The ticking of the library clock doesn't sound like time passing anymore; it sounds like a mechanical countdown, a rhythmic, metal heartbeat mocking the finite number of hours left in his day.

Jungkook doesn't lift his eyes from the sprawling ocean of paper covering the desk. His fingers, ink-stained at the knuckles and stiff from six consecutive hours of drafting appellate briefs, tightly grip a highlighter. The neon yellow ink bleeds across the crisp pages of his Intellectual Property casebook, sharp, unblinking, and precise. He can do this. He has always been able to do this. He is Jeon Jungkook: the fourth-year prodigy, the Vice President of the Student Council, the foundation of the Debate Society, and a legal research assistant for a rather prestigious corporate firm in the city. His track record is an untouchable monument of straight A’s and flawless execution.

But as the first week of May relentlessly bleeds into the second, the boundaries between his carefully compartmentalised lives begin to dangerously blur, fraying at the edges like an old rope under too much tension.

The pressure doesn't hit him all at once in a grand, cinematic wave. There is no sudden, dramatic panic attack, no hyperventilating over his desk, no theatrical breakdown that would give him an excuse to stop. Instead, the stress manifests as a quiet, heavy sediment settling deep into his bones, layer by layer, compressing his spine until every breath feels tightly contained.

It starts with the calendar. His life has become a ruthless, colour-coded grid of absolute zero flexibility, a prison of his own high-achieving making.

08:00 - 10:00: Comprehensive lectures on international copyright law, where his professor deliberately calls on him for the most complex analyses because “Jeon always has the definitive answer.”

10:15 - 12:30: The Student Council chambers. As VP, the structural and financial logistics of the upcoming spring graduation gala fall squarely on his shoulders. He sits through endless, exhausting arguments about budget discrepancies, sign-offs, and administrative red tape, his signature required on twenty different documents before he can even think about leaving the room.

13:00 - 16:00: His role at the firm. It’s supposed to be part-time, but the senior partners treat him like a full-time associate, handing him stacks of archival case files to cross-reference until his vision goes fuzzy and the legal jargon begins to swim behind his eyelids.

16:30 - 19:30: The dead quiet of the library, where he tries to cram three semesters' worth of legal philosophy into his aching brain for his upcoming final exam.

20:00 onward: The dark, endless void of corporate internship portals. He sits in the dim light of his laptop screen, rewriting his cover letters for the twentieth time, tweaking every single sentence to ensure his perfection transfers seamlessly onto a PDF that a recruiter might look at for six seconds.

By the third week of May, the days lose their names entirely. They are no longer Mondays or Thursdays; they are simply measured by the number of empty espresso cups cluttering his nightstand, the mounting pile of laundry in the corner of his bedroom, and the permanent, burning ache right behind his eyes. He is pushing through on pure, unadulterated willpower. His body is a high-performance machine, driving at maximum speed through a fog, consciously ignoring the check-engine light blinking violently in the back of his mind. He doesn't have the luxury of time to check up on himself. He doesn't ask himself how he’s doing, if his chest feels too tight, or whether his hands are shaking slightly when he reaches for his coffee. If he pauses for even a second to evaluate his own state, the momentum will break. And Jungkook knows that if he lets the momentum break, the entire mountain he’s balancing will collapse on top of him.

But the absolute worst part of the crunch isn't the physical exhaustion, or the burning eyes, or the legal briefs, or the impending doom that is his exams, which determine the trajectory of his life. It’s the silence.

He hasn't seen you in six days. Truly seen you. Almost a week. Not just a passing, frantic glimpse across the bustling quad between classes, or a synchronised, tired nod through the glass of the library corridor, but you. He hasn't held you. He hasn't buried his face in the crook of your neck to let your clean, familiar warmth wash away the sterile smell of old paper and high-voltage library electricity.

During a five-minute transition between a gruelling council disciplinary meeting and a mock trial review session, Jungkook slumps against the cold brick wall of the hallway and pulls out his phone. His lock screen is a candid photo he took of you in his apartment months ago: your dark hair messy from sleep, your eyes soft, crinkled, and laughing as you pulled his oversized navy hoodie over your face to shield yourself from his camera lens.

Looking at it causes a physical, hollow ache to bloom right in the centre of his chest. It’s a cold, vacuum-like emptiness that leaves him feeling entirely winded.

You [10:14]: good luck with the council meeting, Kook! Don't forget to drink water. I'm heading to my prose seminar now, love you <3

Jungkook [12:13]: Thank you, sweetheart. Love you more. I'll try to drop by your dorm tonight after the library closes

Except he didn’t drop by. He couldn’t. A senior professor cornered him about a late-stage dissertation revision at around 20:30, dragging him into an empty office to debate legal precedents until his head throbbed. He had stood outside your dorm building in the dark, staring up at your fourth-floor window. It was dark. And he was too terrifyingly protective of your peace and your own exam schedule; he couldn't bring himself to wake you up. He couldn't let you see him like this: pale, frayed, and running entirely on empty.

He walks back to his apartment alone, feeling a strange, bitter paradox. He is constantly surrounded by people. Professors who heap praise on his endurance, younger council members who look at him with wide, expectant eyes for immediate answers, and his classmates who treat his flawless GPA as an unshakeable inevitability. He is the golden boy in the centre of a crowded room, a pillar of success, yet he has never felt more completely isolated.

By the time he finally drags his heavy feet back to his own block at nearly one in the morning, his body is trembling with fatigue. Without your warmth anchoring him, without the sweet quiet of your presence to silence the chaos of his mind, his life feels like a beautifully constructed, expensive machine operating in a total vacuum.

By the final week before the exams officially commence, the passing of time becomes a blur of physical degradation. The low-grade warning through his muscles has turned into a constant, heavy throbbing. His fluffy dark hair has grown out significantly past his ears, curling untamed and messy down the back of his neck because a twenty-minute trip to the barber feels like a reckless waste of time he should be spending on his dissertation. His skin is pale under the harsh fluorescent lights of the library, and his breathing is shallow from the sheer volume of stale, recirculated air he’s been inhaling for weeks.

He can handle it. He repeats the mantra to himself like a lifeline as he shuffles a new stack of corporate law printouts into his bag, his movements slow, heavy, and mechanical. He is Jeon Jungkook. He doesn't drop the ball. He doesn't fail. But as he stands in his room, cool, damp air curling around him from the open window of his bedroom, his vision gives a tiny dark flicker at the very edges, a subtle, quiet warning from his body that the machine is rapidly running out of fuel, and the ground beneath his feet is beginning to sway.

The campus air feels suffocatingly thick, buzzing with the high-voltage panic of thousands of students cramming for final exams, but your own second-year Literature syllabus is the furthest thing from your mind. You are supposed to be drowning in Old English prose translations and structural theories, yet every single word on your notebook pages keeps reshaping itself into his name.

You miss him so much it feels like a literal, physical ache right beneath your ribs. It has been over a week since you last felt the secure weight of his arms locking around your waist, days since you heard his voice without the flat, tinny distortion of a phone speaker. You know he is absolutely drowning over in the Law block—swamped with his vice-president duties, firm deadlines, and corporate applications—and a wave of love completely overrides your own exhaustion. Your boy spends every single day trying to hold the sky up for you; it’s your turn to take care of him.

Before heading to his building, you take a deliberate detour to the small, upscale leather boutique just off the campus quad. Your fingers tremble slightly against your wallet as you count out the money you’ve meticulously saved up from your private tutoring sessions over the last few months. You are buying the one thing he has been secretly eyeing for nearly a semester: a heavy, vintage Italian leather folio case, beautifully embossed, meant to organise his complex legal briefs and fountain pens. You still remember the exact look in his dark doe eyes when he pointed it out through the shop window last winter, his face lighting up like a child's before he checked his watch, muttered about an upcoming student council budget crisis, and dragged you away, completely tossing it to the back of his mind. He never spends time or money on himself when he can spend it making you feel like a princess.

Holding the securely wrapped, heavy gift bag tightly against your chest like a shield against the chilly spring rain, you cross the quad, your heart fluttering with a nervous, incredibly eager anticipation. When you reach his apartment block, the butterflies in your stomach go wild. You pull out the silver spare key he had pressed into your palm a year ago with such fierce, ceremonial pride, sliding it into the lock with a quiet, familiar click.

You push the heavy wood door open, expecting the warm, delicious scent of fresh espresso and his woodsy cologne, but you are instantly met with a heavy, dead silence.

The apartment is entirely dark. The kitchen counters are empty, and the living room is cast in deep, long shadows. It feels cold, carrying the stagnant weight of absolute burnout. Jungkook’s usual meticulous, orderly nature is completely absent. His expensive dress shoes are kicked off haphazardly by the entryway, his necktie is dumped carelessly on the floorboards, and his heavy laptop bag is slumped against the wall like a discarded weight. The only sign of life in the entire place is a single, sharp bar of pale golden light cutting across the dark hallway from his slightly cracked bedroom door.

You slip off your boots and tiptoe down the hall, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You peer through the crack of the door, and the sight makes your breath instantly catch in your throat.

Jungkook is standing by his chest of drawers, clearly trying to change out of his formal university clothes, but he has completely frozen in place. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing the tight, stressed muscles of his chest, and his head is hanging incredibly low, his eyes closed as if his neck can no longer support the weight of his thoughts.

Suddenly, his entire massive frame gives a violent, heavy sway. His eyelids flutter wildly, his face losing every single drop of its usual healthy, golden colour as a wave of dizziness washes over him. His knees visibly buckle beneath his broad build, his hand blindly reaching out to grip the edge of the wooden dresser, his knuckles turning stark white as he begins to list dangerously to the side, completely losing his balance.

"Jungkook!"

The panic spikes hot and violent in your chest. You toss the leather gift bag onto his bed, your body moving on pure, raw survival instinct as you lunge across the bedroom floor.

You reach him just as his body completely gives way to gravity. Shoving your smaller hands directly under his arms, you wedge your shoulder right under his ribs, bracing your feet against the hardwood to absorb the sudden, dead-weight slump of his massive chest. You strain under his size, your muscles locking as you fiercely hold him upright, steadying his swaying frame against your own, refusing to let him hit the ground.

"Jungkook! Hey, look at me! I've got you, baby, I've got you," you cry out, your voice a sharp, worried whisper breaking the heavy quiet of the room.

He lets out a low, ragged gasp, his chest heaving violently against your shoulder as his heavy eyelids slowly, painfully flutter open. His dark doe eyes are blown out, glassy, and entirely unfocused as they wander blankly around the room before finally landing on your face. He blinks once, twice, a thick, heavy daze clouding his features. Slowly, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He weakly lifts his large, warm hands to clasp at your waist, leaning his forehead down until it rests directly against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your mouth.

"Y/N...?" he murmurs. His voice is a broken, sandpaper rasp, entirely stripped of its usual deep velvet register. He nuzzles his nose against yours in a slow, adorable, sleepy gesture, his eyelashes brushing your cheek. "Am I... am I dreaming? My brain finally snapped. I'm hallucinating my sweet girl because I missed her too much..."

You let out a sharp, breathless huff, your heart still pounding in a frantic rhythm from the near-miss, but you can't help the small, affectionate smile tugging at your lips. "You're not hallucinating, you absolute idiot. If I hadn't walked through that door, you would have eaten the hardwood floor. Are you okay?"

"Best dream ever," he mumbles shamelessly, completely ignoring your question as he buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent with a sweet, desperate possessiveness. He lets his entire weight slump into you, his long arms wrapping around your back like a giant, clingy koala. "Don't wake me up yet. Let me stay right here. You smell like home."

The initial relief of catching him quickly evaporates, replaced by a cold and deeply protective anger. The sheer neglect of his own body makes your throat tighten. He’s running himself into the ground, and you love him too much to let him do it. You firmly place your palms flat against his broad chest, pushing him back with enough force to make him sit heavily on the edge of the mattress.

You step back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, your expression turning completely serious as you look down at him with a stern, unyielding authority.

"Jeon Jungkook, look at me right now," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead-serious register.

Jungkook blinks up at you from the edge of the bed, his head tilting slightly to the side, completely caught off guard by the sharp edge in your tone. His overgrown, fluffy dark hair falls into his eyes, making him look incredibly young and vulnerable.

"When was the last time you ate a real meal?" you demand, gesturing sharply around his room. "When was the last time you slept for more than three hours? Look at your nightstand, it's a literal graveyard of empty espresso cups and energy drink cans! You are a human being, Jungkook, not a machine, and you almost passed out cold right in front of me! How could you do this to yourself? You have completely stopped checking up on yourself, and it's not okay. You can't just ignore your own health!"

As the scolding leaves your lips, the confident, untouchable golden boy of the university completely shatters right before your eyes.

Jungkook’s dark eyes go incredibly wide, like a little puppy being harshly scolded for a mistake he didn't realise he was making. His broad shoulders instantly collapse inward, making his massive frame look suddenly small and fragile. His soft, pink bottom lip juts out into a raw, trembling pout, and a thick, devastating gloss of unshed tears suddenly floods his bloodshot eyes, making them shine like glass under the warm bedroom lamp. The sheer thought that he has caused you panic—that he has made his favourite person genuinely angry and worried—completely breaks his remaining defences.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. His voice cracks heavily on the vowels, a tiny, pathetic sound that makes your heart instantly fracture into a thousand pieces. A heavy tear escapes his lower lash line, tracing a slow, damp path down his pale cheek. He drops his head, his hands gripping his thighs as his chest heaves with quiet, shallow, shaky breaths. "I'm sorry, Y/N... I didn't mean to make you mad. I just... the council budget was completely falling apart, and the partners at the firm kept adding files to my desk, and the legal philosophy final is on Tuesday..."

He lets out a shaky, trembling sob, his shoulders shuddering as he looks up at you through a thick veil of tears, his expression pure, agonising vulnerability. "I just wanted to force myself to finish everything early so I could be completely free for you. I didn't want to carry any stress when I finally got to see you. I wanted to be perfect for you, and now I've ruined it. I've made you upset because I'm a mess and I can't handle it."

Every single ounce of your anger vanishes into thin air, completely dissolved by the raw, melting sweetness of the boy weeping on the edge of his bed.

You instantly drop to your knees on the floor between his thighs, your hands coming up to gently cradle his warm, tear-stained cheeks. Your thumbs move in soft, frantic, and deeply tender sweeps, wiping away the dampness as you force him to look into your eyes, your own voice turning incredibly soft, thick with a deep, emotional warmth.

"Oh, baby, no," you coo softly, leaning in until your foreheads are touching again, your breath mingling. "Hey, look at me, my love. You haven't ruined anything, Kook. You could never, ever ruin us. I am not mad at you for being stressed."

Jungkook lets out a small, hitching sniffle, his nose turning a faint, adorable shade of pink. His large hands come up to wrap tightly around your wrists, holding your palms firmly against his face as if he’s scared that you’ll pull away if he lets go. He leans his weight into your touch, closing his eyes as a soft, shaky breath escapes his lips.

"I'm upset because I love you, and it scares me to see you push yourself to the point of collapse," you whisper, your fingers sliding up into his fluffy, overgrown dark curls, gently massaging the base of his skull to release the tension. "You don't have to be a superhero all the time, Jungkook. You don't have to be the perfect golden boy for me. You should have reached out to me. Even if I was buried in my own Literature essays, even if we were both busy... we are a team. We are in this together. You are my boyfriend, and you don't have to carry the entire universe on your shoulders by yourself. You're allowed to be tired. You're allowed to lean on me."

Jungkook lets out a raw, emotional little groan, his defences completely collapsing at your words. He lunges forward, sliding right off the edge of the bed and crashing into your space on the floor. He buries his face directly into the soft warmth of your neck, his arms locking around your waist with a desperate, crushing grip, pulling your smaller frame so tightly against his chest that you can feel the rapid pounding of his heart against your own ribs.

He holds you so tight it’s almost breathless, his entire body trembling as he seeks your comfort. He begins to press a flurry of tiny, trembling kisses along your jawline, your cheek, and beneath your ear, making you let out a tiny, tearful giggle.

"I missed you so much," he mumbles into your skin, his voice thick and completely unravelled. He pulls back just an inch, his glassy doe eyes searching yours, his pout returning in full force. "Don't leave tonight. Please? You have to stay and hold me. I need my Y/N cuddles, or my brain won't work tomorrow."

"I'm not going anywhere, you giant baby," you whisper affectionally, crinkling your nose at him. You lean forward and press a soft, lingering kiss to his pouty lips, then to the tip of his nose, and finally to both of his watery eyes. "I'm staying right here."

Jungkook lets out a small, happy sound against your mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulls you up onto the mattress with him. He crawls under the heavy duvet, dragging you right along with him until you are completely enveloped in the blankets. Limbs completely tied together to the point where you can’t make out where his start and yours end.

Your fingers find their way back into his fluffy, long hair, gently carding through the dark strands, tracing the soft curls at the nape of his neck. Jungkook lets out a long, deeply content sigh, completely relaxed for the first time in weeks.

"Look on the bed," you whisper softly, pointing a small finger toward the beautifully wrapped boutique bag sitting on the mattress. "I brought you a little surprise. To celebrate surviving the prep month."

Jungkook lifts his heavy head slightly, blinking at the elegant bag, and then looks at you with wide, sparkling doe eyes. "A present? For me?"

"Yes, for you," you smile warmly, reaching up to gently bop his nose. "Go on, open it. No guessing allowed."

Curiosity completely overriding his fatigue for a brief moment, Jungkook carefully shifts his weight, his long, ink-stained fingers reaching over to pull the boutique bag into his lap. He handles the delicate wrapping with a surprising amount of gentle care, untying the satin ribbon and parting the crisp tissue paper. The moment the paper falls away, the rich, distinct aroma of high-grade, vintage Italian leather fills the small space between you and the duvet. He slides the beautifully embossed folio case out into the warm lamplight.

His breath hitches. He recognises it instantly—the exact case he had stared at through a shop window five months ago, the one he had completely forgotten about the second a law school crisis demanded his attention.

But he barely looks at the object in his hands. He glances at it just long enough for the realisation to click in his tired brain, and then he completely sets it aside, letting the expensive leather slide carelessly onto the mattress. His gaze snaps right back to your face, his bloodshot eyes filling to the very brim with a brand-new, incredibly deep and devastating wave of pure emotional devotion.

"You remembered that?" he whispers, his voice cracking raw on the vowels. "From all the way back in the winter? When I only pointed at it for a second?"

"Of course I did," you murmur softly, your heart swelling as you reach out to caress his cheek. "I remember every single thing you say, Kook."

A heavy, trembling tear escapes his lower lash line, his soft bottom lip jutting out into an adorable, vulnerable pout as the sheer weight of your love completely overwhelms him. He lunges forward, sliding his large hands securely around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his shoulders shudder with a soft, emotional heave.

"I'm going to be better," he mumbles desperately into your skin, his grip tightening around your ribs as if he’s trying to fuse his body with yours. "I promise I'll be better for you, sweetheart. I'll manage my time, I'll remember to eat, I'll be a better boyfriend... I won't let myself run on empty and scare you like this ever again. I'll do better."

You let out a soft, incredibly tender sigh, the absolute melting sweetness of his words making your own eyes prickle with tears. You slide your hands up into his thick, fluffy, overgrown dark curls, gently cradling the back of his head and rocking him softly against your chest.

"Hey, look at me," you murmur, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you through his thick, wet lashes. You wipe the dampness from his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs, your voice thick with warmth. "You don't have to be better, Kook. You're already the most incredible, loving boyfriend I could ever ask for. You don't have to be a perfect, flawless machine to deserve my love."

You lean forward, pressing a long, lingering, velvet-soft kiss to his pouty lips, before resting your forehead against his.

"You don't have to change a single thing," you whisper into the quiet space between you. "Just remember that I'm here. Whenever the sky gets too heavy, whenever you feel like you're drowning, just remember to look at me. I'm right here, and you don't ever have to carry it alone."

The relief washes over him like a wave, completely dissolving the final remnants of his academic stress. Jungkook lets out a soft, breathless sound, and a beautiful, radiant smile finally breaks across his face. He leans up, capturing your lips in a devastatingly sweet kiss that tastes of rain and pure, unadulterated adoration, a silent promise sealed between your mouths.

