with him so you’re laying on his chest. “i promise to get you dubai chocolate the next time. from that fancy shop wooyoung keeps going off about.” 

“deal.” you smiled sleepily, eyes fluttering close. “now go to sleep, yuyu. i’ll be right here when you wake up.”

—-

bonus scene:

buzz.

buzz.

buzz.

“don’t move.” you mumbled, voice still rough with sleep as you tightened your arms around yunho. “you’re warm.”

“so is hell.” yunho whispered back. “and i think that’s where hongjoong is going to send me.”

18 messages. from hongjoong. and the most recent one read:

hongjoong:

JEONG YUNHO. WHERE ARE YOU?? YOU PROMISED TO BE BACK IN 24-HOURS. IT’S BEEN FOURTY-EIGHT. MANAGER-NIM IS COMING FOR MY HEAD.

yunho winced, tilting his phone to satisfy your curious gaze.

you winced in sympathy. “…that’s a lot of caps.”

“he’s going to shave my head in my sleep.” he muttered, tapping his phone nervously.

hongjoong:

DON’T JUST LEAVE MY MESSAGES ON READ. OR I’LL GIVE YOUR SOLO SONG TO SAN.

yunho let out a genuine noise of panic. “he’s not kidding.”

“yunho. he never is. captain is angry angry. though having san covering your song is not a bad idea—“ 

right on cue:

choi san:

…why me? 

yeosang:

yunho. please come back and spare us from hongjoong hyung’s wrath. 

jongho:

y/n. if you’re reading this please save us. please ask your golden retriever of a boyfriend to come back. i’m begging you.

you laughed so hard you had to bury your face in his shoulder to muffle it. 

“golden retriever of a boyfriend.” you repeated, grinning stupidly into his hoodie.

yunho collapsed onto the pillow with a groan.

“i can’t even be mad. it’s accurate.”

“very,” you said, smiling down at him. “do i text them back? or are you going to crawl under the blankets and fake your death?”

“tempting,” he muttered. “but if i don’t get on that plane, san really will be forced to learn my choreo and cry.”

“at this point, san is just the scapegoat.” you laughed, reaching for your phone and typing a reply into the group chat. 

you:

he’s alive. well-fed. mildly guilty. packing now.

i’ll personally escort him to the airport if that’s what it takes. with snacks.

hang in there. 🫠

yunho groaned and flopped onto his back, flinging a hand dramatically over his face.

“do you think if i stay here long enough, they’ll just assume i’ve defected and replace me with a hologram?”

“do you think hongjoong won’t find a way to teleport here himself?”

“…right. i’ll go pack.”

“your manager is really going to kill me.” you muttered under your breath as you handed him the hoodie he left crumpled on the chair. 

“they said that they’re going to send wooyoung next— speak of the devil, yunho, he’s calling.”

yunho peeked at the screen and visibly flinched. “should i answer?”

“you better. or he’s going to come for me instead.” 

with a groan that sounded very much like someone walking into their own funeral, yunho tapped accept and put the phone on speaker.

wooyoung didn’t waste a second.

“YUNHO. WHY ARE WE REHEARSING WITH A CARDBOARD CUTOUT OF YOU.”

yunho nearly dropped the phone. 

“wait—what?!” 

“seonghwa printed it and gave it a mic stand, yunho. a mic stand. you left a mic-shaped hole in this group and now you’ve been replaced with laminated paper.”

you choked on a laugh.

“hi, wooyoung,” you called sweetly. “sorry for stealing him.”

“y/n. please. for the love of jongho’s remaining patience, escort this man to the airport before hongjoong explodes. or combusts. or, wait hang on—”

there was a pause.

“…okay now he’s pacing and muttering choreography corrections to the cardboard. this is getting dark. do something. oh, yunho, why did you abandon us in the name of love?” wooyoung continued.

yunho glanced at you, then shrugged, like the answer was obvious.

“cause… nothing beats a jet2holiday?”

there was a beat of stunned silence on the other end. 

“y/n,” wooyoung said flatly. “you’ve officially broken him.”

you tried to bite back a laugh, failing instantly as yunho beamed with zero shame.

“he’s beyond repair,” wooyoung continued. “he’s quoting travel memes, y/n. jet2 memes. hongjoong’s going to shave his head and yours for good measure.”

“guilty as charged. sorry not sorry for sending him all those tiktoks the past week.”

you hear wooyoung heave a big sigh over the phone. a long, suffering, i-aged-three-years-in-three-minutes kind of sigh.  “i’m ending the call. y/n, i’m trusting you to ship him off to us in one piece and—“

“will do! bye, wooyoung!” you chirped quickly, not giving him the chance to spiral into another dramatic monologue.

you reached over and cheerfully tapped end call before he could finish, the screen going blissfully silent.

yunho blinked.

“you hung up on him.”

“i did,” you replied, completely unbothered. “for your sake.”

“and his blood pressure,” he added with a grin.

“exactly.”

yunho looked at you helplessly, hoodie half on, pillow marks still on his cheek as you playfully hit him with one of your pillows.

“okay, okay. i’m going. i’m going.”

“you better be on a plane before the cutout gets fan mail.”

he snorted, catching the pillow and pulling you into his arms.

“and yet, hongjoong might flatten me as soon as i land.” he muttered into your hair.

“please don’t allow him to.”you said, shaking your head slightly. “i like you three-dimensional.” 

he smiled, soft and crooked and maybe, just a little lovesick.

“you like me that much, huh?”

“i like you just enough to keep you from being turned into a 2D anime character.”

he laughed, tightening his hold around your waist.

“guess i’ll have to make it back in one piece then.”

“exactly. so no detours, no last-minute snack missions, no pretending to miss your flight because ‘the stars told you to stay’.”

“no promises.” he smirked, already sounding like he was planning to do at least two of those things.

“yunho.” you deadpanned.

he blinked innocently.

“what?”

“hongjoong is going to haunt me in my sleep if you don’t get on your flight.”

you reached up to fix a strand of his hair sticking out from under his hoodie, and brushed a wrinkle from his sleeve.

“i’ll miss you.” he said softly. 

you squeezed his fingers gently, trying not to show too much of how tightly your heart pulled. “i’ll miss you too. now go get on a plane before your leader combusts.”

“yes, ma’am.”

he pressed one last kiss to your forehead, reluctant fingers brushing your hand as he pulled away.

“i’ll see you soon.” he whispered.

you nodded. “text me when you land.”

“So to what do I owe this pleasure?” He said as he fell on to the couch beside you. 

You started unpacking the food. “Well, I heard from Jongho that you haven’t had lunch yet and since I’m busy this weekend, I thought we could spend some time together.” 

“So you wanted a lunch date?”

You shrugged. “Something like that.” You picked up the last container and held it out for him. “Plus, I got you aburasoba?” 

Seonghwa gasped and leaned forward, making grabby hands. 

Your entire body shook as you tried to contain the laughter while wheezing, “God you are so cute when it comes to food.”

Seonghwa held the box almost reverently. “Aburasoba is a gift from the gods and I stand by that.”

“Just eat, you devoted disciple.” 

While Seonghwa dug in, you unwrapped the box of sushi you had ordered for yourself.

“Hwa, I really want to know what that call was about.”

Seonghwa held up a finger telling you to wait while he swallowed. “It was about some code Hongjoong did for personal health devices like fitness watches. It’s just going through the final phases now.”

“And what about at the end?”

Seonghwa looked at you, another large bite halfway up to his mouth.

“How did your meeting guess it was me? And what did they say about me?”

“Are you nervous?” He asked seriously.

You answered in a small voice, “Maybe.”

Seonghwa’s expression immediately softened and he lowered his container to his lap. “Don’t be. It was a financier from Berlin. They’d seen your name on all the documents you sent over, and they were curious who you were. ”

He looked at his food and circled it with his chopsticks for a moment. 

“Also, I might have talked you up a lot, and looked real happy while I did it. That’s why they knew it was you after I smiled, and then spent the last 5 minutes of the call teasing me.”

You let out a breathy laugh and relaxed deep into the couch cushions. “That’s very reassuring and also kind of cute to hear.”

Seonghwa put his food down again, this time with a coy smile. “Do you think I am cute?” 

Your lips parted into a nervous laugh as you looked away. “There may be evidence suggesting that.” 

“Well, I think you’re cute.” 

But he just had to say it after you bit on a piece of sushi, and some of the filling fell out. Acting quickly, Seonghwa grabbed a serviette and picked it up off your lap.

“You eat too quickly.” 

You watched him set the tissue aside, and resume shovelling large bites of noodles into his mouth.

You giggled. “No, Seonghwa. You eat too quickly.” 

You put your little box of sushi down and scooted forward. You took Seonghwa’s takeout container from him, then his chopsticks.

He gave you a wry smile. “What are you you up to y/n?”

You lifted up some noodles. “Say ah.” 

He scoffed a laugh but leaned forward and opened his mouth wide, even though it was a smaller bite than he’d take. His eyes looked even rounder as he looked at you while slipping up his food. 

“That’s it, chew slowly, enjoy it,” you murmured approvingly.

After swallowing his food, Seonghwa grabbed your tray of sushi from the table. “Let me feed you. I can’t be the only one eating.”

Your hands holding his noodles slumped to your lap. “Hwa…” 

Seonghwa resolutely shook his head. “Your turn. Say ah.” 

“Ah?” It came out like a short question. You looked at neither him nor the sushi when you took a bite. Unsure of where you were reaching, you felt your lips graze his fingertips just as you bit into the sushi.

Only then did you look at Seonghwa again, with a little noise of surprise leaving your currently stuffed mouth. 

Seonghwa took in your stuffed cheeks and wide eyes in amusement. “Yeah, you’re definitely cute when you eat.” 

He then raised his hand to his mouth as he licked off a bit of sauce that had gotten on his finger from your sushi. 

Watching him, you almost forgot to swallow. Your fingers almost fumbled the box of noodles in your hand as you collected the last bite onto the chopsticks. 

“Come here.” Your words were more stilted and quieter now. “Say ah.” 

Seonghwa leaned in — fast. His back lifted off the side of the couch, and he leaned on his hands for balance. You didn’t move back, just took in a swift breath in surprise. The noodles and chopsticks hung suspended in the air for a moment.

“Y/n?” 

You lowered the chopsticks. “I don’t want to feed you right now. Not when you’re like this.” 

Seonghwa’s lips curled at the corners as he watched you lean away to put the takeout container down. He didn’t pull away. “Yeah? What do you want instead?” 

You swallowed and looked down at his hands, inches away from your knees. You rubbed your thumb over his wrist, then dragged it up his forearm, occasionally feeling the tendons shifting below. 

His eyes followed your movements. “If you keep doing that, I’ll lose my balance and fall,” he warned. 

 You looked up at him. “Maybe I want you to fall.” 

His breath hitched. He watched as you dragged your hand down again. You slid your fingers below his, like you were about to pick up his hand, but before you did, he lowered himself on to his elbows. Your body mirrored his, until you were lying back on the couch, and he hovered above you. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He asked, his voice just above a whisper. 

“Maybe.” You rested your hand behind his neck. “Actually no.” 

“No?” He cocked his to the side. 

You wet your lips and applied more pressure on his neck to draw his face closer. Seonghwa didn’t resist. His eyes fluttered closed as he rested his lips against yours. It was soft, until he sucked your bottom lip in between his. 

You hooked both hands around his neck. He shifted further forward, his knees pressing into your thighs. One hand went to your waist, squeezing it and you sighed into the kiss. Seonghwa responded by kissing you harder, tongue grazing the inside of your lips. 

But it was still lunch hour, inside an unlocked office in the middle of the workday. Seonghwa pulled back first. He rubbed your cheek with his finger, feeling its warmth. 

“You’re pretty like this,” he said. 

You smiled and pulled him back to you again. 

You felt him chuckle against your lips as he kissed you again, briefly. 

“This was better than lunch you know?” You said, nodding with your chin towards your uneaten sushi. 

“Sorry about that,” Seonghwa replied, while his fingers traced your jaw line. 

You scoffed. “Liar. This was the best part of your day.” 

“Can you blame me? I just got to kiss the girl I’ve been crushing on for years.” 

You knew you wouldn’t see Seonghwa again until the end of the day when you were both heading home together. 

So when your door opened just as you were leaving for the day and Wooyoung popped in, it was hard to hide your disappointment.

“Don’t give me that look,” he growled. 

“I can’t help it, I was looking forward to something.” 

“Yeah, Seonghwa. I know.” Wooyoung marched up to your desk and placed an invitation card on it. 

“What’s this?” You asked as you picked it up and examined it. “And why is it addressed to Jongho?” 

“It’s an editorial with a health and wellness magazine. They want a piece on what Jongho’s been working on, but he’s in Bratislava that week, so I was hoping to send you instead.” 

“Me?” You handed the card back to him with a frown. “How would I do an interview on Jongho’s research? I only handled the financing.” 

Wooyoung smirked. “Questions are sent in advance and Jongho has already prepared the answers. You just need to learn them.” 

You raised an eyebrow at Wooyoung. “Already prepared? Don’t tell me you’re giving me the files now.” 

“That I am.” 

He did jazz hands around a folder while you groaned and placed your head on your desk. There goes your evening with Seonghwa. 

You texted Seonghwa that you’d be catching a ride home with Jongho so you could discuss some things about that editorial. Now, you were in your kitchen, reading the notes while waiting for your pizza dough to rise, and Seonghwa should be finishing up with work. He called you immediately after seeing your text.

“Hwa, hey, I am so sorry about…”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to apologise for cancelling. I know about the editorial and I know you need to prepare,” Seonghwa said on the phone to you. He heard the pages rusting on the phone and asked, “How’s that going by the way?”

“Uhh, bad?” You said with a wince. “I don’t know what half these words mean, to be honest.” 

Even though he was almost ready to exit the highway now, he turned his car in the direction of your house. “Can I come over, angel? I could help you practise?”

“Then I hope you like pizza for dinner.”

You knew Seonghwa had been to your house many times over the years. He’d seen it messy while you were getting ready for galas, perfectly tidy because you were expecting guests for dinner, and everything in between. But today, you were still in your work clothes, and both you and your kitchen had a light dusting of flour from kneading the pizza dough. 

Seonghwa would be arrive in less than 30 minutes, so you quickly ran to the shower, then found some decent clothes to wear before he arrived. When he knocked on your door, your hair was still sopping wet, and you opened the door with Jongho’s file in hand.

He looked between the file and your hair and tsked. “You shouldn’t go around with wet hair like that.” 

You tried to dismiss it, “it’s fine, it can air dry, and I’ll save money on the electricity bill.”

Seonghwa grabbed the file from you and shook his head. “No, it’s not alright, stop acting like you don’t make millions.” He walked past you towards your living area, and stood in the middle, looking around for something. “Y/n, where’s your hair dryer? If you won’t do it, I’ll do it myself.” 

You smiled fondly at how adamant he was. “Hwa?” 

He spun to look at you. 

“Bedroom.”

He blinked, his mouth stuttering. “W-what? I’m not saying no but…”

You gave him a questioning stare and clarified, “My hairdryer is in the bedroom.”

Seonghwa looked to the side, embarrassed.

You walked closer to him, with a teasing grin. “So if you want to dry my hair, let’s go to my bedroom.”

This time, you grabbed the file off him. He muttered something under his breath and followed you to your room. You went and sat at your vanity. Seonghwa came and stood behind you. He picked up your hairdryer which was already plugged in with the blow dry attachment.

You looked at him through the mirror, watching as he examined the tool. 

“Want some directions Hwa?”

“No,” he said with a determined pout. “I can do this. I’m a grown man. I know how to do my girl’s hair.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. He was so cute, and suddenly being called ‘my girl’ made your chest feel warm. “Alright, stylist Park. Let’s see what you can do.”

He combed through your hair with his fingers a couple times to detangle it, then switched on the dryer. You dipped your head down to look at the file again, mumbling Jongho’s prepared answers under your breath. You were more engrossed in that than whatever Seonghwa was doing to your hair, but he didn’t mind. Occasionally, he’d look up and see you with your brow furrowed, glaring at the page like it was unfairly denying you the answers to a problem. You managed to get through the file twice before Seonghwa switched off the dryer and you finally looked up at him.

You grazed your fingers through your hair and examined his work in the mirror. Your lips twitched to side, and Seonghwa bit his lip. Were you dissatisfied?

“I know it’s not the style you usually do, and I don’t actually know how to blow dry hair that well but…” 

Still looking in the mirror, you replied, “No, it’s okay.” You twisted to look back at him. “Honestly Hwa, I just needed it dry, it didn’t have to look pretty.”

He looked at his hands. “But still…”

You reached over and took one of his hands, pulling him a few steps closer to you until his knees brushed yours. You took one of his hands up to your hair, and slowly ran his fingers through your strands. 

“See? It’s dry and tangle free. I think you did a good job.”

Seonghwa hummed, running his hands through your hair a couple more times before his hand dropped to half you jaw, and trace your cheekbone with his thumb. His hand was warm, warmer than the burn growing in your cheeks.

“You are so pretty,” he murmured softly.

You covered his hand with yours and kissed his inner wrist. When you looked up again, you found him already studying you. His thumb tugged at your lips now.

“Kiss me again. Please?”

You took his hand in yours and raised it to your lips. You still watched him as you pressed your lips to the back of his hand.

 He shook his head, his pupils wider now.

You stood up, now being toe to toe with him. You held his face in both your hands and leaned in. 

