The two of you, despite aforementioned reunion, hadn't exactly grown up together — he was born in St. Cloud to two kindergarten teachers and spent a majority of his elementary school years weaving in and out of the trailer park he called home. He salted tires early in the morning and walked dogs late at night for pocket money, he picked up beer cans tossed around the park and neighboring areas to get cash at Midway Iron. He was a good student and an even better clarinet player, often spending evenings sitting by the local high school's band hall to hear the crash of cymbals and deep baritone of the golden tuba. If he was lucky, he'd catch the choir girls warming up before their bus took off into Minneapolis for competitions.

He wouldn't meet you until his sixth grade year when luck struck both his parents and they got better paying jobs in Bemidji — two and a half hours north of his hometown, and the place you called home. His family packed up everything they could fit into the back of his father's 1995 Chevy G20 and they left — the trailer park disappearing in the rear view and giving Jihoon a stomach ache. He had to start all over, and meet all new people — but his family had moved just at the end of 1998, so he hadn't been too well acquainted with his teachers or his schedule anyhow. You were an eighth grader when he got to the local middle school, and he remembers exactly what you looked like, too, the day that he met you.

You were a bit taller than he was then, and you'd convinced your mother to let you dye your hair a honey blonde with caramel lowlights. You had a permanent zigzag part and wore it in a half-up do with two ponytails that swung when you walked, and you had a purple windbreaker on that he would soon learn to be your favorite piece of your wardrobe — along with several pairs of dark wash Jordache jeans that had no back pockets so you'd eventually clip your Motorola I1000 Plus (a gift from your parents on your fourteenth birthday) to your waistband. You were always all smiles, you wore Victoria's Secret Sweet Talk lipgloss and swapped your tubes with your friends every week — your favorite was the shimmery gold. You also wore metallic silver polish on your fingernails, and he remembers the distinct smell of ethyl acetate every time he walked past the girls' bathroom on the second floor — sometimes even catching a glimpse of you and your friends sitting on the sinks and painting your nails during lunch.

He met you fully when you slammed into him in your rush to get to Home Economics, somehow bursting his clarinet case open and catching the lower joint with your foot. You'd crouched quickly, picking it up (as well as his extra reeds) and grabbing his case before anything else could tumble out with a worried look, "sorry! Are you okay?"

He'd mumbled a yeah, taking his things back from you as your fingers carefully held the case open for him to put them back. You closed it, peering down at him through your lashes that had been smoothly swiped with brown mascara — and he remembers how hot his cheeks and ears felt at the fact that you were now in front of him. He'd seen you, he'd heard you laugh, but he'd mostly heard you speak — strongly and confidently — every morning over the school's PA system during homeroom. You ran the school's radio club, Aurora FM, and that was what you were most known for — even if to Jihoon, you were just a nice girl with a pretty smile for the time being.

He'd know better in due time.

That was your only interaction in middle school. You'd moved onto ninth grade the next year, and he joined the radio club that year. He stayed behind the scenes, quietly gathering information, distributing intel, writing scripts. He'd occasionally fill in if Soonyoung, the president that year, was running late and needed someone to fill his spot. He tried his best — he led the Pledge of Allegiance that he didn't really care for, he congratulated people for their birthdays, he read out the lunch menu and talked about what the school extracurricular teams were getting up to come the following weekend.

Everyone said he was a natural. Smooth, steady, but he wasn't all that sure. He liked hanging back. He liked keeping to himself, not having too many people know who he was or wanting to socialize with him. Nonetheless, he made friends and eventually was made the Vice President of the radio club by the end of the year because Soonyoung wanted him to be President but he didn't want to do the morning announcements unless he absolutely had to. So, VP it was.

His eighth grade year was uneventful. He was the band's first chair clarinet player, he was a straight-A student, he was always saved a seat at a lunch table in the corner closest to the staircase that led up to the library in case he and his friends wanted an escape. Sometimes he went outside with Mingyu and Seokmin, kicked the soccer ball around that Mingyu brought from home — that kept getting confiscated because it was against the rules — but he tended to keep to himself anyhow.

Middle school ended and he left his Vice President position to his good friend Hansol — feeding into the local high school and reuniting with Soonyoung, who was in his sophomore year…

And you, in your junior year. He vividly remembers arriving on his first day, too — he'd been lucky enough that Soonyoung kept in contact and told him that he was guaranteed a spot in the high school's radio club when he came in. He'd told him to meet up with him at the library before getting his schedule so he could get his passes for the year, only to walk into the radio room to see you and Soonyoung yelling at each other. You were both fully teasing, but there were two guys he did not recognize watching the entire ordeal with bitten back grins.

You were still dying your hair honey blonde with caramel lowlights, but it was much longer and even slightly curling in several places. You had sparkly clips everywhere, and your purple windbreaker was draped over the thigh of one of the guys that was sitting back in the desk chairs. You had soft taupe shadow light brushed over your eyelids with gold glitter on the center, your lashes now coated with black mascara and your waterline lined with dark brown. Your lips donned a frosty berry color…the same color stamped onto the cheeks and lips of the boy with your jacket over his thigh.

You had a boyfriend.

"Yah! Can't you see we have company!?" Soonyoung had yelled out when Jihoon's silver clarinet case caught his eye. He'd turned quickly, his hair now sporting frosted tips as he easily embraced Jihoon in a tight hug — and he was barely able to look over Soonyoung's shoulder to see you peering at him, almost like you knew him. Your zigzag part was gone, replaced with a straight one.

Soonyoung had let him go when Jihoon murmured that he couldn't breathe, only to grab his hand and pull him forward, "this is Y/N! You know Y/N, right? We went to middle school together!"

You tilted your head at him, "you're…I bumped into you once, right? You were the new kid back in '98."

Jihoon introduced himself quietly, watching the way his name shaped your lips as you repeated it to yourself. You then turned on your heel, introducing the men sitting in the desk chairs. The lankier guy with long hair was Jeonghan Yoon, treasurer of the radio club — and the boy sitting next to him with the thick brows and stamps of your lipstick was Seungcheol Choi, the secretary.

And the band's first chair clarinet player. And the junior varsity's soccer team captain.

"…and he's also my boyfriend! He's so good that Coach Lowe thinks he could go pro." You'd been all smiles saying that, the boy blushing all the way up to his ears as you slid into his lap. He buried his face into your shoulder, his eyes full of stars as he peeked at the hoop earrings swinging from your lobes, only paired with a small gold S earring snugly tucked into a tragus piercing you'd gotten at some point. He and Jeonghan both also coolly introduced themselves to Jihoon, and eventually the room was full of more people — including Mingyu and Seokmin, who he had managed to coax into joining the club with him. They all started at the bottom again, and Jihoon quickly took initiative — asking all the right questions and Seungcheol had been visibly impressed.

You had also been impressed. You were Vice President of the club, having joined a year before Seungcheol, Jeonghan and Soonyoung even arrived at the high school. Jihoon found it a little endearing how enamored Seungcheol was with you, but even more that the entire radio club liked you far more than they did the actual president — a senior that arrived late, that you gave a mildly annoyed glare at, that smelled like her boyfriend's AXE body spray and the faint ganja smoke. Her letterman jacket boasted the last name LOWE, and she introduced herself to the freshman with low, red eyes as Kathleen.

Freshman year was rather uneventful — he spent his time doing everything he did in middle school, but this time…he was also noticing more about you. You had a car, a 1991 GMC Syclone that often sat you and Seungcheol in the cab. You'd sneak him out for lunch with you, you'd drive around town with him — Jihoon saw the two of you on dates a few times, at the local ice cream parlor where Seungcheol would kiss your temple and wipe the corners of your lips of chocolate with his thumb. He was head over heels for you, Jihoon could see it entirely.

Another thing was that Jihoon often heard you humming Jumpin' Jumpin' by Destiny's Child in the mornings while you made last minute touches to the script while Seungcheol talked numbers and events with Jeonghan. He listened to the stations you'd put on the staticky radio, frowning inwardly as you fiddled with the antenna until Seungcheol eventually gave the radio a quick hit and the music would come out clearly. You liked anything, really — but listened mostly to rock, R&B and the occasional Top 40 station.

The songs that you sang along to the most that year were Hanging By A Moment by Lifehouse, My First Love by Avant & KeKe Wyatt, and Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind. Sometimes you'd sing (You Drive Me) Crazy by Britney Spears at Seungcheol, making his cheeks tinge bright red as you slowly got louder to embarrass him — only for him to yank you close to him and kiss you all over and get you both told off by faculty.

The radio club was also often at any and every school event, including dances and sports competitions — which meant the eight of you (sometimes seven…if Kathleen was off getting stoned with her boyfriend and their friends instead of tagging along like she was supposed to) were often lumped together. It was on those nights that Jihoon got some one-on-one time with you — seeing as his father's '95 G20 could fit most of you. Kathleen's absence often made it easier, with someone having to sit in someone else's lap so she could have a seat to herself.

That was typically when you and he got conversations in. You'd drive fifteen minutes out to his two-story home (that his parents could now comfortably afford on their new salaries) right before events and greet them warmly. Sometimes you brought freshly baked goods from your own mother, who ran the best bakery in Bemidji; sometimes you'd bring flowers for his mother. You'd be invited in for a drink, or a quick bite — and Jihoon would often stay ducked behind the cracked door of his bedroom that felt too big for him. He'd hear his mother cover for him, saying he was finishing up homework or doing some sort of chore for her — when in reality, he'd confided in her that you made him a little nervous. She'd gotten that warm look in her eye, like she usually does when she knows something is a half-truth, but she went along with it anyway.

Then the two of you would sit in the front and tweak the radio here and there, with two cans of Crush grape soda that his mother had slid your way. You told him once that it was your favorite, the medicinal taste of the grape nowhere to be found in that twelve-ounce can and reminding you of summers with your cousins in Emerald Isle…and he asked his mother to keep a six-pack in stock.

It went untouched unless you were borrowing the van.

He also didn't do much of the talking on the drive back to the school. You talked, and you talked a lot — and quite fast. He'd seen Seungcheol stare at you attentively in order to catch all the little details you'd slip into your stories because you also loved to backtrack later in the week and beat the dead horse. But with Jihoon…the talking seemed to be to fill the silence. He responded carefully, and you seemingly enjoyed his company — but that didn't stop him from shying away from you at all and any opportunity.

"You don't like me much, do you?" You had asked him the night of the junior prom later that year, and you were wearing a beautiful butter yellow dress that made your skin glow, the skirt stopping just below your knees. He blinked at you, holding the camera he'd been given by one of the Yearbook girls to help out.

"I never said that?" "It kind of feels like it. You never really talk to me."

Jihoon must've looked taken aback, but you didn't have much time to respond before Seungcheol carefully whisked you away. The last few radio club meets were canceled by Kathleen, and she signed off a week before school let out because she graduated. Mornings were silent, but there was an email thread going back and forth detailing summer events until several of the public library computers and even Soonyoung's personal home one got hit with the ILOVEYOU malware.

Eventually, school let out for summer and radio club meetings were held at your house — and the first was missing a certain Seungcheol Choi. Your eyes were teary as you carefully scribbled across the cool chalkboard wall your parents let you have, talking business until Soonyoung carefully asked where Seungcheol was.

"Moved to Maine to live with his grandmother because his parents thought he and Y/N were spending too much time together," Jeonghan had replied in a low whisper, but loud enough that your shoulders tensed. Mingyu and Seokmin offered soft apologies, but you just ignored them and kept talking about the summer events. At some point, your voice was far too thick to be intelligible and Jeonghan carefully led you out of your bedroom while Jihoon looked around the room. There was a box with Seungcheol's name and new home address printed on a shipping label, and he dared to peek in — and felt his heart sink at a two-year anniversary present that seemingly went unopened.

Happy two year anniversary, baby! I burned a CD for you, it's in the scrapbook. The tracklist is written on the back but our song is on there! I'll be a radio show host soon, just you wait, and I'll play our song on the radio all the time. For now, I love you. And I can't wait for many more years with you.

Your girl, Y/N <3

Your song with Seungcheol was one he heard over and over that summer. It was a country song from 1987 — Forever and Ever, Amen by Randy Travis. Your Syclone only fit two people, and it still smelled like Seungcheol's cologne according to Jeonghan — so he was in charge of wheels for the summer, driving the group around in a 1993 Audi S4 Avant his father had officially gifted him at the end of the school year. The trunk hauled a bulk of soundboards, amps, microphones and in the backseat — usually piled on top of Mingyu and Seokmin's laps — were coolers and snack bags. Jihoon's mother often piled a french baguette with all the fixings, slicing it into five and wrapping it up individually for each of the club members.

You weren't yourself for a while, either. Summer came and went, and payphones were your best friend. You'd ask around for quarters, often landing on Jihoon before scoring one and sauntering off to see if Seungcheol would be by the phone. He often was, and you only seemed more and more heartbroken as the calls got shorter and shorter. He knew Seungcheol was in tears on the other end if you were rapidly wiping at your eyes and tugging at the skin around them.

Your honey blonde highlights were replaced by chocolate brown box dye a week before school started. You held the last summer radio meeting at Jeonghan's house, because he had recently gotten a computer in his family room. The five of you huddled around for a while as you set up the projects you'd all done so the yearbook would have them for the upcoming school year. Eventually, Mingyu and Seokmin walked home — living only ten minutes from Jeonghan's house. Jeonghan's mother was gracious enough to keep you and Jihoon for dinner, and you saved the project on your thumb drive before hiking your bag over your shoulder.

"May I use your phone to call my parents?" He had asked Mrs. Yoon quietly, before you gave a quick whistle, your keys jingling as Jeonghan hugged you quickly. You gestured at the door, "I can take you home."

It was then, a week before his sophomore year of high school and your senior year, that he was really and truly alone with you in a space you dominated. Your Syclone smelled like expensive cologne, and had a sweatshirt draped over the passenger seat. Seungcheol's penmanship was scribbled all over your glove compartment in silver Sharpie, and a Polaroid of you both was resting over your speedometer. You were smiling the widest he'd ever seen, and it was backdated two years.

"It was hard," you suddenly spoke as you turned the engine over and pulled out of the Yoons' driveway, and he glanced up at you from where he'd been staring at the photo. "The break-up. His parents never really liked me, but apparently I was distracting him. As if he wasn't a straight-A student and in so many extracurriculars…but whatever."

Jihoon opened his mouth, intending an apology to tumble out…

"You changed your hair."

You blinked, glancing at yourself in the rear view mirror as you rolled up at a stop sign, your chipped silver fingernails carding through it.

"Yeah. I needed a change." "You've had highlights as long as I've known you."

You raked your eyes over his face, tilting your head as you flicked on your turn signal, "so you think it's bad?"

"No," he shook his head, nibbling on his lip as you pulled out into the main street. Your hands were calm at ten and two, chunky rings adorning your fingers, "but it's not what you're used to, is it?"

"I think change is good," he admitted, "not seeing Seungcheol at the beginning of the summer was weird, but I know that ultimately…if he could've stayed, he would've. Moving to Bemidji was weird but I'm here now and my parents like it. Going to a new school, moving into a house for the first time…it was hard for me but it was good. It's the same with hair. I can assume highlights are expensive."

You snorted then, "I got them for free. My older sister is my hairdresser….she was mad when I went in with the box dye. Tossed it out and gave me…whatever this is."

"I'd say it's chocolate brown." "Then it's chocolate brown." "I never got to answer your question at the junior prom. About disliking you."

You hummed, braking lightly at a stoplight and turning to look at him, "yeah. What's the verdict?"

"It's not that I don't like you, I'm just…you make me a little nervous." He picked at a woven bracelet Seokmin had given him at the beginning of summer. "I appreciate you from a distance."

"Why?" "Why what?" "Why do I make you nervous?"

"Everyone likes you so much," he shrugs, seeing the corner store down the block from his house appear out of the corner of his eye. "You're very nice and approachable and that means you have constant eyes on you. I don't like to be perceived all that much."

"And yet, you went out for the radio club?" He could hear the smile in your voice, only giving you another shrug in response before sucking his teeth.

"I like the behind the scenes. Confidence is…a little lost on me." "So you never want to be the President?" "I'd sooner impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide."

You'd laughed then — and a real laugh, one he hadn't heard since the end of the school year. Your eyes were hidden by the thickness of your lashes, your shimmery lips spread across your teeth as you shoved his shoulder lightly.

"You're gonna read the announcements on Monday morning." "I will literally not show up if that's the case."

You sucked your teeth, pulling up to his house just as a familiar song came on the radio. You pursed your lips as the sound of the dobro came through your speakers, quickly turning the volume dial all the way down. Sighing, you turned in your seat slightly, "you can't let fear keep you from being great, Jihoon."

"It's not fear. It's…just common sense. You are built for greatness. Not me, I'm your Average Joe." He stated simply, unbuckling his seatbelt before giving you a quick once over. "I'll see you on Monday. Thank you for the ride."

"No problem." "Drive safe."

He slipped out of the car, carefully shutting your door and following the cobblestone walkway to his front door. He stilled on the front step, turning on his heel and bounding back to your car. Your window was down as you rustled around for something, your eyes flickering up when he spoke again.

"Hey, Y/N?" "Yes?" "I like your hair."

Monday came fast — and his schedule was waiting in your hand when he arrived to the radio room in the library. You were comparing them with Mingyu's and Seokmin's, and Soonyoung was talking shop with Jeonghan at the computer in the back of the room. You were officially a senior and the President of the club, with Jeonghan as your Vice. Seungcheol was a presence that still lingered around you — your ear still donned the gold S earring, you fiddled with the radio before looking around, almost as if waiting for him to come hit it. You did it yourself, lingering at it as Forever and Ever, Amen bled through before you turned it off.

Soonyoung was upped to Secretary, and Jihoon, Seokmin and Mingyu shared any other major responsibilities. You'd closed the radio club to any new members, having told Jeonghan that you wanted your last year with it to be one for the books. Your schedule let you out early, half past one in the afternoon, and you made Jeonghan promise to take them all home after school instead of making them walk. He'd scrunched his nose, plucking a twenty from the money clip shoved in the silver treasury box.

"For gas money," he said as he cracked his gum and shoved it into the pocket of his letterman jacket.

Or…Seungcheol's, rather. His surname was in bold blue letters across the back, a soccer patch ironed onto the sleeve. It had another patch, one seemingly custom made — a set of cherries, with your initial on one and his own on the other.

You grimaced at it, turning away before giving Jihoon his schedule, "you're taking Calculus as a sophomore?"

"I like math." He mumbled, not bothering to mention how he'd been spending the hours before summer meetings studying so he could test out of math before his senior year. Your schedule reflected the same course at the same time as him, "you're taking it first period?"

"We should sit together. Dr. Wade is an ass," you shrugged, pulling your bag over your shoulder before giving him a soft smile. "You sure you won't give the morning announcements? C'mon, Ji. For your good buddy Y/N?"

"Yeah, Hoonie." Mingyu teased from his seat across the room, and Jihoon sighed, rolling his eyes as he moved to step in front of the PA system microphone. He cleared his throat, turning fobs and dials, reaching for the silver triangle that generations past had stolen from the band room downstairs.

"Where's the script?" He muttered, searching for the brass beater as you took the sheet off the printer, still warm. He flipped it, scanning it quickly before flicking the microphone on and playing a three-note count on the triangle, "good morning, Aurora Falls. Today is Monday, August 14th, 2000. Happy birthday to Coach Lowe and Principal Barnaby, and thank you to Principal Barnaby for sixteen years of service with Aurora Falls Independent District. These are your morning announcements, brought you to by Y/N Hong, Jeonghan Yoon, Soonyoung Kwon, Seokmin Lee, Mingyu Kim and Jihoon Lee. Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance."

You smiled proudly next to him, your hip resting against the counter as he read off the pledge and a few other announcements — the weather forecast, updated lunch menu, when tickets for the Fall Ball would be going on sale and new positions for the sports teams…

And he skipped over Seungcheol's name on the new roster.

You nodded inwardly, listening to him try to keep a bored tone out of his voice as he spoke on and on; he noted the way your thumbnail, painted with a fresh coat of silver polish, ran over his name.

Seungcheol Choi — AF BEARS VARSITY SOCCER JUNIOR CAPTAIN.

The three others dispersed after you took over the rest of the announcements, thanking Jihoon with a squeeze of your fingers against his shoulder.

"Let's walk together," you nudged him with your elbow, your eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights that gave him headaches. He silently agreed, falling into lockstep with you as you led the both of you out of the radio room. He kept his grip tight on his clarinet case as people talked to you while walking past, before one of the senior football players sidled up to you. A quarterback, he thinks, sporting a letterman jacket like the one Seungcheol used to — last name LOWE, first name Declan.

An offspring of Coach Lowe's, much like Kathleen.

And a disappointment of a leader, just like his sister.

Jihoon has seen the way he plays ball and it's dirty. He's a shit throw and a ball hog, but let the record show that it's not like he hasn' t been called on his bad habits several times — both on and off of the playing field.

"Hey, radio star," he had a smoother drawl than Kathleen, one that reminded him of his grandparents in Tennessee as he threw his arm over your shoulders. You scowled, shoving him off, "get away from me, ugh! As if!"

Jihoon bit back his snort at the Clueless reference, silently opting to skirt around to the other side where he looped his arm with yours. The senior's friends teased him, "oh come on, babe! I'm Captain this year, that's gotta count for something."

"Put it on a resume, I don't care." "Seungcheol's gone, babe. Face the music."

Jihoon felt you tense then, your hand holding his arm tightening slightly as you looked over your shoulder, "Shelby dumped you, babe. Face the music that no one wants your sorry ass."

After that, Jihoon doesn't remember who hit first. All he really remembers is the way his chest felt suddenly hot when the word bitch reached his ears, and the way his clarinet case clattered across the hall. He also remembers the soft scent of your shampoo wafting up his nose when you pulled him off the floor, and the sudden realization that there was a bleeding quarterback clutching his nose in the middle of the hallway.

Jihoon doesn't even think he was tall enough then to hit Declan that easily.

Jihoon also remembers the three-day suspension he was given. Not because he felt bad for what he did, because he didn't — but because his mother would not let him rest. She scolded him the entire drive to the urgent care, in the waiting room to get his eyebrow stitched up, on the drive home, and even all throughout dinner. He couldn't count on all his fingers and toes how many times his mother told him that we don't hit other people, Jihoon Lee.

"He was harassing her and called her a bitch. I think one fight won't kill him." Jihoon had muttered over his bowl of soup that night, his father glancing up at his mother. Jihoon swirled his spoon through the hot broth, the steam wafting up into his face when there was a knock at the door. His father dismissed him to open it, and he hadn't bothered looking through the peephole before opening it — seeing you, Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Seokmin and Mingyu all standing on his front porch.

"Jihoon is not allowed friends over," his father had spoken up behind him, but you held up a stack of papers.

"Just bringing his schoolwork, Mr. Lee." You replied, but your eyes never left the three stitched points across his left brow. Your fingers were holding the paperwork tight, and he took it from you — watching you awkwardly shove your hands into your pockets as his mother skirted behind him.

"You fought that boy over her?" "I didn't fight anyone over anybody. And if it was her, I wasn't going to tell you. Thanks, guys." "Let them join us for dinner."

And for dinner, the five of you joined. They huddled around the dining table, filling all the chairs and Jihoon giving his up for you to sit. He ate alone in the kitchen, making quick work of soup and rice before hearing you offer to move plates to the kitchen. He wanted to step out, but you managed to make it back to the kitchen before he could.

"You didn't have to do that today, Jihoon." You started, running a shaky hand through your mussed hair. Your eyes were a bit swollen, the whites pink from what he assumed to be tears. "You could've been seriously hurt."

"He was being a jerk to you," he replied simply, his thumb fiddling with the tab on his can of soda. He flicked it, "he called you a bitch. And you got tense when he mentioned Seungcheol. I couldn't stand there and do nothing."

"For someone who doesn't talk much, you sure think a lot."

"For someone who talks a lot, you make a lot of excuses. He was a jerk. I hit him. It's over with and I'll be back at school in three days. I should be glad he didn't beat the tar out of me." Jihoon shrugged, but you trilled your lips, "and don't worry. I know you can fend for yourself, it was just..an instinct reaction. One I didn't know I had and one I likely won't ever tap into again, but I'm glad it was for you. If that's of any consolation."

Jihoon also remembers how tightly you hugged him then — how he lightly patted your back as he saw his parents peek into the kitchen with wide eyes. His own screamed that he was just as taken aback, and eventually, he saw you and the rest of the group out of his home. He waved as the five of you piled into Jeonghan's car, and his mother made a quiet comment about you that stuck with him for the rest of the year as she watched through the window.

"She's gonna go far, that girl."

Suspension came and went, and the school year rolled on without much more to be worried about. His clarinet practices ran late sometimes, he started learning how to drive with his father, he went to radio club in the mornings and spent his weekends studying and practicing. Winter break came around and you showed up at his house with a gift on Christmas Day, inviting his family to your mother's New Year's Eve party.

"My mom is always looking for more friends," you'd smiled lightly, the cold wind biting at your skin under your thin coat. It was only then that he learned your mother was raising you alone, and promised he'd get his parents to drive out to your house for the New Year. They did just that, and the radio club was huddled together in the basement of your house and eating while the adults got tipsy upstairs. You kept stealing rice cakes out of Jihoon's bowl, who couldn't stop himself from pinching at the almond cookies Seokmin had brought down in a napkin — until Jeonghan came downstairs with his puffer still on and slightly overstuffed.

"….What do you have, Jeonghan?" You'd asked slowly, blindly stealing a piece of fish cake out of Jihoon's bowl before he pulled it away, "get your own!"

"Only children never share," Mingyu turned his nose up at him, offering his own bowl as the two of you both stuck your tongues out at him — only for Jeonghan to clear his throat and open his puffer jacket to reveal a bottle of homemade makgeolli just as Soonyoung made his way down the stairs with the familiar clink of yet another bottle. They looked at each other, a soft snicker falling from their lips as they both wormed down the stairs and joined the group in the middle of the basement.

"Not only are you late," you smacked the back of Soonyoung's head as you took the clear bottle from his hand, "but you steal from my mother's stash? Have some shame…you could've brought cups."

"We can just share from the bottles!" Jeonghan argued, only for Mingyu to pipe up, "that's indirect kissing. And I'm not kissing any of you boneheads, that's reserved for Nina Jang."

"Nina Jang is never going to look your way," Soonyoung snorted, uncapping the glass bottle and taking a smooth sniff. "Plus, she's seventeen. You're not even sixteen until April."

"Nina Jang would kiss Mingyu," Jihoon piped up, shoving one of the cookies from Seokmin's napkin into his cheek and grabbing his soda off the coffee table in front of him. "But jokes on him, she's also kissing that senior boy, what's his name?"

"Jaehyun Kim," you spoke around a hot dumpling in your mouth, fanning at your face as Jeonghan scrunched his nose at you, "fuck off, it's hot!"

"She is not kissing Jaehyun Kim," Mingyu scoffed, only for Jihoon to shrug and tilt his can at him, "she is so. I saw them behind the bleachers last week."

"Where are you that you know all this stuff anyway, Jihoon?" Jeonghan asked casually, taking a sip of the bottle confidently. Seokmin's eyes were nervous as he offered it, Jeonghan's soft voice assuring he doesn't have to drink any if he doesn't want to as Soonyoung takes the bottle.

"Clarinet practice. And I like to listen to the choir practice sometimes, and you're lazy so I end up scripting the announcements in the mornings. You'd be surprised how early people get to school to make out," Jihoon grimaced, taking the last sip of his can before crushing it and tossing it into the recycling bin a few inches from the door. Mingyu had a pout on his lips, making Jihoon coo as you steal yet another dumpling off the tray in the middle, "it's not the end of the world. You can still kiss Nina Jang."

"Ugh, yeah, but I want my first kiss to be special," Mingyu groaned, sinking down in his spot on the couch. Jihoon glanced over at you, watching the way your shoulders shook with silent laughter as Jeonghan shoved you lightly.

"Quit that, just because you and Seungcheollie—" "I told you that in confidence, Jeonghan Yoon!"

"Told him what in confidence?" Soonyoung hung his head over the arm rest of the brown leather recliner, eyes curious. Jihoon also eyed Jeonghan's blushy face as he fiddled with his bracelet, one he'd seen matching with Seungcheol during last year's club meetings. You rolled your eyes, "that Seungcheol and I had our first kiss and his mom caught us and yelled so loud we fell out of the tree we climbed."

"You can climb a tree?" Mingyu interrupted, and Soonyoung held the bottle of makgeolli out to Jihoon. You slightly turned to face Mingyu, your fingers wrapping around the neck of it and pulling it towards you, "I can do lots of things. Not that you can do half the stuff I can—"

"Can so." "I've kissed Nina Jang, you haven't. So I've got you beat in your biggest goal, anyway."

"Let it be clear that she kissed Nina Jang as a dare," Jeonghan said as you took a sip of the rice wine in front of them all, their eyes wide at the idea of a girl kissing another girl. "It's not a big deal, you'll see worse things in college."

"You're don't even want to go to college, Han," you rolled your eyes, wiping your thumb across your lip of stray liquid. Jeonghan snorted, "probably not, but you'd invite me to all the parties anyway. You love me!"

The night goes on with everyone slowly beginning to overshare things about their lives — Seokmin's first kiss with a girl who moved back to Minneapolis over the summer, Jeonghan's first kiss with Seungcheol of all people (and how he introduced you and Seungcheol the very next day,) how you moved to and grew up in Bemidji after being born in Emerald Isle. Eventually, the bottles of makgeolli made their rounds to every hand in the room — and the taste was sweet and thick in the back of Jihoon's mouth. It was an hour to midnight as Jeonghan shoved you closer to Jihoon to fit on the couch, the television staticky around an old VHS tape of The Little Mermaid and Seokmin was singing along — both beautifully and slightly slurred from the alcohol.

"What about you?" Jeonghan leaned over your lap, his cheeks rosy from the heat of the basement and alcohol in his system. Jihoon raised a brow, his own face probably not faring any better as he gave him a questioning look. "Have you kissed anyone, Jihoon?"

"I'm sixteen?" "Yeah, that's not my question. Have you kissed anyone?" "No, I'm sixteen."

"I had just turned fifteen when I had my first kiss with Seungcheol," you piped up next to him, "and he was fifteen a few weeks later. I don't think it's that crazy to not have kissed anyone by this point. It's silly, anyway."

Jeonghan didn't seem all that convinced, but let the topic go as Seokmin switched out the tape with The Devil's Advocate, "no way are we watching a scary movie on New Year's Eve."

"It's not that scary," you argued, trying to steady your words as you carefully stacked plates up to take back up to the kitchen sink. "It's just…it's a movie. Don't pussy out, Jeonghan. Jihoon, help me go upstairs."

"Can you bring me back a soda? I'm all out, gorgeous," Soonyoung held up his empty orange Crush can, with Jihoon snorting as he took the plates out of your hands before pushing ahead of you up the stairs. Jeonghan was still heard arguing with Seokmin as you opened the door behind him, easily sliding back in front of him. The party with the adults was in full swing, and Jihoon felt suddenly uneasy at the smell of rice wine on his lips as he slipped past his parents — his mother's sharp eyes catching him. He held up the plates and she nodded, turning back to her conversation with who he was introduced to be the pastor at your church.

"You've really never kissed anyone?" You asked quietly as the two of you ducked into the quieter kitchen, with lots of food still left. You glanced out the kitchen doorway before shoving a handful of cookies into a napkin and then into your pocket, making Jihoon snort as he turned the water on lightly to rinse off the plates.

"Why is that so surprising?" "I guess it's really not, it's just…interesting. You're not curious?"

"It's just a kiss. I'll get to it eventually. Maybe tonight, maybe in three months, maybe in two years. Who knows?" He shrugs, and you roll your long sleeves up to wash the plates. The two of you move in tandem, and eventually you're making him keep watch as you sneak another bottle of makgeolli under your shirt and into the waistband of your jeans. He has a thick slice of triple chocolate cake and a stupid can of orange Crush soda for Soonyoung, and he makes for distraction as you quickly worm your way back to the basement. His mother makes him also take a water bottle, but he makes it back to the basement with no issues…

Until he almost slammed into you at the top of the stairs after closing the door behind himself. The makgeolli bottle in your hand is open, the cold liquid spilling over your fingers as you hiss. You're watching the way Mingyu and Soonyoung are wrestling on the ground in front of the television and getting increasingly louder, shaking your wet hand as you wrinkle your nose at him over your shoulder.

"Shit, sorry—" "Did you just say shit?"

"I'm not a baby, you know." Jihoon muttered, making you snicker inwardly as he crouched to see Jeonghan holding a twenty in his hand and yelling that whoever won got it, "Soonyoung's gonna win."

"Nah, Mingyu is." "I'll bet you ten bucks Soonyoung wins." "I don't have ten bucks, but I'll bet…here, I'll bet you a kiss."

Jihoon rolled his eyes, opting to take a seat on the step and pick off pieces of the cake with his fork. You slid a random fast food straw out of your sleeve, pulling the paper off with your teeth and slipping it into the bottle to sip from when Seokmin called that Soonyoung won. Mingyu was scowling as he shoved him off, and Soonyoung happily plucked the bill out of Jeonghan's hand.

"All Mingyu does is disappoint me," you mumbled, almost too close to Jihoon's neck because he jerked away from you. You winced in apology, but Jihoon pointed with his fork, "now you owe me a kiss."

"Ugh, yeah." "Saying ugh when you bet that instead of money is kind of insane on your part." "I'm not saying ugh like gross, I'm saying ugh like…I didn't think I'd lose."

Jihoon laughed aloud, catching the attention of the boys down the stairs. You waved at a beady eyed Jeonghan, turning to Jihoon, "I can kiss you at midnight."

Jihoon shook his head, steadily rising to his feet before turning his nose up, "I'll cash that kiss in when I feel like it."

The night went on, and the six of you rang in the New Year with a tight group hug.

Jihoon and his parents went home at two in the morning, and the promise of a kiss was not out of his mind as he managed to mask the tipsy sway of his body with the excuse of fatigue.

His sophomore year went on without much else to worry about. You became increasingly less available, opting to retake your standardized tests several times for better scores and spending hours at study sessions with Jeonghan. Mingyu and Seokmin ended up in relationships by the end of the year — Mingyu with the Nina Jang, and Seokmin with a sweet girl in the choir. Both girls were curious about radio club, and were easily coaxed in by your cheeky smile and bright personality.

Then, graduation season came for you. Your free time became shorter and shorter, your voice on the morning announcements was missed every so often. Jihoon couldn't remember the smell of your shampoo by the time prom rolled around, and even though he was at the event for the sake of the club, everything was too much of a blur for him to focus. He kept to himself in the corner, watching the way his friends canoodled in the corner with their new girlfriends — only for Jeonghan to tug him aside gently.

"I'm moving this summer," Jeonghan said as quietly as he could with the DJ blaring music, and Jihoon's eyes went wide with surprise. He spotted you across the room, holding a clear cup of punch as you sang along to So Gone by Monica with your friends — your dress was a soft purple, handmade by your mother with a halter neck and sequins shaped like butterflies all over the tulle overlay. You seemed to sense his eyes, because you glanced over just as Jeonghan murmured more, "Y/N doesn't know and I don't want you to tell her. She and I asked Soonyoung to give you the Vice President role for the radio club. You'll be President by your senior year if everything works out."

Instead of going to anyone's house after prom for after parties (read: to get stoned in someone's basement and sneak vodka from someone's parents' liquor cabinet,) you piled everyone into the bed of your truck and drove steadily down to an ice cream parlor that's old as dirt. The owners knew everyone in town, and easily scooped hefty portions of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and homemade butter pecan ice cream into small waffle bowls for everyone.

They were at your graduation two days later, your gold cap marking you as the valedictorian of the Aurora Falls High School class of 2003. Your speech mentioned all of them, and your eyes scanned all over the entire stadium as you smiled brightly — stopping suddenly when they reached Jeonghan, widening so much that your lashes touched your eyebrows. Jihoon glanced over, seeing Seungcheol inching into the seat with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

It wasn't about Jihoon, but something in his chest ached as the speech continued to flow out of your mouth — rehearsed, timed, perfect.

Jihoon didn't see you after, much less the rest of the summer if you weren't being driven around by Seungcheol in a pick-up truck he didn't recognize. It had a bench seat, it was bright red with white detailing, and even had balloons tied to the mirrors during the end of the summer to signal your birthday, and his shortly after.

And eventually, that red pick-up truck drove you out to California with all your things packed in boxes. Jihoon learned from sparse meetings with Jeonghan while he packed up his bedroom that Seungcheol had put in double the work to graduate early and follow you wherever you went. Jeonghan and his family were moving back to New York, following his mother's residency program — but Jeonghan left an address, asking for letters.

Jihoon sent them. He received them, and in his final letter to Jeonghan went a ticket to his graduation.

And when Jihoon graduated two years later, donning the same gold cap you had, Jeonghan was in the stands with Soonyoung. You weren't there, and Jihoon had done his best to forget about you — even if he swore he heard your voice on the radio a few times. He kept his achievements quiet, he made his parents proud and he left Minnesota in his rear view, having packed his father's '95 G20 and moving out east. Rutgers welcomed him, as did several beautiful girls — and his first kiss.

His first everything, actually. Her name was Britney, much like the Louisiana pop star, and even in 2005 — she sported honey blonde hair with caramel lowlights that had a zigzag part and was held back into two messy, spiky space buns at the nape of her neck. Her lips were plump and glossy, her eyes were bright, her voice smooth…

But she wasn't you.

Eventually, that relationship developed more. He fell in love with her, entirely; even when honey blonde and zigzag parts turned to jet black and pin straight, even when he took her to her sorority's semi-formals and held her hand during every weekend they managed to drive out to New York City from campus. They were fully dating by the end of his sophomore year of college — talking marriage, a potential kid or two, but a big, big house. Oceanside, per Britney's request; somewhere warm, per Jihoon's…

Until she went home to Florida for the summer and called him two weeks in and asked to break up. He had been back in Minnesota, working alongside his mother for a summer camp program when he got the call — hearing the loud music blaring in the back, and he simply agreed. She'd seemed peeved that he agreed so easily, but she wound up not returning to Rutgers in the fall — leaving Jihoon to cope with the heartbreak in some sort of twisted peace.

He stayed in touch with his friends — Soonyoung was across the country in Seattle, Mingyu ended up at Tufts in Massachusets, and Seokmin was just an hour drive into New York at The Julliard School. Jeonghan was taking community college courses while working in Manhattan, bussing tables and, unbeknownst to Jihoon, keeping the secret that you were graduating and he was going to fly across the country to see it happen.

Jeonghan was also home to the secret that halfway through college, you and Seungcheol had amicably split — him to pursue potentially going pro for soccer, you for the love of radio and how unsure you were at the idea of having a family and settling down before you could get a chance to achieve star potential. You had been eagerly interning at several radio stations, earning praise as a pupil and even networking to build connections in the sports world so you could still be close to Seungcheol — he was your best friend. He was your twin flame, just as hard working as you were…

And he was dating Jeonghan. Long-distance, behind closed doors and the phone bill was a bitch, but they were dating and you were the one who egged them on. You spent your time interning, studying, getting cups of coffee and not bothering to bite your tongue at misogynistic remarks. You stuck up for the underdog, you slowly made a name for yourself and Jihoon stuck to what he knew best — working behind the scenes. Scripts, catalogues, internships to keep his mind off the ache in his chest from his breakup and keep the whole operation afloat.

He heard your voice for the first time on ROCK 105.3 in San Diego — clean, clear, crisp and confident. He'd flown out for an internship opportunity, and was sat in the back of a car sent to pick him up at the airport. It was March 11th, 2009 and he even remembers the way his skin prickled at the smooth, soft tone of your voice that still had that

"That was Journey's Who's Crying Now on ROCK 105.3's 3PM hour of commercial free music. I'm your host, Y/N Hong and up next is Sweet and Low by Augustana. Enjoy your Friday, freaks. Keep on rockin'."

Jihoon attempted to nonchalantly dial up Jeonghan, who knew he would be in San Diego and was cat sitting for him, "I heard Y/N on the radio."

"No shit? What station?" "San Diego's ROCK 105.3. I can't believe one of us actually made it to radio." "You know Y/N. She stops at nothing."

He didn't get a chance to hear you again before he went back home, but not even a week later — he heard you speaking in the Communications Hall of his campus. He followed the sound — only to see your face projected on the wall of the Social Responsibility and Community Wellness course he took last semester. He peeked in, seeing the ROCK 105.3 sign in the background of your web camera. You were smiling brightly, and he saw a flash of honey blonde hair and caramel lowlights when Professor Calla asked if you have any upcoming projects.

"Yes! This is an offer extended only to senior broadcast journalism students, so if you hear something about it, it's confirmed by me. I recently partnered with a few radio stations across the country, going even back to my home, the North Star State of Minnesota, to bring life back to some radio stations that have seen better days. The program is called Caller Number Nine, and each station will get six weeks with me to see if I can successfully bring up ratings, re-engaging local audiences and even holding events to get the people to tune back in. That being said, the only requirements are that you are a senior broadcast journalism student that is eligible to graduate, willing to relocate, and that you are lucky enough to be Caller Number Nine. Professor Calla will give you a paper and send you an email with all the information necessary as well as all the stations that are up to be static shocked! Good luck, future radio stars."

Jihoon waited exactly fifteen minutes for class to let out before worming his way into the lecture hall. He'd been one of Professor Calla's favorite students the semester prior, and even had her personal email in case he ever needed anything — it didn't take more than a quick hello for her to begin rambling about the Caller Number Nine program and handed him a piece of paper.

There were stations all over the country on it — but his eyes zeroed in on Lake Ruby's long-dying radio station, 109.6 RUBY FM. He'd listened to it on trips down to Wisconsin to visit his cousins during the summer and get a Culver's scoop every day for a week — but he hadn't done that since he moved out of St. Cloud and he hadn't heard much about Lake Ruby since.

Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the hit list, and the program offered all-inclusive housing and a permanent spot at the radio station once the goals were achieved — and you'd be hosting the first call from San Diego on June 15th, 2009. It would be a long distance call, and there was a chance he wouldn't even have a chance to get on his phone — the call slot was at noon in Pacific Standard Time.

Which meant it was at three o'clock his time.

And his graduation was the same day at one in the afternoon…

He could try.

Weeks passed, graduation came and his nerves were absolutely shot.

It wasn't about you.

It was about getting a job. Getting to help bring back something that meant something to him, about making his family proud and achieving his dream.

"You're gonna call the radio station, aren't you?" Jeonghan said the moment he spotted Jihoon fiddling with his phone in the car. Jeonghan, Seokmin and Mingyu had all come down and Soonyoung managed to get a last minute flight out — barely landing in Newark Liberty an hour before the event. Mingyu had picked him up and the older man got dressed in the car — even brushing his teeth a second time with the complimentary water bottle from the airport and swallowing his toothpaste.

It seemed Jihoon wasn't the only one with the idea to call the radio station — amongst his peers, everyone was buzzing with excitement. The ceremony seemed to go on forever, and lunches with family and friends were even longer. He rushedly collected his diploma, thanking a few of the professors up on the stage and even giving a quick salute to his guests in the stands — but by the time they sat down to lunch at a diner Jihoon loved to frequent during late night study sessions, his internal clock started ticking like a bomb.

He could feel sweat start to slowly bead at his hairline as he watched the clock hands move closer to three. The number was already sitting on the tiny screen of his Blackberry, and he could see several other people he'd been in those same broadcasting courses with nibbling their lips and bouncing their legs under their tables.

"You're gonna get it," Jeonghan soothed, patting Jihoon's knee under the table. His parents had been filled in by Mingyu, and they'd been skeptical — but upon hearing that it was you running this contest, they gave soft smiles and wished their son good luck; opting to zero in on thick sandwiches and pickles stacked high on their plates.

Jihoon, much like the time he punched Declan Lowe, cannot remember much of anything. He remembers hearing your voice, he remembers hearing caller number nine, and he remembers the surprise in your laughter when everyone at the table yelled at his name is Jihoon Lee.

Time seemed to move almost too fast for Jihoon after that.

You'd had the winners to your raffle fly out to San Diego for promotions in the last week of June, giving out assignments and letting everyone get better acquainted with each other. Your schedule was put out by that point, too — and Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the list. You started in Ashland, Oregon in July, only to travel out to Washington, Colorado before your stop in Nebraska was set to end on Christmas Eve that year.

The reunion was also something that seemed to hit you just as hard as it hit him — but you were better at masking it than he was. You were all smiles — but the honey blonde hair was lost once more. It was a chocolate brown again, and he ignored the blush creeping up his neck as he let you pull him into a warm hug. You hugged him far longer than any of the other winners, eventually explaining that you and he were long time friends.

Jihoon wonders how far that friend title can go when you hadn't spoken in years, but he smiles and agrees for appearances.

He spent the summer in Lake Ruby — getting acquainted with the townspeople, easing into the internship at the station. He grew close with the older gentleman running it, his eyes clouded by cataracts and fumbling with the audio consoles and his microphone. His name is Gus, a Greek man who grew up in Lake Ruby after moving across the ocean from one of the Athenian sub-cities. He told Jihoon stories about his yia-yia, who raised him alone after their big move, and often brought big batches of spanakorizo or pastourmadopita made by his wife to share with him. Jihoon eventually met said wife — a small woman named Beryl with many things to say to him, particularly that she had a nice granddaughter around his age.

As for the locale that actually housed 109.6 RUBY FM, Jihoon made it his mission to clean the place up — fixing up overcrowded file cabinets, offering music suggestions more popular with the younger crowd of the town, even going as far as repainting the station inside and out. He bought a nice couch, new chairs, microphones, headsets; he even decorated the lobby area with signed posters and a huge lava lamp in the corner, changing the bright fluorescent ceiling bulbs to softer yellow ones.

And now, he's late. He's running late on your very first day with him, and Good Girls Go Bad is playing in the speakers of his car as he finally pulls into the station. Your car is covered in snow, a 2010 Audi A6 in sparkly cherry red. Your license plate still says California as he skirts past it, forgoing his scarf as he punches in the code to the front door. Warm air hits his face as he shuts it behind him, the sound of MGMT's Kids now bleeding into the end of Good Girls Go Bad.

He can see you through the window — you're in your element. You're easily making conversation with Gus, your coat the same deep purple as that beloved windbreaker he knew to be your favorite. Your hair is still chocolate brown, but there's a zigzag part and Gus is laughing at whatever you're saying while you smile inwardly, holding a half-eaten lokma in your fingers as he skirts into the room after swiping his badge.

"Nice of you to join us, boy." Gus's voice is deep as he acknowledges Jihoon. He winces, earning your eyes as he shucks his coat off, "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Don't be sorry, be better," Gus says gently, before offering the plate of lokma to him. "Help yourself. Beryl said you need to eat more."

"I eat so much with you guys," Jihoon mumbles, plucking a piece off anyway and shoving it into his cheek. "What else did I miss?"

"My arrival," you snort, licking your fingers of honey and cinnamon before clearing your throat. "It's Christmas, Jihoon. You could've been on time."

"Have you seen the roads? You're lucky I'm even alive." "Hi, Y/N. How are you? I've missed you."

He tongues his cheek, and Gus snickers inwardly as he slips into the backroom, "you two get reacquainted. I've gotta call my Beryl and let her know I'll be on my way soon."

Your eyes are expectant, making him sigh, "hi, Y/N. How are you? I missed you."

You beam, "hi! I'm good and I missed you, too! Christmas Eve in Nebraska was a shitshow, but that's neither here nor there. Are you ready to work?"

"Hi, Jihoon. How are you?" "I know you're late." "We've been reunited for seven minutes and you're already pissing me off."

You roll your eyes, pressing the very same button that flashes the bright red ON AIR sign on, "Y/N Hong coming at you live, thank you for tuning in to our 6PM commercial free hour! The temperature outside is twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit, let's be sure to bundle up! Happy holidays from your folks here at 109.6 RUBY FM, and this is Crushcrushcrush by Paramore!"

He's unimpressed, "Y/N."

"Jihoon." "Ask me how I am."

"You're late," you repeat, and Jihoon tries not to let his eyes zero in on the glossy plum color on your lips. "So prove to me that you deserve this opportunity, and get to work."

He pouts, "I've done so much already—"

"And I love what you've done with the place, baby," you interrupt, smoothly sliding your coat off your shoulders and the click of your heels catches his attention as you walk to the hook by the door to hang it up. Your shampoo is the same and he feels his chest tight at the soft tobacco and vanilla scent floating off you as you walk back to your seat. "Prove you've got what it takes. Announce the next segment in fifteen minutes."

"You want me to impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide." He slumps in his chair next to yours, only to feel you grab the arm of it and yank him closer to you. Your perfume is stronger now, and he glances at your ear to see that same S earring snug in your tragus.

"I want you to be great." You murmur, your hand tight around his chair as he glances at you. "Not the Average Joe. That's not what you're made for and it's not what I'll let you be, either. Friends don't let friends be mediocre."

Friends don't let friends be mediocre.

But friends don't lean in almost too close in a radio station in Lake Ruby, and friends don't almost kiss on Christmas Day 2009.

Good luck, caller number nine.

OFF SCRIPT WITH Y/N ၊၊||၊ Now spinning: Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson

YOU: Thanks for calling into Off Script on 99.2 STEP FM, where you're always one STEP ahead of the charts! You've reached the Bad Idea Hotline. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?

CALLER: Oh my god! Oh my god! [screams] Kendall, I'm on! Yes I'm on—hey, give me the phone back! [grunting and shuffling] Give it. Okay, sorry! Hi!

YOU: Hi! What's your name?

CALLER: I'm Lexi! [muffled, in the background: And I'm Kendall!] No one cares.

YOU: I care! Who is that?

LEXI: Ugh, it's my sister, Kendall.

YOU: Thanks for calling the Bad Idea Hotline, Lexi slash Kendall. Now let's talk it out before you act it out. What bad idea can I talk you out of today?

LEXI: Okay, so there's this guy at work.

YOU: Mmm. Men continue to be the leading cause of calling into the Bad Idea Hotline.

LEXI: Yes, he's the worst. He and I have been competing for this promotion for, like… months.

YOU: Hmm.

LEXI: There's this huge company event on Friday night, and I just found out he's doing a presentation for some execs visiting from out of town, and I was thinking…

YOU: Dangerous pastime.

LEXI: What if someone accidentally replaced his slideshow with photos of him that someone's sister found on his MySpace of him totally plastered at a concert that he called out sick to attend…?

YOU: Jesus Christ, Lexi.

LEXI: It's not the Good Idea Hotline!

YOU: No, I know, I know. Sorry, absolutely no judgment here. You just scare me, and I respect you for that. Well, Lexi, while I love this level of petty and chaotic, I unfortunately have to tell you that this… [Bad Idea Hotline alarm blares loudly] is a bad idea.

LEXI: Boooo.

YOU: Let's talk logistics. How would you even access his deck? Sneak onto his computer? Then you get caught and what, fired? That just leaves you jobless with zero options for references. And let's just say you do succeed in changing the deck out without getting caught, and he's humiliated in front of everyone, and he gets fired and you receive this promotion. Do you think it will feel good…? Knowing you had to do all that just to get a promotion you knew you deserved anyway?

LEXI: Ugh… I guess not.

YOU: I'm the largest advocate for beating men in every avenue of life. But if we're going to beat a man at something, we're going to do it with our dignity in tact. Right?

LEXI: Right. You're totally right. It was a crazy idea.

YOU: And I love your creativity. But let's redirect it. Because to be frank, if you're spending this much time and energy trying to ruin this guy's life… maybe it means you care a little too much about his opinion of you. Maybe it means it's time to stop focusing on him and more on you.

LEXI: I hate that you're right.

YOU: Callers often do. Can I trust that you won't go destroying your career—or anyone else's—after you hang up?

LEXI: Yes, you can trust me. I will be an upstanding employee.

YOU: Good girl. You're going to get that promotion! I believe it!

LEXI: Thanks, Y/N. By the way, I love your show so much—huh? Okay, get off me! Sorry, my sister and I love your show so much. We're such big fans and I hope you're on STEP FM for a long time!

YOU: Aw, thanks! And don't worry. I will be!

EVERYONE RAISES THEIR FLUTES OF CHAMPAGNE UP FOR KIM SEOKJIN, the room full of smiles, cheering, and tears of happiness save for two people: you and Lee Chan, who is already glaring at you before the toasts even end. You glare right back, slipping your middle finger from around the stem of your glass to discreetly flip him off. His scowl deepens. Seokjin's loud and shrill peel of laughter demands your attention, and you pointedly turn away from your show rival.

"I think I speak for everyone at the station when I say you will be missed dearly, Seokjin," a voice somewhere to your left says. The sheer ambition to absolutely crush Lee Chan blinds you and renders you incapable of registering anything other than the rage fueling your need to win the morning slot Seokjin's retirement will be leaving empty.

By all accounts, you're a better radio show host than Chan. You're funnier, more engaging, more flexible, you don't have a stick up your ass, and most importantly, you have integrity, something a thief like him wouldn't know anything about. You're the clear choice to fill the morning slot.

You just need the executives to stop fucking around and agree that you're the clear choice.