When he finally pulls away, he buries his face right back into the warm crook of your neck, his grip around your waist tightening into a secure, protective hold. "I love you so much, Y/N," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a thick, sleep-slurred register. "So, so much."

"I love you too, Jungkook," you whisper, smiling against his temple. But just as the heavy, profound silence settles over the room, a violent, ungodly rumble echoes from his midsection, a growl so loud it practically vibrates against your own ribs. Jungkook stiffens instantly. He freezes like a statue, his entire broad back locking up as his face stays buried in your neck. For three agonising seconds, he refuses to move, clearly praying that the laws of physics will bend and allow you to believe the sound came from literally anywhere else.

The intense emotional atmosphere shatters in an instant. You burst out laughing, nudging his shoulder, while Jungkook lets out a pathetic, embarrassed whine into your skin. "Was that..." you start, your voice trembling as a massive, unstoppable wave of amusement bubbles up in your throat. "...was that the constitutional framework of the university collapsing, or are you actually just hollow inside?"

"It was a legal objection," Jungkook whines piteously into your collarbone. His ears are already turning a bright, furious shade of crimson that clashes spectacularly with his damp, dark hair. He nuzzles deeper, refusing to show his face. "An involuntary motion filed by my digestive tract. Ignore it. Strike it from the record." 

"Motion denied, counsellor," you laugh loudly, your hands coming up to firmly shove his heavy shoulders back. You slide out from beneath his massive, uncoordinated limbs and stand up, pointing an authoritative finger down at him. "The emotional hour is officially suspended. Look at you, you're basically a walking skeleton wrapped in muscles. Let's go eat. We need to get some actual fuel into you before you literally wither away into a tragic legal footnote."

To say that Jungkook is a needy assistant is an insult to needy assistants everywhere. He does not simply walk into the kitchen with you; he attaches himself to your spine like a giant, highly advanced human backpack.

The moment you stand at the small counter, his large, solid frame materialises behind you. His long, muscular arms loop securely around your waist, his hands locking together over your stomach, and he drops his chin into the hollow of your shoulder. Every single time you try to shift your weight to reach the refrigerator or grab a cutting board, you are forced to drag his entire 70-something-kilogram dead-weight frame across the floor, his thick cotton socks sliding uselessly against the floorboards.

"Jungkook, seriously, I am holding a very sharp knife," you giggle-scold, trying to maintain your balance as you reach for a bundle of spring onions. His fluffy, overgrown bangs tickle your jawline, and his warm, slow breaths blow directly against your neck. "You are a literal safety hazard right now. Go sit at the island. Go read a brief. Do anything that doesn't involve being glued to my vertebrae."

"Can't," he mumbles, his voice a thick, low rumble that echoes right through your collarbone. He closes his eyes, tightening his grip around your waist just a fraction, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he could easily lift you off your feet if he wanted to. "The gravity in this kitchen is broken, Y/N. If I let go of my anchor, I am going to float right out the window. For legal and medical reasons, I have to remain securely attached right here to my girlfriend."

"You are a fourth-year law student and the Vice President of the Student Council," you snark, leaning back against his broad chest for a brief second to absorb his dizzying warmth. "Where is the logic, Jeon?"

"Brain has been temporarily replaced by garlic cravings and affection," he whispers, shifting his head to press a slow, wet, and utterly obnoxious kiss directly against the side of your neck, making you shriek and twist away from his mouth. "Cook, please. Your backpack is starving."

You let out a helpless huff, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the stove. Since he refuses to unclamp his arms, you adapt, working within the tight radius of his embrace.

You set to work on making his absolute, undisputed favourite comfort meal: a heavily upgraded, ungodly spicy, garlic ramen.

With Jungkook's chin permanently glued to your shoulder, you turn on the stove and drizzle a generous amount of sesame oil into the deep stone pot. The moment the oil shimmers, you drop in a massive, aggressive spoonful of minced garlic and a heavy shake of coarse red chilli flakes. The kitchen instantly explodes with a rich, fragrant aroma—the sharp, savoury sting of toasted garlic and the smoky heat of the pepper curling up in lazy steam clouds. Behind you, Jungkook lets out a low, involuntary whimper of pure anticipation; his stomach lets out another warning rumble.

"See? The backpack approves," he murmurs.

You pour in the water, bringing it to a rolling, violent boil before breaking the instant noodle bricks into the pot. As the noodles soften, you stir in the deep, savoury spice packet, dropping the heat down to a steady simmer. But you don't stop there. You reach around his large hands to open the fridge, grabbing cheese and an egg, then move to the chopping board for a handful of freshly chopped spring onions.

Right at the last minute, you grate the cheese onto the noodles, watching it melt instantly into a thick, creamy blanket. You scatter the green onions across the top, and then, with absolute precision, you crack the egg directly in the centre, leaving the bright yellow yolk completely whole and runny, glistening in the centre of the crimson, bubbling broth.

"Holy shit," Jungkook whispers against your ear, his doe eyes wide and completely hypnotised by the pot. "You are a culinary genius. Marry me. Forget the degree, let’s run away and elope."

"Eat your food first, prodigy," you tease, carefully transferring the steaming pot over to a wooden trivet on the living room coffee table.

The moment his arms finally unclamp, Jungkook drops onto the sofa like a massive oak tree being felled. He doesn't even wait for the broth to stop bubbling; he grabs his chopsticks with a terrifying, single-minded intensity that entirely confirms your suspicion: the golden boy hasn't eaten a real, solid meal in days.

He buries his face in the steam, pulling up a massive tangle of cheesy, spicy noodles. He eats with a chaotic, completely ungraceful hunger, his mouth turning a bright, vivid shade of red from the intense chilli broth. You sit beside him on the floor, your legs crossed, your chin resting on your palm as you watch him with a mixture of profound affection and mild judgment.

"Slow down, tiger," you laugh softly, reaching over to hand him a tall, sweating glass of ice water. "The noodles aren't going to run away. Neither am I. Take a breath."

He swallows a massive mouthful, his throat bobbing as he instantly downs half the ice water in one desperate gulp. A dark drop of spicy broth catches on his lower lip, and a faint, beautifully healthy flush is finally, mercifully returning to his pale cheeks. He looks over at you through his long, thick lashes, his expression one of absolute, pure adoration.

"You don't understand," he says, his raspy velvet voice slightly breathless from the heat. "This is not just ramen. This is a spiritual intervention. My soul is physically re-entering my body with every bite. I can feel my brain cells turning back on."

"Good," you smile, reaching out with a napkin to gently dab the stray drop of broth from his lip. "Because I need those law student brain cells fully functioning for our post-food recovery protocol."

Once the pot is completely scraped clean—to the point where you’re pretty sure he licked the edges when you weren’t looking—you slide back onto the deep, plush couch cushions. You straighten your legs out and gently pat your denim-clad thighs.

"Alright," you murmur softly. "Come here. Lean back."

Jungkook doesn't need to be told twice. He lets out a long, deeply satisfied groan, twisting his large body around and dropping his upper body until his head sinks heavily into your lap. He lies flat on his stomach along the length of the sofa, looking up at you, his long legs dangling off the opposite armrest.

Your hands come up instinctively, your fingertips sinking deep into his thick, fluffy dark hair. You begin to give him a slow, deep, and methodical scalp massage, your fingers moving in firm, rhythmic circles. Your thumbs trace the tight, agonising knots of pure stress locked at the very base of his skull, right where his neck meets his broad shoulders from days of staring down at heavy law textbooks. Your fingers then slip under the collar of his shirt, adding the same pressure to his shoulders and his upper back.

Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut almost instantly. A low, deep, and vibrating hum of pure, unadulterated bliss rumbles from his chest, his entire massive frame going completely limp against the sofa cushions beneath you. The absolute quiet of his apartment wraps around the two of you like a heavy blanket, insulating you from the frantic campus outside.

"Mmh," he slurs, his raspy voice laced with an intense, sleepy comfort. He reaches up blindly, his large, warm hand searching the air until his long fingers capture one of your wrists, gently drawing your knuckles down to his lips to press a soft, lingering kiss against your skin. "Keep doing that, and I am going to literally merge with this furniture. I'm going to become a permanent structural fixture of this apartment."

"I'll have to pay rent for you then," you murmur softly, a deep, emotional warmth settling into your ribs as you gently card your fingers through his soft, dark curls again. "You've grown it out so much, Kook. It’s getting wild."

"No time," he mumbles, his breath warming your thigh through your jeans. He opens his dark doe eyes, looking up at you from your lap, his gaze losing its sleepy glaze for a split second, replaced by a sudden seriousness. He squeezes your wrist. "I mean it, Y/N... your presence is holding me so tight right now. These past weeks, I felt like I was completely spinning out of orbit. Like I was running a race in a room with no oxygen. I only kept my legs moving because I knew you'd be waiting at the finish line."

"I am always at the finish line, Jungkook," you say softly, your voice thick as you look down at his beautiful, tired features. "You never, ever have to doubt that. No matter how busy we get, no matter how heavy the syllabus is... I’m always right here."

A large smile slowly breaks across his handsome face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that sweet, boyish way you love so much. But then, a familiar, entirely shameless glint flashes in the dark depths of his pupils.

Before you can even register the sudden shift in his energy, Jungkook lifts his upper body out of pure muscle memory. He uses his arms to shift upwards until he is lying entirely, squarely on top of your front, pinning your smaller frame flat against the deep couch cushions.

"Jungkook!" you gasp, a sharp, breathless laugh ripping from your throat as his broad chest completely crushes the air out of your lungs.

He doesn't care in the slightest. He buries his face directly into the soft, warm hollow of your chest, his arms locking around your lower back like unyielding iron bands, trapping your arms and legs completely beneath his heavy, solid weight. He shifts his hips slightly, settling his massive build comfortably over yours, completely making himself at home.

"Kook, you are an absolute giant," you giggle frantically, your pinned hands weakly swatting at the broad, hard expanse of his shoulder blades as his nose nuzzles playfully against your ribs through the fabric of your plain tee. "I cannot breathe! I am being crushed. This is corporate manslaughter."

"I am not suffocating you," he mumbles shamelessly, his voice completely muffled by your clothes, his warm lips brushing directly against your skin through the cotton fabric as he speaks. He shifts his weight again, a cheeky, highly suggestive tone bleeding into his sleepy rasp. "I am simply exercising my human right to a premium, high-quality weighted blanket. It's a medical necessity for my recovery."

"You're heavy!" you shriek, a bright, booming laugh escaping your lips as a furious, vivid pink flush instantly covers your cheeks and neck. You try to wiggle your hips to slide out from under his lower half, but he just lets out a low, rumbling chuckle against your ribs, his grip tightening playfully around your waist, utterly unmovable.

"Besides," he continues cheekily, lifting his head just an inch so his chin rests on your breastbone. He looks up at you with a wide, boxy, and incredibly smug grin, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief. "I am just checking your vitals, sweetheart. For health purposes. And wow... your heartbeat is running incredibly fast right now. I think my physical needs are suddenly making a miraculous, late-night recovery. I feel very re-energised down here. The garlic must have stimulated my system."

"Jeon Jungkook! You were literally almost unconscious ten minutes ago!" you shriek, your face burning hot as you swat the back of his neck, though you are laughing so hard your chest is shaking beneath him. "You are absolutely unbelievable!"

"I was dying," he corrects shamelessly, his smile blindingly beautiful and soft in the dim, amber light of the living room. He leans up further, his soft, warm lips capturing yours in a slow, deep, and devastatingly playful kiss that entirely silences your laughter. He tastes faintly of the garlic spice and the fresh ice water, his mouth warm and heavy against yours, turning the chaotic crack of the moment into a deep, dizzying pool of pure adoration.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn't let go. He drops his heavy head right back down into the crook of your neck, his long arms remaining securely locked around your waist, his entire body going completely, entirely limp as the final remnants of his energy vanish.

"Go to sleep, Kook," you whisper affectionately, your hands coming up to softly cradle the back of his head, your fingers gently playing with the dark, fluffy curls at his nape.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs sleepily into your skin, his grip relaxing into a warm, protective hold that anchors you both to the sofa.

Within seconds, his breathing slows into a deep, heavy, and perfectly rhythmic pattern. His chaotic world completely evaporates into the quiet dark. You continue to softly stroke his fluffy hair, humming a gentle, familiar melody into the warm space of the room, holding your golden boy safe and warm against your chest as he finally drifts off into a deep, dreamless sleep, entirely anchored by your side.

The humanities library is notoriously ancient, smelling of vanilla-scented decaying paper, wood polish, and the quiet despair of arts majors. The desks are long, creaky oak structures with green-shaded banker's lamps that cast dramatic shadows over your copy of Old English Elegies.

And right across from you sits a massive, structural problem.

Jeon Jungkook does not fit in the humanities building. His broad shoulders require him to sit at a slight angle, and his long legs are currently a menace beneath the narrow wooden table. He is supposed to be reading a text on international maritime law, but for the past twenty minutes, he has been conducting a highly coordinated campaign of psychological warfare against your ankles.

First, it’s a gentle, absentminded nudge of his socked foot against your shin. You ignore it, shifting your legs to the left.

Then, his foot follows you. A slow, rhythmic tapping of his big toe against the side of your sneaker.

You glare at him over the top of your literature anthology. Jungkook doesn't look up. His long, fluffy curls are falling into his eyes, his reading glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, his expression the picture of absolute, pristine academic focus. If anyone else looked at him, they would think he was solving a global legal crisis.

You reach under the table and sharply kick his shin.

Thump.

Jungkook’s eyes snap up behind his lenses. His brow twitches. A slow, incredibly dangerous boxy grin spreads across his lips. He slowly lowers his highlighter, places his palms flat on his heavy textbook, and leans forward across the narrow desk, his voice a barely audible whisper that cuts through the room's dead silence.

"Assaulting a future officer of the court," he murmurs cheekily, his doe eyes sparkling with mischief. "That’s a class-A misdemeanour, sweetheart. I could sue you for emotional damages."

"You're invading my sovereign territory under this desk, counsellor," you whisper back sharply, leaning in so the librarian won't launch a textbook at your head. "Keep your giant limbs on your side of the oak, or I will write a scathing satirical poem about your law brief."

"Oh, a threat of literary defamation? Bold."

Suddenly, you feel a warm, heavy sensation under the table. Before you can react, Jungkook utilises his athletic reflexes to hook his ankles behind your calves, entirely trapping your legs between his. He exerts just enough pressure to drag your feet completely across the divider line, pinning your sneakers securely against his own.

"There," he murmurs smoothly, leaning back in his creaking wooden chair, a look of smug, absolute triumph on his face as he picks his highlighter back up. "Sovereign territory officially annexed. Go back to your poetry, Y/N. Your feet belong to the Law faculty now."

You try to yank your legs back, but his hold is like a set of vice grips. You let out a breathless, defeated huff, your face burning hot with a mixture of amusement and fluster, forced to finish your translations while completely anchored to his lower half for the next three hours.

It is nearly two in the morning on a Thursday, and the exam stress has officially caused Jungkook’s brilliant, high-achieving brain to temporarily detach from reality.

He is suffering from a manic, late-night burst of hyper-focus before his Legal Ethics final. He has dragged your small desk chair into the centre of your cramped dorm room, unzipped his hoodie so it hangs off one shoulder, and is currently pacing the floorboards with a frantic, theatrical intensity that would make a Shakespearean actor weep.

"Members of the jury," Jungkook announces dramatically, gesturing with a plastic spoon toward your double bed.

You are sitting cross-legged on the mattress, a mug of chamomile tea in your hands, watching the performance with wide, utterly bewildered eyes. Lined up neatly along your pillows is the "jury" he has meticulously constructed: a large plush frog, a disgruntled-looking teddy bear, and a stuffed pink octopus.

"I ask you to look at the evidence!" Jungkook proclaims, his voice booming with a rich, commanding eloquence that is entirely too grand for a nine-by-nine university room. He stops pacing, pointing the spoon directly at the teddy bear. "The prosecution claims that my client intentionally withheld information regarding the corporate merger. But I ask you—how can a man bound by the absolute sanctity of attorney-client privilege break his oath? Look at his face! Is that the face of a corporate fraudster?!"

The teddy bear stares back, blank and fuzzy.

"Jungkook," you interrupt softly, hiding your face behind your tea mug as your shoulders shake with laughter. "The defence rests. The bear looks completely unconvinced by your rhetoric. I think he’s leaning toward a guilty verdict."

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. He drops his arm, his dramatic stance instantly collapsing into a soft, exaggeratedly offended pout. He stalks over to the edge of your bed, dropping heavily to his knees on the floorboards right in front of you. He rests his chin flat against your knee, looking up at you through his long, overgrown bangs, his big, wide doe eyes shining with pure fatigue and silliness.

"The jury is biased against me," he whines softly, his bottom lip jutting out into that adorable, familiar pout. He reaches up, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, gently pulling your hand down so he can nuzzle his cheek into your warm palm. "Sweetheart, tell the bear to stop judging me. My closing statement was flawless. I used three different Latin phrases."

"It was a magnificent performance, baby," you coo affectionally, your fingers instantly sinking into his curls, gently scratching his scalp. "The frog was visibly moved. I think he’s ready to acquit."

Jungkook lets out a low, vibrating hum of pure, sleepy satisfaction under your touch, closing his eyes as he completely relaxes against your leg. "Good. If I fail this ethics exam, I’m becoming a professional stuffed-animal defence lawyer. You can be my legal secretary."

"I have a Literature degree to finish, Jeon. I am not typing up briefs for a plush octopus."

"Heresy," he mumbles against your jeans, his arms wrapping lazily around your thighs as he prepares to use your floor as a secondary bed. "I’ll pay you in kisses. High conversion rate. Very lucrative."

The Law School library is not just a building; it is a sacred, terrifying cathedral of absolute, suffocating silence. It is governed by ancient, hawk-eyed librarians who look like they personally witnessed the drafting of the Magna Carta, and the unwritten rule here is simple: making a sound is a first-class ticket to immediate social exile. The air is heavy with the scent of leather bindings, old paper, and the high-voltage anxiety of a hundred students staring down a future of bar exams.

You sit in a semi-private, study carrel near the back, your fingers hovering over your laptop keyboard as you desperately try to map out a structural timeline for your medieval spec-fic module. You are entirely focused, your brow furrowed into a tight line of academic panic.

And right across from you sits a professional menace.

Jeon Jungkook is supposed to be studying a massive, dry, leather-bound casebook on Constitutional Law Amendments. He looks the part of the pristine law prodigy: his white button-down shirt is perfectly crisp, a pair of elegant, silver-rimmed reading glasses is perched on the high bridge of his nose, and his long, fluffy dark curls are tucked neatly behind his ears. To anyone else, he is a picture of untouchable, elite concentration.

But you know better. You can feel the heat of his intense gaze burning right through the glass divider. He hasn't read a single line on his page in twenty minutes. Instead, he is uncapping his expensive fountain pen—the one you just bought him—with a slow, deliberate click of his tongue.

A tiny, bright neon-pink square enters your peripheral vision.

His long, elegant hand, veins prominent against his golden skin, slides a sticky note directly over the top corner of your laptop screen. You blink, your fingers freezing over the keys, and look down. Written in his sharp, slanted handwriting is a single sentence:

Your jawline looks really pretty when you're judging nineteenth-century literature. It’s making it physically impossible for me to focus on the Supreme Court. Let me kiss it.

You choke on your own saliva, a soft, involuntary squeak escaping your throat. You instantly clap a hand over your mouth, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as you scan the immediate area, terrified that a librarian heard you. Your ears are suddenly burning, a furious, vivid pink flush creeping rapidly up your neck.

You glare at him across the divider. Jungkook doesn't even blink. He is staring intensely at page 402, his jaw tight, his expression entirely stoic and professional. The only giveaway is the faint, nearly imperceptible twitch at the corner of his plush lips.

Snatching a black gel pen, you furiously scribble a reply on the bottom of the square and slide it back across the smooth wood.

We are in the library, Kook. People are trying to pass finals. Stop being a menace and read your amendments before I ban you from my dorm room.

Not even thirty seconds pass before another pink square slides effortlessly into your space, positioned right over your cursor so you can't ignore it.

Amendments are boring. You are not. And your ears are currently turning the exact shade of this sticky note, sweetheart. It’s adorable. Look at me.