Your breath fanned over his chin as you asked, “How about now, Park Seonghwa?”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in and covered his lips with yours. His hands went to your waist to pull your body closer. One hand trailed up your back, in between your shoulder blades until it reached the back of your head. His fingers slid into your hair as he angled your head further. You dropped one of your hands to his chest, feeling his heart beat quicken underneath your palm. When you felt his tongue slide against yours, your fingers dug into the muscle. Seonghwa gasped softly. The hand still on your waist squeezed you tighter, and started slinking down towards the side of your hips. Your fingertips caught on the edge of his blazer and slid inside. When Seonghwa briefly let go of your hip, you slowly pushed that side of his blazer off him. He pulled back, detaching from your lips to look at you. Lips swollen, soft pants escaping them and blazer dangling and sliding off his other arm. 

He let it fall completely to the floor, and dove back towards your lips until... your pizza timer rang. 

He paused, hovering above your lips. You felt his breathy chuckle against them. “Fucking pizza,” he muttered with an eye roll. 

He tucked some of your hair behind your ear, and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. “Go check on your dinner. I’ll be there in a second.”

You learned your lines to perfection by the following week. After your photoshoot and interview, staff led you back to your dressing room where Wooyoung was waiting for you.

He immediately stood up when you entered. “I think I am going to dip.”

“Wait what? Why? We’ve got the whole day booked out for this. You can’t just leave me here, we came together.”

Frazzled, you started gathering your things, throwing notes and papers into your bag.

Wooyoung grabbed an iced coffee from a nearby tray and held it in front of your face. 

“Hey.” 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at him, but accepted the drink.

“You're doing fine. I watched the shoot, it’s going to be great. Now drink this, it will calm you down. And don’t worry about how to get home. Mingi’s coming, he said he wants to spend some time with you since your schedule is empty for the rest of the day.”

Mingi arrived about 20 minutes later. 

“Do you want to go to the drive thru?” He asked as soon as you got in his car.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You only say that when you want something from me.”

“Well, I won’t deny it because I do need a favour. I’ll tell you after we order.”

A few minutes and a 20 piece nuggets later, Mingi said, “The Accountants Guild asked me to come for their luncheon, with space for a plus one.”

“Okay…” you paused to swallow your chicken nugget. “Are you asking me to come with you?” And already pulling your phone out, you asked, “Want me to text HR?”

Mingi sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Actually, I was hoping you would go instead of me. And take Seonghwa with you.” 

“But why? You studied accounting, I did finance, you’re actually a member of the guild, I’m not, and Seonghwa and I’ve only kissed like 15 times.”

Mingi’s jaw dropped in a wide, open mouthed smile. “Alright, that was not the entertainment I was expecting today. A few dates and you’ve already kissed that much?”

“So? You’ve kissed Yunho more and gone on zero dates.” 

“Oi!” 

The morning of the luncheon, you stayed home to get ready. Seonghwa drove to your place around 10am. He sat on your bed and watched while you added the final touches to your makeup. 

“Are you doing that style I like?” He asked. 

“Don’t you like every style I do?” 

“Well yes, but you know the one I mean. The one where your face just has that flushed glow to it like you were…” he trailed off. “Well, doesn't matter.”

You spun around and smiled, jazz hands framing your face. “Doesn’t matter? Is that what you say to a face like mine?” 

Seonghwa got up from your bed and walked over. He took both your hands and pressed kisses to the back of both. 

“No. You matter a lot, y/n.” 

You stood up, and began gathering your things to put into your purse. Seonghwa stood and watched as you walked around the room.

“And for what it's worth, you make a much better date than Mingi.” 

You chuckled softly, zipping up your bag. “You know I still don’t quite know why he thought I am a better fit for an accounting lunch.” 

You and Seonghwa made your way out to his car. As he opened your door, he explained, “Mingi was sent the guest list by a friend, and he saw that the entire board of the National Guild, as well as the majority of their guest list, happen to be from your high school, finance club or old internship. You would be a much better fit.” 

Even though this was intended to put you at ease, it had the opposite effect. You were quiet most of the way to the venue. 

After parking, when Seonghwa went to open your door, you hesitated while getting out. 

“Y/n? Is something wrong?” 

“I’m… nervous… about seeing everyone again.” You explained. “I haven’t actually kept up with those connections. I never returned to that internship after graduating, even when I told them I would. I skipped my high school reunion because of Yeosang needed me to fly into Osaka that weekend. And I think the finance club only remembers me for pole dancing in an emo outfit.” 

Seonghwa’s jaw dropped as he gave a breathy laugh. “Okay, wasn’t expecting that last one but…”

He took one of your hands, and gave it a squeeze. “How about you think of it as you never kept up with your old LinkedIn connections because you weren’t meant to? You didn’t need to keep pace because you are someone who sets the standard, not someone who has to keep reaching for it.”

As soon as you two walked in to the event, a woman approached you and pulled you into a tight hug. Seonghwa bristled beside you, suspicious who she might be.

“Oh girlie, it's been too long. When Mingi said you were coming, we were all so excited to finally, finally see you again. Wanna get some bites?” 

Her familiar greeting calmed him down. As he looked closer, he realised the woman seemed deeply familiar, like even he would know who she was., 

He watched as you warmly returned the hug, but turned down the invitation. “Good to see you again as well, hun. But I gotta take my date to our table first. I’ll catch you around yeah?”  

You took Seonghwa’s arm and led him towards your assigned table. As you two walked, several people turned and waved to you both. Or maybe just you, because he couldn't recognise anybody.

Seonghwa leaned in and whispered to you, “Who is everyone? They all seem so familiar, like I’ve seen them on TV.”

“That’s because you have,” you replied. “That first person, Anja, is the deputy governor of the central bank. If you want to talk to her, show her a photo of a cute cow.”

Seonghwa scrunched his eyebrows at you. “What is that even meant to mean?”

You ignored him as you waved hello to another person, then explained, “Over there is Jane. She’s a social butterfly and worker bee in one. She’s actually an editor with the National Business Review and her presentations keep you more awake than caffeine.” 

When Jane saw you, she gave an eager wave while mouthing ‘hello’ with an open mouthed smile.

Then you gasped as you saw another person who was smiling your way despite clearly being in the middle of an important conversation.“Oh my god, Kush is here. He will never admit it but he has the biggest weakness for soufflé pancakes.”

Seonghwa smiled as he watched the multitude of expressions crossing your face — the soft gasps of excitement, the eager waves, and introspective smiles at all the memories this was bringing up. 

When you both sat at your table, Seonghwa asked, “Were these the friends that saw you dance?” 

You smiled down at your lap. Seonghwa had his answer.

“Hey.” He tapped your chin with a finger and brought your face back up to him. “You should go spend some time with them.”

He knew you were more than happy to, but there was a small part of you still hesitating. “What would I even say to them? And what are you going to do when I’m gone?”

“Y/n, every single person you just waved at was sincerely happy to see you. I’m sure conversation would flow easily between you guys. Or maybe you can break the ice by mentioning your-”

You threw him a glare. 

He laughed. “Just go have fun. This is your crowd. If you need a break, you can always just come back here.”

While you were gone, Seonghwa found himself chatting with others who drifted by his table. It was easy to start a conversation — all he had to do was mention your name, and everybody always had something to say. 

“I read about that acquisition she brokered. Absolute gutsy move on her part but it paid off so well huh?”

“Back in our classes, she always took the hardest questions during presentations, and never let the team fumble.”

“I texted her about my first salary negotiation when I was a grad, and she coached me through it like a pro.”  

 “Mate, you’re lucky you got her straight out of uni. She’s done so much for Hwaseong.”

Seonghwa took each compliment in stride. You were respected, valued, cherished and wanted. But he also felt a deepening sense of guilt at each compliment. The feeling followed him even as he drove you both home after the event. 

Parking in your driveway, he said, “Y/n, can I talk to you about something?” 

You looked caught off guard, but not nervous. “Sure thing. Wanna go inside first?” 

Inside you house, Seonghwa sat on your couch while you went to grab some fruit juice from the kitchen. 

“Here,” you said, placing two glasses down. “You looked a little thirsty.” 

You weren't wrong. Seonghwa’s throat did feel a bit dry. He poured some juice to bring himself just a little more time to think, and swallowed it down painfully. 

“I wanted to ask you about something I heard at the event. It’s nothing bad, I promise, because everybody loved you, but it just got me thinking.” He put the glass down and turned to face you on the couch. “Are you really happy?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Just… are you happy? At Hwaseong. I mean, you could be anywhere else. In London rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous… at the central bank running the country… out travelling while managing a fund remotely…” 

“Seonghwa…” you said in warning. 

He sighed and picked up the glass again, running his fingers over its surface. “I just started feeling guilty today, you know? Like what if I am holding you back? I have kept you here since university, I defer nearly every decision to you, but you could’ve done absolutely anything else.”

You moved closer and placed your hand over the glass. “Hwa, look at me.”

He glanced up but kept his head low. 

“You’re right. I really could have done any of that. But did you stop to think whether I wanted to?” 

Seonghwa wet his lips like he was preparing to say something, but you continued. 

“I never applied for roles in government. I chose not to move into more glamorous spheres. And don’t forget, I asked to stay at Hwaseong.”

You pulled on his wrist lightly, trying to get his eyes wholly on you as you said with bite, “I fought to stay at Hwaseong, to stay with the people I knew would support me, regardless of what I might choose in the future.” 

Seonghwa sighed sharply through his nose. “And what if there is a better future for you?” 

“Then let me make that decision when I come to it,” you implored. “But until then, can you accept that I am really, truly, happy? Just the way things are?” 

He blinked slowly. “Okay.” He opened his arms and you snuggled into his side. “Okay,” he repeated. “I just… after today, I felt unsure. But you’re right, it’s always been your decision to make.”

You notice the florist before you notice the man.

Boxes arrive one morning like a migration of bees—buzzing movers weaving through the narrow alley that separates your tattoo studio from the now unshuttered storefront next door. You watch them through the window between clients, arms folded across your chest, a half-empty iced americano sweating on the sill.

You’ve owned Blackline for almost four years now. Nestled in a tucked-away street in the heart of Seoul, your studio grew from a one-chair hustle into a sanctuary for skin-bound art. Now, you’ve got two artists working under your roof—Nari, whose delicate linework could make grown men cry, and Ryu, whose specialty in spectacular realism keeps your waitlist booked out six months in advance. You’re proud of what you’ve built.

Even if it’s slowly eaten away your time, your sleep, and your sense of what a weekend is supposed to feel like.

Relationships? Fleeting. Dates? Rescheduled or forgotten. You live for your work, for the way ink can bloom against skin, telling stories that words can’t quite shape. But sometimes—like now, in this pause between clients—you find yourself staring out the window and wondering what it would be like to need someone more than your next appointment.

The new shop doesn’t have a sign yet. Just a clean black awning and wide glass windows that catch the morning light. Inside, it’s all empty shelving and promise.

You almost miss him—tall, in an oversized beige cardigan, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, carrying a crate of what you assume are pots or vases. His hair falls in dark waves, tucked behind one ear. He moves like someone who isn’t in a rush, but who always gets things done.

He disappears inside.

You blink, shake it off, return to sterilising your workstation for your next piece. But something hums under your skin now—a quiet curiosity. Not the usual kind you reserve for potential clients or portfolio reviews.

No. This one is personal.

And when you walk past that shop later and catch the scent of freesia and something greener—mint, maybe—you know two things with sudden, unshakable clarity.

One: it’s going to be a flower shop.

Two: you’re absolutely screwed.

You return with lunch bags dangling from your fingers and gossip waiting at the door.

The bell above Blackline’s entrance jingles softly as you nudge it open with your shoulder. The scent of roasted sesame oil and gochugaru wafts in with you, but it’s not enough to distract from the hushed voices floating from the back of the studio.

“I’m telling you,” Nari says, her voice low and conspiratorial, “he arranged those boxes like they were a bouquet.”

“Oh my god.” Ryu snorts. “So he cares about symmetry? That’s what’s got you drooling?”

You freeze just inside, eyebrows lifting.

“Please tell me we’re not rating movers now.”

Two heads pop out from the break room. Nari is already smiling like she’s been caught in the middle of something good, her neon hair pulled into a messy twist. Ryu raises a brow, leaning one hip against the doorframe, sleeves pushed up past his elbows to reveal the faded beginnings of his own ink.

“You’re late,” Ryu says, eyes sliding to the takeout bags. “You bring penance?”

You toss him his order without ceremony. “One kimchi bokkeumbap. Extra egg, no green onion. Nari—tteokbokki, medium spicy.”

“God-tier,” Nari murmurs, catching the warm box with reverence.

As they settle at the back table and tear open chopsticks, you drop your own lunch at your station but don’t sit yet. You can feel it, that weightless pause, the way both of them keep glancing toward the shared wall.

You cross your arms. “Alright. Spill it.”

Ryu doesn’t even look up. “New shop next door. Flower place, apparently.”

“We figured it out while you were gone,” Nari adds, mouth half-full. “He brought in these tall glass vases. Minimalist. Heavy. Probably hand-blown. And—”

“And?” you prompt.

Nari chews quickly, swallows, then grins. “He’s stupid pretty. Like… tragic drama second lead who steals your heart even though you know he’s not endgame.”

You scoff, but there’s a flicker of something in your chest.

“Dark hair, pretty mouth, kind of delicate looking,” Ryu adds casually, plucking a piece of kimchi from the rim of his bowl. “But with hands. You know. Those hands.”

You squint. “What does that mean?”

Nari fans herself with a napkin. “It means I would absolutely trust him to unbutton me and arrange my funeral flowers.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, finally sitting down.

But you do glance out the window as you eat. And somewhere in your chest, that hum from earlier sharpens—like the first outline of a new design, just waiting for colour.

You finish wiping down your station just as the sun kisses the horizon, setting the street aglow in rose-gold haze.

The last client had left smiling, skin still red and blooming where your needle had danced hours earlier. A floral shoulder piece—full of curling stems and delicate buds, the kind you’ve become known for. There’s always something bittersweet about finishing a design like that. You put so much into it, then watch it walk away.

You stretch your shoulders; your hoodie smeared with faint dots of ink and stencil residue. The others had clocked out earlier, Ryu calling a quick goodbye over his shoulder, while Nari made a dramatic show of checking her makeup before heading to a date. You had stayed behind, as usual, cleaning and replying to messages, stubborn in your devotion to every last detail.

Now the studio is quiet; just the low hum of the steriliser cooling down and the familiar creak of the front door as you lock it for the night.

You’re sliding the key into the deadbolt when you hear it—

“Hey.”

The voice is low, smooth—but not rehearsed. Gentle. Warm, even in one word.

You turn.

He’s standing a few paces away, hands in the pockets of a soft linen coat, the collar turned slightly from the breeze. His hair is tucked neatly behind his ears, falling just over his cheekbones. And his eyes—dark, quiet, searching—hold yours with a kind of cautious curiosity.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, lifting one hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.”

A smile curves his lips, small and sincere. “I’m Seonghwa. I just opened next door.”

Your gaze flicks instinctively to the now-softly lit window beside your shop. The florist. Of course.

“Right,” you say, straightening slightly. “The flower guy.”

His smile deepens, a little amused. “Is that what I am now?”

You shrug. “Depends. Are you any good?”

He laughs—quiet, almost startled, but there’s something rich in it. You feel it settle low in your stomach.

“I hope so,” he says. “You’re the tattoo artist, then?”

You nod. “Y/N. Owner of Blackline.”

“I figured.” He pauses, then reaches into his coat pocket. “I brought you this. Kind of a neighbourly peace offering.”

He offers it without fanfare—a small, simple bouquet. Not showy. Just… intentional. Three pale yellow ranunculi, a sprig of eucalyptus, and something soft and lilac-tinted you can’t quite name.

Your fingers brush his as you take it.

“They’re for creativity,” he says quietly, almost shy. “And steadiness. I thought that might suit you.”

You glance down at the flowers, then up at him. There’s no sales pitch. No performance. Just the quiet sincerity of someone who sees things in layers.

You tuck the bouquet carefully into the crook of your arm.

“Thanks,” you murmur, a little breathless now. “They’re… beautiful.”

He smiles again, softer this time. “So is your work. I saw a piece on someone earlier. Shoulder, full bloom. That was yours?”

You nod. The irony isn’t lost on you.

“Maybe I’m just drawn to florals,” you say.

His gaze lingers—just a moment too long. “Then I guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”

You don’t look away.

“I guess we will.”

~

You don’t even bother with anything fancy tonight.

A packet of instant ramen, jazzed up with a soft-boiled egg and a handful of a slightly wilted spring onion you forgot you still had in the fridge. You eat it standing at the counter, chopsticks clinking lightly against the ceramic bowl, the hum of the streetlights outside filtering in through the half-open window.

It’s a rhythm you know well—work, dinner, sketch, sleep. Maybe a shower if you’re not too drained. You like the simplicity. The structure. It leaves no space for unnecessary noise. And love? Romance?

That’s just another kind of chaos.

You’ve dated before, sure. A few guys who seemed promising at first, all clean smiles and complimented tattoos. But it always ended the same—disinterest, disrespect, or disappointment. Men who couldn’t handle ambition. Who thought they were being deep when they were really just performative. Who played at mystery but held no substance. You’ve seen it all, a sea of red flags.

So you stopped looking. Stopped caring. Love is beautiful on paper, sure, but in real life? It’s just a detour you don’t have time for.