"Cheers!" someone else finally shouts.

"Cheers!" you parrot everyone else, forcing a smile on your mouth as you lean forward to clink your drink against others' in honor of Seokjin.

You bring the glass to your lips, your eyes inevitably straying to Chan, whose glower is still fixed on you. You're not sure it ever left. He empties the flute in one, clean gulp, and your eyes briefly drop to his Adam's apple as it bobs. You sneer at him in disgust, stopping at the one, small sip and setting your champagne down on Seokjin's kitchen island.

"Alcoholic," you mouth at Chan, turning away before he can mouth anything back. You immediately head for Seokjin, who is proving to truly be the most beloved human being you know, already surrounded by several weeping colleagues. "Excuse me. Excuse me. Yeah, hi, coming through."

You finally squeeze through the throng of people, tripping a little as you reach the morning show host. His face lights up at the sight of you, and you can tell he's already drunk. You don't blame him; he's probably been celebrating the public announcement of his retirement all day leading up to this party. You would be too if you were about to sunset a career that singlehandedly made your station the #1 most listened to in the country and had people calling you the Father of Radio. And all in favor of practically owning a cable TV channel. You'd never stop celebrating, actually.

Seokjin bellows your name, throwing his arms out wide and welcoming you into his space. "Just the girl I wanted to see! I listened to your show today!"

"You listen to my show every day," you say, glaring at him and daring him to disagree with you. He doesn't miss a beat.

"Of course I do, but today was 'specially special!" he throws an arm around your shoulders and leads you away from the kitchen and toward the backyard.

The sprawling backyard of a man who made his riches from his morning show. His morning show that better be yours soon.

"And why was that?" you feign ignorance. You spent the last hour of your show playing Seokjin's favorite songs and talking about your favorite memories with him in honor of the announcement. He fixes you with a knowing look that might actually bring you to tears.

Kim Seokjin has been the morning show host at 99.2 STEP FM for 20 years, bringing them to the heights they're at now. He's even the voice behind the annoyingly catch jingle everyone in the country knows. His impact is iconic, indisputable, and inimitable, and he's the only reason you are where you are now.

Ten years ago, the man hired you as his intern, and with his mentorship and guidance (and his incredibly complicated coffee orders), you had your own show within a year. Sure, it was in the middle of the night, and you were forced to give up your social life and love of the sun for a while, but now you have the slot just before the afternoon commute and the second highest listenership right after Seokjin. You don't want to feel entitled because you've worked incredibly hard for everything you have. But this also feels like it belongs to you—a throne being passed down to its rightful owner.

YOU. Not Lee Chan.

"You can put on a brave face all you want, but I know you'll miss me," Seokjin says, snorting before his face settles into a level of seriousness rare for him. He frowns a little, refusing to meet your eyes as he stares at his guests jumping into his massive pool. "I'm sorry about today."

He doesn't have to clarify. There's only one thing anyone could possibly be apologizing to you about, though it's definitely not him who should be apologizing.

When you were brought into the conference room this morning at the ass crack of dawn for a meeting with Seokjin and the station's executives, you were sure it was to be told you were the new morning host. You were so sure of yourself, in fact, that seeing Chan sitting in there didn't even dash your hopes. You just foolishly thought the executives were killing two birds with one stone—giving you your rightful position as morning show host and delivering the news that Chan was a boring loser who wouldn't be getting a promotion. Then, you sat down, the meeting began, and you received the worst possible news.

The executives—for whatever bizarre reason—cannot choose between your show and Chan's, and their brilliant idea is to make you compete. Over the course of the next three months, up until the moment Seokjin goes off air for the last time, your strengths and weaknesses will be tested against Chan's with a mall tour consisting of three stops across the country, all leading to the radio station's annual spring festival, where you two will co-host the concert. And because that cruel and unusual punishment isn't enough, they want to see you each host one morning show to really put the cherry on top of a giant slap to the face.

Five tests stood between you and everything your career has been building toward. Five tests and a stupid radio host whose performance couldn't hold a candle to yours.

"Is it because I'm a woman?" you ask, knowing Seokjin is more privy to the details the executives would never share with you. Plus, he's too kind to ever lie about why this has all come down to a competition when you're the only answer that makes sense.

He shrugs. "Could be. Probably. Not sure, honestly." He takes a deep breath before he admits, "It's the numbers."

You throw him an incredulous look. "The 'numbers'? If we were going by numbers, the slot would be mine."

Like some sick sixth sense, the hairs on the back of your neck stand and you look over to find the devil himself, wandering over to one of Seokjin's lounge chairs by the pool and throwing his towel on it.

"I'm literally the second most listened to show at STEP and I'm not even in a commuter slot!" you point out, narrowing your eyes at Chan.

Seokjin winces. "Right… and if it were just about listeners, there wouldn't have been any questions about who deserved the morning slot."

"What?" you murmur, frowning as Chan kicks his flip-flops off, shoving them out of the way and under the chaise. "What else would it be about?"

He sighs, fully turning to you now. You glance at him briefly, letting your eyes wander away again when you can't take the pity in his eyes. "You bring in listeners… but Chan brings in sponsorships."

The man in question reaches behind him, grabbing the neck of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Your eyes involuntarily bulge as he reveals—to your dismay—washboard abs you could grate a block of cheese on. Nipples—small, brown, and already hard against the cool night air. Grooves so deep between his muscles, you think you could squeeze your finger into them. Two cut lines that lead from his hips straight to the slight bulge in his swimming trunks. The slight bulge in his swimming trunks.

You feel your face growing hot with irritation but you can't look away. He shakes his head once it's free of the shirt and runs a hand through his shaggy, brown hair.

"Ew," you whisper under your breath.

"What are you loo—oh!" Seokjin's eyes follow your gaze, turning over his shoulder to find Chan walking to the edge of his own pool. "Jesus. Does he realize we work in radio? No one knows what we look like. He does not need to have abs."

Rich coming from a man the country has dubbed "Worldwide Handsome," but you don't argue. He's correct. Chan is a dumb radio host who has no right to look the way he does.

Your rival annoyingly rubs his hands together and blows into them like he's cold, even though he knows from the dozens of work parties Seokjin has hosted that the pool is heated. Whatever he's doing works, though, because your eyes fall to his biceps as they flex. Your lip curls in disgust when he dives into the deep end of the pool, cutting through the water perfectly.

"Fucking show off."

Seokjin turns back to you and huffs a laugh. "Okay, sure. Don't forget to wipe your drool when you're done ogling the man."

"'Ogling'?" you bark your own laughter. "Please. I can admit the man is attractive but that's because God made him so insufferable, He had to give him something."

"Yeah. God just had to give him a six-pack. Right."

"I am right."

You turn your full attention back to Seokjin now that Chan seems to be occupied with staying underwater as long as humanly possible. You hope he stays there forever. Or at least for the next three months.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" you ask, annoyed to find your mind completely blank.

Seokjin blinks at you a few times before smirking and shaking his head. "I was saying… you bring in a lot of listeners, but Chan brings in just as many sponsors."

You open your mouth to refute that, but find yourself completely stumped. You've never been overly concerned with securing sponsorships because of how popular your show had grown. The station largely took care of that side of things for you. You never even thought to wonder about Chan's sponsors.

"What?"

He nods solemnly. "His show is the highest money maker right behind mine."

You balk at him. "What?"

There is simply no way that's true. A show with a high number of listeners should naturally be a high earner too.

"That's definitely a mistake."

Seokjin sighs like he knew you would deny this. "It isn't. He's led in earnings for years now."

Your mouth pops open in disbelief. "Off Script is sponsored by Bebe and Baby fucking Phat."

"The Chan Standard has Sony… and he just signed Apple."

"Apple?" you shriek, flinching a little at the volume of your own voice. You look around to see a few people turning toward you. You smile sheepishly before stepping closer to Seokjin and lowering your voice so much, your mouth hardly moves. "What the fuck do you mean he signed Apple?"

"It's only for a few ads on the iPod Mini, but they've added an option to extend if they're happy with performance," he explains. "Ads start running next week."

You're knocked breathless. You thought this was going to be a slam dunk. You thought you were going to wipe the floor with Chan. But if he was bringing in Sony and Apple money… you can't imagine your listenership holding up against dollar signs.

"You have got to be k—"

"Hey guys." You turn toward the voice just to squeeze your eyes shut as you're pelted with the fat drops of pool water Chan violently shakes out of his hair.

You breathe slowly through your nose before opening your eyes and plastering a fake smile on your mouth. You fight to keep your eyes on his as you return his greeting flatly. "Hi."

"Hey, Chan," Seokjin smiles, eyes twinkling with delight at your barely concealed irritation. "What's up? Is the water nice?"

"Yeah!" He nods, smiling his stupid megawatt smile at his senior and completely ignoring you as he reaches up to dry his hair with his towel and gets several more drops on you in the process. "You should take a dip and see for yourself!"

"I think Seokjin knows how his own pool feels like, Chan," you grit through your tight smile. "It is his pool."

"Right!" Seokjin squeaks, laughing as he steps away. "And I am going to go enjoy my pool now. Bye."

"Wait! You—"

"Talk later!" he calls over his shoulder as he practically runs away, grabbing a random flute of champagne off a standing table on the way and claiming it for himself.

Your face settles into the glare it's used to when Chan is around, eyes sliding back to him.

"So," he sighs, smiling at you like he doesn't know that he makes your blood boil just breathing near you. "Are you ready to hit the road?"

You narrow your eyes at him. Chan is your antithesis. He has to dot every i and cross every t, he scripts every last word on his show, and he's utterly incapable of adapting to change. His show is like if TRL was only allowed to air after being clinically sanitized and thoroughly HR-approved. When you really think about it, it makes sense that he's a magnet for money-hungry corporations. He's clean, boring, and happy to do whatever it takes to make the idiots at the top happy.

You cannot let The Chan Standard win over Off Script.

"No" is all you say before you turn around and march away from him and his hard nipples.

99.2 STEP FM Spring Tour Show #1: Sunridge Plaza ၊၊||၊ Now spinning: Toxic by Britney Spears

"That was Toxic by Britney Spears… again," Chan sighs into his handheld mic, obviously tired of hearing the same Top 40 songs.

"And America can't get enough of it, obviously," you say, laughing a little before you quickly shoot a glare at your co-host from where you stand on the opposite side of the small stage. "You know, since it's one of the tops songs in the country right now, regardless of what pretentious indie, alt-rock know-it-alls think about it."

The audience giggles, obviously well aware of how vehemently Chan likes to stay away from any and all things mainstream.

"I—"

"Anyway," you interrupt him before he even really starts, "Welcome back, you're listening to 99.2 STEP FM's 2004 Spring Tour with Y/N from Off Script with Y/N, and I'm at—"

"And Chan from The Chan Standard, and we're—" The man clears his throat and looks at you pointedly, prompting an apathetic shrug from you. "—coming to you live from Sunridge Plaza!" He turns his attention back to the crowd. "We're here, just a bit away from the food court by Limited Too and Quiksilver for anyone listening who wants to join us in person—and trust me, you want to be here!"

You lower your mic enough so that it doesn't pick up the unimpressed scoff you hide in an exhale. You might be able to buy his laidback facade if you were a listener, but you've seen the neurotic way Chan has worked for years. The fact that he forced you to run through his script for hours on end yesterday doesn't help his case. A script, for someone like you, whose radio show is literally called Off Script.

"We're looking for fans who want two free tickets with backstage passes to 99.2 STEP FM's Spring Fest Concert in LA, headlined by none other than the Joshua Hong!" He announces.

The audience erupts into maniacal screams.

"We'll be giving those tickets away in the next hour," you inform the crowd. "But for now, we're going to hear from some of our audience members! How many of you listen to my show, Off Script?"

The cheers are deafening, prompting you to throw Chan a satisfied smirk. He doesn't meet your gaze, focusing on the crowd with that charismatic smile of his on his lips. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Perfect, you're probably familiar with the Bad Idea Hotline then?" Another round of screams. "Well, instead of taking a caller today, we're going to let one of you run a bad idea by us live! Who has a bad idea to share?"

There are plenty of people shouting, but your attention is drawn to a group of friends in the back all pointing to one woman whose face is buried in her hands in shame.

"Ooo, I think I see the perfect candidate," you think aloud, nodding at the group. Their energy multiplies, shaking their friend's shoulders. She lifts her head, blushing a furious red when she sees you looking right at her. "What do you think? Want to let us know what bad idea you've been ruminating on?"

It takes her only a few more moments of convincing from her friends before she nods and starts making her way to the front of the stage, where the producers allow her through the barricade.

"Hey!" Chan greets her as he helps her up the stage. "What's your name?"

"Hi," she says shyly as she's given her own mic. "I'm Lily."

"Hi, Lily," you both greet her. You explain your own segment to the crowd. "For anyone unfamiliar with Off Script, first of all, what are you doing with your life? Second of all, the Bad Idea Hotline is a segment I have where a listener calls in with a bad idea that I try to talk them out of." You turn toward Lily and smile. "Now let's talk it out before you act it out. What bad idea can I talk you out of today?"

"We," Chan mutters another correction, making some people giggle. You ignore him.

Lily sighs. "So I have a bit of a crush on a coworker..."

"Absolutely not," you say at the same time Chan mutters, "God, no."

Your segments tend to be about crushes and exes and relationships in general, but once in a while, you got someone with a crush in the workplace, and it resulted in nothing other than boiling blood and thoughts of strangling Chan even when he wasn't even in the room. To be subjected to a story about a workplace romance while standing onstage with him is going to be a true rest of your patience.

The crowd laughs at the reaction, and Lily groans, once again burying her face in her hands.

"What do you do for work, Lily?" you ask.

She sighs and looks up at you. "I'm a writer at a local paper."

"And your crush?"

"Another writer."

You make a face of disapproval. Crushing on someone in the same field as you—let alone the same office— is a recipe for disaster, and you would know best, standing next to the man who taught you that lesson so brutally. "Okay, and your bad idea—is it asking this person out?"

She shrugs. "I'm not sure. I actually just started liking him recently even though we've been working together for a few years."

"What changed?" Chan asks.

"I don't really know. We used to seriously hate each other," she reveals, fidgeting a little where she stands. "He always had to one-up me on everything I did, and he constantly wanted to make me look bad. And I don't even know why! I was always nice to him!"

"Perfect, I have experience in this department," Chan says, eyes sliding to you meaningfully.

You tilt your head at him and smile. "Wow, what a crazy coincidence because so do I."

"He was so full of himself, so annoying, so mean," she continues without batting an eye at either of you. The longer she talks about the guy, the more she comes out of her shell, her hands making wild gestures as she speaks. "He really gave the feeling that he was better than everyone, and it drove me crazy."

"These arrogant men truly must be stopped."

Chan scoffs. "Sometimes it's an arrogant woman."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Are you even listening to Lily? She said it's a man."

"I'm just saying."

"But then one day," Lily barrels on, unbothered, "we were at the office working late on a deadline our boss had forced us to work on together." You exchange dirty looks with your co-host at the parallels. "And… I don't know."

Both you and Chan look at her incredulously. He asks, "What do you mean you don't know?"

She shrugs. "It got super late, and we got to talking, and… I don't know!" she repeats, voice rising nervously. "He was actually kind of sweet?"

You frown. "Right. The way honey mixed with borax is sweet to ants, I'm sure."

"I'm thinking I just misunderstood him! After that, he just started remembering everything I told him and would get me my coffee order in the mornings, and it feels like he'd get jealous whenever other male coworkers stopped at my desk to chat."

"That means nothing," you say quickly even as you notice this new piece of information has seemed to thaw Chan's own apprehension with the story.

"Okay, wait, I wouldn't say that means nothing… maybe he does like her," Chan refutes, holding up a hand to slow you down. You roll your eyes because by that logic, the man liked you, having gotten you several coffees early on in his career with 99.2—every single one perfectly made. And he still woke up one day and just decided to make your life at the station unbearable.

"Because he gets her coffee?!" you scoff. "The bar is in hell."

"Agreed, but men are simple. They start with something small like coffee! Maybe this will grow into something more serious. It—"

"No," you insist, nodding your head at the producer to the side. She reluctantly presses the button you need her to, and the Bad Idea Hotline alarm rings loudly. "Bad idea!"

"Oh my god," Chan sighs.

"Listen, Lily," you command her attention, stepping between her and Chan so that she can only see you. "First, you have a harmless crush. You convince yourself that he's sweet and cute and has a smile that could keep you from feeling a single sad feeling in your life ever again."

"Um…"

"Wait, what?" You ignore Chan's confusion behind you.

"Maybe you get to know him more. Sure, maybe he gets you coffee. Maybe you even eat together sometimes, and maybe you start having inside jokes and you start letting your walls down."

Once you start recounting how you remember Chan's first year at the station, you can't stop. You have so much resentment over the fact that from the moment you met him, you were immediately smitten. He was so charming and kind and his smile was so hypnotizing—you were immediately wrapped around his finger. You showed him the ins and outs of the station—telling him where you hid the best snacks away from everyone else, writing down the times office supplies were delivered every month so you could beat everyone else to it, and even coming early to sit through his radio show before yours, even helping with sound levels and mixing in the booth sometimes.

And he was just as kind. He'd sit through your show too, often commenting on how much he admired your improvisation and your innate ability to connect with your callers so quickly. If he couldn't stay around for your show, you'd find sticky notes on the desk with sweet messages of encouragement or promises for lunch the next day. He'd raid the supply closet and make sure to get two of everything for the both of you, leaving it in your locker along with your favorite snacks. By the end of the first year, you were near inseparable and you were having to field off warnings from Seokjin about dating in the workplace.

Just as you were about to really consider whether that was something you even wanted to try, with Chan—dating—he proved exactly why that idea was the dumbest you've ever had. And he ran all your trust into the ground, grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his foot.

"He'll be so nice and cute and sweet, but when you're finally ready to admit to yourself that you like this stupid, pompous idiot, he will betray you in ways you cannot even fathom." Lily's eyebrows rise as she looks at you in bewilderment. You feel a gentle poke to your back—Chan's way of trying to reel you in, probably, but you don't care. "He will maniacally laugh in your face about it, and all your sparkly, whimsical, happy, silly dreams will shatter, and you will be left with nothing but rage so pure, it could wither plants if you stand too close."

"What are you talking about?" Chan hisses, his mic pulled away from his mouth as he tries to play dumb. He had to have known that all his sweet gestures lured you into a crush on him. You fell for it and he used it to get a leg up on you. And now you're here, having to compete with him for your dream come true because you let your guard down.

"Whoa, that's… really intense," Lily murmurs.

"Yeah, Lily, betrayal tends to be," you inform her, nodding. "The second this man sees you rising above him again, he will just revert back to cutting you down. The world is your oyster. Don't let him distract you from completely dominating the station."

"What?"

"The paper. Dominating the paper," you correct yourself. "Okay?"

"I guess—"

"Where did betrayal even come from?!" Chan cuts in, stepping between you and Lily so that his back is completely to the latter. You step back, inhaling sharply as you try not to immediately shove the man away from you. "What kind of betrayal can even happen at a radi—at a newspaper? The man has been nothing but nice to Lily since the beginning."

"Well, no," Lily says, frowning. "I actually said that he—"

"No, Lily has been nothing but nice since the beginning."

"Yes, exactly," she agrees, nodding at your correction.

"And he took advantage of her kindness and stomped all over her hard work and ideas so he could climb up the stupid ladder."

"Okay, again, no," she says, confused. "Not sure where that is coming from. I did not say that."

Chan finally lowers his mic and stares at you hard like he's trying to study your face. "What are you talking about?" he asks quietly and much too softly to keep you angry. It pierces right through your frustration and takes hold of that part of you that immediately grew fond of Chan when you first met him. "Do you think I did something to intentionally hurt you? Is that why you've been so mad all this time?"

You freeze at the question, never thinking he would confront you about your passive aggression in the middle of a live show. "Um," you quickly lower your mic when you hear your voice echo in the mall. "I…"

Music begins playing, and your eyes dart to the producers, who are ushering you both into a music break. Without having to think, you play along.

"We'll dig more into this bad idea after this short break, and don't forget to stick around for a chance to win those free tickets to 99.2 STEP FM's 2004 Spring Festival Concert."

As soon as the music begins playing, the crowd dissipates into a hum of conversation amongst themselves, and you take advantage of the distraction to shove your mic at Chan and leave the stage.

"Um, do I just hold these?" you hear Lily behind you.

You don't bother answering, quickly making your way to the blocked off area the staff made into a break room backstage. Before you can even let out the breath you've been holding, you feel a hand around your elbow.

"What was that?" Chan asks when you meet his eyes. "What were you—"

"Nothing," you say quickly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You had no problem talking about it live on the radio and in front of hundreds of people," he points out. "Surely, you can talk about it to me in the privacy of this fake ass break room."

You almost crack a smile at that before you bite it back down. "It's nothing. It's dumb and it was a slip-up and I'm over it."

"Over what?" he asks, annoyed. "You say it's nothing and then say cryptic shit like that—it's obviously not nothing."

"Well, I'm saying it is, so." You shrug. "It's nothing."

He pauses, eyes raking over your face as he contemplates what he wants to say next. You gesture for him to say whatever it is he wants to so he can leave you alone.

"You are so…"

"What?" you ask sharply, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Confusing" is the word he lands on before he exhales and turns back around, probably to collect your mics from the poor listener you both abandoned onstage.

Because that's who he is. The epitome of professional—of putting his job before everything and everyone else—even when you wish he would just cut the act for even a moment.

JUNE 2012

The air in Jeju at five in the morning had a specific smell: a mixture of saltpeter and damp earth. For you, that smell would always mean home. But for Seungkwan, from that day on, that smell would be just a memory stored in a distant compartment of his mind.

You were both sitting on the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School. It was your spot, a blind one for the security cameras where the school wall meet the precipice overlooking the ocean. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks with rhythmic violence.

A pair of wired headphones connected the two of you, and the music playing was an acoustic demo of Last Love he’d recorded on his phone. His voice, still hoarse from sleep — because he’d woken up in the middle of the night to record it so he wouldn’t forget and you could listen — filled the silence between you.

“You’re not going to need a stage name name,” you finally said, kicking your heels against the stone, the thought occurring to you all at once. “Seungkwan is great. It’s unique. Boo too.”

He let out a nasal laugh, the vapor of his breath condensing in the cold of the early morning, his heels mimicking the same movement as yours. Seungkwan studied your profile, not understating why you gaze was avoiding his.

“Why does it sound like you’re going to cry when you say that?”

You shrugged, sulking internally. “I’m not.”

You did felt like crying, way more than you liked to admit. You were incredibly happy and proud of him, but you couldn’t shake the fear in the pit of your stomach telling you everything was about to change. And as silly as it sounded, you were trying to hold on to that small part of who he was in that moment.

“Then are you already planning my marketing?” He bumped your elbow with his. “I haven’t even stepped through the company gate yet. I could be sent back in the first month if I can’t keep up with the pace of the other trainees.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t talk nonsense.” Below you, the waves began to decrease in intensity as the day began to rise. “I saw you rehearse that choreography until your feet bled at the harvest festival. Pledis doesn’t know what’s coming for them.”

“You should come with me,” he says like if it were the easiest thing in the world, eyes locking with yours with a small sparkle.

You can’t help but laugh at his suggestion, turning to him. The bluish light of pre-dawn sculpted his profile, and you felt a tightness in your chest that you couldn’t name. It was pride, but it was also the anticipatory grief of a loss.

“And do what? I can’t sing or dance for the life of me, Kwanie.”

“You can be my manager.”

“I’m pretty sure they already have people for that,” you argued, like that was the only problem.

“Then you’ll be my producer,” he countered instantly, his voice dropping the playful edge. He shifted his weight, turning his body entirely toward you so that the wire of the headphones tugged slightly between your ears. “It’s only eight months, tokki.”

You want to tell him he’s not coming back in eight months. That there’s no way in hell they’ll let him go without turning him into something bigger than this island could ever hold. But instead, you take a deep breath and watch the waves below.

“Eight months is a long time. There’s time to have had a child in that time.”

He scoffed. “A child with whom?”

“I don’t know! Youngjae is cute.” You shrugged again, pouting just to annoy him before flicking his forehead lightly. “We’re sixteen, dummy.”

Cho Youngjae.

He’s a cool guy. Tall, looks like a baseball player or something equally appealing, even though he’s only a few years older than the two of you. He’s always announcing that he wants to be a surgeon. Seungkwan swears he thinks he’s a good guy. The problem is that everyone at school knows he has a big fat crush on you.

And so does he.

“Why are we suddenly talking about Cho Youngjae?”

“Well…” There you were, avoiding his gaze again. “He invited me to watch him practice and get banana milk after school the other day.”

Seungkwan’s entire posture stiffened, and even though he tried so obviously to hide it, you noticed. The rhythmic kicking of his heels against the stone parapet stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of the crashing waves and the soft hum of his own voice through the shared earbuds.

“Practice,” he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of the melody it usually carried. “And banana milk. Wow. He really pulled out the big guns, didn’t he?”

He looked away, staring out the horizon where a thin, pale line of orange was beginning to bleed into the indigo sky. The jealousy he felt wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy ache, a realization that while he was moving toward a future with the possibility of bright lights and crowded stages, he was leaving a vacuum behind.

And people like Cho Youngjae—people who didn’t have to leave, people who could stay and buy you a snack after school—were already waiting to take his place beside you.

“He’s just being nice, Kwanie. Don’t be like that,” you mumbled, though you secretly relished the way his jaw tightened.

“I’m not being like anything,” he retorted, though he finally reached up and yanked the earbud out of his ear. The silence of the morning rushed in to fill the space. “It’s just… you don’t even like banana milk that much. You like the strawberry one.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the dawn chill.

You didn’t even know Seungkwan cared that much about strawberry milk or banana milk.

He turned back to you, and the playfulness was gone. He wanted to tell you not to go with Youngjae. He wanted to ask you to wait the eight months. Or ten. However long it took for him to get settled. He wanted to promise he would call you every night. That he’d send you the demos of every song he learned. That you shouldn’t let some high school baseball player wannabe make you forget about him.

But that wouldn’t be fair to you.

So instead, Seungkwan exhaled deeply and softened his expression as he sat back down beside you, slipping his side of the earbud back in.

“And you?” he asked, changing the subject, as he always did when the conversation was about to get too serious. “Are you going to keep hiding your talent for communication behind the inn counter?”

You sighed, glancing towards the horizon, where the orange line was growing bigger.

“My mother needs me here, you know.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the sturdy warmth of him through his jacket. “Since my father passed away, the inn is all we have.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, Kwan,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “The women around here don’t retire, they just merge with their work.” You shrugged. “Plus, someone has to carry the sheets and check in the tourists who think the island is an amusement park.”

There was a melancholy in the way you spoke, even though you tried to be humorous about it, and Seungkwan noticed.

“It’s temporary, tokki,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Someday you’re going to be the voice everyone hears on their way to work. I’ll be in the back of a black van on the way to some show, and I’ll turn on the radio, and I’ll hear your voice.”

You smiled, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. The idea seemed like a perfect fairy tale. A few years back, you would have believed it wholeheartedly. Now, you knew that the distance between Jeju Island and stardom in Seoul was greater than a few kilometers of ocean; it was an abyss of social classes, restrictive contracts, and a lot sleep deprivation.

“Just…” you said suddenly, voice lost its lightness. “Promise me.”

Seungkwan leaned closer, the headphone cord stretching between you. “Promise what?”

“Promise you won’t abandon me.” He looked rather confused, opening his mouth to argue that he wouldn’t, but you didn’t let him finish. “Not physically, I know you have to go. But don’t let whatever is waiting for you there… change you.”

“Tokki…”

“Don’t let them turn you into a product I can’t recognize. I want that, ten years from now, if we meet again, I can still see the boy who used to steal tangerines from the neighbor’s orchard with me.”

He held your hand. His skin was warm against yours, which was frozen by the wind. “I could never forget you, even if I tried. You are my anchor, tokki. Seoul can give me the world, but Jeju is where my heart is.”

Even if that were true, the two of you couldn’t help but laugh when Seungkwan fell silent.

“You’re so dramatic, Boo,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “Pledis really is going to love you.”

Silence returned, but now it was different, the sun finally breaking through the sea’s edge and bathing the volcanic rock in gold. It was your signal: Seungkwan will be leaving for the airport in less than three hours.

“It’s time,” you murmured, though you wished you could freeze time. “Your mother must be finishing her coffee. She’ll be furious if you leave on an empty stomach.”

You stood, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along toward the low houses of the neighborhood, your hands brushing against each other but never truly intertwining due the silent fear that the contact would be too painful to break afterward.

“Are you really sure about this?” you asked, voice faltering slightly. You kicked a small stone, eyes fixed on your own feet. “Seoul is… far. Like, really far. It’s not like going to the airport. It’s another world.”

Seungkwan looked out at the sea in the distance. In Jeju, the horizon seemed like the end of everything. In Seoul, he heard the horizon was made of skyscrapers.

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay.”

As you reached his door, the smell of seaweed soup and grilled fish wafted through the cracks. It was his last breakfast as a nobody. Before entering, you paused under the stone portico. You held his shoulders, forcing him to look at you one last time without the distractions of the adult life that awaited you.

“Listen carefully,” you began, voice firm despite the urge to cry. “Don’t look back when you get on that plane, okay?”

“What—”

You covered his mouth with both hands. “Just… let me finish, please.” He nodded, looking between your hands over his mouth and your eyes. “Jeju will be here. I’ll be here. But these… these are your dreams now. They’re no longer our childhood plans, they’re your reality. Go and conquer everything you said you would.”

Seungkwan pulled you into a quick, tight hug. It was the kind of hug meant to hold on to the other person’s scent for long days.

“I’ll go,” he whispered against your hair. “I swear I will.”

You watched him go inside, his silhouette swallowed by the warm light of the kitchen where his family awaited him. You stood there for a minute, alone in the morning chill, knowing that from that moment on, your lives would never be the same.

Then you walked toward your mother’s inn, the battery-powered radio in your pocket weighing like lead. You had a shift to work, sheets to change, and an ordinary life to lead, while he was about to become a constellation.

PRESENT

Studio B at the Jeju City Broadcasting was roughly the size of a walk-in closet—practically a shoebox—and smelled distinctly of stale iced americano, sea salt drifting in from the open window down the hall, and Seungkwan’s ridiculously expensive cedarwood cologne, which had seeped into the walls over the months.

It was a chaotic, cramped little ecosystem, and for the last fifteen years, it had been you’re entire world.

“You’re tapping your pen again,” Seungkwan murmurs, not even looking up from his phone as he lounges in the squeaky host’s chair.

You immediately freeze your hand over the mixing console. “I am not tapping. I am keeping time.”

“You’re tapping,” he insists, casually reaching across the desk to steal the iced Americano you had bought for yourself and yourself only. “And it means you’re stressed about the timing of the transition for the second segment.”

You snatch the coffee back, glaring at him as condensation drips onto your meticulously highlighted run-of-show. You sigh. “I’m stressed because you went off-script yesterday and we had thirty seconds of dead air while you monologued about the emotional depth of a drama you watched in 2018. If you—”

“—miss the cue, Chief will throw a fit,” he finishes, waving a hand dismissively. “I know, I know.” He finally puts his phone down and shoots you a blinding, practiced smile that practically sparkles under the fluorescent studio lights. “Relax, tokki. You’re working with a professional.”

You roll your eyes so hard they actually ache. You hate that damn nickname he gave you when you were eight years old and your front teeth refused to grow no matter how long you waited and wished for them to, giving him endless fuel to tease you until you finally threatened to beat him to death.

After so many years apart, you would have expected Seungkwan to forget that damn nickname. Especially now that you were both already in your thirties. But no. Quite the opposite, actually.

Your phone buzzes against the console, vibrating so violently it nearly rattles off the edge. You don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is, and the familiar knot of dread tightens instantly in your stomach.

[Youngjae - 8:14 PM]: Are you seriously working late again? You told me you’d be done by 6.

You sigh, picking up the device. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, already drafting an apology you didn’t actually owe him.

You didn’t use to work late until six months ago, when Seungkwan arrived and the Chief reassigned you from the Non-stop Nostalgia show to the late-night slot. The workload had doubled now that his co-host had given birth three weeks earlier than expected and you were filling in for her because, of course, you didn’t find a replacement for her sooner.

[You - 8:15 PM]: I’m sorry, babe. The 9:00 PM live slot is still a mess. They still haven’t found anyone to replace Yoona and we’re scrambling. I might not be out until 11.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: Whatever. You always put that stupid station first. [Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: I don’t even know why I bother making plans with you. You need to figure out your priorities.

You lock the screen and set the phone face down. A heavy, exhausting silence settles over you, and you can feel Seungkwan’s eyes on you, studying you, even though he doesn’t ask anything.

You trace the edge of the promise ring Youngjae had given you six months ago; a silver band that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of affection. You are constantly walking on eggshells, constantly apologizing for having a career, constantly trying to shrink yourself to fit into the “normal, peaceful life” you thought you wanted.

Why were you with him? That was a question you didn’t like to ask yourself.

“Hey. Earth to PD-nim.”

You jolt, snapping your head up to see Chan, the junior writer, waving a hand in front of your face. “Sorry,” you blink, shaking off the lingering guilt. “What is it? Did we secure a backup for tonight?”

Chan’s eyes were wide, a mix of sheer panic and starry-eyed excitement. “Chief Kang is calling for an emergency meeting in the briefing room. Right now. And yes, we secured a backup. Apparently, he pulled off an absolute miracle.”

You push yourself out of your old squeaky chair, grabbing your clipboard and glancing in Seungkwan’s direction, who, for some reason, avoids your gaze.

“A miracle? Who did they get with three hours’ notice?”

“Just get in there,” Chan urges, practically shoving you toward the door and following right behind you.

The small briefing room was buzzing with frantic energy when you walked in. Chief Choi Seungcheol—a notoriously stressed, soft man who practically lives on black coffee —is pacing in the front of the room like he was trying to outrun whatever news he was about to deliver.

The small radio station belonged to his grandparents, and since you were hired after returning from university, you’d seen the ups and downs he’d faced trying to keep this little corner of Jeju running over the years as radio slowly faded for the younger generation. It had basically been on life support, kept alive mostly by the island’s elderly listeners… well, until Seungkwan arrived and the audience grew exponentially.

As soon as you take your seat, Seungcheol slams his hands down on the table.

“Alright, listen up,” he barks, though there’s a triumphant gleam in his eye. “We’re not going to hire someone to replace Yoona.”

Your eyebrows arch in shock as you set your clipboard down on the table. “What? But Seungkwan needs a co-host now!”

He’s smiling almost maniacally at you now. “Yes! And we’re giving him one.”

The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention, and when you look back, Seungkwan is standing there, his lips wrapped around the straw of your coffee as he stares at you with a mischievous glint in his deliberately wide eyes.

You look between Seungkwan and Seungcheol, taking exactly the amount of time it takes for a breath to pass before realizing what’s going on.

“Okay, no!” you say, immediately getting up from your chair to walk out of the room, but Seungkwan quickly steps toward you and places his hands on your shoulders.

“The listeners want this,” he argues. You grimace, pulling away from him as the condensation from his iced coffee brushes against your skin before sitting back down. “Yesterday Gyeonghee halmoni stopped me on the street just to tell me you should be the permanent co-host.”

Gyeonghee halmoni was the oldest woman in your neighborhood, and you knew she listened to the radio religiously, always insisting she was never too old to take love advice. You knew she was a particular fan of the Time Capsule of Love segment, where you only played very old love songs, mostly because she called almost every night to make a request.

It was at her eighty-ninth birthday party that you and Seungkwan reconnected six months ago.

“Gyeonghee halmoni is biased,” you say, shaking your head. “She watched us grow up.”

Seungkwan doesn’t just sit; he sprawls into the chair next to you, leaning in until the scent of that expensive cedarwood is all you can process.

“My mother said the same thing too,” Chan says from the corner of the room where he’s squeezed in, raising his hand slightly as if he were in a classroom.

“The ratings for the ‘PD-nim interjections’ are higher than the guest segments, and you know it,” Seungkwan adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive register he usually saves for the microphone. You liked to think you were immune to it.

“I am a producer,” you hiss, ignoring the way Seungcheol is nodding along like Seungkwan is delivering a sermon. “I stay behind the glass. I don’t talk into microphones. I manage the chaos you create, Boo Seungkwan. I don’t join it!”

Especially considering the program’s content: relationship advice and dating reality shows. What did you know about relationships? Nothing. Your own relationship was proof of that. Seungkwan, on the other hand, apparently knew a lot, which was exactly why he was perfect for the job.

You blamed only yourself for being in this situation, for not looking for a replacement for Yoona sooner, for leaving everything to the last minute. Now you were stuck in this position.

“But that’s exactly why it works!” Seungcheol interjects, pacing across the small rug in the center of the room. “Your chemistry, the bickering. It’s nostalgic.” Seungkwan is now the one nodding alone to the nonsense. “It’s Jeju’s childhood friends story, only now you’re both working together. It’s a goldmine. The sponsors are already asking about the girl who rage baites Seungkwan.”

“The girl has a name,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “And she has a boyfriend who is currently one text away from a total meltdown if she gets home any later.”

At the indirect mention of Youngjae, Seungkwan’s expression shifts. The mischievous glint doesn’t disappear, but now he also looks noticeably annoyed. You know his opinion of Youngjae inside and out. It isn’t news to you now, just like it wasn’t news when you were teenagers.

He glances at your phone, still gripped in your hand, and then back at your face. He sees the fatigue you try to hide behind your professional mask and the way your shoulders are slumped not from work, but from the weight of the apology you’re still drafting in your head for later.

“Think about it, Y/N,” Seungcheol insists, looking at you expectantly. “This could double our listeners.”

The room goes quiet as you close your eyes and bury your face in your hands to avoid the three pairs of eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to change your mind. Even Chan looks like he’s about to faint from the drama of it all.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Youngjae - 8:27 PM]: Don’t expect me to wait up. You’re being selfish.

The ring around your finger feels particularly heavy now. You look at Seungkwan. He’s annoying, he’s loud, and he’s currently trying to change your career for God knows what reason. But he’s also the only person in this city who looks at you like you’re the lead character in your own life rather than a supporting role in someone else’s.

You narrow your eyes. “This was your idea.” It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation. It’s clear on his face, because unlike what he tries to convey, Boo Seungkwan is an open book.

He raises his hands to shoulder height in a guilty gesture, but he doesn’t look guilty at all. “You’re perfect for the job, tokki.”

You let out a grunt, throwing your head back. Fucking Boo Seungkwan. Fucking soft spot you still have for him despite everything, especially when he gives you that Boo-Poor-Little-Seungkwan look.

“One week,” you say, after a long sigh, pointing a finger at his chest. “A trial run. If the listeners hate it or if you go off-script about a drama for more than ten seconds, I’m going back behind the glass and you’re finding a new co-host yourself.”

You’re staring at each other, but out of the corner of your eye you can see Seungcheol and Chan celebrating while exchanging a high-five. Seungkwan’s grin is blinding, wide, triumphant, and fucking annoying. He reaches out, not to shake your hand, but to give your ponytail a playful tug, just like he used to when you were ten.

“One week is all I need,” he says, and for a split second, the way he looks at you makes the small, cramped briefing room feel like it’s spinning at a different frequency. “Trust me, PD-nim. We’re going to give them a show they’ll never forget.”

6 MONTHS AGO

The neighborhood recreation center was loud, sweltering, and smelled intensely of freshly fried pajeon. Gyeonghee halmoni’s 89th birthday had essentially become a town festival, and you were already thirty minutes late.

Dodging wandering toddlers and plates of tteokbokki, you immediately spotted the one thing you were dreading: your mother. She was standing by the gift table, deep in conversation with Mrs. Boo.

They were huddled close together, holding paper cups of sweet rice punch, radiating the kind of synchronized, terrifying energy only two mothers who have known each other for over twenty years can possess. You tried to stealthily make you way toward the food buffet first, but your mother’s radar was unparalleled.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” your mother announced loudly, abandoning her hushed conversation to fix you with a pointed glare.

“Hi, mom,” you pratically dragged the word out of you. “Hello, Mrs. Boo,” you greeted, bowing respectfully to Seungkwan’s mother. “I’m sorry I’m late, the afternoon broadcast ran long and traffic was terrible near the—”

“Aigoo, look at you!” Mrs. Boo interrupted, entirely ignoring your excuse as she reached out to pat your arm affectionately. Her eyes crinkled in a warm smile. “You get prettier every time I see you. Are you eating well, sweetheart? You look a little thin.”

“Prettier?” you mother scoffed, though she was secretly pleased. She waved a hand dismissively. “She looks like she hasn’t in a week. All she does is work at that radio station. I tell her she needs to get out, make new friends, but does she listen to me?”

“Mom, please,” you hissed under your breath, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Not here.”

You knew this conversation by heart, but that didn’t mean Mrs. Boo needed to hear it too.

“Ah, let her be, she’s building a career!” Mrs. Boo laughed, though there was a sudden, distinct twinkle in her eye. She leaned in a fraction closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. “You know... our Seungkwanie is here.”

Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of his name. “Oh. Really? I thought he was still in Seoul.”

You knew he was back; he’d been the talk of the neighborhood all week. You’d just chosen to ignore the fact, and forget that you could run into him anywhere now, that it was only a matter of time until you did.

“He came back last week. Taking a break,” Mrs. Boo beamed, her pride evident. But then she share a very deliberate, conspiratorial look with your mother. “He was just asking about you the other day, actually. Wondering how his favorite childhood friend was doing.”

Funny, considering he never even bothered to call in the last twelve years, you thought, still holding a polite smile on your face.

Your mother’s eyes lit up with a terrifying gleam. She immediately reached out, grabbing your shoulders and physically turning you away from the buffet table and toward the back of the hall.

“Go say hi,” your mother ordered, giving you a firm push.

“Mom, I literally just walked in. Let me get a plate of food first, I haven’t eaten since—”

“The japchae isn’t going anywhere,” she interrupted, adjusting the collar of your shirt with quick, fussy movements. “He just got here too. He’s standing right over there by the punch bowl looking lonely. Go talk to him.”

“Yes, go catch up!” Mrs. Boo chimed in, shooing you with her hand. “Tell him his mother said to get you a drink.”

Seeing them together like that felt like a childhood flashback; like being forced to stay close to Seungkwan or made to do things with him all over again just because they wanted too. Like being forced to dance together at school events, or serving as ring bearers for the newlywed couple who lived three houses down.

Realizing you had absolutely no way out of this trap, you sighed, offering them both a tight, resigned smile. “Fine. I’m going.”

“Stand up straight!” your mother called out after you in a loud whisper.

You rolled your eyes, smoothing down your outfit as you navigated through the sea of relatives and neighbors until you finally spotted him.

He was standing by the punch bowl, looking both ridiculously handsome and slightly out of place in a crisp, white button-down. Even without the stage makeup and the flash of cameras, Boo Seungkwan had an undeniable glowing aura.

You took a deep breath, trying to push down the sudden spike of nerves caused by the realization that the moment you’d pictured in your head thousands of times was actually happening. Then, quietly, you sidled up beside him.

“Excuse me, sunbaenim,” you said, leaning in just enough to mock a polite bow. “Can I get your autograph?”

Seungkwan turned, a polite, probably practiced smile already forming on his lips, until his eyes met yours for the first time in nearly fifteen years. Then he completely froze.

The plastic cup in his hand halted halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide, sweeping over your face, your hair, the way you stood there looking at him. You immediately started talking, rattling off a quick string of teasing remarks. He could see your mouth moving, but he wasn’t hearing a single word, almost like he was underwater.

Seungkwan was entirely captivated, his brain short-circuiting as the intoxicating, familiar scent of your perfume hit him. It was scent that instantly bypassed the last twelve years of his life, striking a match directly to the teenage hormones and memories he’d buried long ago.

You stopped talking, waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Sungkwan?”

He blinked rapidly, practically shaking himself out of the stupor. “You… wow. Hi. You look… you look really good.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Oh my God, Boo Seungkwan said I look good. I’m going to write a fanfic about it.”

You could see the moment the shock wore off, instantly replaced by the familiar, comfortable irritation he always fell into when you teased him all those years ago.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Please. I bet you’ve already written several where we end up in love.”

You clicked your tongue as your shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “Actually, I think your friend Jeonghan is cuter.” You smiled broadly, watching his jaw drop and his eyes widen again. “He’s so handsome. Is he single?”

You emphasize the word deliberately, watching his face contort as he processes it. But all he says is:

“You think what?” Seungkwan choked out, his competitive streak flaring up in a millisecond. Or at least that was what you thought. Inside, Seungkwan felt a possessive pull toward you that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

You tried to bite your lip to hold back your laughter, but you simply couldn’t, bursting out laughing as you stepped just a fraction closer to him to let two little boys run past you toward the playground.

“You’re still so easy to mess with, Boo.”

His face morphed into an outraged expression, though you could see a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re still crazy, I see.”

“He is, indeed, handsome, they all are.” You paused, clearly enjoying his reaction. Your voice dipped playfully as you tapped your chest in a steady rhythm. “...but my heart still beats for Boo Seungkwan. Boo Seungkwan.” You laughed, eyes crinkling. “Old flame, you know. Right?”

If only you knew.

Seungkwan stared at you, his ears turning a violent shade of red. He tried to scowl, to muster up some kind of witty retort, but the sheer relief and joy of realizing you hadn’t changed at all completely overwhelmed him. He let out a breathless, defeated chuckle, running a hand through his hair before dragging the tips of his fingers down his neck.

“You’re terrible,” he muttered, though his eyes were painfully fond. “A decade without seeing you, and within two minutes you’re already giving me a headache.”

“It’s a gift, really,” you replied, finally grabbing a cup of punch for yourself.

The silence was slightly awkward — but only because it’s been twelve years of radio silence —, not uncomfortable, though. In fact, you had a million questions that could fill it, but since starting with Why haven’t you contacted me in twelve years, you stuck-up idiot? was probably a terrible opener, you settled for something lighter.

“So. You’re really back, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, lifting the glass to your lips mostly to keep yourself from saying anything out of spike. “The neighborhood aunties have been gossiping all week. They said you’re officially retired from the idol life.”

“Taking a very long, very permanent hiatus,” he corrected with a dismissive hand, leaning against the table so he could fully face you. “I needed a break from Seoul. Plus I heard my favorite childhood friend was running the local radio station now.”

You quickly built your defenses back up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Favorite feels ironic, again. You’re almost certain it doesn’t fit what happened between you two over the past years; if anything, it feels like the opposite.

“Not running it. Producing.” It was your turn to correct him. “The afternoon slot. It’s chaotic, and I practically live in the editing booth. But I love it.”

Seungkwan watched your face light up as you talked about the station. The way your eyes sparked—the genuine passion in your voice—was entirely real. It was the same look you used to get when you figured out a particularly difficult math problem in high school, or when you finally beat him in a volleyball match.

“Producing,” Seungkwan repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue. A small, genuine smile broke through his initial shock. “I’ll be honest. I’ve tuned in a few times since I got back.”

You nearly choked on your rice punch. You lowered the paper cup, staring at him suspiciously. “You did? You listened to my show?”

“Of course I did,” he said, shifting his weight. He looked down at his shoes for a split second before meeting your eyes again, his gaze suddenly much heavier. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

The casual confession hit you right in the chest, entirely unbalancing you. This was the danger of Boo Seungkwan. He could flip the switch from annoying childhood best friend who hadn’t spoken to you in twelve years to a devastatingly sincere, loving man without even trying.

Holding a grudge against someone like that isn’t easy.

“I always knew you’d end up bossing people around for a living,” Seungkwan laughed, the sound warm and effortlessly familiar. One smile, and suddenly the years between you don’t feel so large anymore. You hate that most of all.

“Someone has to keep things in line,” you countered, taking the last sip of your punch. You looked up at him, letting the teasing persona slip away for just a moment, offering him a sincere smile. “But really... it’s good to see you, Boo. I’m glad you’re back.”

And you meant it with all your heart, far more than you’d ever imagined.

Seungkwan’s eyes softened, a profound sense of relief washing over his features. He had been so nervous about how you would react to seeing him after so much time had passed, but standing here, falling right back into your easy, comfortable rhythm, he felt an anchor drop.

“It really has,” he agreed, his voice dropping into a more earnest tone. He glanced around the chaotic recreation center, at the aunties dancing and the kids running around, before his gaze settled back on you. “I missed this. And,” he paused, a fond smile pulling at his lips, “I missed you.”

The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but you weren’t going to ruin this moment by saying them.

You bumped your shoulder playfully against his arm. “Don’t get soft on me now, sunbaenim. You have a reputation to uphold.”

“I’d prefer it if you just called me oppa,” he said playfully, bumping his shoulder against yours in return.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Back then, it had always been a running joke between the two of you. “Apparently not all your dreams came true.”

Before he could formulate a comeback, a loud voice shattered your comfortable bubble.

“Look at them! Didn’t I tell you?” your mother crowed, suddenly appearing at Seungkwan’s elbow with Mrs. Boo right behind her. Both women looked like cats who had just cornered a very plump canary.“Like no time has passed at all!”

You immediately stood up straighter, shooting a panicked look at Seungkwan. “Mom, please. We’re just catching up.”

“Well, keep catching up!” Mrs. Boo cheered, clapping her hands together. “Seungkwanie, why don’t you get Y/N a plate of food? The poor girl is starving, her mother said she practically lives at that radio station.”

Seungkwan cleared his throat, stepping back into his polite and respectful persona with practiced ease, though he threw a quick amused glance your way. “Of course, Eomma. I’ll take good care of her.”

As the two mothers linked arms and walked away, practically vibrating with matchmaking glee, Seungkwan turned back to you, the smirk firmly back in place.

You let him lead you toward the food, shaking your head even as a smile spread so wide across your face that your cheeks began to ache. In just a few minutes, you realized how effortlessly he could slip back into your life. Boo Seungkwan was home, and suddenly, everything felt a whole lot brighter.

PRESENT

They were right. The number of listeners had increased exponentially in less than a week, and although you hated to admit it, Seungkwan was right. You were happy with what your presence as co-host was doing for the station, more than happy, actually. Even on the street, people stopped you to say how much they loved the show, how they tuned in every night.

Everyone at the station was celebrating the results, and it felt as though everything had come back to life. Besides, you couldn’t deny it: the show really was that good.

Pulled out of your daydream by the sound of someone lazily tapping on the glass, you see the only other person you trust in your control booth: Hansol. He point his indicator at both of you and flashes up three fingers. Thirty seconds to air.

You nod, keeping your eyes locked on the console. The ON AIR sign bleeds neon red across the studio glass, emitting a low, sixty-cycle hum. You push the faders up, and the bright, tropical synth-pop intro of your show, Love Is on the Radio, fills the booth. You slide Seungkwan’s mic fader up first, then bring yours up a second later.

Instantly, the annoying best friend vanishes out of him. His posture straightens, his chin tilts to the perfect angle for a camera that isn’t even there, and he leans into the microphone.

Seungkwan is usually a very confident man, but watching him in his element always feels like seeing a whole new side of the boy you once knew, or the man you found six months ago in his childhood bedroom at his mother’s house, quietly moping and counting the petals on her hydrangeas because he was bored out of his mind.

“I was meditating, not moping,” he defended himself when you brought the subject up two weeks ago, a hand placed over his heart, looking personally wounded.

You were the one who suggested to Seungcheol that he could offer Seungkwan the position after you ran into him at the party. So now, because of your brilliant idea, if the people of Jeju don’t buy into Seungkwan’s “revolutionary ideas” about love and romance, your reputation is going down the drain right along with his.

“Good evening, Jeju! You’re back with your favorite duo,” you say, leaning into your mic with a practiced, bright energy, settling into your radio voice. “I’m your temporary host, Kang Y/N, and sitting across from me is the man who spent forty-five minutes this morning debating whether or not he’s a Taejoon or a Jungwoo: it’s Boo Seungkwan.”

Seungkwan let out a soulful chuckle that rumbles smoothly through your headphones. “Listen, the new season of Single’s Inferno is a sociological study! It’s about the raw human condition! Hello everyone, I’m Seungkwan. And for the record? I’m definitely a Taejoon. I’m loyal, I’m funny, and I look great in a vest.”

When Seungkwan speaks, his voice drops an octave, dripping with the velvety, honeyed charisma that had made him the nation’s beloved vocalist for more than a decade. By now, you’re trained to ignore the things it does to you.

“You’re a Eunseo at best, dramatic and prone to crying in the back of a van,” you retort, checking the monitor. “But we aren’t here to talk about your identity crisis, my friend. We’re here to talk about the Paradise dates. Kwan, as our resident romance expert, what did you think of the bonfire confession?”

You already knew what Seungkwan thought about them, considering the two of you had watched the episodes together on your couch the night before. Your mom and grandmother had spent the entire evening pampering him so much that, at one point, you found yourself wondering whether he was the real member of the family and not you.

“It was amateur hour, Y/N. If you’re going to confess your feelings, you need atmosphere. You need a build-up. You can’t just blurt it out between bites of grilled sea bream!”