You bite your lower lip, determined to ignore him. You stare fixedly at your document, typing out a completely nonsensical sentence just to keep your hands moving. Your face is so hot you’re convinced steam is about to rise from your cheeks.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. The sound of his pen is a quiet torture in the silent room.

A third note slides across. This time, it hits your knuckles.

Stop biting your lip like that. That’s my job. If you do it one more time, I am going to stand up, walk around this divider, and kiss you right in front of that librarian who looks like she's about to drop dead any second now. Five seconds. One... two...

Your head snaps up. You glare at him over the top of the divider, your eyes wide with a mixture of frantic fluster and disbelief. Jungkook is already waiting for you. He slowly lowers his casebook, letting it rest on the desk, and slides his reading glasses down to the very tip of his nose. He looks at you over the silver frames, his dark doe eyes entirely dark, heavy, and melting with a dangerous, suggestive warmth that completely robs the oxygen from your lungs. He slowly, deliberately raises one eyebrow, a tiny, devastatingly smug smile playing on his mouth. He is completely shameless. He knows exactly what he is doing to you.

You crumble the sticky note into a tight ball and toss it directly at his nose. It bounces harmlessly off his cheek and lands on his open textbook. Jungkook lets out a low, barely audible vibration through his broad chest, his shoulders shaking with a quiet, delighted laugh.

But he isn't done.

Before you can pull your gaze away and retreat back into your essay, you feel a sudden shift beneath the table. Jungkook shifts his long legs, his knees brushing against yours, and then his large, warm hand slides directly under the table.

He doesn't reach for your hand. Instead, his heavy, burning palm settles squarely over your bare knee, his long fingers splaying out across your skin.

You let out a sharp, breathless gasp, your entire spine going completely rigid against the wooden chair. Your eyes widen to the size of saucers. You frantically look under the desk, then back up at him, your heart pounding so hard you are certain he can hear it.

Jungkook’s face is the picture of absolute innocence. He has picked his book back up, his eyes scanning the legal text as if he were a model citizen. But under the table, his hand is alive. His thumb begins to move in slow, mesmerising circles against the soft skin of your thigh, his palm radiating a heat that turns your entire brain into absolute mush.

You frantically grab a fresh green sticky note, your hand trembling so violently the ink smears as you write:

TAKE YOUR HAND OFF MY LEG JEON JUNGKOOK EVERYONE CAN SEE US.

You shove it under his nose. He doesn't even look down. He just reaches out with his left hand, grabs his pen, and writes a reply on the exact same note without even breaking his reading rhythm, sliding it back to you with a casual flick of his wrist.

No one can see under the table, sweetheart. The frosted glass protects us. And your skin is so incredibly soft today. Let me keep it there, or I promise you my hand is going to start wandering much, much higher.

You read the words and completely lose the ability to speak. A deep, dizzying wave of flutters crashes over you, your stomach doing a violent, acrobatic flip. You look at him, your lips parted in a silent, defeated wheeze, completely at the mercy of his sweet, terrifying obsession. You are a literature major, a girl who handles thousands of words a day, but right now, under the heavy weight of his touch and his gaze, you are completely illiterate.

Realising he has completely broken your defences, Jungkook finally relents, but only slightly. He slides his hand down from your thigh, his fingers trailing a burning path along your calf before he securely captures your trembling hand under the desk.

He draws your hand over to his side of the divider, keeping it hidden beneath the dark wooden framework. He lifts your hand to his mouth, his dark eyes locking onto yours over the silver rims of his glasses, and he presses a lingering kiss directly into the centre of your palm. Then against your inner wrist, his lips warm and soft against your racing pulse.

He squeezes your fingers tightly, locking his hand with yours and anchoring you to his side, before finally returning to his law amendments with a thoroughly satisfied, radiant smile.

Across the wide aisle of the library, you catch a brief glimpse of Serena sitting at a computer terminal, looking over at your carrel with a tight, envious line to her mouth. But as you look back at your laptop screen, your hand completely enveloped in Jungkook's warm, unyielding grip under the table, the last remnants of the universe vanish. Your face is still burning hot, and your heart is still racing from his teasing, but you have never felt more unshakeable. You lean back in your chair, a soft, breathless smile taking over your lips, completely content to let the golden boy of the university hold you captive in the dark quiet of the library.

It is three in the morning on the day before his final presentation and your final essay submission. The apartment is entirely dark save for a single floor lamp casting a warm, buttery circle of amber light over the living room rug.

You are both too exhausted to sit at the desks anymore, so you have moved the pillows and duvets completely onto the floorboards. You are sitting back-to-back in the centre of the rug, your spine pressed firmly against his broad, solid back, your bodies acting as a mutual, balancing support system in the dead of night.

The silence is thick, deep, and peaceful. The only sounds are the soft rustle of him turning a page and the rhythmic clicking of your laptop keys.

"Hey," Jungkook’s raspy voice breaks the quiet, his deep velvet tone vibrating directly through your spine where your backs meet.

"Mmh?" you murmur.

"Lean back completely," he instructs softly.

You comply, relaxing your muscles and letting your full weight drop back against him. Jungkook shifts slightly, absorbing your smaller frame against his powerful back, completely holding you up without a single complaint. He tilts his head back, his soft, overgrown dark curls brushing against the top of your head.

"Are you tired, sweetheart?" he whispers.

"Exhausted," you admit honestly, your eyes heavy. "But we're almost there, Kook. Just two more days."

"Yeah," he murmurs, a soft, incredibly tender smile audible in his voice. He reaches back blindly, his large hand finding your thigh, gently patting it through the heavy duvet. "Just two more days. And then I’m locking you in this apartment and sleeping for forty-eight hours straight with my head on your chest."

You let out a soft, emotional little chuckle, your heart swelling with an absolute, pure sense of security. The frantic, high-voltage academic world outside these walls doesn't matter. The metrics, the grades, the pressure, all of it is just noise. Inside this small circle of limelight, you are just two tired students holding each other up in the dark, surviving as an unbreakable unit.

"It's a deal, Jeon," you whisper into the quiet room, leaning deeper into his warmth as the clock ticks forward toward the dawn.

The digital display board in the grand, high-ceilinged lobby of the Law Faculty is surrounded by a dense, suffocating crowd of anxious students, but Jungkook doesn't even need to fight his way to the front to read the text. The sudden, collective shift in the room’s atmosphere—the quiet, respectful murmurs of his name drifting through the sea of sharp blazers—tells him everything he needs to know before his eyes even scan the screen.

Rank 1: Jeon Jungkook.

Untouchable. Unmovable. Holding his absolute first-place position exactly like he has every single semester of his university life.

The moment he turns away from the board, the praise from his professors is immediate and resounding. Professor Kang and Professor Davison catch him near the marble stairwell, offering firm, heavy pats on his broad shoulders and speaking in proud, elevated tones about his future in the corporate legal sector. Jungkook bows at the perfect, respectful angle, a polite, practised smile gracing his handsome features. He plays the part of the flawless campus prodigy with an effortless grace, but beneath his calm exterior, his dark eyes keep darting toward the heavy glass exit doors. He is entirely checked out. The grades are just a formality; his heart has already sprinted across the quad to a completely different faculty block.

"Jeon." An administrative assistant cuts through the crowd of congratulatory classmates, tapping him on the arm politely. "The Principal has requested your presence in his office before you leave campus."

Jungkook suppresses a sigh, nodding smoothly. "Of course. Thank you."

The executive suite of the university administration block is a grand, carpeted sanctuary smelling of expensive mahogany, leather bindings, and old wealth. The Principal, a notoriously stern, highly respected scholar who rarely interacts with undergraduates, is standing behind his desk, but the moment Jungkook steps through the door, the older man’s face breaks into a wide, genuinely affectionate smile.

"Jeon, come in. Sit down," the Principal says, walking forward to offer a firm, lingering handshake.

Jungkook sits, his posture perfectly straight, his new leather folio case resting securely on his lap.

"I wanted to congratulate you personally," the Principal says, leaning back against his desk, looking at Jungkook with immense professional pride. "You have completed your Bachelors with flying colours, topping the entire senior tier. But more than that, I want to thank you. For the last four years, you have carried the absolute best reputation of this institution wherever you went—whether on the debate stage, in the theatre showcase, or in your leadership on the student council. You are the definition of an excellent student, Jeon. A true credit to our university."

"Thank you, sir," Jungkook says softly, a humble, genuine flush rising to his cheeks. "I just did what I could."

The Principal nods, his expression turning slightly serious as he drops his hands into his pockets, offering a piece of heavy, grounding elder advice. "And your best is remarkable. But remember, the bachelor’s degree was just the foundation. The Master's track next term is a completely different beast. The metrics are harsher, the independent research is brutal, and the competition changes entirely. Don't let your past success make you complacent, Jeon. Be prepared to work even harder and continue to do this university proud. I expect nothing less than absolute brilliance from you in graduate school."

"I won't let you down, sir. I'll be ready," Jungkook promises, bowing respectfully before finally being dismissed.

The exact moment the heavy double doors of the administration block click shut behind him, Jungkook lets out a long, liberating breath that pushes the final remnants of legal terminology out of his lungs. He sheds the rigid, suffocating skin of the campus "golden boy" with every single stride he takes across the concrete.

He doesn't care about the Master's track right now. He doesn't care about the Principal's expectations. He walks briskly past the law buildings, past the science labs, heading straight for the older, ivy-covered stone arches of the humanities quad; the section of the campus where he usually finds himself, the only place where his world actually makes sense.

He spots you instantly.

You are sitting on the edge of the old stone fountain; a bright white folder of results clutched tightly in your lap. There is absolutely no shadow in your posture today, no hiding beneath his oversized hoodie, no lingering trace of the quiet, toxic rot Serena had tried to poison your mind with months ago. The warm afternoon sunlight catches the dark strands of your hair, and the moment your eyes lock onto his tall frame across the grass, your entire face lights up with the widest, most radiant, and utterly confident grin he has ever seen on you.

"Jungkook!"

You bolt from the stone bench, sprinting across the lawn with an energy that makes his heart do a violent, ecstatic flip inside his ribs.

Jungkook doesn't even hesitate. He drops his expensive leather folio case directly onto the grass, stepping forward and opening his broad arms just wide enough to catch the sudden, beautiful hurricane of your body hitting his chest. You launch yourself at him, your legs practically leaving the ground as you latch onto him like a lifeline, your arms throwing themselves securely around his neck.

Jungkook lets out a loud, booming, and completely uninhibited laugh—a sound of sheer glee that rings across the quiet courtyard. He hooks his arms under your thighs and around your lower back, lifting your frame entirely off the concrete and spinning you around in a wild, dizzying circle under the sun, completely unbothered by the dozens of literature students watching them from the benches.

"I've got you," he breathes, his voice a deep, joyful velvet as he finally stops spinning, though he refuses to set you down completely. He keeps you pressed flush against his chest, his large hands anchoring your waist to his heartbeat. "Look at that smile. Tell me everything, sweetheart."

You pull your head back just an inch, your hands firmly gripping the collar of his shirt, your eyes sparkling with a fierce, beautiful pride. "I did it!" you tell him, your voice bursting with a newfound, unshakeable confidence. "I passed every single module with upper-class marks, Kook! My Beowulf analysis got an A+! I did really, really well this term!" You lean up on your tiptoes, your grin turning playfully competitive as you tap his chest. "I’m warning you right now. Next term, I’m topping the entire Literature group. I’m going to get first place and make you so proud of me."

Jungkook’s breath hitches sharply in his throat. The absolute, devastating depth of his love for you hits him like a tidal wave, thick, heavy, and hot behind his eyelids. He doesn't care about his own perfect GPA or the Principal's praise. He reaches up, his large, warm hands cradling your jawline with fierce, protective tenderness, and leans down to capture your lips in a firm, profoundly sweet kiss. It is a kiss full of relief, adoration, and absolute devotion, completely consuming your mouth until you are breathless beneath him.

When he finally pulls away just a millimetre, he keeps his thumbs smoothing over your flushing cheekbones, his dark doe eyes boring into yours with an intense, raw seriousness that completely silences the ambient noise of the campus around you.

"Y/N, look at me," he whispers, his voice thick with an unyielding emotion. "Listen to me very carefully. You already make me prouder than any grade or first-place ranking ever could. I am completely, utterly proud of you in this exact second, just for being who you are."

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that sweetly obsessed way that belongs only to you. "You drafted that essay beautifully because your mind is amazing. But all you ever need to do is your absolute best for you, because you love the literature. Don't you ever dare compare your marks to anyone or try to catch up to anyone else. You don't need to work yourself to death just to earn my pride, sweetheart. Whether you top the class or get the lowest mark on the board... I am always, always going to be the proudest man on this campus to stand next to you. I love you for your soul, not a piece of paper."

The sweetness of his speech hangs beautifully in the warm air between you. You blink up at him through your long lashes, your lips parted softly as his words sink deep into your chest, completely validating every ounce of effort you put into the term.

But then, a tiny, familiar, and highly mischievous spark suddenly ignites in your eyes. A playful, entirely sarcastic smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, and you reach up, your fingers gently twisting one of his long, fluffy dark curls around your finger.

"Oh, really?" you tease softly, your voice dripping with sweet irony. "No need to work myself to death? Wow. That's a very beautiful, very grounding piece of advice, counsellor... kind of like the exact advice someone else needed a few months ago when they literally almost ate the hardwood floor of their bedroom from pure exhaustion."

Jungkook freezes.

His dark doe eyes go completely wide, his jaw dropping open slightly as he gets caught dead right in his own hypocrisy. The smooth, untouchable prodigy completely vanishes, replaced by a flustered, red-eared boy. A rich, vivid blush immediately colours his cheeks and neck, and he lets out a low, deeply embarrassed chuckle.

"That... that was different," he mumbles weakly, his confidence entirely evaporating as he drops his heavy forehead down to rest directly against your shoulder with a defeated groan, hiding his face from your laughing gaze. His long arms tighten around your lower back, pulling your waist impossibly closer against him to cover his embarrassment. "That was a temporary glitch in my operating system. It doesn't count."

"It completely counts, Jeon!" you shriek, a bright, beautiful laugh ripping from your throat as you wrap your arms tightly around his neck, your fingers softly weaving themselves through his hair. "You're a hypocrite!"

"I'm a recovered hypocrite," he mumbles sleepily into your skin, a vibrant, happy smile spreading across his face against your neck as your laughter echoes warmly through the humanities quad. He holds you tight, his heart beating a steady, peaceful rhythm against yours under the summer sun, entirely, beautifully content to let his little literature major run circles around him for the rest of his life.

╰› very mini part 3 drabble: <here>

You follow him past the treadmills and weight racks, doing your best not to stare at his shoulders. He explains everything patiently, tells a few silly jokes, and never makes you feel out of place.

By the time you get to the free weights, your heart is racing. You came for a revenge body, but ended up with a crush instead.

After the tour, he leads you back to the front, where you tell him you’re getting the membership.

You stand there, debit card in hand, nails pressing into the plastic as the gym buzzes around you. Weights clank in the distance. The music thumps quietly, a beat you haven’t caught up to yet. Your hoodie feels too warm, and your leggings feel tight in all the places you try not to think about.

San leans against the counter, clicking through the computer screen with a focused look as he enters your basic information.

“Okay,” he says, tapping the screen and turning it slightly toward you. “This plan gives you full access, group classes if you feel brave enough, and a complimentary trainer for your first week.”

You blink. “Free?”

“Mhm. No traps. No surprise charges. No ‘gotcha’ moment.” He grins. “We’re not completely evil.”

That pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it.

He walks you through the paperwork, explaining everything clearly and never rushing. If you pause on a screen, he stays quiet. If you hesitate before signing, he looks away. He gives you space without making it awkward.

“So,” he says casually, folding his arms on the counter. The black T-shirt pulls across his chest so nicely that you have to avert your eyes. “For the trainer week, you can pick anyone you want. We’ve got a few really great ones.”

He scrolls through a list, pointing as he goes. “Jihyun’s amazing with beginners. She’s terrifyingly strong. Like…casually deadlifts your body weight strong.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s horrifying.”

“She smiles while doing it too,” he adds, dead serious. “Honestly, most of our female trainers could destroy the men. It’s very humbling.”

You snort before you can help it, covering your mouth as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Good to know.”

He glances up at you, amused, clearly pleased he made you laugh again. “I’m just saying. If strength is the goal, they’re your safest bet.”

“And you?” you ask before thinking.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Me?” A beat. Then, with mock confidence, “I might be the best. Possibly. Allegedly.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Of course you would say that.”

“Hey, I said might,” he laughs. Then his tone softens, more grounded. “But seriously, no pressure. You can choose anyone. Or switch later. Or never train again after the week. Totally your call.”

You look at the screen again, reading the names. You catch your reflection in the shiny surface—small, soft in places you wish you weren’t—standing next to someone who looks like he was made to be here.

Training with him would mean being seen at your sweatiest and most awkward.

“I don’t really…” You trail off, fingers tightening. “I don’t want to feel…worse about myself.”

San’s smile fades, just a little. Not gone, just gentler. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m very professional. And respectful. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

He gestures vaguely behind him. “You can ask literally any of my clients. I won’t be offended if you don’t pick me. I just want you to feel comfortable.”

He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t persuade. Just waits.

The choice weighs on you.

You swallow, then nod. “Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “We can try.”

His smile returns, slow and bright, dimples carving themselves deep into his cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

San taps your name into the system. “Cool. Then I’ll take extra good care of you.” A pause. “Gym-wise,” he adds quickly, laughing.

You laugh too, feeling nervous and your heart beating fast.

The consultation room is quieter than the rest of the gym, tucked away behind frosted glass and muted walls. The bass of the music outside fades into a distant thrum, like something happening in another life. There’s a small table, two chairs, and a clipboard resting neatly on top. It feels intimate in a way you didn’t anticipate. Less gym, more confessional.

San is already there when you step in.

Black joggers again. A fitted charcoal hoodie this time, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose forearms that look insane. His hair falls in his eyes slightly, parted near the bridge of his nose. He looks great.

“Hey,” he says, standing as you enter. Warm smile. Dimples. Perfect white teeth.

“Hi,” you manage, voice softer than you intended.

He gestures for you to sit and takes the chair across from you instead of next to you. It feels professional and thoughtful. He opens the clipboard but doesn’t look at it right away.

“So,” he begins, tone easy, unhurried. “This is just a vibe check. No pressure. I want to know why you’re here and what you want out of this.”

You swallow. “Well,” you start, defaulting to something rehearsed, something safe. “I just want to get healthier. Stronger. You know. Routine. Consistency.”

San nods patiently, but his eyes stay on your face. They’re sharp but kind, as if he can see what you’re not saying.

“Mhm,” he hums. A pause. Then gently, “That’s the brochure answer.”

Your mouth twitches. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” he admits with a soft smile. “But that’s okay. You don’t owe me the real one if you’re not ready.”

He finally looks down at the clipboard, giving you space. The room goes quiet. You stare at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together.

“I can’t help you properly if I don’t know what’s really going on,” he adds quietly. “And whatever it is, this room’s safe.”

The way he says it makes your chest hurt.

You inhale, then exhale slowly. “My ex cheated on me.”

San’s pen stills.

You keep going before you can stop yourself. “I know it’s not my fault. I know he’s the one who messed up. Everyone keeps telling me that. But…” Your voice wobbles despite your effort. “I can’t stop wondering why.”

You finally look up at him, eyes burning. “Was I not enough? Did I let myself go? Was there something missing?”

You laugh weakly. “He said it ‘didn’t mean anything.’ Like that makes it better.”

The words spill out now, months of quiet insecurity finally finding air. “I feel inadequate. Like, no matter how hard I try, there’s always someone better.”

San doesn’t interrupt once.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to fix it mid-sentence. He listens like this matters. Like you matter. When you finish, the room is silent again, but it feels different. Lighter.

He takes a slow breath, clearly choosing his words carefully.

“You are enough,” he says, voice firm but gentle. No hesitation. 

Your throat tightens.

“What your ex did says everything about him and nothing about your worth,” he continues. “People don’t cheat because their partner isn’t enough. They cheat because they don’t know how to sit with themselves.” He pauses, then continues. “Curiosity isn’t an excuse. It’s a character flaw when it hurts someone else.”

He leans back slightly, still keeping a respectful distance. “It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t okay.”