You rinse your bowl and retreat to your desk, iPad open on Procreate, the outline of a piece you’ve been working on for days waiting for its final details. A phoenix wrapped in chrysanthemums. You thumb your stylus and lean forward, eyes narrowing with familiar purpose.

But after five minutes, you realise you’ve drawn the same petal three times.

You erase it. Try again.

And again.

And then he’s there—in your mind. That soft, unassuming smile. The way he stood just close enough to hand you the bouquet, but not close enough to make you uncomfortable. His voice, the warmth of it. The steadiness in his eyes.

Seonghwa.

You grit your teeth and sit back. “No.”

You don’t think about things like this. People like this. You don’t chase after strangers with pretty hands and gentle words. You have deadlines. Clients. Appointments.

And yet…

Your gaze drifts to the edge of your desk. The small bouquet sits there in a glass you repurposed from a soy candle jar. Pale yellow and soft green. Still fresh.

You hate how your chest tightens a little when you look at it.

With a frustrated sigh, you force yourself forward again. Pencil to paper. Focus.

An hour passes. The lines finally take shape.

But when you crawl into bed, limbs heavy and skin slightly cold from being hunched over too long, your eyes don’t stay closed for long. Because tonight, in the half-formed haze of sleep, your dreams are stitched in petals and eucalyptus and the brush of fingers against your own.

And in the centre of it all, there he is—Seonghwa.

Soft. Steady. Blooming.

The morning starts like clockwork.

Your alarm buzzes against the nightstand. You rise, brush your teeth, shower with the same three products you always use. Pull on your faded hoodie and jeans. No fuss. No thinking. Your steps follow the well-worn script, down the block, around the corner, into your usual café. You order an iced americano—no syrup, no nonsense.

You sip it as you make your way toward the studio, the city already humming to life around you. The air is warm for morning, thick with the scent of rain that didn’t fall.

You round the corner and, of course, there he is.

Seonghwa is standing in front of his shop door, fumbling with a keyring. The moment he sees you, his face lights up like it’s instinctive—like you’ve just made his day better without doing a damn thing.

“Morning,” he says, voice cheerful, smile sweeter than syrup.

He holds up the cup in his hand and gives it a little shake. Iced americano. No words necessary. Of course that’s what he’s drinking.

Your heart does something inconvenient. “Hey,” you say quickly, nodding.

And then you’re hurrying to unlock your own door like a getaway driver. What the hell was that?

You push into the studio, let the door fall closed behind you, and lean against it for half a second longer than you should. Your americano sweats in your hand.

Just be normal. You shake yourself out, take a long sip, and pretend you’re not affected. Pretend that smile didn’t feel like a stone dropped in the still water of your morning. You have work to do. Art to finish. An afternoon appointment that’s been waiting three months for a phoenix and chrysanthemum back piece.

You flick on the lights. Everything is as it should be. And then chaos arrives, as it always does.

The front door swings open in a burst of chatter.

“—and he had the nerve to call me high-maintenance because I said no to a fourth drink on a Tuesday—”

Nari barrels in, full volume and freshly caffeinated, dropping her bag onto the counter like she owns the place. She’s halfway through complaining about how her date was only interested in fucking her when Ryu strolls in behind, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky.

“Babe,” Ryu says, setting his drink down, “that’s all you’re interested in too.”

Nari gasps, scandalised. “How dare you.”

He shrugs, smug. “I dare because it’s true.”

You snort into your coffee as you make your way to your station.

“Anyway,” Nari continues dramatically, plopping onto the couch in the waiting area, “he kept talking about crypto. Like passionately. I swear, if one more man asks me if I’ve ever heard of the blockchain—”

“Maybe he thought that was his love language,” Ryu mutters.

You tune them out just enough to keep your focus. Your stylus is already hovering above your iPad, tracing lines that still live in the muscle memory of your hand. But part of your mind drifts—to a pale yellow bouquet. To a smile that should not have hit you the way it did.

You shake your head.

No. Focus.

This is your rhythm. Your world.

You’ve survived worse distractions than a pretty neighbour with flower-stained fingers.

Haven’t you?

The buzz of the machine fades out with the final line.

Your client admires the piece in the mirror, all flushed cheeks and grateful eyes, and you walk them through the aftercare instructions like always. You smile, you nod, you say thank you for trusting me with your skin. You mean it.

And then they’re gone, the door swinging shut behind them with the soft chime of the bell.

You glance at the clock, realising you’d finished an entire hour early. Rare. Unheard of, really. Usually you’d use the time to prep, clean, or dive into messages and waitlists. But today?

You sit at your desk and open your iPad.

Your fingers hover above the screen for a moment, uncertain. Then, without fully thinking it through, you open Procreate and start sketching.

Flowers.

But not just any flowers.

You draw the pale curve of ranunculi petals first, loosely layered like soft paper pressed between pages. Then the spray of eucalyptus, long and trailing, just slightly unruly. You add in the lilac tint of the mystery bloom he gave you—delicate, near translucent—and the way the stems all angled just slightly toward the centre, like they were leaning into each other for warmth.

You sketch them the way you remember receiving them. Not the way they sat in the cup by your desk. The way they felt in your hands. The subtle weight of them. The quiet intention.

You don’t even realise how much time has passed until you glance up and see the light outside has shifted—cooler now, shadows stretching across the studio floor.

Your fingers hesitate.

This wasn’t for a client.

It wasn’t for your portfolio. It wasn’t even for work.

It was just… for you.

And that’s somehow more terrifying than anything.

You close the app, but not before exporting the sketch to your photo roll. You don’t name the file. You don’t have to.

You already know what it is.

~

The café line is longer than usual this morning, but you don’t mind.

You’re tucked into your hoodie, earbuds in, brain already ticking through your schedule—back piece touch-up at ten, flash walk-in at one, consult at three. It’s the kind of mental math that keeps your hands steady and your world turning.

Until someone stops beside you.

“Figured you came here too.”

You glance up, half-surprised to find Seonghwa standing there. His hair is tucked under a soft charcoal beanie, and he’s wearing a long beige coat layered over a black turtleneck. Effortlessly warm. Effortlessly unfair.

You raise an eyebrow. “How’d you know that?”

He smiles, the kind that sneaks up on you. “Saw the logo on your cup yesterday. You had the same drink.”

Of course he did. He notices everything, it seems.

Before you can respond, the line moves forward. You both step up.

“Mind if I go ahead?” he asks, sickeningly polite.

You nod. “Sure.”

But when he gets to the counter, he speaks without hesitation.

“Two iced americanos, please.” Then, without even glancing back, he turns and hands one to you.

You blink, fingers closing around the cup before your brain catches up.

“I—thank you,” you say, voice softer than intended.

His smile deepens, not smug, just sure. “Want to walk with me?”

You should say no. You’ve got a dozen things to do. Could blame your schedule, say you’ve got to get back and prep.

But the way he looks at you—the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his voice doesn’t push, just offers…

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walk side by side down the quiet side street that separates your lives. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t try to fill every silence. Just lets it unfold.

After a few blocks, he asks, “So… how’d you get into tattooing?”

You pause, not because you don’t know the answer—but because you never really tell people. Not in full. Not the real version.

Still… something about him feels steady enough to hold it.

“I had a hard time growing up,” you start, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. “Wasn’t the daughter my parents wanted.”

He listens. Not a word interrupts you.

“They wanted me to be neat. Respectable. Something clean. You know, medical school. Teaching. That kind of thing.”

You sip your americano, trying not to let the taste of old memories sour it.

“But I wasn’t. I was… messy. Loud. Drawn to the wrong things, according to them. I moved out at sixteen. Got an apprenticeship at this tiny studio near the train tracks. Didn’t pay much. But it gave me something I’d never had before—control over my own skin. Over anything, really.”

He doesn’t respond with pity. Just lets the weight of your words settle in the space between you.

“That’s brave,” he says finally, voice low. “Choosing your own path like that.”

You glance at him, not quite ready to say thank you. Not quite ready to admit it meant more than he probably knows.

The studio comes into view, and with it, the end of the walk. You stop at your door. He stops too.

“I didn’t get to ask you how you got into floristry,” you say, a little breathless now. “Sorry. I talk a lot.”

He shakes his head, smile still warm. “You don’t. Not really. But… if you want to hear my story—maybe over dinner?”

It knocks the wind out of you in the smallest, strangest way.

“I—uh…” You clear your throat. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”

You’re just about to reach for the handle of the studio door when Seonghwa shifts beside you.

“Oh,” he says, as if just remembering something. “Before you go.”

You turn slightly, brows raised.

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his coat and unlocks it with a swipe. The screen glows between you, open to a blank contact form. He holds it out.

“Put your number in?”

He says it casually, but not without intent. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like asking for a number isn’t always tangled in expectation.

You glance at the screen, then back at him. “Smooth.”

A small laugh escapes him—just air and teeth and something fond at the edges. “I try.”

You take the phone and type your name and number, thumbs suddenly more self-conscious than usual. You hesitate before hitting save, then hand it back.

He doesn’t look at the screen.

“Thank you,” he says, like you gave him more than just digits. Like it’s already stored somewhere else, too.

You nod, gripping your americano a little tighter than necessary. “Text me the time and place?”

“I will.”

There’s a pause—thick with something neither of you want to name yet. And then he smiles again, the kind that feels like it belongs just to you.

“Have a good day, Y/N.”

You manage a soft, “You too,” before slipping into the studio and pulling the door shut behind you.

But even as you move through your space—flipping lights on, prepping ink, setting up your chair—you can still feel it.

The echo of his voice. The warmth of his smile.

And the weight of a contact saved, waiting to become something more.

It starts the moment Nari walks in.

She barely makes it through the door before she freezes mid-step, her eyes narrowing like she can smell something.

“…Why do you look suspiciously at peace?”

You don’t even look up from your desk. “What?”

“You have this weird glow. Like someone who got laid or got free skincare samples.”

“I got neither.”

She tosses her bag onto the couch and points an accusing finger. “So something happened.”

Ryu strolls in behind her, matcha in hand, catching only the tail end of her accusation. “What’d I miss? Did that cute guy from the dumpling shop finally ask her out?”

“No,” Nari says dramatically, “she’s being cagey. And Y/N never hides anything unless it’s juicy.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “You two are exhausting.”

“Which is why you love us,” Ryu replies, dropping his bag near his station. “Spill. What happened.”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” Nari narrows her eyes. “Then why did I just see you walking down the street with flower boy?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “Knew it!”

Ryu raises a brow, intrigued. “Wait. You were walking with the sexy florist?”

You shrug, too casual. “We got coffee. Walked. Talked. It was nothing.”

“Oh, honey, that’s never nothing,” Nari sing-songs.

Ryu crosses his arms. “You hate people. You never walk with people. Hell, you barely tolerate us.”

“That’s not true,” you mutter.

“You literally hissed at a delivery guy last week.”

“He tried to pet my dog tattoo without asking.”

“He thought it was real.” Ryu deadpans.

Nari plops beside you, bouncing slightly on the stool. “So? What did you talk about? Did he compliment your hands? Did you touch?”

“Oh my god.”

“He’s so gentle,” she adds, dreamy. “Like a cinnamon roll wrapped in artisanal linen. Did he ask you out?”

You look up at them, finally. “Yes.”

Dead silence.

Then—

“WHAT?!” they shout in unison.

Ryu clutches his chest like you’ve physically wounded him. “You got a date and you didn’t tell us?”

“It just happened,” you protest.

“When is it?” Nari leans in.

“Dunno. He’s texting me.”

“Oh, he got your number?” Ryu hums. “Look at you, playing it chill. Next thing we know you’ll be sketching wedding invites in Procreate.”

“Okay, out. Both of you.”

But you’re smiling.

And they see it.

“She’s smiling,” Nari hisses in a whisper-shout.

“I didn’t think her face could do that,” Ryu replies.

And as they fall into bickering again, you turn back to your station.

Still smiling.

Still thinking of the florist next door, who asked for your number like it was nothing—and handed you a coffee like it meant everything.

You’ve just finished saying goodbye to your touch-up client when your phone buzzes.

You remove your gloves, thinking it’s just a notification. Maybe a reminder, maybe something from your supplier. Instead, it’s a message that stops you cold.

Unknown

Hey, it’s Seonghwa. I know it might be a bit soon, but how is this evening? I was planning on making kimchi stew tonight and usually make enough to feed a family of five, so having another mouth to feed is perfect. Let me know. ☺️

You stare at it. Then reread it.

Then—“Oh my god.”

The yelp escapes your throat before you can stop it, sharp and startled.

Nari pokes her head out from the break room like a meerkat on caffeine. “What was that?! Are you okay? Did someone die? Did he text?”

Ryu is right behind her, saran wrap sticking to his arms, expression instantly nosy. “Please say it was the florist. Please. I need this.”

You hold up your phone wordlessly, face heating.

Nari grabs it like it’s a sacred scroll, reading aloud in a high, romanticised tone. “‘Kimchi stew. Enough for five. Another mouth to feed.’ Oh my god, it’s domestic. It’s happening. He’s inviting you to his home.”

“To eat,” Ryu says dramatically, hand to chest. “Do you understand how intimate that is? That’s a soft boyfriend move. That’s ‘I knit scarves and own too many throw pillows’ energy.”

“He’s going to feed you with love and intention and probably a rice ladle.” Nari fans herself. “I can’t believe you’re going to die in a flower-scented apartment.”

“I—I didn’t even say yes yet,” you stammer, which is a mistake because Nari gasps like you’ve insulted the gods.

“Why wouldn’t you say yes?! Do you want to die alone and untouched while some man who smells like cheap body spray slides into your DMs to ask if you’ve ever considered feet content?!”

You cover your face. “This is too much. I’m not… I don’t do this.”

“Exactly,” Ryu says, smug. “Which is why we’re so invested. This is character development. You’re the mysterious, emotionally distant protagonist who’s just been invited into a soft boy’s kitchen.”

“You’re right on schedule for the act two intimacy arc,” Nari adds. “Next thing you know he’s tucking your hair behind your ear and showing you how he dries baby’s breath.”

“I’m going to vomit,” you mumble.

“No, you’re going to shower, put on something cute-but-effortless, and go.” Ryu pulls out his phone. “I’m calling in backup. You are not going to this date in a hoodie with ink stains.”

“But I always wear—”

“Nope.”

“This is sacred ground,” Nari says, already grabbing her bag. “We’re dressing you for love. Or at least light emotional unraveling.”

You look down at your phone again. The message still glows on the screen.

You start typing.

Sure. That sounds nice.

Then you pause. Backspace.

And type:

I’d love to. What time?

You’ve barely finished locking the studio door when you hear it—Nari’s sharp inhale.

You turn. They’re both waiting for you outside like fashion-forward vultures.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

“Oh yes,” Ryu counters, eyes glittering with unholy excitement. “We’re making sure you don’t leave your apartment looking like you’re on your way to buy toilet paper and cry into a microwavable meal.”

“I wasn’t even going to—”

“Exactly.” Nari loops her arm through yours before you can protest. “Which is why we’re coming with you.”

“To my apartment?”

“To the scene of the crime,” Ryu says with solemn reverence. “Where we’re going to burn your ratty hoodie and summon a decent outfit from the ashes.”

You sigh, already defeated.

Twenty minutes later, your apartment is a war zone.

Your bedroom looks like a department store threw up. There are clothes everywhere—on the bed, over the back of your chair, spilling out of a drawer you didn’t remember opening. Your cat is hiding under the bed in fear. Nari has claimed command of the closet while Ryu rifles through your dresser like he pays rent here.

“Oh my god, what is this?” Ryu demands, holding up a graphic tee with a cracked design. “Are you planning to seduce him or remind him of his emo phase?”

“Put that down,” you hiss. “That shirt has sentimental value.”

“Then sentimentally burn it.”

“Okay, okay,” Nari calls, pulling a hanger triumphantly from the closet. “This. This right here.”

You turn—and your stomach flips. It’s a simple outfit, really; a cropped, form-fitting long sleeve black shirt, paired with a pair of straight leg, high-waisted jeans, and your nicer, less battered pair of lace up boots. You haven’t worn the shirt in… well. Ever. Not in front of anyone that mattered.

“That’s… kind of dressy,” you mumble.

Nari raises a brow, scoffing. “Dressy? He invited you into his home. To feed you. Wearing this says, ‘I care just enough to look good but not enough to make it weird.’”

“And this,” Ryu adds, holding up a sleek leather blazer, “says, ‘I will let you hold me but also I might fight you if you disrespect me.’”

You stare at them both. “Do you guys dress all your friends for battle?”

“Yes,” they say in unison.

You finally change.

They make you do a spin.

Nari squeals. Ryu gasps like he’s watching a bridal reveal.

“You’re hot,” Nari declares, clapping. “Like, aggressively hot.”

“You’re going to ruin that poor florist,” Ryu says dramatically. “He’s going to drop his ladle.”

You groan, grabbing your phone and keys.

“Alright, you gremlins. I’m leaving. Alone.”

“Text us when you get there,” Nari calls after you.

“And when you leave,” Ryu adds.

“And if you die.”

“And if he kisses you!”

You slam the door behind you. But you’re smiling.

And the nerves? The anticipation? They hit you all at once. Because you’re not just going on a date.

You’re going to dinner at his place.

And somewhere in the city, Seonghwa is probably preparing kimchi stew right now.

~

The cab pulls away, leaving you alone in the quiet hush of early evening.