You both move like a well-oiled machine. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s a masterclass in broadcasting. The two of you debate the new episodes of the latest season of Single’s Inferno, practically disagreeing with everything the other says for no reason at all, just for the fun of arguing and rage-baiting each other.

“Spoken like a man who has watched exactly three hundred dramas and participated in zero actual dates,” you tease after he describes how perfect one of the dates in Paradise was.

Not that you knew anything about Seungkwan’s love life, considering the two of you hadn’t reached that topic of conversation yet, even if you had already spilled your heart out to him during one drunken night.

Honestly, the less you knew, the better.

“I am a scholar of the heart!” he defends, a hand over his heart, even if you’re the only one who can see him. “Anyway, before we get to our first caller of the night, it’s time for my favorite part of the show. Let’s open our Time Capsule of Love.”

You hit the transition, a nostalgic, grainy vinyl crackle. “Tonight’s request comes from a listener in Aewol who wants to remember their first summer love,” you announce. “Here’s Perhaps Love by HowL & J.ae.”

As the classic track starts playing, you slide the faders down.

“We’re clear for, like, three minutes,” you mutter, stretching your arms as you stand to refill your water bottle and grab a cookie from the box Chan had left earlier, sometime before the show started.

Seungkwan also stretches back in his creaky old chair. You can feel his eyes following you around the room, tracking your movements, and it doesn’t take much to realize he has something sitting right on the tip of his tongue to comment on or ask you.

It was funny how inseparable the two of you had become since reuniting, how effortlessly you’d slipped back into your old rhythm. How well you still knew him and all his mannerisms, like the back of your hand. But there was still one massive elephant in the room: neither of you had said a word about those twelve years of silence.

You wouldn’t say you were exactly okay with it, but at the same time, you were terrified of bringing it up and ruining everything the two of you had rebuilt over the past six months. You could only hope it wouldn’t all come crashing down around you somewhere in the future.

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms, the water sloshing softly inside the bottle as the music continues to play. “What?”

“Are you going to Youngjae’s place after this?” Seungkwan asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he pretended to examine his fingernails.

“Don’t know yet. Why?”

Seungkwan spins his squeaky chair a half-inch to the left, leaning his elbows on his knees. The playful, broadcast-ready smile he wore just a minute ago completely dissolves, replaced by a tight, familiar, almost sulky frown.

“Just wondering if you’re parking in his driveway tonight,” Seungkwan says, his tone dangerously passive, “or if you’re still relegated to the visitor’s spot three blocks down so his neighbors don’t start asking questions about the mystery woman sneaking in after dark.”

You almost choke on your piece of cookie. You swallow hard, shooting a panicked glare through the glass to make sure Hansol isn’t paying attention to the booth or your conversation, only to find him lost in his own world as always.

“Keep your voice down, tattletale,” you hiss, tossing the rest of the cookie onto a napkin and sitting back down in your chair. “And for your information, he has a very strict building policy. It’s not about me or our relationship. It’s about his privacy.”

That’s a lie, but you won’t give Seungkwan the satisfaction of being right. And he seems to know it, a scoff slipping past his lips.

“Right.” He drags the word out. “The notorious anti-girlfriend bylaws of Jeju real estate,”

“Kwan, don’t start—”

Seungkwan reaches out, tapping the edge of your console. “Are you listening to yourself, Y/N?Privacy is keeping your relationship off Instagram. What he’s doing is hiding you.”

You were past that stage. Past thinking too much about it. Past pretending you didn’t know that Youngjae was hiding your relationship from his friends, family, and even his neighbors. You knew he was. And it was complicated. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling you ever since you rekindled your relationship a year ago.

Seungkwan, unlike you, had called it what it was the moment you told him you were back with Youngjae, but that only a small number of people knew. At the time, you thought it was just because Seungkwan hadn’t liked him back in your school days. Now, you were starting to have doubts about… well, everything.

But you wouldn’t discuss that here, much less in the middle of a broadcast with Perhaps Love playing as the soundtrack to this conversation.

“We have an arrangement that works for us. He’s a private person, Seungkwan. Not everyone wants their life broadcasted to the masses like you do.”

It’s a low blow, and you know it the second the words leave your mouth. Seungkwan flinches, just barely, but his dark eyes stay locked onto yours. The air in the tiny studio suddenly feels impossibly thick.

You close your eyes, dragging a hand down your face.

It comes and goes. The resentment you feel toward him for never calling or reaching out, for never answering your letters or your calls. It comes and goes.

“I didn’t meant to.”

You see Seungkwan swallow, his lips pouting slightly like he’s choosing his next words.

“I spent ten years hiding every single aspect of my life to survive in the industry, tokki.” His voice drops into a quiet, raw register that makes your chest ache. It’s worse because he calls you that. “So I know exactly what it looks like when someone treats you like a liability instead of a partner.”

“Why do you even care?” you snap, crossing your arms defensively to hide the way your hands are shaking. You really, really want to know why. “You’re my friend, Boo. Not my life coach.”

“I care because it’s pathetic watching you settle for him!” he fires back, leaning closer until his face is just inches from the mic stand. “You sit here every night, teasing me about my expertise on romance, but at least I know how to treat a girl.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. He’s looking at you with that same fierce, frustrated intensity he had behind the school, in your spot, all those years ago, when Youngjae invited you out for banana milk. And it makes something strange shift inside your chest.

It has been happening a lot ever since Seungkwan came back into your life.

When you look away to avoid meeting his eyes, the digital clock on the monitor catches your attention. 0:15 seconds until the song ends.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach for the faders.

Seungkwan lets out a quiet, nasal laugh that makes it clear he expected you to avoid the subject. You hate that he still knows you so well—just as well as you know him—and you hate even more how easily the two of you slip back into old habits.

“You’re going to have to eventually,” he grumbles, leaning back into his chair as he adjusts his headphones. The hard edge in his eyes softens into something that looks dangerously like pity, and you hate that even more. “Because if he doesn’t figure out how to treat you right, someone else will.”

You want to ask him what he means by that, but there isn’t enough time.

0:03 seconds.

Hansol pops up behind the glass again, pointing a finger again. You take a shaky breath, give him a thumbs-up, and force the lump in your throat down as you slide the faders up and put your headphones back on.

4 MONTHS AGO

It had barely been a month since Seungkwan had reentered your life like a localized hurricane, and the boundaries of your resurrected friendship were still painfully blurry. You had survived the initial shock of his return, the awkwardness of not speaking for so long, and the surreal reality of seeing a former national idol casually drinking cheap instant coffee in the station’s break room.

That night, however, was the first time the two of you had gotten drunk together.

You were both sitting in a small, slightly dingy pojangmacha tucked away in a narrow alley behind the station. Inside, the air smelled of fried pork belly and spicy rice cakes, cut through by the almost clinical smell of spilled soju. Rain lashed relentlessly against the thick orange plastic tarps surrounding the tent, the sound creating a surprisingly cozy bubble that shut out the rest of the city.

“Watch and learn,” Seungkwan slurred slightly, holding up a fresh, condensation slicked green bottle of soju. He grabbed a stainless steel chopstick from the tin cup on the table.

“One of your many new talents?”

He nodded, a smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t teach me this in idol training. I had to learn this in the trenches of company dinners.”

With a flick of his wrist that was entirely too aggressive, he brought the chopstick up against the cap of the bottle. Instead of cleanly popping off, the cap flew violently into the air, ricocheting off the plastic tent wall and landing squarely in your bowl of complimentary radish soup.

You stared down at the floating metal cap, and then slowly raised your eyes to look at him.

Seungkwan froze, his hand still suspended in the air, a sheepish, incredibly boyish grin spreading across his flushed face. “Ta-da?”

“You’re paying for my next bowl of soup, Kwan,” you deadpanned, though you couldn’t fight the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. You fished the cap out with your spoon and flicked it at him. “And you’re a menace to society. It’s a miracle you survived Seoul.”

“Seoul was easy,” Seungkwan retorted, pouring the soju into two tiny glass cups, his coordination slightly compromised by the three bottles already sitting empty at the edge of the plastic table. “Jeju is the real battlefield.”

You laughed, arching an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Yesterday, an auntie at the market smacked me with a leek because I couldn’t remember her dog’s name,” he said with a laugh.

“To be fair, Dooboo is a local legend. You disrespected an icon,” you pointed out, picking up your glass. “Cheers to Dooboo.”

“Cheers to Dooboo,” Seungkwan echoed, clinking his glass against yours.

You both threw back the clear liquid. The burn was sharp but grounding, loosening the tight, perpetual knot of anxiety that lived at the base of your spine. You set the small glass back down on the table with a soft thud and exhaled sharply.

The alcohol was doing its job. The twelve-year gap between you was dissolving with every shot, the comfortable, relentless bickering of your childhood sliding right back into place.

For the last two hours, you’d been trading war stories. He filled you in on the absurd reality of dorm life, grueling tour schedules, and the bizarre diets the agency forced on him. In return, you regaled him with the unglamorous chaos of university life and local radio with callers determined to debate the existence of sea monsters, power outages during live broadcasts, and the time you accidentally played a funeral dirge instead of the morning weather jingle.

It felt incredibly and dangerously good. You hadn’t felt this seen, this entirely yourself, in a very long time.

And that was exactly why his guard didn’t just come down, it plummeted.

Your phone, sitting face up next to your chopsticks, vibrated violently, the screen lighting up the sticky table. The name Youngjae flashed across the glass.

The comfortable warmth in your chest vanished instantly, replaced by a cold wave of dread. You were supposed to meet Youngjae for dinner tonight. He had canceled an hour before you got off work — a vague text about “overtime” and “not wanting to push it at the hospital” — leaving you stranded.

That was when Seungkwan had popped his head into the editing booth and dragged you out into the rain.

You quickly reached out, flipping he phone face down with a dismissive motion. Then you reached for the soju bottle, carefully avoiding Seungkwan’s eyes.

“Who was that?” Seungkwan asked, his tone casual, though his inquisitive eyes tracked the defensive stiffness in your shoulders.

“No one,” you lied smoothly, pouring yourself another shot. “Just spam.”

“At one in the morning?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow, skeptic. He reached across the table, his fingers gently tapping the back of your phone case. “You looked like you just saw a ghost. Is it work? Did Chief Choi find out you’re the one who broke the coffee machine?”

“I didn’t break the coffee machine, it was a structural failure,” you protested automatically, knocking the shot back. The alcohol hit your stomach, loosening your tongue just a fraction too much. “And it’s not work. It’s just Youngjae.”

Seungkwan’s hand stilled. He swallowed a laugh, and you noticed it immediately in the silence that followed.

“Youngjae?” Seungkwan repeated, the playful lilt completely draining from his voice. No, he thought, not again. “Cho Youngjae?”

You just nodded, and he simply couldn’t string together a complete sentence anymore. You took a long sip of soju straight from the bottle, and Seungkwan exhaled slowly through his mouth, trying not to let it show anymore that the mention of Youngjae’s name had bothered him. With any luck, you’d be too drunk tomorrow to remember it.

“Why is he texting you at 1 AM?”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. The soju was making it incredibly difficult to maintain the unbothered facade you usually wore.

“I didn’t know you two were still together,” Seungkwan said before you could answer, in what he hoped was a casual tone, though he couldn’t quite tell if his expression helped sell it.

Shortly after Seungkwan left, you and Youngjae started dating. At the time, you were still in contact with Seungkwan, trying to keep up with him as much as you could. During your phone calls, he kept insisting that Youngjae wasn’t the right guy for you. But when you finally decided to listen to him and broke up with Youngjae, Seungkwan disappeared from your life not long after.

“We dated, broke up, got back together, broke up again, and then got back together and—”

“Are you together now?” he interrupted.

You nodded. “We’ve been dating for eight months.”

Seungkwan blinked, the information processing slowly through the alcohol haze. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“That’s the thing,” you muttered, staring down at your empty shot glass. “It’s… a secret. He doesn’t want the hospital to find out. He says it could ruin his chances of getting a spot at this big hospital in Seoul next year. So we don’t tell anyone. We just… sneak around.”

The silence that fell over the table was sudden and deafening, save for the rain hitting the tarp.

When you finally looked up, you physically flinched at the expression on Seungkwan’s face. The boyish, flushed, drunken demeanor was entirely gone. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his dark eyes were blazing with a sudden, terrifying intensity.

“He hides you,” Seungkwan stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation.

“It’s not like that,” you backpedaled, suddenly overcome by the desperate need to defend a relationship you weren’t even sure you wanted to be in anymore. “It’s just practical.”

A frown creased the middle of his forehead. “Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him treat you like you’re something to be ashamed of?”

Because you were terrified of being left behind again. Because Youngjae, with his cold, distant, and conditional affection, felt safer than risking your heart on someone who could truly break it by leaving.

But you couldn’t say that to him. Not yet. Not ever.

“Drop it, Seungkwan,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly. You grabbed the green bottle and practically slammed it onto the table between you. “I mean it. If we are going to be friends again, you drop it. We are not talking about my pathetic love life. We are getting drunk.”

Seungkwan stared at you for a long, almost agonizing moment. The tension between you crackled, charged and unresolved. He looked at the bottle, then at your fiercely guarded expression. Slowly, he reached out and took the bottle from your hand.

“Fine,” he muttered, his eyes dark. He poured you both a brimming shot. “We’ll drop it. For tonight. Drink up, PD-nim. We’re going to a noraebang.”

By 2:30 AM, the combative emotional atmosphere of the pojangmacha had been thoroughly obliterated by a lethal combination of cheap beer, more soju, and the aggressive, blinding neon lights of the noraebang.

You were currently standing on top of a sticky faux leather sofa, clutching a plastic tambourine. The disco ball above you cast spinning, dizzying patterns of purple and green across the tiny, enclosed room. Below you, standing in the center of the room with the microphone cord wrapped twice around his wrist, Seungkwan was giving you an exclusive performance.

“TEARS!” Seungkwan screamed into the microphone, his head thrown back as he unleashed the impossibly high notes of the song.

His vocal control, even while completely blackout drunk, was infuriatingly perfect. He hit the high note, dropped to his knees on the sticky linoleum floor, and pointed dramatically at you.

“Hit it!” he yelled over the instrumental break.

You aggressively smashed the tambourine against your hip, totally off-beat, screaming the background vocals with zero regard for pitch or human decency.

“You’re pitchy!” Seungkwan shouted, scrambling up from the floor. He grabbed a second microphone off the table, and tossed it to you. “Get down here and sing, you coward!”

“Your stage presence is lacking, Boo!” you yelled back, refusing to step down from the sofa. “Give me some emotion!!”

Seungkwan gasped in mock offense. He tossed his jacket onto the floor, jumped onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the room — the table groaning ominously under his weight — and struck a pose better suited to a sold-out stadium than a fifteen-dollar-an-hour karaoke room.

The track switched. The dramatic synth intro of a classic early 2000s heartbreak ballad filled the room.

Seungkwan closed his eyes, clutching the mic with both hands, and began to sing with such exaggerated and theatrical grief that you immediately doubled over laughing. He sank to his knees on the table, reaching a hand out toward you as if you were a lover drifting away on a life raft.

“Why did you leave me?!” he wailed, completely off-script, making the lyrics up as he went. “I gave you my heart, and you gave me a broken tambourine!”

“It was a metaphor for our friendship!” you shrieked back into your mic, tears of laughter streaming down your face. Suddenly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that hard. Probably not in years.

You stepped off the sofa, stumbling slightly as the alcohol hit your equilibrium, and marched right up to the table. You pointed your microphone directly at his chest, looking up at him with a defiant, breathless grin.

“You just don’t appreciate my genius!”

Seungkwan dropped the theatrical act, though he didn’t drop his gaze. He reached down and grabbed your microphone hand, pulling you close

For a second, the ridiculous facade completely shattered. You were suddenly entirely too close. Because he was kneeling on the table, you were perfectly at eye level. His chest was heaving, his hair messy and damp with sweat, flushed cheeks, his eyes completely blown out and dark in the spinning neon lights.

“You’re staring, tokki,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the smooth tone vibrating right through the microphone and out into the small room.

“You’re in my space, Boo,” you shot back. You tried to sound authoritative, but your voice came out a little breathless, and you made absolutely no move to pull your hand out of his grip.

He tilted his head, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his lips. His thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles. “I think you like it.”

“You’re so arrogant, Boo Seungkwan,” you mumbled, stepping a fraction of an inch closer until your knees were practically brushing the edge of the glass table. “You’ve always been arrogant. When we were younger, it drove me absolutely crazy.”

Seungkwan let out a smug, nasal laugh. “Is that why you were always trying to beat me at stuff?” he teased, leaning in a little closer, the scent of soju and expensive cologne suddenly intoxicating. “Because you couldn’t handle the charm?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, your eyes tracing the elegant line of his jaw. The spinning purple lights caught the flush on his cheeks. “I was trying to beat you because I was overcompensating. I had the biggest, most pathetic crush on you, and you were completely oblivious.”

The words slipped out with the terrifying ease of a drunken confession, made possible only by the fact that you were, in fact, very, very drunk. And maybe a little carried away by the thought that so many years had passed that none of it mattered anymore.

Or maybe still did… a little.

Seungkwan froze. The playful smirk vanished instantly. His fingers tightened around yours, his entire body going completely still on the table. The karaoke track blared on in the background, a saxophone solo filling the silence, but the air between you had turned to a vacuum.

“You... what?” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the music.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” you scoffed, waving your free hand dismissively, though a sudden, hot flush of embarrassment was rising up your neck. “We were fifteen. We spent a lot of time together. It was a statistical inevitability.”

You thought you’d read a article about it somewhere. Or maybe that was just your brain trying to convince itself.

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if the oxygen had just been sucked out of the room. “You had a crush on me. Back then. Before I left.”

“Massive,” you confirmed, leaning back against the edge of the sofa behind you for balance. You let out a self-deprecating laugh, looking down at your boots. “And then you got on a plane and ruined my entire life. Tragic, really.”

You expected him to laugh. You expected him to tease you, to use it as ammunition for his ego, to make a joke about how he had always known he was irresistible.

But Seungkwan didn’t laugh.

When you looked back up, the expression on his face made your breath catch in your throat. He looked absolutely shattered. The boyish amusement was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing realization that seemed to physically pain him. He slowly scrambled off the table, standing right in front of you, entirely ignoring the microphone he dropped onto the couch.

“Are you seriously telling me you never realized I had a crush on you back then?” you laughed, throwing your head back. “Jesus Christ. And I actually thought all that fame would’ve made you a little less clueless by now.”

Seungkwan stepped into your space, his hands coming up to gently, almost reverently, cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher, staring down at you with desperate intensity. “If I had known... I swear to God, if I had known...”

Right then, Seungkwan wanted to kiss you. Desperately.

The urge hit him so suddenly, so overwhelmingly, that it stole the oxygen from his lungs. It wasn’t just a passing thought; it was a physical ache. He wanted to close the distance, press his mouth to yours, and prove to you with absolute certainty that if he’d known, everything would have been different.

For years, Seungkwan had learned how to deal with girls. He had lived his life in a boy group, surrounded by beautiful actresses, stunning idols, and thousands of screaming fans. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to charm. But there was something about you that completely paralyzed him.

Maybe he would never be able to do it. The fear of ruining this—of crossing a line he could never uncross—was paralyzing. And maybe, he thought frantically, that was a good thing.

You were friends, weren’t you?

You had just barely managed to salvage this friendship from the wreckage of the last twelve years. He shouldn’t want to ruin that. He shouldn’t risk terrifying you away when you had just finally let him back in. He should just be profoundly grateful that you were willing to let him be a part of your life again.

But his gaze dropped to your lips, the air practically crackling with the electric, terrifying pull between you. He leaned in, the gap between you closing, his breath warm against your skin.

BEEP.

The song ended with an abrupt, jarring electronic shriek. The machine loudly announced your score in a cheerful, computerized voice: 42.

The spell shattered like a broken mirror.

You both jumped, practically flying apart. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. You immediately spun around, grabbing your coat off the back of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you thought you might actually faint.

Seungkwan cleared his throat loudly, busying himself with untangling the microphone cords, though his hands were visibly shaking.

“The machine is rigged,” he declared, his voice rough and uneven. He refused to look at you, staring intently at the plastic tambourine on the floor. “Forty-two? This machine is completely broken.”

“You were flat,” you lied, your own voice breathless as you practically sprinted for the door, desperate for oxygen. “Completely flat."

By the time you stumbled out onto the streets at 4 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the streetlights. The freezing sea air hit your flushed face, sobering you up just enough to realize the massive, catastrophic mistake you had just made: you had just confessed your teenage feelings to the man who had just came back to your life.

You stood on the curb, waiting for the taxi Seungkwan had hailed, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. He stood right beside you, a heavy, suffocating silence settling over the sidewalk. He shrugged off his jacket, stepping close enough to drape it over your shoulders without asking. The fabric was warm, heavy, and smelled devastatingly like him.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling it together, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I meant what I said,” Seungkwan said quietly into the night air, staring straight ahead at the empty road. “At the tent. Even if you’re mad at me. You deserve better, tokki. You always have.”

You looked up at him, at the profile of the boy who had once broken your heart, who had only just realized he could have had it all those years ago, and who was now systematically trying to win it back, even if you didn’t seem to realize it yet.

“I know,” you whispered, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.

PRESENT

“I just don’t know,” Chan mutters, running a hand through his hair, turning on his heel to pace back the other way. “Her profile says she likes hiking and eye contact. What does that even mean?”

The lights in the break room hum with that same high-pitched whine that usually drives you crazy. Tonight, though, you barely notice it, drowned out by the sound of Chan pacing a hole into the cheap linoleum floor.

He glances between your faces, not breaking his pacing for a second. “Is she going to stare into my soul while we eat? What if she’s a serial killer who uses dating apps to harvest organs?”

You lean back in the rickety plastic chair, nursing a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee. Across the small table covered with crumbs, Seungkwan is meticulously trying to free a bag of Honey Butter Chips from the machine’s coils, stubbornly jammed.

“I have great kidneys,” Chan continues. “They’re pristine. I drink so much water.”

Your phone, sitting face up next to your coffee can, buzzes violently against the table. The screen lights up, illuminating the dim space with a harsh white glare, and you don’t even have to look to know who it is. You don’t pick it up, but you see them glowing on the screen.

[Youngjae - 9:14 PM]: Where are you? [Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: You ignored my call. [Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: I left my spare keys at my hospital and I’m locked out. Bring me your set ASAP.

Your heart rate skips, a familiar, ugly knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You massage your temples, quickly turning your phone off and pointedly ignoring the messages. He knows you’re at work, for crying out loud. He knows your schedule. He knows you can’t leave right now.

“Are we really having this conversation?” you ask.

“If she harvests your kidneys, I get your green leather jacket,” Hansol chimes in from the corner sofa. He doesn’t even look up from his phone, his thumb lazily scrolling. “Put it in your will.”

“I don’t have a will, hyung!” Chan practically shrikes, stopping his pacing to glare at Hansol. He turns his desperate gaze toward the table. “Look, I’m begging you guys. I haven’t been on a blind date since… well, ever. I don’t know the protocol. I need security.”

Seungkwan finally gives the vending machine a solid hip-check. The coil shudders, and the bag of chips drops with a satisfying crinkle. He scoops it up, tossing a triumphant look your way before turning to Chan.

“Security?” Seungkwan echoes, popping the bag open and immediately offering it to you first, a habit you try not to think too hard about. You take a chip. “What are we supposed to do? Tackle her if she reaches for a steak knife?”

“No! Just… be there,” Chan pleads, pulling up a chair and straddling it backward. “Saturday night. That Italian place near the marina. Don Capri.”

“Wow, that sounds expensive,” you say, entirely off-topic, but not wrong. The restaurant is one of the most expensive in the city. You’ve never been there. Not on a date, anyway. “How much is Seungcheol paying you as a junior writer?”

“It’s dimly lit. Romantic.” Chan throws his hands up in the air. “The point is, if you guys are sitting at the table next to us, I’ll feel safe. If she turns out to be crazy, you swoop in and pretend there’s a work emergency.”

“What if the things go well?” you ask, resting your chin on your fist.

“Then, you just eat your free pasta and leave me alone.”

“Free pasta?” Hansol suddenly looks up, his interest momentarily piqued, before his eyes drops back to his screen. “Actually, never mind. I have plans tomorrow.”

Chan lets out a frustrated groan, dropping his head onto his arms on the back of the chair. He looks up at you through his bangs, deploying a pathetic, puppy-dog pout he knows works on you, because it always does.

“Noona? Please? You’re practically my boss. It’s a liability issue if I get murdered.”

You sigh, taking another sip of the terrible coffee. “Chan, I don’t think—”

“We’ll do it,” Seungkwan interrupts smoothly.

You snap your head to look at him. “Excuse me?”

Seungkwan pops a chip into his mouth, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks ridiculously unfairly handsome in his oversized vintage knit sweater. “We will absolutely do it. It’s perfect. It’s fieldwork.”

“Fieldwork?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes.

“We host a romance advice show, Y/N,” he points out, a mischievous glint in his eye. Hansol suddenly looks very interested in the conversation, and you’re dying to know why.

“And that should justify us going on a date with Chan because…?”

Seungkwan looks at you like the answer is obvious. It’s not. And deep down, you know he’s not saying everything.

“How are we supposed to advise the lonely hearts of Jeju if we aren’t out in the trenches, observing modern dating in its natural habitat?” He chews a chip theatrically and far too loud for your liking. “Besides, you’ve been working too hard. You need a good meal. My treat.”

“I don’t need fieldwork, and I don’t need you to buy me dinner,” you shot back, though your stomach traitorously rumbles at the mention of good meal. “And what if Youngjae—”

You stop yourself, but the name hangs in the air like a bad smell.

Seungkwan’s playful demeanor instantly evaporates. The warmth in his eyes hardens into something piercing and unreadable. He slowly sets the bag of chips down on the table.

“What if Youngjae what?” he asks, an eyebrow raising. “Doesn’t want you going out in public with your friends now?”

Here we go again.

“Shut up, Boo,” you mutter, looking away.

“It’s a favor for Chan, tokki” Seungkwan continues, leaning closer across the table, his voice low enough that Chan and Hansol can’t hear. “A free meal. And you get to spend two hours pretending to be my date. I know you’ve been dreaming of the opportunity.”

If only he knew.

In moments like this you wonder whether he really doesn’t remember the night the two of you got drunk and confessed having crushes on each other when you were younger. That maybe he’s just pretending not to remember, exactly like you are.

You scoff, your cheeks heating up despite your best efforts. You won’t giving him the satisfaction. “In your dreams, and maybe in my nightmares.”

If only you knew.

Contrary to what you believed, Seungkwan remembers that night perfectly. He remembers wanting to kiss you in that moment, and every day that followed. He remembers catching himself wishing, with everything he had, that you still felt the same way, even if he doesn’t believe you do.

And if he had to take you on a fake date under the excuse of keeping an eye on Chan, then hell, he’d do it. He’d do anything to make you feel that way about him again.

“So it’s a yes?” Chan asks, completely oblivious to the sudden tension vibrating between the two of you.

Seungkwan don’t even let you open your mouth. “It’s a yes,” he confirms, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll be your security.”

Chan lets out a massive sigh of relief, jumping up to grab Hansol by the shoulders. “You hear that, hyung? I’m going to survive! Now, let me show you her profile.”

As Chan drags a deeply reluctant Hansol toward the corner to inspect the photos on the girl’s profile, you let out a long breath and reach across the table to steal another chip. Seungkwan watches you chew, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he defends himself, throwing his hands up in surrender.

The break room door swings open, and Seungcheol pokes his head in, looking frazzled. “Five minutes to air, you two. Let’s go, the board is already lit up with callers.”

You grab your notes and your phone, practically sprinting out of the break room to escape the look in Seungkwan’s eyes. You make it down the hallway and push through the heavy double doors into the station’s main lobby, heading for Studio B.

But you stop dead in your tracks.

Standing by the reception desk, drenched from the rain and looking absolutely furious, is no one other than Youngjae.

He is wearing an expensive trench coat, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle ticks in his cheek. The poor nighttime receptionist looks terrified, shrinking back behind her monitor as Youngjae taps his fingers aggressively on the glass partition.

“Youngjae?” you gasp, your voice echoing slightly in the empty lobby.

He turns, his eyes locking onto you with laser precision. The relief you would normally feel at seeing him is entirely absent, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. He marches across the lobby, closing the distance in seconds, rainwater dripping from his clothes onto your shoes.

“I told you to bring me the keys,” he hisses, keeping his voice low but laced with venom.

“I go on air in five minutes,” you stutter, taking a subconscious half-step back. “I can’t leave the building, Youngjae. Why didn’t you just wait for me to bring them to you after the show?”

“Because I don’t want to sit here for three hours while you play radio host!” he snaps, stepping closer, his imposing frame crowding your space. “This is ridiculous, Y/N. I have a major surgery tomorrow morning. You think your little late night advice segment is more important than my career?”

“It’s not a little segment, it’s my job,” you defend, your voice trembling slightly. “I have responsibilities here.”

“Responsibilities,” Youngjae scoffs loudly, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You play music and talk to lonely housewives.” He holds out his hand, palm up, expectant and demanding. “Give me the keys.”

You reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the spare keys, feeling a sudden and overwhelming wave of humiliation. You are the lead producer of the most popular late night show on the island, yet here you are, being scolded like a disobedient child in the middle of your workplace.

Before you can pull the keys out, a solid figure steps up right beside you.

“Is there a problem here?”

Seungkwan’s voice is completely devoid of its usual warmth, the one he usually reserves for you. It’s cold, flat, and carries a quiet authority you’ve rarely heard him use. That’s a side of him you don’t often see. Seungkwan has always been gentle and soft-spoken with everyone, especially you, despite your usual bickering. So for him to speak like that, you know he’s really not having it.

Youngjae blinks, momentarily taken aback, before his expression curls into a sneer. He looks Seungkwan up and down, taking in the knit sweater and the casual stance. “This doesn’t concern you, Boo. Stick to your silly script.”

“It concerns me when you show up at my workplace screaming at my producer five minutes before a live broadcast,” Seungkwan replies, not moving an inch. He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself so that his shoulder overlaps yours, creating a physical barrier between you and Youngjae. “You’re disrupting the station.”

“I’m talking to my girlfriend,” Youngjae snaps, his voice rising in volume. He tries to step around Seungkwan to get to you, but Seungkwan mirrors the movement, blocking him flawlessly.

“She’s working,” Seungkwan states simply.

“I don’t care if she’s working! She’s my—”

“If you don’t lower your voice,” Seungkwan interrupts, his tone dropping to a whisper, his eyes locked onto Youngjae’s, “I will have security escort you out. And trust me, I know exactly how to get someone thrown out of a building.”

The silence in the lobby is deafening. The receptionist is staring openly now. You can hear the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Youngjae scoffs, trying to mask his intimidation with bravado, but he takes a step back. “You think you’re still a big shot, don’t you? You’re just a retired idol playing host at a local station.”

Seungkwan don’t rise to the bait. He don’t even blink. He just stares Youngjae down with an intensity that makes the air feel thin.

“Youngjae, enough!” You finally find your voice, and it surprises you how steady it sounds. The humiliation burns away, leaving behind a sharp, clean anger at the way he’s speaking to Seungkwan.

You step around Seungkwan, pulling the keys from your pocket. You don’t place them in Youngjae’s waiting hand; instead, you drop them onto the small glass coffee table next to him. They land with a loud, metallic clatter.

“I am at work,” you say, your voice ringing clear and authoritative in the quiet lobby. “You don’t come here and disrespect me. You don’t disrespect my colleagues. And you certainly don’t belittle what I do.”

Youngjae looks at the keys, then back at you, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? You’re making a scene over this?”

“No,” you correct him. “You made the scene. I am ending it. Take the keys and leave, Youngjae. Now.”

He stares at you, genuinely shocked. You’ve never spoken to him like this before. You’ve never pushed back. But standing here, with Seungkwan’s unyielding presence at your back, you feel a sudden, powerful surge of clarity. You are tired of shrinking.

Youngjae snatches the keys off the table, his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and fury.

He shoots one last, venomous glare at Seungkwan before turning on his heel. “We are talking about this later,” he throws over his shoulder, pushing through the front doors and disappearing into the rain.

The heavy doors swing shut, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.

Your adrenaline spikes, then immediately crashes. Your knees feel a little weak. You let out a shaky exhale, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that.”

Seungkwan turns to you, and the intimidating aura is gone. What replaces it is soft, immediate concern. He reaches out, his hands hovering around you as if he wants to pull you into his chest, but instead he settles for gripping your shoulders, his thumbs pressing reassuringly against your collarbones.

“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely, his voice rough. “Don’t you ever apologize for him, Y/N.”

“He was so loud,” you whisper, humiliated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Everyone heard.”

“Good,” Seungkwan says stepping closer. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek, the touch shockingly gentle. “Let them see that you don’t let anyone walk all over you. You were incredible just now.”

You look up at him. The lobby lights catch the deep brown of his eyes, turning them into something almost golden with protective pride that makes your chest ache. He isn’t looking at you with pity. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

You want him to kiss you.

And normally, you would say it’s because you were feeling vulnerable, but you know that isn’t it. Being with Seungkwan just inches away from you like this makes you feel like the teenage girl who was hopelessly in love with him. Honestly, you’ve been feeling this way ever since he came back into your life.

“Two minutes!” Seungcheol’s voice booms from down the hallway, echoing through the corridor.

Seungkwan lets his hands slide down your arms, giving your hands a quick, firm squeeze before letting go. You just nod to yourself, taking a deep breath, but as you turn toward the studio doors, he caught your elbow.

“Tokki, wait,” he starts, his voice dropping to a serious register. He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. “We need to talk about what just happened. About the way he treated you.”

You pull your arm back, shaking your head so hard your hair whips around your face. “I can’t, Seungkwan. Not now. I have a broadcast to get through.”

“You’re just going to pretend he didn’t try to dictate your entire life in front of your colleagues?”

“Please,” you cut him off, voice cracking. You look at the studio doors, desperate for the sanctuary of the booth. “Just… leave it alone. For tonight. If you care about me, just leave it alone.”

Seungkwan watches you, jaw tight, clearly wanting to push it further. Frustration and aching sympathy flicker across his face. He finally gives a short, stiff nod. “Fine. But we’re talking about this later.”

You don’t answer, just turn and walk toward Studio B, the weight of the night pressing down on you.

FIVE MONTHS AGO

Seungkwan’s house was entirely too quiet when you arrived. Usually, his home was a chaos of neighborhood gossip, the television blaring something, his sisters’ friends coming and going, and the smell of something delicious simmering on the stove. But today, the air felt subdued.

His mother met you at the front door with a deep, exhausted sigh. “He hasn’t left that room in three days. Ever since the official press release about his retirement hit the news cycle on Tuesday, he’s just been lying there. He won’t eat. He barely talks. It’s like all the light just drained right out of him.”

“I’ll handle it,” you promised, offering her reassuring smile. You gripped the manila folder in your hand a little tighter. “He just needs a push.”

You marched up the familiar wooden stairs, your socks padding softly against the floorboards. You knew exactly the kind of existential dread Seungkwan was currently drowning in. For eleven years, his entire identity had been tied to a grueling, relentless schedule. He was an idol, for crying out loud. He was a performer.

Now, standing on the other side of that massive, terrifying decision to walk away, the silence was probably deafening. He had jumped off the cliff, and he was currently waiting to see if the parachute was going to open.

You were here to be the parachute.

You pushed the door to his childhood bedroom open without knocking. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room a gloomy and artificial twilight despite it being two in the afternoon.

Seungkwan was lying flat on his back in the center of his bed. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and soft sweatpants, his arms resting limply over his stomach. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, looking so profoundly lost and exhausted that it made your chest physically ache.

“Is this a wake?” you asked, your voice cutting through the stale air. “Because I’m not wearing black.”

Seungkwan jolted slightly, his head snapping toward the door. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the red, puffy evidence of a sleepless night. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

“Intervention,” you announced simply.

You walked straight past his desk, didn’t bother to take off you oversized cardigan, and threw yourself unceremoniously onto the mattress right next to him.

The bedsprings groaned in protest as you landed flat on your back, your shoulder practically brushing against his. You crossed your ankles, folding your hands over your stomach, and mirrored his exact posture, staring up at the ceiling.

For a long moment, Seungkwan was too stunned to speak. He just turned his head, staring at your profile in absolute bewilderment.

“You’re invading my misery,” he finally muttered, his voice raspy and completely devoid of its usual bright energy.

“Well, misery loves company,” you countered easily, keeping your eyes on the faded, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. “Besides, we used to do this all the time. Remember? We spent half of our freshman year lying on this exact bed, staring at those stupid plastic stars.”

Seungkwan let out a hollow, humorless breath, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Yeah. Usually because you were having a meltdown about a chemistry exam.”

“We used to lie here for hours,,” you continued softly, the memory bringing a bittersweet tightness to your throat. “Just talking. Planning out how we were going to conquer the world. We had it all figured out.”

“Now I’m almost thirty, unemployed, hiding from the paparazzi in my childhood bedroom, and you’re running a local radio station on an island we swore we’d escape.”

“Hey,” you admonished gently, shifting your weight so you could bump your shoulder against his. “My local radio station happens to be the second highest rated afternoon program in the district. And that is exactly why I’m here."

You reached over, slapping the manila folder onto his chest. He grabbed it instinctively before it slid off.

“What is this?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the logo on the cover.

“That is a job offer,” you declared, turning your head to look at him. “Yoona’s co-host is transferring to the morning news division next month. We need someone who can talk endlessly, who understands the entertainment industry, and who is incredibly desperate for a distraction.”

He frowned, his nose scrunching slightly in protest. “I wouldn’t call myself desperate.”

“Maybe not,” you shrugged. “But you do need a reason to get out of this bed, Kwan. And I need someone who won’t trip over the microphone cables. Help out your oldest friend, will you?”

Seungkwan stared at the folder, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. You could see the gears turning in his head, the terrifying prospect of a new routine warring with the safety of his depression.

Before he could overthink it and hand the folder back, you let the tough-love producer persona drop entirely. The anger and the resentment from the past eleven years had been quietly eroding ever since he showed up at the recreation center, and seeing him like this—so broken and unsure—wiped out whatever was left of your pride.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, the confession tumbling out of you before you could stop it.

You closed the remaining distance between you, turning on your side and resting your head gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his sweatshirt was soft, smelling faintly of fabric softener and the familiar scent that was just him.

Seungkwan froze for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching audibly in his chest, though his voice still sounded playful when he spoke. “Well, don’t go soft on me now.”

“Okay, forget it,” you said, struggling to stand as you pulled the folder off his chest.

But then, Seungkwan’s arm came up. He wrapped it securely around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer until you were tucked perfectly against his side. His other hand reached over, his long fingers finding yours in the space between you and grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers with a desperate, crushing grip.

He leaned his head down, pressing his lips to the top of your head in a long, lingering kiss.

“I missed you every day,” he murmured into your hair. “Every single day, Y/N.”

You squeezed his hand, a sad smile touching your lips. “Liar. You forgot me.”

“And how could I forget you, tokki?” he asked softly, using the childhood nickname that instantly made your heart skip a beat.

You tilted your head up just enough to look at his face. “Are you still calling me that?”

“Always,” Seungkwan replied without a second of hesitation. He finally looked down, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the bedroom. The exhaustion was still there, but the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze took your breath away.

You stared at him, the weight of the last decade hanging in the six inches of air between your faces. You had spent so long building walls to keep him out, but lying here, tangled up with him in the quiet sanctuary of his room, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Promise you won’t disappear this time,” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was a plea. A genuine, terrifying surrender.

Seungkwan looked into your eyes, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip, the fearful hope shining in your gaze, and his heart physically violently hammered against his ribs. Swallowing down the desperate, burning need to kiss your lips, Seungkwan tightened his grip on your hand and forced a soft, reassuring smile.

“You’re going to get tired of me,” he said, his voice incredibly gentle. “I promise.”

He leaned down, carefully, deliberately, and kissed you on the forehead again. It was sweet. It was safe. It was the absolute maximum amount of restraint he was capable of mustering.

“I’ll take the job, PD-nim,” he whispered against your skin, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of your perfume. “I’m not going anywhere.”

PRESENT

The reservation at Don Capri was for 8:00 p.m. By 8:05, you’re huddled in a corner velvet booth with a perfect line of sight to Chan’s table, holding a leather-bound menu high enough to hide your face but low enough to keep table four in view.

“He’s sweating,” you whisper, adjusting the menu slightly. “I can see a bead of sweat on his temple from here. He’s going to dehydrate before the appetizers arrive.”

Across from you, Seungkwan let out a soft, amused hum. He didn’t bother hiding behind his menu. Instead, he sits perfectly relaxed against the velvet, looking entirely in his element.

“He’s fine, tokki. She just laughed at whatever he said,” Seungkwan observes, taking a slow sip of his water.

The second he shuts his mouth, something metallic crashes to the floor.

Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “Though he just knocked over the salt shaker. Give him ten minutes, if he drops his fork, we trigger the station emergency text.”

“Well, at least she doesn’t look like a serial killer,” you note, peering critically at Chan’s date again. She’s pretty, with an easy smile and, to her credit, she seems genuinely charmed by Chan’s nervousness.

“See? Fieldwork. I told you it would be fine.” Seungkwan reaches across the table, his fingers catching the top edge of your menu and pushing it down, forcing you to look at him. “Now stop spying. We are supposed to be blending in. If you keep staring at them, people are going to think we’re private investigators.”

You scoff, though your voice comes out a little breathless. “Blending in? We are sitting in a romantic Italian restaurant, hiding behind potted ferns. We look ridiculous.”

“We only look ridiculous because you’re acting like a spy,” Seungkwan corrects. “If we want to be convincing, we need to act like we belong here. Like we’re on a actual date. So stop slouching.”

And you don’t know it yet, but Seungkwan is fully intent on turning this into a actual date. Or at the very least, showing you how you deserve to be treated on one.

You straighten up, reflexively pulling your jacket tighter. “I am not slouching. I’m trying to be inconspicuous. Which is hard to do when you’re dressed like that.”

Seungkwan looks impeccable, actually. He’s wearing a navy lightweight sweater layered over a striped button-down, the collar and cuffs peeking out; a look so effortlessly devastating it made at least three women trip over their own feet on his way to the table. Your heart had done much the same when he showed up at your door dressed like that.

Not that you would say that out loud, anyway.

“Like what?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye as he leans back, looking entirely too relaxed for a stakeout.

“Like you’re going to a premiere, not babysitting a blind date,” you counter.

“If we’re going to be security, we have to look the part. If I look like a scrub, they’ll think we’re just two random people loitering. If I look like this,” he gestures to his outfit, “we’re a couple enjoying a nice, expensive dinner.”

You do your best to ignore him referring to the two of you as a couple.

He caught your eye and held it, the playfulness fading into something more deliberate. “Besides, you look beautiful tonight. Even if you are trying to hide behind the menu.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse skips. “Stop flirting with me, Boo Seungkwan.”

“Trust me, tokki,” Seungkwan says, a smirk tugging at his lips. You’ve never seen this side of him. “You’ll know when I’m flirting with you.”

A waiter approaches the table before you can say a word. He glances between the two of you, his gaze lingering on Seungkwan’s polished attire before softening when it lands on you.

“Good evening,” the waiter greets in a hushed tone. “Can I start you two off with a bottle of wine? We have a beautiful Sangiovese that pairs perfectly with the chill in the air tonight. Are we celebrating a special occasion?”

You open your mouth to stammer out a polite refusal, to explain that you were just friends having a quick bite, but Seungkwan beats you to it.

“We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, if that's what you mean,” Seungkwan smiles, the warmth in his expression entirely genuine as he looks at the waiter, and then at you. “But it is a special occasion. I finally convinced her to let me take her to dinner.”

The waiter chuckles. “Well, then, congratulations are in order for the gentleman. And for the lady, I promise the food will make the wait worthwhile. Shall I bring the wine?”

“Please,” Seungkwans nods. He don’t look at the menu; he keeps looking at you, eyes searching. “And we’ll put out food orders in now, too. We’ll start with the burrata, please. And for the main… Tokki, you still love the mushroom risotto, don’t you? With the truffle oil?”

You blink, startled. It’s been years since you mentioned that preference, during a crowded high school lunch, of all things. “I... yes. I do.”

“Two orders of the mushroom risotto,” Seungkwan says, turning back to the waiter. “And please, hold the olives for the lady. She hates them.”

The waiter beams. “Coming right up. A wonderful choice for such a lovely couple. I’ll be right back with your wine.”

As the waiter glides away, you stare at Seungkwan, your mouth slightly parts. Your fingers nervously curls into the heavy linen napkin on your lap. You could probably dwell on the fact that the waiter keeps referring to you as a couple, but only one thing is on your mind right now.

“You remembered that?” you whisper, almost disbelieving. “The mushroom risotto?”

Seungkwan leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fingers. “I remember everything about you,” he says simply, shrugging slightly. “Besides, you always look at the past section first, but you invariably order rice dishes when you’re stressed. And right now, you’re tapping your foot against the table leg.”

You immediately still your foot, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. He is paying attention. He is always paying an agonizing amount of attention to you.

“You didn’t have to put on the whole performance for the waiter,” you murmur, looking down at the flickering candle to avoid the heat of his gaze. “He probably thinks we’re together now.”

“That’s the point of blending in,” Seungkwan says softly. “But it wasn’t a performance. If I am taking you out to dinner, I’m going to do it right. You deserve to be taken out to a place with real tablecloths and good lighting.”

He doesn’t elaborate more. He simply picks up his water glass, clinks it against yours, and smiles. It’s the closest he has come to referencing your love life all evening, but he doesn’t cross the line. He keeps the focus entirely on the present, on the two of you in this dimly lit booth, slowly forgetting why you came in the first place.

The waiter returns, pouring two glasses of the dark red wine. Seungkwan picks his up, holding it out toward you.

“To fieldwork,” he toasts, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

You pick up your glass, the crystal clinking softly against his. “To Chan keeping both his kidneys.”

You take a sip. The wine is incredible, rich, complex, and warming you from the inside out. For the first time all week, the perpetual knot of anxiety in your chest begins to loosen. You lean back into the velvet booth, allowing yourself to actually look at the man sitting across from you.

“So,” you start, feeling a sudden urge of liquid courage. “If this were a real date, what would the great Boo Seungkwan talk about?”

Seungkwan laughs, a sound that rumbles over the ambient noise of the restaurant. “If you really want the full experience, you have to know the fine print.”

You arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “The fine print?”

“Yes. I’m incredibly demanding.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Seungkwan roll his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight dances across his features, highlighting the playful glint in his eyes.

“I require a lot of attention, tokki. You should know.” He winks at you. “I’m the guy who wants to know exactly what made you laugh on your dive to work, and why you always steal my pens during per-production eve though you have five of your own.”

“Yours are better and more expensive.” You lift a shoulder in your best you-got-me shrug.

Seungkwan doesn’t care. He’d buy a million pens just for you to steal if it made you happy.

He reaches across the table, his index finger lightly tracing the base of his wine glass. “And if this were a real date, I wouldn’t be looking at Chan right now. I’d probably tell you that the candlelight makes your eyes look absolutely incredible.”

Your breath hitches. The banter had shifted gears so smoothly you almost got whiplash. God, you’re supposed to be here to babysit Chan and his date, but right now the only thing you can think about is Seungkwan. You’ve practically forgotten table four exists.

“And then,” he continues, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine, “I’d spend the rest of the appetizer course trying to figure out if you’re actually as unaffected by me as you’re pretending to be, or if I’m allowed to hold you hand across the table.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, completely betraying your cool facade. “And what’s your conclusion, Boo?” you challenged, though there’s far less bite in your voice than usual. You can’t believe you’re actually flirting with your best friend right now.

“My conclusion,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back up to hold you stare, “is that you’re definitely not unaffected. You’ve been shredding your napkin for five minutes.”

You are affected. More than you want to admit, and definitely more than you want him to notice. You’ve been like this ever since Seungkwan came back, maybe even before that, when he existed only through blurry livestreams and phone screens.

You look down. The linen napkin in your lap is indeed thoroughly twisted between your tense fingers. You drop it immediately, clearing your throat, but you refuse to let him win that easily.

“You’re very confident in your methods,” you note, leaning forward so that you are mirroring his posture. You tilt your head, letting a slow smile cross your lips. “But I’m curious. You’ve laid out your entire strategy. What makes you think you’d survive my moves?”

Seungkwan pauses, the confident smirk faltering just a fraction as his eyes widen slightly. “Is that a challenge, tokki? What exactly are your moves?”

“Well,” you start, dropping your voice to match his intimate volume. “If this were a real date, I wouldn’t need to put on a performance. I’d just use what I already know."

You reach across the table, your fingers lightly grazing the cuff of his striped button-down, ostensibly to brush away a piece of invisible lint. You feel him tense under your touch.

“I’d tell you that you don’t need the expensive sweater to impress me, even though navy looks undeniably good on you,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes. “I’d point out that you always rub your thumb against your index finger when you’re trying to play it cool. just like you’re doing right now.”

Seungkwan’s hand stills against the table, his breath catching audibly. You bite your lip without thinking, and immediately watch his eyes drop to the movement.

“And then,” you continue, imitating him and thoroughly enjoying the sudden, flustered darkening of his eyes, “I’d remind you that I know exactly what you sound like when you’re genuinely caught off guard. And I’d make it my mission for the rest of the night to hear it.”

Seungkwan visibly swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The playful banter vanishes completely, replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension that completely short-circuits his brain. You can practically see the gears jamming as he stares at you, completely charmed and entirely at your mercy.

“You know, I’m just... invested in the mission,” you whisper, pulling your hand back and offering him an innocent, victorious smile.

“Right. The mission,” Seungkwan breathes out, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago. He looks thoroughly wrecked by your counter-attack, and thoroughly entertained by it, too.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing your wrist as you reach for your water glass. The fleeting contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your heart.

“Well, for the sake of the mission, I think we should keep up at the act. In fact, if the waiter comes back, I might just to lean in a little closer.”

“Don’t push your luck, Boo,” you warn, though a traitorous smile brakes across your face.

The burrata arrives, but neither of you pays any attention to it. The air inside the booth feels electric, every glance and teasing smile tightening the tension between you. The complicated reality of your life outside the restaurant fades into the background, replaced entirely by the thrill of Seungkwan’s undivided attention.

He’s flawlessly attentive, anticipating your needs before you voice them, teasing you gently, looking at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the restaurant seems to disappear.

Once again, you’re laughing more than you have in months—maybe even years. You feel beautiful, interesting, completely captivating under Seungkwan’s gaze. It feels like you’re on an actual date. A hell of a good one, if you’re being honest.

By the time the waiter brings the check—which Seungkwan immediately snatches up before you can even think about reaching for your purse, shooting you a look that brooks absolutely no argument—you feel like you’re floating.

“Chan survived,” Seungkwan notes as he signs the receipt, subtly gesturing toward table four, where Chan and his date are bundled into their coats, flushed and smiling. “No organs harvested tonight.”

“Mission accomplished,” you agree, sliding out of the velvet booth.

As you stand, Seungkwan is already there, holding your coat open for you. You blink, faintly stunned, but slip your arms into the sleeves anyway. His hands linger lightly on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary, and the weight of his touch steals your breath all over again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, turning to look up at him.

“Anytime, tokki,” he smiles, stepping back to let you lead the way out of the restaurant.

TWO MONTHS AGO

Your mother’s inn was perched on a precipice, a jagged, flat-topped plateau of rock where the wind always smelled of salt. You could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs all night long, a rhythmic, slightly violent lullaby that had soundtracked your entire life.

The inn felt like a stubborn relic by now, while most of the city had sprouted sleek, glass-fronted luxury hotels and neon-lit resorts. It was weathered by the sea spray, its white paint peeling in places to reveal the sturdy, dark stone beneath, but there it stood: strong, and holding on.

You family quarters were tucked away at the back on the ground floor. That night, Seungkwan had insisted on walking you home after the show ended.

It started raining all of a sudden, and your mother was outside taking care of her plants when the two of you reached the door, soaking wet. She immediately insisted Seungkwan stay the night instead of walking home in the rain, even though he lived just down the street.

“Aigoo! Look at you both!” she shrieked, dropping a small trowel. “Y/N! Why didn’t you use an umbrella? And Seungkwanie! You’ll catch a cold and lose that voice of yours!”

“It’s just a little water, Auntie,” Seungkwan panted, trying to wipe his eyes, though he looked like he’d just climbed out of the ocean.

“Absolutely not,” she commanded, grabbing both of your elbows and hauling you inside the kitchen. “You are not walking home in this, Seungkwan. It’s pitch black and the wind is high enough to knock you off the cliff.”

“Mom, he lives five minutes down the street,” you reminded her, shivering as the air conditioning hit your wet skin.

“Five minutes too long! The road is slick, and your mother would kill me if her only son got pneumonia on my doorstep.” She was already rummaging through the linen closet, tossing a thick, oversized towel at Seungkwan’s head. “You’re staying. We have the guest room made up, and I’ll find some of your brother’s old clothes. Go, shower! Both of you!”