Then, more casually, as if it’s obvious, he says, “And for what it’s worth, you’re gorgeous.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “San,” you protest, half laughing, half mortified. “Is that professional?”

His grin is immediate, boyish, devastating. “Absolutely not.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“My job,” he says, tapping the clipboard, “is to help you see what’s already there. Strength isn’t just muscles. It’s confidence. And you have more potential than you think.”

Your heart stutters.

“We’ll take this one step at a time. I’ve got you.”

San stands first, the chair legs scraping softly as he reaches for a tray of locker keys by the door. They clink together, the sound grounding you after everything you just shared.

“Alright,” he says, lighter now, like he’s intentionally easing the air. “Logistics.”

You watch him sign a number onto your file, neat handwriting, practiced motions. When he hands the key to you, his fingers brush yours briefly.

“So,” he continues, walking toward the door and holding it open for you, “fitness goals.”

You trail after him, heart still fluttery from the conversation. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say.”

“That’s fine,” he replies easily. “Some people come in with spreadsheets. Some people come in with vibes.”

You huff a laugh. “I’m definitely vibes.”

He laughs and nods approvingly before continuing. “Common reasons are strength, endurance, flexibility, and body composition. Sometimes all of the above.”

You chew your lip as you think, the hallway to the locker rooms echoing softly. “Okay. Um. Honestly?”

He glances at you. “Always.”

“I want to be skinnier,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can soften them. “I want to feel confident. And maybe…grow my ass in the process?”

The words linger in the air.

San slows down before stopping.

He looks at you, expression unreadable for half a second, then his mouth curves into something amused and dangerously calm.

“You already have a nice ass,” he says, conversationally. Like he’s commenting on the weather. “Doesn’t really need growing. Maybe toning, if that’s what you want. But it’s your body.”

You nearly trip over your own feet.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, heat flooding your face. “What?”

He keeps walking, as if nothing happened, utterly unbothered. “You heard me.”

No. No, surely not.

You scramble to keep up. “San.”

“Mhm?”

“Can you repeat that?”

He stops again, turns fully this time. Same relaxed posture. Same warm eyes. Same devastating composure.

“You have a nice ass,” he repeats evenly. “And we’ll train based on what you want and need.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He laughs then, low and genuine, dimples flashing. “I’m professional,” he says. A pause. Then, with a shrug, “For the most part.”

Your eyes widen.

“But,” he adds smoothly, “I’m still a man. With eyes.”

He winks.

You stand there, the locker key digging into your palm, your heart racing, wondering if this gym membership comes with hazards you're not emotionally prepared for.

The scale sits in the corner of the assessment room, silently mocking you.

San pulls the privacy curtain halfway closed, not because it’s required, but because he notices the way your shoulders tense the second you see it. He gestures toward it with an easy hand.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently.

You slip off your shoes, suddenly hyperaware of everything. The softness of your stomach. The curve of your hips. The way your thighs touch when you stand still.

You step onto the scale, eyes fixed firmly on the wall instead of the numbers lighting up beneath your feet.

San doesn’t react. He writes the number down calmly, like it’s just another data point in the world.

“These,” he says gently, motioning to the clipboard, “are just numbers. They’re not a grade. They’re not a judgment.”

He moves to take your measurements next, tape cool against your skin. He asks before each one. Arm. Waist. Hips. Thigh. His touch is professional, careful, never lingering longer than necessary.

“You don’t need to feel shy,” he adds quietly, as if reading your thoughts. “Not around me. Not around anyone here. My coworkers included.”

You swallow. “It’s hard not to.”

“I know,” he says. “But this is just a starting line. We take these now so later we can look back and say, ‘Wow, look how far you’ve come.’ Or even just, ‘Wow, I feel better.’ That part matters more.”

He steps back, meeting your eyes. “Strength is important. And obviously, health is most important. But mental health is part of that—I want you to leave feeling good in your skin.”

You feel a little more at ease.

You hesitate, then admit softly, “I’ve always been…thicker than everyone else in my family. They’re all small. Petite. I kind of stuck out.”

San glances at your hips, then back up, smiling warmly. “Well,” he says, “people are built differently.” He taps the clipboard. “And some people are lucky to have a little extra.”

Your face goes hot instantly. “San.”

“What?” he asks innocently, dimples deepening. “Nothing wrong with having something to hold onto.”

You laugh, a little flustered, but also more comfortable around him.

The first week is hell.

There’s really no other way to describe it.

You learn this the moment you catch your reflection in the locker room mirror, tugging at the hem of your athletic wrap top. The outfit is new, carefully chosen.

Black leggings, a black sports bra, and a wrap that hugs your waist just enough to help you feel secure. Black hides sweat and shadows. Still, you look cute.

San notices immediately.

You’re halfway through stuffing your things into the locker when he stops short behind you and lets out a low whistle.

“Well,” he says, impressed and entirely unashamed. “Someone understood the assignment.”

Your head snaps up. “San!”

“What?” he asks, hands up, dimples showing. “You look good. Gym fashion matters.”

You feel heat bloom across your chest and neck, laughing as you shut the locker a little too hard. “You’re distracting.”

“It comes with the job,” he says with a grin. “Ready?”

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill nearly convinces you to quit on day one.

San matches your pace beside you, chatting casually while you struggle to keep up. Your legs ache, and sweat forms at your hairline almost right away.

“Warming up,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta wake the muscles.”

“They were asleep for a reason,” you gasp.

He laughs.

Then you stretch on the floor. Mats, slow movements, deep breaths. San shows each pose with ease, correcting you gently and always asking before he helps. He explains why each move matters.

And then he introduces the workout.

“It’s beginner-friendly,” he promises.

It is, technically. But beginner-friendly does not mean painless.

Squats that make your thighs scream. Push-ups that feel personal. Core exercises that you swear are invented by cruel people with vendettas. San counts your reps, encouraging and praising you, never letting you give up, but never forcing you past your limit either.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re doing amazing.”

By the end of the hour and a half, you’re drenched, legs shaking, and drinking water as if you haven’t had any in days. San crouches in front of you, eyes bright, still full of energy.

“You crushed that,” he says. “Seriously.”

You groan. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“And yet,” he grins, “you survived.”

The rest of the week follows the same pattern.

Pain. Sweat. Soreness in muscles you didn’t know you had. Stairs are tough. Sitting down takes effort. Have you ever had to grab the sink basin for support just to sit on the toilet? It was that bad.

San’s constant positivity is almost annoying at first, always upbeat and encouraging. But somewhere between the soreness and the sweat, something changes. You start to feel good—capable and proud.

By the end of the week, when San asks if you want to keep training, his enthusiasm is already there before you answer.

“Absolutely,” you say, smiling.

He grins right away, looking proud. “Knew it,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

Three months in, the mirror tells a different story.

It’s not a dramatic change or a movie-style transformation. It’s real progress. Your body hasn’t become unrecognizable. It’s still yours, still soft in places, but now there’s muscle underneath. You feel stronger and more grounded.

Your habits have changed before you even noticed. You wake up earlier, drink more water, and stretch when your body needs it. Now you want to move, not to punish yourself, but because it clears your mind and makes you feel stronger. That change alone feels huge.

San did that.

Well, not exactly. He guided, nudged, and helped you change.

You remember the first time you told him you wanted to go into a calorie deficit, how casual you were about it. Like it was obvious.

“That’s all I know,” you’d shrugged. “Eat less. Count everything.”

San had frowned, concerned. “You don’t need to eat less,” he’d said patiently. “You just need to eat better.”

And then he dismantled everything you thought you knew. Explained food like fuel instead of calories entering your body. Taught you to stop demonizing meals and start building them. Protein. Fiber. Real food. He laughed when you complained about cutting dairy.

“Why are you drinking cow milk,” he’d said, deadpan, “if you’re lactose intolerant?”

You hated that he was right.

Somewhere in that first week, you’d exchanged numbers. Strictly practical, he said. So you could send him photos of your meals. Proof you were sticking to the plan.

That lasted about four days. Now you text constantly.

Memes, random thoughts, updates about your day. He sends you gym jokes and terrible puns. You send him screenshots of design projects and ask if the colors look good. One night, you had to drive two hours to your parents’ for an emergency, and he asked you to share your location.

“Just so I know you’re safe,” he’d said casually.

It shouldn’t feel this intimate. It definitely isn’t professional.

But you love it.

You love that he checks in on rest days. That he celebrates your non-scale victories harder than you do. That he notices when you’re tired. That he still hypes you up like day one.

Sometimes he flirts.

A comment about how strong you’re getting. A look held a second too long. A teasing remark that makes your stomach flip and your brain scramble for explanations. Is this confidence boosting? Trainer encouragement? Or is this a man flirting with a woman he’s interested in?

You’re not sure.

What you do know is that you’re healthier. Happier.

Six months changes things in quiet, dangerous ways.

You don’t realize how much until you walk through the gym doors wearing pink.

Not muted blush. Not dusty rose. Pink pink. Leggings that hug your figure perfectly, a matching sports bra that leaves your shoulders bare, your midriff unapologetically visible. No wrap. No safety layer. No oversized hoodie clutched like a shield.

Now you do the pump cover thing. Oversized shirt on the way in, hoodie tied around your waist. You shed it once the heat builds, once your body warms, once you remember that you’re allowed to exist like this. You’re not fully confident. Not bulletproof. But you know, deep down, that you look good.

Your waist has cinched in naturally, like it finally remembered its shape. Your stomach lies flat, especially after San stopped gatekeeping his debloating tea, leaning in close one morning as if he were sharing state secrets.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he’d whispered, glancing around dramatically before murmuring the name.

The gym is quiet today. Too quiet.

You slow near the front desk, fingers brushing the counter as you look around. No clanking weights. No treadmills humming. Just the shitty gym music thumping through the speakers.

You frown. “Hello?”

And then, like he’s been summoned by the sound of your voice, San pops out from behind the hallway with a grin that hits you square in the chest.

Pink suits him too, apparently, because his eyes drop for half a second before snapping back up, dimples carving deep into his cheeks.

“Wow,” he says, not subtle at all. “You’re glowing.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “You’re staring.”

“I am appreciating,” he corrects.

You cross your arms, pretending not to love that. “Where is everyone?”

“New Year’s Eve,” he replies easily. “Everyone’s either getting ready to go out or already starting parties.”

“Oh,” you say, glancing around again. “That makes sense.”

Then it hits you.

“You’re here,” you point out.

He hums, stepping closer, hands tucked casually into his jogger pockets. He looks relaxed. Very much not in trainer mode.

You haven’t quite adjusted to that yet.

Last week still feels surreal.

When the program ended, you’d panicked. Told him immediately you wanted to extend. That you weren’t done. That you still needed him.

He’d laughed, pulled you into a hug without hesitation, arms warm and familiar around you.

“You don’t need me like that anymore,” he’d said fondly. “Besides, you could train me now.”

You’d laughed, but the fear had lingered. That you’d become just another success story. That he’d give someone else the same attention, the same care. That he’d share locations with new clients. Send them memes. Check in like he did with you.

It had made your stomach twist.

San must see something on your face now because his smile softens. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the treadmills. “Let’s warm up.”

You fall into step beside him.

“So seriously,” you ask, trying for casual. “Why are you here if it’s dead?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because you are.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Oh,” you manage, voice betraying you entirely.

He grins, glancing sideways. “Relax. You’re stuck with me.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, amusement laced with something deeper. “You’re my gym wife. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

You scream internally.

You step onto the treadmill beside him, pulse racing, the empty gym suddenly feeling charged with possibility. New year. New body. New rules.

You both start your machines, walking side by side, arms swinging loosely, conversation drifting without effort. San talks about a client who tried to deadlift in jeans. You complain about a design project that refuses to cooperate.

Then he bumps the speed up.

“Light jog,” he says.

You groan, but comply, breathing evenly as your ponytail sways behind you. He keeps talking like this is nothing. A minute passes. Then two. Then he grins at you and taps the console again.

“Sprint.”

“What—San!”

But you’re laughing as your legs pump faster, heart racing, lungs burning. He matches you effortlessly, glancing over with that maddeningly calm expression, counting under his breath.

“Ten more seconds.”

You survive. Barely.

Jog again. Then sprint. Then jog. Over and over, until sweat slicks your skin and your muscles sing with effort. By the time he finally slows you down, your chest is heaving, legs trembling, a wild, exhilarated smile on your face.

“That,” he says proudly, “was beautiful.”

You flip him off affectionately.

Since the gym is empty, he connects his phone to the speakers. His playlist fills the space instantly, bass-rich, energizing, so much better than the generic gym loop. You stretch together on the mats afterward, San correcting your form with touch instead of words now, hovering close.

Then it’s squat time. Leg day for him. Glute day for you.

You grab your water bottle and phone, bending to set them down beside your rack. You feel his gaze before he says anything. When you glance over, he’s mid-warm-up, bar resting across his chest, eyes very much on you.

“Yeah,” he says casually. “You can definitely tell.”

You blink. “Tell what?”

“The difference in your glutes,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Especially in that pink set.”

Heat rushes straight to your face. “You’re flirting again,” you accuse. “And staring.”

He shrugs, dropping into a front squat with effortless depth. “I’m not your trainer anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you stop being a gentleman,” you counter, folding your arms.

He rises smoothly, racking the bar, eyes bright with amusement. “I have my limits,” he says simply. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Your laugh comes out nervous, breathy.

He grins at the sound, clearly enjoying your reaction, then turns his focus back to his workout like he didn’t just unravel you with a sentence.

You grip your bar, heart racing, very aware that something between you has shifted again.

You eye the plates for a long second before you speak. Your bar is loaded heavier than usual.

“Hey,” you say, glancing over at San. “Can you spot me?”

His eyebrows lift, impressed before he even answers. “Going for a PR?”

You nod, nerves buzzing. “Last set.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

You kick off your shoes first, nudging them aside with your foot. The rubber soles thud softly against the floor. Bare feet feel better. More control. You learned that from him. The bar rests heavily across your shoulders as you step under it, grip tightening, breath slowing.

And then San is behind you. Not touching yet. Just there.

You are suddenly acutely aware of everything. The heat of the room. The sheen of sweat on your skin. The way his chest rises behind you as he mirrors your stance, knees bent slightly, ready. The mirror in front of you reflects it all. Your focus. Your strain. Him, solid and steady at your back.

“Alright,” he murmurs near your ear. “Deep breath. I’ve got you.”

You squat slowly. Controlled. Your hamstrings and glutes burn immediately, muscles protesting as you sink deep. San follows your movement instinctively, his body lowering with yours, close enough that you can feel him without being touched.

“Good,” he encourages softly. “Stay with it.”

You push up with a strained exhale, core tight, jaw clenched. The bar moves, slowly, heavily. But it moves.

Again.

Your legs shake this time, breath turning ragged. You catch your own expression in the mirror. Determination stares back.

“Come on,” San urges, voice firmer now, breath warm against your neck. “You’re strong. Push.”

You drop into the last rep, muscles screaming, lungs on fire. For a split second, you think you might fail, then you hear him.

“Up. Up. You’re right there. Don’t quit on yourself now.”

You grunt, every muscle firing, and rise.

The bar clears. You lock out. Hands shaking, you re-rack the weight with a shaky clank and stagger forward, breathing hard, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out as the tension finally releases.

Before you can process it, San is cheering.

“Oh my god!” he shouts, bouncing on his toes like a kid. “You did it!”

He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around you, energy vibrating off him. You freeze for half a second.

“Wait,” you laugh breathlessly, hands hovering awkwardly. “I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. “That was insane. That was clean.”

His excitement is contagious. You feel it bloom in your chest, pride rushing in where doubt used to live.

“I can’t believe I did that,” you say, still panting.

“You did that shit,” he insists.

And then you’re both laughing, jumping up and down, celebrating like idiots in the empty gym. Your heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the weight anymore.

You find San again at the treadmills, both of you drifting back to the same place. Your legs are tired in that deep, satisfying way, muscles humming instead of screaming.

You step onto the treadmill beside him and set it to a slow walk—cooldown pace. Breathing evening out, sweat cooling against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then you glance sideways. “Hey, thanks again for spotting me earlier.”

San waves it off like it’s nothing, eyes forward. “You did all the work. I just existed behind you.”

“You existed very helpfully,” you counter.

He laughs, shaking his head. “That was your strength. All you.”

You smile at the console, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

A minute passes. Your steps fall into rhythm again.

“So,” you say casually, maybe a little too casually. “How are your other clients doing?”

He hums, considering. “Good, mostly. Progress all around.”

“All girls?” you tease.

He snorts. “Obviously.”

You laugh. “Of course.”

Then he hesitates. It’s subtle, barely there, but you’ve learned him well enough to catch it. There is a slight pause before he speaks again. The way his jaw tightens just a fraction.

“I actually had to cancel a program recently,” he says finally.

You glance over, surprised. “Why?”

He exhales. “One of them kept asking me out, wouldn’t let it go. Made things uncomfortable.”

Your steps falter just a bit. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he adds quietly. “Just wanted to help her. Sucks.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice, just tired honesty.

You feel something twist in your chest. Sympathy, anger on his behalf, because you remember that first week. How careful, intentional, and genuinely kind he was.

Like that day a few months back, when you were cooling down after your session, and he’d drifted away briefly. You’d watched him approach a teenage girl on the stair master. Plus size. Nervous. Clutching the rails and pushing herself despite her anxiety screaming at her to leave.

You remembered his smile then. Big and encouraging.

“Hey,” he’d said to her, holding out a water bottle. “Hydration check.”

She’d taken it, cheeks burning red as he playfully scolded her. “I don’t wanna see you in here without water again, okay?”

She’d nodded furiously, glowing under the attention, and you’d felt something settle in your chest watching it.

San had never been just his body. Or his face. Or the way people looked at him like he was a prize to win. He was this.

You reach the end of your cooldown and hit stop. Without thinking too hard, you reach across and stop his treadmill too.

“Hey,” he says, confused. “I wasn’t—”

You don’t answer. You step off your machine, cross the small gap between you, and climb onto his treadmill. He barely has time to react before you wrap your arms around him.

He stiffens for half a second. Then he hugs you back tightly. Like he needed it more than he realized.

Your cheek presses against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “I see you,” you murmur. “All of you.”

His arms tighten just a little more, breath leaving him in a slow exhale. For a moment, the empty gym fades away entirely. The hug lingers with him long after you let go.

San stands there for a second longer than necessary, arms slowly dropping back to his sides, chest warm where you pressed against him. Your words echo loudly.

I see you.

It lands deeper than any compliment ever has.

He’s felt attraction before; he’s not naïve. He knows what it’s like to be wanted for his body, for his face, for the idea people build in their heads the moment they look at him. That part of life has always been loud.

This is different.

He knew it early. Earlier than he probably should’ve admitted to himself. That first week, when you stood at the front desk looking like you might bolt at any second, eyes darting around, shoulders tight, pretending you didn’t need help while absolutely needing it. He remembers thinking, immediately, dangerously: God, she’s beautiful.

Not in a trying-too-hard way. In a soft, real, devastating way. Curvy, pretty face, expressive eyes, a laugh that snuck up on him. A combination that would’ve undone him even if you’d never lifted a single weight. He would’ve taken you exactly as you were.

But he respected you too much not to respect your goals.

And then you started changing, not just physically. You stood taller, looked at yourself differently, and wore less of your old defenses. Confidence grew slowly, almost without you noticing, and that’s when it really felt unfair.

Beautiful. Curvy. Confident. Triple kill.

And yes. That ass.

He’s not blind. He’s not a saint. He noticed the difference the lifting made. The way your body responded to routine. Rounder. Firm in a way that made him have to actively remind himself to look away.

Professional. Be professional.

San knows who he is. He knows he’s handsome. He knows his smile disarms people, knows his body turns heads. He’s never pretended otherwise. But whenever someone compliments his face, he always laughs and says it’s his mom’s doing. That part isn’t his.

His body, though? That’s his work. Years of discipline. Of consistency. And still, none of it compares to how he feels when you smile at him like you trust him.

He’s trained plenty of women. He knows why most of his clients are female. He’s dealt with the awkwardness, the crushes, the crossed lines. He never wanted them.

You’re different. Not because you’re prettier, but you are. Not because you’re kinder, but you are. It’s the way you see him. The way you notice the things no one else does. The way you hug him without wanting anything in return.