You glance up at the building. It’s modest—clean brick, black iron railings, ivy crawling along one side like nature’s afterthought. There’s a small flower box on a second-floor balcony, and somehow, you know it’s his.

You stop at the main door, hand lingering over the buzzer marked P. Seonghwa.

And that’s when you realise—

You’re holding your breath.

Not just from nerves. Not just because you’re about to walk into someone’s space, their world, their scent and music and lighting and all the pieces of them that don’t get seen on sidewalks or in shop windows.

No.

You’re holding your breath because this feels different.

And you’re not used to that.

Not used to the flutter beneath your ribs. The anticipation. The fear—not of him, but of what it might mean if he’s real. If this isn’t just a fleeting moment. If the soft-spoken florist next door is exactly who he seems to be.

You draw in a quiet breath through your nose.

Steady yourself.

Then press the buzzer.

“Hey.”

His voice crackles slightly through the speaker, warm even when distorted.

“It’s me,” you say, your voice lower than usual, like you’re afraid of waking something.

A soft click. The door unlocks.

“Come up,” he says.

You step inside, climb the stairs one at a time, your heart louder with each step.

And when the door opens, and he’s standing there barefoot in soft grey sweatpants and a black sweater, hair a little mussed, apron dusted with something red—

You forget every excuse you thought you’d need.

“Hey,” he says again, this time in person, that same warm, steady smile on his face.

And suddenly you’re not holding your breath anymore.

His apartment smells exactly like you expected it to.

Warm and earthy, with notes of fresh eucalyptus, something faintly citrusy, and the unmistakable sweetness of something stewing low and slow on the stove. It smells like how you’d imagine his shop to, but maybe deeper somehow. Lived-in. Personal.

And it feels like him too.

The walls are a soft, creamy white, with black-and-white framed prints of botanical sketches and soft landscape photographs spaced with quiet intention. There are plants—everywhere. Hanging from macramé cords in the windows, sprawling along shelves, nestled in corners in oversized ceramic pots. They don’t look like decoration. They look like company.

The lighting is low, golden. A soft record plays something vintage in the background—warm guitar, hushed vocals. His space doesn’t try to impress you. It just is. And somehow, that makes it even more disarming.

He closes the door behind you and immediately turns to you with gentle purpose.

“Here—let me take that.” His fingers graze yours as he slides your leather blazer from your shoulders, careful like you’re fragile and the coat is heirloom silk. He hangs it near the door, smoothing it on the hook as if it matters.

You blink; toes still planted on the threshold of his world.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, gesturing toward the open living space as he moves toward the kitchen.

You step in.

There’s a couch with mismatched pillows; a knit throw casually draped along the back. A low wooden coffee table with a small bowl of dried lavender and a stack of neatly arranged books. You don’t know why, but your throat tightens a little.

“Red okay?” he calls over his shoulder. He’s already at the counter, where a bottle of red wine sits uncorked next to two glasses.

“Y—” you start, then— “Yes.”

Too quick. Your voice cracks a little, betraying you.

He smiles without turning. “Didn’t even finish the question.”

You hover just inside the kitchen now, trying not to stare at the way the sweater clings to his back, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, apron strings tied low around his waist. He’s stirring something in a pot, steam rising in gentle curls.

He pours a glass and sets it on the counter for you without looking back. The moment he turns his attention to the stew again, you seize your chance.

You bring the glass to your lips and take a generous gulp. It’s bold, a little dry, and hits immediately. Not the wine—the nerves.

You lower the glass just as he glances over his shoulder.

His smile curves. “You might be more nervous than I thought.”

You choke on the wine. “I’m uh— not used to… this.”

“This?” he echoes softly.

You wave a vague hand. “Being invited into a florist’s plant kingdom to eat a home-cooked meal.”

That makes him laugh, low and real.

“Good,” he says. “Then we’re both doing something new tonight.”

He pours his own glass, then gestures toward a small table tucked into the corner, already set for two—simple ceramic bowls, wooden chopsticks, a flickering candle in a short glass jar. Nothing flashy. Nothing performative. Just thoughtful. Like him.

“Sit?” he offers.

You nod.

Seonghwa brings the pot over with two hands, setting it gently on a woven mat at the centre of the table. The scent that rises when he lifts the lid nearly knocks the breath out of you—rich, spicy, and comforting in a way you didn’t realise you’d missed.

He ladles the bubbling stew into your bowl with quiet precision, then into his own. “Help yourself to the side dishes,” he says, nodding toward a row of small plates—stir fried radish, spicy cucumber salad, steamed egg, and a dish of sweet black beans.

You barely register them.

Because the moment you lift the first spoonful of stew to your mouth—everything else disappears. Your eyes roll back.

You groan. “Oh. This is good.”

He laughs, that same soft, delighted chuckle you heard outside his shop. “Yeah?”

“Are you kidding me?” you say through another bite. “I would sell my soul for this stew. I would get your name tattooed on my forearm for this stew.”

Seonghwa chuckles again, cheeks colouring faintly. “Please don’t do that.”

“No promises,” you mumble, already going in for another bite.

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel strained. Just… warm. You don’t even notice how easily you relax into it.

Until your curiosity wins out.

“So,” you say between mouthfuls, “you know a bit about me. Now it’s your turn.”

He looks up, brow raised slightly.

“Where’d you come from? Why Seoul? Why floristry?”

He finishes chewing, sets his spoon down gently.

“I’m from Jinju,” he says. “Small city. I grew up in my parents’ flower shop. They’ve run it since before I was born.”

You nod, quietly picturing it. “That explains the accent.”

He smiles again, and god, you want to frame it.

“I used to help out a lot—after school, on weekends. Started with sweeping floors, unpacking boxes. Then arranging. Deliveries. It just… became part of me.” His eyes soften at the memory.

“But I always wanted to come here,” he continues. “Start something of my own. Not because I didn’t love what they had, but because I needed to build something that was mine. You know?”

You nod. You know that feeling intimately.

He shrugs, almost sheepish. “So I saved. Waited for the right lease. Took forever to find a space that felt right.”

“And now you’re next door,” you say, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

He returns it. “Now I’m next door.”

He pauses.

“I don’t know anyone here yet,” he adds after a moment, his voice a little softer now. “No friends in the area. So… meeting you was nice.”

Something flickers in your chest. A tug.

“It was nice meeting you too,” you say, and it’s not a platitude. Not a reflex. It’s real.

He looks at you for a beat longer than necessary. Not intense. Not invasive. Just… like he wants to know you.

Really know you.

And for the first time in a long while, you think you might want to let someone try.

Dinner ends the way it began—softly.

You insist on helping with the dishes, despite Seonghwa’s polite protests. He relents with a small smile, rolling up his sleeves as you both migrate to the sink.

He washes. You rinse and dry. The rhythm is easy. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t be.

You steal glances at him—at the way the muscles in his forearms flex as he scrubs a pan, the slight curl of hair behind his ear, the way he hums under his breath without realising it. It’s disarming.

Unfair.

Domesticity shouldn’t feel this good when it isn’t yours.

You’re drying a bowl when you feel it; the gentle swipe of something wet across the tip of your nose.

You blink, startled. “Did you just—?”

You look up, and he’s smiling—mischievous, but soft. His finger still glistens faintly with bubbles from the dish soap.

Before you can react further, his face falls slightly, and he’s already reaching for a towel.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide with sudden concern. “I didn’t mean to—was that weird?”

You don’t answer—not yet—because he’s stepping closer now, gently dabbing your nose with the towel like it’s made of silk.

And then, without thinking, his free hand rises, cupping your jaw with such careful tenderness it freezes you in place. His thumb brushes the skin just beneath your eye. Light. Reverent.

Your breath hitches.

The towel falls from his other hand, landing soundlessly on the counter as both of you freeze—eyes locked.

Your chest heaves. His lips part slightly. You can feel the warmth of him this close, the weight of everything unsaid thrumming in the quiet between heartbeats.

Then, before you even fully register the movement—

You’re kissing.

It starts soft—uncertain—but steady, like falling into warmth you didn’t know you needed.

His lips are plush against yours, one hand still cradling your cheek, the other sliding to rest at your waist. You respond instinctively, leaning into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater as your body answers a question your mind hasn’t been brave enough to ask.

It deepens, slow and certain, like something unfolding between the cracks in your carefully constructed world. There’s no urgency. No rush. Just the quiet, overwhelming realisation that you want this.

Want him.

When you finally pull apart, the silence is thicker than it was before—warmer, heavier.

His thumb lingers at your cheek for just a second longer. Your lips still tingle. Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed.

But you don’t speak—not yet. Neither of you rushes to fill the space.

Seonghwa’s eyes search yours, not for permission, not even for confirmation—just to see you. To be sure this moment happened. That it mattered.

It did.

You step back slowly, breath still uneven, eyes darting down.

He’s the one who finally breaks the stillness.

“Thank you,” he says, voice soft. “For coming. For… trusting me with your time.”

You nod, still not trusting your voice. “Thank you for dinner.”

You glance around for your blazer, but he’s already reaching for it. Holds it up carefully, like he did everything tonight—no rush, no hesitation. Just gentle, constant intention.

You turn and let him slide it over your shoulders.

You glance up at him again, lips parted like you might say something else. But all that comes is a breath, barely audible.

He opens the door.

The night air is cooler than before. Your cab is waiting at the curb, headlights casting soft beams across the sidewalk.

Seonghwa follows you out, walking with you to the car. Not because he has to. Because of course he would. When you reach the door, he pauses—hands in his pockets now, gaze steady but not demanding.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says, almost like a question.

You smile. “You will.”

His mouth lifts, just slightly. A silent promise.

You slide into the cab, and he closes the door behind you himself. Doesn’t leave until you’ve driven off.

Doesn’t stop looking until you’re out of sight.

And in the quiet of the ride home, wrapped in the scent of his place, of dinner, of him—

You think maybe, just maybe—

This isn’t something you’re going to be able to ignore.

He dropped you off at your house a little after midday, but still lingered. On the ride home, you had been making your grocery list, and now that you were home, you quickly started looking in your fridge and pantry to complete the list. Standing behind you, Seonghwa reached over and grabbed the last of your carrot juice bottles. 

“Hey!” 

You could see his eyes crinkling with a smile as he drank from it. Putting down the bottle with a loud sigh, he said, “Well if your list is done, we can go shopping.” 

“Again, Hwa?” you groaned, but humoured him anyways. 

He drove you to your local grocery store — you did offer to drive him, probably for the first and only time this year — and pushed the trolley, following you around while you filled it up with everything in your list. 

“Anything for you?” You finally asked, having reached the end of your list. 

He shook his head. “I’m good, angel. Just get whatever you want.” 

You then dragged him to the dessert aisle and grabbed some ice cream you saw was half price. 

At the checkout, he offered to pay, but you beat him to it, saying you had a points card to scan. Seonghwa rolled his eyes amused at you, before pushing the shopping trolley to his car, loading up the boot and driving you home. He even helped you unload everything, bringing things in while you put them away in the fridge or pantry. 

When the last item was in the pantry, you turned around to find Seonghwa waiting for you on the couch. 

“Do you want to watch Star Wars?” 

Several hours and two Star Wars movies later (he begged and how could you say no), it was dark outside, so you got off the couch to turn the lights on. 

“Hey angel?” Seonghwa called from the couch.

“Yeah?” You asked, returning to the couch to collect the empty bowl of popcorn.

“Will you be alright tonight?” He watched you crouch by your dishwasher to put the bowl in, and added, “You had a lot to drink yesterday.”

“If you thought that was a lot, clearly you don’t know how to drink.” 

He could imagine the way your eyes would twinkle as you said that. 

“I just want to make sure you’ll rest on Sunday, especially after the errands you ran today.” 

“Hey you offered,” you retorted. 

“I know,” he conceded, laughing, then added quietly, “But I really did enjoy spending time with you today.”

“Me too Hwa, we should do it again, maybe just have a day for just us each month.”

Seonghwa hoped it could grow to be something more than once a month, but then a new project came up, and he had to put that thought on hold. For two months, it was like the Byeol acquisition all over again, with everyone’s workload spiking suddenly, only instead of an acquisition, this time Hwaseong would be leading a global initiative on improving maternal and infant care in developing countries. It was a step up from the World Bank project where Hwaseong was just a participant.

In a moment of calm during this project, you and Seonghwa went to grab coffee across the street. 

“I just want to keep one weekend as my own this month,” you said to him while waiting for your orders. 

“Is that why you said you don’t want to fly to Berlin with me and Jongho next week?” He asked as he passed you your mocha with an extra shot.

“It’s part of the reason.” 

You took a sip from your coffee and winced. Too hot. 

Seonghwa reached over and pried your coffee cup out of your hands. “It’s still hot y/n, you’ll burn yourself.” 

You smiled at him sheepishly. “I actually sorta already did.” 

Seonghwa chuckled knowingly and asked, “So what’s the other part of your reason?"

"I wanted to stay in the city this week because I still haven’t gotten around to seeing the festival by the river.”

The next day, you walked into Seonghwa’s office, unannounced and unexpected, but never unwelcome. 

“Angel?” Seonghwa asked, checking his watch. “I thought our meeting was later tonight.” 

You closed the door and leaned against it with a smile. “Actually, it’s tomorrow, Hwa. But Wooyoung texted me saying you wanted some help with your flight booking?"

Seonghwa pushed his laptop away and stood up from his desk. He gestured to his empty seat. “Come sit here.”

Seonghwa’s chair was adjusted too high for you, but it was still the nicest chair in the building with ergonomic everything. You hopped onto the seat and scooted around while your feet danced. Seonghwa pushed you in. 

“You little chair dances are always cute,” he said. 

You smiled, cheeks warming. You pulled his laptop to you, and found it already opened to an airline’s website. “What did you want me to do here?”

Seonghwa placed his arm over the headrest as he leaned in over your shoulder. “Which flight would you recommend?”

You started scrolling through the options. Seonghwa watched you. He made a mental note to thank Wooyoung later if this plan even worked.

 After that morning’s coffee run, Seonghwa had offhandedly mentioned that he had promised he would take you to see the festival decorations, but now the Berlin trip was making that hard, and you were going to go alone, and just when Seonghwa had almost outdone Wooyoung in speaking for a long time, the resident communications expert had decided to fix things by forcing you and Seonghwa to align your calendars.

“I don’t know why you and Woo even think I could help when I’m not even the one going,” you said. 

“It’s more about the return date actually.” 

Seonghwa leaned down to take over the mouse. He was close enough for you to smell his cologne now. 

“Look through these dates, and tell me when you were hoping to go see the festival.”

You turned your body to face him, meeting him directly face to face. “You want to go to the festival with me?”

Seonghwa pulled away and spun the chair so that you faced him, legs brushing each other’s. “I promised didn’t I?”

You smiled down shyly. “I didn’t think you meant it, or that you’d remember it.” Then you looked up at him again, inquisitively. “Plus, won’t you be tired, Hwa?” 

Seonghwa glanced up as he relaxed into a smile. That pout and eyebrow scrunch on your face, gosh. “Too tired for you? Never, impossible.” 

You couldn’t help the quiet laugh escaping your mouth when he shook he enunciated that and shook his head. 

“What are you playing at, Park Seonghwa?” You mused.

Seonghwa’s lips parted slightly as he took a readying breath. Instead of returning your teasing smile, he gave a nervous swallow. 

“Look I’ll be honest y/n, I haven’t exactly hid this from you and I am sure you know already but…” 

Seonghwa crouched down. His hand moved from the headrest to the armrest to brace himself.

“I want you have nice things, go somewhere fun and eat good food. I want you to take breaks and when you forget to, I want to be the one taking care of you.”

He looked at you with soft eyes, vulnerable and seeking. 

“What I am trying to say is, I would love to take you to that festival. What I am trying to say is, I want to take you there as a date, because I like you, for longer than I have even realised.”

You reached out one of your hands to him, and he gently held your fingers, running his thumb over your knuckles. 

“So? What do you say, angel? Will you go out with me?”

The work in Berlin was a blur. Seonghwa was counting down the days until his return flight. Jongho, for all his patience, was beginning to reach his limit with Seonghwa as he watched his CEO suddenly get the mooniest smile at the most random of times. 

The day of your festival date, Seonghwa picked you up from your house at 6. He seemed to have concealed his jet lag well, wearing a classic combination of a sweater, jeans and coat topped with a beret. He knocked on your door, which you opened fully dressed, unlike the days he took you to conferences. 

“What? No living room dances?” Seonghwa joked as he offered his hand to you. 

You giggled as you closed the door behind you. 

Placing your hand in his, you felt a rush of electricity pass through you when instead of placing your hand on his arm, he laced your fingers together. As usual, he took you to his car, and held open the door for you. 

Once he also sat in the driver’s seat, you asked, “When did you even get back? I didn’t see you at all today.”

“Last night.” Then he amended, “Maybe this morning.”

You gasped, “Hwa!” and turned to look at him. “Don’t you need some rest? We could’ve gone another time, you know.”

A small part of him lit up at how you were fussing over his well-being. “It’s fine, I couldn’t exactly go back on my word about taking you to festival could I?” 

You smiled down at your lap. 

Seonghwa kept speaking. “And I don’t know, angel, maybe I wouldn’t have been brave enough to ask again if I kept waiting.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. You were stopped at colour lights now, and Seonghwa was relaxed, holding the steering wheel with one hand while the other rested on his knee.

“Seonghwa.” 

He turned to look at you, a little bit of pink dusting his cheeks.

“You know I would’ve said yes even if you asked me months later right?” 