Seungkwan caught the towel, peeking out from under the white terry cloth. He looked at you, a hesitant, slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew, as well as you did, that staying the night meant more than just avoiding the rain, it meant being back in the intimate, domestic bubble of your childhood, with sleepovers and everything that came with them.

You just shrugged. “You heard her.”

“I don’t want to be a burden...” he started, though his feet were already moving toward the hallway.

“The only burden is your chattering teeth,” your mother countered, already heading toward the stove to put on a pot of ginger tea.

You stood in the center of the kitchen, watching him. Seungkwan looked so out of place in your home, yet he smiled at your mother and thanked her with an ease that didn’t belong to the image you had of him. You didn’t know it, but he felt more at home there than he ever did in his apartment back in Seoul.

“Well,” you sighed, wringing out the hem of your shirt. “I guess we’re watching something here tonight.”

Seungkwan grinned, the water dripping from the tip of his nose. “Then hurry up, tokki. I’m not starting our study without you.”

Thirty minutes later, you left your room with a towel wrapped around your head, already dressed in your pajamas as walked down the hallway toward the living room, listening to your mother and grandmother’s voices as they talked to Seungkwan.

“Honestly, Seungkwanie, you look so thin. Does Pledis not feed their retirees?” your grandmother clucked, setting down a platter of golden-brown pajeon and a bottle of strawberry milk for him at the coffee table.

“Halmoni, you’re the only one who truly understands my nutritional needs,” Seungkwan chirped, his eyes crinkling into that sweet smile that had weaponized fans for more than a decade. He was already very comfortably settled on the sofa.

“Halmoni, stop,” you protested, placing a hand against her back in an attempt to guide her away. “He’s going to get an ego, and I’m the one who has to work with him tomorrow.”

“Oh, hush,” your mother dismissed you with a wave. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat on the edge of the armchair, fixing Seungkwan hair with a look that was equal parts maternal and deeply intrusive. “Leave the poor boy alone, Y/N.”

You could see it in her eyes as the gears in her head turned at terrifying speed, preparing whatever invasive question she was about to ask next. Your mother rarely believed in delicacy, privacy, or minding her own business. Especially when Boo Seungkwan was involved.

“Now, Seungkwanie, answer your Auntie honestly.” You squeezed your eyes shut the second a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, already bracing yourself. “A handsome, successful man like you, finally back home in Jeju... you must have girls throwing themselves at you. Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere in Seoul?”

Your grandmother nodded enthusiastically, not missing a beat as she sat down next to your mother. “Yes! We were just talking about this in the kitchen while you were showering. You know, when you two were teenagers, constantly attached at the hip, we always used to say it was only a matter of time. We always thought you and Y/N would end up together.”

God, that was worse than you could’ve imagined. Even if you actually agreed with her.

Your jaw practically unhinged. You froze right behind the sofa, your hands tightening their grip on the towel wrapped around your wet hair. “Halmoni! Mom! What is wrong with you?”

Seungkwan, to his credit, didn’t choke on his bite of pajeon. But a slow, blooming red flush crept up the back of his neck, visible even under the collar of the borrowed sweatshirt. He looked up at you over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous amount of amusement, before turning his polite smile back to the two women.

“No girlfriend, Auntie,” Seungkwan said politely, though his voice had dropped into that smooth tone that always made your pulse jump. “The group kept me pretty busy. I never really found anyone who could put up with me.”

He paused, taking a slow sip of his strawberry milk. His gaze drifted back up to catch yours, a thoroughly devastating smirk playing on his lips.

“But...” he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, “I have to admit, Halmoni has excellent intuition. I always thought we made a pretty perfect pair, too.”

You let out a strangled gasp, your face immediately burning hot. You grabbed a small embroidered throw pillow off the back of the sofa and chucked it directly at his head.

“Aigoo!” your mother scolded, though she was trying and failing to hide a massive grin as Seungkwan easily dodged the pillow with a laugh. “Y/N! Where are your manners? You don’t throw things at our guest.”

“He’s not a guest, it’s Seungkwan!” you shot back, completely flustered as you marched around the sofa to grab a piece of pajeon, avoiding Seungkwan’s entirely entirely too-smug expression. “And both of you need to stop encouraging him.”

“We’re just stating the facts,” your grandmother stated placidly, patting Seungkwan’s knee. “It’s nice to have you back, Seungkwanie. It feels like things are finally exactly where they’re supposed to be.”

“You know, Seungkwan,” your mother turned back to Seungkwan, her eyes sparkling with a sudden, mischievous memory. “Y/N was always your biggest supporter. Even when you weren’t here to see it.”

A cold spike of dread shot through your chest. “Mom. No.”

“In fact,” she continued, ignoring your frantic eye signals, “she kept a little... archive. In the back of her closet. It’s still there. All those albums and the rare photocards—”

This had to be a nightmare.

“Mom, I swear to God—”

“Photocards?” Seungkwan’s head whipped toward you again, his eyebrows arching toward his hairline. A slow, smug grin began to spread across his face. “Rare ones?”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” you muttered, your face heating to a shade of red that could rival the ON AIR sign back at the station.

“I’ll go get the binder!” you mother chirped, already scurrying toward the hallway.

“Mom! Don’t you dare!”

You scrambled after her, but it was too late. Within seconds, your mother returned, triumphantly hoisting a thick, plastic-sleeved binder and a dusty box. She dropped them onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.

Seungkwan leaned forward, his eyes wide with delight. He flipped the binder open. It was a chronological history of his career: rare photo cards you’d traded for, newspaper clippings from his first win on Music Bank, and even a crumpled receipt from his first fan meeting in Seoul.

“Is this…” Seungkwan traces the edge of a photocard where he's sporting a questionable bowl from his first studio album. “Y/N, even I don’t have this one.”

He looked at the box, pulling out a lightstick that had been carefully preserved, its battery long dead but the diamond inside still gleaming. He looked from the collection to you, his expression shifting from teasing to something much softer, much more complex.

“You kept everything,” he whispered.

You stood by the TV, arms crossed tightly over your chest, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with radio broadcast. You felt like the teenage girl again, sitting on the parapet, watching the boy you loved walk away toward a life you couldn’t follow.

“It’s just... memorabilia,,” you lied, your voice tight in your throat. “For the history of Jeju’s most famous export.”

Another lie. That entire collection had been your way of staying close to Seungkwan after he cut you out of his life without a single explanation. You didn’t just want to support his career, you wanted to feel close to him somehow, no matter how ridiculous it made you feel.

And honestly, you’d owned far more than what was left in that box. At one point, you even bought a life-size cardboard cutout of Seungkwan. But after one particularly angry night, you threw half of it away. The remaining pieces were only there because your mother had saved them.

Seungkwan stood up, the binder still open to a page of his handwritten lyrics you’d printed out years ago. “Y/N. Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”

The frustration that had been building for months — of the twelve-year silence, of Seungkwan sliding back into your life as if he hadn’t left a gaping hole behind — suddenly boiled over.

You looked him dead in the eye, your chin trembling just slightly. “Well, you left, didn’t you?”

The silence that followed was terrible. Heavy. Your mother and grandmother, realizing they’d accidentally stepped into a minefield, quietly retread to the kitchen.

Seungkwan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The smugness was gone. His glow was gone. He looked down at the binder, at the version of himself that had been a start while you stayed behind.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off before a word could leave his lips. “Let’s just watch, okay?”

PRESENT

The drive back to your house is suspended in silence. It isn’t the uncomfortable, suffocating quiet you’re used to sharing with Youngjae after an argument; it’s a warm stillness. The ambient glow of the dashboard illuminates Seungkwan’s profile as he navigates the winding coastal roads, the faint sound of a lo-fi track humming through the car speakers.

As the tires crunch onto the familiar gravel of the inn’s precipice, the sound of the ocean immediately rushes in to fill the space. Waves crash violently against the rocks below, creating a wild soundtrack for the storm brewing in your chest.

Seungkwan shifts the car into park but leaves the engine idling. The heater blows softly, maintaining the comfortable, intimate bubble you’ve been trapped inside all night. He doesn’t immediately reach to unlock the doors. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts in his seat, turning fully toward you.

You stare out the windshield at the peeling white paint of your mother’s inn, suddenly completely unwilling to open the door. Opening it means the “fieldwork” night is over. It means stepping back into the cold reality where you are the secret girlfriend of a man who doesn’t respect you.

“So…” you start, voice sounding a little smaller than you intended. You turn you head, sinking slightly into the leather set to look at him. “We’re successfully completed the dinner portion of our research.”

Seungkwan rests his arm along the back of your seat, eyes tracing the line of your face in the dim light. “We did. I’d say the data we collected was highly successful.”

And the more e you tried to piece everything together, the more confused you became. Was Seungkwan actively flirting with you? Was he serious about what he confessed that night when you were both drunk? Or was this all just concern disguised as something else, his way of trying to save you from Youngjae?

You couldn’t tell anymore, and that uncertainty was driving your thoughts into complete chaos.

You let out a soft, nervous breath, your eyes dropping to Seungkwan’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to his eyes. “What happens now, then? In the spirit of a comprehensive study... what are your moves at the end of a date?”

“My moves?” he echoes, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“Yeah,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware of the small space between you inside the car. “Do you just... say goodnight and drive away?”

“No,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning a little closer. The faint scent of expensive wine and cedarwood wraps around you. “If it were a real date, I’d walk her all the way to her door. I’d wait until she got inside safely. And I’d still ask her to text me after, just so I could be absolutely sure.”

“And then?” you press, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird desperate to be set free.

Boo Seungkwan’s gaze drops to your lips. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it, his tongue darting out to wet his own. “And then, if she were looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now...” His voice lowers even more, rough around the edges. “I’d kiss her goodnight.”

The air in the car vanishes at the same time it does in your lungs.

Every rational thought—the fact that you are still technically dating Youngjae, the fact that you work together, the fact that this could shatter the fragile equilibrium of your friendship—is completely eclipsed by the magnetic pull of the man sitting beside you. Your best friend.

You had spent a year starving in the dark, and Seungkwan was suddenly offering you a feast in the light.

Your gaze drops to his lips, slightly parted, before lifting back to his eyes, darkened and blown wide with anticipation.

“Then kiss me,” you breathe, barely believing the words have left your mouth.

Seungkwan freezes. For a single, agonizing millisecond, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours frantically, as if trying to confirm he heard you correctly, making sure it isn’t a joke or a mistake.

Whatever he finds in your expression broke the last remaining thread of his restraint.

He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand rises, long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and he pulls you forward just as his lips crash against yours.

There isn’t a hint of hesitation in the way his lips move against yours—only certainty. It’s fifteen years of waiting, of quiet longing, yearning in high school hallways, on parapets, and in agonizingly small radio booths, finally shattering wide open.

His lips are warm and soft against yours, tasting faintly of wine and the chapstick he’d applied before driving you home. The hand on the back of your seat rises to grip your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you gasp against his mouth, a soft, involuntary sound. Seungkwan takes it as permission for his tongue to swipe between your lips.

You melt against him completely, your hands flying up to grip his navy-blue sweater, afraid that if you don’t, you might dissolve into a puddle in his passenger seat. Seungkwan’s kiss is mind-blowing, addictive, and so much more than you ever dreamed it would be when you were a teenager.

The center console digs uncomfortably into your side, but you don’t care. You pull yourself closer, your fingers sliding from his chest up into his soft hair, tugging gently at the strands. Seungkwan groans, a low, incredibly attractive sound that vibrates against your lips as he grows bolder, pulling you over his legs to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding up considerably.

You don’t hesitate, practically throwing yourself into Seungkwan’s lap, his arm flying to your hips as you giggle when your head lightly hits the car ceiling. Seungkwan likes the sound of your laughter, but he thinks he might have just fallen in love with the little gasp and moan that slip out when he kisses you again.

It’s dizzying, entirely consuming; you feel like your head is spinning. For the first time in months, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking; you feel like you’re the absolute center of the fucking universe.

When you finally pull apart to catch your breath, neither of you moves very far. Seungkwan keeps his forehead resting against yours, your chests rising and falling unevenly in the quiet interior of the car. But when you open your eyes again, his expression isn’t blissful. It’s troubled, worried.

Your stomach drops instantly. Scared of what he might say next, you whisper: “What’s wrong?”

“Y/N,” Seungkwan says softly, his breathing uneven. “I’m not strong enough to pull away from you right now. So if this was just a kiss for research... I need you to be the one to stop this before I—”

You silence him with another kiss, your arms winding around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. Seungkwan make a soft sound against your mouth when you catch his lower lip between yours, your hips rolling against him involuntarily.

Both of you let out shaky groans at the same time when you feel the hard press of him where your bodies meet. Seungkwan’s head tips back instinctively, exposing the long line of his throat, and you immediately take the invitation, kissing your way along his neck while his hands slide down to your exposed thigh.

His fingers give light, lingering squeezes as they slowly travel higher, dangerously close to where you want him the most. The anticipation alone is enough to make you shiver, unsure if you’ll survive the moment his hands finally reach the place you’ve bee aching for him to touch.

You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent enveloping you in a dizzying cloud of desire.

Seungkwan’s fingers dance along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the light touches leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is electrifying, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you entirely. Your hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact with the hard length pressing insistently against your core.

“Please,” you whimper against his neck, your voice ragged with need. “Touch me, Seungkwan.”

He groans at your words, his fingers inching higher until they brush against the damp fabric of your panties. You gasp at the contact, your head falling back against the steering wheel as he begins to rub slow circles over your clothed sex. The thin barrier of your underwear does little to dull the sensation, and you can feel your arousal soaking through the material, coating Seungkwan’s fingers.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. “You’re so wet for me already. I can feel you throbbing against my fingers.”

Emboldened by your moans, Seungkwan hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them aside, exposing your dripping core to the cool air of the car. He wastes no time before running a finger along your slick folds, gathering your arousal before bringing it to his lips. His tongue darts out to taste you, his eyes fluttering shut as he savors your flavor.

“God, you taste divine,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I could eat you out all night long.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself rocking your hips forward, desperate for more of his touch.

Seungkwan takes the hint and slips a finger inside your heat, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow circles. You cry out at the intrusion, your walls clenching around his digit as he begins to pump it in and out of you slowly.

“Look at you,” Seungkwan growls, his eyes locked on where his finger disappears inside you. “So tight and perfect. I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”

The thought of him inside you sends a wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself fisting his hair, tugging him closer as you grind down on his hand. Seungkwan responds by adding a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he continues to stroke your clit with his thumb.

“Seungkwan,” you gasp, your hips bucking wildly as you chase your impending orgasm. “Don’t stop, please.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips in another kiss as his fingers continue to work you over. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours as he swallows your moans and whimpers. You can feel your release building, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

With one final thrust of his fingers and a particularly hard press of his thumb against your clit, you come undone. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you scream your pleasure into Seungkwan’s mouth. He holds you through it, his fingers continuing to stroke your sensitive flesh as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.

As you come down from your high, Seungkwan slowly withdraws his fingers from your still-throbbing core. He brings them to his mouth once more, licking them clean of your juice before pulling you into one more kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor a heady mix of sweet and tangy that has your core clenching with renewed desire.

But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. You’re still in Seungkwan’s car, parked outside of your mother’s inn. At any moment, someone could come looking for you, catching you in a compromising position with your best friend.

The realization hits you not as a gradual dawning, but as a visceral, physical blow. It starts in your stomach, a sudden, plummeting sensation of nausea. You aren’t just exploring a connection. You are cheating. You are cheating on the man you are still technically tethered to, and in doing so, you are dragging Seungkwan into a mess he doesn’t deserve.

You look at Seungkwan’s face—open, hopeful, glowing with the anticipation of what comes next—and the guilt that floods you is suffocating.

You can’t do this to him. You can offer him a fragment of yourself while you are still tied to someone else. You see the way he shifts, his hand moving down to find yours, his fingers interlacing with your own, a silent offer to take this further, to stay, to bridge the final gap between you.

No.

The word echos in your mind, sharp and final.

You pull your hand away as if you’d been burned.

Panic begins to set in, and you pull away from Seungkwan, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “We can’t... We shouldn’t have done this,” you pant, your eyes wide with fear.

Seungkwan frowns, his brows drawing together in confusion. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by a jagged, sudden uncertainty. “Y/N? What is it?”

“I...” Your voice fails you. You try to speak, but the words stick in your throat. The air in the car suddenly feels too thick to breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in, the tinted windows transforming from a shield into a prison.

“Did I... did I cross a line?” Seungkwan asks, his voice dropping, stripped of its earlier confidence. Hurt is already beginning to cloud his features. “I’m sorry, I just—you asked me to—”

“It’s not you,” you gasp, fumbling for the door handle. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely get a grip on the lever. “It’s not you, Seungkwan. It’s me. It’s everything.”

“Y/N, wait,” he says, reaching out to grab your arm, his touch gentle but firm, trying to ground you. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me. We don’t have to do anything else. We can just sit here. Just talk.”

You can’t look at him. If you do, you know you’ll shatter. You know you’ll stay. You know you would trade your sanity for the feeling of his lips on yours, for the way his hands roam over your body, touching you in ways you’d only ever dreamed about, and that is the most dangerous part of all.

You jerk your arm back, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The engine is still idling, the low hum vibrating through the floorboards, matching the frantic, uneven thudding of your heart.

“I can’t,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this. I can’t be this person.”

Seungkwan’s expression falls, his brow furrowing in concern and hurt. “Y/N, wait—”

But you don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. In a moment of sheer panic, you scramble out of the car, not even bothering to fix your skirt as you flee up the path to the inn’s front door. You can hear Seungkwan calling after you, but you don’t dare look back.

Your hands are shaking as you fumble with your keys, finally managing to unlock the door and slip inside. You lean against it, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to process what just happened.

And for hours, you just stand there, trapped in the hallway of your childhood home, the silence pressing in on you from all sides.

A MONTH AGO

It was Seungkwan’s birthday that night. And despite his repeated protests that he wanted a quiet night in with you and his parents, his group members had blatantly ignored him, flying in from Seoul that afternoon and bringing with them a overwhelming wave of noise, expensive gifts, and a decade’s worth of inside jokes you knew nothing about.

You had been invited—or rather, Seungkwan had threatened to drag you out of the radio station by your ankles if you didn’t show up.

“Here, Y/N, you need to try this cut,” Seokmin announced loudly over the sizzling of the grill, leaning across the table to drop a perfectly cooked piece of pork belly onto your plate. “Seungkwan used to burn the meat all the time when the for of us lived together, so I had to learn how to cook to survive.”

“My cooking skills are great!” Seungkwan defended himself immediately, grabbing his tongs and glaring at Seokmin.

You laughed, covering your mouth as you chewed. Sitting there with them felt surreal, you spent years watching these men on television or through a tiny phone screen, but in person, they were just loud, fiercely loyal brothers who clearly adored Seungkwan just as much as you.

“Don’t listen to them, Y/Nie,” a soft voice chimed in from the end of the table.

You looked over to see Jeonghan resting his chin on his hand, offering you a smile that was practically lethal. He was wearing a simple black shirt, but he somehow still look like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square.

“Seungkwan has many talents. Though, he is notoriously bad at sharing.”

You opened your mouth to reply, fully intending to agree with Jeonghan, but before you could even form a syllable, Seungkwan shifted his chair. He moved a full six inches to the left, strategically placing his broad shoulders directly in your line of sight, entirely blocking Jeonghan from your view.

“Okay, hyung, that’s enough,” Seungkwan said, his ears turning a faint shade of pink. He furiously flipped a piece of meat on the grill. “Eat your pork.”

You leaned back, trying to peer around Seungkwan’s arm. “I was just going to say—”

“No, you weren’t,” Seungkwan interrupted, tossing a piece of lettuce onto your plate with entirely too much force. “You don’t need to talk to him.”

You bit your lip to suppress a massive grin.

Ever since they arrived, Seungkwan has been doing everything he can to keep you far away from Jeonghan. All of it because of the comment you made months ago about thinking he was handsome, inflamed by you bring it up a few more times just to annoy him, insisting that Jeonghan’s face belonged in a painting.

An as soon as you were introduced, you didn’t miss the opportunity to announce that Jeonghan was your bias when asked, something the oldest member of the group took full advantage of, delighting in the sight of Seungkwan’s ears burning with jealousy every time he spoke to you.

It was a very, very fun night.

“Funny that it’s not a collection of his you have shoved in the back of your closet,” Seungkwan whispered, just loud enough for you to hear as he squeezed your waist.

You rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away. “Shut up.”

That was another one of those things you hadn’t talked about yet, and you had no intention of discussing it there with his members watching.

“Are you hiding her from me, Kwan-ah?” Jeonghan teased, his voice dancing with amusement as he leaned sideways to catch your eye again. “Y/N, did he tell you I was dangerous?”

“He’s blocking my view of the painting,” you agreed playfully, thoroughly enjoying the way Seungkwan’s jaw clenched, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

“I am going to throw you both into the ocean,” Seungkwan threatened, pouring himself a shot of soju. He pointed his stainless steel chopstick at you. “And you. Stop encouraging him. You’re supposed to be on my side. It’s my birthday.”

“I’m on the side of objective beauty,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.

Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but a reluctant, fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was more than happy to see you getting along well with his friends, even if he was quietly sulking for your attention.

He leaned in closer to you, dropping his voice so the others couldn’t hear over the sizzling meat. “You’re terrible. I fly my friends down here to meet you, and you immediately try to run off with the visual.”

“You’re a visual too, Boo,” you whispered back, patting his chin, the playful banter suddenly dipping into something much warmer. “Don’t be so jealous.”

Seungkwan’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through the easygoing atmosphere. “I’m not jealous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “I just know what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched, the ambient noise of the restaurant suddenly fading into the background.

After the night you got drunk together and traded teenage confessions, Seungkwan had started being flirty with you more and more. Your mother and grandmother certainly weren’t helping, constantly fueling the idea that the two of you belonged together.

But before you could unpack that, Joshua clapped his hands together from across the table, catching both of yours attention.

“So, Seungkwan,” Joshua said, raising his glass in a toast. “Now that the escrow officially closed on the Gangnam apartment last week, what’s the plan? Are you buying a place here in Jeju?”

You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth. You turned your head slowly, staring at the side of Seungkwan’s face.

He had sold his apartment? The massive, luxury penthouse in Seoul that he had spent the last five years decorating? The apartment that anchored him to the capital, to the industry, to the life he had built away from you?

Seungkwan’s entire body tensed as he slowly lowered his tongs. He didn’t look at Joshua or his members. He only looked at you, reading the absolute shock radiating across your features.

“You... sold your apartment?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, entirely oblivious to the other four men at the table.

“Ah,” Jihoon winced softly from across the table, realizing the sudden, drastic shift in the atmosphere. “He didn’t tell you.”

“I was going to,” Seungkwan said quickly, turning fully toward you. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, clearly bracing himself for you to be angry. “Y/N, I swear I was going to tell you. The paperwork just finalized.”

“You sold it,” you repeated, the reality of the situation settling heavy and absolute in your chest. Selling that apartment wasn’t just a financial decision. It meant his retirement wasn’t a temporary hiatus to clear his head. It meant he was not going back.

It meant he was staying for good. That the boy you loved all those years ago—the one who broke your heart by leaving and not speaking to you for the twelve years that followed—was actually back, and he wasn’t going anywhere, just like he promised while lying beside you in his childhood bedroom.

It was too much to process in a room full of people and five pair of eyes on you.

“Excuse me,” you managed to say, your voice breathless as you pushed your chair back from the table. “I just need to use the restroom.”

You didn’t wait for his response. You slipped out of the private room, the noise of the restaurant hitting you like a physical wall as you navigated the crowded hallway toward the back exit. You didn’t go to the restroom; you pushed through the heavy metal door that led to the quiet, dimly lit alley behind the building.

The cold night air hit your flushed face, but it did nothing to slow the frantic beating of your heart.

He was staying. He was actually, permanently staying.

The heavy metal door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel his presence, the familiar, grounding gravity that had always pulled you in.

Seungkwan stepped into the alley, letting the door click shut, cutting off the noise of the restaurant. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, stopping a few feet away from you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice apprehensive. “I shouldn’t have let you find out like that. I wanted to tell you properly.”

You turned to face him, leaning back against the brick wall of the restaurant. You let out a long, shaky breath, shaking your head. “I’m not mad, Kwan. I’m just... stunned. That’s a massive deal. Your whole life was in Seoul.”

Seungkwan visibly relaxed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders when he realized you weren’t upset, just overwhelmed. He took a slow step closer, the faint light from a nearby streetlamp catching the sharp angles of his face.

“My career was in Seoul,” Seungkwan corrected softly. “My life... my life hasn’t been there for a very long time.”

“But why?” you asked, your voice filled with genuine wonder. “You loved that penthouse. You worked so hard for it. Why would you give it all up?”

Seungkwan stopped right in front of you. He didn’t hesitate. He looked down at you with a raw, terrifying honesty that made your knees weak.

“Because I found a reason to stay here,” he said, his voice a vibrating hum that went straight to your bones. “Because everything I have ever actually wanted is right here. On this island.”

He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse.

“I’m staying for good, tokki,” he promised, his eyes entirely focused on yours. “I told you that you’d get tired of me.”

You shook your head, not understanding why your eyes were suddenly burning, threatening to fill with tears. “I could never.”

A smile spread across Seungkwan’s face. “Well, then, great. Because I plan on keeping you as close as I can.”

A lump formed in your throat, thick and suffocating. You wanted to throw your arms around his neck. You wanted to tell him that you were terrified, but that you wanted him to stay close to you more than you wanted to breathe. That you wanted to close the distance between you right at that moment.

But then, your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, and you flinched as if you’d been burned, the spell cast over you shattering.

Once again, you knew exactly who it was without even looking. Youngjae had texted you ten minutes ago to say he was waiting two blocks down, parked near the pharmacy to reduce the possibility of someone known see his car.

The ugly reality of your secret life came crashing down, entirely ruining the beautiful thing Seungkwan was offering you. You were still trapped in the dark, and you couldn’t drag him down into it with you.

You gently, painfully pulled your wrist out of his grip. “I have to go,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “My ride is here.”

Seungkwan’s jaw tightened again. He looked down the street, toward the dark corner where he knew, and you knew, Youngjae was hiding. The disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He just took a slow step back, giving you space.

“Right,” Seungkwan grumbled, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth it held seconds ago. “Have a good night, Y/N.”

You couldn’t leave him like this. Not on his birthday. Not after he had just implicitly confessed to altering the entire trajectory of his life for you.

You stepped forward, closing the distance he had just created. You placed your hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He froze, his breath catching as you tipped your chin up.

“Happy Birthday, Kwan,” you whispered.

Before he could react, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the tip of his nose. It was an old habit, a childhood gesture of pure, unfiltered affection that you hadn’t used in more than a decade.

He sharply inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you.

But you didn’t give him the chance. You pulled away, abandoning the warmth of his orbit, and turned on your heel. You walked back into the restaurant to say goodbye to his members, leaving him standing alone beneath the flickering streetlamp. Then you slipped into the passenger seat of Youngjae’s waiting car and disappeared into the night.

PRESENT

You didn’t show up to work for the two days that followed the events in Seungkwan’s car.

Yesterday, you called Seungcheol, claiming a sudden, violent stomach bug. Today, it was a vague text about a “family emergency,” and Seungkwan knows exactly what the emergency is: you’re hiding from him.

He had sat in his idling car for five minutes that night, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, fighting the overwhelming urge to get out, walk to your door, pound on it, and demand answers to why you ran, what you were thinking, and how he could make you stop worrying.

But he didn’t. Seungkwan had promised himself he would never be the reason you felt cornered, so he stayed in the car a moment longer, than turned the wheel and drove away instead.

Now Seungkwan sits at the desk in Studio B, his hands resting flat against the cool surface as he stares at your empty chair, the digital clock on the monitor blinks relentlessly: 8:45 PM.

Normally, this was the time the tiny broadcast room would be vibrating with frantic, pre-show energy. You would be shuffling through your printed notes, chewing absently on the end of a blue ballpoint pen, and shooting him exasperated looks as he deliberately tried to distract you. The air would be filled with a comfortable banter.

Tonight, the silence is deafening.

He reaches across the console, his fingers brushing lightly over the tape marker that designates your microphone levels.

He misses you. He misses your laugh; he misses the way your eyes crinkle when he finally manages to catch you off guard. He spent twelve years running from his feelings, and now that he has finally stopped running, the object of his affection is sprinting in the opposite direction.

The soundproof door clicks open, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Hansol and Chan step into the studio, bringing a sudden wave of chaotic energy with them. Hansol looks entirely unfazed, a pair of oversized headphones resting around his neck and a half-empty iced matcha latte in his hand. Chan, on the other hand, looks like he’s walking to his own execution, clutching your production clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest.

“Hyung,” Chan starts immediately, his eyes wide with panic as he stares at the massive audio console. “I’m telling you right now, I don’t know what half of these buttons do. If I hit the wrong slider, are we going to accidentally broadcast submarine sonar across the entire island?”

“You’re not going to broadcast sonar, Chan,” Seungkwan sighs, rubbing his temples. “Just touch the faders Hansol marked with the green tape. Don’t touch the red ones. The red ones drop the delay.”

Chan shifts his weight, still staring nervously at Seungkwan. “What if I need to drop the delay?” he presses. “What if a caller starts swearing? What if someone confesses to a crime? Do I hit the red button then?”

Hansol claps a hand down on Chan’s shoulder, unfazed. “If someone confesses to a crime on a local romantic advice show, you let it ride, man. That’s just good ratings.” He shrugs. “Just breathe. You survived a blind date where you thought your organs were going to be harvested. You can survive pressing a plastic button.”

Chan visibly grimaces at the mention of the date, the very date that had been the catalyst for Seungkwan’s entire world tilting off its axis.

The solution Seungcheol had found for your absence was to put Chan in your place, with Hansol supervising him. Yesterday, Seungkwan had tried to manage on his own, but it was clear he didn’t really know what he was doing without you there, aside from talking nonstop, trying to hide that he was lost.

“You guys don’t have to do this,” Seungkwan says, finally looking up at them. His voice lacks its usual bright edge. “I can try run the boards myself again. Cheol hyung said it was fine if we just played an acoustic set for the second hour.”

Hansol takes a slow sip of his matcha, his observant eyes scanning Seungkwan’s face. Hansol is famously quiet, but he misses absolutely nothing. He’s seen the way Seungkwan has been pacing the halls like a caged animal for the past two days without you there, and Seungkwan knows he understands—without needing to ask—that something happened between the two of you, even if he chooses not to intrude.

“We’re doing it,” Hansol says smoothly, pulling out your chair and nudging Chan into it before taking a seat on the tiny sofa against the back wall.

“Hansol, we—”

Buy he shakes his head, raising a hand to make Seungkwan stop talking. “You look like you haven’t slept since Saturday,” Hansol says calmly. “If you try to run the boards and talk at the same time tonight, there’s a high chance of a catastrophe. Just focus on the mic. We’ve got the tech.”

Seungkwan offers a tight, grateful smile. He pulls his headphones over his ears just as the clock hits 09:00 PM.

Seungcheol taps at the glass, giving a thumbs-up, while Chan—holding his breath and looking absolutely terrified—slides the green-taped fader up. The familiar intro of Love on the Airwaves floods Seungkwan’s ears.

He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, channeling every ounce of his professional training to push the heartbreak down into his chest. He opens them again, leans into the microphone, and forces his smooth, charismatic radio voice to the surface.

“Good evening, Jeju,” Seungkwan purrs into the mic, though the usual playful lilt is tempered by a softer, more melancholic undertone. “Welcome to Love on Airwaves. It’s just me again tonight. Our lovely, brilliant producer and co-host, Y/N, is taking a well-deserved couple of days off. So you’re stuck with just my voice, and a very nervous Lee Chan running the boards behind me. Be gentle with him, folks.”

He pauses, letting the instrumental track swell for a few seconds. “It’s chilly tonight. The kind of night that makes you want to stay inside and think about the people you miss. The lines are open. Talk to me, Jeju.”

The first thirty minutes of the show are a blur of standard calls. A college student stressed about finals, a husband looking for anniversary gift ideas, a girl who can’t decide if she should text her ex. Seungkwan navigates them all with his usual empathy and wit, but it feels hollow.

He keeps instinctively turning his head to his right, waiting for you to chime in with a sarcastic remark or a grounded piece of advice, only to find Chan staring back at him in sheer terror.

“Alright, our next caller is on line four,” Seungkwan prompts, motioning to Chan.

He frantically presses the glowing yellow button. “Let’s welcome Yujin from Seogwipo,” Chan says clicking the mouse to patch the caller through. “Yujin, you’re on the air with Seungkwan.”

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I got through,” a youthful, slightly breathless voice crackles over the studio monitors. “Hi Seungkwan-ssi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thanks for tuning in, Yujin-ssi,” Seungkwan replies, his tone dripping with honeyed warmth. “What’s on your mind tonight? Is there a boy giving you headache?”

“Actually, I have more of a personal question to you Seungkwan-ssi,” Yujin says, her voice stabilizing.

“Oh? Ask away.”

“Well,” she begins, and there’s a slight pause. “You’re always giving us such amazing advice about love. But you’re so private about your own life! So my friends and I were debating, and we wanted to call in and ask the expert himself.”

Seungkwan feels a slight prickle of apprehension, and he sees Chan freeze, his hand hovering over the equalizer dials, waiting for Seungkwan to give him a signal to cut the call.

But Seungkwan just keeps his voice light. “Yeah?”

“What is your ideal type, Seungkwan-ssi? And don’t give me the standard PR answer about someone with a good heart. We want the details!”

The jazz music in the background suddenly feels very loud, and the timing is almost ironic. It feels like the universe is playing a trick on him. In the corner of the room, Hansol lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained. Chan looks between Seungkwan and the control board as if wondering which button he could press to save his ass.

It was a softball question. An easy and harmless prompt. The standard protocol was to describe a vague, generalized concept: someone who likes the same music, someone who enjoys long walks, someone kind. It was the answer he had given in a hundred different magazines and a thousand different interviews.

But as Seungkwan looks at your empty chair, at the blue pen abandoned on the desk, his media training completely vanishes. The exhaustion, the longing, and the absolute certainty of his feelings override his filter entirely.

“My ideal type,” Seungkwan repeats softly. The radio-host persona drops away, leaving his voice raw, deep, and devastatingly sincere.

He leans closer to the microphone.

“She’s… stubborn,” Seungkwan starts, his eyes fixed on the tape marker on the desk. “Incredibly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that makes you want to pull your hair out, but also makes you respect her more than anyone else in the world.”

Through the glass, Seungcheol sits up a little straighter. Hansol stops drinking his matcha, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realizes exactly what Seungkwan is doing.

He knew about Seungkwan’s feelings for you. He was the only person, besides Seungkwan himself, who knew. Now you’ll finally know too, or at least now you’d be sure, in case Seungkwan hadn’t made it so painfully obvious on Saturday night.

“She works too hard,” Seungkwan continues, his voice wrapping around the words with a tender reverence. “She’s super tough to the others, but really, she has the softest, most fiercely loyal heart I’ve ever encountered. When she’s stressed, she taps her foot against the table leg and clicks her pens.”

Over the line, Yujin and the room go completely silent.

“She smells like lavender,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes glazing over slightly as the memory of the car engulfs him, the heat of your skin, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his thumb. “She has this laugh she tries to hide behind her hand, but when it slips out, it’s the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. She’s brilliant. She’s so much brighter and more capable than she gives herself credit for. But sometimes… sometimes she forgets her own worth. Sometimes she lets people treat her like she’s ordinary, and it breaks my heart, because there is absolutely nothing ordinary about her.”

The studio is dead silent. Chan’s jaw has practically on the ground, his hand hovering frozen over the faders, his brain still trying to process that Seungkwan is, in fact, talking about you.

“Wow,” Yujin finally breathes over the line, her voice trembling slightly. The playful, gossipy tone is completely gone, replaced by something closer to awe. “Seungkwan-ssi… that doesn’t sound like a type. That sounds like a very specific person. You… you sound like you’re already in love.”

Seungkwan doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t try to backtrack, or laugh it off, or play it as a joke. He stares directly into the microphone, his heart completely exposed to the airwaves. “I am,” he confesses, the two words falling from his lips with staggering, undeniable weight.

Seungcheol stands on the other side of the glass, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes wide as his hands hover near his head in disbelief. Chan lets out a shocked grunt Seungkwan is certain has just gone out over the broadcast, and Hansol chuckles softly in his corner. Seungkwan already knows he’ll never hear the end of it once the dust settles.

“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids,” Seungkwan says, the emotion finally cracking in his voice, turning it thick and rough. “Since before I even knew what the word meant. I spent twelve years away, and I never—not for a single second—found anyone who could replace her. I came back here for her.”

He swallows hard, his fingers curling into tight fists on the desk.

“I think I pushed too hard recently,” he admits softly, not just to Yujin, but to the thousands of cars, kitchens, and lonely bedrooms tuned in across the island. “I think I scared her. I wanted so badly to pull her into the light that I didn’t realize how blinding it might be. But I just want her to know…”

Seungkwan leans in until his lips are nearly brushing the foam of the mic.

“I just want her to know that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how messy it gets. She is the only person I want. And I am just… I am really hoping she’s listening right now.”

He pulls back, his chest heaving slightly. Then he nods at Chan.

Chan, looking as though he had just witnessed a religious awakening, frantically pushes the fader up, cutting the call and flooding the airwaves with the slow, melancholic intro of a piano ballad.

Seungkwan rips his headphones off and buries his face in his hands, the adrenaline crashing out of his system, leaving him completely drained.

From the sofa, Hansol lets out a low, slow whistle. “Well,” he mutters, setting his matcha down. “If she wasn’t listening, half the island is definitely going to text her about it in the next five minutes. You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Seungkwan doesn’t answer. He just stares at the glowing dials of the soundboard, the echo of his own confession still ringing in his ears, praying to whatever universe is out there that somewhere, in the safety of your bedroom, you had heard him.

TWENTY YEARS AGO

It was early October, the magical pocket of time on Jeju Island when the humid heat finally broke, replaced by a cool, salty breeze that carried the sweet, earthy smell of impending autumn. The orange groves that defined Seungkwan’s neighborhood were heavy, the green fruit just beginning to tip into shades of sunset, preparing to blaze a golden-orange trail across the island.

But Seungkwan, at ten years old, was currently less interested in the cooperative biology of citrus and more interested in beating you to the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School.

“Slowpoke!” he yelled over his shoulder, his small legs pumping hard through the deep, black volcanic sand. His feet, caked in wet earth and salt, left flying arcs as he ran. “I’m going to get the best spot!”

You were ten paces behind him, gasping and laughing in equal measure. He always did this. He’d start the race before you even agreed to it. “Seungkwan, stop! We said we were just going to gather shells!”

“Winner decides the game!” he shouted back, and that was when disaster struck.

It happened in slow motion. The sand shifted beneath his feet, right where a small cluster of driftwood lay buried. He tripped. Hard. His center of gravity vanished, his body pitching forward, landing with a heavy thud right where the wet shore began.

The laughter died in your throat. “Seungkwan!” You scrambled toward him, your heart pounding.

When you reached him, he was sitting up, staring down at his knee with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. The fall had split the skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, the bright red of blood oozing through a coat of dark sand.

Then, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t just a cry; it was a full-blown dramatic event. He gasped for air, his face crumpling, a sound that started as a moan ascending into a loud, wet sob. He wailed. He howled.

“Shh, shh!” You panicked, throwing a glance back toward the street, convinced the entire village would think you were trying to kidnap him. “You’re okay! It just stings. You’re fine!”

He pointed at the knee, his finger shaking, but the only sound he could make was a high-pitched, stuttering breath. The tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with the sand, and he was getting so loud he couldn’t even hear you trying to comfort him.

You tried the logical approach. “Seungkwan, look! I’ll run to your aunt’s cafe. I’ll get a bandage. I’ll get a frozen yogurt! I’ll get two!”

He shook his head violently. He wouldn’t let you leave, and he wouldn’t stop screaming. The sound was slicing right through your nerves.

“Seungkwan, listen to me,” you said, getting closer. “Stop crying. Please.”

His mouth was still wide open, and he was inhaling for another monumental wail when you made an impulsive decision. A split-second, desperate choice to save both of your eardrums and your reputation as his responsible friend.

You grabbed his shoulders, leaned forward, and slammed your mouth over his.

The impact was clumsy. It was sandy, salt-stained, and a little wet. His nose was in the way, and your teeth clicked. But it worked.

His crying stopped instantly. The air rushed out of him in a stunned huff.

You pulled back quickly, your cheeks burning with an intensity that rivaled the mid-summer sun. You didn’t look at his knee. You stared straight at him.

His eyes were wide, round saucers. The tear tracks were still wet on his face, but his wailing was gone, replaced by a stunned, blinking silence. He was staring at you like you’d just manifested wings and turned into a seagull.

For what felt like a lifetime, the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves and the faint buzz of a passing Vespa on the road far behind you. The sand felt cold beneath your hands.

“You...” he started, his voice a whisper, the wail having vanished without a trace. “You just...”

You were blushing so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. You grabbed your shorts, jumped up, and immediately started dusting the sand off your knees, incapable of meeting his eyes.

“You were too loud,” you said quickly, your voice unusually high. “I didn’t know how to make you stop.” You pointed toward the main road. “I’m going to get that bandage. Stay here.”

And then you ran. You ran without looking back, away from the beach, away from the confused boy with the scraped knee and the silent stare.

That was the only time you ever spoke about it. When you returned with the bandage, he didn’t mention it. When you walked home, holding two frozen yogurts and not talking, you didn’t mention it. The moment became a shared secret, sweet memory tucked so deep into the closet of your friendship that you eventually convinced yourselves it never really happened.

PRESENT

The static from the radio filled the silence of your bedroom, a low, buzzing hum that mirrored the frantic noise in your own mind. You sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed for several minutes, phone clutched in your hands, its screen glowing with the digital dial of the radio station you had worked at for the last seven years of your life.

He had done it. He had actually done it.

Boo Seungkwan had just broadcasted his heart to the entire island of Jeju, stripping away every ounce of his private life to lay his soul bare on the airwaves. Every word he spoke had been a precise strike against the walls you had spent the last decade building.

A tear slipped free, hot and fast, tracing a path down your cheek before falling onto the screen of your phone. You had spent the last forty-eight hours drowning in guilt and confusion, suffocated by the reality of your secret, toxic relationship with Youngjae, and the terrifying, blinding light Seungkwan was offering.

But hearing his voice crack over the radio, hearing him publicly, fearlessly claim you in a way Youngjae never would, snapped something inside you. It was like waking up from a decade long fever dream. The paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden, desperate clarity.

You didn’t even bother changing out of your sweatpants. You grabbed your thickest coat, shoved your feet into your boots, and ran out the door.

The walk to his house was a blur of cobblestones and the erratic rhythm of your own heartbeat. When you reached the door, his mother told you he hadn’t come home yet, that he had called to say he’d be late.

Your chest tightened with a brief spike of panic before instinct took over. You knew exactly where he went when his mind grew too loud. It was the same place you went, too.

You park the car near the edge of the cliffside path and begin the steep descent toward the hidden cove behind the school.

The wind whips your hair across your face, carrying the biting scent of sea salt and freezing rain. As you reach the bottom of the path, moonlight breaks through the clouds, illuminating the jagged volcanic rocks that bordered the crashing ocean.

And there he is.

Seungkwan is sitting near the edge of the water, a solitary silhouette against the dark expanse of the sea. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Seeing him sitting on those exact rocks sends a violent jolt of memory straight through your system of the morning you said goodbye all those years ago.

You take a deep breath, the freezing air burning your lungs, and pick your way carefully across the uneven terrain. He doesn’t hear you approach over the roar of the waves until you are right beside him. You don’t even hesitate, sitting down on the cold stone next to him, close enough that your shoulders are nearly brushing.

Seungkwan jolts, his head snapping toward you. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed, catching the fractured moonlight. For a moment, he only stares at you, as though afraid you’re a mirage conjured by his own desperate mind.

You don’t let him say anything before you do. “You left.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of the ocean with absolute precision.

Seungkwan flinches as if he’s been physically struck. He opens his mouth, a panicked apology already forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand to stop him.

“Let me finish,” you plead, your voice trembling but resolute as you pull your legs close to your body and rest your chin on your knees. “Please.”

You look out at the churning black water, unable to meet his eyes yet. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him nodding for you to continue.

“You left. You got on a plane, and you became a star. And I need you to know… I understand that. I know you had a dream, and I know the industry is a meat grinder. I watched you on television, and I was so incredibly proud of you. I am proud because you listened to me, and you didn’t look back. You did everything you said you were going to do.”

You pause, swallowing hard against the tight knot forming in your throat. Right now. This is the moment when everything comes crashing down around you both. You just hope you can put it all back together afterward.

“But understanding it doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t speak to me for twelve years,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. You finally turn to look at him, letting him see the raw edges of your wound. “You didn’t just move away, Seungkwan. You completely erased me. You made me feel like the years of friendship meant absolutely nothing to you.”

Seungkwan closes his eyes, a tear escaping the corner of his lashes and tracking down his cold cheek. He bites his lip hard, forcing himself to listen, to take the hit he knows he deserves.

“I had whiplash from it,” you confess, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill. “I developed this horrible… this complex. I spent the rest of high school feeling completely disposable. If the person who knew me best, the person I loved most in the world, could just drop me without a second thought, then I must not be worth keeping.”

You let out a watery, self-deprecating laugh. “I was a ghost. I was so incredibly sad, Seungkwan. I didn’t start breathing again until I went to university in Busan and forced myself to become someone else, someone who didn’t care, someone who didn’t get attached.”

Someone who would settle for a man like Youngjae just because he promised he wouldn’t leave. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air between you, but you don’t need to say them. Seungkwan understands.

“And now you’re back,” you say, seeing that he wants to interrupt, but you can’t stop now. “And it’s like those twelve years never happened. Telling everyone I’m your favorite childhood friend, confessing and kissing me as if you never broke my heart. How am I supposed to react, Seungkwan?”

You shake your head, your lips pressing into a thin line as you fight to hold back more tears. You know he promised you he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’s was back for good. But that doesn’t lessen the fear you felt that night he kissed, much less erase the twelve years of radio silence.

“You can’t blame me for being afraid that one day you’ll wake up and decide that being here isn’t enough again. Because this time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive being without you.”

“Y/N,” Seungkwan whispers, his voice shattering on your name.

He shifts, turning his entire body toward you. He reaches out, his hands trembling violently as they hover over yours, terrified to touch you, terrified you’ll run away again. Everything makes sense to him now. He understands it all with painful clarity, he sees that you weren’t running from him, or rejecting his feelings for you; you were just scared.

“I am so sorry,” he chokes out, the devastation in his eyes making your breath hitch. “I am so, so desperately sorry for what I put you through. You were never disposable. You were the only thing that kept me sane.”

“Then why did you stop calling?” you ask, the question that has haunted you for a decade finally tumbling free. “Why did you cut me off?”

Seungkwan lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “When I first debuted, the attention was… completely unmanageable. The sasaengs were relentless. They hacked our phones within the first three months. The company did a sweep of all our personal belongings, our contacts, everything, to see where our vulnerabilities were.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a worn, dark leather wallet. His fingers are stiff from the cold as he flips it open.

“They found this,” he says quietly, holding the wallet out toward you.

Tucked into the clear plastic window, its edges frayed and its colors slightly faded, is a photo strip. It’s the two of you in a cheap photo booth at the Jeju summer festival. You’re laughing, your head thrown back, while a fifteen-year-old Seungkwan looks at you with an expression of such pure, unguarded adoration that it makes your heart stop.

“I carried it with me everywhere,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the photograph. “It was my anchor. But when the management team found it, they panicked. They thought you were my secret girlfriend. They told me that if the fans found out who you were, they’d destroy your life.”

You stare at the photo, your vision blurring with a fresh wave of tears. He hadn’t forgotten you. He had been carrying you in his pocket across every continent, for twelve years.

“They gave me an ultimatum,” Seungkwan went on, his voice hardening with residual anger. “Cut all contact, change my number, and pretend you didn’t exist, or they would pull me from the debut lineup. They told me it was the only way to protect you.”

He looks up from the wallet, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“I was a terrified kid,” he confesses, the guilt heavy and absolute in his voice. “I believed them. I thought breaking my own heart was the price I had to pay to keep you safe. But I was wrong.”

He reaches out then, his warm hands finally closing over your freezing ones and drawing them into his lap.

“I should have fought for you,” he says, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “I should have fought the company. I should have found a way. I spent a decade completely miserable because I was too much of a coward to demand the one thing I actually wanted. I let you think you didn’t matter to me, and that is the greatest failure of my life.”

The silence returns, but this time it isn’t a chasm. The resentment and anger you’ve carried for so long simply dissolve, washed away by the crushing weight of his confession. He hadn’t abandoned you. He had martyred himself.

You look down at his hands holding yours, the warmth seeping through your skin and thawing the ice that has encased your heart for years.

“I called Youngjae,” you say suddenly.

The words are abrupt, instantly shifting the atmosphere. Seungkwan stops his movements for a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth before darting back up to your face, terrified of what’s coming next.

“I called him from the car on the way here,” you explain, your voice steady now, carrying an absolute, undeniable certainty. “I broke up with him.”

Seungkwan’s grip on your hands tightens slightly, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. “Y/N…”

“I told him I couldn’t do it anymore.” A profound weight lifting from your chest with every word. Your breath turns to white mist in the cold air. “I told him I was done hiding in his shadow. I told him I deserved better.”

You pull your hands from Seungkwan’s grip, but only so you can reach up. You frame his face with your palms, thumbs gently wiping away the dampness on his cheeks. His skin is freezing, but his eyes burn with a desperate, wild hope.

“And I told him,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads rest together, “that it has always been you. Even when I was furious with you. Even when I hated you. It was always you, Seungkwan.”

A ragged, beautiful sound escapes Seungkwan’s throat, a cross between a sob and a laugh. The tension that has been holding him together for weeks finally snaps.

His hands fly up to grip your waist, entirely abandoning restraint as he pulls you off the cold stone and practically onto his lap. “Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, your name completely saturated with devotion.

When he kisses you this time, it isn’t the frantic, hot and overwhelming collision of the car. It’s a homecoming. A deliberate, agonizingly slow sealing of a promise.

His lips are soft, warm, tasting of salt and absolute relief. He kisses you like he’s trying to pour eleven years of unspoken love directly into your veins, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you against him, as though you are the only thing tethering him to the earth.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you, melting entirely into the embrace. The cold wind, the crashing ocean, the messy reality of the radio station, and the fallout that will inevitably come tomorrow, all of it fades into insignificance.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your faces flushed despite the freezing temperature. Seungkwan keeps his arms locked securely around your waist, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. He lets out a long, heavy exhale, burying his face in your coat.

“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmurs against your skin. “I don’t care who finds out. We’re doing this. We’re doing it in the light.”

You close your eyes, resting your cheek against the top of his head, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest. For the first time in a decade, the phantom ache of abandonment is entirely gone.

“I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know we are.”

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You reminded yourself that you’d been lucky to get anywhere at the last minute, as you stood at the end of the narrow gravel path, suitcase handle biting into your palm, the late afternoon sun in your eyes. The cottage– your cottage, for the next three months– will simply have to do.

The photos of the cottage had been lovely. There was a whimsical charm to it. The window frames had been a soft, pale blue in the picture, but the paint is all peeling away now. Maybe it just looked worse because of the rain, but you can’t help but feel hard done by. 

Four books in, you’d thought you’d have learned better than to romanticise the setting, but every place just exceeded your expectations. First, the little flat in Glasgow– very strange, probably haunted, and the lock stuck so often you started leaving the kitchen window unlatched whenever you left, but it did wonders for your creativity. The lakehouse in Bavaria in September, filled with natural light and surrounded by nature. The chalet in northern Italy over Christmas and New Years, a skiers paradise. All of them were wonderful, in their own (sometimes imperfect) ways. 

And now here, in this sleepy beach town in the arse end of nowhere, that took nine hours on three trains and another forty-five minutes via a bus that runs twice a week to get to, you’re really really trying not to feel defeated before you’ve even started. What it’s really about, you try in a pathetic attempt to convince yourself, is the system. The system can work anywhere, right?

The System

Find short term rental

Get part time job

Eat, drink, and shop independent

Get involved in community

Listen to radio/read local paper

Write

You’d dragged the suitcase up the path and the wheels kept catching on uneven stones. You realised, rather quickly, that hidden amongst the overgrown grass and weeds were many decorative frogs, even more of them greeted you at the door. Loads and loads of frogs staring at you with their massive eyes. Ceramic, metal, plastic, stone, some on toadstools, some with umbrellas– one particularly odd one wearing wellington boots that surely wouldn’t fit his wide, webbed feet– just fuckloads of frogs. Some of them weren’t even green. These certainly weren’t in the photographs, but okay, you supposed it’s nice your landlord has a hobby. God, what if he’s some kind of sick frog pervert?

Somewhere nearby, wind chimes made a soft, tinkling sound and you looked around for it, and oh yes– it’s another one, swinging around in the wind on a lilypad. It’s somewhat disconcerting that there’s so many, frankly, and you hoped the cottage was not quite so full of amphibians inside. There was, however, a note taped to the door, its ink bleeding down the paper. 