He wants to treat you so well it scares him.

He wants to buy you things just because you mentioned them once. Take you places you’ve never been. Hold your hand absentmindedly while you talk. Kiss you slowly like he has nowhere else to be. Wrap you up in his arms and make the world smaller around you.

He even thinks, fleetingly, irrationally, about your ex. About finding him. About explaining, very calmly, what happens when you fail to cherish something soft and rare.

San exhales, shaking his head at himself. Down bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. In his head, quietly, carefully, he already calls you his.

When you finally pull away, the absence hits him immediately.

His cheeks are warm. Too warm. He’s painfully aware of it, the heat blooming under his skin, the way his ears probably match.

You notice. Your eyes flick up to his face for just a second longer than usual. He sees the recognition spark there. The pause. The choice you make not to say anything.

God. That might undo him more than the hug itself.

He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself into something that looks normal. “Uh,” he says lightly, gesturing vaguely. “Cooldown accomplished.”

You laugh, mercifully playing along. “Barely survived.”

“That’s a win,” he grins, relief loosening his chest. “Still alive.”

You both move around each other easily now, picking up water bottles and phones, tossing towels into bins. The tension doesn’t go away, but it becomes something softer and more familiar. It’s comfortable, like you’ve crossed a line but aren’t ready to talk about it yet.

He cracks a joke about your playlist-stealing privileges next time. You fire back that his taste in music is elite, and the gym doesn’t deserve it.

At the front desk, Yeosang is leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. San lifts a hand automatically.

“Later,” he calls.

Yeosang looks up, smirks, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Later,” he replies, tone knowing in a way that makes San suddenly very interested in the exit.

The cold evening air hits as you step outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. San exhales, shoulders relaxing as the gym doors close behind you.

This is usually where it ends. A wave. A casual “text me when you get home.” A routine goodbye. You turn toward him, stepping closer, arms already lifting.

San’s heart stumbles.

He opens his mouth before he can overthink it. “Hey—”

You pause, looking up at him.

His brain scrambles. 

Say it. 

No, don’t say it. 

He rubs the back of his neck. “Do you,” he starts, then stops, breath hitching, then tries again. “Do you want to maybe have dinner later? At my place?”

The words hang there, fragile.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” you say, surprised. Then you smile, softer. “Yeah. Sure.” Friendly dinner, you assume.

“Really?” he asks, grin breaking through before he can stop it.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His face fully brightens, boyish and unguarded. “Cool. Cool. I’ll text you.”

You hug him then, quick and easy this time, and wave goodbye as you head to your car.

San stands there for a second longer after you leave.

Dinner. At his house.

Oh shit. 

Dinner at his house.

He sprints to his car, realizing he needs to start cooking.

The drive over feels longer than it actually is.

Your hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary as you pull into his apartment complex, headlights washing over neat rows of parked cars. You’re dressed casually but intentionally. Jeans that fit just right, a nice top that you stood in front of the mirror debating for far too long. Comfortable enough to feel like yourself. Pretty enough.

Your stomach flips.

Why was he nervous earlier?

That question circles your head as you park and cut the engine. San doesn’t get nervous. San is composed. The kind of man who knows exactly where he stands in a room. And yet earlier, he’d stumbled.

And now you’re here at his place.

You know, with absolute certainty, that he doesn’t do this with clients. Or former clients. You’ve seen the lines he draws. How careful he is. That’s part of why this feels so significant, so loaded with meaning it makes your chest buzz.

You take a breath, step out of the car, and walk up to his door.

Knock. Knock.

The seconds stretch just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Then the door opens.

San stands there like he hasn’t seen you in months instead of a few hours. Big smile and crinkled eyes. Hair slightly tousled, like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. He looks comfortable in his slightly baggy jeans and T-shirt.

“Hey,” he says, bright and genuine.

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He steps aside immediately. “Come in.”

His apartment is warm, clean, and lived in. Something savory and delicious fills the air, making your stomach ache in a good way. Shoes sit by the door, and a jacket is tossed over a chair.

He gives you a little tour, pointing things out with easy enthusiasm. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Then the spare room.

“And this,” he says, opening the door with a sheepish grin, “is where I keep my problem.”

You step inside and stop short.

Plushies. A collection of them: big ones, small ones, and everything in between. Carefully arranged on the shelves.

Your hand flies to your mouth. “Oh my god.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t judge me.”

“Judge you?” you gasp. “San, this is the greenest flag I’ve ever seen.”

His ears turn pink. “I win them at festivals,” he admits. “And I can’t throw them away.”

You stare at him, heart swelling. Big gym bro, killer body, and a plush collection.

I want to marry him, you think while looking at each one.

He guides you toward the kitchen before your brain can spiral further. The counters are occupied. That’s when it hits you. Dinner. You’re here for dinner. Not to mentally plan a future with this man. Not to imagine him folded into your life. Not to fall in love.

Too late, whispers something traitorous in your chest.

You clear your throat and look down at the food.

San glances at you, amused. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, cheeks warm. “Yeah. I just—wow.”

He smiles, pleased. “Sit. I’ll grab bowls.”

As he turns away, you watch him for a second longer than necessary before sitting at the table, heart loud, thoughts tangled.

You came here for dinner.

But standing in his kitchen, surrounded by warmth and care and something that feels dangerously close to affection, you’re not sure you’re leaving with just that.

He sets the bowls down carefully, and steam curls upward immediately, carrying the deep, rich scent of kimchi jjigae through the kitchen. It’s warm and spicy and comforting all at once, the kind of smell that settles into your bones before you even take a bite. The pot sits between you, still gently bubbling, red broth catching the light.

“Kimchi jjigae,” he says, almost shyly. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Your eyes light up. “You made this?”

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly feels exposed. “Yeah. I make it a lot. For my family. Friends. Me.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “I’m a Namhae boy. We take our food seriously.”

You grin. “I’ve heard.”

“Oh, Namhae is the best county in South Korea,” he says immediately, pride blooming in his voice without a trace of arrogance. “Best food. Best people. Best views. No competition.”

There’s something about the way he says it—so certain and full of love. Everything he talks about feels cherished, not boastful. You realize how much he appreciates his roots, his family, his job, his home, and the life he’s built here. He never takes anything for granted.

You lift your spoon and take a bite, and nearly die.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, eyes widening. The flavor is insane. Spicy but balanced. Rich without being heavy. Comfort in liquid form. You hum involuntarily and take another spoonful immediately, not even trying to hide it.

San watches with bated breath. “Is it good?” he asks, voice hopeful, eyes searching your face.

You nod vigorously, mouth still full. “San, this is so good.”

He laughs, cheeks flushing, ducking his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the praise. “Really?”

“Yes. I might cry.”

That does it. His smile spreads slowly and bright, dimples cutting deep, happiness written all over his face. He eats too, more relaxed now, watching you enjoy it like that’s the best compliment he could’ve received.

Conversation flows easily after that. Stories about each other’s childhoods and work. Laughing over small things, teasing each other gently. The kind of talk that doesn’t need effort, just presence.

When the bowls are empty, you stand instinctively. “I’ll wash the dishes.”

He shakes his head immediately. “Nope.”

“I insist.”

He reaches out, catching your wrist lightly. “I’ll do them later.”

And before you can protest again, he tugs you gently toward the couch, presses the remote into your hand, and says, “Find something good.”

You blink. “You’re not…?”

“Wine,” he says over his shoulder, already heading back toward the kitchen. “Give me a second.”

Okay. Wow. This is not at all what you expected.

You sink into the couch, heart racing, the remote warm in your hand, and realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.

You scroll through the options longer than necessary, thumb hovering as trailers auto-play silently in the background. Your instinct pulls you straight toward horror. It always does. Something about the tension, the adrenaline, the way it makes your heart race.

But then you remember him.

The way he’d laughed once, almost embarrassed, admitting he scares easily. How he said it, like a confession, as if he expected to be judged for it. You’d found it endearing then. Still do now.

So you settle on an action movie instead. Explosions. Fast cars. Something loud enough to be exciting but not enough to send him hiding behind a pillow.

You’re just settling back when you hear footsteps.

San reappears from the kitchen with two wine glasses balanced carefully in his hands and the bottle tucked under his arm. He looks relaxed. Soft around the edges in a way that makes your chest ache. His smile is bright, easy, pure golden retriever energy as he hands you a glass.

“Here,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too dry.”

He glances at the screen just as the opening credits roll, and his brows knit together in confusion.

“…That’s not horror.”

You freeze for half a second. “Oh. I just—” you shrug, suddenly shy. “You said you get scared easily. I didn’t want to freak you out.”

He stares at you. Then his lips pout. Actually pout.

“I wanted to get scared,” he says. “I wanted you to hold me during the scary parts.”

“I—what?”

Your face burns instantly as you scramble for the remote, suddenly very invested in finding literally any horror movie. “I mean, if you want—I can change it—I just thought—”

He laughs, loud and warm, eyes crinkling so deeply it makes your stomach flip. “I’m kidding,” he says gently, dropping down onto the couch beside you.

Not touching, but close. So close you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. His thigh just barely brushes yours when he shifts. He pours the wine carefully, handing you your glass before setting his down.

You put a scary movie on anyway.

You giggle suddenly, nerves bubbling over, and stand up. “Wait.”

He watches you with curiosity as you cross the room and flick the lights off. The apartment dims instantly, shadows stretching, the TV glow suddenly brighter.

When you sit back down, San makes a small, very real whining sound.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

But he scoots closer anyway. His arm brushes yours now. You pretend not to notice how your heart starts racing again, how the couch suddenly feels smaller, how the space between you disappears inch by inch.

The movie starts in earnest. Music swelling low and ominous. San leans in just a little more.

You thought he was exaggerating, you really did.

At first, you think the way San edges closer and his arm brushes yours again and again is on purpose. Maybe he’s flirting, using fear as an excuse to get closer. You tell yourself he knows exactly how charming he is.

Then the first real jump scare hits.

A shrill sound cuts through the room, and San yelps. He jerks so hard his knee knocks into yours, and he nearly launches himself off the couch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, startled more by him than the movie.

He grabs the blanket in a panic, yanking it up and throwing it over both of you like it might save his life. His heart is pounding. You can feel it. Fast and frantic against your arm.

“You’re kidding,” you whisper, half-stunned.

Another tense moment builds on screen. You brace yourself, but San does not. He screams again, higher this time, and clutches your sleeve like you’re a lifeline. His whole body jumps, shoulders up near his ears, eyes squeezed shut as he peeks over the blanket like a terrified child.

You try, you really try. But when he jumps so hard he nearly slips off the couch, a small snort escapes you.

Silence.

Slowly, he turns to look at you, eyebrows creased, lips pushed into the softest pout you’ve ever seen. He looks embarrassed and slightly betrayed.

“That wasn’t funny,” he whines.

You cover your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you laugh quietly. “I just—I didn’t think you meant it like this.”

He huffs, then reaches for you with zero hesitation, grabbing your arm and throwing it over his broad shoulders. He shifts closer, tucking himself against your side, big body pressing into you for comfort.

“Hold me,” he mutters. “It’s scary.”

Your heart absolutely loses its mind.

You should feel bad. He’s genuinely frightened. He’s clinging to you for safety, not seduction. But you don’t hate it. Not when his head dips closer. Not when his arm wraps securely around your waist. Not when the warmth of him sinks into you like he’s made to fit there.

The wine bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty now. He’s clearly more relaxed because of it, movements looser, voice softer, fear less filtered. He reacts dramatically to every sudden noise, burrowing closer each time, hiding his face against your shoulder before peeking again.

“I hate this movie,” he mumbles, voice muffled.

“You wanted scary,” you tease gently.

“Hmph.”

You laugh quietly, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without thinking, steadying him when the tension spikes again. He sighs contentedly at the contact, melting into you completely.

Still not complaining, you think. Not even a little.

A little while later, he gets up to use the bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind him, and a minute later, you hear the sink run briefly. You stretch your legs, adjusting the blanket over yourself, your eyes flicking to the faintly glowing screen paused in the dark.

Then suddenly—

Footsteps. Fast ones.

San sprints down the hallway like he’s being chased, socked feet slapping against the floor before he all but launches himself back onto the couch beside you. He lands hard, breathless, blanket flying as he scrambles to tuck himself against your side.

“What happened?” you laugh, startled.

He clutches his chest dramatically. “I forgot the lights were off,” he says, voice a little too loud, a little too breathy. “I stepped out, and it was just darkness.”

You laugh harder now. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I hate it,” he mutters, already reaching for the blanket and pulling it back up like armor.

An hour later, the next part of the series auto-plays before either of you can stop it. The opening music hums low and ominous, and San stiffens immediately.

“I can change it,” you offer, thumb hovering over the remote. “We can watch something else.”

He shakes his head quickly, then pauses, correcting himself slower, more deliberately. “No. It’s fine.”

You glance at him. His eyes are glued to the screen, jaw set like he’s psyching himself up for battle.

“I can be brave,” he adds, quieter. “Besides…” He trails off, cheeks faintly pink, and shifts closer. His thigh presses fully against yours now. His arm sneaks around your waist again. The wine has definitely loosened him and made him softer, less guarded. He’s clingy now, unapologetically so, warmth radiating from him as he leans into you.

You don’t move away. If anything, you tug him closer, your fingers brushing his arm, your body accommodating his without thought. Earlier, during the second half of the first movie, you’d laughed at one of his over-the-top reactions and absentmindedly threaded your fingers through his hair to calm him.

He hasn’t forgotten.

He shifts again, this time fully curling into your side, knees tucked slightly, broad shoulders fitting surprisingly well beneath your arm. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, peeking over it at the screen, then reaches up and gently places your hand on his head.

No words. Just a quiet request.

Your heart stutters.

You hesitate for half a second before your fingers move, sinking into his hair again. It’s soft. Warm. He sighs immediately, melting into the touch like he’s been waiting for it, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before snapping back to the movie.

There’s a jump scare. He flinches, but this time, instead of yelping, he presses his face into your shoulder, his fingers gripping your shirt, while you run your hand through his hair again, soothing, grounding.

“See?” you whisper, teasing gently. “So brave.”

He hums against you, not arguing, not pulling away. The screen flickers with shadows and sound, but his focus is elsewhere now. On your hand. Your warmth.

A sudden crack, sharp and close enough that both of you jolt at the same time. You gasp, San yelps, and for a split second you’re both frozen, hearts racing, staring at each other like you’re in the movie.

Then another boom rolls through the air, deeper this time, followed by a cascade of pops and whistles.

Fireworks.

“Oh,” you breathe, realization blooming. You glance at your phone. “It’s midnight.”

San blinks, then laughs softly, almost incredulous.

You pause the movie without thinking, and the room falls quiet again, except for the distant noise outside. Together, you stand, movements a little clumsy from sitting so long, from wine, from nerves. He reaches for the blanket automatically, draping it around his shoulders before tugging you closer and wrapping it around both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s watch.”

The balcony door slides open, cool night air rushing in, crisp and sharp against your skin. You shiver instinctively, and San tightens the blanket, his arm coming around your shoulders, anchoring you against his side. The city stretches out before you, lights glowing, and above it all, the sky erupts in color.

Red blooms first. Then gold. Then brilliant whites that crackle and fade, one after another, reflected in windows and glass and eyes.

You tilt your head back, watching in quiet awe.

San does too, at first. Then his attention drifts.

He looks down at you without realizing it, the fireworks lighting your face in shifting colors. Gold flashes in your eyes. Soft light catches the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth as you smile at the sky. His chest tightens.

He doesn’t remember deciding to stop watching the fireworks. Only that suddenly, they’re secondary—background noise. Beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to you standing there, so close he can feel your breath.

You sense it and turn. Your gaze meets his right eye first, then his left. You swallow, eyes flicking down almost without permission, tracing the line of his nose, lingering on his lips. Full, soft, and oh so close.

When you look back up, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away.

The world seems to slow, fireworks still bursting behind you, light and sound framing the moment as if it were planned.

San leans down slowly, giving you time. Space to pull back. To say no.

You don’t.

His lips meet yours gently, carefully. The kiss is warm, unhurried, full of everything that’s been building for months. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, holding you there like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

Fireworks explode overhead, but you barely notice.

This is the only thing that matters.

When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air.

“Happy New Year,” he whispers.

You don’t hesitate. Not for a second.

The moment he pulls back to speak, you’re already leaning in again, fingers tightening at the back of his neck, drawing him back to you like it’s instinct rather than choice. He lets out a soft, surprised laugh that barely exists before your lips meet again.

The fireworks crack overhead, loud and brilliant, but they fade into background noise as San steps back until the cool metal of the balcony rail presses against your back. He cages you there without pinning you, hands firm at your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your hips like he’s grounding himself.

He tilts his head just right, careful, practiced, so your noses brush instead of bumping. The kiss deepens naturally, unforced, and you realize with a quiet jolt that he’s very good at this.

Insanely good.

You feel every subtle shift of his mouth, the way he draws you in and then eases back just enough to make you chase him. His lips are warm, soft, and persistent. When his tongue brushes yours, it’s unhurried, exploratory, like he’s memorizing you rather than taking.

You’ve kissed plenty of times before. But this is different.

You’re suddenly aware of things you’ve never paid attention to before him. The way he breathes through his nose when he kisses you. The quiet sound he makes in his throat when you respond the way he likes. The gentle tug of his teeth, more promise than pressure, followed by a soothing sweep of his lips like an apology and a praise all at once.

His hands tighten reflexively, then soften, grip turning into slow caresses over and over again, like he can’t decide whether to hold you still or pull you closer. He chooses both, pressing his body into yours, solid and warm, making you feel small in the best way.

Your arms loop fully around his neck now, fingers sliding into his hair, and he exhales against your mouth.

He doesn’t push you or insinuate anything, but you can feel the pressure building between your legs. You want him. And by the feel of the hardness pressing against your stomach, he wants you too. That alone makes you blush and press into him.

You lean back, breaking the kiss. You’re both breathing heavily, and before San can lean back in to kiss your lips, you press a kiss to his neck, before pausing not to see, but rather feel his reaction.

His head falls back instantly, exposing more of his neck as if inviting further exploration. A soft moan escapes him—completely unintentional but very telling—and his hands grip your hips tighter. The action presses him more firmly against you, leaving no doubt about his arousal.

His pulse point throbs against your lips, matching the rhythm of his heavy breathing. San's body is reactive, honest almost to a fault when it comes to physical touch. And right now, his body is screaming for more. For you.

You take that as a sign to continue, pressing your lips harder against his neck, sucking softly, leaving a mark.

A sharp intake of breath is followed by a low groan that rumbles deep in his chest. His fingers dig into your hips almost painfully as he holds onto you for dear life. He moans your name softly, wantonly.

When you lean back to look up at him, his eyes are closed, his fingers digging into your hips. Not to cause pain, but to steady him. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask him, cupping his cheek. You don’t realize he’s trying to show restraint, trying to respect you even though he would love to pick you up and take you to bed. To show you what you do to him.

His eyes flutter open slowly, dark brown irises almost black with desire. San swallows hard, his throat working against your palm. "Nothing's wrong," he whispers hoarsely. But the way his jaw clenches and unclenches gives him away. He's trying so hard to be good when all he wants is to be bad with you.

His self-control is hanging by a thread. One wrong move and he might snap.

"Just... trying to behave," he adds, his voice low and strained.

Ah. There it is. Choi San, the man you are.

You brush your thumb along his bottom lip. “I want you,” you whisper up at him, your other hand trailing up his firm, clothed chest.

His breath catches audibly. San's composure cracks—just a little. His eyes flutter shut again, lashes fanning against his cheeks, and you feel his entire body tense as if savoring the permission.

When he opens his eyes again, they're not soft anymore.

"Say that again," he growls quietly, voice dropping two octaves.

“I want you,” you repeat louder. “Take me to bed.”

Without a word, he bends down and scoops you up in his arms. You gasp, surprised, and instinctively wrap your arms around his neck for support. He holds you close, one arm banded around your waist, the other supporting your thigh. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he strides purposefully towards his bedroom.

The room smells like him—clean linen and the faint spice of his cologne. He closes the door, and the noise of the world falls away. He turns to you, and his expression isn’t hungry, not yet. It’s reverent.

“Months,” he said, his voice a low hum in the quiet. “Wanted you for months now. Let me see you. All of you.”