Arriving at the festival, Seonghwa found parking very quickly. You heard him mumbling “wait a sec” before getting out of the car and walking to open your door. He held out his hand for you to hold while you stepped out.

“Your makeup looks nice,” he said.

You smiled, saying a soft thanks. His hand was still in yours, so you laced your fingers together.

Seonghwa looked down at your hands and smiled shyly. 

Your smirked at him. “What? You’re not the only one who wants to hold hands.” 

He chuckled and started leading you towards the food trucks that had been brought in for the festival.  

“Anything caught your eye?” He asked.

You shook your head for the time being, but after doing a lap of the food trucks, you both realised everything piqued your attention. So after buying enough food that both your arms were full, you two walked to a picnic bench and laid out all your goodies. 

“You know, despite living in this city my whole life, I’ve actually never come to see the holiday decorations here,” Seonghwa admitted while you two ate.

You giggled. “I once skipped class to come here actually.” 

Seonghwa gasped. “No way! You truanted?” 

“Nooooo,” you pouted. “I just thought seeing holidays decor was a better use of my time than turning up to Friday’s 4pm tutorial on financial regulations.” 

“Good to see some things haven’t changed then.” 

You both laughed at that. Seonghwa took another bite of his noodles, and you watched him bring his chopsticks to his mouth, cheeks puffing out with food.

“Hmm, cute,” you muttered, pausing your own eating. You picked up a piece of braised beef from one of your items and placed it on Seonghwa’s plate.

He looked up, with sauce smearing the side of his mouth. You picked up a serviette and reached over to wipe it off.

The rest of the date continued with more tentative touches and conversation about your lives. He told you about his childhood, and how he loved watching Conan. You spoke about university, and all the new friends you’d made when you decided to pursue finance. Once you two were finished eating, Seonghwa took the containers and napkins to the trash. 

“Ready to walk the pier?” 

You beamed up. “Yes.” 

You two made a leisurely stroll across the wooden beams. Lights were strung up, and decorations doubling as photo opportunities had been set up. The rest of the holiday festivities and decorations stretched behind you two along the riverbank.

“Those lights make your sweater look extra fluffy,” you told Seonghwa. 

“Yeah?” He returned the compliment. “They also shine off the silver in your makeup. I like it.”

“Glossy chrome silver,” you sang. “You point it out each time I wear it.”

“And you wear it a lot, I wonder why.”

You smiled, playing innocent. “Hmm yeah, I wonder why too.”

Seonghwa scrunched his lips, like he was trying to contain laughter, but ultimately failed as you two dissolved into giggles. 

He slung an arm over your shoulder and pulled you into him while leading you across the pier. “Cold?” He asked while rubbing your arm when the wind picked up. 

You burrowed a little more into his side and replied, “No.”

You two walked quietly for a few more minutes until Seonghwa slowed his steps. 

“Is this weird for you at all?” He asked. “Like we’ve known each other for so long, we see each other all the time and now we’re on a date and…”

“Seonghwa.” You spun to face him and placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. “Hwa.”

He didn’t look at you first. Instead, he saw a large group of people walking toward you two. Without waiting for either of you two to be jostled, he manoeuvred you to lean back against the side of the pier. 

A small sound of surprise left your mouth at his quick movements, but looking over his shoulder, you quickly figured out why. 

Seonghwa’s arms were on either side and he was close enough for you to smell his cologne. 

He looked at his feet then back at you, before pulling back a little and apologising. “I am sorry, I just didn’t want them to bump in to you.”

“I know, Hwa. It’s okay.” You tapped in his arm, placing your hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let’s keep walking? I want to see the whole riverbank from the end of the pier.”

He let you set the pace, and guide him where you wanted to go.

When you two reached the end of the pier, the light from the decorations had slowly gotten dimmer while the sound of soft waves started reaching your ears. You leave your back against the railing, and Seonghwa stood in front of you. He looked down at his feet, shuffling them a little nervously.

“Hwa?”

He looked up at you. 

“It’s not weird. I just wanted to say that. I am glad you asked me out, I’m happy to go on a date with you. I know I didn’t say earlier in your office, but I like you too.”

His eyes shone as he looked at you, lips slowly spreading into a grin.

“You know, I kind of want to act cool and say I saw it coming a mile away, but I think you’d just say that about me instead.”

You looked to the side and laughed. “Maybe? I guess there were times I questioned it?”

He took one hand off the railing to hold your wrist and rub soft circles in your skin. “Yeah? What gave me away?”

 You opened your mouth to give a witty answer, but paused as something else came into your mind. “I think it might have been last year. When you picked me up and fixed my lipstick.”

His eyes immediately dropped to your lips.

“It was the first time you made me blush,” you admitted.

His thumb paused making circles in your skin. “That was a year ago though. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because.” You didn’t need to elaborate.

He gave you a grim smile. “Right.”

You reached out and traced the edge of his sweater. It clung close to his frame, and you felt him shiver when your hand passed over somewhere sensitive on his torso.

“Same question to you,” you said without looking up at him. “When did you first think of me that way.”

Seonghwa looked down, watching your fingers play with the edge of his sweater. “It’s a little like the lipstick. You had a very specific makeup look that time we first went to a conference together. I liked it.”

You paused, turning to face Seonghwa. “Miss it? Are you asking if I miss being love bombed? Isolated? If I miss the constant attention from the press?” You looked down and sighed. “Hwa, I never needed the random gifts. Minhyuk didn’t give me anything I couldn’t give myself. Honestly, I don’t even know why you would—” 

Seonghwa didn't let you finish your sentence, instead rushing to apologise. “Y/n, I am sorry, I didn’t meant to bring up anything, it’s just…”

“Just what, Hwa?” You looked up at him, your face concerned, not angry. Speaking gently, you said, “Hwa, I’m not mad at you, I’m just surprised you’d ask me that, as if you thought I liked being with Minhyuk.” 

Seonghwa chewed his lip, trying to respond. Seeing that you two were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, you looped your arm through his. 

“C’mon, I still want to see the decorations.”

Seonghwa let you guide him down the sidewalk, still sorting his thoughts. 

After a few minutes, you asked, "Wanna tell me what's on your mind? I doubt it’s something to do with Minhyuk.” 

By now, you could see the twinkling lights and installations dotting the grass by the riverbank.

“I just… wanted to know how you’re doing. It’s been a couple of months now.” 

You tossed up some words in your head. “I’m… good.” 

“Yeah? Just good?” 

You shrugged. “I go to work, hit up restaurants with Yunho, play with San’s nephews, call Hongjoong every time my internet stops working, so yeah, I guess I’m just doing good.” 

Seonghwa smiled softly, the light from the installations now casting long shadows along the sidewalk as you both walked towards the pier. “I'm glad.” His steps slowed as he glanced down at your shoes. “Are your feet okay?” 

You looked down at your high heels. “I’ll be fine. I told myself I’d come see the decorations this week.” Tightening your grip on his arm for balance, you lifted your foot up to show him the design of your shoes. “I thought they were pretty.”

Seonghwa would agree, but instead he frowned. “You’re wearing glossy silver Valentino heels. You've been wearing them the whole day.” 

You gaped at him. “You noticed? Since when do you pay attention to what I wear?” 

Seonghwa shook his head, a half smile forming. “What you wear? Never. But you?” He took your hand off his arm to hold it in his. “Always.” 

Your eyes flicked down to your joined hands, and a small smile crept on to your face. "You don't want to walk on the pier tonight?” 

He glanced towards the pier and replied, “I’d be happy to but you’ve just closed a deal, you need rest.” 

“Hwa!” You pouted. “You always say that.” 

“And I mean it,” he deadpanned. He tugged on your hand a little and rubbed his thumb over the back of it. He wouldn’t refuse if you really wanted to, but these past few months also shown him just how badly you would ignore your own needs.

“Please Hwa? Come with me to walk the pier?” 

Seonghwa shook his head, chuckling. “That’s unfair, you know Hwa is my weakness.” 

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Don’t financiers just exploit weaknesses? Isn’t that literally what I am made for?” 

Seonghwa took your hand and placed it on his arm again. “C’mon y/n, I’ll take you home. We can come to the pier another time, I promise. I’ll bring you back when the festival is open.” 

You didn't protest, and let him lead you back up the street, towards the parking garage you two had left his car in. 

“Also, you’re not like that,” Seonghwa said quietly. 

“Hm?” 

“You’re not someone who exploits others,” he explained. “You fight to secure funding for projects simply because they benefit the world. That’s not exploitative.” 

You simply patted his arm and walked in silence until you two reached his car.

Like usual, Seonghwa opened the door for you before walking to his side. And also like usual, you immediately got on your phone. But this time, Seonghwa reached over and put his hand over it, lowering it into you lap.

“I told you to relax,” he reminded you. 

You rolled your eyes. “For your information, I was actually just checking my messages. Hongjoong texted me.”

“He can wait,” Seonghwa muttered as he started up the car and made his way out of the parking garage. 

Humouring Seonghwa, you switched off your phone, opting to stare out the window and watch the city pass by instead. “You’re taking me to my place right?” You asked him. 

“Yes,” he confirmed, then added with a half smile. “Unless you want to go to mine?”

It was supposed to be a joke, some light hearted teasing, maybe with a microgram of flirtation, but then you quipped, “I’d be game, if we can pick up a bottle of wine on the way.” 

Seonghwa’s fingers tightened on his steering wheel. Briefly flicking his eyes to you, he asked, “You mean that?” 

You shrugged. "Yeah, why not. It’s the weekend, we just closed a deal, we deserve to blow off some steam.” 

Seonghwa swallowed, unsure if he was nervous or excited. “You cool with some reds then?” 

“Depends on the kind.” You turned away from the window to properly think it out. 

“Sauvignon,” he supplied. 

You knitted your eyebrows, resisting the urge to tell him that his little shorthand better be referring to cabernet sauvignon and not sauvignon blanc. Moving on, you asked, “Sourced from?”

“Uhh… Germany?”

“Germany?” You parroted back.

“Yeah?” He squeaked. Seonghwa was no sommelier. 

You burst out laughing. “Hwa, the vineyards suited for cabernets in Germany are mostly full of Riesling, so I somewhat doubt it’ll be from there.” 

“Well, you can see for yourself when we get there.” 

He lied. It was a rosé, neither red nor white. But he was correct about it being from Germany, oddly enough. 

Once you two entered his house, Seonghwa hung up your bag and keys beside his own, and you made sure to neatly place your shoes beside his. He suggested you shower, handing you some clothes. You had been to Seonghwa’s house several times in the past, though not as often as he'd been to yours. 

Still, you noticed some of the decor was different from the last time you visited, which was a year ago. What hadn't changed was the way the clean, sleek interior was dit-dotted with figurines and lego builds, including some new ones you hadn't seen before.

You walked around his shelves, taking a closer look. “I’m surprised you've only added three things to your collection this past year.” 

Seonghwa was in the kitchen, getting wine and snacks ready. “I’m surprised you remembered. The last time you came in here was because you needed to redo your makeup.” 

You turned around and threw him a scowl. “Look, that investor really scared me okay? You can’t blame me for crying after he rejected the proposal.”

Seonghwa walked to his coffee table and placed the wine bottle and some mugs down. “Oh never, I would never blame you for that. I probably cried more than you did back when we were still a start-up.”

“Well it’s a good thing you met me, a stone hearted finance major that hates being proven wrong so much that she will simply prove your wrong instead, just so you can feel the pain I feel.” You sank down on the couch and picked up a mug. “Really Hwa? Mugs?” 

“Yes, angel, mugs,” he plopped down beside you. “Mugs help me save money. Like mugs money.” 

You blinked a few times, trying hard not to laugh, but ultimately gave up. “Why... was that… so… corny?!” You wheezed out.

Seonghwa laughed along as he focused on pouring wine into his mug. “You sure you need wine when I’m already making you laugh that much?” 

You sat up, your body still shaking with the last waves of laughter. “The wine is about the atmosphere, Hwa. It sets the mood.” 

He smiled and held out his mug to you. When you looked at him questioningly, he pointed to your empty mug with his chin. 

“Oh, you want this? Oh right so you’re giving me the full one and then… ohh,” you babbled as you handed the empty mug over, then immediately took a sip of the wine.

“You know, you're already a little spacey, you sure you need the wine?” Seonghwa teased. 

You shrugged and answered seriously. “I only had three glasses during the signing.” 

“Oh angel what am I going to do with you?” He sighed exasperatedly, even though a smile peeked through his features. 

“Get shit faced, I hope.”

And you did. As in you and you alone did. Seonghwa simply supervised. You were both sitting on opposite ends one the couch with your feet up. Seonghwa sat cross legged while you stretched your legs out.

“So you're telling me you never got bored and just did a sommelier course?” you asked Seonghwa after he called you a wine snob.

“Ah so you have a license to be a wine snob. Honestly, where did you even find the time?” 

“Back at uni. Once I discovered the joys of alcohol, I just knew I had to learn more.” 

“So you basically found a justification for alcoholism.” He scoffed. “Why is that so nerdy, so you?”

You placed your mug down, and reached for the glass of water Seonghwa had placed on your side of the table after your first two mugfuls of wine.

“Seonghwa?” You called after taking a sip.

He nudged the bottle of wine closer to you. It only had one glass left now.

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, despite picking up the bottle and pouring yourself more wine. "Why did you stop building Lego’s?”

“Oh. That.” He looked somewhat sheepish, ducking his head down and bringing his knees up. 

“Why? Did something happen? Do you not like Lego anymore?”  

When Seonghwa didn't respond, you continued speaking to fill the silence.

“I really hope you do because I was planning on getting you this milky way galaxy set I saw and it looked like one you could frame and it was just so colourful and pretty… Hwa? You sure you’re okay?”

Seonghwa plastered a smile on his face. “I’ll be fine, angel.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Do you want me to drop you off yet?”

You waved your hand. “It’s basically Saturday, we’ve got time.” You shifted forward, closer to him. “We have time to hear about what’s going on up there.” You placed your mug down and pointed at him. “Seonghwa, turn around.”

“What? Why?” He chuckled even though he started to shift around.

“Now lie back. Head in my lap” 

He did so without protest, settling into your lap, hair fanned around and eyes gazing up at you. “Now what?” 

You giggled and tapped his nose. Even without the wine, he was looking a little flushed. “You're going to tell me why you suddenly gave up a hobby. Did you know a sudden loss of interest in hobbies is a sign of depression?” 

Seonghwa’s chest jittered as he held back a laugh. “Y/n, you’re drunk, we can talk about my problems later.” 

You shook your head, pouting. "Hey just because I am drunk, doesn’t mean I am not sober.” 

Seonghwa threw his head back further into you lap, and wheezed. “Angel, that’s precisely what it means.”

You whined, "You know what I meant!”

Seonghwa’s lip quirked up. “No, I really don’t. Where's my CFO y/n? Why do I suddenly have a psychoanalyst y/n?” 

You burst into giggles, jostling Seonghwa a little, though he didn’t mind. “Okay but Hwa, I know I am still coherent. Remember that time Wooyoung filmed me jumping off a boat after having two bottles of soju?” 

Seonghwa loosed a long breath. “Yeah. I never understood how you could be so insightful with your stock pitch but also just…” 

“Be dumb?” 

“Look, I wasn’t going to say that but…” 

You startled giggling again, and Seonghwa smiled up at you. You picked up a strand of his hair, twirling it around your fingers. 

After a few moments of quiet, Seonghwa asked, “Do you actually want to know?” 

Your fingers paused. “Yeah. Yeah I do actually.” 

His shoulders twitched, almost like he was squaring them and readying to face a problem. “It was back when I was with Annabel. You know, we met in Paris, at some bar I don’t even remember the name of, which is funny because I remember the cafe we met at.” 

“Yeah?” You asked softly, picking up that strand again. “What happened after that?” 

“She called me when she had some shows here, and photoshoots in other states, so we started hanging out more regularly after that, but nothing serious.” 

“I don’t know Hwa, if you had to give up Lego, it sounds pretty serious.” 

Seonghwa shuffled a little and you moved back so he could sit up. He reached over to your wine mug.

“Hey!” 

He held up a finger, telling you to wait while he took a sip. “I’ll get you whatever snobby wine you want, but I need this right now,” he said afterwards. Placing the mug down again, he sat cross legged, facing you. “Annabel liked that I was a CEO, I made good money, I could lead a glamorous life and keep up with her own.” 

You nodded, comprehending, or at least, thinking you were. 

“Well, the Lego didn’t really fit her aesthetic, and since we spent a lot more time doing other things,” Seonghwa paused, eyeing your reaction, only you were too drunk to have one. “It eventually just fell off my radar for a bit.” 

“Well, she’s wrong.” You looked behind the couch towards the set of shelves. “Your Lego collection is impressive, it’s such a calming and grounding hobby, and it’s her loss you two never built one together. That could have been so romantic.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow at you. “You really think that?” 

You gave a very strong nod and reached for the wine mug. Looking inside, you frowned at how there was barely a sip left. 

“Hwa!”

Seonghwa couldn't help but laugh at the way you lip jutted out while you tried to glare at him. “You’re adorable, you know that?” He said, leaning over to tap your lip with his finger.

You smiled, and cocked your head to the side. “There’s more isn’t there?” 

“More what?” Seonghwa asked. He glanced towards the clock again: 12:10am. 

“I know you. There has to be something else weighing on your mind.” You leaned forward, eyes scrunched like you were trying to see into his brain. 