Key under frog. - Vernon

Oh for fucks sake– which bastard one?! You huffed, rain running down your temple, before you squatted on the floor and began turning them over. A few minutes went by, and then you were in the grass, fairly positive you were being bitten by ants. You were so close to sacking the whole thing off and going to buy some cigarettes before killing yourself in front of all the fucking frogs, but your fantasies were interrupted by someone saying– “Excuse me… hi down there… hello?”

You looked up to find an amused, slightly alarmed man peering over the fence separating your garden and what is, presumably, his. You had your hand clasped around a frog wearing a top-hat and a monocle, and your suede Prada boots had mud all over the heel. He was wearing a purple and turquoise shellsuit with the hood up, headphones looped around his neck, connected to a Discman that only half fit in the pocket of his jacket.

“Is everything alright?” he said. “I heard a concerning amount of swear words.”

“Uhhh,” you replied stiffly, pushing the rain off your forehead with the back of your hand. “Do I look alright?”

There’s a pause where he took in the scene– your suitcase abandoned at the door, your trench coat dipping into the mud, the growing cluster of overturned frogs around you.

“I’d say… committed.” His lips twitched. Wanker. “I’m Jeonghan.”

You offer your name too, before he said, “you must be the author?”

You blinked at him in surprise. 

“How do you know that?”

Jeonghan smiled like an angel. “Vernon told someone who told someone who told someone else. I heard it from Minghao at HMV. News travels fast here.”

You suppress an eyeroll. “Of course it does.”

“I’m guessing we'll be neighbours for a week or two?”

“Three months, actually. If I ever get inside.” You let out a bitter laugh. 

“Right, yeah,” he said. “Did you try the one with the sombrero?” 

Your spine straightened as your eyes darted around, and there you found it, sitting at the base of a sad-looking hydrangea bush. “That one?” you ask, pointing toward it.

He nodded. You walked over and pushed the bloody thing over with your toe to find the key gleaming at you from the floor. You plucked it from the mud and held it up for Jeonghan to see. 

“There we are,” he said happily, as if the whole thing had been the making of a charming anecdote rather than an early warning sign.

“Thank you. Seriously. I was five minutes away from throwing a frog through the window.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Do you know the owner?” you called over your shoulder as you made for the door. “Vernon?”

“Oh he’s not the owner. He’s just running the place,” said Jeonghan airily. There’s a long pause while you jiggle the key in the lock. “Between you and I he’s a little new to this.” 

“You don’t say,” you grumbled under your breath before finally the lock clicked, and you let out a heavy sigh. 

“Well, I’ll see you around. Feel free to knock if you need anything.” 

“Yeah, you too,” you said quickly, dragging your suitcase over the threshold, even though you have nothing of note he could use. That is, unless he has a sudden, dire need for nicotine patches or peach schnapps. The door closed with a thump, and you were alone again at last. You turned to see what horrors awaited you, wet clothes sticking unpleasantly to your skin. Outside, it stopped raining.

21 June 1998

Cigarettes smoked: 0 Times wanted cigarette: 13 (better) Cups of coffee: 7 (shaking) Alcohol units: 10.5 Words written: 401 (mostly shit) Local people met: alarming amount Local people who somehow already know who you are: as before Times called into Wave FM: 1 Times considered throwing radio into ocean: 4

8.58 a.m. Horrid start to the day. A seagull decided your bedroom window was the perfect place for serenading his lovely seagull wife, at five fucking a.m. and that clearly set the tone for the rest of the morning. The seagulls here are not your regular seagulls. No… these are enormous prehistoric bastards that screech like how (one could imagine) medieval children would upon seeing a Tamagotchi for the first time. 

The inside of your temporary home is, thankfully, frogless, and impeccably clean. It could do with updating, as the decor clearly hadn’t been touched since the seventies, but it’s nothing to complain about. You figured this would help get you in the mood for writing. You could see your main characters, Michael and Carrie, so clearly. Perhaps they’d have a little home like this somewhere in their future, too.

Turned on the radio and quickly figured out that the only station you get a decent signal from is Wave FM, and this morning’s segment was clearly set aside for some kind of goofy, call-in improv show. You clicked it off. 

Anyway, you’d tried to save your sour mood by making a cup of coffee and sitting at the desk in the office, overlooking the gorgeous view of the open ocean, but could you write? Not even a sentence! Pathetic. You are a bad writer. A cretin. An uncreative sham. 

At a little before nine, you decided to call your agent, Jihoon, who would surely have nothing but praise and admiration to shower upon you in your time of emotional distress.

“It’s the crack of dawn,” he said, when he picked up on your second try.

“It’s eight-thirty se–” you managed to get out before Jihoon hung up.

11.46 a.m. Jihoon picked up again on the fifth try at nine-fifty two and promptly told you to pull your head out of your arsehole and get a grip, because it hasn’t even been one full day. 

“I don’t want to hear from you for at least two weeks,” he said blithely. You heard the loud clack of his keyboard in the background. “You’re insufferable until you get some words on a page.”

“But Jihoon–”

“Leave. Me. Alone.” 

Jihoon is often like this, and you suspect he’s taking on too much work again. He is the best literary agent you’ve ever known. Everyone wants him and his off-putting personality. He’s who got you your five-book deal with Penguin. He’s the one who negotiated your six-figure advance. He’s the one who’s in castings this week with the BBC– finding the perfect Harry for the adaptation of your second novel, Giving Up Ghosts. 

“What if–”

“What if nothing!” he snapped. “Leave me out of it until you’re four chapters in. Go fuck someone and cry about your dwindling talent to them instead of harping on at me.”

“You’re a sack of shit, Jihoon. You’re an emotionless spoon. Did you know th– Jihoon? Jihoon? Fuck!”

He’d hung up again. 

This is how you found yourself in a cafe on the seafront, sipping at your fourth cup of coffee of the day. It was fairly busy for a Monday morning, though most people were popping in for a to-go drink– only you and a few elderly women occupying the tables. The hustle and bustle of it was nice enough, though the radio was somewhat distracting. Instead of what you’d hoped would be relaxing music played low over the speakers, you’ve instead got a constant too-loud slew of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains. Your ex boyfriend would consider this heaven. You, however, hope for background music more conducive to writing your 1970’s summer romance this evening.

You made scribbles in your notebook while you watched a little sailboat bobbing around in the waves in the distance. Summer, 1974. Michael (extroverted, bright, exciting, selfish, emotional coward) the up and coming actor, and Carrie (kind, brave, impatient, brash, judgemental) who runs the family-owned record store. 

That’s as far as you got by the time you heard your name being called from beside the counter. You twisted your neck to be greeted by Jeonghan, and a man whose eyes were slightly bugging out of his head. 

“Oh my God, it’s her,” the bug eyed man said. 

“Hel-lo neighbour!” said a gleeful Jeonghan, as he pulled up a chair. The other one hovered behind and waited until you raised your eyebrows expectantly at the chair in front of him. In for a penny and all that. “You didn’t tell me you were famous.”

Are you famous? Sure, Giving Up Ghosts was by all accounts a bestseller, but that doesn’t exactly make you a household name as of yet. Certainly not with the typical male demographic. 

“Oh, I’m not fam–” you started, before you were interrupted by a disbelieving laugh.

“You so are!” said the other one. He had the aura of a hamster on speed. 

“This is Soonyoung,” said Jeonghan, leaning back in his chair.

“I’ve read everything you’ve written!” exclaimed Soonyoung, which you suppose would be more impressive if you had more than four books on the shelves. “Last month we found your short stories from your uni newspaper. Incredible, by the way.”

Good Lord.

“We?” 

“My book club!” said Soonyoung, patting his hands on the table like he was playing the bongos really, really fast. The vibration of it sent your latte sloshing over the rim of your mug. “I can’t wait to tell everyone, they’re going to lose their fucking m–”

This is the last thing you need actually. Thankfully Jeonghan, who might not be a wanker after all, seemed to be gifted in the mind-reading department (i.e. your bewildered, frankly terrified expression and an inability to speak) and came to your rescue. 

“I think she might want to fly under the radar, Soonyoung,” he said, winking at you conspiratorially. “Why else would she come here, of all places?”

“Right, of course, durr!” said Soonyoung, wiggling his head in a sort of ditsy ‘oh silly me!’ way. And then he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “But can you tell me one thing? Is it true Colin Firth will be playing Harry?”

Your insides might’ve actually flipped over. Who is this guy who knows where to find your old short stories, and who’s in talks to play the main characters? 

Jihoon would tell you under threat of murder not to say a word. Your editor and most favourite person in the world, Jihyo, would waggle her eyebrows and tell you that avoidance creates intrigue. 

“I couldn’t possibly say,” you told him with a half smile, and tapped your nose. Soonyoung actually squealed. 

Jihoon could suck it.

2.03 p.m. You went to HMV mostly in the name of research, but got somewhat distracted by the tall, hot one with painted nails and long hair in a half-pony, restocking the M through P of the rock section. He looked somewhat grumpy every time someone talked to him, but it kind of made him more attractive. At one point, he caught you looking while you were fake-browsing the Oasis posters (Liam Gallagher sneering at you in black and white) and you thought you saw his lips twitch into an almost smile when he looked back down. 

The romantic in you thought moonily about your characters and that maybe this could be how they meet. Michael, in preparation for a role, seeks out Carrie in the record store, and their summer is taken over by kissing and light petting in the storeroom. Mmm. 

“Can I help you?” said tall, hot one when you drifted a little closer.

“Mmm,” you said, as eloquently as one can when they’re daydreaming about fictional people fucking. 

Tall, hot one stared at you. “Sorry?”

“Oh,” you said, eyes flicking to the name badge pinned to the pocket of his baggy shirt. Minghao. Oh bloody hell, it’s Jeonghan’s… friend? Acquaintance? Colleague? “Sorry. Just– uh… thinking about… uh. Stuff.”

“Riiight,” said Minghao, turning back to his stack of CDs, clearly thinking you were some kind of imbecile.

“I’m writing a book!” you blurted out, and he turned back toward you, looking at you in some kind of bemused way. You cleared your throat. “Sorry. I mean– I’m doing research.”

“You’re the author?” he asked, head tilted. He was very soft spoken, and paired with that mullet ponytail thing he’s got going on, and his rolled shirt sleeves, and his full lips, it was all rather unnervingly attractive.

“Hah, yeah, that’s me!” you said much too cheerily, immediately being slapped in the face with a wave of self-loathing. “Why does everyone already know that?”

Minghao just shrugged. “Everyone knows everyone around here. The book club haven’t stopped talking about you.”

“Yeah, I met Soonyoung earlier.”

“Surprised you got out alive,” he murmured. 

You laughed. “That bad?”

“He’s enthusiastic,” Minghao said diplomatically. When you raised an eyebrow, he added, “when he heard you were coming he cornered me in the supermarket to explain your narrative voice.”

“Oh no.”

“He used the phrase raw and sexual character study while I was trying to buy bananas.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Minghao huffed out a laugh through his nose, still focused on slotting CDs into the racks. His hands were nice. Which feels like a deeply strange thing to notice about someone, but there you were. Long fingers. Silver rings. Black nail polish, chipped.

“Is that what you write about?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Sex?”

You drifted away from the section he was organising, pretending to browse the Ls while very aware of his eyes following you. Was this flirting in practice? You haven’t been flirted with in approximately a billion years, unless you count the slimy man from the number 51 bus back home, which no one with any sense would. 

“I write about people and their chemistry,” you said pointedly, then tacking on– “sometimes they have sex.”

There was a moment of quiet while he resumed organising the CDs. You briefly wondered if you were imagining a spark.

“What are you looking for?” 

“Inspiration, mostly.” 

“What kind?”

“Hmm,” you mused, flicking from Led Zeppelin to Leonard Cohen. “Polar opposites that start out hating each other end up falling in love, somehow.”

“Ah,” he said. “Can’t help you there.”

You glanced at him, the flat line of his mouth. “No music in this whole shop for that?”

His hands dropped to his sides. “Not in a way where it’d work out.”

“Ah,” you said, amused. “You’re a sceptic.”

The corner of Minghao’s mouth curled into a smile. “I’m a realist.”

You laughed, and asked if there’s anywhere else in this little town you could find inspiration, a small fire of hope in your chest that he’d say his bedroom or something equally suggestive. No such luck.

“There’s a party next week,” he said, casually. “You should come.”

You grimaced internally. You don’t really do parties, instead preferring to spend your social time with your friends at brunch, or in wine bars with low music and warm lighting, reserving your late nights for yourself and writing until the small hours. Still, there was Minghao, looking at you like he might be a little attracted to you too. 

“With you?” 

A flicker of amusement played on his face. “Well, it’s at my place,” he explained, before digging in his back pocket and pulling out a mobile telephone. “I’ll text you the address. What’s your number?”

“Oh. I don’t have–” You stopped to open your bag to find your notepad and a pen. “Here,” you said, thrusting them at him. “Write it down.”

7.23 p.m. After meeting Minghao you were accosted by four other townspeople in the bookshop– two of whom belonged to the infamous book club, one who ran the aforementioned bookshop, and another one, who clearly had no idea who you were but wanted to be part of the drama. You only went in to see if they sold your books (they did) but you ended up being dragged into a thirty minute debate about whether publishing is a dying industry, with the new wave of technology taking over the world. (Dear God, you hope not.)

You almost bought cigarettes on your way back home, but instead settled for a to-go coffee with two sugars to take the edge off. You weren’t sure it helped but the buzzing in your veins was quite nice. This is probably what a small percentage of what crack might feel like. 

At five-fifteen you emailed Jihoon from your desk. 

Should I buy a mobile telephone? Do you have one? Can I have the number? x Best, your favourite client 

He emailed back only a forty minutes later with this:

No you shouldn’t and no you can’t. There is no universe in which you should be able to contact me at all hours of the day. Lee Jihoon PS: how many words did you write today?

6000 ish. x PS: please can I have your number? What if I have an urgent question about the BBC meetings? 

Attagirl. Lee Jihoon PS: no. Call my assistant.

Prick x PS: I lied. I only wrote 42 words and they’re all crap.

9.34 p.m. Thoroughly exhausted with day. Peach schnapps is very good and delicious, on a second glass already. The radio, however, is shit. No CDs in the house at all– you must buy some from Minghao and at same time arrange rendezvous in which you are fucked in the storage cupboard. 

Okay. Okay! Must write now. 

11.31 p.m. Have written next to nothing. Schnapps almost gone. Very sad. Radio is blasting unce unce unce and lyrics have nothing of substance. ‘Exploration of space!’ repeatedly announced over a distracting beat and it makes no sense, even metaphorically. The DJ of the late night show called himself The 8, and said really pretentious shit like “that really spoke to me, man.”

How does ‘Shouting lager, lager, lager, lager. Mega, mega white thing. Mega, mega white thing’ speak to anyone, exactly? 

You tried switching it off, but being completely alone with your (negative) thoughts ended up being worse than actually listening to a hundred variations of the same song, so at some point, when The 8 was taking song requests, you carried the radio downstairs, and called in from the telephone attached to the kitchen wall. 

The conversation did not go well. 

“Caller number four, you’re on air on Wave FM,” came the host's voice, echoing with a slight delay on your radio, abandoned on the stairs. “What’s your name and what song would you like tonight?”

“Ca–” you started, interrupted by a loud hiccup. “Can you play Dreams by Fleetwood Mac?”

“Ah–” he said, the sound of tinkling laughter from the team in the background. “It’s not that kind of show. Can I tempt you with something from this decade?”

There was a teasing lilt to his tone that you did not, after four glasses of schnapps, appreciate. 

“Y–” Hiccup. “Certainly cannot. What’s wrong with Fleetwood Mac?”

There was a long pause. “Nothing,” said The 8. “It’s just not exactly dance hour material.”

“Well maybe dance hour shouldn’t last four consecutive hours,” you snapped, leaning against the kitchen counter with the phone cord stretched taut across your stomach. “Have you considered that?”

A laugh crackled somewhere in the background.

“Wow,” said The 8. “Coming in hostile.”

“I’m just saying, this town deserves more variety.”

“What, because you don’t like it?”

“Because the average age of the population here is at least fifty-three,” you informed him. “Who exactly is this for?”

“The people craving fun, people with taste, people who want to da–”

“At eleven-thirty on a weekday?” you interrupted. “People want to relax with a glass of wine or two while they read or… or sew, or paint, or–”

“Have you thought about just going to bed? You sound like my grandmother.”

“Y–” You scoffed and hiccuped at the same time. “You sound incredibly judgemental.”

“Yep.”

You knocked back the last dregs of your drink and blurted– “I’m just saying perhaps four straight hours of men aggressively shouting over what sounds like a microwave exploding is excessive.”

More laughter in the background.

The 8 sighed dramatically into the microphone. “Why are you even listening if you hate the whole genre?”

“I like background music and this is the only station that gets a signal here.”

“So put on a CD, what’s the issue?”

You pause for a moment. “I don’t have any.” 

“Well,” said The 8, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Might I recommend a shop in town, you’ll know it as HMV.”

Heat climbed up your neck as you were unable to find a witty response in your alcohol-fogged head. Three seconds went by, then four, then five– then The 8 cheerfully said– “Thanks for the chat, caller number four. Make sure to drink a lot of water before you go to sleep, it’ll help with that hangover in the morning.”

When the line went dead, you heard a round of laughter from the radio. The 8 took another caller, Mingyu, who asked for The Prodigy’s Firestarter, for which The 8 gleefully obliged. For the next thirty minutes, he played songs with aggressive male vocalists and wondered aloud if you were filing a complaint yet. 

What a twat. 

22 June 1998

Cigarettes smoked: 0 Times wanted cigarette: 103 Cups of coffee: 8 (have developed addiction, maybe?) Alcohol units: -4 (estimate, based on amount of vomit) Words written: 19 Local people met: 0 (thank God) Minutes spent listening to radio in search of good hosts: 173 Good hosts found: 1, but it was her last day. Very disappointed but pleased she has clearly got a better job. 

07.04 a.m. Ugh. 

08.17 a.m. UGHHHHHHH.

12.01 p.m. Head has not stopped pounding. This is why they say not to drink on an empty stomach. 

01.29 p.m. After another thirty minutes of trying to write with grunge music playing in the background, you briefly considered going to buy out all of HMV, but one look in the bathroom mirror put a stop to that plan. You cannot see anyone while you look like that. Instead, you slunk back to your desk, tuned the radio to static, and wrote half a sentence before promptly deleting it. 

10.25 p.m. You tried every other station again tonight out of spite, but after a few seconds they all dissolved into static, religious broadcasts, or what sounded alarmingly like maritime emergency frequencies. Wave FM remains the only station that comes through clearly in the cottage. You expect this is Vernon’s fault somehow, and resolve to write it in a feedback letter at the end of your stay. 

Tonight’s theme for The 8’s show appears to be Men Having An Emotionally Difficult Time In Warehouses.

You tried writing through it. Honestly. You sat at your desk with a cup of decaffeinated tea (in effort to stop the terrifying slide into addiction) and your notebook open to a fresh page while somebody sang poorly and incomprehensibly over what you suspect to be the baseline from the Holby City intro. Every now and then The 8 would come back on air to say something like “what a vibe.”

“Whatcha doing, Bunny.” Minseo’s voice was a whisper, but carried that familiar, bright spark that usually cured your boredom at work when she showed up to check on you since she worked one floor down in marketing.

“I’m just finishing the filing, Min.” you replied, giving her a small, practiced smile. “Mr. Wong said if I get these done by five, I might be able to leave on time. Today is family dinner.”

“Ah, family dinner.” Minseo gave you a sympathetic smile, she knew you didn’t look forward to it. “Mr. Wong needs to learn to do that himself and you need to breathe a little. Look at this.” she leaned against the cubicle wall sliding with a smile, a bright orange piece of paper to you.  

You glanced down. It was a flyer for Light a Flame Studios. Announcement of auditions. The bold big letters staring at you, it was tempting definitely.

“Min, we’ve talked about this,” you sighed, your voice dropping as a senior partner walked past, giving you their usual glare. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m way too old. My mom is already asking when I’m going to make junior associate, she’s like ‘Jiyeon was already managing her own team at your age’”

“And Jiyeon is Jiyeon,” Minseo said, her expression softening but her tone was serious “Bunny, you stay up watching choreography videos until two in the morning. You tap your feet under the tabl every time a song that you know the choreo comes on the radio. Look, is just one hour, Y/n. You can have fun and just being my duo, if you don’t want to be part of the team fine. Also, Mingyu is there, he’s a good emotional support golden retriever.”

You looked at the flyer, then at the stack of files. The comparison your mother had made this morning over the phone still on your mind. “your sister had her own office by her second year working in the firm, Y/n.” You knew it was meant to be motivation, but it felt like expectation to do, and emphasis on something you must be doing wrong.

“One hour?” you asked softly. Knowing it will be more like going to help Minseo, softened the guilt and doubt of you doing something you’re not supposed to do.

Minseo grinned, the one she used when she won. “Sure, one hour. I’ll pick you up Saturday.” With an eager little jump, she winked at you before leaving.

It was exciting, yes. But frightening too, you did love to dance with all your heart.

Music was part of you.

But you studied Law, mostly or mainly because that was what they expected from you, what your mother wanted from you. To follow your sister’s steps, to have a career that gave you the status to live “fully” to have a life without worries, with a good income and something to be proud of.

You did what it was expected from you. That meant leaving behind what you wanted, what you dreamed and who you truly are.

But someday it’ll be worth it. You hope so.

As you walked toward the bus stop, you let your mind drift to the dinner waiting for you at home. You caught a window seat, leaned your head against the glass and you found yourself stifling a laugh at the situation happening by the sidewalk.

A guy in a bright black and orange hoodie had collided full and hard with another guy. The sidewalk was a total disaster. You watched the papers fall all over the place. No, they flew into the air in slow motion, scattering everywhere like neon yellow confetti. It looked like a scene from a movie and you almost expected to see visible sparks between them as you held back your laughter. You watched the orange-hoodie guy frantically gathering his papers while profusely bowing and apologizing to the man in the black jacket, who luckily, had opted to be a good one and help the poor clumsy soul to pick up the mess.

At one point he lifted his gaze and it went directly to you, it send shivers and heat up from your neck to your cheeks, why? You had no idea. So, you tried to smile, you don’t know if you even did. You found the guy endearingly cute.

Those few seconds were enough to remember those eyes, the clumsy orange guy and the way he looked trying to pick up all his flyers from the sidewalk.

Home sweet home.

The silence of your apartment was the sanctuary you craved. Your mother had spent months pushing you to find a roommate or move back home, but you stood your ground for once. You loved her—mostly— but you didn’t need a roommate treating your kitchen like a dumping ground or gaslighting you with payments. You had learned to value your independence, even if it meant cut small privileges from your paycheck.

Hunger eventually drove you to the kitchen. But as you pulled your leftovers from the fridge, your hands suddenly turned to butter and the container you had been salivating over since 6:00 PM slipped, landing with a wet thud on the floor.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed. With a heavy sigh, you dropped to your knees. “That’s what I get for laughing at the guy on the sidewalk.”

To drown out your own annoyed muttering, you clicked on the radio. The energetic voice of the radio host, Seokmin, filled the room. He was reading a letter from “Messy Caller” who had wrote to him that he was so distracted by his crush that he was walking into walls and losing his notes.

You felt a little less dumb.

“Oh, don’t worry, Messy Caller!” the host laughed making you smile, his laughter always so contagious. That’s why his segment has been the best one the radio station had. “Our tech over here had a similar situation today. You are not the only menace in this city. Isn’t that right, Tech-nim?” A muffled sound followed— unmistakable sound of someone kicking a desk in protest, you chuckled at that. Seokmin had been recently giving his colleagues a hard time finding ways to tease them. “Anyway, my friend here wanted me to announce that his studio, ‘Light a Flame,’ is holding open auditions for a new performance crew next Saturday at 11:00 AM. If you want to stop being distracted and start moving, you know where to go.”

Light a Flame.

You had already said yes to Minseo, but still brought you a tiny bit of doubt. You were excited a little, but doubting.

It felt like a lifetime ago that you were that girl who moved to every beat— the girl praised by Miss Jung for having a heart meant for the arts.

“Mrs. Park, your daughter has so much talent,” Miss Jung had once told your mother.

“Oh, yeah she is, but most importantly, she’s getting good grades, right?” was the only response your mother had offered. Always focused on what was important to her, success.

Miss Jung realized that as time went on, she knew this would have an effect on you and she’d hate herself if she didn’t say anything to you. If she could at least have some positive influence in your life, she’d try. That’s why her final words at graduation still lived in your heart.

“Don’t forget how colorful life can be. I know you’ll shine like a diamond, but I hope you’d shine doing what you love, and doing it for you. You are truly talented, don’t forget that peach.”

The contrast from the gray atmosphere of the law firm to the vibrant, echoing halls of Light a Flame Studios felt like you were stepping into a different dimension, oddly comfortable. The air here was warm, the prominent smell of wood floors and the fresh cleaner made everything a little less intimidating.

As you walked through the doors behind Minseo, the sound of the music pounding through the walls made your heart skip a beat. It was a physical sensation you hadn’t felt in months. It was nice.

“See? Better than the sound of a copy machine, right?” Minseo nudged you, leading you toward the registration table right outside the main practice room.

Groups of dancers were waiting around, either stretching in corners and marking out sequences with sharp, fluid movements, or resting since they had already danced their hearts out.

Mixed feelings filled your body. The feeling of being out of place, but also feeling like this is you. Everything starting to overwhelm you little by little.

There was also the sudden sharp feeling of self-consciousness. You were wearing your most carefree outfit on your closet, a pair of black oversized cargo pants, a white sweatshirt and cropped tank top underneath, your hair pulled back in a loose bun. You looked like yourself but more relaxed, yet you felt weirdly out of place but only a little.

“Minseo!”

A tall, very tall and wide, broad shoulder guy waved at both of you from across the room, it was Mingyu, Minseo’s brother. He had always felt like a brother you wished you had. Supportive, protective, loud, and a big puppy vibe

“Ah, you actually got her to come.” Mingyu grinned, he gave you a quick, one-armed hug. “I told Yeeun, Min would bring a ‘lawyer’ with talent. She’s excited.”

“Stop teasing her, Gyu.” Minseo hissed, though she was smiling after giving him a playful smack on his arm before he messed with her ponytail.

“I’m not teasing! I’ve seen you dance at family parties and with Min, Y/n. You’re better than half the people that came today.” Mingyu’s voice turning into a more encouraging tone. He looked at your outfit and grinned “This totally looks like you.”

“Right! See, I told you this looked good!” Minseo did a little jump. You were still doubting it a little, but if a professional dancer says it’s good, it might be.

“Mingyu look at everyone. They’re so young. I feel like I’m crashing a high school party.”

“We’re the same age Bunny, I don’t think that matters and honestly no one cares here, age is just a number. You either have the talent or not, we don’t really ask for specific age right now. What I don’t understand is how you put up with this kid.” Mingyu rolled her eyes a little after tugging on Minseo’s hair

“Stop it!” Minseo swat his hand away, “you act like you’re five and expect her to hang out with you instead.” She scoffed as both of you walked inside following Mingyu.

“Whatever, look Yeeun is in a mood today. She needs someone who actually knows how to move, so go and do whatever you have to do and be prepared. You guys start in fifteen minutes.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs already. You caught your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the studio and  you looked like you were seconds away from passing out.

It's just an hour, you told yourself, reaching up to tighten your ponytail. Just an hour to remember what it feels like to be myself.

“Come on, are you ready?” Minseo gave your shoulder a soft squeeze, already bouncing with exciment. She looked like a firework ready to go off.

“As ready as I’ll ever be to humiliate myself in front of professionals,” you muttered, though a small, stubborn spark of excitement was starting to take over instead of the fear and nervousness.

“that’s not going to happen.”

The two of you walked slowly into the practice room. The mirrors were covering the wall around the room, already making you feel exposed in every damn angle.

You spotted Mingyu at the end of the room, he was laughing as he was leaning down to talk to a woman who radiated a terrifying cool authority.

That had to be Yeeun. She looked like she owned the room, lean and sharp-eyed, with her dark hair pulled into a ponytail, it made her features even more prominent, even more intimidating. Yet the minute Mingyu said something to her, a smile appeared and her eyes softened. Oh, you could see something else in those sharp eyes. Fondness and just something sweet that only appeared when she looked back at Mingyu.

She was holding a clipboard like a weapon, yet her expression towards Mingyu was the sweetest, and you couldn’t help but wonder if there’s something going on, something you’re going to ask, or tease him about it probably.

“Alright, next duo!” Yeeun’s voice cut through your thoughts, “Look, I already know you have some rhythm in your veins Minseo, though I hope you’re better at memorizing than your brother.” She chuckled at Minseo’s grin and Mingyu’s pout holding a witty remark. “You however, I don’t know you but I don’t care if you’re a professional or just started yesterday. I’m looking for people who can actually feel the beat. You’re the lawyer gal, right?”

“I-I am, yes.”

“Right, Mingyu told me.” She hummed and sat down at the table where the rest of the judges, who you vaguely remember their names, Minghao and Jiah, were waiting for both of you. “I hope I do get what he promised.”

You swallowed hard, so you are about to find out if you actually fulfill the expectations Mingyu had sold Yeeun.

Damn.

With a long breath, you could only nod. This wasn’t you, and that was something that bothered you.

You’re confident, you’re very social person. God you’re in a law firm, despite of only being the coffee/copy intern, you had to deal with people, with CEO’s with lawyers that had god complex and you needed to charm them to work with the firm, or even to simply be polite and bring them their favorite drink from the coffee place around the corner.

Now, here you are, at a dancing studio, shitting yourself because a beautiful dancer has expectations of your dancing all sponsored by Kim Mingyu the guy who tripped over his feet back in middle school trying to get back at his sister because she wouldn’t let him play with you.

The door at the side of the studio swung open.

A guy walked in, and for a second, the air in the room seemed to get a little lighter. He had a presence that felt like a burst of energy. He was wearing a bright yellow beanie and a smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

“Sorry I’m late! Seokmin had a radio crisis—” He tripped over the edge of a floor mat before he managed to stabilize himself with an awkward grin.

“Fabulous arrival, Soonyoung,” Yeeun said, though her tone was surprisingly fond. She turned to the room. “So, this is Kwon Soonyoung. He’s the leader of SVT dance crew, try not to let his occasional clumsiness fool you.”

Soonyoung’s eyes were bright and curious. Mingyu had told him about Minseo giving dancing a go proudly, and insistin  there was someone else worth watching.

His gaze landed on you, feeling a strange, warm jolt— and a sudden recognition that made your breath catch the moment you saw him and that orange hoodie.

The guy from the sidewalk.

Soonyoung stood still, he had recognized you too, but from a whole other reason than the one you remember. His smile faltering into a look of genuine surprise, as if he’d just seen something he wasn’t expecting but was extremely happy about it.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Yeeun clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s do this. Music!”

Minseo squeezed your hand once before moving to her spot.

The music started and for the first few seconds, you were stiff. You could feel the weight of your mother’s voice on the back of your head. A dismissive tone she had used, “dancing, at your age? I mean, it’s good for a hobby I guess. It’s nothing serious of course.”

But then, the beat droppe and a familiar heat began to rise in your chest. You stopped thinking about the steps, the voice, even the faces that were about to judge your every move. You started feeling the music, the vibe and you moved.

Your body remembered what it was to feel alive again. And it showed, the way your shoulders moved with the beat, your arms doing everything they should, the sharp flick of your wrists, effortless flow that came from years of dancing on your own but feeling it all over your body.

At one point your hair tie gave up due to your energy and moves, your hair was now fully down, and you did not care. It moved with you, flowing freely, and that’s what it was, you being free. All of you.

Minseo had been watching you in the corner of her eye, and her own grin was growning. Both of you were in sync, moving together, same steps but each with their own flow. Still connected, still in perfect sync. She loved it.

The music stopped and both of you landed a step perfectly.

You didn’t notice the room going quiet, yet. You didn’t notice Mingyu leaning against the wall with a proud, “I knew it.” grin and  then turning to Yeeun, kneeling next to her to whisper something. You didn’t notice the way she already had her own grin while looking at you both. And you certainly didn’t notice Soonyoung, who had his jaw slightly open, watching you with an expression of pure, undeniable curiosity.

You were breathless, when you and Minseo stood facing the table. Hair stuck to your forehead that you tried to fix as you realized your hair was messily down now. You leaned over, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath as the silence of the room settled in.

“Well,” Yeeun’s voice broke the quiet, her usual sarcasm replaced by curiosity and surprise. She looked at her clipboard and then back at you with her smile still on her face. “Surprising, in the best way possible. It looks like we found the girl version of Hoshi.”

“Hoshi—?” You blinked, still breathless.

“Me,” Soonyoung said, stepping forward. He looked like he wanted to say something else to both of you. He tried to look cool, but then he took a step forward and tripped slightly over a discarded water bottle, swinging his arms before catching himself. “I—uh— I’m Hoshi, that’s my name... well stage name, but that my. Anyways, that was... you were... well the two of you were great, I mean amazing, like wow.”

He looked at you like you were the first person to discover dancing. He offered you and Minseo a towel but ended up dropping them twice and his face turning a bright, endearing shade of pink.

“Thank you,” a genuine small laugh bubbling up in your chest. “I’m Y/n—”

“I know,” he blurted out, then immediately looked like he wanted to swallow his tongue. “I mean—the sign-in sheet the one Yeeun had, I saw your name. It’s a good name. Very... name-like.”

Yeeun, Minseo and Mingyu, exchanged a look. With a few scoffs from Minghao and Jiah who were yet to introduce themselves.

“What the heck is wrong with him?” Mingyu whispered to Yeeun, who was already shaking her head but still smiling proudly.

“Both of you are in,” Yeeun announced, her voice leaving no room for argument and her face revealing the proud look of finally finding what she was looking for. “Welcome to the crew, girls.”

The following days at the law firm felt different. The office lights and the endless stacks of depositions and files didn’t seem quite boring now and didn’t bring headaches. Not when you knew that later, you’ll pull out of the bottom of your bag your worn-out sneakers and your now favorite pair of oversized sweatpants.

You found yourself checking the clock every twenty minutes, you wanted to leave already. Counting down the seconds until you could burst through the heavy glass doors of the firm and catch the bus to the studio. Your now favorite place.

You were becoming a master of quick outfit change. It was funny, you’d leave home in a suit. Skirt ringht at your knees, fitting your form beautifully and very professional like. Looking exactly like an intern. But the minute you arrive at the studio, you’d change into your most comfortable, spirit lifter clothes. A pair of oversized sweatpants, a tank top and a sweatshirt that you’d wrap around your waist to complement the vibe.

You’d look at yourself in the mirror and think, now this is what I like, this is wat freedom feels like for me.

Arriving at the studio became the highlight of your existence.

Leaving outside the professional version of you and entering with more energy and soul.

“The legal bunny has arrived!” Mingyu’s voice echoed across the room the second he saw you. He’d usually be in the middle of a stretching routine that looked more like a wrestling match with his own limbs than anything close to warm up, but he’d always stop to give you a high-five that would leave, unintentionally, a momentary sting on the palm of your hand.

Practice was intense, but it was the most alive you had ever felt. Yeeun was a demanding leader, her sharp eyes catching every step that should not be there.

You thought she must have a superpower because she somehow always managed to see everyone.

“Bunny! more sass on that shoulder roll, you know this!” she’d call out, leaning against the mirror with an encouraging smirk. “Remember you’re not in an office right now, I’m asking for vibes! I’m not interested in files about a shitty divorce couple!”

Then there was Soonyoung.

He was always there. Sometimes hovering near the sound system or marking out choreography with Yeeun. The transformation he went through the moment the music started never ceased to amaze you. One second he was a lovable, bright guy who couldn’t walk past a chair without nearly knocking it over, and the next, he was the most coordinated person with a fierce gaze and sharp movements, a professional. He moved with an intensity that felt like he was breathing the music.

“That’s how you look like when you dance.” Yeeun startled you one day, you had chosen to stay a little more, SVT dance crew had a presentation soon, so they had been rehearsing right after your crew did. “Not kidding bunny, you both look like damn fireballs the second the beat drops.”

“I’m flattered, but Soonyoung is on another level.” You chuckled, t was true though. He had been dancing for longer than 10 years, professionally. You’d been dancing occasionally “I’ve never danced professionally, not like him.”

“And that’s why everyone is impressed, darling.” Yeeun smiled and nudged your shoulder “that’s why Soonyoung is so damn smitten by you. You’re a natural. Pure talent”

“Smitten? What?” you laughed at her choice of words, “the smitten one is Mingyu, honestly please tell me, when are you going to let him off the hook and just let him take you out?”

“Who’s going to take out who?” Minseo walked to where you two were standing, she had heard half of it and already had a pout on her face. She knew about Mingyu of course she did, and she was their number one fan.

“Mingyu—”

“Shush, both of you.” Yeeun’s cheeks had already turned a soft shade of pink making you giggle.

“Oh! alright, just think about it. That guy is losing his mind, my mom is worried.” Minseo pouted giving her the puppy eyes “pwease!”

“Oh god, I thought that was a Mingyu thing,” Yeeun groaned

“Oh no, that’s a sibling thing. I’ve had to deal with that for years.” With a laugh at Yeeun’s wide eyes, neither of you noticed the moment the practice ended, you were having a good time.

Before, you were only laughing on weekends with Minseo back at your apartment. Now you were laughing in a room full of music and people who are actually happy to be there and because they wanted to, not just to cover their working hours.

Soonyoung noticed, and he couldn’t help but feel frustrated because he wanted to listen to that laugh from up close, but the practice needed his attention. And while he could do that, his mind would often drift to you, the way you dance and the way he had the blessing of seeing you again, and even better, dancing in his studio.

Soonyoung started staying late with you, every day. He’s been postponing this for over a week now, and he’ll run out of time if he does not grow a pair and ask.

“Hi there.” You tried your best not to startle him, but it didn’t work. Soonyoung had been in his own world to notice you were standing next to him already. With a small jump of your own you stifled a laugh “sorry.”

“Hi! Oh, I—it’s fine.” He smiled and waved his hand “Hi there.”

“Whatcha thinking,” you tilted your head and offered him gum. “You zooned out. I made a mistake and you didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, no I mean I’m sorry. I did see it, I just I’ve been thinking about something that well…”

“Is something I can help you with?” you giggled because the moment you asked that his eyes lit up instantly, like what you said had been something he had been waiting to hear.

“Actually, yes.” You could see the way his ears started to turn red. “So, basically, there’s another event in two months. And you know, it’s like a contest, a duo to be specific and well the studio is part of it and—”

“Yes?” you smiled at him, finding him more adorable like this.

“Well, you’re a dancer. A really good one, fantastic really.”

“Do you... want me to be your duo for this?” you saw the way his eyes lit up in the most precious way and you felt how your heart skip a beat, because his expression was the most adorable thing ever.

“Yes, yeah! I mean only if you want of course, I think we’d be great but—”

“Sure, let’s do this.” You answered not even thinking it twice, because why would you think  twice? You wanted to dance, and he was the cutest by asking you.

The way his eyes now turned into those little half moons because of the huge smile he was now wearing, is doing things to you. Things you knew your heart was going to complain later, when you end up fall... yeah.

So, it was decided, you’d be his partner. That was thrilling, you were excited of course. dancing with him is going to be fun.

So, for now, you didn’t pay attention to the voice in your head in the shape of your mother telling you it wasn’t a good idea. That you had other things, important things like adult life.

To be honest, you didn’t care now. Not when you’ve had a taste of what being excited for tomorrow felt like and Light a Flame studios made you feel that way. Soonyoung made you feel that way.

“You’re overthinking it again,” he said one evening, walking toward you after a particularly messy turn. He was breathless, sweat making his forehead glisten under the studio lights matching yours.

“I don’t want to mess it up,” you admitted, sighing loudly as you wiped your face with the back of your hand. “I’m trying too much aren’t I? I just need to do it perfectly.”

Soonyoung stepped closer, his bright eyes softening. He reached out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentle. “That’s the thing about dance, bunny. There are no procedures to follow and be 100% perfect. You should know this. You need to feel each step, the beat, the music and then follow how your body wants to move.”

“We’re doing a choreography Soon, we need to follow that procedure.”

“Either we follow it and look like robots, or feel the music, the steps and be human like we’re supposed to. I’d like to be human and actually perform something worth seeing you know.” He shrugged and winked at you as he took a long sip of his water “come on, let’s dance something else.”

He smiled, as he took a step back, he stumbled tripping over his own feet. It was about time. He had spent all day without any sort of clumsy incident. You caught him before he could fall, both laughed as he regained his balance with a sheepish grin.

“See?” he joked, his face turning a cute shade of pink. “This is the universe saying we should take a small break.”

He pulled you—carefully—towards the center of the practice room. And without music, he just started singing, pulling out mixed dance moves. Steps from the duo and weird ones that involved a really awkward body roll.

You found yourself looking forward to moments like this more than anything else.

Not only the duo practice, you loved the way Minseo would whisper gossip about Mingyu’s not so secret crush on Yeeun while you stretched. You loved the way Seokmin would drop by with snacks, jokes and complains about Soonyoung not following the itinerary back at the radio station. Which you have made pretty clear to him that you were a fan of, making Seokmin blush and grin proudly, which also made Soonyoung a little jealous but he would do his best to hide it. You could notice, and that made your heart warm a little.

But mostly, you loved how Soonyoung looked at you, his eyes would soften each time you talked. And he would shush anyone who dared to speak over you, not letting him pay attention. You loved mostly the way he would smile like you were a firework he was lucky enough to see in daylight.

Every night, as you walked back to your apartment, your muscles would ache and your feet would be sore, but your heart would be light and full of something you didn’t know how to call it. Warmth? Whatever it was, it helped because you no longer felt like you were just living in automatic and just surviving the day. Now, you were excitedly living and waiting for the next day. For the first time in your life, you were doing something for you and only you. And it felt amazing.

Soonyoung was teaching you so much more than choreography. He taught you how to hit those beats better, he started teaching you how to exist in both worlds, the professional law intern and the girl who loves to dance with him and is ready to give it all.

That made you aware of how it all started. The almost invisible acts of service/love that only few noticed, including you.

One day, you arrived at the studio in the evening, your head already pulsating threatening to turn into a migraine thanks to a particularly awkward lecture by Mr. Wong about “attention to detail.” All because you mixed one single file, one simple mistake that could be fixed in two seconds.

Your first mistake in almost two years and he turned into some kind of crime.

You had dropped onto the wooden floor after ending a song. With a loud annoyed sigh, you reached for your water bottle and you found a small and crinkled paper bag sitting next your gym bag. Inside was a single, warm pastry and a post-it note with a doodle of a tiger that made you smile fondly already knowing who did it.

‘For the best dancer in the crew (don’t tell Yeeun I said that). – Hoshi.’

You felt warmth spread through your chest, and you knew it that had nothing to do with the dancing. It was a thoughtful present, a pastry, something sweet just like him and you couldn’t help but feel something growing in your heart.

As the weeks went by, Soonyoung became the color your life had been lacking, and it showed. You’d smile more, laugh more, even be more charming at work regardless of what task you were asked to do.

He’d take you on what he called “Adventure Breaks” between rehearsals for the duo event. One night, he dragged you to a 24-hour convenience store, standing in front of the candy aisle, looking at them with the intensity you’ve seen men have when deciding a court case.

“Okay, blueberry, mint or watermelon...? he asked, looking at you with focused eyes, but still sweet with eagerness.

“Ah, well, I usually just get the plain peppermint, it’s good.” you murmured, reaching for the familiar white box. It was safe. It was what you always did, play safe when choosing something. To eat, to buy, to read, to wear. To, basically everything.

Soonyoung gently caught your wrist, his fingers warm against your skin taking softly the box you had already picked. “The plain peppermint is for the office, bunny. Right now, you’re allowed to pick something else. You won’t know if you don’t try other flavors, look the blueberry one is amazing.”

You hesitated, then nodded taking it yourself. When you popped it into your mouth and made a surprised but satisfied face at the sweet flavor, Soonyoung grinned. Wearing one bright, triumphant smile. “See? Now you know it’s good! You can try the watermelon next and then choose the one you like more.”

It was a small thing—a flavor of candy.

But the meaning you gave it back in your apartment that night made you feel warm. It  was cady flavor for him, something so simple, yet it made you feel free to choose the safe option or the mystery sweet new one. In that moment, you felt a strange sense of approval you’d been chasing your whole life.

The “it’s okay whatever you chose, but do it if you really like it.”

He was supporting you, giving you options for you to choose, he could tell you what he thinks about it, but at the end it is your choice.

This simple metaphor, this simple representation made you realize so many things. One of them being that Soonyoung has a big heart ready to cheer you on whatever you do.

For Soonyoung, falling for you was like a slow-motion slip. He had seen lot of dancers before, he had entered several contests and met so many other teams.

But the moment you stepped onto that studio, something in his chest had shifted. He saw the way you held yourself, the way you moved, the tension in your shoulders that only dissolved when the music hit and he oddly can’t explain how he could see the music flow in your veins.

He saw the professional you in the way you apologized too much for every minor mistake, and it made him want to protect the dance soul underneath that mask of perfect woman even more.

He fell hard for the way you bit your bottom lip when you were concentrating on a new footwork sequence. He fell for the way you treated Minseo like a sister to team up with against Mingyu and still be kind to him. He fell for the way you would kindly help Yeeun with paperwork when you saw she was struggling too much.

He fell for the way you moved, the way you felt every beat of every song, he fell for the way you smiled and the way you shine with music.

But mostly, he fell for the way you looked at him. Because he could be his clumsiest self, and you’d still smile at him with so much care. He knew he was a mess sometimes—dropping his phone, walking into chairs that had no business on being on his path, losing his keys almost every day— but you never looked at him with embarrassment he feared you’d have by being next to him.

No, you looked at him with a soft, genuine amusement followed by a giggle that made him feel like this sudden flaw was actually something good.

The nights at the radio station with Seokmin, where he is supposed to be helping with the tech, he’d get distracted by staring at a video he’d taken of you marking the duet song. He’d claim he was simply taking notes to be perfect.

“Yah, you’ve got it bad, hyung.” Seokmin would say, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Soonyoung had a grin on his face, he had given up long ago trying to deny it. He realized it was stupid to try to convince others that you were simply his duet partner.

Soonyoung was an open book, mostly. And when it came to you, it was like he had announced his thoughts and feelings where available to read immediately.

“She’s so, intense and good. She’s so good, Seok.” Soonyoung would whisper, his voice thick with a sweetness that surprised him even more. “She’s everything.”

Seokmin smiled fondly at Soonyoung, he’s been there the times Soonyoung had met prospects that tried something serious with him, but not once Seokmin saw him blush by mentioning their name like he had with you.

That makes him happy for Soonyoung, but also a little frustrated because it seems like you had made the leader of synchronization the most awkward human being he’s ever met. And it only confirmed it, he was too far gone for you, he’d sign it, he’s in love with you.

He was doing things just for you. Like bringing an extra hoodie because he noticed you got chilly during the cool-down, or getting an extra bottle of water, buying extra food because you’d arrive at the studio after 8 working hours with hardly anything in your stomach.

With these tiny gestures, he made you feel seen. You appreciated it so much. He didn’t need a thank you from you every time. He just wanted to see that spark in your eyes when he’d show up with your favorite drink or food, or just simply walking you home to get you there safe.

He was becoming your person, and you were more than happy about that.

Thanks to him you were learning that life didn't have to be a series of files and documents with boring meetings. That you needed to attend just to please your mother.

With Soonyoung, life was a messy, loud, colorful duet.

Things were about to get more complicated, and real life was starting to catch up with you now.

The exciment for the duet showcase made you believe it could be a good opportunity to invite your family to see you, the real Y/n dance.

You prepared a diner. Deciding on inviting Soonyoung since he was your partner, in more ways than the duet. You thought it could be a great idea. He had become part of you now.

He didn’t know just yet though.

You had set the dining table was set with the good porcelain, the one your mother gifted and claimed it should be only for special occasions.

The air was thick with the scent of the pasta you had chosen to make tonight. All mixed with a damn stiff, polite tension that always seemed to follow you and your family into a room with someone new. Like right now, Soonyoung.

Soonyoung sat across from your father, he looked uncharacteristically neat in a button-down shirt that he’d clearly spent a long time trying to iron but gave up long ago and to feel more comfortable, he had rolled up the sleeves to feel more fresh. The tension here was making him feel hot. Despite the nervousness, he was being charming in his own clumsy way, leaning in with wide, sincere eyes as your father told a story about his old job.

“That’s incredible, sir,” Soonyoung said, letting out a bright laugh that made your father offer a rare, awkward chuckle. That surprised you, your father has always been a tough nut to crack and here it is Kwon Soonyoung getting a chuckle from him almost just by existing.

Even Jiyeon was watching him with a cautious, curious politeness, her professional mask slipping just enough to show she was intrigued by the energy he brought to the room, you could even dare to say she wanted to give a laugh of her own at his awkward, polite chat.

But your mother didn’t seem too amazed by him. She remained polite, the one holding the conversation. “It’s a lovely dinner, Y/n,” she said, her voice smooth. “Though, I do worry about your schedule. Stability is important. A steady job, a reliable income— you kniw, these are the things that allow a person to truly breathe and live comfortably. Don’t you agree, Mr. Kwon?”

Soonyoung paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh, yes. I think stability is important, even better if it comes from doing what you love, ma’am.”

You cleared your throat, trying to lift a little the weight of the conversation. Even if you knew the next thing you were about to say would do nothing to help. But it was now or never, and this was entirely the reason they were here.

 “Actually, that’s why I invited you all. Soonyoung and I are performing a duet at a showcase next week. It’s a contest, and it’s more than that. This would be like a big achievement for the crew, for Soonyoung as a professional dancer and the owner of the studio. And for me because, well I love this.” You spoke almost all in one breath, with a bit of shyness and turning into a little girl, you turned to your right and gave the most hopeful eyes “Dad, I’d really appreciate it, I’d love it for you to be there.”

Your father nodded, his eyes softening. “That sounds interesting, a duet. Sure.” simple, not entirely excited but definitely curious. That’s a win.

“I’ll try my best to clear my afternoon,” Jiyeon added, glancing at her phone but giving you a small nod. “I have a meeting with Jinyoung’s firm, but I guess I can make it work.” An effort or attempting at one. Well, that’s big.

You turned to your mother, your heart beating a hopeful rhythm. “Mom?”

 She just took a slow sip of water. “It’s a nice plan, you have to be careful not to waste too much time on this, is just a hobby after all.”

The sting was quiet, but it was there— like a sharp, cold needle. No, a sharp big knife in your chest.

Soonyoung set his fork down. He looked genuinely puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand how they did not see the shine you give. “Have you all seen her dance?” he asked, his voice steady and polite. “I mean, really seen her?”

Your mother raised an eyebrow. “We saw her recitals when she was young, Mr. Kwon.”

“Right. Then you haven’t seen her,” Soonyoung said, his usual fidgeting stopping completely. “She’s really talented, she feels the music. I personally believe, this is not just a ‘hobby’ for her. In all my years at the studio, I’ve never seen someone as coordinated as her, and I’m the leader. Honestly, with all due respect, it’s not a waste of time to watch someone be that brilliant.”

Your mother’s expression tightened. The polite mask didn’t break, oh but you could tell it cracked a little “Well, I’ll try to think about it. Thank you Mr. Kwon. I think we have you know, priorities.”

The silence that followed felt too suffocating.

The dinner ended shortly after. Your father gave your shoulder a supportive squeeze as he left, but your mother’s goodbye felt like a silent dismissal of what you wished.

As the door clicked shut, you felt the weight of being tossed aside once again. You turned to Soonyoung, who was standing by the sofa, looking at his shoes, he was ready to apologize. He truly thought his comment was the reason why she didn’t confirm if she was going.

“Soonie?” you whispered. “Stay? Please. I just... I don’t want to be alone with my head right now.”

Soonyoung looked up, his face instantly softening into that familiar, worried sweetness, not before he had blushed at the nickname you used for the second time. One he found he loved too much coming from you.

He nodded shyly, his hands diving into his pockets. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll stay as long as you want. Whatever you need. I can wash the dishes, or just sit here, or... whatever you need.”

With a chuckle you nodded walking to him, both sat down on the floor, back against the couch, sitting a careful distance buty you wanted him a little closer. You had pulled your legs up till you were able to rest your chin on your knees.

“She’s never going to see me truly, is she?” you wondered, “it’s like, I’m here but I don’t have a say.”

Soonyoung moved then, sliding closer until his shoulder was pressed against yours. He didn’t say anything. He just let his presence be the answer. Then, in a voice so quiet and hurried that you almost missed it, he spoke.

“I do see you. I have been since that day at the bus stop, when you were holding your bag and... and you looked so sad. I thought then... I thought I’d never seen anyone so pretty, even when you clearly looked stressed and about ot murder someone. And then when I saw you at the studio? It was like... it was watching a part of you that you missed. Wrong, a part of you that you needed back.”