Your heart hammers, but the familiar, gnawing whispers of insecurity are quiet. He’d dismantled them brick by brick, session by session. So you nod.

He undresses you with a slow, unhurried focus, his knuckles grazing your skin not with lingering intent, but with a steady purpose. Cool air meets your shoulders, your back, your stomach. You stand before him, utterly bare, and his eyes don’t just look. They drink you in.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your throat tightens.

He lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles lightly along your arm. “I thought that the first day you walked into the gym.”

You blink. “You did?”

He nods, eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. I wanted you then. Just like that. Nervous. Soft. Real.”

Your chest aches.

“I would’ve had you exactly as you were,” he continues gently. “But I loved watching you grow, watching you get happier. More confident. That smile you wear now?” He smiles back at you. “That’s everything.”

You swallow, emotions rising fast and sharp. “Even now?”

He steps fully into your space, then rests his forehead against yours. “Always,” he murmurs. “You’re gorgeous to me. At any size. In every version of you.”

His hands finally come up, framing your sides, grounding you there like he’s making a promise instead of a move.

Then he sheds his own clothes, and your breath simply stops.

The faint light from the window paints him in silver and shadow. Tight, defined abs that shift as he moves. Firm pecs that beg for your touch. Biceps that bunch and relax, bulging with latent strength. His shoulders are broad, his back a sculpted landscape of muscle that tapers down to narrow hips. Muscular thighs, a perfect ass. And his traps, rising from his shoulders like the foundations of a statue. He’s a work of art, carved from living marble.

And then his cock. Thick, heavy, already hard, and curving up against his stomach. Pretty wasn’t the right word. It was formidable. Majestic. A promise of ruin.

You reach out, your fingers trembling only a little, and wrap your hand around him. The heat of his skin is a shock. The velvet-over-steel texture makes your mouth water. A low, needy sound vibrating in his chest.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his head tilting back. “Just like that. Feels so good, baby.”

You sink to your knees, the carpet soft beneath you. You take him into your mouth, and his reaction is immediate, vocal. A sharp intake of air. A broken, “Yes.” His hands come to cradle your head, not pushing, just holding. You work him, your tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside, swirling over the slick, smooth head. Every time you hollow your cheeks and take him deep, a guttural groan tears from him.

“Your mouth…fuck, your mouth is perfect. So warm. So soft. Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

You don’t. You suck him with a dedication that feels like worship, and he gives you his sounds, his praises, his complete vulnerability. You feel powerful. You feel adored.

When he pulls you up, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “My turn,” he growls, and the softness is gone, replaced by a gentle but firm command.

The switch had been flipped.

He lays you back on the bed, your head sinking into the pillows. He kneels between your thighs, and for a moment, he just looks, the distant fireworks painting his face in fleeting color. Then he bends his head.

His mouth on you isn’t a quick feast. His tongue is soft, tender, licking slow, broad stripes that made your back bow off the mattress. Then it changes—firm, pointed flicks against your clit that has you gasping. He sucks gently, then nibbles with a careful scrape of his teeth that sends electric jolts straight to your core.

He’s making out with you there, his lips and tongue moving with the same tender, then passionate rhythm of a deep kiss. He moans into you, the vibration traveling through your entire body. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you, angling you so he can go deeper, his tongue fucking into you in soft, relentless thrusts.

“Taste so good,” he mutters, his voice muffled against you. “Gonna make you come on my face. Wanna feel you shake.”

And you do. The orgasm builds not like a wave, but like a firework—a tight, coiling tension in your belly that he stokes and stokes with his tongue, his lips, his soft sucks—until it bursts. Your vision whites out. A silent scream catches in your throat as you clench around nothing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking every last pulse, every last shudder.

Before you can even come down, he’s moving up your body, his weight settling over you. The head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot and insistent.

“This,” he says, pushing forward just an inch. A burning, perfect stretch. “This is going to ruin you for everyone else. Just me.”

And then he sinks in.

Oh.

The fullness is absolute. It steals the air from your lungs. He’s thick, long, stretching you in places you didn’t know could be stretched. He doesn’t move at first, just lets you feel him, lets your body adjust to the invasion. Then he begins to move.

Slow, at first. Withdrawing almost completely, then sliding back in with a deep, rolling grind of his hips. Each stroke is a masterclass in sensation. He angles his hips, and the thick head of his cock drags over a spot deep inside that makes you see stars. He changes his pace—short, hard thrusts that make your tits shake and makes wet smacking noises echo in the room. Then long, slow, deep pumps that feel like he’s reaching your soul.

He fucks you with a focused, possessive rhythm. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip, his fingers pressing into your flesh. His eyes never leave yours.

“You take me so fucking well,” he pants, his breath hot on your lips. “So perfect. Made for me. All for me.”

The fireworks continue outside, a silent, brilliant accompaniment to the ones he’s setting off inside you. Every nerve ending is alight. The world narrows down to the joining of your bodies, the slick sounds of friction, the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of him on your tongue from earlier.

He’s a gentleman and makes sure you come again, his thumb finding your clit and circling with perfect, dirty pressure as he pistons into you. The second climax is sharper, brighter, a supernova that ripples through you, making you clamp down on him with a violent, rhythmic squeeze. He groans, a sound of pure pleasure and strain.

“Fuck, yes…squeezing my cock just like that…I can’t…I’m gonna…”

His thrusts became erratic, desperate. His beautiful body tightening above you, every muscle corded. He buries himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against yours, and lets go.

“Fuck! I—oh God—Y/N, baby—” he grunts out, hips stilling.

A hot, wet flood erupts inside you. It isn’t a trickle; it’s a claiming. Pulse after pulse of his release, filling you, marking you. It’s filthy. It’s wet. It’s messy.

And it’s beautiful, because it’s San, and he has a way of making everything feel special.

He collapses onto you, his weight a warm, comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing ragged against your skin, pressing slow, lazy kisses.

“Mine,” he whispers.

Outside, the final few fireworks pop and fizz.

BINNIEBB 2026 ™ PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK ♡

It was a most casual day, nothing special had actually happened. The most exciting thing was that Changbin was supposed to come over later in the evening. Naturally you were more than excited to see him, due to your busy schedules you didn’t get to see each other that much. So it was safe to say you missed him quite a lot.

You were also really excited to try this new challenge with him. It was no news that Changbin couldn’t multitask. So when you saw a challenge where basically men had to cut out different shapes on colorful papers while telling a story you just knew you just had to try it on your boyfriend.

“Baby I’m here!” Hearing Changbin’s booming voice immediately put a smile on your face. How was is possible that even being in his presence immediately put a smile on your face.

“I’m in the kitchen baby!” - You yelled out as you continued stirring the pasta sauce. Changbin had said earlier that he was craving some. So you went out to make some, you even bought some white wine to go with it.

“It smells so good baby.” Changbin mused as he hugged you from the back.

“It will be ready in two minutes baby, can you help me serve the table before that? And open up the wine please? It’s on the counter.” You asked, but not before kissing him on his cheek.

“Of course baby!” Changbin squeezed you one last time before getting to work. He was so cute waddling around carefully not to disturb you as you finished up the pasta. It was something else watching him do something simple yet domestic. You couldn’t explain it but it really warmed up your heart. Also it kind of amazed you how he just knew where everything was, even the wine opener. You didn’t even remember most of the time where you put it. You might wonder what the big deal was but it just showed how close you were. Thinking about it you also knew his house like the back of your hand. You knew where he put everything and all. You hadn’t been dating that long so it was an interesting observation of how well you two actually knew each other.

“I’m all done baby! He cheered as you finally finished carefully putting pasta on the plate. You were sure he would like it, it smelled just amazing. Youwere glad you really put your heart into it.

Walking to the table with two plates you couldn’t help but smile at the careful but the still a bit messy way he had set the table.

Changbin had already poured the wine too and everything, he even had bought some cake and sweets with him and set them up too. It was another endearing thing about him how he never came at your house without bringing you something.

“Baby!” You couldn’t help but jump a little when he cheered quite loudly. He immediately got up from his chair and walked over to you talking your hands in his. What baffled you the most is when he got on his knee all dramatically.

“What are you doing Bin?” You asked as you tried to control your giggling at his silly antics.

“What I’m doing? I will tell you what I’m doing! I am going to kiss the magical hands of my baby for making something this delicious!” And to make his point more apparent he leaned in and covered your hands in kisses, not missing a single knuckle.

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing, he was so sweet and silly. “You’re so cute Binnie.” Leaning in you connected your lips in a short but loving kiss. “I’m taking you like my cooking.”

Changbin smiled and pecked you softly. “I’m saying that I’m regretting not buying a ring for you. So what if we have been only dating for two months.”

Smiling you shook your head. ”My cooking can not be that good!”

“First of all how dare you it’s top tier, second of all even if it wasn’t, the fact that you got out of your way to do something for me speaks volumes about how kind and loving you are. As I’m saying marriage material.” God you loved this man.

Oh.

Oh.

You were in love.

You loved Seo Changbin.

As if happy you finally realized it your heart felt like it doubled in size, it just bloomed in joy. You felt like you could yell it on top of your lungs, to let everyone know!

You gazed into his loving eyes, full of light and joy, sparkling oh so beautifully.

Suddenly you were rendered speechless. Your pulse quickened, your breath fastened, hands felt more clammy. You just couldn’t muster up anything to say. It just baffled you how nervous you got in a second. It was Changbin! The person you you felt most comfortable and safe with. Why couldn’t you say you loved him? You two had been dating for two months and he told you that he would marry you, why couldn’t you say something way more simple? Why did you feel so nervous now? Why couldn’t you tell him that you love him? This felt like such a right time too. Maybe you should think over your emotions first. Not that you needed any thinking about it. As soon as you realized everything just clicked together, like it was the most natural thing to be in love with him.

Taking a deep breath you forced yourself to say something. “All in it’s time okay baby?” Leaning in you gently held his face and kissed him, more passionately and now. If you couldn’t voice just yet how you felt you would try to show your feelings through the kiss.

Changbin gladly reciprocated, standing up slowly he also held onto your cheeks to bring you closer and deepen the kiss.

Everything seemed to disappear. It was only you and Changbin. Nothing else, not that it mattered anyway when you two had each other.

You only remembered about the forgotten dinner when you leaned back for some air.

“Baby the food will get cold.” You giggled at the annoyed huff from Changbin when you dodged his kiss.

“I want to kiss you though.” He tried to kiss you again but you skillfully avoided his lips and made him kiss your cheek instead.

“Dinner first! I promise I will kiss you as many times as you want later.”- You suggested smiling.

Changbin thought for a second, his eyes not leaving yours. Then quickly held your face so he could quickly peck your lips. “Deal!”-He muttered against your lips before giving you another quick peck. You couldn’t help but mirror his grin. He was such a dork.

The dinner was mostly quiet, with you occasionally talking about how your days went. It was comforting and somewhat healing to just eat dinner together and sip some wine while talking about mundane stuff of everyday life. You could get used to it and definitely wouldn't mind if this was an everyday occurrence. His earlier marriage rant really had shifted something inside you.

After eating you quickly tidied up with Changbin insisting that he do the dishes because that was “the least he could do” as he said.

So here you were now, sitting on your couch sipping your wine, enjoying each other’s presence, with some soft music playing in the background. You were debating if you should try the challenge with him, you were enjoying yourself and you didn't really feel like moving even a centimeter.

In the end you couldn’t resist the temptation. And decided to ask. “Binnie, I saw this challenge earlier on TikTok, will you try it with me?”

Changbin raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued. “What’s the challenge?”

“Nothing special, I just thought we could try it. I’m not going to post it or anything, but I think it will be a cute thing to do. You know we can look at it later, maybe years later and just reminisce you know?” You tried to not show too much excitement but you might have failed at that a little bit. Also it flustered you how you slipped up and said how you could at the video years later. You really saw future with him, but was this a good time to say this? Two months wasn’t that long to have those types of conversations? Or was it? You and Changbin were in for the long run, you surely knew that but still, it did make you feel a bit nervous.

Maybe Changbin noticed the little bit of hesitation in the end of your suggestion, or maybe he just felt like it, but he leaned in and gently kissed your lips which momentarily made you forget how to breathe. “Of course baby, what do you want me to do?” His voice was gentle, so loving.

God you loved this man.

“One second!” Somehow, with your legs feeling like jelly and your heart fluttering uncontrollably in your ribcage, you managed to get up to get the supplies for the challenge.

Changbin looked at you for a second then at the camera, a playful smirk appearing on his face. Suddenly with the most dramatic gasp ever he clutched his heart. ”Not my baby, my darling targeting my biggest weakness! How could you do this to me baby! When you think you know someone!” Suddenly he straightened up and gave you a playful glare. “For this betrayal you shall pay double the price! I demand as many kisses as I deem necessary and cuddles on top of that!”

You set up your phone and started to record, you would edit the video later if it got too long.

You handed him some papers on which you drew some flowers and hearts earlier and some scissors. “Basically, it’s a challenge to test your multitasking skills, I will also do it. You see how there are different shapes drawn on the papers? You just have to cut them out while telling a story without interruptions, like how we met for instance! Sound good?”

For the nth time that day you found yourself giggling at your boyfriend’s silly antics. Leaning in you kissed the top of his nose. “That’s a given baby, I will give you as many kisses as you want and maybe even more!”

Changbin grinned triumphally, his chest puffing out in pride.

“Okay let’s do it! I will make sure to win this challenge! Also you can’t back down I have the evidence of your promise on camera right there. So brace your pretty lips.” It was cute how fired up he got.

He looked at the papers his face suddenly more serious. In the end he chose glittery pink paper with a heart drawn on it.

“How we met huh? Okay!” He took the scissors and brought it to the paper. “I was with Hyunjin at the new café he wanted to go to. He found it on Instagram or something and he liked how artsy it was, so asked me to go with him, so I agreed.” Not to lie you were impressed on how well he started. He was talking confidently as he carefully started to cut out the shape. “It was a sunny day too. Then…” You not breaking the eye contact you still noticed how his hands faltered. He must have not noticed, he was gently smiling at the fond memory. “We got americanos because we had a lot of work to do…” He must have noticed he had stopped so he quickly picked up the pace. “And then…” He faltered again. Resumed to cut and faltered again. ”Wow this is hard…” He sighed, looking a bit annoyed at the paper, which wasn’t even halfway cut yet. “And then you bumped into me, because you weren’t really looking forward and was distracted by something. My drink spilled over me and…” Another falter followed with an annoyed huff. “You were so sorry, you kept apologizing” A few scissor movements without saying anything. ”You looked so cute; I couldn’t even take my eyes for you.” His stands stopped moving at all. “You were so embarrassed you almost looked like you were about to cry, but you looked to beautiful I can’t even describe it with words, you were apologizing and muttering about how you had the most horrible day ever. You were wearing all whites which made you look more angelic than ever. I couldn’t even say anything. It was the first time I understood the meaning of being rendered speechless by the sheer beauty of someone and I'm friends with Hyunjin! You were just so captivating. There was something so enchanting about you! And then you offered to buy me coffee and to pay for my dry-cleaning. That was when I noticed that my shirt was dirty. Honestly I didn’t give a damn about it I had clothes to change into at the studio but I agreed, because it meant that I would see you again. I quickly gave you my number and left with Hyunjin saying that I was busy and all. Honestly, I left so quickly because I was afraid you would change your mind. Usually I’m confident and everything but you just made me feel so nervous! “Changbin smiled softly, his eyes gentle and loving, looking at you with all the love in the world. You were speechless. Maybe even seconds away from crying, because hearing him talk about meeting you, sharing his thoughts…You couldn’t even begin to describe how it made you feel. You felt so loved and cherished and appreciated. Listening to this, you felt like a hero of a most touching romance book or a movie who gave a damn.

Smiling Changbin continued. “And that evening when you texted me I was so overjoyed! You asked me when was I free and I…” You didn’t let him finish, not giving a damn about anything, you wrapped your hands around him and kissed him.

You could feel Changbin’s hands fumble for a second. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to kiss him like that. He felt stiff for a second but he quickly regained his senses and leaned into the kiss. You heard a small thud, he must have thrown away scissors and papers somewhere away, because in a second his arms, free of anything, held you oh so tightly, as if he was afraid of letting you go.

“I love you!” you muttered against his lips, as you leaned in to kiss him some more.

Suddenly Changbin leaned back. Bewilderment written all over his face. Honestly he was a sight to behold. With his hair all messy from your wondering hands, cheeks all flushed. His glasses he decided to wear today sitting a bit crooked on his nose. His lips looking swollen and being most prettiest shade of pink from your kissing. God you loved him.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled, his wide eyes looking at yours, searching for answers.

You returned the confused stare. What was he getting at? Did you say something?

“You love me?” Changbin looked like he couldn’t believe his own words.

As the realization of your slipup hit you felt your face flush with embarrassment. Suddenly all you wanted to do was to crawl somewhere and hide.

“Baby…” Changbin held your face gently and made you look at him. “Do you love me?”

Unable to hide it anymore you nodded your head before answering.  “I do. I love you.”

Changbin looked at you, his face portraying all sorts of emotions, you couldn’t really descipher. “I’m sorry. I know we haven’t been dating for that long. But I love you. A lot. I really love you…”

You didn’t even have time to even blink before his lips were on yours. He held you so tight as his lips devoured yours. This kiss was nowhere near countless small loving kisses you had shared before this. This was just something else. Something so raw, so passionate, so full of love and longing. It was whole another experience. You had never been kissed like this before. It made you feel so alive. Like there was this fire inside of you, making you feel ignited. You felt like you were on top of the world, like anything was possible and reachable. You felt truly alive.

Alive and falling.

And you did fall.

Changbin had deemed it necessary to just fall with you on top of him on the sofa.

Your sofa creaked in distaste for the sudden weight but both of you chose to ignore it. Choosing to kiss each other instead. Truth be told, you wouldn’t even give a damn if it broke into a million pieces right now.

“I love you!” Changbin whispered against your lips. “I love you.” Another peck. “I love you so much!” He grinned against your lips. “God I’m so happy I could die.” Another short but loving kiss followed by countless another, not limiting to your lips. He kissed you everywhere he could reach you.

“Please say it again.” He asked you after making sure to cover every visible part of your skin in kisses.

“I love you Binnie.” Smiling you caressed his cheek, loving how he leaned into your touch. His eyes looking at you with so much love, shining oh so beautifully they could rival any star in the universe.

Your heart had never felt fuller.

It was surely a miracle how seemingly most uneventful and regular day at first became most memorable and special day for you. And you hoped it would be followed with many more days like this with Changbin making them more memorable and special with you.

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"Unfair!" You throw a cushion in his direction. He half-dodges it, but it still scrapes his face. "You have to show me one now!"

"No!" He pushes your legs off his lap, "the whole point of this is that you go in with no expectations."

Your shoulders slump and you fall back against the couch. You cross your arms when he scooches closer to you. You sigh, "it's hard."

"I know," Felix soothes, reaching out to calm his hand down your arm, "but I've told you, he is a complete gentleman okay? And if he does anything that remotely makes you uncomfortable, you can brag about it all you want and give up on men entirely." He watches your face for a reaction, but there's only a small tilt of your head. He continues, "I refuse to let you give up on love because of-"

"Don't even say his name."

"That little twerp." He finishes, "I promise you Y/N, Changbin is nothing like him."

Date One:

"I feel ridiculous." You slump, smoothing over the outfit Felix practically forced you in to.

"Well you look beautiful," he mutters, rounding your figure to adjust several things on your outfit.

You think for a moment, a small blush creeping up on your face as the question forms on your tongue. Usually, you'd be embarrassed to ask such things, but with Felix, there's never any judgement. "You... you told me he was hot..." you let your eyes flick over to his, "how hot exactly?"

"If you're wondering if he's going to be attracted to you, I'm going to stop you right there." He doesn't look at you, just keeps fiddling with the outfit.

"You said he was rich."

"Okay yes, but you can't tell him I told you that... he hates people knowing."

"So what you're saying is he could have anyone... any girl he wants... and he's being forced to go on a date with me."

"Right," Felix drops his hands and sets his eyes on you, "I don't know how many times I have to tell you. I've shown him your instagram, I've talked to him about the things you like. He wants to go on this date with you. If you saw the way he blushed when I showed him that picture I took of you at Hyunjin's New Years Party, you wouldn't be doubting him for a second."