Seonghwa held his breath, afraid that maybe you would see into him, and learn that he likes you. Maybe even in love with you. But he had already seen you nearly lose yourself to Minhyuk, and he didn’t want to push you while you were still recovering. And even though it was clear that he was a much better partner than Minhyuk, it still frightened him that maybe he couldn’t give you the kind of love you deserved.

“I think you need sleep,” he said, gently pushing you back so that you rested against the sofa. 

He stood up and collected the mugs and bottle off the table, taking them to the kitchen. You leaned back and closed your eyes, the alcohol having slowly caught up with you. 

“I can drive you home, or you can sleep here. The guest room is already made up,” he called from somewhere in the kitchen. 

Head rolled back on to the couch, you groaned out, “Since when do you have a guest bedroom and why was I never invited?” 

Seonghwa ignored the question, and returned to stand in front of you. He held out his hands to pull you up off the couch. You complied, mumbling something.

“What did you say?”

“Dsn ma-uh” you mumbled back. Doesn't matter. “Ed an ma-es me seepy.” Red wine makes me sleepy.

Seonghwa slipped a hand around your waist, and walked you towards the guest bedroom. He guided you to sit down on the bed, then crouched in front of you. 

“Do you want another change of clothes?”

You head dropped in two big but slow shakes. 

"Okay, don't do that,” he chided and held your head in place, gently supporting it. “Do you want some mouthwash? Some more water?” 

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Alright, just wait here.” 

Seonghwa wasn’t sure which one you meant, so he went to the kitchen to get two glasses. He filled one with water, carried it to your room and left it on the bedside table. Then the other, he took to the bathroom, filled with mouthwash, and left on the counter.

“Angel, can you look at me?” he asked again, crouching in front of you. “There’s water near your bed and mouthwash in the bathroom.” When you didn't move off the bed, he just said, “Use it in the morning okay?” 

You went to nod, but he quickly grabbed your chin, hoping to stop whatever neck trauma you might sustain. 

“Do you want to crawl in? I’ll pull the covers back.” 

You wordlessly followed his instructions, letting him tuck you in. 

only half of them are wearing their uniform, and even then they layer it unbuttoned over bold statement t-shirts like it is a mere accessory. the others wear black tracksuits and there is not a single pair of proper school shoes to be seen. your eyes cannot help but scan their pierced ears and obviously-styled hairstyles–you are pretty sure the shortest boy has dyed his hair a lighter shade of brown too.

it is hard to take your attention off of him as he takes one last drag of the cigarette in his hand, lazily blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth before he flicks the butt onto the floor outside and steps in through the door along with the others. you idly wonder how he got his hands on a fake id to purchase cigarettes in the first place, but at least he is polite about not smoking inside your store.

the group saunters up and you startle slightly as the boy at the front slaps his hand against the counter with the matching confidence to his glorified 6 foot height to demand, “give me a double shot of espresso.” he pulls away his hand to reveal a mismatched assortment of sad coins and crumpled notes.

“we, uh–” you glance not so subtly at the wall-sized menu behind you and the LED lighting decor sprawled across the other three walls with the phrases, ‘you’re a cu-tea’, ‘you’re pearl-fect’, and ‘you’re my bo-bae’, and wonder what gave these boys the impression they could order coffee. “we don’t sell coffee,” you state.

he does not seem fazed by your words at all. “can’t you just, like, charge me for your most expensive drink and make me a coffee?” he asks his absurd question with practiced ease, which makes you think that this is not his first rodeo.

unfortunately for him though, you deadpan, “i physically can’t. we don’t have a coffee machine.”

the boy’s expression finally cracks a little and you can literally see the cogs slowing down to a stop inside his brain. “aw, fuck,” he swears, “this worked last time.”

one his friends shrugs callously and snickers, “what did i say, mingi. told you they wouldn’t have one.”

“shut up, jongho,” he gripes in response.

you gesture vaguely at the laminated menu on the counter beside the cash register. “would you like something else to drink?” you offer.

the tall boy–mingi–takes all but one look at the barrage of words before his eyes flicker back up towards you. “recommend something.”

“depends on what you’re feeling,” you hum your scripted question, pointing to the different sections of the menu. “do you want something fruity or milky?”

he looks constipated as he weighs the two options. “fruity?” he eventually settles, still sounding unsure. “what’s good?”

at the question, all of their eyes turn to look at you intently and you feel yourself wilting internally at the thought of explaining the drinks to a group of boys that look like outright delinquents, because if there is one downside to working here apart from the crippling health impacts, it is the loss of your dignity each time you have to say the stupid names of the drinks.

“well,” you clear your throat and steel yourself, “we’ve got the bubbly butterfly blues, a purple grape and blueberry fruit ade, or the mysterious mermaid magic, a mango and passionfruit green tea with rainbow pearls.” you forge on with your explanations despite the furrowed brows and open mouths of judgement on their faces, deciding to give them a recommendation for a milky drink too just in case. “the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles is also pretty popular. it’s a strawberry milk tea with whipped cream, sprinkles and marshm–”

“i’ll take that one,” mingi interrupts, unable to stand the onslaught of words that make the world around him explode into pink glitter. he drops an additional crinkled note onto the counter for good measure and then strides away to take a seat at the table in the furthest corner of the store to wait for his cutesy drink.

half a snort escapes the back of your throat at the sight. mingi may as well hold a megaphone to his mouth and shout “i am a manly man!” to make himself feel better. what an idiot.

you shift your attention to the rest of the group. “anything i can get for you guys?” you ask.

“fuck it, why not,” the one who had been smoking shrugs immediately. “get me the same thing he’s getting.”

most of the others pass and step away to join mingi at the table as you sort out the payment for delinquent number two’s cutesy drink. when you close the cash register–you are tempted to ask them why they have so many loose coins–the last two of the boys sidle up to the other side of the counter, peering down carefully at the menu.

you frown.

these two are actually wearing their uniform properly, only the first buttons of their shirt undone, no brightly-coloured tee peeking out from underneath, ties still around their neck and shirts tucked into their pants. they are even wearing their name tags; kang yeosang and park seonghwa. also, apart from the fact that the two appear prim and proper enough to be part of the student council, they are also very pretty.

said two look up at you, catch the frown across your face, fumble a little, then give you a small smile as a peace offering. “hi,” seonghwa greets softly, “can we get two regular pearl milk teas, please? thank you.”

you physically recoil.

“blink twice if you’re being threatened,” you blurt out, the words tumbling unwisely out of your mouth before you can stop them and definitely loud enough that all eight of the boys can hear you.

blink twice seonghwa and yeosang do, but not as a confirmation that the stark difference in their appearance and demeanour to the others is a sign they are being bullied into hanging out. they blink to ask–very respectfully–what the fuck you are on about.

they blink at you. you blink at them. the other boys blink at the three of you.

“sure thing!” you vocally sweep your own words under the rug. “two regular pearl milk teas coming right up!”

you swipe yeosang’s payment out of his hands–notes and coins carefully counted out to the exact amount–and punch the number into the cashier before swiftly turning your back to them to make their drinks. if you ignore something hard enough then it never happened. and it works, because they retreat to join the rest of their friends at the furthest table without further comment.

it does not take long to make all four of their drinks, but you do take a few extra minutes to carefully swirl the whipped cream on top of the strawberry milk tea orders and artistically shower them with sprinkles and marshmallows. you want to make them as cute as you fucking possibly can just for mingi.

“two rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles and two regular pearl milk teas,” you call out.

they all stand up, likely ready to leave once they grab their drinks. mingi leads the group with his long strides and he picks up his drink with one hand. he holds it up to eye level to study it like an unknown specimen and the moment he picks it up, one of his friends–you think you overheard the others call him wooyoung–cannot help but blurt out with distaste, “that shit looks sweet as fuck.”

mingi holds his drink closer to his body with a light glare because hey, it does look sweet as fuck but it also actually looks really good. and kind of cute, he will admit. he takes a tentative sip through the straw then a small lick of the whipped cream on top, the scattered toppings simultaneously crunching and melting in his mouth to spread sweet diabetes across his tongue.

it tastes like drugs in sugar form.

and it must show on his face because the tallest of his friends leans over to do the same, taking a sip from the same straw and a lick of the whipped cream from the other side, only far more generous and daring than the drink’s owner.

“bro,” comes the tall boy’s immediate reaction, “i’d get one of these every day.”

wooyoung suddenly looks less dubious and asks, curiosity now piqued, “give me a sip of that rainbow shit.”

“no,” mingi instantly responds, still keeping his drink close to his body and literally turning away to keep it protected and out of wooyoung’s reach. “you insulted my drink. get your own.”

the latter whines and you physically jerk backwards for the second time that night at their complete disregard for following stereotypical delinquent traits. you are starting to think that they are not delinquents so much as delinquent-wannabes and they seem increasingly harmless the more they simply exist.

“hongjoong,” wooyoung suddenly sings out, appearing to change targets to his other friend who had ordered the same drink. he is determined to try a sip tonight without having to spend his own money, but alas–

hongjoong flips him off and cradles his drink out of sight too. “you insulted my drink by extension.”

–determination can only get him so far.

this time, you cannot help the proper snort of amusement that leaves your mouth. you dare to hold your gaze with a lightly teasing lilt of your lips when wooyoung whips his head around with narrowed eyes. the boy cogs turn in his head as he deduces how far he can push the boundaries with you and he must come to some sort of conclusion that you are a newfound stranger-friend because he jokes with a straight face, “i’ll rob you.”

“sure,” you answer easily, tapping in a fake order onto the register’s screen to eject the cash drawer with a comedic ding! emphasising your words.

a few of them guffaw and wooyoung’s expression lights up to actually reach over the counter to help himself to a ten dollar bill. that is, until his hand is slapped away by somebody else with quite possibly the most perfect eyebrows you have ever seen. and no. you are most definitely not jealous.

“i’ll pay for your drink,” the friend chides, digging into his back pocket to fish out his wallet.

seonghwa shakes his head and advises, “don’t enable him, san,” at the same time that wooyoung brattily decides, “nah, don’t want one.”

“god, that’s it,” jongho mutters, starting to usher the group away from the counter towards the direction of the doors. “we’re leaving. mingi’s waiting outside already.”

they let themselves be herded and a few of them even turn to wave goodbye to you at the doors, cheerfully leaving behind the words ‘we’ll be back!’ in their wake as they exit the shop. your hand remains suspended in the air mid-wave even after they have disappeared and you blink blankly at the bizarreness of your entire encounter with the group of boys.

you do not know if they truly mean it when they say they will be back, but you do know one thing; you kind of hope that they do.

“can i get that thing i got last week.”

the tone of mingi’s voice ends his sentence more like it is a demand than it is a question, but the nuance of his words is still a request and already an improvement in comparison to your first encounter with him. if you are completely honest, you are also somewhat happy to see him and the others come back, so you will take the wins where you can. baby steps.

“which one?” you clarify. “i don’t remember.”

you do remember because their group of eight is pretty hard to forget, and they are some of the only customers you ever get. plus, you have made it somewhat of a personal challenge to hear mingi say something as stupid as ‘rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles’, which means that you are going to pretend for as long as you need to.

he scratches the side of his neck. “y’know, that drink you said is good.”

“we have a couple of those. was it the, uh, mysterious mermaid magic?” your head tilts with exaggerated thoughtfulness and from behind mingi, hongjoong and wooyoung cackle while the others look on with smirks, having caught on to exactly what you are doing.

“no, the rainbow unic…” he mumbles, voice growing increasingly softer with each syllable until his mouth is simply opening and closing.

you look at him with faux apologeticness and furrow your brows, “sorry? i didn’t quite catch that.”

“say it louder, dude,” his tall friend nudges him playfully. you are going to need to find out his name somehow because his is the only one you have yet to figure out, and you have a feeling you and him would get along real good.

“the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles,” mingi finally gets out. if he were a cartoon character, you would see the rising colour of bright red creep up from under his uniform to the tip of his ears and then to the very roots of his hair.

god forbid a manly man purchase a cutesy pick-me-up drink on a friday night.

you smile brightly and use your cheeriest customer service voice to announce, “one rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles for princess mingi coming right up.”

the boy in front of you is flattered to learn that you know and remember his name but is also twice as horrified by the nickname you have crowned him with. his brain short circuits and his eyes widen at you in panicked masculinity and he shoves his payment across the counter before retreating to the same table in the corner of the store where seonghwa is already seated. if you look closely enough, there is a little wisp of smoke coming out from the top of mingi’s head too as he malfunctions. heh.

the boy whose name you still do not know comes up to the counter next. he jerks his head backwards in the direction of mingi and orders, “could i get the same? that rainbow fairy sparkling unicorn or whatever.” the name is wrong but he gets an a+ for trying so you do not correct him, simply nodding and putting his order into the cash register instead.

then you ask for your own personal gain, “can i get a name for your drink?”

he does not appear to question your intentions nor realise he is the only one you have asked because he is too occupied grinning widely at you, unable to curb his cheeky excitement at the thought of what he is about to say. “yeah, peter parker,” comes his proud answer, quite literally naming his drink.

and that is how you find out that he has the best (read: worst) humour out of all of the boys.

it is frankly right up your alley but you refuse to let him one-up you. instead, you use it to your advantage. you nod, “p.p. for short,” dragging the abbreviated initials out for longer so that it sounds intentionally crude.

“peepee,” wooyoung repeats with unrestrained laughter, high-pitched shrieking that sets off the others as well.

and that is also how you find out that wooyoung has the easiest funny bone to tickle out of all the boys.

p.p.’s eyes glint with delight at the fact that you can both take and dish out your own freak. he leans against the countertop on his elbow, which is a sight to behold with how far he has to stoop down because of his height, and exposes you with no qualms, “it’s yunho, by the way, since you wanted to know my name so badly.” he adds a flirty wink for good measure as his friends ooh like the true teenage boys that they are.

you mirror his mannerisms and bat your eyelashes at him to say, “okay, whatever you say, peepee.”

hongjoong intervenes and shoves yunho aside before the latter can fall in love with you and your wack-ass humour or something. he shoos him away, “go sit at the table,” as if he is sending the taller into the naughty corner.

yunho concedes with his hands raised in mock surrender, walking backwards as he reassures his friend, “don’t worry. you won’t hear a peep-ee out of me.”

your facade cracks and you let out a laugh, which only grows louder when jongho takes the liberty to grab a wrapped straw from the container on your countertop to peg it at yunho’s face. it bounces perfectly off the middle of his forehead and lands on the floor, where seonghwa–bless him–bends down to pick it up. you think he might just be your favourite.

“didn’t know you were into that kind of humour,” hongjoong notes with a tone of amusement.

“oh, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” you respond, a hint of flirtatiousness in your words.

fuck being professional. these boys would probably be the last people on earth to ever report you for something like a coquettish comment, and god forbid you want to flirt with a couple of really hot guys. the image of hongjoong taking a lazy drag from his cigarette burns at the forefront of your mind as he stares intently into your eyes, and his seeming nonchalance to his own charm only makes him that much more attractive.

he raises an eyebrow, “is that a challenge?”

“only if you’re up for it,” you respond coyly.

san coughs and interrupts, “not to be a cockblock, but can you flirt after we order our drinks.”

the boy in front of you rolls his eyes, pairing it with a loving middle finger at his friend. however, he moves over anyway, half mumbling that he is not going to get a drink. his spot at the counter is immediately snagged by san who mimics yunho’s earlier pose leaning against the surface. “so,” he gives you an overly-smouldering gaze, “tell me something about yourself that i don’t know.”

a bubble of mirth rises from out of your chest and san drops the act utterly pleased with himself. you humour him, though only partially, by revealing, “the desserts here are actually really good. i love the cookies.”

“which one’s your favourite?”

you point to one of the cookies in the second row of the display counter. “the biscoff and peanut butter fudge.”

one of his beautiful brows raises upwards as if to ask why the cookie name is so normal. you give him a miniscule shrug. beats me. he shakes his head with a slight chuckle then requests, “i’ll have one of each cookie and one of each donut that you’ve got.” your eyes bug out of your head because that is a fuckton of cookies and donuts, but san reassures you they all have caves for stomachs.

you get started on their drinks then slide the glass doors open to pull their desserts out, only to realise that yeosang has lingered close by to watch you. he is not wearing his uniform today, instead in a tracksuit like the others but in white. he looks good in that colour and you tell him such, “your tracksuit looks good.”

“thanks,” he replies easily, “wooyoung shoplifted it for me.”

your jaw drops at his sudden confession, too taken aback to appropriately school your expression in time even if you should not really be too surprised by their shenanigans. at your obvious stupor, yeosang’s stoic face breaks immediately and he reveals, “just kidding, hehe.” despite his joke, he blushes to the very tip of his ears like rudolph but elf style and rushes away.

you are left dumbfounded in a good way. one day, you are going to teach yeosang a thing or two about confidence because his uncanny ability to keep a straight face whilst saying the most out-of-left-field thing when it is least expected then leaving the other person wondering whether he is being genuine or only joking is top-tier humour–he just needs to learn how to own it.

you are also left wondering whether there is a single sane soul in this friendship group. you still hold some hope for seonghwa and maybe san, but who knows.

when their drinks and spread of desserts are ready, you expect them all to leave like they did last week. except this time they drag two circular tables closer together in the far corner of the store that they seem hellbent on claiming as their spot, where they then lay out all of the desserts across the joint surface. you watch from behind the counter. there is both a sense of systematic order and chaotic mess to the way they take a bite out of a cookie or donut, nod enthusiastically at how good it tastes whilst shoving it into the face of somebody else, who will in turn take a bite and join in on the enthusiastic nodding and moan an affirmative that it is good.