He let out a shaky breath, his thumb tracing a pattern on the denim of his jeans, he was fighting for his life trying not to hold your hand in fear of you pulling away.

“You truly think I needed this?”

“To breath, to let go. To live? Yes.” He smiled at you, that sweet one that brought calm to your chaos. “I, kind of, well not kind of, I like... you. I think I fell, hard. Not only physically like I always seem to do when you’re near. Which I want to clarify, I was not this clumsy, yu just… anyway. What I want to say is that, I just feel something way too strong. I just want you to be happy. If that’s dancing with me, or just sitting here in the quiet... I’m here. I’m always going to be here. Like Seokmin said, I’m down bad for you.”

You looked at him, and for the first time that night, the gray cloud above you started to fade. He was a mess of nerves and sincerity, a bright, colorful light in your quiet apartment after being told your dream your love was a waste of time.

Soonyoung just told you he cared, he liked you. No, he loved you. he might’ve not used those exact words, but the way he’s fidgeting right now, the way his cheeks and ears are at the most red you’ve seen, wasenough proof.

God, the way he was looking at you was doing too much to your heart.

“I might, you know—” you chuckled looking at your hands, shifting closer to him “I think I feel something too.”

“Oh, well that’s good. Yeah definitely good.” He stuttered, with a small laugh adnd a shaky hand, he took yours playing with your fingers before he dared to intertwine them with his. “I really, really like you.”

“I really, really like you too.” You smiled as you leaned your shoulder against his. “Are you going to kiss me or?”

“I-I am, of course I mean—” he could feel his own heart almost beat out of his chest, feel the heat creep up to his face and just his brain short circuit right then and there.

“Oh my god, Soonyoung. Come here.”

Alright, this is not over, I have yet to fix the rest because this goes longer. But thanks to real life and the wonders of depression, I have just finished fixing this one. Next part promise will be up in two days tops. I have it here already, just neeed to really fix it.

See you next time.

Whoever had decided to pair you up with Seungcheol to host the station's annual charity fair needed to get demoted back to desk work (and you weren't only thinking it because it had, in fact, been your dear partner of the day that had suggested this). Why a radio station needed to organise so many social events every year was beyond your comprehension and yet you had drawn the short end of the stick once again.

Seungcheol's fingers pinched your side a little too hard to be a sign of affection. When you turned to glare at him, he offered you a mocking smile that someone further away might have mistaken for an affectionate one. "Why the long face, honey?"

A shiver of disgust ran up your spine and almost made you nauseous. If there wasn't a group of grandmas watching the two of you with the eyes of gossip-hungry eagles, you might have fake gagged just to get your point across. Instead, you were stuck forcing a sugary sweet smile of your own and threatening him under your breath: "Remove your hands or I will break them the next time you try to hold mine."

Perhaps you had lost your edge because Seungcheol only responded with a noise infuriatingly similar to the one he made when someone introduced him to their Pomeranian puppy two hours ago. And then, as if to annoy you even further and test the reliability of your threats, he let his thumb trail up and down across your skin. You racked your brain but couldn't remember agreeing to skin-to-skin contact, so you glared at him some more for good measure.

"I'm serious, Choi," you told him, hand reaching for his to twist one of his fingers backwards just enough for him to get the message.

He hissed in pain and withdrew his hand. Now it was his turn to glare and you only replied with a victorious smile before turning back to the task at hand. Another teenager had strolled to the booth, eager to sign up for the big giveaway (rumour had it that this year's grand prize was a car; you knew better than to trust the rumour mills), and you helped him while Seungcheol tried his hardest to not look like his ego or finger was in pain.

"Be sure to tune in three hours from now to see if you won," you called out after the kid when he handed you the now filled ticket. "May the odds ever be in your favour." (Quoting the Hunger Games was, unfortunately, one of the few joys you still had today).

The teen offered you a wide smile at that — perhaps he had picked up on the reference? Maybe the youth isn't doomed after all? Then, as if the universe had a grudge against you, you watched him reach over to fist pump Seungcheol. There was a certain sparkle in his eyes, his smirk just a little too wolfish. You threw your head back and sighed.

"Here's a tip, oh darling boyfriend of mine," the B-word still felt foreign to your tongue but you supposed it was high time you got used to it; you side-eyed him, "when a random man comes up and treats me like a prize you've somehow won, you should be pissed, not proud."

Seungcheol blinked, not a single coherent thought bouncing around in his peanut shell of a brain. "What do you mean?"

You felt your eyebrows rise and gestured widely. "That kid! He was eyeing me like I'm a piece of meat. And he congratulated you while staring at my tits!"

He shrugged. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."

"Neither did the last twelve guys who did the same, no doubt," you mumbled under your breath and adjusted the stack of blank giveaway tickets with newfound fury.

"Besides," he drawled, leaning his hip against the table, all suave until the flimsy thing nearly toppled over and nulled all of your previous efforts, "why am I not allowed to be proud? You're hot."

There was something in the way he said it that almost made it sound like an insult to your ears. Then again, perhaps you were too filled with hatred to interpret any of his words as anything but deliberate jabs at your person. That's what your friends said anyway when you discussed this scheme with them.

Hastily, Seungcheol fixed and adjusted the table. Further down the lot, someone was laughing — hopefully at him. He made a half-hearted attempt at fixing the stack of tickets; it looked like a proper mess. You sighed and reached to fix it again.

Maybe this whole arrangement was a colossal mistake. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe your shared hatred was too far down in the dark side to ever be mistaken for adoration even by someone legally blind.

"Because this isn't real," you reminded him now. "Even if I was a prize — which I am not —, you haven't won me. You have nothing to be proud of."

Nothing about this was real, after all. It was all just a big scheme he had come up with in desperation to keep his afternoon show and fat paycheck. And you were the sorry fool who had agreed to it because — as much as it hurt to admit — you, too, were desperate.

In a way, you were different sides of the same dingy copper coin. One needed to get meddling grandmothers and flirty (and definitely not PG-13) mothers off his back. The other needed her ex to take a hint and leave her alone.

And so when Seungcheol came to you one evening after your daily request show — eyes downcast and brows furrowed in dismay after one of the executives threatened to halve his pay if he didn't make his show family friendly again — suggesting an unthinkable scheme, you agreed a little too readily. (Even if you did take a whole week to consider the pros and cons and spent one whole evening getting drunk while ranting to your friends.)

"I know you hate me," he told you back then, two weeks ago, his hair in disarray from tugging on it in frustration, his brown eyes for once full of something other than disgust at the sight of you, "but please pretend to date me."

The whole thing was supposed to be simple and effective. Fake some smiles, talk about each other on your shows, maybe dedicate a song to one another every once in a while, go on a walk during lunch break — easy enough that a toddler could do it. It should have been just the bare minimum to fake a relationship.

At first, you hadn't even thought anyone would actually buy it.

Your rivalry was well-known — two star hosts of the biggest radio station in the country, in a fierce battle for the prime time slots and special events. There were TikTok and Youtube compilations of you trading insults during your respective shows. More than a few gossip magazines had increased their sales by reporting on the "new developments" of your disagreements. The station executives couldn't decide whether they wanted you to tone down or go all in on the rivalry; avoiding questions about a hostile work environment hardly seemed the better option over rapidly increasing ratings.

But apparently the people's longing for a tale of enemies turning lovers was not limited to romantasy novels.

It had taken exactly one walk through a public parking lot on the evening of your first negotiations and suddenly the rumour mills were working overtime. It was utterly ridiculous, and it was also more effective than anything you could have come up with. There were blurry, poorly lit photos in the gossip magazines. There were pop culture specialists spewing video essay after video essay about the thin line between hatred, and body language experts analysing the way your fingers seemed to be reaching for his in one of the fifteen photos "if you just looked closely enough".

Even if your negotiations that night had ended on a negative note, there was no way you could have talked your way out of this supposed relationship. And now here you were, at the annual spring charity fair, hosting the giveaway and the special radio show from a little booth under an ancient oak tree with your biggest foe, putting on the best act of your life.

"You know, no one's going to believe we're actually dating if you look like you'd rather let the ground swallow you whole than be seen beside me," he pointed out with an infuriating smile, leaning closer as if to provoke you some more.

Under different circumstances you might have had to sigh and admit that he was right. But unfortunately for him…

"I think I'd have to slap you for anyone to believe we're not together at this point," you reminded him and nodded towards the gaggle of teenagers taking photos of the two of you, no doubt sharing them on social media with #OTP. You dreaded to think what your mentions would look like by the end of the day. Your phone had already overheated twice from all of the notifications.

Seungcheol's lips stretched into a smirk, his eyebrows waggling. "Didn't take you for the kinky type."

You could think of a kink or two to make him suffer the way he deserved. But alas.

A little girl ran up to the booth, flowers in her dark curly hair. Her lack of height did not deter her from grinning you from over the edge of the table. "Hi."

"Hi," you greeted her and felt your anger melt away just a little. "Did you want to sign up for the giveaway too?"

"No." She shook her head resolutely. "I'm too little for a car."

(You could practically hear the crack in his neck as Seungcheol's head tilted in confusion, his breath coming out in a sigh. He mumbled something vaguely like "why does everyone think it's a car?".)

The little girl didn't respond to questions, only staring up at you earnestly as if you were a Disney princess and she couldn't believe she had actually run into you at this event. You offered a little wave and this one she returned with one of her own. About to give up on making conversation with the tiny fan, you turned to look at what your "boyfriend" was doing, and — like a sleeper agent who had heard the code word — she lit up.

"You guys are so cute together," she declared and it was the loudest she had been all minute. You felt your eyes widen and desperately avoided eye contact, heat crawling up your neck all of a sudden. "My mommy says you used to hate each other."

"Still do," you mumbled under your breath but faked a smile once you were sure you no longer looked like a startled owl.

"I used to think she was insufferable," Seungcheol was happy to tell her and the look in his eyes told you he meant it in the present tense. "Drove me absolutely nuts. Stole my show, you know."

He'd been sure to bring that little tid-bit up every single day. If you weren't deep under cover as his girlfriend, you might have stomped on his foot and reminded him that he only lost the show because he kept flirting with the horny single mothers and grandmothers that called his show. All you had done was possess a bit of talent for hosting radio shows. But your lack of responsibility for his problems did not seem to deter him from blaming you for everything anyway.

The little girl gasped and looked at you like you had just admitted to arson. It was impossible to ignore the urge to defend yourself. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"That's what she likes to tell everyone," Seungcheol didn't let up and you felt his hand reach for your waist again, the familiar irritating warmth back on your skin. Clearly your earlier threats of violence had been of no use. Pulling you closer, he feigned a smile that almost looked smitten. "But I don't mind because now she's mine."

Not that you wanted to be. Not that you had any choice now.

You slapped his hand away as soon as the little girl was out of sight.

The weekly meetings were held every Monday at 10 am sharp. They were the closest thing this establishment had to proper order, complete with a whiteboard on wheels and dried-up markers, charts and slideshows. The manager of the station even put in the effort of replacing his usual colourful sweaters and mismatching bright coloured pants with a proper suit. He even wore a tie.

Most weeks, the topic of conversation was the ratings and the planning of new events. Reminders of radio etiquette. Tips and introductions for new bright-eyed interns. Sometimes the manager just rolled around the open office space on a desk chair and encouraged everyone to reveal their most recent work-related frustrations as if it was a big group therapy session. You used to think those were annoying.

Now you suddenly wished this was one of those sessions instead of whatever the hell it had become today.

The manager had pulled up a slideshow of the recent ratings by the minute. He was analysing the spikes in audiences tuning into the station, his eyes twinkling as possibilities upon possibilities appeared in his mind. Your colleagues were offering knowing smiles and not-so-subtly cranking their necks to look back at you.

You tried to make yourself smaller in your chair, pulling your jacket closer to your body as you side-eyed Seungcheol's form standing proud and happy right next to you (he had insisted staying in close proximity was vital to your scheme's success; you begged to differ). His thigh was close enough to gently sway your chair every time he adjusted his posture, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that had you hoping it was his arms the others were staring at and not your flustered face.

"—and if you look here, it's another spike!" The man in front of the whiteboard was practically vibrating with excitement. You wished radio ratings got you going as much as they did this guy; it would have made your life a lot more tolerable. "And if we play back the broadcast, this is when Seungcheol said he was turning the studio over to his girlfriend. Every time he mentioned her, the ratings went up!"

The social media manager of the station raised her hand, looking back at you with a smirk while she waited for the manager to finish his thought. And when he did and called upon her, she was more than happy to declare: "Our social media mentions spike during Seungcheol's segment as well, especially around those same minutes you pointed out. I think the people really want more Seungcheol and (Y/n)."

You grabbed your pen and scribbled another name into the list of traitors you had started five minutes into the meeting. It held the names of every colleague who was a little too enthusiastic about your new "relationship". Nayeon's name was the newest addition, underlined, with three exclamation points.

"The spring fair broadcast was a complete success as well," the manager continued with even more enthusiasm. At any minute now, he might burst. "The people loved our two star hosts, judging by the ratings. Look at those things!" He was staring at his own slideshow in absolute awe. Somewhere out there a data analysis company was mourning their loss of an enthusiast they didn't know existed. "This is the highest any of our special events have rated in a decade. It's a renaissance of the radio!"

"I'm not sure I'd go that far," Seungcheol mumbled, apparently finally cracking. Were his ears more red than usual?

When the manager looked like he might start crying from hope and excitement, Nayeon stood up to take over the presentation. She clicked a button and a new slide appeared, stuffed from edge to edge to edge with mentions of your name and… Your eyes had to be deceiving you.

You leaned closer just to make sure you weren't hallucinating. "Is that… a ship name?"

Nayeon smiled so bright she could have outshone the sun. "Yes, it is! You guys officially have a ship name! The listeners love you; the whole enemies to lovers thing is really in right now and you are the new face of it."

The chair whined under the weight of you slumping back. Had it been sentient, it might have whimpered at the way your nails sank into the plastic of the arm rests. Seungcheol reached down to pat the back of your hand, unable to hide his victorious smile as he did so. You countered by sinking your nails into the space between his fingers. His hand was promptly removed but the smile remained.

One of the older hosts squinted at the screen and raised her hand. "What does OTP mean?"

"Ah! Great question, Seunghwa." Turns out Nayeon had prepared a whole slide explaining all of the slang related to your newfound suffering. What great joy.

You added another two exclamation marks behind her name and underlined her name once more.

"You know," Seungkwan, one of the three hosts of the morning show, made sure to make eye contact with you as he suggested, "Seungcheol and (Y/n) should host together more often. I bet the ratings would spike to the heavens."

Another name for your traitors' list. You held his gaze as you wrote his name down letter by letter, raising your eyebrow in challenge. He didn't seem very bothered, more engaged in nodding along with Soonyoung who had very enthusiastically joined the conversation to make, more or less, the same point. Finally, he offered you a knowing smirk — one that said he knew your secret — and turned back to the slideshow.

The torture went on for another fifteen minutes. By the time it was done, you were far more exhausted than anyone who had been up for only two hours ever should feel.

As the people dispersed, eager to get back to their daily duties around the office or running errands somewhere else, Seungcheol remained at your side. He acted as a reminder of the mess of a soup the two of you had found yourself in. You couldn't even find the energy to shoo him away or glare at him. And so he stayed, arms still crossed over his chest as he looked over the office space like a guard dog on watch.

Soonyoung seemed to find it an invitation for more commentary, sidling up to the two of you with a warm smile. "You guys are seriously cute together. I always did think you'd make a great couple, but, wow! I mean, wow!" It seemed that even if Seungkwan had spotted a flaw in your begrudging scheme, Soonyoung was none the wiser to any of it. He turned to Seungcheol and patted his shoulder. "The way you talk about her during your shows is just so… I mean, you must be really in love."

"Must be," was all that Seungcheol said but he made no effort to hide his proud grin. Even his chest seemed to puff up a little with every word the morning show host spoke.

You wanted to make fun of him for it when Soonyoung finally walked away. You wanted to tease and bully him for being so full of himself and eager for compliments. Hell, a few brain cells of yours were halfway done coming up with a joke about how he must have only stayed in this spot to gain some more praise, like a puppy showing off his newest trick for some treats. But a jarring thought of another kind startled the jokes right out of your mind.

"You talk about me on your show?"

He startled at the sound of your voice. Then, as fast as he had lost his composure, he got it back and raised a brow. "Of course. That's the whole point. What else am I supposed to talk about when someone calls to request my phone number or asks if I'm planning on starting an OnlyFans?"

There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. Your lips parted in preparation to spew some insults and arguments. Unfortunately, you had no choice but to admit defeat this time and closed your mouth with a huff.

"Exactly," he teased and reached to pat your head. You slapped it away and rolled your chair further away from him with a pointed glare. It only seemed to make him happier. "If you were a good girlfriend, you would listen to my show sometimes."

All of the gold in the world wouldn't have been enough to pay you to do that. That's what you told yourself as you put on your headphones and tuned him out to the sound of your music.

(But when the clock struck 2 pm and the studio door closed behind Seungcheol, your finger lingered over the station's app on your phone. Listening in just once couldn't hurt, right? He would never have to know. It was just for research. Right.)

[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]

"Hello and thank you for calling the Words of Wisdom show. My name's Seungcheol and what can I help you with today?"

"Oh my god, are you Choi Seungcheol?!"

"That's me, ma'am."

"You sound even hotter on the phone."

"… Thank you. I'm sure my girlfriend would agree. So, what can I and your fellow listeners offer you advice on today?"

"…"

"Ma'am?"

The jokes practically wrote themselves. You were but a vehicle by which they presented themselves in this reality. You were a humble servant of jokes at Seungcheol's pride.

Smiling, you leaned against the studio's desk while he packed up his things. "Talked about your girlfriend on your show, did you?"

He barely hummed in response. "Glad you've caught up with the news, sweetheart."

"I just find it funny, you know," you continued regardless, giddy from the opportunity to tease him for once. He always seemed to have the upper hand. It was a glorious moment. Maybe you needed to listen to his shows more often just for more material. "You're just so bad at lying."

Glaring, he looked up from his bag. "At least I'm trying. You've barely mentioned me on your show. Really, you're making me look desperate."

"Are you not?" You blinked at him, full of both innocence and mischief. "I'm just saying."

Lowering your voice to match his, you mocked the way he spoke on the broadcast, perfect down to the deadpan and entirely awkward tone: "I'm sure my girlfriend would agree." You pretended to throw up under the desk. "I hope you’re not applying for an acting job any time soon.”

That seemed to touch a nerve. Seungcheol's arms crossed over his chest again, a defensive stance rather than an arrogant one this time. "Yeah? I'd like to see you do better. Oh wait!" He pursed his lips into a sorry pout. "You don't even mention me on your show."

"You want me to talk about you?" You laughed. "What's there to talk about? Give me a reason to."

"Wow," he deadpanned. "You must be really in love."

"Absolutely smitten, really."

The clock above the door told you the next show was supposed to start in mere seconds. An idea formed in your head as you took your place at the desk, adjusting the large headphones and setting the microphone to your height. The screen displayed a countdown of seconds — somewhere in another room, a poor sound engineering intern had been set in charge of bringing you on air in time.

Seungcheol still remained in the room, fumbling to pack his bag and the notes it contained. There was a red hue to the skin on the back of his neck and ears, his hands shook imperceptibly. It only got worse when you tapped the ON AIR button and started your show.

"Good afternoon, dear listeners. It's time for your favourite show — it's time for Well Wishes. I'm your host for the next hour and a half, so be sure to call in or drop your song requests and well wishes in an email," you went through your introductions with practised grace, not a single syllable stuttered or strained, your eyes on Seungcheol. While speaking, you queued up the first song of your session.

When his gaze, fiery and annoyed and challenging, met yours, you let your smile widen and declared, "To start us off while we wait for your requests, I'm going to play a special song dedicated to my boyfriend. Honey, if you're listening right now, I hope you're driving home safe, love you. Enjoy your favourite song."

If the B-word had felt uncomfortably wrong at the spring fair, it sure didn't sound like it this time. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to the listeners. It was definitely miles more natural than Seungcheol's strained efforts of referring to you on his own broadcast and he seemed to realise it just the same, his eyes rolling as he flipped you off and trudged out of the studio.

He was almost at the door when Apink's "Mr Chu" started playing. His entire body shuddered, cringing wholeheartedly. The door shut behind him seconds later (but not before he could show you his middle finger one last time).

As peace and Apink filled the studio, you leaned back in your chair, basking in the afternoon sun. Finally victorious. It was the little victories that mattered the most.

It felt like you had achieved your greatest goal, or were at least one large step closer to it, at least. The sun felt warmer and brighter than it had all spring. There was not a single cloud in the bright blue sky, only white birds passing by. Even the cushioning of the chair seemed nicer than usual. It's a miracle what changes a small victory and a happy mood can bring.

You greeted the first caller of the day with a bright smile and all the joy in the world. "What song can I play for you today?"

The universe was on your side. Great music all around, happy people calling your show, lovely greetings in the emails. A part of you started wondering if this was the right day to buy a lottery ticket.

But all good things must come to an end, some sooner than others.

"Hello, thank you for calling Well Wishes," you greeted yet another caller, still high off your win. "Who are we greeting and what are we listening to?"

There was silence for a while. And then you heard a familiar voice. "…(Y/n)?"

It felt as if rain clouds had appeared out of thin air and covered the sun. Dark, stormy clouds full of nothing but heart ache and hail.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly seeming to swell up. Your body was taken over by an emotion you knew far too well and had hoped to forget.

It shouldn't have been a surprise by this point; Youngjae seemed to call the show every day like clockwork — at least he had until the photos from the parking lot came out. And yet your heart threatened to seize up every time you heard his voice on the broadcast. Once, his voice had brought you warmth and happiness and made you feel so, so in love. Now it only served to remind you of all the things you could have had. If only he hadn't revealed himself to be such an ass hole.

"Hello," you forced yourself to speak. "What can I play for you today?"

"I've missed you," he spoke.

And the cycle repeated again, chewing through the process you had made like it was nothing.

There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. It seemed that you might have won a battle but Seungcheol had the strategy to win the war. You steeled your aching heart. If mentioning your "boyfriend" at every possibility was the solution, you were going to use the hell out of it.

The next time someone requested a love song, you made sure to say it reminded you of Seungcheol and his pretty brown eyes. Whatever it took to fight for the space to let your heart heal. Whatever it took to end the cycle.

But the heart is a fickle thing and it rarely does what you tell it to. You could pretend it was made of steel and cold ice all you wanted, but deep inside it still ached. And the cycle repeated again.

"You talked about me on your show," was the first thing Seungcheol said when you walked into the studio the next day. Clad in an oversized white hoodie that made him look almost huggable, he was spinning around in the chair — your chair — and practically giggling with glee. "And here I thought you were too cool to talk about your boyfriend."

You rolled your eyes and glanced at the clock. "Figured I might as well make use of you."

"Was it because your ex called?" His smile said he knew the answer all too well. "Be honest: if you had to choose between your ex and me…?"

Now he was just fishing for compliments. But you hadn't slept all that well last night and falling into his silly traps felt like the least of your worries. "I'm dating you, aren't I?"

The words came out almost on autopilot while you stared at the chair he had occupied. That nice, comfy chair, practically moulded to fit your bottom from a year of wear. But Seungcheol didn't look like he had any plans of leaving it any time soon. You offered the chair one last contemplative look.

"Don't make me leave," he whined but there was little sincerity in his voice, only teasing, "I'm so comfy."

On another day, you might have grabbed the chair by the arm rests and swung it out the door, relishing in the hollering and cheers of your co-workers. But something had broken within you on the broadcast yesterday.

With a sigh, you walked to the other side of the room and grabbed one of the spare chairs meant for the guests. One of its wheels squeaked every once in a while and another one was clearly slanted from years of abuse. It would have to do.

Seungcheol stared at you, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. There was something like concern in his gaze. He didn't make a sound, didn't even move while you set up for the show, watching you like you were a wild animal he had stumbled upon on a hiking trail.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. "What?"

"You're not going to make me leave?" He looked like he was just about ready to banish himself if you just so much as nodded. You shrugged and he slumped in his seat. "Are you okay?"

"I will be," you told him with a sigh and pulled on your headphones, "one day."

He didn't say anything else but he stayed for the entire show. His presence was quiet. You half-expected to get annoyed with anything about him — his breathing, his little chuckles, the tapping of his fingers when a particularly good song came on. But to your surprise, he seemed to have the opposite effect for once.

It was odd. You had grown so used to constantly being irritated by him but now that you were stuck in a small room with him — just the two of you in creaky office chairs and nothing but short phone calls to keep you company —, his presence was comforting instead. A calming paperweight on top of the troubles that were threatening to fly around the room and suffocate you. A familiar character by your side no matter what went on in your life.

"I love that song!" he made sure to shout when a teen called in to request an older R'n'B track. Instead of glaring at him, you found yourself leaning away from the mic so he could lean closer and converse with the youngster. "Kid, you've got great taste. You need to call in more often."

Before you knew it, he was co-hosting, his chair pressed against yours, his hand on the mouse to guide the cursor through the playlists and emails. Between requests, he offered you smiles and glances that looked almost… kind. Warm. Gentle. Like he was trying to comfort you in his own way. And for some god-forsaken reason it actually worked.

You found yourself laughing and smiling and dancing along to songs in your chairs, your hand in his as he twirled you around like a record player. Just for this moment of time, he was not your work rival, not your enemy; he was just an old friend who had showed up when you needed him. And you let yourself get lost in that feeling. A break in the cycle.

It reminded you of the old days — your first months at the station under his guidance. It felt like a different lifetime now, your friendship had turned into a rivalry. This was a glimpse of what might have been if things had been different: if you hadn't been favoured by the executives, if you hadn't earned those high ratings and been awarded your first prime time slot show at his expense.

When a commercial break rolled in, he sighed and tilted his head as he studied you. "I didn't realise that man had that much of a hold on you still."

"Neither did I." And he didn't. He hadn't. But something about his call, about him requesting one of your favourite songs, about his voice sounding so full of love when he said your name — it had messed with your mind. It was a whole day later and you were only just starting to feel like yourself again.

"I think it's just because he hadn't called in a while. When we started, you know," you cleared your throat, "dating… He stopped calling. I thought it was done. Guess he was just taking a break."

He hummed in thought. "Yeah, that explains it. He's an ass hole for that, by the way."

"I don't disagree."

"Good," he smiled, "at least you have standards."

A familiar spark returned to you. Normalcy was returning, bit by bit. You offered him a playful pout. "Not very high ones if I'm dating you."

"Oh!" He gasped and clutched his chest. "My poor, poor heart. How ever will I survive this insult?"

"You can always leave," you reminded him with a helpful motion towards the door.

Seungcheol spun around in his chair. "No chance. I haven't filled my daily 'annoying (Y/n)' quota yet."

"Well, if you won't leave," you nodded towards the computer screens, "at least make yourself useful. Pick our next caller."

He smiled a little to bright when the commercial break ended. A few sentences later, he had the next call ready to go; one click and the familiar static filled your headphones.

"You're live on Well Wishes," you spoke, beating him to the mic with a short laugh. "What are you thinking and what can we play for you today?"

"Oh! (Y/n), I almost thought I called the wrong show," the familiar voice spoke.

Two days in a row. The universe had given you one small victory and decided to match it with an array of bad luck. You glared at the screen displaying the calls — tens of people currently on the line, waiting to get picked, and somehow the stars had aligned to remind you what suffering felt like.

Your one-sided staring contest with the computer screen was broken by the sound of fake gagging from your right side. Seungcheol was cringing and shaking his head and crossing his arms in an X motion as if to ward off an evil spirit. There seemed to be at least one thing the two of you could agree on.

"Sir, state your song choice," he interrupted your ex's soulful monologue. "The line is very, very busy today. I don't think we have the time to listen to your story right now."

Silence in the static. The sweet sound of a victory you hadn't expected. He was speechless and your heart was not aching this time.

Seungcheol smirked.

"Would you look at that," he silently mouthed at you, proud of himself like he had never been before. Out loud, he spoke again, "What song can we play for you?"

The only thing that sounded was the end-of-call tone. Tears of relief welled up in your eyes. You could have cheered and danced in joy.

"Oh, well, that's a shame," Seungcheol continued the broadcast as if he hadn't just intimidated your ex-boyfriend into hanging up on live radio. "Let's pick our next caller. Hopefully they have a good song ready to request."

Perhaps fake dating your enemy wasn't the worst decision you had ever made. Perhaps, you dared to think, it was turning out to be one of the better ones. Even if he was hogging your broadcast.

[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]

"And that was the freshest hit of IU. What a great song. Hm. I see we don't have a lot of callers today, so how about we switch things up just for this one show? This time I am the one in need of advice.

"Say, there's this woman — you know this already; I haven't shut up about her all week, I think—, and we're doing fine— I just saw that concerned email you sent, KnittingRocks69; I promise we haven't broken up— Anyways. Everything's great but I just… feel like I should do better. I don't think I'm all that great at this entire boyfriend-thing. And I'm sure there are many listeners who are in a similar situation. So what can we do to be better boyfriends?

"Feel free to call in with your advice or send it via email. And, oh, we already have our first caller! Hello, what advice do you have for me today?"

Your desk was pink and yellow. It fluttered in the draft blowing in from the window. You were fairly certain it wasn't supposed to do that and you already knew who to blame for this.

"Choi Seungcheol!" you yelled out without even thinking about it for a second. He was the obvious culprit. And the bright grin he wore while pretending to enjoy the late morning view with his cold water was all the proof you needed.

Your glare only served to make him light up more. "Yes, darling?"

Infuriated, you gestured widely while he leisurely approached. "Why is my desk covered in sticky notes?"

Lips pursing into a pout, he contemplated and blinked as if he hadn't even noticed before. The corner of his mouth was twitching. "I figured you decorated it last night."

"Yeah? You thought I got bored after my broadcast and decided to cover the entire surface of my work space with neon sticky notes? That's what happened here?"

"It must have," he told you and this time he didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't smirking. "I only placed, what? Three hundred of these? Four, maybe? The rest of them were already here."

You felt your heart rate rocket as annoyance slowly started to give way to burning rage. A desk covered in paper cuts waiting to happen was never something you wanted to deal with. "Remove them."

"Why?"

"Because I would like to use my desk?" You knew you were playing right into his hand, fulfilling that sick prank-loving streak of his with your reactions. But getting irritated was so much easier than meditating and taking everything in stride. Besides, someone needed to yell at this man every once in a while lest his ego grew too big.

Seungcheol gave your desk another thoughtful look. Then he reached forward. He reached forward and made eye contact with you as he plucked a singular pink note off the desk and held it out for you to take like it was a gift. You snapped it from his fingers and threw it at his face in a crumpled ball. A perfect forehead shot.

"I'm going to go get some water," you told him slowly, eyes on him like a predator ready to pounce on a hare for being in the wrong spot, fingers pointing at the desk stiffly as you brushed past him, "and when I come back, this desk better be empty."

Immediately regret caught up with you and you turned on your heel to glare at him. "Scratch that. I want those sticky notes gone."

"Aw," he pouted and tapped your keyboard like it was a toy, "I already had the perfect place to hide your plant."

Your fingers were itching to grab the collar of his t-shirt and choke him with it. You found yourself stepping closer to him as you reiterated your point: "I didn't mean empty my desk—"

"If you're planning on kissing, could you do it someplace else?" a voice interrupted.

As if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over you, you sobered from your anger. Even Seungcheol looked a bit more flustered than usual. As you breathed, your chest just about brushed against his — a clear sign that you had gotten too close.

Your startled eyes met his and— Had there always been so many shades of brown in his eyes? Was that a speck of gold near the edge of his left iris? Had his lips always been so full and tempting? You had never seen him this up close before; that had to be the reason for the sudden thundering of your heart.

The silence stretched, seconds feeling like entire minutes until finally you jerked out his magnetic field, your gaze hardening as you stepped back and crossed your arms over your chest.

"And you did say you wanted the desk empty," Seokmin helpfully provided from his spot right next to your desk just then. He barely looked up from his magazine to offer a smile before turning back to it like he hadn't just provoked you. It seemed the list of traitors had a new member for a multitude of reasons.

"Fine," Seungcheol finally relented under your hardening glare.

Slowly, like a kid trying to get out of chores by doing them poorly, he began removing the notes. One from here, one from there, a third one from a completely different spot. There was no rhyme or reason to his work and it only served to annoy you further. His movements were stiff and almost unnatural as he gathered the notes in his left hand.

Now that he was further away, you could think properly again and the annoyance was back at full force. You rubbed the bridge of your nose, resisting the urge to throw something at him again. "It's going to take you hours at that rate."

The reply you earned started with a dramatic (theatrical, really) sigh. "I know. I'm really such a good boyfriend for sacrificing my time to help you, aren't I?"

"How noble of you."

"I know."

"Truly, I cannot thank you enough for your charitable nature," you deadpanned and walked towards the break room.

You needed space between yourself and this infuriating man. Because he irritated you. Drove you nuts. Made you unable to figure out whether you wanted to punch him or kiss his lips. Because he irritated you. Right. That was it.

There was not a single bone in your body that felt anything like attraction towards this man. When you looked at him just then, it was just pure objective observation. Choi Seungcheol was an attractive man by most standards; you clearly weren't entirely unsusceptible to his charms. None of it was romantic. None of it meant anything.

You gulped a glass of cold water and the world shifted back into place.

There was nothing romantic about the way he had kept you company at your show and scared your ex. Nor about the way he spoke of you on his show. Nor the way he kept you near in public, his arm always casually resting on your waist or hip, his presence a shield against the disbelieving stares of everyone that knew you.

No, you had not almost kissed Seungcheol. You did not want to kiss Seungcheol. The whole fake dating scheme had simply clouded your judgement and blended the boundaries of your hatred.

Satisfied with your conclusion, you smoothed your clothes and fixed your hair before walked back into the office space, fully expecting to find the devil himself still painfully plucking sticky notes off your desk.

Thankfully, he was not there. He was nowhere to be found, in fact. And neither were the three to four hundred sticky notes. Your desk was as clean as it had been when you left it last night.

Not entirely clean, actually, now that you looked at it closer. There was a singular obnoxiously pink note still on the desk. And next to it: a take-away cup from the coffee shop across the street and a paper bag lumpy with pastries, still warm from the oven.

"What's this?" you found yourself asking as you picked up the cup. It smelled like your favourite drink. A cautiously taken short sip confirmed that hypothesis.

You grabbed the note, scoffed in disbelief at the writing on it and stuffed the paper into your drawer.

'Don't let this fool you — I still don't like you much'

No, there was absolutely nothing romantic about any of this.

“Terrorism? Wow, tell us how you really feel, Y/N,” Jun retorts playfully. “But fine. Anon, if they’ve been feeding you breadcrumbs for half a year, that’s basically emotional warfare. Please save yourself and block them on everything𑁋and yes, that includes on Spotify.”

You snort at that, tapping your pen against your script notes that you’ve been barely following anyway. The show had practically devolved from advice to whatever banter you and Jun had cooked up on the spot. “Exactly. Listeners, if your situationship has an expiration date longer than expired milk, it’s time to toss it. Jun is too sweet to say it, so I’ll do it. Run.” 

“I𑁋’too sweet’?!” A dramatic gasp tumbles out of Jun as he spins his chair toward you. “I was the one who told last week’s caller to roast her boyfriend’s dick like a marshmallow because he kept forgetting her birthday!” 

“But you said it with, like, the sweetest voice ever!”

“That man deserved to get emotionally blue-balled! How can you forget your girlfriend’s own birthday for a second year in a row?” 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s basically audible over the mic. “God, Junhui, you have the emotional range of a raccoon.” 

“I’ll take it.” Jun grins at that, thrusting his shoulders back as if he’s trying to appear bigger and more intimidating. “At least raccoons are cute, right?” 

On your laptop, the chat is going crazy.

user: here we go again with their flirty banter 🙄 user: JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY YOU TWO!!!!!!!!! user: i swear this radio show is hosted by 2 delusional idiots user: i think they should kiss idk

“No, we shouldn’t!” You exclaim at the chat like you’re scolding a bunch of twelve-year olds. 

Jun nearly hops out of his seat. “Wait, I agree!” 

“Wen Junhui!”

“What? I was agreeing with you!” 

“That was not you agreeing with me,” You groan. “You agreed to kissing me.” 

“Well, the chat started it, so don’t put all the blame on me,” Jun says with a pout, folding his arms together. “Plus, it would be good for research purposes, wouldn’t it?” 

Your eyes bulge out of your skull, your mind and face flaming up. “You’re such a𑁋we host a radio show, not a damn lab!”

“Chemistry is still relevant! And chemistry is needed for relationships!” 

“We are not in a relationship, oh my, God.”

“Hypothetically, Y/N. Think hypotheticals.” Jun clicks his tongue, letting out playful tsk-tsk-tsk. “I’m telling you our ratings would absolutely skyrocket.”

You fight back the smile threatening to split your face in half, but there’s no point in trying to battle it. After being best friends with Jun for most of your life and witnessing pretty much all the stupid shit he has ever said or done, you’ve long accepted that his brand of chaos is the only thing in this world that can make your chest too tight and too warm at the same time. Especially if it involves the playful flirting you’ve been bouncing on for years. 

“Whatever, to answer your question𑁋raccoons are cute, but they’re also known for making stupid life decisions,” You point out with a victorious smirk. “So, maybe not the best comparison to make. It’s accurate, regardless.”

“Harsh,” he whines, but his eyes𑁋those stupid, unfairly expressive eyes of his𑁋sparkle with teasing delight. “Alright, onto the final submission of the night. Anonymous says…”

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air, I’ve been supporting the show since the very beginning, and now, I think I’m in trouble enough to make a submission.  I’m in love with my best friend. I have been for years and it struck me pretty hard this morning. Is it weird to say when I first met them it felt like love at first sight? We talk every day to the point that everyone assumes we’re together, but we’re not. They’re kind, funny, and sometimes I think they deserve someone better than me. But is it selfish of me to say that I want to keep them in my life forever? Even if that line isn’t crossed?  What should I do??? 🐱

The studio falls silent for a few moments after Jun finishes reading. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. When Jun picks his head back up to look at you after reading the confession, his usual smirk is still in place, but fades just a tad when he catches the contemplative expression on your face.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N?”

“Huh?” You blink back up at him. “Oh, shit. Right, uh…”

You can’t tell if it’s the late night hour getting to you or something else entirely. You’ve received so many similar confessions before𑁋a best friend falling in love with their other half, the slow and torturous ache of unspoken feelings, the fear of messing up something that’s already so beautiful itself. And ultimately, your advice has always stayed the same.

But when you meet eyes with Jun, it’s as if the words have completely cut your tongue off. You finally clear your throat. 

“First of all, welcome cat anon to the club of people who are all vicariously and collectively screwed together,” You say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I wish we hadn’t read yours at the very last minute since we’re about in end in five𑁋”

Jun lifts a brow. “Wait, we have about fifteen𑁋”

“𑁋but I’ll just say that you aren’t selfish for wanting to keep them in your life. But you are doing a disservice keeping it locked away forever. This kind of love doesn’t come around twice. So tell them, even if it scares you. What’s the worst that could happen, you know?” 

You can feel Jun’s heavy gaze linger on the side of your face.

“Exactly, anon,” he jumps in like the professional he is. “Ripping the band-aid off would only hurt temporarily, right? And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll be here next week with some ice cream recommendations to help you cope.” 

“Keep in mind what Jun said, guys,” You say, forcing a small laugh. “Thank you all for turning into Love On Air. Stay honest, stay unhinged, and send that one person a risky text. If you want to submit a confession, please send one to our email. We are live every Saturday on FM 98.7! Goodnight, everyone!” 

You kill your microphone first as the ON LIVE sign on the wall blinks out with a soft click. Jun switches off his microphone right after, and the silence that washes over the studio is louder than anything else. 

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You still feel the ghost of Jun’s gaze warm on your cheek from when you were giving advice just a minute ago. It’s silly, really𑁋how one singular anonymous confession is enough to make you think and contemplate so hard. You’ve given advice to more people than you can count on your hands and toes, but this specific one feels as if it grew limbs, crawled out of the screen, and sat itself between you and him. 

“You rushed that ending,” Jun interrupts your thoughts as he swings his coat over his shoulders. 

You scoff lightly. “I did not.”

“Did too.”

“I literally answered the question,” You shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “That’s our job.”

“Exactly,” he hums in response, leaning his elbow on the desk and resting his chin lazily in his palm. “You answered it like it was your first time ever hearing it.” 

A pause.

“When it’s not.”

It’s not. But why𑁋out of all goddamn times you’ve read the same exact fear𑁋did this one feel like someone jabbed a finger at your chest and said: here, this is yours? 

You force a laugh at that, letting out a deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental at my big age.” 

“You’re literally younger than me.”

“Only by a few months. Your argument is irrelevant, grandpa.”

Jun tilts his head at your words, pushing himself off the table and invading your personal space as always. He stands only a step away from you, observing the way you’re speedily packing your belongings like some kind of punishment. When you face back up at him, he gives a light flick to your forehead. His touch lingers for a few seconds, before he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s playful and casual, but the way your skin tingles after isn’t. 

Your heart does a stupid little flip in your chest. 

“Come on, youngling, I’ll drive you home,” he says with a cheesy smile, dangling his car keys off his finger. 

A groan leaves you as you allow him to drag you by the wrist and out of the studio. 

To be honest, the radio show started off as one big fat joke. 

It started in sophomore year of college, where you and Jun were nothing but a pair of dumb, broke college kids. Then you both decided to sign a quick gig for the campus radio station because you thought it would look good on your resumes. The two of you were supposed to do the boring music hour𑁋basically play whatever indie crap the station manager liked and read weather updates every morning. 

But that didn’t exactly go as planned, as the majority of those sessions were spent with you both roasting each other’s music tastes live on air, and for some reason, the listeners seemed to eat that dynamic up. 

In one particular session, Jun opened up the radio station email box live on air. You both expected for another complaint, which wasn’t uncommon knowing how immature the two of you act sometimes. However, it wasn’t a complaint this time.

It was a confession.

A girl had written about how she’d been in love with her roommate for the past two years and didn’t know how to voice it without ruining their lease together. Jun read it when his microphone was supposed to be switched off, and something in the studio shifted that night. 

“Do… we answer it?” Jun had asked you warily. 

You had hesitated for once, before a sudden surge of determination filled you. Perhaps it’s the delirium of two idiots who believed they could wing it, or the thought that a random person decided to reach out to both of you𑁋out of anyone else𑁋was the reason for the determination. Either way, you looked across at Jun that night and said, “Yeah. Let’s answer it.” 

And that was that. 

The rest of the semester became an absolute rollercoaster of love confessions, messy breakups, love bombers, situationships that made you want to pull your hair out, and the two of you slowly carving a name for yourselves as the unfiltered chaotic duo who gave sarcastic advice that came straight from the heart. The campus station extended their time slot, then the local radio station in the city picked the two of you up. 

Somewhere along the way, and four years later, Love On Air stopped being a joke and became a real thing you and Jun committed together every Saturday at midnight𑁋your own little pocket of chaos in an otherwise normal adult life. For the most part, at least, because pining for your best friend is totally counted as normal. 

Wen Junhui came into your life like a stray cat who decided that your doorstep looked comfortable enough to stay forever. Uninvited and unpredictable, way too pretty for his own good, yet somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. He randomly plopped down right next to you during freshman orientation, snatched the last macaron on your plate, and gave you a look that said you’d be fun to annoy for the next four years before introducing his name. 

You’d never admit how absolutely starstruck you were the first time he smiled at you. Or laughed. You told yourself you were just sleep deprived and lonely being in the city all by yourself, but deep down, the voice in your head at that moment said that you wanted to keep him. 

You should have been annoyed. But instead you laughed and nearly choked on your water, and that was it. Game over. And you became each other’s favourite person without either of you having to put a label on it. Best friend felt too small, and soulmate felt too big and scary for two broke college kids who couldn’t dedicate themselves to a single major. 

So you just… existed together. Thrived together. Grew together through the most stupidest decisions known to mankind. 

And at some point down the road, that stray cat curled up into your chest and refused to leave.

“Listeners, let’s give a full round of applause to user derangedcarat for cutting off their cheating ex-partner,” You announce into the microphone, clapping your hands like a proud mom at a recital. The chat explodes immediately. 

user: 👏👏👏👏 user: FINALLY i’m so proud of u user derangedcarat queen user: anyone who cheats on their partner needs to be put on death row user: ^^^ preach!!!

“And you did the hard part, user derangedcarat,” Jun adds in. “We love growth in this household. Maybe email us a screenshot of the block so we can frame it in the studio here.” 

“Exactly, and please don’t forget to take care of yourself,” You reassure into the microphone. “Block, delete, go touch some grass if you need to. You deserve someone who actually respects you.”

The next confessions run by in a blur over the next hour. Someone sends in a confession asking if it’s weird to still be hung on their high school ex, another person confesses that they’ve been naming their house plants after people who ghosted them, which the two of you undoubtedly praise for creativity. 

To top off the chaos, there’s one submission an anonymous user submits with screenshots of cringe-worthy flirty text messages from a man they’re talking to, with the sender begging for the two of you to rate the messages on a scale of “smooth operator” to “immediate block”.

Jun narrows his eyes toward the screen. “Y/N, listen to this: ‘hey babygirl, how’s your night been? mine was spent thinking about u 😏’. Sent at 2:19 in the morning, left on read for three days.” 

You burst out laughing, cheeks puffing out to the point it hurts. “Oh, my God. Solid negative five. That’s a biohazard right there.”

“That’s way too generous,” Jun snorts while spinning in his chair. “Anon, this man is serving nothing but expired milk. Please save yourself a headache and block his number.” 

Heartbreak, confessions, and ridiculous stories𑁋you and Jun tag-team them over the next hour like strong duo you are, with the chatting eating up every particularly brutal line that leaves either of your mouths. This is what seems to happen when you give two nocturnal people a cup of bitter tar coffee and the free will to say whatever they please. 

By the time the final minutes of the session comes, you and Jun decide to read out one last confession. 

“...Cat anon is back with a follow-up confession.”

You perk up curiously at that. “Really? What does it say?” 

Jun hesitates briefly, before clearing his throat. 

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air, Hi, it’s me again. The one who wrote the other week. Thank you both so much for responding to me. I listened to every word you guys said, and I think you’re right. I was almost brave the other night𑁋had this whole stupid mental speech planned to tell them when we were hanging out together. But I… chickened out. Again. Really dumb of me, I know.  And I know that I look like a coward who needs a weekly pep talk, but this show feels like the only safe space I’m able to confess this. I do have a question for the two of you to answer and discuss. Do you think there’s such a thing as ‘perfect love’?  I think that’s my dilemma right now. I want to be perfect for them. I want to give them that perfect love that they deserve. But how can I do that, knowing who I am? 🐱

The studio falls into a gentle kind of quiet after Jun finishes reading. The words are still processing deeply through your mind when he warily lifts his eyes back up at you, lingering on your concentrated expression. Then his heart stutters in his chest when you meet his eyes as if he got caught doing something wrong. 

“Jun, why don’t you answer it first?” 

Jun blinks, before shaking his head like he’s trying to clear away fog. He leans back in his chair and stretches his long arms up with a thoughtful sigh, enough for his hoodie to ride up just slightly for you to catch a sliver of skin. You try (and fail) not to notice, muting your microphone briefly to let out a cough into your hand. 

“I mean, ‘perfect’ love is that type of stuff you read about in books or watch in movies, right?” He shrugs, letting his arms fall back down as his chair creaks softly beneath him. “Like no miscommunication, no timing issues, no one being stupid… which already disqualifies most of humanity, honestly.” 

You lean back in to unmute your microphone. “Are you saying you’re part of that disqualification?” 

“Absolutely, I’m the poster child for it,” he claims with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I constantly forget shit, I’m nocturnal as hell, and sometimes I make objectively terrible decisions. Who would want to date me?” 

The question lands a little too easily, maybe even familiar, sending an uncomfortable ripple you feel all the way down to your toes. Something about the way it left his mouth without any hesitation sends a painful grip to your heartstrings. Jun has always had this kind of self-deprecating humour, tossing it out like it was nothing at times. It makes you want to one: shake reality into him, or two: kiss him to prove him wrong. 

You force out an awkward laugh, higher than it needs to be. 

“Someone with terrible taste, clearly,” You answer, keeping your voice teasing despite the heaviness in your chest. “But luckily for you, the world is full of people with terrible taste.”

Jun chuckles, spinning his chair so he could study you properly. 

“Yeah?” He tilts his head. “You think so?”

The chat is moving so fast now it’s basically a complete blur.

user: bro really asked who would date him while staring at his wife user: why is he so boyfriend coded still tho user: y/n should answer the question too!!! user: PERFECT LOVE IS WHEN YOU LOOK AT EACH OTHER STOPPP RNN

“Chat is right,” Jun quips. “What’s your answer to the question too, Y/N?”

The second the question leaves him, you can feel every pair of invisible eyes staring at you through the screen and your pulse kicking up loudly in your ears. Jun is still leaning back in his chair, relaxed as ever, his curious gaze fixed solely on you. 

Finally, you clear your throat.

“Well, I’ve seen couples break up because their relationship isn’t ‘perfect’,” You begin. “But the ones that last? They’re the ones where both sides are a little flawed, a little messy, and a little scared, but they choose each other anyway. That’s what you would call an imperfect love, and… I think that’s the most beautiful kind of love that can exist.” 

Suddenly, the tiny studio feels almost suffocating to sit in. Your eyes flick up to Jun. He isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. He’s just staring at you with an expression so open𑁋almost surprised, like he didn’t expect you to be so serious𑁋it steals the rest of your answer out of your throat. 

You refuse to look at the chat; you already know what they’re saying.

“You really thought about it a lot, huh?” Jun asks, scratching at the back of his neck. 

You could only manage a small, somewhat self-conscious nod, bringing your eyes down to the ground. “Yeah. Guess I have.” 

A wave of silence washes over the studio for a minute.

“...it’s a really good answer,” he murmurs.

A pleased smile crosses over your face. “Well, I am kinda a professional at this.”

“Mm,” he hums absentmindedly in response. 

You pretend to busy yourself with your laptop, trying to read over the chat that has now morphed into just meaningless spams of screaming text and heart emojis. Your cursor lingers over nothing, while your heartbeat is running a full blown marathon of panic. 

But when you glance back at Jun, the panic seems to strengthen even more.

“Cat anon, we really appreciate your trust in us,” You finish softly. “And I really hope that our advice tonight resonates with you. At the end of day, we’re all just a bunch of flawed humans looking for love, right? Don’t drive yourself to be perfect, because you’re already perfectly imperfect just as you are. And if your best friend reciprocates these feelings…”

Your eyes flit back up to Jun.

“...then take the leap, because they’re probably already waiting for you.” 

After a pause, you lightly kick Jun’s foot underneath the table. He jolts in his seat like you shocked him, before recovering with a nervous, boyish chuckle, sounding not even close to his usual, bright and effortless laugh. For once, he appears almost rattled, with his pupils wide and his ears pink that even the dim studio lights can hardly hide. 

On the wall, the ON LIVE sign flickers in and out of its glow. 

“She’s, um… Y/N is right, cat anon,” Jun agrees quietly. “You don’t have to become someone else to prove yourself worthy for someone. If they’re your person, then… who you are already is why they stayed this long.” 

From that, the chat practically combusts.

user: WEN JUNHUI???? IS THERE SOMETHING U WANNA SHARE W THE CLASS??? user: why did this suddenly get so intense lmao is it hot in here or is it just me? user: i’ve been on this ship since the beginning of the show!!!!

“Alright, that’s all the time we have for tonight,” You interrupt quickly, instinctively switching back to host mode. “Thank you to everyone who sent in your confessions tonight. Stay safe, stay honest, and please don’t respond to someone who sends you a babygirl text at ungodly hours.”

Jun reaches for the switch. “Goodnight, everyone!”

Click. The ON LIVE sign dies. 

Jun slides the headphones off his head and shuts down his laptop. You do the same. The two of you pack up belongings in that familiar and companionable silence that always spills into the room after a session. When you swing your bag over your shoulder, Jun glances up in your direction worriedly.

“You okay?” he asks. 

You nod, offering him a small, sleepy smile. “Take me home?”

Jun swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Yeah.” He’s already opening the door for you. “Always.”

Jun remembers one of the first discussions the two of you had on the show together.

Love at first sight. 

Back then, the studio was smaller, scrappier, and the chairs squeaked each time either of you moved even a centimetre. The world had fallen asleep long enough that honesty slipped through the cracks of your voices so easily. You both were running on nothing but instant noodles and caffeine, way different than the semi-functional adult routine you have established now. 

He remembers the beautiful laugh that left you when the question came in halfway through a song neither of you remembered choosing. 

He laughed with you too. Rolled his eyes and called it nonsense, all while pretending to not notice how your smile had gone a little soft when you answered it with that amused lilt to your voice. 

“I think it exists,” You had said. “Not like movie magic, though. But… you just meet someone and your brain clicks into place, you know? Like it says, ‘Oh. It’s you.’”

“That sounds like you’re trying to make shit up to justify bad decisions,” Jun argued back with a smirk. 