"Don't remind me of that party..." you huff, "that's literally my favourite picture of myself and it's tainted with memories of him."

"Yes, it's tragic..." he muses, taking a step back to take you in. "You're so beautiful Y/N."

"You have to say that."

He sighs, "you know, one of these days, someone is going to say that to you and you'll believe it."

"No we've been through that. And now he's god knows where, burying himself in god knows who." You smile at him, rather sarcastically. 

"Right." Felix perks up, "no more talking about what's in the past. Tonight is about your future. Tonight is about healing," he grabs your shoulders, "you don't owe him a second date, but you owe it to yourself to go on this one. To open yourself back up. Trust me, this is good for you."

You can do nothing else but nod. 

You shift silently on the pavement. You feel ridiculous. Ridiculous and nervous. Felix insisted you arrive 10 minutes early. You hate to admit it, but it was smart. Changbin, having known what you look like thanks to Felix, would be the one to approach you. You wouldn't need to look around the restaurant awkwardly trying to find a man you'd never met. 

"Y/N?" His voice is like a siren call, drawing your attention to your left. "I'm Changbin," his voice makes you so weak you forget to be cynical for a moment. 

You allow your eyes to rake over his body. Felix wasn't lying when he said he was built, but he failed to mention his arms would be straining against the fabric of his black button-up. The first two buttons are undone, revealing a gold chain that catches the light of the street-lamp. And then there was his face, round, angled jaw and a mop of curly dark brown hair. His eyes, dark brown and dreamy, are hidden behind small-rimmed round glasses. And then his lips. Plump, bottom trapped between his teeth.

You hate how right Felix was. He was exactly your type. But you tell yourself it's physically. He can be hot all he wants, but he could have a horrible personality. 

"These are for you," he reveals a large bouquet of flowers. Shit. 

"Thank you..." you finally manage, "sorry.. um... I'm Y/N."

"I know," when he smiles it's sweet. His cheeks go full and his lips pull taut. He points to the restaurant door, "shall we?"

You nod. 

Before you can even reach for the handle, he's pulling the door open for you. He gestures inside, waiting until you're inside before he enters too.

He booked a nice table. A quiet one in the corner, with a view of the river outside.

The chatter was classic first-date small talk. You force polite smiles and craft the perfect responses. He does the same.

But then that demeanour slips.

"You're really beautiful," he whispers, nearly like he wasn't meant to say it out loud. But you heard it. And because he hasn't looked away from you, he sees the flinch in your reaction. He clears his throat, "sorry. I'm trying to be respectful but I'm having a hard time taking my eyes off of you."

You chuckle, because is this guy serious? You narrow your eyes at him, "you're good at this."

"At what?"

"Flirting."

He chuckles and drops his eyes to his plate. You feel it in your own stomach. He looks back up to you, shurgging, "I'm just being honest."

"Sure you are."

He watches you for a moment before, "Lix told me you almost pulled out of coming."

"Did he?" You ask, but already know the answer. You mutter, "snitch."

"But I'm glad you didn't," he says it with a straight face. He says it with a softness that has you double take. Because how can a voice that soft tell you something untruthful? He waits a moment, like building the courage to ask, "can I ask why?"

You shift, "why I almost pulled out or why I came anyway?"

"Both," he leans forward, caught on your every word. 

You allow yourself a breathy laugh, "well I came because Felix can be pretty persistent when he wants to be."

He laughs, "I know that much."

"And the why I almost pulled out..." you let your words die, "that's a story for another day. Not really first date material... let's just say my dating history is full of shitty men who can only think with their dicks."

You expect something more. A reaction, an argument, a 'not all men' speech. But he fixes you with the gaze he's had all night, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Not smug, but knowing. And then, he mutters something that nearly has you choking on your water. Because it's bold, entirely too bold, but said in that sweet, soft tone he's been speaking to you in, "I can change that."

You blink. He's not looking at you when he says it. He's looking down at his plate, like he's just accepted a challenge for himself. Not a sleazy one, but determined to be a mark in your history. Whether you let him stay and be your future to is up to you. At the very least he wants you to look back at his chapter and think 'maybe there is such thing as kindness.'

The waiter comes over with a little black folder and places it on the edge of the table. You both reach for it, but he snatches it up so quickly you think you've offended him. And clearly you have because he scoffs, "absolutely not. What kind of man would I be to let you pay for a date you were forced to be on?" He laughs.

His eyes are darting over the bill, hands reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. You don't think you've ever seen anything more attractive. The way his bicep bulges under the shirt as his arm flexes with the movement, the way he flips open his wallet and drops his card into the folder without care. When he signs the bill, he closes it, and hands it back to the waiter with a small kind smile.

When the waiter walks away, his eyes are back to you. You swallow, "I wasn't forced."

"Mm?"

"To be here. I wasn't forced, just heavily encouraged. I've just... it's been a while and I was nervous to come... that's why I nearly didn't... but Felix knew that... he kind always knows what's best for me."

Changbin chuckles, "I get that..." he thinks for a moment, "and for the record I was nervous too. If you could see my bedroom right now, I think I threw every shirt and pair of pants I own onto my floor and over my bed. I nearly had a breakdown at the florist because all of the bouquets looked so different, and I wanted to get the right ones for you."

You laugh. A genuine, unmasked laugh. 

When you're outside the restaurant again, he poses the question, "can I drive you home? You can totally say no, I'll understand."

You smile, "it's a 10 minute walk, I'll be fine."

"Can I walk you?" He asks, hands wringing together. His eyes flick down to the flowers in your hand, "they look heavy. I could carry them for you?"

And you found yourself saying yes. For yourself? Maybe not. But to tell Felix you said yes? Definitely. 

He takes the spot closest to the road, and you're convinced he read that somewhere. He walks close, but not enough to brush against you. His hands remain behind his back, gripping the flowers like a lifeline. 

"So how do you know Felix?" He asks.

"We met through my ex actually. He um... he kinda screwed us both over so he and I were kinda there for each other... we've been really close since."

"I see..." he nods like he's still processing.

"Sorry," you defend, "I shouldn't talk about my exes on a first date."

"It's fine Y/N." He smiles. Something about that felt genuine, like he really didn't care. 

You stop just in front of your building, "this is me."

He nods and reveals the flowers to you again, "I had a really nice time tonight."

You hum and can't help the smile that forms, "yeah.. me too."

He smiles big, but tries to lessen it a little, scared he might run you off with his eagerness. He clears his throat, "goodnight Y/N."

"Goodnight Changbin.."

You turn and walk up the small set of stairs outside your building. As you reach for the handle, his voice calls you back.

"Sorry if this is too forward but... I'd um... I'd like to see you again... if... if you'd like to as well..." he waits for your reaction, but is too impatient, "sorry I don't do the whole 'wait three days to call you back' thing."

You laugh, "I'd like to see you again too Changbin."

Date Two:

He'd insisted on something more casual, that's how you found yourself walking into a higher end bar. You see him immediately when you walk in. Still unruly hair flopping over his glasses-covered eyes, but the tight black t-shirt he wears feels a little different. 

Yes, the button-up suited him well. But there was something so simple about seeing him look so casual. 

"Y/N," he beams, walking over to you, "this is my favourite bar. I was thinking we could play billiards?" 

You nod and allow him to guide you over to the table. 

You'd be lying if you said you knew how to play. Instead of hiding it, you admit to it. Luckily for you, you're not playing with just anyone. You're playing with Changbin.

He takes his time to explain the rules, restating anything he thinks is complicated and helps you pick a cue. 

And now you both dance around the table, pool cues in hand, quiet chatter amongst you. 

"What is it you do again?" You ask, lining up a shot the best you can.

"Producing," he answers. He's planted the pool cue on the ground, leaning against it with one hand, the other holding onto the table. 

"You enjoy it?" The white ball rolls and rebounds off the side of the table. You sigh and stand up again.

"Very much," he starts lining up his own shot. "I would have gotten into music myself if I didn't need to come back home to take care of my mother."

"Oh," you hum, watching as he tried several angles to get the cue positioned right. "She's unwell."

"She was," he mutters and your heart drops. "But she's okay now."

You breathe a sigh of release, "that's good to hear. Would you take it up now?"

"Not a chance," he laughs, moving away to pick up the chalk and rub it on the cue, "turns out I love producing music more than I ever liked performing it."

He tries again, but the angle feels awkward. He huffs and straightens up, swinging the cue behind his back to line up the cue one last time. Satisfied, he knocks the ball and watches as it sinks his green one. He smiles.

You watch in awe, "how do you do that?"

He tries to sink another, but fails, "practice. Learning about angles and power and position."

"You sound like a professional." You state, leaning down to line up your own.

"It's rather easy actually," he watches you for a second, "here."

He rounds the table, finding a place beside you. He leans his cue against the wall and lifts his hands. He doesn't touch. Instead, he asks, "may I?" 

You nod. 

He moves beside you. Not behind like most men would do. It's intentional. His moves are intentional. One hand hovers gently around the middle of your back, still not touching. His other finds your hand and moves it back on the cue. From there, his hand glides up your arm to position your elbow better. He crouches, eyeing the angle of the cue before moving it over slightly. When he rises, he's close to your ear, "I want you to aim for the centre of the ball," he moves the cue forward a little to show you before pulling it back. "When you hit it, make sure to follow through, and with enough power," he pulls the cue back himself and your hands follow. The hand by your back is now warm and splayed across it. You're not sure when he did that.

With his grip still on the back of the cue, he pushes. You watch the white ball knock into your red one, and sinks in the back corner. You straighten with a bright smile, as it's your first one. You nearly knock him over with how quickly you rise. 

Your faces are closer than they've ever been. His eyes flick down to your lips, for a second too quick for you to comprehend before he's stepping away. 

"So yeah," he starts, but his voice is squeaky. He clears it before, "you have another turn now. You sunk it so..." he points to another ball, "why don't you try this one?"

You watch him for a moment longer before moving to line up the cue again. 

And then it's the same routine as last time. You walk outside the bar to both head home. 

"I can drive you if you'd like? It's a longer walk this time," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. 

You smile, thankful for the darkness in the street as you feel your face heat up under his gaze. He leads you to his car. No, he leads you to his lamborghini. Slick, black, low to the ground. He opens the door for you. You've never been in a car with doors that open up instead of out. You step inside and he closes the door after you.

You blame the hormones. Or maybe just the attractive man in the seat beside you. But watching him drive, one hand up on the wheel, the other propped on the centre console, makes heat drop right to your stomach.

"I've really enjoyed tonight Y/N. Next time we'll have to do something that you like." He laughs, sneaking a glance over to you.

"Next time?" You ask.

His smile drops, "uh well... I mean... I'd like to see you again..."

You smile, "yeah... I guess that wouldn't be too bad."

He laughs. It's more of a cackle really, but it's endearing and sweet. 

Soon you find yourself on the stairs in front of your building again. He's a step below you as you mutter goodbyes to each other. Then you get the sudden urge to be bold.

Because how can he stand there, with cheeks this kissable, but no lipstick marks to stain them? So you lean forward and press one to his cheek. He immediately goes red and coughs slightly, "uh... thank you." He mutters, before scurrying down the stairs and back into his car.

You flop onto the couch with a loud sigh. Felix pauses his movie.

"What?"

"I think I like him." You admit before slapping your hands over your face. You scream a little into them, thrashing your body a little before dropping your hands and groaning. "I hate that you've done this to me."

Felix laughs, "done what?"

"You put me in front of an attractive, sweet, caring, gentleman and expect me to be calm about it!"

"I never said you had to be calm!" He exclaims. 

You crawl up the couch more to rest your head in his lap. "Do you think he's seeing anyone else?"

"Doubt it."

You sigh, "what if I mess this up? What if... what if he's just pretending? What if when the time comes, he shows me who he truly is?"

"I can guarantee you, that whoever he is around you, is who he is."

You sigh again and settle further into Felix's lap, allowing him to push against your muscles to ease them.

Date 5:

You bumble down the stairs to meet him. He's wearing a leather jacket tonight, and you have a hard time keeping your thoughts quiet. 

You let out a small giggle as you lean to kiss his cheek. He slips his hand into you, smile wide across his face. He leans back to look at you, "how do you manage to get more and more beautiful everytime I see you?"

You smack his arm playfully, "stop it."

"I'm serious," he looks over you once more, nodding like he's agreeing with someone other than himself, "I could look at you all day."

"Well you can't," you tease, "we have a booking."

He smiles and leads you over to his car. 

The theatre is packed. You find yourself gripping tighter to Changbins hand as he guides you through the crowd. He weaves through people, trying to make his way to the snack bar. You'd insisted it was okay, and that you didn't need any snacks.

But then he said, "I'm not taking my girl to a show and not feeding her. You will have snacks." And you melted.

You don't think he even realised he called you that. 'My girl', like it was nothing or natural or something he had always on the tip of his tongue and just couldn't use the brain power to keep it in anymore. 

He stops at the front of the line, and you hug his arm. You didn't realise he'd paid for the premium package until you arrived. It's not like he every flaunted his money, and it was never really a point of conversation for either of you.

But Felix had also told you how much he enjoyed spending on other people. Yes, he bought himself a fancy car and nice apartment, but those were needs that he decided to upgrade. When it comes to the wants of other people, he spares no expense. 

You watch him order the snacks and drinks you want and hands one to you. The rest he balances in his other hand. Neither of you let go of the ones you're holding.

Tonight was good. You'd maybe even risk saying it was perfect. You felt yourself slowly melting into Changbin. His gentleness, his patience, his ability to ask questions without probing too much. Both of you knew there were things you weren't telling him, but he didn't mind.

Not that he'd told you, but he wanted you to feel safe enough with him to tell him. But he could go his whole life not knowing and be completely fine. 

He feels your hand tense in his, "Y/N?"

Your eyes are locked across the room. A familiar mop of hair, standing out amongst the crowd. He smiles like he hadn't ended your world a year ago. And before you can do anything about it, he's walking over to you.

"Y/N." That voice. That horrid, scratchy voice. And those fucking eyes. You feel disgusting under his gaze. "It's been a minute." He eyes the way you cling to Changbin.

Who, still confused by the situation, introduces himself. But he can feel how uncomfortable you are. 

"This is my ex." You whisper to Changbin, "this is Changbin," you say louder.

"Ah, your new side piece huh?"

Your stomach drops, your heart breaks. He's still the same, still the asshole, dickhead, son of a bitch you once knew. 

Changbin straightens, "are you being territorial about a girl you barely know anymore?"

Your ex blinks, and his demeanor falters. "You don't know anything."

"No, but I can tell just by looking at you that you're a dickhead."

You choke on air, turning to see Changbin's demeanour. His straight, chest puffed out and shoulders rolled back. He looks confident. Confident and hot. 

"Listen here-" your ex nears.

Changbin tuts and nods his head towards the security guard, whose eyeing them both up, "I wouldn't go doing anything crazy now."

And with that, he scoffs and walks away.

Changbin turns to you, "are you okay?"

You can't form any words. 

Why does he have to show up now? Now, when you'd just started letting yourself heal, after you had just met Changbin?

"Hey, let's go," he says, dragging you towards the doors.

"No, we paid for the tickets."

He shrugs, "I heard it's lame anyway. Plus, we got our snacks so we're set for the rest of the night." He pulls you outside.

Instantly you feel better. Whether it's the cool, fresh air hitting your face, or maybe it's the absence of the vile creature you used to date. Or there's another option, where it's the presence of Changbins hand in yours. Either way, your heart doesn't feel so heavy.

"If you want, we can go back to my place and watch that movie you've been talking about?"

You think for a moment, eyeing him off suspiciously.

"What?" He asks.

"Are you not put off by that?"

"By seeing your ex?" He asks and you nod, "no. Should I be?"

"No."

He waits a moment, "well then I'm not. I can drop you home if you'd prefer?"

"No, I um... I like the sound of movie night."

"Perfect," he smiles, opening the door of his car for you, "you can wear something of mine if you'd like so you're not so uncomfortable." He drops, before closing the door and rounding the car. 

And when you walk into his place, the nerves start to build up again. Because this apartment, which you thought would be void of all personality, is surprisingly cozy. The building itself is modern, the technology is modern, but the furniture provides a warmth you hadn't expected. 

"Here," he hands you a pair of basketball shorts and his hoodie, "the bathroom's just in there."

He points and you enter. 

When you emerge, you find him making popcorn in the kitchen and pouring you each a drink. He's wearing a tank top. A fucking tank top. It's the first time you're seeing his arms exposed like this. 

"Hey," you croak out, trying to sound unaffected by him.

"Hi," his voice is sweet and his eyes find you in the doorway. He mutters, "fuck. Careful jagi, you look that good in my clothes I might have to pack you a suitcase full of them."

"Binnie..."

"Fuck," he drops what he was doing to turn his body to you fully.

"What now?"

"You've never called me that before."

"Oh, sorry."

"No don't apologise." He walks over to you, "I liked it. A little too much actually. You can... if you want... you can call me that anytime."

"Okay Binnie," you chuckle when he squeezes his eyes shut.

"You're going to kill me," he laughs, walking back into the kitchen to retrieve the popcorn.

Once you're settled on the couch, close but not cuddling, you decide to bring it up. He's searching for the movie, trying to find which platform it's on.

"Binnie?"

"Yes Princess?" He responds, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Can I... can I tell you something?"

The remote is out of his hand in a second and his body is turned to you, "anything."

"I... I just wanted to thank you for before. With my ex," your heart is beating like crazy. You hadn't spoken about it with anyone other than Felix. And it was your fifth date with Changbin. But you had to say something. "He wasn't exactly... he... he just treated me like shit... like I was his maid, and his cook and his therapist... and everything was always about what he wanted... what meal he wanted, what show he wanted to watch. We only ever had sex when he wanted to... even sometimes when I wasn't even in the mood..."

"Princess," he grips your hands tightly, "I'm so sorry..."

"You don't need to apologise. I feel like I need to apologise to you!"

"What? Why?"

"Because I haven't been able to... like... give myself fully to you... like we haven't even kissed and I haven't been that open with you..."

"Princess..." he soothes, "I don't care about that. I do, but I care that you do right by yourself first. You tell me what you need. You tell me what you want me to know when you're ready, not because you feel you owe it to me, because you don't."

"I just," you're holding back a tear, "I'm just worried that the waiting is going to make you resent me..."

"I don't think I could ever find a reason to resent you. And I'll wait until you're ready. And even if, a month from now, you decide you can't do it, I'll respect it and move on." He moves closer to you, "because-" you're not looking at him, "listen to me. Eyes up here. Because, you deserve happiness. You deserve love."

You're not sure how, or why or when, but a moment later, your lips are on his. He stills, breathing you in by letting you take the lead. It's soft, charged and addicting. You pull away a moment later and "sorry! Sorry- I should of asked! I should have-"

"Do it again." His voice is low and his tongue darts out to taste what's left of you on his lips. He's staring at yours, "please Y/N..." he flicks his eyes back up to you, "unless you-"

"Don't ask if I want to." You stern, "you always ask that. You always add 'if you want to' like I would ever say no to you."

"Jagiya," he breathes before your lips meets again.

This time it's hungrier, like the thought of not kissing you would kill him. His hand comes to cup your cheek, as he brings your face closer to his own. He moans into your mouth, like he's been holding back for so long. 

When he pulls back for air, his hand remains on your face and his eyes stay closed. "God I don't think I ever want to do anything else ever again." His eyes flutter open, "I just want to kiss you for the rest of time."

You laugh and lean back in.

Date 10:

"Binnie! Come on!" You giggle, dragging him over to the shooting game. You pause in front of it, "you have to win me a prize or else you're not a real man."

He gives you a fond smile, "is that so Princess?"

"Mmhm," you nod your head.

"I assume you want the big one?" 

"No!" You scoff, "I want the pink bunny!"

He looks over the prizes, eyebrows screwing together. "Jagi, that's a pig."

"It's very much NOT. It's a pink bunny!"

"It's clearly a pig!" He turns back to you, "but if you want the pig you can have the pig," he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. 

You pull back, but your faces remain close together and you whisper, "bunny."

"Pig," he whispers back.

If you weren't sure about your decision before, you're sure of it now. You want to call him more than just the guy who spends all his money on you. You want to call him more than the guy you have fun with. 