“wait, this donut is fucking fire,” you hear, and, “this cookie is The Shit, bro.”

they are sort of really fucking cute; boys you would expect to see loitering in alleyways with cigs in their mouths and sneaking into clubs with fakes to pop pills, instead sitting hunched over on cute plastic stools around rickety circular tables sharing sweet desserts like they are at a tea party.

wooyoung catches your gaze over the top of jongho’s head and he gets up instantly to drag you out from behind your counter. all of your warbled protests go unheard as he pulls you by one of your loose apron ties–his strangely endearing way of being respectful not to actually touch you–towards their tables whilst refuting, “there’s nobody else in here but us.”

that is how you find yourself squashed between seonghwa and jongho, your shoulders and thighs touching from close proximity.

“try this blueberry lemon cookie,” seonghwa offers from beside you the moment you sit down, extending the treat for you to take a bite from.

mingi so helpfully reminds, “she literally works here.”

seonghwa shushes him, “yeah, but she probably hasn’t tried everything on the menu.”

he is not wrong. you may have the appetite, but you do not have the physical stomach to try an entire serving of each dessert available in the shop, even if you were to try one per shift. now that the opportunity has handed itself to you on a silver platter, you are not going to refuse. plus, you do not think that you could ever bring yourself to say no when seonghwa is holding the cookie out with both hands so eagerly.

he is definitely your favourite.

you take a tentative bite out of the cookie and eight pairs of shiny eyes do not leave yours until you give them an affirmative and enthusiastic nod at its taste. all flurry of activity starts up again as they continue to trade desserts with those sitting beside them and across the circle. it feels like you are suddenly back in primary school, sharing your snacks out of your lunch box and trading sandwiches with your friends. they include you easily in both taste-testing and conversation, filling your usually quiet shift with antics and laughter.

it has always been a perk that you do not get many customers, but now more so than ever, you hope that nobody comes in for the remainder of your shift–or at the very least, not until the boys leave. in just two meetings, they have all grown on you in their own ways and you kind of want this to become a regular thing. you could definitely get used to this.

despite their appearances and rough-around-the-edges personalities, they are really just a bunch of boys living their life to the fullest in the diabetic form of bubble tea, loaded cookies and glazed donut runs in the middle of a random night.

and honestly? if you had a group of friends like them, you would too.

yunho’s eyes narrow fiercely at the couple who are walking along the footpath outside the perimeter of your shop, daring them to step in through the doors. his glare is not needed though–the very sight of what is going down inside is more than enough for their eyes to widen and for the man to hastily pull his girlfriend away.

“oh look, there goes another two potential customers,” hongjoong notes with sarcastic dismay. “i wonder why people are always in such a hurry to leave.”

yunho blinks his murderous intent away and faces you with round, innocent eyes as you roll your own and cross your arms. your insides wilt at the loss of potential revenue but only by a tad, because whatever business they boys scare off, they make up for several times over. you state as a matter-of-factly, “maybe it has something to do with jongho.”

said boy currently stands about three feet away from you, his arms raised and fists clenched threateningly as the rest of the boys surround the both of you in a circle of sorts as if they are about to witness a bloody fistfight. you suppose it does not look too far from the truth–you are about to get punched in the face.

jongho shrugs dismissively, “it’s not my fault other people aren’t interested in learning how to get knocked out by a sucker punch safely.”

“i don’t think any of those words should go together in a single sentence,” you tell him honestly, unimpressed.

“they normally don’t,” jongho’s mouth ticks up, “which is exactly why you’re learning.”

you cannot win against him or any of them. last week it had been learning how to pop a dislocated shoulder back into place, the week before it had been how to dislocate a shoulder, and then the week before that it had been how to reverse-jump a person if they were chasing you into an alleyway.

it has become an ingrained part of your weekly routine for the boys to rock up during your friday night shift, order half the menu, hang around for hours where you usually join them, then leave until the next week rolls around again. but these random tutorials have only just recently become a new routine within your pre-existing routine.

it all started when wooyoung snuck behind your counter one night while your back was turned to make their drinks and decided it would be hilarious to scream in your face as you turned around. you had jerked backwards so hard that you knocked over the entire stack of blender jars, which toppled over into the dirty sink one after the other like noisy dominoes. seonghwa had made wooyoung personally clean and stack them all again as punishment, but the damage had been done and hongjoong had declared that you would not survive in the real world if a little fright like that could make your butthole pucker right back up into your own intestinal system.

and so had begun your weekly crash courses on survival instincts because according to them, you had none. you had refused to submit to their antics at first, but then yeosang had pointed out, “it’s true. wooyoung was standing behind you like a creep for a full five minutes and you didn’t even notice.” san had also threatened that they would not order anything until you complied each week.

“that’s not fair,” you had complained petulantly. “i just won’t serve you guys at all then.”

san had given you a cheshire grin. “you wouldn’t. we’re like, eighty percent of the total revenue you make during your shift.”

that shuts you up real quick and san knows, so you have no choice but to give in to whatever tomfoolery they choose to teach you for that week. if it is learning to ‘get knocked out by a sucker punch safely’, then so be it.

“okay, i’m all set to be punched in the future,” you declare dryly as jongho reigns in his fist after a pretend swing at your temple, “are you guys going to order now?”

hongjoong nods like he is the little leader of this delinquent gang, but jokes on him because they follow behind you to gather in front of the counter in a single file of sorts with practiced ease, an endearingly crooked line of ducklings. you know right off the bat that it means they already know what they want to order because other times they will come together as pairs or even triplets so that they can umm and ahh over the menu together.

you do not think you can ever take them seriously as proper delinquents–if they even count as such.

as if to prove your point even further, mingi throws up double gang signs and makes a poor attempt to rap, “i want an emineminem,” and when seonghwa not-so-subtly pinches his elbow, he adds on, “please.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing as your hands automatically move to input his order into the register, long past familiar with what his order truly means; mysterious mermaid magic, because the alliteration of the name ‘m and m and m’ sounds the same as the rapper’s name twice. go figure. you do not know if ‘emineminem’ is worse, or, as san calls it whilst flexing his biceps, ‘the merman’.

the boys have a shockingly terrible incapacity to remember the names on the menu correctly, but it is also partially due to the fact that they could give less than zero fucks about them. they will either say what they think the name is, or what they think the name should be.

they make the rules. you simply follow.

the first time it happened was during their third time at the store. “yo, give me a triple b,” jongho had confidently ordered.

“a fuckin’ what?” you were positive you were having a stroke.

“a triple b,” he had tried again, frowning at how you did not automatically understand him. “the big butterfly bus or somethin’.”

you could not take him seriously. “big butterfly bus? what are they gonna do after hopping on? go to fucking school?” you had jested. “also, you can’t just make up your own name and expect me to–you know what, sure.”

it sort of becomes a game. you will roll over in your grave before admitting it, but it is sort of fun to hear an absolutely rubbish string of words–or letters–come out of their mouths for you to then follow their ridiculous train of thought backwards to work out what the actual drink is. the silly boys with their silly names kind of grow on you.

and you may or may not indulge them a little too much. they are the first to try any new items on the menu, even when they are still technically not meant to be available to the general public. but when they pounce on whatever you present to them on the table like puppies and fresh kibble, it is very hard not to keep doing so. which is exactly why you bring out the batch of cupcakes you had made earlier specifically for them to taste.

they look like normal vanilla-frosted cupcakes, except when you bite into them, there is a dark chocolate cookie inside the base. it is the perfect mix of soft and chewy, and when the gooeyness is maximised by slightly warming the dessert up, it is–

“fucking fire, bro,” yunho says around a mouthful, blatantly ignoring the dirty look that seonghwa shoots him for talking with food in his mouth.

yeosang inspects the cookie at the core. “have you named it yet?”

you do not get a say in what the menu items are named and they always do in fact already have a name by the time the boys get to try them. regardless, you answer, “not yet,” because they love the power trip they get when they have creative liberty over your store’s products.

“i have an idea,” wooyoung pipes up immediately. “the frosted ultimate cookie cupcake.” then in a falsetto voice, he role-plays by himself, “hi, could i get a fucc please?”

mingi snorts himself silly and continues, “actually, could you give me two fucks?”

you oblige, “fuck you, and double fuck you,” flashing your middle finger at wooyoung first then mingi second to punctuate the fucks you are gifting them.

the boys snicker at your crudeness, absolutely delighted. not the type to let any opportunity to swear go by, the rest of them join in as san yanks you down to sit at the table with them before you can roll your eyes and walk away.

and out of all moments, it is this exact moment, when you are surrounded by the eight of them throwing out colourful words left and right with the giddy enthusiasm of toddlers, each holding a half-eaten vanilla-frosted cookie cupcake in their hands, that you realise you may actually give a few too many fucks about them…and not just in a friendly way.

well. fuck.

when you get a call on friday morning from your branch manager the following week, your immediate thought is that somebody finally chanced upon watching the store’s security footage and you have been caught making friends with delinquent customers and literally feeding them with business secrets. except when you pick up and tentatively greet him, he starts to say something that is arguably just as bad.

“i need you to swap shifts with gayoung. she can’t work this tuesday night so i need you to cover that day ‘cause there’s nobody else available,” he informs. “gayoung will cover your shift tonight instead.”

you are still trying to process his words as you repeat, “tonight?”

“yes, so you won’t need to go into work tonight.”

your heart skips a beat. for the first time in your life, you find yourself asking, “can’t i take both shifts?”

“no, you can’t. sorry,” your manager apologises but he does not sound sorry at all.

you have never voluntarily taken up extra night shifts, much less asked to take up additional shifts. yet, there is a heavy sense of disappointment that simultaneously settles itself deep inside your stomach and lodges itself in your throat, because it is friday today and friday night is for your boys. you do not even have a way of letting them know that you will not be in tonight.

you wonder if they will notice your absence and whether they will care. after all, you may just be somebody who happens to work at the bubble tea shop they frequent. but it turns out that they do and turns out you are not.

“where were you?”

those are the first words that are thrown at you the moment the boys walk through the door during your friday shift the week after you swapped nights with gayoung. they stomp up to your counter sporting furrowed brows and pressed lips, and if it were not for seonghwa’s soft smile and warm, “we missed seeing you,” you would have thought that they were angry at you.

you can only imagine how terrifying their demeanours would be if they were actually to be angry.

“my manager made me swap shifts with another coworker,” you explain and their expressions soften immediately.

jongho breaks out into a triumphant smirk as he turns to hongjoong with an upturned palm. “i told you. pay up.”

the latter sheepishly pulls out some crumpled notes as you gawk, “you bet on why i wasn’t at work?”

“don’t mind them,” wooyoung waves his hand dismissively. “hongjoong has trust issues–said that you were avoiding us.”

“i would never!” you refute at the same time that hongjoong exclaims, “i did not!”

“either way, fuck your manager. the fucking audacity to take you off our shift?” wooyoung complains.

you try to keep a straight face at the fact that wooyoung has just very casually claimed your shift–and by extension, you–as theirs. you babble the first thing that comes to mind, “the drinks are all made using the same recipe. it doesn’t matter who makes them.”

yunho’s eyes narrow with offense that you would even suggest a thing. “it’s nowhere near the same.” he is not the only one who wants to tell you that as long as it is not you it will never be the same.

their collective thoughts come out instead through mingi, “nobody understands when we order a triple b or an emineminem or a ‘horse drink’.”

“yeah, no shit sherlock,” you fire back, because apparently sarcasm is your automatic defense mechanism when you are flustered, “might help if you call them by their proper names.”

“or maybe the problem is that nobody knows us well enough like you do,” san insists with a wink and in response, yeosang reveals, “we don’t let just anybody get close to us.”

you joke before you can truly think your words through, “sounds like a you problem then.”

“you’re right,” hongjoong banters easily with smugness.

your nervous fidgeting as you tap useless buttons on the screen of your register gives you away despite your attempts to stay collected. they chuckle and it is difficult not to crumble under their unwavering gazes because it is obvious they can see right through your facade. but can anybody really blame you when you had not been expecting them to reciprocate your feelings of interest, much less admit to it so easily and straightforwardly?

in a last ditch attempt to regain some control over the conversation, you ask, “so, what do you guys want to order?”

from day one, the boys have surprised you in the most unpredictable ways–eight not-quite-delinquent delinquents with simultaneously calloused fists, pottied mouths and insatiable sweet tooth. today is no exception, and you have a feeling that you should start becoming accustomed to their antics because they are here to stay, especially after today.

“what we want to order?” they look at you with confident flirtatiousness. “your phone number and a date.”

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People say the forbidden fruit was actually a pomegranate, which honestly makes way more sense than an apple. Because if we’re talking about something forbidden it should leave a mark, stick with you, stain your fingertips. Once you’ve tasted it, you can’t unsee it, unfeel it, or act like it never happened.

Which is exactly what Jeong Yunho was to you. The one thing you knew you shouldn’t want but couldn’t stop craving. He was your forbidden fruit.

Club rush week crossed your paths for the first time. Everyone else remembers it as one of those loud, messy afternoons where every booth was trying to out-scream the other.

But for you, it was the only time you even bothered to sign up for extracurricular activities because, well… Yunho was the one trying to get you to join him. 

He greeted you with the warmest smile and started chatting away about their charity club. Something about a dog shelter, maybe a mention of a hospice? Honestly, you couldn’t focus. Not with him looking like that, smiling at you the entire time.

You decided to humour him and his hilarious pitch, obviously, because… for starters, he was really cute. Entirely your type. Tall too, like freakishly tall. But ultimately you stuck around because he had this positive and refreshing energy you just don’t see often in the world.

Yunho practically radiated goodness, almost saint-like and when God realized He forgot to give Yunho a flaw, He handed him a long-distance girlfriend. 

From what you heard, she was gorgeous, sweet, and worst of all, she didn’t even go to the same university. She was out-of-state, and they had been doing it since freshman year, and while she’s thriving with her dreamboat of a boyfriend, her ghost haunted the back of your brain every time you ran into Yunho — which, thanks to the universe’s sick sense of humor, was constantly.  

You just weren’t that kind of girl. You weren’t going to cross a line. You were just going to be supportive. Friendly. Normal.

Which is why you somehow ended up dragging your housemates to Alpha Theta Zeta because he had asked, and you said yes before thinking twice.

Because that’s what friends do, right?

Only friends would squeeze themselves into a packed fraternity house on a Friday night, stealing glances across the crowd just to see that familiar grin, his little wave that made your stomach didn’t flip every single time.

You only managed to talk when you finally bumped into each other in the drink line in the kitchen. But you were both busy with your own groups, so the conversation didn’t go beyond a polite 'Good seeing you. How are you?' type of small talk.

“Here,” you said, handing him his cup.

“Thanks,” he replied with a quick wink before heading back to his friends.

You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. He just happened to stop behind you, leaning against the fridge, surrounded by a couple of friends talking about someone’s latest romantic conquest.

“Chill, we're taking things slow for now. But… I really like her and we’re in a good place.” Song Mingi sheepishly smiled.

“So you guys just moved past everything? She’s a better person than me, I wouldn’t have given your ass a second chance.” piped up Choi Jongho. A year below you, if you remembered right. He was someone you did a group project with, which he ended up carrying your entire group a couple semesters ago.

“Oh fuck off,” Mingi retorted at his friend. “Look, I won’t lie. It was tough getting here but… I guess you just have to know what you want and go after it. If I didn’t, I don’t think we’d even be friends right now and I can’t imagine that. But what about you guys though? How’s uh…”

Yunho let out a quiet breath, it seems his friend had noticed how awfully quiet he’d been all night. “It’s been weird lately. I dunno. We’re not really doing anything about it and with everything happening…I feel like the rest of us haven’t really caught a break lately.”

“No, because what is going on lately?” Jongho squinting into his drink like it might give him answers. “I feel like all of us have been going through it since that thing with Hongjoong at the start of the semester. Like shit, did we get hexed?”

Mingi furrowed his eyebrows between his friends, “Do you guys think it’s because of that tarot girl Wooyoung was hooking up with? The one who does spells and stuff, wasn't she still pissed at him?”

I guess the rumours you’d heard swirling around the party (aside from the vice president of the frat seeing an Etsy witch, apparently). Whispers about Yunho and his girlfriend going up in flames weren’t just rumours anymore.

Whatever had gone down sounded brutal  and it stung extra hard because it was Yunho. Nobody deserves to feel this way, let alone this guy.

The rowdy party’s energy eventually had shifted towards its end. The loud music and laughter dulled to low murmurs, excitement draining out of the house like smoke. It was just floaty R&B music now, and the stragglers: bodies slumped in corners, couples clinging to kitchen conversations to reap the free liquor, and some dude high out of his mind shadowboxing the living room lamp.

Your friends eventually parted ways . Some either having left early alone, with someone else, or retreated upstairs for their own kind of fun with a fraternity brother of their choice, leaving you alone in the living room. 

You were about two seconds from choosing between crashing on a suspiciously sticky couch or an Uber home when you heard noises from the backyard outside you believed cleared out a while ago. Curious (and a little nosy), you peeked through the glass doors leading to the backyard.

And there he was.

Yunho.

In the hot tub.

Shirtless.

You watched his bare back flex as it sunk into the water, rolling his shoulders as he relaxed in the steaming water. He absently ran his fingers through his hair, blissfully unaware of how good he looked.