You gasped at that and slapped his wrist, causing him to laugh. “Excuse me? That was uncalled for.” 

And the segment moved on after that. 

But Jun continues to carry that sentence with him like a permanent scar. 

Oh. It’s you.

“What are the chances that a confession we’ve read out is from someone we know?” Jun asks while plopping a chip in his mouth, adjusting his body from where he had been sprawled across your couch for the past few hours. 

You don’t bother to spare a glance up from your laptop, but a grin crosses your features. “Pretty high, to be honest. Soonyoung once told me he submitted something to the show one time.” 

Jun nearly chokes on the chip scratching at his throat. “Soonyoung? As in Kwon Soonyoung? Never shuts up, Soonyoung?” He sits up so fast he accidentally knicks his socked foot under the coffee table. “Ow! I𑁋What the hell did he confess? Was it about that girl in his dance class that was drooling over him?”

You finally look over at him, chuckling at the way his eyes have grown comically wide. “He didn’t say. Just that he sent it under a funny username and almost died when we read it out. Apparently, we just straight up told him to stop being a coward and talk to her. They went on one date together. He found out she was allergic to cats and broke her heart by saying they were incompatible. End of story.”

Jun stares at you for a full blown three seconds, before he throws his head back into the couch with a laugh so genuine you would think his soul left his body completely. 

“That’s insane,” he says breathlessly. “Literally the most Soonyoung thing to do.”

“Actually, he’s not,” You chime back in. “I think he’s dating this new girl named… Skye, I think?”

“Sky?”

“Skye, but with an e at the end.” 

“Wow,” Jun mutters, crunching down on another chip and sarcastically adds, “Character development. We love to see it.” 

You roll your eyes, shutting down your laptop with a click and leaning back into the couch with Jun right next to you. You curl your knees up to your chest. “People change, Jun. Miracles happen.” 

Jun offers you the bag of chips. You take one, crunching absentmindedly as your gaze travels somewhere past the TV, past the wall, past everything. He notices. Of course he does. A nudge to your leg awakens you quickly. 

“Where’d you go just now?” he asks.

“Nowhere.”

Jun huffs. “Liar.”

You flick a crumb at him. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he retorts with a lazy grin, sticking his tongue out.

You shoot a glare at him and snatch the bag of chips from his hand before he can react. A scandalised look splits his face as he lunges to grab it back from your grasp, but you manage to twist your body away and dodge his reach.

“Hey!” he exclaims, attempting to grab the back once more but you clutch it tightly to your chest. “Give that back to me!”

You yelp and scramble further into the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter as you hug the back tight enough to crush some of the chips inside. “You stole this from my pantry!”

When his fingers brush the corner of the bag, you only yank it away again. Jun narrows his eyes at you, lips twitching upwards like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Y/N.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“Junhui.”

“You’re being annoying on purpose.”

“And you love me for it,” You remark, sticking your tongue at him back mockingly.

That does it.

As he makes a dive for it again, you twist a little too far. The next thing you know, you’re collapsing back against the couch cushions with a soft oof, and Jun is falling down with you. Very much ungracefully.

Because one second he’s reaching, the next he finds himself tumbling down over you in a tangle of limbs and laughter, somehow managing to catch himself just beside your head before he can actually crush you into the couch. And he’s way too close.

His knee presses into the cushion in between your legs, while his hand is planted by the side of your head. His dark hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, and his breath comes out unevenly from the laughing.

Your own breathing isn’t exactly steady either. 

Jun looks down at you. You look back up at him. Your apartment suddenly feels fifty times smaller, and the laughter dies instantly, replaced by a familiar heaviness in the air whenever the two of you are alone together. His eyes drop down to your lips for a singular second before flicking back up to your face, and you catch the way his ears redden in slight guilt. 

You swallow down a lump in your throat. “Jun…”

And from that split second of vulnerability, he uses that opportunity to snatch the bag of chips right off your hands, catching you completely off-guard. The warmth in the air still lingers even as he pulls away from you and flops back down on the couch.

“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly. “Victory is mine!”

You stare at him in disbelief before letting out the loudest, most offended noise imaginable as you smack his shoulder. 

“Wen Junhui!”

“Hm? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the savoury taste of victory,” he quips with a grin, face beaming with pride. 

“You’re such a little thief𑁋”

“You hesitated!” he argues smugly. “So that’s on you!”

“Because you were staring at me all weird!” 

That makes him shut up, the smugness fading off his face so abruptly as if you accidentally powered something in his system off. The apartment goes quiet enough for you to only hear the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the honk of a car outside. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe you did, you don’t know. 

“I…” You utter weakly, trying to brush it away with a nervous chuckle. “Can we just pretend I spontaneously combusted instead?”

A soft, disbelieving laugh leaves him. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“For… looking at you all weird.”

“Jun𑁋”

“I think I’ll get going. It’s getting late,” he mutters, immediately standing up a little too fast. He grabs the bag of chips instinctively, realises it’s still in his hands, and sets it back down on your coffee table awkwardly. 

He doesn’t look at you as he grabs his hoodie and keys, moving with a surprising speed that even your own brain can barely process what to say. When he’s scrambling to the door, you move before you think, and you grab him by the wrist before he can unlock your door. 

Jun feels his pulse jump harder under your fingertips. Twisting himself back around, he’s met with your soft yet worried gaze, before flicking down to where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. You release him immediately like you accidentally touched fire.

“Sorry,” You murmur, taking a small step back. “Just… text me when you get home, okay?” 

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Of course.” A sheepish smile graces his lips for a moment. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Jun.”

You close the door with a quiet click that somehow is louder than it should be. Now, you’re all alone in your apartment, yet the warmth of his presence still lingers through every part of your place. He’s been in here a thousand times𑁋hell, you both have slept in the same bed together a plentiful amount during all the times he’s trespassed in your space𑁋but tonight it feels like there’s a literal dent in the air itself. 

The two of you have shared many awkward moments together. He’s accidentally walked in on you changing a few times; you’ve seen him stress-eat an entire family-sized bag of shrimp chips at four in the morning. You both have seen each other at some of your lowest points, but why, out of all nights, does it hit harder than anything else?

You sink back into the couch with a groan. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Then𑁋

Buzz.

[12:55am | menace (affectionate)] i just got home you okay?

You stare at his message for a long moment.

[12:57am | y/n] good and yeah, i’m fine. you?

[12:58am | menace (affectionate)] splendid! and … tired

[12:58am | y/n] go sleep then dumbass

[12:59am | menace (affectionate)] alright mother calm down i’m brushing my teeth

A low giggle leaves you at his response. A few minutes pass before a new text from him lights up your phone. 

[01:05am | menace (affectionate)] can i ask you something really random?

[01:05am | y/n] of course

The typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears again.

[01:07am | menace (affectionate)] do you think cat anon is okay?

A sinking feeling opens a pit in your stomach, thumb frozen over your keyboard. You stare at the screen until the words begin to blur. God, of all the questions he had to ask tonight…

[01:10am | y/n] i don’t know i hope so and that they learn it’s okay to be brave

[01:12am | menace (affectionate)] yeah. me too

You’re hardly able to think when his next text comes in quicker than you expected.

[01:12am | menace (affectionate)] goodnight y/n don’t overthink in your sleep

You smile faintly.

[01:13am | y/n] no promises goodnight jun

You lock your phone after that with a tired sigh, tossing it onto the couch cushion besides you like it might bite you back if you hold it for too long. And somewhere on the other side of the city, another phone is tossed away like a shameful piece of evidence. 

As you stare blankly at your dark television and feel the exhaustion of the day weighing between your bones, you know that sleep won’t come easy tonight. It becomes even more challenging even after you brush your teeth, wash your face, doomscroll on your phone for a while, and face plant onto the bed like you just came home from a wounded battle. 

“Pathetic,” You mumble into your pillow to absolutely nobody. “I’m so pathetic.” 

On the other hand, Jun is… doing the exact same thing. 

His ceiling fan spins lazily overhead while his phone screen dims beside him. The last text message you sent to him spirals through the air around him. He doesn’t even know what to do but let out a muffled incredulous laugh into his pillow, sighs, before abruptly sitting up in bed and realising how much of a loser he’s acting right now. 

“I should’ve…” Jun groans, running a hand over his face. “I should’ve just told her… I’m such a coward.” 

Because the thing about running a late-night show where love is the main topic and advice is given, is that it’s painfully easy to tell strangers to be brave when your own heart isn’t on the line, when you’re not the aforementioned person in the story who is being pined over. It’s easy to take the leap when you aren’t standing at the edge yourself. Yet for some reason, it’s only harder to take the leap when you don’t even follow the advice you give to others. 

The irony is quite laughable, to be honest. 

Jun grabs his laptop and forces it open, the bright screen nearly blinding him in the darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t care. He finds himself navigating to his email, switching to his second account, and gets greeted by a particular message that had already been forwarded to the radio show. A message that had already been read, answered, and sent under a certain pseudonym.

Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air…

Biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up a fresh draft and begins typing. 

“Take the leap, cat anon,” he repeats to himself over and over again. “Take the leap, Wen Junhui.” 

Jun texted you two hours before the show that he was sick along with a selfie of him buried in a hoodie he threw on, somehow contracting a stomach bug which he blamed on some expired convenience store gimbap. He insisted that he could still come in, yet you reassured him with a string of sobbing emojis that it’s probably in his best interest to stay home to rest, and that you could handle hosting the show on your own, even if… you’ve never really done it before. 

The show must go on, after all. 

So when you find yourself sitting alone within the quiet studio just mere minutes from going live, you definitely sense both the physical and mental emptiness of his presence in the room a little too sharply. His headphones are still left the way he always leaves them, and his chair is facing the wrong wrong because he spins in it so much that he never bothers to put it back properly. 

A small, fond chuckle leaves you at the thought of him, and you have to chase those thoughts away the second the clock strikes midnight. From there, you roll your shoulders back to shake away any residual nerves, clear your throat, and reach over to the switch. 

Taking one last deep breath, you flip it on. The ON LIVE sign sparks to life on the wall.

“Good evening to all our fellow lonely and emotionally volatile listeners,” You greet warmly into the microphone. “Welcome back to everyone’s favourite unhinged radio show, Love On Air, live at midnight every Saturday on FM 98.7.” 

Your eyes can barely keep track of the live chat box being spammed with incoming messages. You read a couple of messages out of people describing their day, but it isn’t long until the elephant in the room is acknowledged.

You snort lightly. “I regret to inform you all that Jun has passed away due to… alleged food poisoning.” Some comments following your words make you laugh. “Yes, yes, you’re all invited to the funeral, don’t worry.”

user: i commence a ritual to bring him back or we riot 🙏🙏 user: bro probably slept through his alarm honestly user: WAIT BUT THIS FEELS SO WRONG W/O HIM 😭😭 user: rip… guess no husband and wife arguments for now… 😔

“He offered to join while sick, by the way,” You add in quickly. “But I personally vetoed it. I’m not letting a man who ate expired gimbap shit his way into a session. He’s probably listening in right now, so hi, Jun. Hope you’re still intact, buddy.” 

After a few minutes of more interactions, you finally pull up the radio show’s inbox and begin to organise through the confessions that were received recently. That weird feeling creeps back up your spine once again as you scroll𑁋not about the confessions specifically, just the thought about doing this alone. Your eyes flick to the empty chair right next to you once more. 

You read a few confessions and answer two callers𑁋there’s one from someone who felt bad for ghosting someone they actually liked, another person confesses they’re having a hard time with their partner wanting to open up their relationship, and one with expressing their fears of having their first time with the wrong person. You offer your own thoughtful answers and advice as best as you can, yet it feels so lackluster and flat without Jun’s playful interjections whenever you get too sappy on air. 

“Your first time should be with someone who makes you feel safe, not just wanted,” You say gently into the microphone. “You deserve that. Don’t settle for anything less. It’s okay to wait until that safety feels undeniable.”

The chat floods with hearts and supportive messages. A few people send their thank yous for the advice. Some latecomers ask questions about Jun’s whereabouts.You smile gratefully, but it feels a little fragile tonight, not quite reaching up to your eyes. 

As the final music break of the session ends, you unmute your microphone to speak.

“Alright, listeners, we’ve reached the final thirty minutes of tonight’s session. I want to thank you as always for staying up and listening into the show,” You announce confidently. “We’ve got time for… maybe a few more confessions and a possible lucky caller, so let’s see what we have left.”

Scrolling silently through the inbox, it isn’t long until your cursor hovers a familiar username once again. Your heart spikes at the sight, hesitating for a slow second.”

“Everyone, let’s welcome cat anon back to the stage with another follow-up confession.” You click the confession, take in a deep breath you’re sure the viewers can hear, and start to read it aloud.

Dear Y/N of Love On Air… Hi, it’s me again. To be honest, I don’t really know why I keep sending these, but somehow I always end up back here again. You truly have a way of words, and I really want to thank you for that. I thought about what you said about imperfect love. I used to think that if I fix every flaw about myself, then maybe I’ll be worthy of them, but now I know that love is someone seeing every fractured version of you, and staying anyway. There’s something else I want to confess too. I think I’ve been waiting so long for the “perfect” moment that I accidentally passed a thousand “imperfect” ones. It makes me terrified that they’ll meet someone more braver than me, so I’ll use this chance now to be brave for once.  I’ll be ready on the line for this session and use this chance to finally face whatever happens next. I hope you’re able to answer my call whenever that may be. I have an important message to send. 🐱

Your voice comes out almost too quiet by the end you finish reading. You flit a quick glance to the ever-exploding live chat box.

user: HOLY SHITTT CAT ANON VOICE REVEAL??? user: answer the call! answer the call! user: IM GONNA THROW UP WHY AM I SO NERVOUS user: we’re witnessing a cinematic moment in history wtff

Suddenly, the blink of the call line makes your throat tighten. Your fingers hover over the console as if it might suddenly jump out and bite you. God, you don’t understand why you’re unexpectedly so nervous𑁋you’ve talked to many callers, and yet, speaking with cat anon has you on complete edge. 

“Okay,” You stammer shakily into the microphone, covering up your nerves with a faint smile. “Let’s… let’s take this final call of the night, everyone.”

When you answer the line, it’s as if the world goes entirely mute, except for the intense pounding your chest. Nothing but static fills your headphones as the line struggles to connect for a few torturous moments.

Then, a quiet breath reverberates into your ears. The kind of breath that sounded like it had to claw its way out of someone’s chest. 

“...hello?”

The voice is slightly distorted through the line, unmistakably low𑁋clearly a male voice𑁋and trembling slightly around the edges. It’s more of a whisper, if anything. Perhaps he’s just as nervous as you. 

“Hi,” You greet warmly, slipping back into your professional radio voice. “You’re live on air with Love On Air. Is this… the one and only cat anon?” 

A small, embarrassed huff of air crosses the line. He sounds a bit closer this time as he replies, “...yeah, it’s me.” 

“Well, I’m giving you the floor now,” You assure firmly. “Whatever you need to say… we’re listening.”

Another shaky breath crackles through the line. You can practically touch the contemplation that’s buzzing through the call with your fingertips if that’s even possible, and even within the studio itself. 

When the seconds of silence turn into a full-blown minute of consideration, the line crackles once more.

“I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Your heart stops. Your mind draws a complete and utter blank. The abrupt clarity of his voice cuts through any lingering distortion and static and hits you like a wave. The world itself feels as if it’s tilted on its axis. 

“Jun𑁋?”

“I love you,” he repeats more firmly this time, voice raw and full of everything he’s been holding back. “and I told you I was sick tonight because I couldn’t sit right next to you while you gave advice I was too scared to take. I just𑁋holy shit, I love you…”

Your mouth parts open in shock, then closes. The chat is going absolutely feral right now and you can barely read through all the comments without having this unusual urge to just slam your hand onto the console and pretend that you’re suffering from pure delirium. 

On the wall, the ON AIR still glows stubbornly. 

user: I FREAKING KNEW THAT CAT ANON WAS JUN user: may i find this kind of love one day what the helly 🙏 user: Y/N ARE YOU BREATHING RIGHT NOW ???? user: our stupid oblivious hosts are in love. I CALLED it

You feel as if you almost have to squeeze your voice just to get it out. “Jun…”

On the other hand, he inhales sharply.

“...yeah?”

“You’re such an idiot,” You sputter out. “Do you have any idea how… how insane this is? Confessing on our show… using a pseudonym I gave advice to𑁋”

“I know.”

“𑁋after lying about being sick𑁋”

“I know.”

“𑁋and letting me sit here and talk about love like you weren’t the one I was talking to the whole time?” You ramble on out of a sheer mix of pure disbelief and relief, tightening your grip on the microphone. “Like all the advice I said wasn’t about… us?” 

You hear some rapid shuffling on the other side, and you could almost imagine Jun sitting up in bed as if he’s received the most shocking news of his entire life. Then you hear his dazed laugh flowing into your ears.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It was.”

Your breath catches embarrassingly hard and your face is completely on fire. The chat combusts once again, and you have to keep mentally reminding yourself that this entire interaction is live and half the city is probably listening in at this very second. 

“From the first moment I saw you back in college,” Jun continues softly. “My heart and brain did the thing, you know? That you said before𑁋where you meet someone and all you can think is: Oh, it’s you. The second I saw you, I just… I knew I wanted to keep seeing you.” 

You feel your eyes start to burn.

“I should’ve said it years ago, but I’m… I’m a coward. I know I am,” he mutters helplessly. “I know it’s stupid pretending to be cat anon because it was safer than telling my best friend I’m in love with her. Stupid that I… used to remind myself that I never deserved someone as bright as you. But anytime you told someone to suck it up and take the leap, I had to do it now or else I’d lose the chance and probably explode.”

He lets out a soft, breathless, disbelieving laugh of relief at the very end. Tears are streaming down your face at this point, but you don’t care. 

user: IM PASSING TISSUES DOES ANYONE ELSE NEED ONE??? user: jun confessing his undying devoted love to y/n life is worth living again!!!! user: i feel like a successful marriage counselor WTF user: the solomon paradox is REAL

“Gosh, you’re…” You wipe a tear from your eye, murmuring weakly, “Your timing really needs to be studied, Jun.” 

“Wait, wait, are you crying?” Jun asks worriedly in a fit of panic. “I didn’t mean to make you cry on air𑁋oh, my God, I can take it back, I can𑁋”

“You cannot ‘take this back’, you idiot!” You cut in immediately. “I’m crying because I’m in love with your stupid ass too! And if you don’t get here and finish the show with me, I’m absolutely going to lose the rest of my dignity.”

There’s a very long, suspicious beat of silence that passes. It’s enough to have you feel like you’re going through all the stages of grief in just a matter of seconds. And you swear on Jun’s life that if he doesn’t say something in the next minute, you might actually crash out and let the world witness your breakdown. 

But reality snaps back in when you hear the sound of him nearly tripping on the other end of the line. 

“I’m coming,” he reassures you. “I’m sprinting as fast as I can. Stay there for me, okay? Don’t finish the show without me.” 

The line goes dead.

The night is quietly young as you and Jun step back into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind to finally cut out the rest of the world.

You still can barely process what just happened. First, Jun had texted you that he was quite literally shitting bricks for the entire day (which was a lie, thank goodness), then you somehow managed to host an entire segment all on your own without losing your sanity, and now the man you’ve been secretly in love for years had confessed to you𑁋live on air, alongside an entire audience of fellow love drunk listeners𑁋and is currently standing directly in front of you, wearing a hoodie he probably put on right before sprinting to the studio and a pair of pyjama sweatpants.

Jun doesn’t waste a single second. He steps up close to you and carefully wraps his long arms around you, the comforting scent of him quickly filling all your senses. He lets his forehead rest against yours, the two of you shutting your eyes together as you simply bask in each other’s presence. 

“You’re real,” he murmurs, his hands trembling where they rest on your back. “I swear I thought I hallucinated the entire night. I need someone to pinch me if𑁋hey!”

You giggle at the way his face dramatically contorts with a pout, soothing his side with a gentle squeeze. You tilt your head enough to brush your nose against his. 

“Then kiss me like I’m real, you idiot.”

For a moment, he just blinks like you spoke complete gibberish. Then he cups your face and presses his lips to yours, sending immediate shivers that make your knees weak. You let out a soft sigh into his mouth as the kiss deepens ever so slightly, your hands slowly sliding up his chest. You feel him chuckle against your lips. 

As you kiss, you find yourself backing up in the direction of the couch. Jun follows without breaking contact with your mouth. When the backs of his knees hit the cushions, you both tumble down together in a clumsy, giggly heap with you on top of him, straddling him.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, and Jun’s arms lock around your waist instantly, holding you flush against him. And for a second, you both just… stare at each other. 

Jun is the first to break, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and lips as he doesn’t know where to look. “What?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide at how ridiculously cute and disheveled he looks right now, tilting your head at him like you’re pretending to study him. You lean in a little just to tease, and instinctively, he puckers his lips together, chasing after yours when you pull back away. 

“I can’t believe how stupid we are,” You whisper, brushing his lips briefly in a feather-light peck. “Giving advice to everyone but ourselves. We wasted literal years.” 

Jun chases after your mouth again, capturing it properly this time and pulling away with a satisfied hum. “Mhm. Absolute morons.” His hands find their way under your shirt, tenderly mapping the bare skin of your waist. “But I’m done wasting time now.” 

You chuckle into the next kiss, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as he tries to deepen it. God, his lips are so eagerly soft, but he’s smiling so hard you momentarily knock your teeth against his.

“Mm, wait,” You mumble against his mouth as you draw back to readjust your position, causing him to suck in a breath. “Are you trying to eat my face? Where’s the technique?”

He blinks up at you dazedly, mouth parted in playful offense. His hands tighten around your waist. “I𑁋excuse me?”

“Zero finesse. One star. I expected more from cat anon.”

Jun sits up suddenly so that you’re basically pressed chest-to-chest with each other. 

“You’re too cute, that’s the problem,” he says, voice deep yet still a little rough around the edges. “How am I supposed to kiss you if I short-circuit and all I could think, holy shit, she’s mine?” 

Your heart does a stupid little flip from his words. “Flattery won’t save your shitty technique.”

“Oh, yeah?” He cups your face with both hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Watch this.” 

The next kiss is messier𑁋heated, giggly, and clumsy because you both can’t stop smiling. You feel your toes curl as he nips lightly at your bottom lip. You sigh into it, threading your hands through his hair, the heat of it enough to make you rock your hips against his growing hardness. 

You feel the heat dancing up your skin and pooling into your belly as you continue your lazy grinding against him, swallowing down the broken sigh and groans that fall out of his mouth. When his mouth begins its descent down your jaw and to a particular sensitive spot behind your ear, he smirks against your warm skin. 

“Fuck𑁋you like that?” he breathes out, his fingertips brushing the underside of your breast underneath your shirt. 

A shaky laugh leaves you, but it melts quickly into a soft moan when his thumb brushes your already-hardened nipple. “Don’t get cocky. Still𑁋mmh𑁋mediocre at best.”

Jun lifts his brow, mouth curved into a stupidly fond grin. “Mediocrity, huh?” He pinches your nipple gently, causing you to jerk your hips into his. “Your body is saying something different, baby.”

“Ignore her. She’s… a traitor,” You croak out, grinding against the hard line of his cock through his sweatpants. 

Jun merely chuckles, tugging your shirt up enough to expose your chest. He unclips your bra without any hesitation, pushing the straps off your shoulders then letting it fall uselessly to the floor. His eyes widen as he takes a few seconds to drink you in completely.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” 

Then his mouth is back on you. He sucks one nipple between his lips while his hand affectionately palms the other. A crude moan slips out of you this time; it heightens his confidence even more. 

As his mouth lavishes attention to your other breast, he drags his hand down your side, teasingly sliding under the waistband of your pants to cup you over your pants. He can feel how warm you are already. 

“Rating?” he requests with a firm suck. 

“Like a solid𑁋shit𑁋two-point-five out of five…”

Jun pulls off your breast with a wet pop, grin turning wicked. “But you’re soaked, and you’re still calling me below average? I think your pussy disagrees.”

You open your mouth to retort, but then he slides his hand into your panties, fingers circling over your slick folds, and nothing but a breathy gasp escapes you. Your hips roll down to meet his hand as he inserts a finger inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your back arch and he has to use his other hand to hold you in place. 

“What’s the rating now?” he asks, watching the way your face is beautifully twisting with pleasure as a second finger slides inside. 

You shoot him a death glare as you clench around his hand. “Three𑁋fuck, right there𑁋three-point-eight𑁋”

“Getting better already,” he hums in approval, leaning back down to worship your breasts once more. The dual sensation has your head falling down into the crook of his neck, your moans caressing his skin.

“Four𑁋Jun, you asshole𑁋four-point-five𑁋”

He pulls his fingers out of you unexpectedly, making you whine at the loss. Before you can complain, you find yourself being flipped on the couch as he settles in between your thighs, looking up at you with that mischievous, hungry, adoring look. He gives another tug to the waistband of your pants.

“Final rating before I eat you out?” 

Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your tone light and teasing. “Four-point-seven. Don’t get lazy down there or I’m docking points, smartass.”

Jun’s eyes sparkle with challenge as he helps you out of the rest of your clothes. When you’re fully bare in front of him, he spreads your thighs even further, letting his mouth hover tantalisingly where you need him most.

“Four-point-seven,” he repeats to himself, pressing a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. “I can work with that. Watch me get that perfect five.” 

Then he leans in and drags his tongue up your soaked pussy in one long stripe, a groan leaving him as he tastes you for the first time. Your hips jolt against his face, a sharp moan tumbling out of you and bouncing off the walls of your quiet apartment.

“Oh𑁋Jun𑁋”

“Hmm?” He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth, eyes flicking up to watch your face. Two fingers slide back inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your vision glassy. “God, you taste even better than I imagined…”

You slap a hand over your mouth as the pleasure starts to bloom its way out of you, but he reaches up and pulls it away, lacing your fingers together.

“Don’t do that, please,” he murmurs against your pussy. “Let me hear you, baby…”

The way he eats you out has your head spinning. It’s dizzying, a little messy, and entirely devoted to you. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers echo and your moans and gasps travel throughout the room, only making him double down even harder to bring you over the edge.

“Five𑁋five stars𑁋ah, please𑁋”

You cum with a cry of his name, the pleasure crashing into you in waves. He continues to lazily lap at you before you start trying to push his head away, the two of you giggling breathlessly in the aftermath.

When he pulls away, his lips are shiny and he looks foolishly pleased with himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls his way back up your body, meeting you for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and the thought that this absolute klutz of a man just gave you the best orgasm of your life sends another shaky giggle rolling out of you. 

“You okay?” he breathes against your mouth, chuckling softly of you barely controlling your laughter. “I… what the hell just happened?”

“That was me letting go after holding back for years,” he answers without diffidence, tracing soothing circles over your bare thigh. “Do I get a final rating now?”

“Hmm, solid five-point-five. An extra half point for your enthusiasm and those cute noises you made down there.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, making him lean into your touch like a baby kitten. “But I’ll let you try for a six if you fuck me right now.”

Jun’s eyes darken instantly. “Say less.”

The two of you battle over taking off the rest of his clothes. Jun attempts to smoothly yank his hoodie off in one go, but it gets snug on something, causing him to laugh when it gets caught on his shoulders.

“Oh, my God𑁋stay still so I can take it off, you dummy!” You exclaim in frustration. 

“Help me then, smartass!” His laughter is muffled into the fabric. 

When you finally unsnag the hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, you both immediately reach for his pants at the same time, elbows bumping into each other. Rolling your eyes, you lightly smack his hand away so you can push it down his hips with borderline desperation. He kicks it off the rest of the way, his boxers following quickly.

The second he’s fully bare in front of you for the first time, he cages you into the couch right above you, littering soft kisses over your flushed cheeks. His cock rests heavily against your stomach as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.

“Hi,” he whispers stupidly, like he’s just remembered how to speak.

“Hi,” You reply with a bashful smile, reaching up to cradle his face, pinching his cheeks together. “Still waiting for my six-star performance.”

“Give me a break, I’m nervous!” he gasps defensively, grinding the underside of his dick along your slickness unconsciously. “I’ve only pictured this every single night for, like, the past four years!”

“Poor baby,” You coo impishly, reaching down to stroke him softly. “You’ve been jerking off to the thought of me for four years?”

Jun whines needily, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Stop bullying me when I’m trying hard not to embarrass myself right now.”

“Then embarrass yourself. I’ve waited just as long, you idiot,” You urge, bringing him closer until there’s physically no more space between your bodies. 

With a sly smirk, he reaches down, lines himself up with you, and slowly pushes inside. He groans lowly as he sinks inside you until his hips are pressed against yours. For a second, he doesn’t move at all, only trembling with his forehead leaning onto yours. 

“Oh fuck𑁋I think I died a little,” he grunts pitifully into your neck. “You’re so warm. And tight. Think I-I short-circuited again.”

You give his shoulder a tight squeeze. “Move, Jun. Please.”

He obeys right away, thrusting into you experimentally and drawing a collective moan out from both of you. When he snaps himself into you again, again, and again, he sets a slow, deep rhythm that has the couch creaking softly beneath you.

“Shit, Jun𑁋” Your nails rake down his back as he hits that spot perfectly inside you again and again, wrapping your legs around his waist. “You… You feel so good.” 

“Yeah? You look so pretty falling apart on my cock, baby,” he praises heavily, voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “Still rating me? Am I passing?”

Your laugh dissolves into a moan when a particular thrust punches the air out of your lungs. 

“You’re at…” You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, glancing down to where you’re joined together. “Five-point… seven𑁋shit, keep going like that, I’m so close…”

“I’m so close too, not gonna last,” he pants, his breath molten on your neck. “God, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

You grab him by the nape of his neck to collapse his mouth back onto yours, swallowing all his desperate little grunts and sighs as the kiss turns heated fast. His rhythm stutters for the briefest second before he regains himself swiftly, the wet slap of your bodies meeting over and over again flooding the room, with your own hips rolling to meet with each of his thrusts. 

The heat of it all invades through all your nerves, that familiar coil tightening in your belly. The rating game is completely out of the window now. There’s only nothing but the drag of his cock kissing your walls and this thumb dipping in between your legs to caress your clit, encouraging you to let go.

When your orgasm finally crashes, it’s much more intense than the last. Your nails imprint sharp crescents down his back as one final broken cry rips out from your throat, stars bursting behind your ears. Your walls squeeze around him so tightly he curses, the drive of his hips faltering sloppily. 

“Baby, I can’t𑁋I’m gonna𑁋where𑁋?” 

“Inside,” You beg gravelly, wrapping your arms around him even tighter. “Lose yourself in me, Jun, please.”

That’s all it takes for his own orgasm to hit him. With one final thrust, he spills inside of you with a deep, guttural groan. His face drops into the crook of your sweaty neck as shaky little whimpers continue to leave him𑁋your name, I love you, fuck I love you𑁋repeatedly until he’s completely spent and melted into your arms. 

For a few moments of stillness, the only sounds travelling throughout the room is your ragged breathing and the sudden hum of your refrigerator. Eventually, Jun lifts his head from where it’s been resting comfortably on your chest. His dark hair is sticking out in all sorts of places, a few strands even matted to his forehead. And his eyes are half-lidded, yet so soft and full of love that you almost want to sob.

“So…” he starts hoarsely, kissing the tip of your nose. “Final rating?”

You let out a tired, contented laugh, brushing damp strands of his hair off his face.

“Mmmh… six-point-five,” You decide sleepily, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

A bright, boyish grin unleashes across his face. “I’ll take it. Room for improvement for the next round.”

“I𑁋next round?!”

“I aim to achieve ten stars. Or maybe more than that.”

“God, you’re so insatiable,” You groan, shaking your head despite the smile breaking through your expression. “Later on, maybe… for now, I just want to hold you.”

Jun swears he feels himself literally melt into a puddle at that, because how could he ever deny a request like that from you? Despite the little space on your creaky couch, he pulls out of you with a wince, grabs the throw blanket that has unknowingly dropped to the floor before shifting himself more deeper into your arms. The soft fabric wraps around your bare bodies together in a warm, messy nest, one of his legs slotting in between your legs. 

“Better?” he mumbles hopefully, letting his eyes fall to a close so he could listen to your heartbeat.

“Mhm. Much,” You hum in response, nosing through his hair. “I love you, you menace.”

You feel his lips meet the soft skin above your breast, right over your heartbeat.

“I love you too, dummy.”

Remember that stray cat that landed on your doorstep at the very beginning and refused to leave?

Yeah, he’s right where he wants to be now.

perm taglist (open) ʚɞ

@sn4psh00t @slytherinshua @seungkw1 @etherealyoungk @bananabubble

@parakissss @eskoupe @gent1es3xy @cherryophile @jaja-salute

[ONE]

Filtered sunlight beaming through the treetops hits your eyes as you step out into the quad, making you squint in the sudden brightness that starkly contrasts the dim interior of the Literature Hall you were just in. The air is crisp — not yet chilly, but fresh and invigorating, a tell-tale sign of fall being right around the corner. The quad is buzzing with life, students chattering as they stroll to class, bikes zipping past you on the sidewalk, every bench and shaded spot under a tree occupied with people laughing, reading, relaxing. You leisurely make your way over to your usual spot, but as you approach the small oak near the Communications Building you see two girls you don't recognize sitting in the grass beneath its low branches. Puzzled, you look around, but then you spot a familiar lanky figure standing outside the Comms building. His back is turned to you, so all you can see is the mess of long dark hair upon his head, but the baggy flannel shirt and the black backpack adorned with various pins and patches slung over one shoulder are a dead giveaway. As you head in his direction, you see he appears to be staring straight ahead at a lamppost.

"Hey dork, I was looking for you," you call out playfully as you walk toward him, but he doesn't seem to hear you. Getting closer, you spot the pair of headphones on his head, the wire plugged into the portable CD player in his hand — the loud, raucous sounds of Linkin Park blaring in his ears tinnily resonating through the air from halfway across the sidewalk. When you get within arm's reach you tug on the handle of his backpack. He nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping around and yanking the headphones off his head with a startled expression on his face. When he sees it's you, he relaxes, but not without majorly rolling his eyes.

"Jesus, you fucking scared me," he sighs. He lifts the CD player in his hand and pauses the song, the banging melody ringing through the foam-covered headphones ceasing.

"Sorry," you apologize, but a wide grin spreads on your face. "I didn't think you'd react that much. What are you doing, anyway?" you ask, looking over to the lamppost.

"Nothing," he says quickly, but a flier with bold text catches your eye.

Do you like punk music? Do you like radio? WFVC 90.5 is HIRING for a DJ position! No experience necessary, Communications majors preferred. APPLY NOW at the station (Comms Building 2nd Floor)

"Oh my god, Jeonghan this is perfect!" you exclaim, but your friend shakes his head.

"I was just looking."

"Dude, you HAVE to apply. This is literally your dream job!"

Jeonghan frowns. "I doubt they would hire me."

"What the hell are you talking about? You're exactly the person they're looking for," you tell him. And it's true — Foxville College's singular radio station may be a local joint, but it's famous across all of Wisconsin for being the station for underground grunge, punk, and alternative rock. You've been listening to it since you were a kid, and its where your love of the genres originated. Jeonghan happens to share the exact same music taste — it's how you became friends in the first place back in Freshman year.

"Hey!" Jeonghan calls after you as you both exit the same building. You had just came from the same class, Intro to Poetry, but it's the very first day of school, so he doesn't know your name. But he saw your notebook fall out of your half-open backpack, and you didn't notice it.

He picks up the small, black leather notebook and quickly zips after you. "Excuse me," he tries again, but you're wearing headphones. Your music is loud, and familiar. He taps on your shoulder, startling you slightly.

"Hi, sorry," Jeonghan tells you as you turn to face him, shifting the headphones off one ear so you can hear. "You dropped this." You look at his hands as he extends the notebook to you.

"Oh! That is mine," you remark, taking your headphones off fully now and pausing your music.

"Yeah, your backpack was open."

You look over your shoulder, and sure enough, the bag is half-unzipped.

"Whoops," you tell him with a lighthearted laugh, taking the notebook and putting it back in the bag, making sure to close it all the way this time. "Well, thank you, I appreciate it," you say with a friendly smile. You go to put your headphones back on and walk away, but before you can do so he points at your portable CD player.

"Are you listening to Green Day?" he asks.

"Oh, yeah! I am!" you reply excitedly. "It's the Dookie album, one of my faves."

"That album is so good," he agrees with a smile. "I don't mean this in a rude way or anything," he says shyly. "But you I wouldn't have guessed you'd be into punk music."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," you say with a laugh. "I don't particularly dress very edgy or anything. Maybe I should start dressing the part."

"Wear whatever you want," he responds with a shrug. "The most punk rock thing you can do is be yourself."

"That's very true," you grin back at him. "I'm y/n, by the way."

"I'm Jeonghan," he replies with a soft smile. "It's nice to meet you."

And so you and Jeonghan quickly became friends. He's a pretty quiet guy, very much the opposite of your bubbly, sociable self; but despite your differences you get along well. He's also pretty much the only person you know who likes the same type of music as you, so you definitely share a close bond over that.

"Besides," you say to Jeonghan. "You really should get a job anyway."

"Hey!" he pouts. "Are you calling me broke?"

"Yes. Because you are."

The left corner of his mouth lifts slightly, giving you a half-grin. "So are you, moron."

You playfully give him a light punch in the arm. "Takes one to know one."

"I'll think about it," he concedes.

"You better. If not then I'll submit the application for you."

"Pretty sure that's not allowed," he replies, raising a brow at you.

"Like that's gonna stop me," you inform him.

"Unfortunately, I believe that," he chuckles, rolling his eyes again. "Anyway, c'mon," he says to as he starts walking off. "I have a surprise for you."

"Oh god, what have you done now?" you pretend to complain as you follow after him.

"No no, you're gonna like this one," he grins. "I promise."

"Okay, well now I know where we're going," you say as Jeonghan turns onto Harton Street. The street boasts a Dead End sign, and it's path is winding. You can't see much past the trees, but you know there is only one reason to come down this way.

"I was here over the weekend," you inform him. "I don't need to buy anything else."

"Oh please, like you'd pass up the opportunity to get some new vinyl," he grins.

"Dude, I'm already living off ramen."

"Just trust me."

"Okaaay," you reply, feigning skepticism. "If you say so."

The tires of Jeonghan's 1991 Mercury Tracer crunch as he turns off the main road onto a white gravel drive. A humble building comes into view, its exterior painted pastel yellow with a giant sign reading TURNPIKE RECORDS in a large, swirling font that looks straight out of the 1970s. A neon sign resides in the window, flickering slightly but advertising that the shop is open. There's only one other car in the small lot: a pristine, hot red Chevy Camaro also straight out of the 70s, belonging to the shop's owner.

Jeonghan parks the car and the two of you head into the store. The front door squeaks as you open it, an assortment of small bronze bells hanging above the door ringing out to announce your entry. The familiar, slightly-musty scent of the used record store fills your nose as you walk down the three steps taking you to the shop floor. Aside from the natural light from the window, the place is pretty dim, lit mainly by a couple of bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a variety of glowing lava lamps of all shapes, sizes, and colors placed throughout the room. Nearly every inch of wall is covered in a hodge-podge of framed posters and photographs, giving the whole place a chaotic but vibrant feel. Without a doubt, this is your favorite spot in town.

"I wonder if they have the new Muse album yet," you comment, meandering through the empty shop over to the Rock section.

"Not yet," Jeonghan replies as he starts flipping through a nearby discount bin. "I checked already."

You hear a faint swoosh come from behind you. You turn around to see a tall, heavily-tattooed man carrying a large box emerging from the thick velvet curtain that leads to the back of the store — none other than the shop's owner, Tripp. He's in his mid-40s, bald except for a long goatee on his chin, and he has more earrings than you can even count.

"Hey hey, I thought I heard my favorite customers out here!" Tripp says cheerfully when he sees you and Jeonghan. He sets the box on top of the counter, brushing his hands off and coming out to greet you on the floor.

"Oh please, you say that to everyone," you grin at the man.

"Definitely not," he shakes his head. "Besides, between the both of you you guys are keeping me in business. Speaking of," he says as he suddenly snaps and points at you. "I got something for ya."

He quickly returns to the counter and retrieves something from the shelves beneath the register. He walks back to you and hands you an album, light gray in color. You flip it over, and your jaw drops. It's a Japanese edition of Led Zeppelin IV — your favorite album of all time.

"Your friend told me you've been looking for this one," he tells you, nodding his head in Jeonghan's direction. "He convinced me to set it aside for you."

"Wow, that's so nice thank you!!" you tell Tripp excitedly. "How much?"

"Don't worry about it. It's already paid for."

"What?!"

You look over at Jeonghan, but he just smiles back at you sheepishly.

"What the hell, thank you," you grin at him. "You did not have to do that though."

"Actually, I did," Jeonghan admits. "Tripp made me."

Tripp lets out a hearty laugh. "Well regardless, I'm glad it's in the hands of someone I know will really appreciate it."

"Let me pay you back," you say to Jeonghan as Tripp returns to restocking, but he just shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it, really," he tells you warmly.

"Okay, fine. But you're gonna come over and listen to this with me," you insist, poking him in the chest. "We can smoke and I'll order pizza."

Jeonghan's face lights up. "Sounds like a deal to me," he grins.

brrrrrrr

brrrrrrr

The dull trill of the phone rings in your ear as you wait for the call to connect. You've only hit the bong once, but your head already feels like you're floating in the clouds. You mindlessly twirl the cord around your index finger, and you're halfway zoned out by the time the other line picks up.

"Arthur's Pizzeria," a cheerful voice suddenly speaks into your ear. "How can I help you?"

"Yeah hi!" you blurt out in your mildly startled state. "Can I order one large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese for delivery?"

"You got it! What's the address?"

"22 Elmwood Street, Unit 201."

"Great! It'll be about 20 minutes."

With a click you set the handset back onto the hook, returning to the living room. Your roommate won't be back until later, so you two have the place to yourselves — perfect for getting high and lazing around without judgment. Jeonghan sits on the couch, sinking into the cushions already and staring off into space. It takes him a moment to register that you're back; when he notices you, he tries to sit up, but the effort required for it currently seems monumental.

"Pizza ordered?" he asks, peering at you through lazy eyelids.

"Yup," you reply as you plop onto the other end of the couch. "Be here in 20."

"Sweet," he grins. You reach for the bong, grabbing the lighter next to it and lighting a bit more of the bowl. After a decently fat rip and a few solid coughs, you extend it out to Jeonghan.

"Man, I'm so high already," he groans, but he takes the colorful swirled glass from your hand anyway. "Where'd you get this grass?"

"Got it from Joshua," you reply, lifting your feet up onto the couch and tucking them beside you.

"Oh," Jeonghan replies, giving you a look as he exhales a cloud of smoke and hands the bong back over.

"What's your deal with Joshua?" you question, raising your brow at him.

"What? Nothing," he says quickly. "We should open a window."

He gets to his feet and walks across the room, lifting the nearest window up as far as it will go. It's a nice evening — the crisp air from earlier has gotten cooler, but it feels delightful as it begins to drift into the apartment in the light breeze.

"I know you don't like him," you continue, not letting Jeonghan ignore your question. "But I've never known why."

"I never said I didn't like him," he denies, flopping back onto the couch.

"You didn't have to," you point out. "Your face says it all."

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. "Curse my expressive nature. Anyway, I dunno, he just always seems like he's trying to make a move on you."

"Oh, he's like that with everyone," you reply matter-of-factly.

"Right."

"He is," you affirm. "And besides, so what if he was?"

"Huh?" Jeonghan pipes up, seemingly surprised by your question. "Oh, I just mean… I just don't trust guys who are always talking to girls that. Seems sleazy."

"No, really," you reiterate. "He's like that with everyone."

"Okay," he concedes skeptically. "If you say so."

"Should we play some Zeppelin?" you ask, getting up to go grab the record. Jeonghan's face lights up.

"Fuck yeah," he grins.

You put the album on, the signature bold, heavy sounds of the band greeting your ears as you crank up the volume. As you sit there listening, you finish off the bowl with Jeonghan, the air of your apartment now completely overtaken by smoke despite the open window.

"When's that damn pizza gonna get here?" he mumbles, but before you can even respond you hear a knock coming from the front door.

"Whoa, you summoned it," you giggle, rising to your feet a bit too quickly and stumbling slightly on your way over to the door. You answer, having a quick conversation with the usual delivery boy before paying and scurrying back over to the couch, the heavenly smell of hot, greasy pepperoni pizza joining the weed aroma in the room. You don't even bother with plates, instead simply picking up the slices and shoveling them directly into your hungry mouths. The conversation remains paused for a few minutes; you zone out, letting yourself get lost in the music, but eventually your conversation with Jeonghan earlier pops back into your head.

"You really should apply to that DJ job," you say, turning to him, but he just shrugs.

"Eh, I don't think I'd get it."

"Not with that attitude you won't."

"You always say that," he rolls his eyes.

"It's true!" you insist. "Jeonghan, come on. This is basically your dream job, and you're literally the perfect guy for it. Just apply and see what happens!"

"Maybe, I dunno."

"Besides," you add. "You need the money to fund your poor spending habits."

"Hey!" he balks. "I do not have poor spending habits."

You pick up the vinyl sleeve, tapping the little yellow sticker on the cover with a messy $40 scribbled on it in black ink.

"Yeah, you do."

He groans, letting his head fall back into the couch. "You're so annoying," he says to you with a grin.

"Takes one to know one," you tease back. He grabs the nearest throw pillow, lobbing it at you and hitting you in the arm.

"Okay, I probably earned that," you admit with a laugh.

The current song ends, the gentle guitar strums of "Stairway to Heaven" filling your ears as the iconic song begins.

"Oh shit, shut up," you tell Jeonghan, launching the pillow right back at him. He jumps slightly as the unexpected pillow hits him in the chest with a soft thump. "I fucking love this song."

He is about to tell you that duh, everybody with a brain loves this song — but your eyes are closed already, bobbing your head slightly to the beat, clearly already lost in it; so he just shakes his head, chuckling silently to himself.

The both of you feel like you're drifting to a higher plane as the song progresses, fully immersed in the grand crescendo you've both heard so many times yet have never tired of. When it ends, your eyes flutter open again, finding Jeonghan fully sunk into the other end of the couch. You start to wonder if he actually fell asleep, but then he lifts his head, opening his eyes to look at you.

"You know how some people say a hot dog is a sandwich?" he asks. You stare at him for a moment, trying to comprehend in your inebriated state what it was he just said.

"Who the fuck says that?" you inquire once you finally process his question.

"I dunno. People."

"Stupid people, maybe."

"I mean, yeah," he agrees. "But like… do you think pizza is a sandwich?"

You stare at him for a moment. "What?"

"I don't know, it's got bread and cheese and meat and tomatoes, right? Those things go on sandwiches."

"You're high as shit, dumbass," you tell him.

"Okay, well watch this!" He reaches over to the pizza box and picks up a new slice. Turning to show it to you, he slowly folds it in half. "See? That's a sandwich!"

"Oh shut the fuck up," you reply, but you can't help but laugh.

Jeonghan munches on his pizza-sandwich while you reach for your stash, refilling the bowl and lighting up again. When he finishes, you hand the bong over.

"Not like either of us needs it, but whatever man," you say with a pleased grin.

With heavy, banging drum beats, the last song on the album begins to play. This one has always been Jeonghan's favorite, you recall despite being astronomically faded. You glance over at him, finding him staring out the open window into the now-dark night. Certainly not out of the ordinary, but something about him in this moment seems… sad, almost. He notices you watching him, but he seems to have become self-conscious, averting your gaze.

"What's on your mind?"

Jeonghan continues staring out the window, but he lets out a small sigh.

"Do you ever think about how big the universe is?" he asks. "And then it makes you realize how small and meaningless we really are?"

You pause for a minute, considering the gravity of his question.

"No, not really," you finally answer gently. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he answers instinctively; but after thinking about it for a moment, he adds: "But sometimes I wonder if I'm not."

"In what way?"

"Just… the whole entire world feels impossibly huge, yet Earth is just a tiny pale blue dot compared to the whole galaxy. In the grand scheme of things, we're nothing. Nothing we do matters."

"I don't think that's true at all."

Jeonghan finally looks over to you, staring at you curiously.

"But how? How can anything have any meaning if we are so tiny?"

"I think that makes everything all that much more meaningful," you reply. "Like… the universe is so huge and vast and yet here we are, chillin' together, existing at just the right time to eat pizza and listen to Zepp. I just think that's a really nice thought."

"Hmm," he mumbles, opening his mouth to say something else — but his words never come. At this point he is so physically relaxed that he seems fused to the couch.

"You're fuckin' blasted, dude," you giggle, reaching over and shaking him playfully.

"Am nottttt," he pouts, but moments later he starts giggling too. "Okay, fine, I am. But, I guess I've just never thought of it that way before."

The album ends, the room falling silent. You get up, casually shuffling over to your ever-growing collection of records that is now taking up the entire corner of the small living room.

"What next?" you ask Jeonghan over your shoulder.

"Surprise me."

You peruse through your titles, not sure exactly what you're looking for; but then one catches your eye.

"Ooh, got it," you say with a grin. You replace the vinyl on the turntable and set the needle in position, the sounds of Dookie by Green Day playing aloud in the room, making Jeonghan smile too.

[TWO]

You stroll through the library, exiting the stacks to make your way to your next class. On your way out, you're surprised to spot Jeonghan, sitting alone at one of the tables. Unexpected — as he usually spends most of his free time out in the quad or in the Comms Building's study space; if he's in the library, it's usually just to take a nap. He has a book on the desk beside him, but it's closed, and he instead seems to be intensely focused on a piece of paper, brow furrowed and deep in thought. You walk over to him, but he doesn't notice you approaching. As you near the desk you can see the word APPLICATION in bold font at the top of the paper.

"Yay, you're doing it!!" you say to him as you appear beside him, shaking him by the shoulder excitedly and making him nearly fly out of his seat.

"Jesus Christ you have got to stop sneaking up on me!" he yelps quietly, but it still earns him a glare from a nearby librarian. She raises her finger to her lips, shushing the two of you before going back to re-shelving books. You sit down in the chair next to him, scooting in close enough so you can whisper.

"This is so exciting!" you tell him in a hushed voice, but he sighs, shaking his head.

"I'm not even sure if I'm gonna turn it in," he admits.

"What? Dude, you're halfway there, just finish and go turn it in!"

"I don't know," he frowns. "They're probably just gonna laugh at me."

You raise your brow at him. "Why on earth would you think they'd do that?"

"Most people do," he shrugs.

"Well, even if they do — which they won't — who cares?" you question. "Just follow your dreams, don't let other people get in the way."

The librarian turns around again, her displeased glare telling you you're still being too loud for her liking.

"C'mon," you say to Jeonghan. "Finish up your application and let's get out of here."

He quickly fills out the rest of the form and you ditch the library together. Jeonghan is done with classes for the day, but he accompanies you across the quad to your next class.

"What are you up to tonight?" he asks. He kicks a pebble along the sidewalk as he walks; you watch his dingy old converse scuff against the ground as he does, noticing the small hole forming in the toe of his right shoe.

"I'm getting dinner with Mark," you reply casually. You see his face drop slightly out of the corner of your eye.

"Basketball team Mark?"

"Yep! We have History of Feminist Literature together, though he's a Economics major so he's just taking it for an elective."

"Hm," Jeonghan says out loud without meaning to.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. You just hardly ever go on dates, that's all."

"Oh, it's not a date," you say plainly, but you see him roll his eyes. "It's not!!" you insist. "We're just friends."

"I doubt he sees it that way."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because dudes only think with their dicks."

"Are you speaking from experience?" you inquire teasingly.

"This is not about me," he mutters, looking mildly embarrassed as he avoids eye contact. Luckily for him, you've arrived at the Literature Hall, giving him an excuse to change the subject.

"Hope you have a good class," he tells you warmly.

"Thanks," you reply with a smile. "Now you go turn in that job application or I'm going to kick your ass."

"I will," he laughs.

"Pinky promise?" you ask, extending your hand. He chuckles, but he connects pinkies with you.

"I promise."

"Good!" you tell him with a grin. "See ya later!"

"See ya," he smiles back.

You unlock your front door quietly, trying not to make noise and wake up your roommate considering how late it is by now. But as you enter the apartment you see her sitting at the computer, back turned to you as she is absorbed in whatever is on the screen.

"Hey, I didn't think you'd still be up," you say as you shut the door and kick your shoes off.

"Oh hey," Mina replies as she turns around to greet you. She lifts her wrist to peer at her watch. "Damn, I didn't realize how late it was."

"What are you doing on the computer?" you inquire, walking over to the desk out of curiosity.

"It's this new MySpace website Irene told me about," she replies, turning back around and double-clicking on something. "It's so sick, I've been here all night making my profile."

"Oh yeah, I've heard of that," you tell her as you watch her scroll through her profile. "Seems pretty cool."

"You should make one!" she tells you. "I can add you to my Top 8 friends."

"Oh, maybe. I'm still getting used to this whole Internet thing, honestly," you laugh.

"Soooo," Mina starts, shutting down the computer and heading into the kitchen. "How was your date with Mark?"