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve just left. But… What if you just said goodbye? He did invite you after all. And a goodbye is harmless. 

You slipped the door open, the latch clicking louder than it should have. Yunho glanced over his shoulder, eyes slightly unfocused from the steam or maybe the late hour.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said, a little surprised. “Thought everyone dipped already.”

“Most did. I was about to,” you replied, offering a small, polite smile. “Thanks for the invite, it was fun. See you around.” You were already halfway turned when his voice stopped you.

“Wait, wait, hold on—“

Water shifted as he leaned forward in the tub, arms braced on the ledge broad and steady. His skin caught the low light, droplets trailing down the curve of his shoulder.

“You could hang for a bit,” he said, voice easy. “I didn’t really get to talk to you tonight.”

“Oh. I didn’t bring… a bathing suit,” You nodded at the hand-painted sign beside the tub.

‘NO OUTSIDE CLOTHES IN THE TUB’ in bold, half-faded letters.

Yunho raised an eyebrow, then laughed under his breath when he looked down. “Oh. Right. Yeah, just ignore that. The guys put it up just to get people to strip.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “Classy.”

“Not my doing,” He shook his head, “I don’t even live here.” Then, softer, gaze steady but kind: “Just come in for a few minutes. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

Your hands felt clammy as you hesitated, breath catching. But your feet were moving, and instead of the exit, it was walking itself towards him.

Yunho turned back the second you reached for your zipper, shifting to face the far side of the tub to give you some privacy.

You stripped down to your underwear and the black top you’d worn under your jacket. The water was warmer than you expected. Still, goosebumps rose as you sunk in the seat beside him, careful to leave a respectful space between you. 

The quiet settled in. You cleared your throat, eyes fixed on the ripples between your knees. “So… how was your night?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted, jaw tight — like he was debating whether to say anything at all.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Tonight’s definitely uh… been quite a distraction.”

You shifted slightly, “Did something happen?”

He let out a short breath. “Aish…Come on. I’m sure you’ve heard by now.” 

“Maybe,” you said, meeting his eyes. “But I didn’t hear it from you.”

Yunho’s lips pressed together for a beat before he spoke. “My girlfriend and I… it’s not really working right now. We’re not just having issues, it kinda feels like I’m holding onto something that is already letting me go.”

You stayed quiet, letting him continue.

“Like when we get together, which isn’t often, it’s like she’s not even there. It’s stupid, I—”

“It’s not,” you said gently. “That sounds really hard.”

“It is. I’ve tried. Making plans. Talking. Trying to see her point of view. But she just… doesn’t meet me there, doesn’t show up for it. It’s been a lonely few months.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” A good chunk of the words that left your mouth were actually true. A chunk of it. 

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t even recognize us anymore. Every conversation turns into a fight, and we fight all the time now, it’s too much. She made it clear already that I’m not what she needs right now.”

“I think…” you began, but the words caught in your throat. “I think I know what you mean. You sound like you’re mentally checked out, and maybe you have been for a while?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t know how to leave. It’s like I was just waiting for things to get better, but they never did. And now I don’t even know if I can fix it, I don't know if she even wants me to.” His words hung between you, and though you could feel his vulnerability, the air shifted in a way that felt heavier. “So I'm just floating until I'm strong enough to give her what she wants; me leaving.” 

His arms shifted under the water as he was clearly thinking of his situation.

“What about what you want?” you asked, your voice steady but softer than before.

“Huh…” He thought about it for a second. Turning to you, he curiously raised an eyebrow, “Can you keep a secret?”

“I can.”

He shifted closer, slow and deliberate. His shoulder brushed yours.

“I hate feeling lonely,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “What I'd want more than anything is someone to actually choose me for once.”

He exhaled slowly. “Yeah, and I’m grateful. I am. I just… I want someone to choose me without thinking twice. To want me so much it hurts. To make me… feel it.”

You met his gaze. Those eyes, once bright and always so full of life, looked tired now. Like they’d reached their breaking point.

“I shouldn’t say that,” he muttered. “It sounds pathetic.”

“Stop that.” Your voice was firm, gentle. “It’s not. It’s human nature. We all want to be chosen. Even by the people we think never will.”

His jaw tightened, eyes darting away.

You stepped closer, your pulse hammering in your throat. “And for what it’s worth… you wouldn’t have to beg for it. Not with the right person.”

“Oh yeah?” he scoffed.. “Like who?”

“Like me.” Your voice cracked, breath catching. “A-And so many others.” You swallowed hard, every word scraping up pieces of your heart you’d tried to bury. “You’re so loved it’s insane you can’t see it.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—a raw, aching disbelief. He looked at you like he wanted to believe you more than anything. You felt yourself leaning closer without meaning to. “I mean it,” you breathed. “You’re not too much. You never were. And if someone couldn’t see that… then they were never enough for you. Maybe they don’t even deserve the chance to choose you.”

His stare pinned you in place, dark and searching, making your chest tighten until it almost hurt. The only sound was the rush of your blood, the shallow hitch of your breathing.

“I probably shouldn’t have said that.” You tore your gaze away, heart stumbling. Your eyes darted across the empty backyard, anywhere but him. “Anyway… that’s my cue to go.”

“Wait—”

You turned, desperate to escape before you humiliated yourself any further. Your hand gripped the edge of the hot tub for a quick escape. “No, it’s fine. You were right. We’re saying things we shouldn’t. You’re hurting, and I’m rambling so goodnight—”

“I said wait. Sit down.”

His voice was the lowest you had ever heard it. Your breath stuttered in your lungs as you turned back slowly, lowering yourself back into the water.

“You really mean it?” he asked, his voice hushed and trembling with something that felt like hope.

You nodded, unable to form any other answer.

His gaze fell to your mouth, and he tilted his head just slightly, just enough that your heart nearly exploded.

“Say it again.”

“Which part?” The words tumbled out in a ragged whisper, your lips barely moving as your eyes focused on his/

“Would you choose me?”

He closed the gap. The wanting, the uncertainty, the exquisite torture of almost touching. His breath ghosted over your lips, warm and unsteady, and you couldn’t help it—you swayed forward an inch, nodding a little.

“God,” he murmured, voice breaking. “I want to believe you.”

You had no idea who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But then his mouth brushed yours, slow and hesitant, like he needed to feel exactly how it would taste. The kiss was soft at first, just a question, an invitation—and then it deepened, your hands caught in his hair and his fingers pressed into your waist like he couldn’t stand another second away from you.

When he pulled back, both of you were gasping for breath, your foreheads pressed together, sharing the same ragged air. His voice broke the silence, hoarse and raw.

“Shit.” His eyelids squeezed shut like he couldn’t bear to look at you as he drifted away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—” His hands slipped from your waist, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

You forced your own hands away from him even though they were screaming to stay. The gap that opened up between you felt ugly with regret.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to tremble, tasting the ghost of his kiss still hot on your mouth. “It’s okay.” Your voice was too quiet. Too defeated.

But he wouldn’t even look at you. He sat there dripping wet and rigid, staring at the dark water like it held every answer in the world. His jaw ticked, his hands fisting and unfisting behind you on the edge of the tub, like he was fighting himself. Like he was one second away from pulling you right back in.

The silence roared between you, thick with everything you both wanted but were too afraid to say.

Your chest ached. You couldn’t stand it anymore.

“It’s okay to… do it again,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I want you to.”

He didn’t even let you finish breathing. He lunged for you like he’d been holding himself back just waiting for permission to fall apart. His hands grabbed your face almost too tight, dragging you in. This kiss was nothing like the first—it was messy and desperate, teeth and tongue, like you were both starved.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no space left at all. He groaned into your mouth, a sound that vibrated down your spine and pooled hot between your legs. The world around you ceased to exist—the water lapping at your skin, the cold night air. It was all him right now.

You gasped against him as his mouth parted yours, his tongue slipping between your lips. Heat flared low in your stomach, making your whole body sway toward him without meaning to.

His hands snaked down to your hips, urging you to climb on top of him, pulling your thigh over his leg. Your arms comfortably wrapped themselves around his neck.

“Should we be doing this?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t stop,” he breathed, forehead pressed against yours. He kissed you again, harder this time. “Please don’t ask me to stop.”

Water sloshed around you as he rocked you against him. You tilted your head to the side, clinging to his bottom lip, fingers digging into the back of his head, gripping on his bleached hair, against the buzzing jacuzzi wall.

Yunho hissed, his hands sliding down your back underwater, eyes drinking you in with open hunger while you went after his neck, while his big hands became acquainted with parts of your body he hadn’t even looked at in that way until tonight.

“Yunho! Are you still out here!?” A voice cut through the air from above. You flinched, pulse racing as a blinding light flickered on overhead, casting a harsh glow that split the night.

“Shit, shit.” You pulled away first, trembling as you scrambled to put distance between you. His chest heaved, eyes darting between you and the water as if he couldn’t decide what to do next. His jaw was tight, clenching and unclenching as he fought to regain control, the bulge between his legs impossible to ignore.

Your breath caught in your throat. Heart pounding, you covered your mouth with your hand, trying to process the rush of emotions tearing through you as you regain your composure as if nothing had happened.

A footstep overhead snapped your attention up.

One of the fraternity guys leaned on the balcony railing, taking in the scene below with mild curiosity.

“Bro, I told you to start kicking people out I can still fucking hear that stupid Shawn Mendes song playing through the walls,” he called down, voice slicing through the tension.  “Can you help kick everyone else still inside out?” The frat member added, looking back at Yunho, not paying any attention to you who was sitting quietly at a safe distance with the back of your hand pressed against your lips.

“San, give me a minute!" Yunho’s voice shouted above as he ran a wet hand through his hair frustrated, the heat of what just happened still flush on his face.

You didn’t hear him or Yunho say anything else. The weight of the guilt and embarrassment was too much. You had goten out, grabbing your clothes and shoes, moving quickly toward the nearby bathroom inside. 

You shut the door and your heart pounded in your ears, the noise deafening. You leaned your forehead against the wooden surface. What the fuck just happened? It all blurred together, too much, too fast. The pressure of his lips, the heat of his body under the water, his hands everywhere… and what you felt when you were on him.

You backed away, looking at yourself in the mirror, drenched and shaking from cold and adrenaline. He has a girlfriend for fuck’s sake. You didn’t even know if they were still together, and–

The knock at the door made you jump.

“It’s me,” Yunho called, voice low and careful, like he’d practised sounding normal and failed halfway through. “Need a towel?”

You sucked in a breath and opened the door slightly to peak out your head.

He was leaning there shirtless, wet hair, towel over one shoulder, another in his hand, “…Do you want it?” he asked, blinking at you innocently.

Your eyes flicked between his face, the towel, and his shoulders and chest... the lines of his abs trailing down to the swimming trunks he had on, hanging way too low on his hips.

He cleared his throat and wiggled the towel. “I mean—this. Not that… unless you do?”

“I’d be an awful person if I wanted it.” You frowned a little, leaning your head against the door frame, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

His mouth twitched into the worst attempt at staying serious you’d ever seen. He took a slow step forward, palm on the opened door. You don’t know what got into you, but you let him. You backed away, letting him push to enter your only space away from that. “Yeah? Guess that makes two of us.” His voice dropped, suddenly rough. “Because honestly… fuck. I want it. I want you.”

He tossed the towel aside like it had personally offended him, then kicked the door shut and locked it with a definitive click.

You barely had time to react before he grabbed you, one arm crushing you to him while your lips picked off where you had left off. You didn’t care that it was wrong, that he was someone else’s. It didn’t matter anymore. 

This is wrong. God, this is wrong. But his hands feel so good on your skin, so certain, so desperate — like he can’t help himself either. You should pull away, you should say no, you should think about her — but you can’t. 

His kisses were so intentional. He wanted you naked, right then and there and it was going to happen. A hunger he hadn’t seen in himself in months. It was without a doubt desperate but he’d been holding back for as long as you have. His lips claimed yours hungrily while his hands roamed down your back, pulling you closer with a firm ass grab. The air felt cold, but the heat of him against you distracted instantly as every inch of his body pressed into yours, leaving no more space between you.

He backed you all through the opened glass shower door, cushioning your head as it pressed against the cold tiles. Clumsy hands, unsure if they belonged to you or him, turned on the shower; the water rushing above your head didn't stop either of you at this point. Hands swiftly discarded every last soaked piece of fabric in between you. 

Your cheek pressed against the wall when his head positioned itself on your collarbones, and his veiny hands turned your face for a clear spot to cover your neck in sloppy kisses. You were absolutely breathless, whimpering for more as his thumb brushed across your bitten bottom lip.

He turned you over, quick and impatient. “Do you want it?” 

“Yes,” fairly a whisper leaving your mouth as you glance at him over your shoulder, seeing how he towered over you. 

“How bad?” He intertwined a hand with yours on the back of your hand, holding it over your head, finding his cock in his hands, hard, wet, ready to take you.

You wanted him to ruin you so fucking badly. You want him to choose you even if this isn’t how you should be chosen.

“Please… please I want it so bad.”

“Is that right?” He hummed, teasingly. When he slipped in barely an inch, you were done for. “How does this feel? Tell me princess.”

You felt every vein, the curve of it, sliding in with ease. You weren't sure if it was the jacuzzi water, the shower, or how absolutely slicked you were between your legs for just kissing him and touching him this way.

"It's so good." You whined.

Moans echoed in the shower so easily, battling with the cascading water that was gushing down one side of his shoulder. He steadied his face behind your head, panting like an animal, moaning with you like it was a choir. 

You felt his other hand wrap around your throat, and your vision went hazy. The intensity of the moment was almost too much to bear, but you couldn't resist. He pulsed into you with grunts, gripping onto your hip bones, your breasts, every skin he could grip onto, he made sure to give it a squeeze.

Yunho knows he shouldn't be here. He should be with her, not you. But damn it, you feel so fucking good in his hands, under the water, in his possession. Your body feels made for him, even if it's wrong and he knows it – oh he knows – but he can't think straight enough to stop. Every time you moan or say his name, it calls him to do more and more and more for you especially when you’re begging him like this, when your body is melting into his so effortlessly.

He gripped your hips tighter, pulling you back against him as he thrust harder, deeper, making sure to slip out slowly to savour your cries and hitched breathing. He gave your ass a spank, urging you to take it, guiding your hips to grind against him. The sharp smack of skin meeting skin, the obscene wet sounds of your bodies together drowned out everything else but your breathing.

You arch into him, letting out a broken croaky moan, your thrusts relentless, demanding.

"Don't stop... don't stop." His fingers tangle in your wet hair, pulling back, urging you to turn and meet his eyes as he hovers over your back. He kissed the side of your face, sucking your damp supple skin, showing affection down the side of your face, lingering against your ear.

With a grunt, He flipped you around again, pinning you to the wall with my weight as he slid back, stretching you open deliciously. Your legs were guided to wrap around his hips, ankles locked at the small of his back with the help of his quick hands, drawing you impossibly deeper. 

The shower was muffled white noise. Time slowed as he was leaning down, he captured your lush lips in a searing kiss, tongue delving into your mouth to taste the sweetness of your surrender. Your hands supported your body on his shoulders, while his roamed your curves, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your breasts, thumbs teasing your hard nipples, weakening you to barely hold on.

Breaking the kiss, he trails his lips down your jawline, nipping and sucking at the delicate skin there to mark you.

"Look at me," He commanded, my voice husky with desire. When your gaze meets his under the raining shower, he claims your mouth once more, the kiss fierce and consuming. Smirking into every kiss where his tongue made sure to make its presence known.

He starts to move, hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm into you against the cold tiles.

"So perfect, so fucking perfect for me," He groaned, eyeing you with a tinge is possession that was way too hot. His hips snapped faster, chasing that sweet release. "Take it, baby, take me. You've wanted this for so long, haven’t you?”

Barely intelligible words of agreement spilled from your lips, but you weren’t listening—not to him, not to the water pounding around you, not even to the way your own breath trembled. All you could hear was your heartbeat, thudding violently in your ears like it might give you away.

You were too far gone, chasing the kind of pleasure that should’ve felt wrong. Maybe it did. Maybe that’s why it felt so good.

He held you steady, every slow grind a promise he shouldn't be making. Yunho’s eyes didn’t leave your face, watching every stuttered moan, every flutter of your lashes, every time your mouth dropped open like you were about to say something and forgot how.

“That’s my girl, my good girl. How bad did you want me? Let me hear it."

He groaned, a raw, low noise from somewhere buried deep. One last, punishing thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, his mouth crashing to your shoulder with a broken growl of your name.

And that was it—he hit something deep enough to shatter you. Your cry tore itself from your throat, too loud, too honest. The kind of sound you can’t take back.

His hands gripped hard, grounding himself against you as he came, filling you up with a brutal finality.

You swore you could feel your soul slipping out your mouth.

Your body shuddered again and again, the orgasm dragging on like it didn’t know when to stop—like it didn’t want to. Like it had waited for this moment just as long as you had.

You kissed down the side of his neck, slow and languid, the aftershocks still trembling through your thighs. Your nails finally unlatched from his back. A faint hiss escaped him, In the sheen of the shower’s reflection, you saw the red lines you left behind. Proof. Of how badly you wanted him.

He can feel how fragile this is — how fragile you are right now, legs barely steady, eyes glazed like you’re trying to hold onto something real in the mess you’ve made together. He tells himself he’ll fix it. He has to fix it. He’ll tell her, he’ll end it, he’ll clean up the wreckage.