"It wasn't a date," you tell her. "I don't know why everyone keeps saying that."

"Okay, whatever," she responds, browsing through the snack cabinet for a minute before deciding on the bag of Cheeto Puffs. "How was your not-date?"

"It was… good."

"You don't sound so sure about that."

"No, it was!" you assure her. "It's just that… I don't know, he kinda just talked about basketball the whole time."

"Ugh. Typical guy shit," Mina rolls her eyes.

"He's really nice, though…" you say, though you're not sure if you're trying to convince her or yourself more.

"Nice enough to go on a second date — sorry, not-date with?" she raises her brow at you.

"Well, I don't know about that…"

You sigh, feeling a bit dejected suddenly. It's not like you're trying to date or anything, but you can't deny that it would be kinda nice to have at least a little bit more success.

"Maybe I should just give up on dating," you grimace.

Mina pops another Cheeto in her mouth. "I mean, I don't know why you bother. You basically already have a BF."

"What?" you ask, puzzled. "No I don't?"

"C'mon, you're literally hanging out with what's-his-name all the time. The metalhead."

"Jeonghan?? He's not into metal."

"Okay, whatever noise it is you guys listen to."

"It's called punk, and it's cool."

"Riiight."

"Anyway, he's just my friend," you tell her. Her lips curve into a slight grin, and she gives you a look.

"Sure he is."

"I can be friends with dudes!"

"Dudes only think with their dicks," she retorts, echoing Jeonghan's exact words from earlier.

"He's not like that," you assure her.

"Well that's rare, if true. Maybe you should date him."

You roll your eyes, but you're tired. Mina means well, but you don't really feel like having this conversation right now. Luckily, she's already putting her snack away, and then heads off to her room.

"Anyway, I'm off to bed. Goodnight!"

You too head off to bed, but as you brush your teeth you start to think about what Mina said. What if Jeonghan does see me as more than a friend? you wonder to yourself. After all, he did say the exact same thing earlier, too. You don't think he meant it in that way, but now you're beginning to second-guess your intuition…

You go straight to bed, deciding not to think about it anymore tonight.

[THREE]

You have some time between classes, so you take up residence in your usual spot in the quad, sitting on the ground reclined against your usual tree. Fall is officially here now, and it's a bit cold out, but you're perfectly comfortable in your thick sweater and windbreaker. Out of the corner of your eye, you suddenly see something in the distance charging directly at you. Looking up from your book, you see Jeonghan, forgoing the sidewalks and sprinting across the grass straight toward you, waving and flailing his arms like a maniac.

"You look like a psychopath," you call to him as he approaches.

"I got it!!!"

"Got wha— wait, the DJ job?!" you perk up excitedly.

"YES!!"

He plops down on the ground next to you, out of breath from running, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

"Holy shit, congrats!!" you tell him enthusiastically. "See, I told you you'd get it!"

"I can't believe I almost ripped up the application and threw it in the trash."

"Jeonghan!" you blurt out, hitting him playfully in the arm, but he just shakes his head and laughs.

"I didn't though! You made me pinky promise."

"This is amazing! When do you start?"

"Tonight, actually," he answers. "Unfortunately, I'm stuck on the late night shift since I'm a newbie — 10pm–4am."

"Oh, yikes," you reply concernedly, but he shrugs it off.

"It's fine," he smiles. "I don't sleep anyway."

"Damn, I guess I'm never gonna see you again," you say jokingly, but an unexpected wave of sadness washes over you as your own words sink in.

"No way," he shakes his head resolutely. "We're still gonna hang out. I'll find a way to make it happen."

A fluttering sensation hits your stomach. You hang out with Jeonghan all the time, so you're not sure why you'd have this reaction. But something about the way he said it — "I'll find a way"— feels… different. But, regardless, you're just glad you're still going to be able to see your friend.

"What are you doing until then?" you inquire.

"I was just gonna go grab a bite at the dining hall and then go nap in the library."

"Wanna go to Jacq's instead?" you ask. "My treat."

Jeonghan's face lights up. "Hell yeah," he grins. "That sounds like a way better idea."

The low hum of neon lights buzzes gently through the tune of the usual rotation of 1960s hits as you and Jeonghan sit in the corner booth, chatting and giggling over your meal. Jacqueline's Diner is an old-fashioned joint, and the majority of its clientele is over the age of 60 — but the food is cheap, greasy, and delicious, so the two of you are practically regulars. Jeonghan ordered his usual, chicken tenders and a Cherry Coke float; you opted for a grilled cheese and chocolate milkshake, and you ordered a basket of fries to share.

"You heard about this MySpace?" Jeonghan asks, dipping three large, salty fries in ketchup and shoving them all into his mouth at once.

"Oh yeah," you say, picking the maraschino cherry off the top of the whipped cream and eating it one bite. "Mina's on there, she told me about it. Seems pretty cool."

"I think it sounds lame," he shrugs indifferently.

"What? Why?"

"I dunno, the whole Top 8 friends is kinda weird. Just sounds like one big popularity contest if you ask me."

"Yeah, I guess so," you agree.

"Besides, I don't even have eight friends."

"Oh shut up," you retort. "That's not true!"

"It's okay," Jeonghan chuckles. "I'm just not the kind of guy who has a lot of friends."

"We'll I'd put you in my Top 8," you tell him, but he rolls his eyes. "It's true, I would!"

"C'mon, y/n," he laughs. "You have so many friends."

"Mmm, not really," you reply. "Not ones I hang out with on the regular, anyway. It's mostly you and Mina these days."

"Well, thanks for hanging out with me," he says sheepishly.

"You say that like it's a charity case," you tease him. "I hang out with you because I like you, moron."

Jeonghan says nothing, sipping on his float instead, but the big grin creeping across his face is undeniable.

"So," you ask after a bite of grilled cheese. "Are you excited?"

"For the job?"

"No, for Christmas," you reply jokingly. "Yes, the job!!"

"I guess so," he shrugs. "Mostly I'm just nervous."

"Why?"

"Because what if I'm bad at it and they fire me?"

"Jeonghan, that is not going to happen."

"But I don't know what I'm doing!" he frowns.

"Dude, nobody knows what they're doing when they start a new job," you remind him. "Besides, they're going to train you! You'll learn the ropes in no time."

"What if I don't?"

"I find that hard to believe. You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Hannie. Stop being so hard on yourself."

"Easier said than done," he replies lightheartedly, but his lack of confidence still shows.

"Why is that?" you inquire.

He thinks for a moment. "I don't know," he eventually answers. "Sometimes it just feels like there's a little voice in my head telling me I suck at everything and that I should just give up."

"I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm okay, I promise," he smiles softly at you. "Sorry for being sad so much."

"You don't have to apologize for that," you tell him firmly. "You're my friend and I'm here for you no matter what."

A couple remaining fries sit at the bottom of the basket, calling to you from the red-and-white checkered paper lining. You reach for them, but Jeonghan does too, your hands colliding over the table.

"Ope, sorry," he says timidly, retracting his hand. "You can have it."

"No, you take it," you insist, sliding the basket toward him. "You've got a long night ahead of you, you need the fuel. Speaking of, want another float?"

"No, it's oka—"

But you're already signaling to the waitress across the restaurant, pointing to Jeonghan's empty glass.

"I don't know why I asked," you tell him. "I already knew the answer."

The waitress quickly brings him a refill in a fresh glass, complete with his usual order of an extra cherry on top.

"Thanks, y/n," he smiles. "You're the best."

After you finish your meal and pay, Jeonghan drives you home. He pulls up next to the curb outside your apartment, putting the car into park and turning to face you.

"Thanks again for dinner," he smiles.

"Of course," you smile back. "I got ya. And I'll make sure to tune into WFVC tonight!"

Jeonghan chuckles, shaking his head. "I don't think I'm going to be on the air just yet. I think I gotta be less of a noob first."

"Well, I'll be thinking of you anyway," you tell him with a nod. He drops his head slightly, trying to hide his face behind his long hair.

"Besides, I wanna support the station — and maybe I'll find some new bands I like." You playfully give him a punch him in the arm. "Jut remember to relax, you're gonna crush it."

"I'll do my best," he promises.

"Good!" you nod, opening the passenger door and hopping out of the car. "Later skater," you smile at him, giving him a wave before shutting the door. He waves back, watching you walk toward your building, waiting until you've made it safely inside before shifting the car into gear and driving off.

[FOUR]

Jeonghan stands in the hallway, staring at the windowless, red door in front of him. He pulls a crumpled sticky note out of his jacket pocket, flattening it to reveal C-302 written in smudged pen. Looking up, he triple-checks the room number on the small metal plaque next to the door, but just as the first two times, it still reads C-302. The dozens of band stickers all over the door, some that look like they have been there for decades, are also a dead giveaway — this is it: the campus radio station. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, then reaches for the door handle.

As the door swings open, a small, hectic room comes into view. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every bit of wall, overflowing with endless stacks of CD cases; the rest of the room is crammed full of all sorts of audio and mixing equipment — some he recognizes, some he doesn't — and it seems that every bit of exposed surface is covered in show posters and even more band stickers. A too-small desk pushed against the far wall houses two computers, and at one of them sits a tough-looking man with a ponytail, seemingly older than himself, but not by much — perhaps a graduate student. The man peers up as Jeonghan enters the room.

"Hi, I'm Jeonghan," he says timidly. "I'm the new student employee, I was told to meet here at 9:45—"

"Yes, hello!" the man says cheerfully, hopping out of his seat and strutting across the room to give Jeonghan a very firm handshake. "I'm A.J., I'm the one running this joint for the most part — aside from Professor Sampson, of course. You're in undergrad, yeah?"

"Yes," Jeonghan replies politely, relieved that the man doesn't have the tough-guy demeanor he initially expected. "I'm a Junior."

"Awesome, well welcome to the team bro! Johnny's almost wrapped in the booth, and then you're on," he says, pointing his thumb back at the small window in the far wall; Jeonghan tries to peer through it, but all he can see is the top of the current DJ's head, clad with chunky headphones. "But don't worry — tonight I'll be showing you the ropes, so you just have to follow my lead. Cool?"

"Yeah, cool," Jeonghan nods in agreement.

"Excellent! Well, for starters, obviously we want to keep the volume to a minimum so there's no background noises when we're on air, but the soundproofing in the booth is good enough that you can talk at a regular volume out here and nobody's gonna hear ya. Just no screaming or anything crazy. As you can see over here," he says, pointing to the packed shelves. "We have quite a number of CDs on file. Now, I assume you're familiar with the station's catalogue?" Jeonghan nods, and A.J. continues. "Good. So you know we don't play anything that's even remotely popular — and if it's ever been on the radio, forget it. Most of our inventory is underground artists, garage bands, et cetera; the purpose of this station is to put a spotlight on new or small groups, show them some love and appreciation. So unless you're big into the local scene, you probably won't have heard of most of these bands."

Jeonghan skims over the nearest shelf, sure enough finding nothing familiar. Instead he finds jewel cases boasting all sorts of unheard-of band names — plunk!, Blister, Pisswizard, The Underwater Grandmas, and Groob, to name a few.

"Anyway, few ground rules. First, if the ON AIR sign is lit, you are live. Don't go saying anything you don't want hundreds of strangers to hear. Second, keep up with the queue, but also clean up after yourself. Don't leave loose CDs laying around, and make sure they go back into their actual cases — makes everyone's jobs easier."

Jeonghan nods attentively, trying not to seem nervous, but he feels like he's not doing a very good job. A.J. seems to notice too, but he claps Jeonghan on the shoulder and gives him a grin.

"Third, and this one's the most important if you ask me: just have fun. As long as you're doing a good job, just be yourself. Nothin' to stress over, I promise."

Jeonghan hears the booth door swing open; peering over A.J.'s shoulder, he sees a tall, dark-haired student stepping out into the main room.

"Ope, looks like we're on," A.J. says to him. "Johnny, this is Jeonghan, our new night shift guy."

Johnny walks over, shaking Jeonghan's hand enthusiastically. "Welcome! Nice to meet you, bro!"

"Thanks," Jeonghan replies, slightly intimidated by how friendly everyone is being, but he smiles politely at his new coworkers.

"Catch you guys 'round!" Johnny says as he takes off, giving the other two men a cheerful salute.

"Alright, the queue will be running for another 10 minutes or so," A.J. says as he enters the booth, pointing at the unlit ON AIR sign. "So in the meantime I can show you the basics…"

As promised, A.J. gives him the rundown, going over the master audio mixer controls, how to queue up songs, how to check the logs to see what's already been played, and a few different generic scripts for radio announcements.

"Like I said, you won't be talking on air just yet. But it's good for practice — and the more you practice the more natural it'll feel," he assures him. "Alright, we're coming up on the end of the queue. Grab some discs from that stack over there — doesn't matter which ones, really — and get them ready, I'll make the announcement." He places the bulky headphones on, pulling the mic in front of him and waiting for the song's outro begin to fade. He signals to Jeonghan as he goes live, the ON AIR sign lighting up bright red above their heads.

"That was 'Bitchcraft' by the Lipstick Dollz, and you're listening to WFVC 90.5 — the hottest place for underground punk and badass rock n' roll," A.J. speaks effortlessly into the mic. "Coming up next for you this hour, we've got some more Doomcock, a few from Spaceshuttle, and The Mary Jane Planes with their newest track, "Reefer Renegade" — only here on WFVC 90.5. Don't you dare touch that fuckin' tuner!"

The ON AIR sign shuts off, its red glow disappearing as the next song begins to play.

"See? Pretty easy," A.J. grins.

"Damn, that sounds so cool when you do it," Jeonghan tells him shyly.

"Don't sweat it, man. You'll get the hang of it in no time!"

Jeonghan isn't so sure, but he tries not to let the negative thoughts win. A.J. has him running the broadcast mixer, learning how to fade in and out and how to balance everything just right. He picks up on it faster than he expected, and the rest of the late-night shift seems to fly by. The job isn't the most exciting thing, but it's fun and interesting — and Jeonghan finds he enjoys even the monotony of mindlessly shelving CDs back into their places. But it seems that as soon as there's a lull in the job, you pop into his mind. By the time it's the middle of the night, he's certain you must have gone to bed by now — but he wonders if you were actually listening earlier. Did she like the music? he muses. Did she think of me at all?

He doesn't know the answer, but he really hopes you did.

The next day, Jeonghan doesn't show up to class.

You don't actually have any classes with him this semester, but after your Advanced Creative Writing class you always meet him in the quad underneath the usual tree. He's usually there first, so you waited for him for about 10 minutes — but he never showed.

Fortunately, his apartment is within walking distance from campus, so you make your way there. You knock on his door, but no response. You try again, a bit louder; after a few moments you hear footsteps from within the unit, shuffling their way toward the front door. The door swings open, revealing a messy-haired Jeonghan wearing pajamas, looking very much like you just woke him up.

"Have you been sleeping all day??" you ask with a grin.

"I guess so," he answers, placing his hand over his mouth as he yawns. "What time even is it?"

"3:23pm," you read from your wristwatch.

"Holy shit," he grumbles. "I slept through everything."

"You must've been exhausted," you point out. "Sorry for waking you up, I just wanted to make sure you were alive."

"No, no — don't apologize," he shakes his head. "Here, come on in," he says as he swings the door open, traipsing back into the apartment. "I'll make us some coffee."

You follow your sleepy friend into his kitchen, where he locates a bag of coffee grounds and starts to brew a fresh pot.

"Soooo," you say eagerly, sitting down at the kitchen table. It's stacked with books, CDs, piles of mail, and one very ripe-looking banana sitting atop a toppled box of Lucky Charms — but you're able to clear off enough space for two coffee mugs. "How was it? Tell me everything!"

"It was actually really good!" he responds enthusiastically, leaning against the counter. The warm aroma of hot coffee drifts across the room as the dark liquid begins to drip into the carafe. "Nothing particularly exciting, since I was just training. But it's all super cool, I think I'm really going to like it."

You haven't seen Jeonghan this excited about something since he scored tickets to the blink-182 concert last summer. He's become one of your closest friends, so you know that he's generally a bit of a melancholy guy — but seeing him so passionate about something really warms your heart. Happiness is a good look on him, you think to yourself.

"What's that look for?" he inquires, raising his brow at you.

"Nothing! I'm just really excited for you," you smile at him. "I was listening last night, you know."

His face lights up. "You were?" he asks eagerly The pot begins to sputter as the coffee finishes brewing; he grabs two mugs, filling them with the beverage: one cup black, for himself, and one with a tablespoon of sugar, for you.

"Of course! I said I was going to, didn't I?"

"You did," he smiles, bringing the mugs to the table and setting yours in front of you. You take a sip — it's piping hot, but it's delicious. "Didja hear any new songs you liked?"

"Yeah, I really liked all of it! There was one band called something weird that I enjoyed, I think it was 'Beenis'?"

Jeonghan laughs. "Yeah, I recall seeing a Beenis in the mix. Hey, speaking of new bands…"

He gets up, fetching his backpack and pulling a slightly-bent bright yellow piece of paper from it. He hands it to you, and you see that it's a flier for a show down at Dizzy's Tavern, a local dive bar known for it's cheap beer and loud, live rock music. The two bands listed are Fuckwagon and The Flagstaff Arizonas — names you've certainly never heard of before, but then again you're not too acquainted with the local music scene.

"My boss told me about this show tonight, apparently Fuckwagon are a pretty well-known name around the station. Said they're always bringing in new demos and singles for us to play," he explains. "I don't work tonight, and I don't know what you're up to, but I thought maybe we could go check it out."

"I'm down! I have nothing else going on today, and that sounds fun!"

"Sweet," Jeonghan replies casually, trying to contain his excitement, but his face is positively beaming. "I'll pick you up at 7:45, then?"

"Sounds like a plan," you grin back at him.

[FIVE]

Dizzy's Tavern is, for lack of better words, a shithole. As you step through the front door you are immediately hit with a wall of cigarette smoke that is somehow both stale and fresh. It's dark inside, the only source of lighting being the red lights above the bar and neon signs of various beer brands hanging around the walls; despite the dim environment, the dinginess of the establishment is still glaringly obvious. The place is a decent size, but it's packed — there are people of all ages, most of whom seem to be clad in leather jackets, and many with hair dyed unnatural colors or a multitude of piercings. The vibe of the place certainly screams punk.

"Holy shit, it's crowded," you remark to Jeonghan as you both shuffle into the crowded bar area.

"We don't have to stay if it's too much—" he quickly offers.

"No, it's okay!" you assure him. "I just think this will be more fun once I have a drink or two in me," you say lightheartedly.

"What do you want to drink?" he asks, grabbing onto your arm gently as you meander through the throng of bodies as not to get separated.

"Jack and Coke," you answer. He raises a brow at you.

"Oh so we're drinking drinking tonight," he smirks.

"Hey, you get whatever you want," you tell him, poking him in the chest. "You don't have to drink just because of me."

"Maybe I want to."

"Okay, just be careful though. I know how much of a lightweight you are."

"Hey!" he protests.

"Well, you are! Am I wrong?"

"No, you're right," he concedes with a smile. "As usual."

He finally gets the bartender's attention, ordering a Jack and Coke for the both of you. You sip it as you make your way through the crowd, holding onto Jeonghan as you head toward the small stage at the back of the bar. The band isn't on yet; according to the flier they should be on any minute now, but you have a feeling that being precisely punctual perhaps isn't very punk rock.

"Let's hang out here," you say, spotting a tiny, unoccupied high-top table off to the side. It's less crowded over here, and not too close to the stage. "I'm sure we will be able to hear just fine."

You're in the middle of a very non-serious debate about Halloween costumes when you spot a familiar face emerging from the nearby hall that leads to the bathrooms. It's Joshua, your weed dealer, and you unintentionally make eye contact with him. His face lights up with recognition, and he waves at you, heading in your direction. Jeonghan looks over his shoulder, doing a poor job of hiding his grimace when he realizes who it is.

"Hey hey!" Joshua says cheerfully as he approaches your table. "What's up you guys?"

"Hi Joshua!" you tell him cheerfully. "We're here to see the show," you explain, nudging your head toward the still-empty stage. You want to ask him what exactly he's doing here, considering that this doesn't seem to be his scene in the slightest, but you figure that might be a bit rude.

"Oh, cool!" he nods eagerly. "Hey, by the way," he says, leaning in to the both of you. "I got some new school supplies coming my way soon, if you catch my drift." He winks at Jeonghan, nudging him playfully with his elbow. "I'll make sure to save the good stuff for you."

Jeonghan stands there frozen with awkwardness at Joshua's directness. "Um," he finally manages to reply. "Yeah, uh, that sounds cool. Thanks."

"Awesome!" Joshua smiles at him sweetly. Turning back to you, he gives you a casual salute.

"Well, I gotta bounce," he excuses himself. "Catch you guys on the flip side."

Once he's out of earshot, you turn to Jeonghan, giving him a knowing look.

"Told you," you tease. "He's like that with everyone."

"Okay, okay, fine," he huffs, raising his hands defeatedly, but a smile spreads across his face. "I believe you now."

Several minutes later, the band finally comes out on stage, eliciting drunken cheering and whooping from the crowd of bar-goers.

"What the fuck is up!!!" the lead singer screams into the microphone. "We're Fuckwagon, and here's some fucking music!"

A screeching guitar riff begins, joined momentarily by crashing drums and a bassline that somehow already seems out of sync with the song. The lead singer appears to be playing the shrill guitar, and the bass player also has a mic; they start singing in tandem — sort of. You're not sure if the sounds coming from either of them can even be considered singing, but they proceed regardless, wailing into the mics as the drummer is already flailing crazily at the drum set. You nod your head to the beat as best you can; turning to Jeonghan, you see he also wears a stunned expression, staring blankly at the raucous scene on the stage.

"Is this the same song or a new one?" you ask him a few minutes later, leaning in to speak into his ear.

"Fuck if I know," he shrugs. He tosses back the rest of his drink, picking up your empty glass as well. "Want another one?"

"Yeah, definitely."

He returns a few minutes later with two fresh Jack and Cokes in hand. The lead singer has somehow already taken his shirt off, revealing a plethora of tattoos that you personally would consider hideous. You and Jeonghan down the drinks fast — unintentionally, but anything to make the music more tolerable. There seems to be no distinction from one song to the next, the night going by in a non-stop cacophony of hard, grungy rock sounds. You don't pay too much attention to the music though, instead talking and laughing with Jeonghan the whole time.

"That's not even the weirdest part," Jeonghan continues his story, resting his elbow on your shoulder as he leans in close to your face. "The next week, I get home and the apartment is filled with boxes of potatoes. Turns out, Jun had built a potato cannon, and he thought he had placed an order for a hundred potatoes — but he had accidentally ordered a hundred ten-pound bags."

"Oh my god," you laugh in disbelief. "How did he not notice, wasn't it expensive??"

"I have genuinely no idea," Jeonghan shakes his head, also laughing. "He just does things like that sometimes."

"I think he has to be the strangest guy I've ever met," you respond. "I can't believe you live with him."

"Hey, he's a great roommate. He's clean, quiet, and half the time he's not even there — off doing god knows what."

"And that was our last song!!!" the lead singer screams into the mic over the drummer continuing his solo despite the song having ended. "Goodnight motherfuckaaaas!!!"

The band exits the stage, the next band already setting up their instruments.

"Thank god," you say to Jeonghan, who is all but fully leaning on you at this point. You pick his drink up off the table, finishing it off before he can drink any more; he doesn't seem to notice.

"You think the next band will be any better?" he asks you, his face mere inches from yours, heavy eyelids blinking slowly in his drunken state.

"There's no way they can possibly be worse than that."

You were wrong. Despite it being harsh and grating, the first band at least had upbeat rock music; the new band consists of six people, one of whom plays the trumpet, and all of whom barely fit on the stage — and their music is dull, drawn-out, and extremely repetitive. You're not sure if lead singer is drunk or if he just sounds like he is, but either way, it's borderline insufferable.

You turn to Jeonghan, about to suggest you call it a night, but he clearly has the exact same thought.

"Should we… leave?"

"Yeeaaaah," you nod eagerly in agreement. "We should leave."

It's even colder now as you step out of the bar, but despite the chilly autumn wind the fresh, smoke-free air feels delightful.

"So," Jeonghan asks as you stroll down the sidewalk together. He drove you to the bar, but neither one of you seem to recall that detail — but you're both too drunk to drive, anyway. "What did you think of… that?"

"I think it sucked shit," you reply honestly. Jeonghan bursts out laughing, making you start giggling too.

"Yeah, that was pretty terrible," he agrees. "Sorry I dragged you to this."

"Don't be!" you insist. "I still had a good time."

"Good," Jeonghan replies, a smile lighting up his face. "I did too."

Though your apartment is further than his, he walks you home first. The alcohol in your system has kept you warm all night, but the cold nighttime breeze is starting to get to you. You shiver, tugging the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands and tucking them into you as you cross your arms to try and stay warm.

"Here," Jeonghan tells you as soon as he notices, immediately taking his jacket off.

"No, I'll be fine—" you start, but he's already wrapping it around your shoulders. The jacket is warm, both from its thick leather and Jeonghan's body heat. You accept it graciously, slipping your arms into the baggy sleeves and zipping it all the way up.

"Thanks," you tell him sincerely. "You're the best."

In the dim orange-y glow of the incandescent streetlamps it's hard to tell, but Jeonghan blushes, his face turning even pinker than the alcohol made him.

You arrive outside your apartment a few minutes later.

"Well, goodnight," Jeonghan smiles at you. To his surprise, you suddenly throw your arms around him, leaning your head against his shoulder as you hug him. He tenses up slightly as his inebriated brain tries to process what's happening, but slowly he wraps his arms around you too, sinking into your embrace. It only lasts a few seconds, but the moment simultaneously feels hours long and also over way too fast.

"Goodnight," you reply as you let go, waving as you turn toward the sidewalk to head home. "Get home safe, okay?"

"I will," he nods softly. He watches until you've made it inside, then turns to head back to his own apartment, wondering if you knew that you just completely flipped his world upside down.

[SIX]

You wake up the next day uncomfortably hot.

Prying your eyes open, you see that you're in your living room. Apparently, you were too tired to make it all the way to your bedroom, so you just crashed on the couch, still wearing your shoes and Jeonghan's jacket. Your arm feels like lead as you try to lift it, peering at your watch: 12:16pm.

"Holy shit," you grumble as you hoist yourself up into a sitting position, your head pounding with a killer hangover. A few seconds later, Mina walks into the room.

"Jesus Christ, you're a mess," she tells you bluntly. "What the hell did you do last night?"

"Um, went to a shitty bar and saw a shitty band," you answer, rubbing your aching eyes. "Scratch that — two shitty bands."

"With your boyfriend, I assume?" she asks, glancing at the oversized leather jacket with its many pins and buttons.

"He's not my boyfriend," you mumble through a yawn, shimmying out of the jacket and neatly placing on the armrest next to you.

"Well, you knew who I was talking about without me even saying his name, soooo…"

"Shut uppp," you groan, flopping your tired head onto the back of the couch. With a pleased grin, she heads into the kitchen. You close your eyes, nodding off again, but soon you start to smell fresh coffee, and hear the sound of a sizzling skillet. A few minutes later, Mina returns, carrying a large mug of steaming coffee and a plate of fried eggs and pancakes.

"Here, eat," she says firmly, setting the plate and mug in front of you on the coffee table.

"Thanks, Mina," you smile at her.

After devouring your breakfast, you hop in the shower, standing there under the hot stream of water for far too long — but, you feel a million times better afterward. You toss on some sweats and decide to work on some homework from your bed. After a surprisingly productive afternoon, make your way back to the kitchen to find some dinner. On your way there, you pass by the couch, spotting Jeonghan's jacket still laying there. You feel bad that you didn't remember to give it back last night — after all, this is quite literally his only jacket. You're figure you should just take it over to him after you eat dinner. But, you're pretty sure he mentioned that he was working tonight; and since it's getting late and campus is a closer walk for you anyway, you figure you'll just try and drop it off at the station.

Your walk to campus is eerily empty. You've never seen this few people around, but it is Saturday night, after all. Most people are probably either at home or partying off-campus by this point. You approach the Comms building, suddenly worried that the door might be locked at this hour; but its swings right open when you pull it, and you let yourself inside. You've only had a couple classes in this building before, so you're not familiar with its layout, and you realize you have no idea where the radio station is actually located. You're about to start wandering down the halls in a random direction when you spot a directory by the staircase. The station appears to be on the top floor, so you head up the stairs.

There's no signage for the station, but you figure the bright red door with all the stickers all over it is probably the one you need. You knock at the door quietly, just now realizing that maybe this was a bad idea and that you shouldn't be here. You consider turning around and leaving before you can bother anybody, but then the door swings open. A tough-looking man with long hair and a beard pokes his head out.

"Hi, so sorry to bother you," you tell him apologetically. "But I was wondering if Jeonghan was working tonight? I just wanted to drop off his jacket."

"Oh!" the man replies with a smile, looking suddenly much less intimidating. "Yeah, he's here, come on in!"

You're not sure what exactly you thought a college radio station that plays punk music would look like, but this place seems to fit the bill. You don't see Jeonghan, but then the man points his thumb back to the small window in the far wall.

"He's in the booth right now, but I'll go grab him once we cut to commercial," he tells you. "I'm A.J., by the way," he adds, extending his hand to you.

"Y/n," you introduce yourself.

"Oh, so you're y/n!" A.J. responds amicably. "I've heard all about you.""

"Oh," you reply, feeling your face turn hot suddenly. "Really?"

"Yeah, Jeonghan talks about you all the time. All good things, though, I promise," he smiles. "Hey, I gotta go fax something real quick — just hang out in here for a sec, I'll be right back."

He exits the room, and you walk over to the window, peering into the booth. There's a lot of equipment in the way, but you spot the back of Jeonghan's head, clad with headphones and bobbing his head to whatever must be playing on the radio right now. You can't see his face, but you get the sense that he really is enjoying the job.

A.J. returns in a couple minutes. He waits outside the booth door, glancing at the lit-up ON AIR sign overhead.

"I'll go grab him as soon we're not on air," he tells you. Sure enough, it shuts off a few seconds later, and he slips into the booth. Watching through the window, you see Jeonghan turn around to greet his boss; A.J. points to you through the window, and Jeonghan turns, his face lighting up when he sees it's you.

"Hey!" he says cheerfully as he comes out to greet you. "What are you doing here?"

"Just returning your jacket I accidentally stole from you," you say, extending the garment to him.

"Oh yeah," he chuckles, taking the jacket from you. "I didn't even realize until I was almost home, I was wondering why I was so cold."

"Sorry," you smile apologetically.

"Don't even worry about it," he smiles back at you. "Thanks for bringing it to me, you didn't have to do that."

"Yes I did. I know for a fact that you don't own any other jackets," you tease.

"Okay, you got me there," he grins.

"How's the job going?" you ask.

"It's great!" he answers with more enthusiasm than you're used to from him. "I'm can officially run the show and be on air by myself now, no more supervision required."

"That's so cool," you beam at him. "You seem like you're really liking it so far."

"Yeah," he nods. "I definitely am."

"Well, I should let you get back to work now," you tell him. "Hope you have a good rest of your shift."

"Thanks, y/n," Jeonghan smiles warmly. "See ya later."

The end credits to Law & Order: Special Victims Unit begin to play as you lay on the couch, eating potato chips straight from the bag. It's not particularly the most exciting Saturday night you could be having, but you're enjoying the relaxing night in. You're not really in the mood to keep watching TV, so you grab the remote and shut it off. Mina isn't home yet, so you figure you'd take this opportunity to play your music out loud without wearing headphones. You get up and shuffle over to the boombox perched on the bookshelf, turning it on; it's tuned to the local pop station — clearly Mina used it last. You enjoy this station too, but your mind flashed back to Jeonghan in the booth. Maybe I'll hear him on the air, you think to yourself excitedly. You change the tuner to 90.5 and are greeted by the heavy tune of an unfamiliar but grungy-sounding song.

Plopping back on the couch you reach for your bag of chips again — but over the crinkling of the bag as you stick your hand in it, a very familiar voice comes through on the radio.

"You're listening to WFVC 90.5, the hottest place for underground punk and badass rock n' roll. The track you just heard was "Beautiful Monster" by Meatglove, one of their earliest and most iconic releases. Up next — we've got some Death Day Party for you, as well as a classic from Wunderguts; but first, some local flavor from Z-41 with their newest track "Hell Highway."

You're a bit taken aback by the confidence and air which he delivered his spiel. You can tell he's still getting used to it, but you swear you've never heard him sound so self-assured. The crashing drums of the next song begin; you're getting a bit sleepy, but you're comfy — so you end up laying on the couch for another hour or so, zoned out as you enjoy the music. You're halfway asleep when Mina returns home, so out of it that you don't even hear her come in; but you do hear Jeonghan's voice over the speakers, making you smile as your eyes start to drift close.

"I assume that's your boyfriend on the radio?"

Your eyes shoot open again at the sudden sound of Mina's voice. Looking up, you see her looming above you as she stands beside the armrest.

"I didn't even hear you come in," you tell her, rubbing your tired eyes.

"Yeah, I can tell," she teases. "You wouldn't be swooning and gushing over him like that if you knew I was here."

"I was not," you roll your eyes. "I was like half-asleep."

"Mhmm. Well, I'm going right to bed — goodnight!"

And with that, you're alone with the radio again.

While the commercials play, an idea pops into your head. You remember Jeonghan making an off-hand comment about how the station does take requests — it's just that hardly anyone ever calls them in. You consider for a minute, and then decide, fuck it.

You get up again, quietly heading over to the landline. You're don't actually know the number, so you flip through the phone book, perusing the thin yellow pages for the station. Eventually, you spot it: Foxville College Communications Department, WFVC 90.5 — 555-1004.

You dial the number, the line ringing as you wait for it to connect. You realize you're not even sure what exactly it is you planned to request, considering that the station only plays underground stuff. Anything you would normally request on the radio is off the table.

Before you can think of something, the line picks up.

"WFVC 90.5, we have a caller live on the air," you hear Jeonghan answer the call. "Hi there, whatcha calling for?"

Your stomach drops a bit — you weren't expecting him to actually pick up live on the air. You're not a shy person, but the thought that a bunch of random strangers can hear you right now does make you at least a little bit nervous.

"Hi!" you say cheerfully, careful not to be to so loud as to wake Mina. "Um, I was hoping I could call in a request."

"Of course you can!" he answers. You were wondering if Jeonghan would recognize your voice, but the slight pause and the upward shift in his voice tells you he definitely does. "What are you looking for?"

Thinking on the fly, you say the first thing that pops into your head.

"Well, I don't actually have a specific song in mind," you reply. " Can you play me something upbeat and happy? A song I'd play if I was just chilling with my friend or something."

"I sure can," Jeonghan responds, and you swear you can hear the smile in his voice. "What's your name?" he remembers to ask at the last second — of course, he already knows, but he makes sure he sticks to the script.

"Y/n," you tell him.

"Well, y/n, thanks for calling in — we appreciate ya. Got a special one just for you coming up right now: this one's called 'Heart Attack', by good friends of the station, Fever Baby — right here on WFVC 90.5!"

The call ends, the flat tone humming in your ear. You put the receiver back, heading back into the living room. You're not entirely sure how radio requests work, but you assume there's some sort of slight delay. Sure enough, right as you return the end of your call plays, followed by a light and rhythmic guitar strumming — the song he chose for you. You sit down as you listen, the melody picking up with a bright atmosphere. The song is exactly the vibe you were looking for, and you like it a lot. Turns out the band has a female lead too, something you always love, especially in this genre of music. You must've said that once a long time ago, in some off-hand comment, but Jeonghan remembered. That's the thing about Jeonghan, though — he always does.

[SEVEN]

The semester passes by, days getting shorter and temperatures getting lower as the final weeks of fall come to a close. School has kept you plenty busy, with midterms and papers taking up the majority of your time. You haven't been able to have as much of a social life as you would like, which isn't particularly unusual for this time of year; but Jeonghan especially has been busy — late nights at the station have caused his sleep schedule to shift significantly, rendering your schedules largely incompatible. You miss him, and you really hope you can find a way to hang out with him soon.

You're sitting in your apartment studying one night when the phone rings. The phone doesn't have caller ID, but you expect it's one of Mina's friends calling, as she likes to chat on the phone more often than you do. She's not home right now, so you could easily just let it go to voicemail, but something in you feels the urge to answer.

"Hello?" you answer as you pick up, grabbing the nearby stack of sticky notes and a pen in case you need to take a message.

"Hey y/n," you hear Jeonghan say softly through the line.

"Hannie!" you say, surprised but excited to be hearing his voice. "How's it going? I feel like I haven't seen you in ages!"

"I know, I've been so busy," he concurs. "I'm tired as hell, but I'm okay. How are you?"

"Same, I'm exhausted but I'm getting by. How's the DJ life treating you?"

"It's good!" he answers eagerly. "I mean, that's why I'm so tired. But in a way it also kinda gives me an energy boost. I know that probably sounds crazy…"

"Not at all," you smile. "That means you really like it! I'm so glad it ended up being a great fit for you."

"Me too," he agrees. "I've been so happy lately. Except for the fact that we haven't hung out like, at all. That part sucks."

"We gotta find some time to hang," you say assertively.

"Actually, that's why I'm calling," he replies. "The Comms Department is having this social thing on Friday night. I wasn't really planning to go, but guests are allowed if you'd wanna come with me. There's gonna be free food."

"Hell yeah, I'm always down for free food," you grin — though, you're much more excited about getting to see Jeonghan finally.

"Cool! It starts at 7, I'll drop by your place around then and we can walk to campus together."

"Sounds good," you say excitedly. "Is this like, a formal event?"

"Um, I don't think so? But like, maybe a little?"

"I'll dress up at least a little, then," you tell him. "I'd rather be overdressed than underdressed."

"Good idea, I'll do the same. Well, I gotta head to work in a few minutes, so I gotta go."

"Have a good shift!" you tell him. "See ya on Friday."

"See ya then, y/n."

Friday afternoon you start rummaging through your closet, looking for something to wear to the social later. You have a few hours until you need to be ready, but you figured you'd give yourself a little extra time to make yourself look at least a little bit nice. It's been a while since you've had an excuse to dress up anyway, so what the hell, why not.

Nothing is particularly catching your eye as you flip through the hangers, until you get to the end and spot a brand new skirt you had completely forgotten about. You pull it out to look at it; it's a black pinstripe pleated mini skirt, brandishing a built-in belt, and it still has the tags on. A bit on the casual side, but you figure if you pair it with a nice sweater and tights that don't have any holes in them the outfit will look just the right amount of sophisticated for the occasion.

Digging through your dresser drawer, you take a look at your sweaters. Most are a bit too tattered, and about half of them are just sweatshirts featuring a band logo, but you do find a deep maroon sweater that you rarely wear. You lay it on your bed above the skirt and grab a pair of tights to lay out as well; all put together, it actually looks pretty nice.

You throw your outfit on and spend a little bit longer than usual putting makeup on, adding some shimmery eyeshadow and some tinted lip gloss to your usual routine of eyeliner and mascara. When you're done styling your hair, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. It's not that you usually look bad, but you definitely tend to dress more on the casual side, so you're pleasantly surprised by how put-together you look right now. Turns out, a little extra effort can go a long way.

You're reading your book a couple hours later when you hear a light knocking at your door. Hopping up off the couch you flutter over to answer it, opening the door to reveal Jeonghan looking the fanciest you've ever seen him. He's still in his leather jacket, of course — but underneath he wears a maroon button-down shirt and crisp black dress pants, and you've never seen his long hair so neat and styled.

"Holy shit, since when do you own dress pants?" you ask with a playful smirk.

"Hey, shut up," he pouts. "I know they look stupid."

"They do not!" you insist. "You look really nice, Jeonghan. I've just never seen you so dressed up. And we even matched on accident!" you chuckle.

"Looks like we did," he smiles. "You look really nice as well," he says, staring at your outfit for a moment but quickly averting his gaze. You typically wear clothes that are at least a little bit baggy, but this sweater fits you snugly, its thin knit fabric accentuating your every curve very flatteringly. Jeonghan tries not to think about it.

"Thanks! Here, let me put my shoes on and then we can bounce."

He steps inside as you grab your Doc Martens, leaning down to slip your feet into them and tighten the laces. Your back is to him as you bend over, and while your skirt isn't super short it does ride up a bit in the process, your thighs on full display through the sheer black tights. He ogles you as you tie the boots up, feeling his face grow hot. He knows you don't notice, but he forces himself to turn away before you do, prying his eyes off of you, but it's too late.

"Um, I'm gonna go pee real quick," he tells you, scurrying off to your bathroom.

"Okie dokie," you reply.

Jeonghan doesn't actually have to pee, but he locks himself in the bathroom anyway. He stares at himself in the mirror, still thrown off by how different he looks all cleaned up.

"Get it together man," he grumbles to himself.

A couple minutes later he returns.

"Ready?" you ask, grabbing your coat.

"Yep!" he says with a smile.

The walk to campus is cold, but there's no wind, so it's surprisingly pleasant. On your way there it begins to snow, huge flakes falling gently through the air and starting to accumulate on the ground. You arrive to the Comms Building, brushing the snow off your jacket before you step through its doors to the warm interior.

"You've got some in your hair, too," Jeonghan points out. You ruffle your hair lightly, shaking the snow off.

"So do you," you tell him, reaching up and brushing your fingers across his hair, brushing the stark white snow out of his long, dark locks. Jeonghan freezes up slightly, grateful that his cheeks are already pink from the cold so you can't see him blushing like an idiot.

"Thanks," he says softly.

You make your way to the end of the hall, where two doors propped open lead you into the event space. Immediately you see that despite your efforts, you are both still noticeably underdressed.

"Welp," he mumbles to you quietly. "Guess I didn't get the memo that this was actually fancy."

"It's okay," you reply reassuringly. "We still look nice." And it's true, but amongst all the suits and heels you still feel a bit out of place.

You make your way over to the food table together, grabbing plates and piling them high with the assortment of hors d'oeuvres on display. It earns you a few judgmental glares from a group of older adults standing nearby, but you're both broke college kids, so you don't really give a fuck.

"Let's go over there," Jeonghan says after you each grab a glass of wine, nudging his head toward the back of the room. You meander through the groups of professors and whomever else standing around and chatting, claiming the two chairs in the corner.

"So, what exactly is this event supposed to be again?" you ask him as you pop a fancy cracker with cheese on it into your mouth.

"Um, I don't actually know," he admits as he sips at wine, glancing around the room. "I thought it was for students and professors to meet each other, but I don't think any of these people are actually students…"

You look around too, and he seems to be right. Everyone is significantly older and distinguished-looking — very clearly not undergraduates.

"Oops," you say, trying not to smile too big. "Does that mean we just walked in here and stole their food?"

A grin starts to spread across his face. "Um, yeah. Looks like it."

He starts to giggle out loud, prompting you to subtly whack him in the leg.

"Shhh, people are gonna notice!" you whisper, but you feel the urge to start laughing too. A voice rings out over the speaker system as somebody starts talking into a microphone. The attendees all turn and face the small stage, where a woman in a sequined navy dress starts to speak.

"Should we go?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah, definitely," you reply, tossing back the rest of your wine. "But let's grab some more food on the way out."

Jeonghan grins. "I like the way you think."

After piling the small plastic plates with as much food as you possibly can and grabbing another glass of wine each, you sneak out the back door of the room, quickly making your way towards the building's exit.

"Holy shit," Jeonghan laughs as you burst through the door returning you to the quad. "That was awesome."

"I love to steal free food," you giggle. The falling snow has picked up, blustering around calmly but shrouding everything in a sea of white. "C'mon," you say to him, zipping off toward your usual spot under the small oak tree. "Let's go over here."

You stand together beneath the branches, accepting their humble offering of any sort of cover as you scarf down the rest of the food on your plates.

"I guess we also technically stole these wine glasses," Jeonghan comments as he stares at the remaining red liquid in the bowl. "I didn't even realize they were real."

"Me neither," you say, finishing your drink. "Whoops."

Hors d'oeuvres and wine now gone, you toss the plates in a nearby trashcan, leaving the glasses sitting on the steps to the Comms Building and zooming off before somebody catches you. When you get off campus you slow your pace, strolling casually down the block through the deluge of snow.

"Maybe I should've driven," Jeonghan chuckles. "But also who wants to drive in this weather."

"True," you smile. "But I don't mind the snow. It's nice."

"Me neither."

You chat the whole walk home, taking and laughing about anything and everything and nothing at all. By the time you make it to your building, your cheeks hurt — not only from the cold but from smiling nonstop the whole night.

"Tonight was really fun — even if it wasn't what we expected," you say, turning to face Jeonghan.

"Same here," he smiles softly. "I'm glad I finally got to see you."

"Me too," you beam back. You're thinking about inviting him up, maybe to smoke a J or something, when suddenly his lips are on yours.

Your whole body freezes. His lips are soft, the kiss is sweet, but you were not prepared for it. Quickly he pulls his face back, his eyes widening with fear like a deer in the headlights.

"Sorry," he stammers, then takes off.

"Wait!" you call out after him. "Jeonghan!" But he's gone in the blink of an eye, running off down the street into the snowy night.

[EIGHT]

Almost an entire week passes, and you don't see or hear from Jeonghan once.

You tried calling him, but you just kept getting Jun, who seemed to be confused but didn't ask any questions. You tried to meet him after several of his classes, but he either wasn't there or managed to completely evade you. You even tried e-mailing him, but as you expected, no response.

So you gave up for the time being. You knew he wasn't going to avoid you forever, that eventually he would come back. But damn, you hated waiting for it.

It's now Thursday night. Six nights have gone by, and still radio silence from Jeonghan. You're not even upset with him, you just want to talk to him. There's too many questions swimming around in your brain right now — you can hardly think about anything else.

Why did you kiss me?

Why did you run away?

Why have you been so scared to talk to me?

Do you love me?

The living room boom box softly plays the local classic rock channel as you lay at the couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking too much. For reasons you can't explain, you suddenly get up and go change the tuner to 90.5. You lay back down, unsure what exactly the point of that was, but also you don't really care. You're not even sure if Jeonghan is working tonight, and even if he is it's too early for him to be on — but the radio station is enough to remind you of him. You feel tears begin to well in your eyes, blinking them away quickly.

The DJ eventually comes back on the air; as expected, it's not Jeonghan, but that doesn't make you any less sad about the whole situation. The next song that comes on sounds vaguely familiar, and awful; it occurs to you about two minutes into the song that this sounds like that terrible band you saw at that bar — Fuckwagon or whatever. The one you saw with Jeonghan.

Tears begin to stream down your cheeks. Unable to shut them down, you just let them flow, softly sobbing into the couch.

This is so fucking stupid, you tell yourself. I'm crying to a Fuckwagon song right now. You let out a laugh through your tears, in disbelief of how utterly stupid this scenario is. After crying for a few more minutes, you eventually calm back down. Your mind is a bit clearer now, and you come to the realization that there's nothing stopping you from marching over there right this instant and putting an end to this nonsense.

Fifteen minutes later, you're standing outside Jeonghan's apartment. All that's left is to knock, but now that you're here that part feels daunting. You take a deep breath, slowly raising your hand to the door, then you knock. It comes out a bit more aggressive than you meant it, but you hope that means he'll hear you right away. You hear footsteps trodding toward the door, and then it opens.

"Oh, hi y/n," Jun greets you. He looks frazzled, like you just woke him from a thousand-year slumber.

"Hey, Jun. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," you tell him apologetically.

"Oh, I wasn't asleep," he replies nonchalantly. You're about to ask him what the hell he was doing then, but you decide some questions don't need to be answered. Besides, that's not why you're here.

"Is Jeonghan here?" you cut to the chase. "I was hoping to talk to him."

"Sorry, no," he shakes his head. "You just missed him — he left for work about ten minutes ago."

"Dammit," you mutter.

"Has he still not talked to you since he kissed you?"

You look up at Jun, a perplexed expression coloring your face. "You know about that?"

"Yes," he replies matter-of-factly. "He came home right after that and was freaking out about it. He wasn't exactly very coherent, but through his ramblings I got the general picture."

"Did he say why he was freaking out?" you try.

"He was scared that it was a mistake, that he fucked it all up."

"Fucked what all up?" you ask, furrowing your brow. "Our friendship?"

Jun lets out a gentle sigh. "So you didn't know, then," he says softly. "Jeonghan is in love with you, y/n. Has been since the day he met you."

You make it to campus in record time, speed-walking as fast as you can, zooming across the quad directly toward the Comms Building. You're out of breath as you enter, groaning as you spot the three flights of stairs you now have to climb. But you move quickly anyway, your body seemingly unable to slow down for anything.

This time you don't even bother knocking on the red door. You fling it open, expected to have to come up with some sort of explanation on the fly with his boss, but you are greeted by an empty office. The door slowly closes behind you as you walk over to the booth window. Peering in, sure enough you can see the top of his head as he sits at the broadcast mixer. The ON AIR sign above you is lit; you wait for the red light to shut off, then you knock on the booth door. Jeonghan turns around slowly, looking confused, but then he sees you standing outside the window. His eyes widen, and he leaps out out of his chair, bolting to the door and swinging it open.

"What are you doing here??" he asks, looking genuinely surprised.

"I don't want to get you in trouble, but we have to talk."

"Nobody else is here tonight," he replies. "Here, come inside."

He shuts the door behind you as you enter, but as soon as he does you grab him by the arm and spin him around to face you.

"What the—"

"Why did you run away?"

"I—" He pauses for a moment. "That's… not what I thought you were going to ask," he admits.

"What? Why?"

"Well, I just thought you were going to ask me why I kissed you first."

"Okay," you reply. "Then why did you kiss me?"

Jeonghan sighs, dropping his head slightly; but a moment later he lifts it again, looking you directly in the eyes.

"I kissed you because I love you, y/n. I ran away because I was scared you didn't love me back, and I wasn't prepared to face that reality."

His gaze is locked onto yours so intensely that you feel like you might burst into flames. He looks like he's experiencing every emotion at once, anxiously waiting for you to say something, anything. But you don't know what to say, so you do what only feels right — you throw your arms around him, pulling him into your embrace.

He gasps softly as you squeeze him tight, burying your face into his chest; you can feel the accelerating pace of his heart, thumping against your cheek. He instinctively wraps his arms around you, leaning his head on top of yours.

"I love you too," you say softly. "I didn't realize it for a while — but it's so obvious to me now."

He kisses the top of your head, rubbing your back as you nuzzle your face deeper into his sweater.

"That's the best news I've ever heard."

You could stay here in his embrace indefinitely, but eventually you lift your head, looking deeply into his eyes.

"Kiss me — but for real this time."

Slowly, Jeonghan grabs your face with both hands, eyeing you hungrily before pulling you into a kiss. This time it's slow, sweet; you slip your hands around his waist, clinging to him as you savor it. Your heart pounds in your chest as your lips tug at each other, refusing to let go, pressing your body into his and pushing him up against the door. A soft, involuntarily moan emanates from his throat, and you feel the stiff, growing bulge in his pants against your stomach.

Eventually your lips part, lingering near each other as he presses his forehead into yours.

"Holy shit," he mutters. "I can't believe this is really happening."

He drops his hands from their grasp on your head, unzipping your coat and taking it off of you; tossing it on a nearby desk, he hurriedly slips his hands around your waist, kneading at the soft flesh and holding your body tightly against him. He feels slightly embarrassed by how quickly he got a full-fledged boner, but he's too aroused to care — besides, judging by the burning desire in your eyes, you're feeling the exact same thing right now.

"You're perfect," he tells you, cracking a smile and blushing as the words leave his lips. You grin back, giving him another soft kiss before taking hold of his hands.

"C'mere," you say to him, dragging him over to the sound mixer.

"What are you—oh." You cut him off by giving him a slight push, sitting him down into the thick, sturdy chair. You straddle his lap, pressing your core against his bulge, rubbing yourself against it through both of your jeans.

"Fuck," Jeonghan gasps as your weight presses against his cock; you lean your head down to kiss him again, locking lips as you start to make out, mouths crashing and tongues eagerly dancing against each other. Eventually you begin to sway your hips, unable to contain your excitement. You gasp as your mouths part, tossing your head back as you grind against him harder; his arms around you squeeze tighter, pulling you in as close as physically possible. His face presses against your tits as he rubs his hands over your ass, guiding you as you rock back and forth on top of him.

"Oh my god…" he sighs. He tosses his head back, and you swoop in, kissing the delicate flesh of his neck, making him let out the most pathetic-sounding groan. You moan as you grind your heat against him, getting the both of you off at once.

"F-fuck, that's so hot," his voice wavers.

"If I keep doing this it's gonna make me cum," you tell him, starting to sound whiny and frantic.

"Oh my god, please do."

You increase your pace, pressing your aching clit against his clothed cock. It feels incredible — you simply can't help the soft little cries escaping your lips.

"Can I…" Jeonghan asks, tugging at the button of your jeans.

"Please," you say breathily as you eagerly nod your head. He unfastens the button, tugging down your zipper and opening your pants enough for him to slip his fingers beneath your underwear. You let out a whimper as his fingertips dip into your folds, his lips parting lustfully as he discovers the absolute pool of wetness in your panties right now.