And seeing him now, handing over the last tickets in exchange for more turns to win you the prize, you couldn't be more sure.

Eventually, the guy behind the counter fishes down the plush and hands it over to him. Changbin beams, turning to you immediately, "your pig m'lady."

"Bunny!" You laugh, but pull it close anyway. 

"I don't know why you wanted that one so badly..."

"It reminds me of you!" You giggle.

"How?"

"It has your energy!" You laugh together, the sounds of the carnival allowing you to be as loud as you want. 

Your eyes drift over to the ferris wheel, "come on," you say, picking up his hand and dragging him over. 

The wheel whirs to life, the carriage you're in rocks a little under the movement. It moves, then stops, and moves then stops. With it rocking like this, you scooch closer to Changbin to steady yourself. 

"It's so pretty from up here," you laugh and turn to him, "and don't pull the 'you're the better view' bullshit on me."

"At least you know it," he shrugs, "means I've done my job."

You smile at him, and soon the wheel stops at the top. 

"Binnie?"

"Yes Princess?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, Jagi." He smiles.

You take a deep breath, smile impossibly big and painful. "Binnie, would you be my boyfriend?"

"What?" His smile drops and his eyes widen. You know it's not a bad reaction, it's just a reaction. "You... you want me... to be... your boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"YES!" He shouts and you flinch. He reaches for you, "sorry- sorry Jagi I got excited." He clears his throat, "yes Y/N... I want nothing more than to be your boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Are you kidding?" He leans over and smashes his lips into yours. It's quick, heated and adorable. He pulls back, thumbs caressing over your cheeks. He sighs and takes you in, "you're as beautiful as the day I first saw you."

"Lixie showed you a picture before I saw you."

"No..." he shakes his head, "do you know how long I was standing around, building up the courage to approach you?" You look at him confused, "I was half an hour early Jagi. I watched you arrive, I watched you stand there and I had to psych myself up to approach you because holy shit, that's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, how on earth would I ever be in her league? And now..." he leans over again, "and now she's my girlfriend. I have a girlfriend!" He turns his head to shout into the air, "I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!"

You slap your hand over his mouth, "oh my god Binnie."

He pretends to bite your hand, forcing you to pull it back. You're laughing, and so is he. 

It fades into his sweet smile, the one you've grown so fond of. 

"I have a girlfriend," he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again.

taglist:

pairing: ot13 x reader

category: omegaverse au, a/b/o dynamics, sports au: volleyball, polyamory

status: ongoing

content warnings: omega!reader, fem!reader, this is set entirely in omegaverse so read at your own risk! exploration of secondary gender and pack dynamics, ruts, heats, knots and scenting. angst, fluff and smut. insecurity, the feeling of being lonely, abandoned, hurt, being ‘othered’. jealousy, some hostility. unprotected sex, nsfw, mentions of breeding, mating, knotting, omega subspace, multiple orgasms. there’s love between all subgenders. all members of seventeen are featured: alpha - seungcheol, jeonghan, junhui, soonyoung, wonwoo, seokmin, mingyu, hansol. beta - joshua, chan. omega - jihoon, minghao, seungkwan.

𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗

☆ prologue (wc: 1.4k)

☆ chapter 1 - (wc: 7.2k)

☆ chapter 2 - (wc: 8.9k)

☆ chapter 3 - (wc: 8.3k)

☆ chapter 4 - (wc: 9k)

☆ chapter 5 - (wc: 8.4k)

☆ chapter 6 - (wc: 9k)

☆ chapter 7 - 07/11/25

☆ chapter 8 - 11/11/25

☆ epilogue - 14/11/25

a/n: okay, this has been a long time coming! i’ve been working on this series for a while now, and im very proud of the story I have lined up. ot13 omegaverse is already an interesting concept but my haikyuu loving ass decided to through volleyball in there LMFAO and this might just be my magnum opus ㅠ but full disclaimer there isn’t really that much volleyball in it. ANYWAY I hope everyone likes it. you can add yourself to the taglist here

Meanwhile, you're absolutely bewitched by Lee Jihoon; entranced, enchanted, charmed. Sharp eyes that catch everything, soft hands that wrap around the edges of tables and counters so you don't get hurt. Careful words chosen for efficiency, lips gentle against yours and the ability to pick up on what you liked and didn't — simply from the twitch of your body at his touches.

He liked you, loved you. You liked him, loved him.

You love him. You think he might love you, still. Maybe.

You hope.

You were together, went on dates. You went on trips. You had conversations.

Typical, casual boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — if you'd eaten, if you slept well, if you wanted him to come over. Over a quick kiss in greeting, when he handed you a bottle of water, when you complained about the bed being too cold.

Flirty, enamored boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — if he could get a kiss, if you could take your top off, if he could go down on you. These were more hushed begs from his lips, whispered pleas from your mouth as your hands carded through his hair.

Serious, committed boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — when you'd get married, buy a house, if you'd keep working…if you'd maybe have a kid. Fewer than the others, farther between but always ending in a sudden silence before either of you switched the subject.

Until he was no longer your boyfriend, you were no longer his girlfriend and the casual endearment seemingly slipped away from night to morning. You weren't sure what happened, and he wouldn't tell you — simply ending your relationship over a bowl of gamjatang at your usual date-night restaurant. A restaurant you chose for the privacy he valued more than anything, and a restaurant you haven't been to since.

It's been a year. Winter, spring, summer…now, autumn.

And it took exactly one week after the breakup for you to fully realize Jihoon was not someone who could let go easily, even if he was the one to pull the plug on it. He was so engraved in your life, in his routine, and you wondered if that part of him held every part of you that he shared — dancing in his living room together, sleeping in your bed with your limbs entangled, and eating gamjatang at that restaurant.

You wonder if he's been back since.

You wonder if the aunties that had grown to love you both so dearly ask him about you.

The biggest proof that Jihoon could not let you go was that, like clockwork, he stood in front of the shop with a cigarette in his hand and a cup of coffee from the 7-Eleven across the street from his apartment every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Four in the morning, dressed in head-to-toe black and his stupid watch that made you feel insane — just to carry your bag and walk you home. Sometimes share a cigarette, and on the even more rare occasion — hold your hand on the walk up. His fingers curl around yours, holding it inside his pocket as you wonder if he'll kiss you next.

And you wonder why you would allow it.

Probably because it's Jihoon.

You never talk during these walks, either. You don't bring up his job, he doesn't bring up that your unbuttoned work shirt shows a fading hickey on your collarbone from the last time the two of you slept together. He doesn't ask questions, and you pretend that your chest doesn't ache when he slips into your apartment to make you breakfast before leaving without so much as a goodbye.

It's weird. It's weird and you can't say you hate it, but you can't say you love it, either. It felt like a strained relationship, a bodyguard of sorts, that took care of you without expecting anything in return aside from a paycheck. Except you didn't pay Jihoon, and he didn't call or text — he simply knew your schedule by heart.

"Shift change, babe."

You hear Jian crack her gum as she walks into the shop, stopping at the sunglasses display to swipe on her signature red lipstick. She rubs her lips together as you chuckle inwardly, signing your name on the envelope that holds your register count and sliding it into the safe below the counter. She smiles brightly as she hops over the counter, bumping her hip to yours in greeting.

"How're you this morning? You took your break, right?" She asks nicely, crossing her arms as she leans on the counter. She twirls a lighter in her hand, one that looks oddly like one you'd gotten Jihoon in Japan — and you shrug one shoulder as you greet a tired man practically crawling through the door. She unwraps a piece of bubblegum halfway, holding it out to you. You take it between your teeth, tucking it into your cheek as she dumps the wrapper into the trash can next to you.

"Yeah. I'm…tired, I guess. I just wanna go home." You admit, counting cash to slip into the register for her. She cracks her gum again, patting your hip as she gestures towards the door. You're punching your employee number into the system, clocking out as she speaks.

"Loverboy's here. Here, he left this when he came over to see Soonyoung earlier, and I figured I'd let you guys have something to talk about." She holds it out, and you see your initials engraved onto the silver lighter, right next to the tiger's head etched into the metal. You tongue your cheek as the tired man drags his way up to the counter, holding his items to his chest tightly. "I've got it. You go home. I'll see you later, babe."

"Bye, Jian." You murmur, grabbing your bag out from under the counter and slipping around it. You roll your shoulders back, draping your coat over your arm as you make your way out. The door jingle makes Jihoon look up, and he pushes off the side of the shop to fall into lockstep with you. He doesn't have a cigarette this time — instead, holding a lollipop that stains his lips, between his teeth. He reaches for your bag silently, slipping it off your shoulder as you stare at the ground, opting to tug your coat on so you don't catch a cold.

You hold the lighter out to him as you both make your way up the hill, the only sound the crunch of your shoes on fallen leaves. He stops as you shove your hand in his chest, his fingers brushing your palm as he takes it. It's silent for another moment, before you glance over your shoulder at him.

"Jian found it. Don't lose it again, I'm not getting you another." You mutter, shoving your hands in your pockets as you clench your teeth around your gum. He doesn't reply, and you keep walking when you realize he's stopped a few feet behind you. You check your watch, rolling your eyes as you walk backwards to meet his eyes.

"If you're not going to walk—" "I missed your voice."

The admission is so soft, you almost don't catch it. You blink, his hand still held to his chest where you shoved the lighter, clenched so tight his fingertips have turned white. You glance at his face, raising a brow as you scoff.

"Seriously?" "Seriously." "I'm going home, Jihoon."

"Are you?" He asks, his other hand tightening around the strap of your bag. You feel an odd rage crawl up your throat at the insinuation that it's not home without him, even if you know it's the truth. Your jaw clenches, his eyes traveling your face as he takes half a step closer. "Is it home?"

"You don't get to do this to me, Jihoon." "I'd argue that I can do whatever I want. I have free will." "You dumped me."

"Which makes it my job to fix things, and beg for another chance. Not yours." He says pointedly, looking at you with that stupid look that tells you he knows he's right. "I should fix this."

"There is nothing to fix, Jihoon. We broke up. It happens." You feel like you're yelling, but you can hardly hear yourself as he leans forward, almost like he can't hear you. You still, looking at him like he's out of his mind when he shrugs.

"It bothers me." "It doesn't matter if it bothers you. We're broken up. It's over." "Is that why you're holding your breath like you're expecting something crazy to happen?"

"I don't do that," You mutter, but feeling annoyance bubble in your belly as you let out the breath you'd had stuck in your throat. He nods, stuffing his hand in his pocket as he twists the lollipop with his tongue, moving forward. "You can't act like you care now, Jihoon. It's not fair to me, especially when you didn't even give me a reason."

"I've always cared. And I don't remember you asking for a reason." "I wanted to trust your judgment. Maybe you knew something I didn't; but the decent thing to do is give a reason when you are breaking up with someone. Even it's not you, it's me would've been a reason, albeit a shitty one."

He shrugs again, a tick in his jaw as he blinks at you, "maybe I was did, and maybe I was wrong. Why would I half ass a breakup by adding some lame excuse like it's not you, it's me?"

He scoffs, turning the lollipop in his mouth again, "let's get you home, you'll catch a cold and you won't let me take care of you if you do."

Your hands clench in your pockets as he starts walking again, and you hate how easily you follow after him, opting to walk just a foot behind him. He glances over his shoulder, opting to stop every few steps before you get annoyed and move in front of him.

You hate the way your heart beats a little faster when his hip bumps yours at a stop sign.

The way to your apartment is straight for fifteen minutes, take a left for five and a right for another ten. Typically, you're home by 4:32 AM at the latest — with the time it takes to get into the elevator and get to the second floor, plus unlocking your front door.

If you were headed to Jihoon's apartment, you were there by 4:19 AM. Twelve minutes straight, a right for three and then four minutes trying to surpass his stupid lobby guy that always insists you're not on the approved visitors list when you literally are.

Well, you were.

You're kicking gravel, eyes glued to the ground when you see the doormat of Jihoon's complex under your feet. He punches the code into the door, the beep familiar as you hesitate to duck into the lobby. He holds the door open, checking his watch almost obnoxiously to help you make a choice.

You duck into the warm building with a huff.

"Hello, Mr. Lee…Miss Y/N."

Your head snaps up, the same grating voice that makes your ears hurt. The receptionist blinks back at you, your scowl evident as you look at Jihoon, who is coolly making his way towards the elevator. He presses the button, looking over his shoulder as if asking are you coming?

You glance at the watch on your wrist, reading 4:16 AM. Your eyes remain fixed on the ground as you tongue your cheek, huffing inwardly as you move to stand behind Jihoon as the elevator opens. You both duck inside, and you press your lips into a thin line as you hit his floor button. You shove your hand back into your pocket, but you don't miss the way he nods slightly, in that way that he does when he's surprisingly impressed.

No words are shared between the two of you, and you angrily chew your gum — feeling his thumb suddenly pad between your eyebrows. You swat his hand away, only for him to grab your wrist and interlace your fingers. Your fingertips are warm against his cool skin, and you instinctively pull it into your pocket; ignoring the flame of heat that coats your cheeks.

The elevator opens, and you both slink out, walking down the hall with the cadence of your boots bouncing off the empty walls. He punches in his key code, the familiar beeping making your stomach hurt as you remember that it's your birthday. The door opens, and he steps inside, pulling you with him before letting go of your hand to close the door behind you.

You hate the way tears prick at your eyes at the familiar detergent smell that fills his home. Detergent, and something a little musky. His cologne, probably, and you feel around the wall for the light switch. You find it, flicking it on to see the foyer is still meticulously organized, and you slip onto the bench to untie your boots.

He kneels in front of you, untying the laces before you can say anything. He pulls the boots off, carefully slotting them on his shelf before standing up and hanging your bag on the wall hook. He shrugs his jacket off, holding his hand back for your coat. You slip it off silently, handing it to him and making your way out of the foyer. Your hands are shoved into the pockets of your work pants as you walk into the living room — everything is the same, except the blankets that are usually folded on the side table are strewn on the couch. There's a bottle of water on the coffee table, and his television is quietly playing Shark Tale.

He doesn't speak as he slips past you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants as he walks to the kitchen. You rock on your heels, leaning against the back of his couch with your eyes fixated on the television. You force yourself not to get too comfortable, glancing over your shoulder once as you hear the click of his stove being turned on.

He slides back in front of you, yielding a paper towel in his hand. You glance at it, and he raises a brow as he moves it closer to your lips, "spit your gum out."

You do just that, keeping your eyes glued to the ground as he takes it and tosses it into his kitchen trash can. You tongue your cheek, rolling your shoulders back as you hearing clinking around behind you. You shift your weight from foot to foot, before hearing him suck his teeth.

"You can sit down, you know."

You respond almost robotically, gripping the armrest of his couch before awkwardly perching on it. He huffs, holding a bowl in his hand as he walks over. He pushes your shoulder gently, and you scowl as your butt slides off the armrest, your back hitting the cushion. You frown up at him, moving to sit up when he settles the bowl on the coffee table, sliding a spoon in your hand before turning back to his kitchen.

"Want coffee?" "Want to know what the hell we're doing, Lee Jihoon." "I'm feeding you. Do you want coffee or you wanna be a brat?"

"Why not both?" You mutter, shoveling the rice into your mouth. It's warm, covered in broth and sliced egg. You look up when you see a glass of water being slid onto the table, before he glances down at you. He holds a mug in his hand, stirring the spoon in it lightly.

"No coffee for me?" "No answer for me?"

He shrugs as he mocks you, and you click your tongue, rolling your eyes.

"Can I have—" "Absolutely."

You feel your cheeks hot as he slides a mug of coffee on the table — perfect amount of cream as the steam hits your face.

"You're an ass." "And you're a spoiled brat, but I still love you."

You huff, rolling your eyes as you reach for the mug, your heart fluttering in your chest like a dumbass. You take a quick sip as he moves around the room, folding the blanket and fluffing his cushions as the movie plays the penthouse musical number. He sweeps the living room, and you fold your legs under you as he runs the broom around the coffee table. Your spoon clatters the empty bowl and he takes it from the table as you lean back on the couch with the glass of water in your hand.

"You want more?" He asks from the kitchen, and you raise your hand to give him a thumbs down as your eyes grow slightly heavy. You slide the glass back onto the table, leaning your head against the back of the couch when he leans into your space. You blink up at him, "hey."

"Hey. Sleepy?" "A little." "You wanna come lie down?"

You scoff, folding your arms on your chest as he tucks a stray curl behind your ear. He thumbs at the earring looped through your lobe — a small pair of gold hoops he'd gotten you for Christmas during your first year together. He pulls at the black hair tie in your mess of curls, letting it slide up his wrist as he runs his fingers across the back of your head where the ponytail sat tightly. He tilts you back a bit more, smoothing his fingertips up and down the side of your throat, before cupping your jaw gently. His thumb pulls at your lower lip, "I miss you."

"Why did you break up with me?" You mumble, and he sighs. A blush creeps up his cheeks as he nibbles on his lip, "because I'm a coward."

You furrow your brow, your knees sinking into the cushion as you turn to look at him. Your hands hold the back of the couch, your nose almost brushing his from how close you are to his face. His breath hitches in his throat, eyes full of guilt…and an adoration that makes your heart beat all that faster in your chest, despite the wave of rage crawling up your throat.

"What the hell does that mean?!" "It means I bought a ring and I let my insecurity get the best of me before I could do anything with it."

Your eyes widen, your courage faltering. "You…what?"

He runs his hand over his face, "I bought a ring. Two months after we started dating, and I freaked out because I wanted to be everything to you and…"

He trails off, carding his fingers through his hair and letting a groan of frustration out, "and I thought you'd be better off with someone else. Someone who doesn't have to hide in obscure restaurants because he values privacy more than love, someone who can hardly make time for you because I'm always working. Someone that doesn't have to keep arguing with the fucking concierge about you being on the approved visitors list because you'd fucking live with me instead of still paying up the ass for that fucking apartment that we hate. Why do you still live there? Why don't you live here!?"

"Because you're a coward." You whisper, leaning forward. "That's why. Because when I said yes, you said no. When I said up, you said down. Everything was always the opposite, you always wanted—"

"I want you." He interrupts, "I want you so bad, it makes me fucking sick. I'm constantly worried about you, I'm constantly asking Jian about how you're doing when you're not at work. I had Soonyoung make sure you made it home the other day because your icon on FindMy stopped moving at eleven at night and I was stuck at work. I can't stop being in love with you. I can't do this, where I can't sleep three times a week because you're working overnight when you shouldn't have to fucking work at all; when you should be here. Asleep in our bed, with your name on the fucking lease and we're together."

He takes a deep breath, his eyes brimming with tears as he looks away, "but I can't stop you from being independent. This is also about what you want, and what you need to feel fulfilled. It's not that I said no when you said yes, or down when you said up. I just wanted you to feel…free. Like you can do what you want and I'll still be here because you can, but God, it's so hard to act like I don't want you glued to my hip all the time. It's infuriating to want you so much, because I was hindering you, I am hindering you. You wanna live in that apartment? Fine. You wanna work, fine. Work. Just…not until four in the morning, when you're supposed to be asleep. If not for the sake of your own health, then because I love you. And because I know you love me."

He doesn't wipe the tears that fall from his face, staring at the floor like the absolute coward he is.

"Two years, Jihoon." You whisper softly, your voice thick as he meets your eyes. His own soften more, if humanly possible — as you take in a choked breath. "Two years of watching you work yourself to the bone, of begging you to go to sleep on nights I worked until four. Two years of gamjatang every Friday night before I went to work because you valued privacy and I valued you. We went to Japan. We kissed, we held hands, we slept together, Jihoon. I met your mother. I met your mother, and you introduced me as her daughter-in-law."

Your hands tighten around the back of the couch, your throat tight as you try to clear it.

"How can you throw that away with the excuse of being a coward?" "On top of it all, I'm also an idiot. That's how. And I'm so, so sorry."

He sniffles, looking up at the dim ceiling light as he clears his throat. He doesn't speak, and you find yourself clambering over the back of his couch and wrapping your arms around him tightly. He doesn't stiffen, immediately melting into your chest with a sag of relief in his shoulders.

"You're stupid." You mutter, dragging your fingernails across his upper back, "you're an absolute fool."

"Please, don't leave me without you." He murmurs, voice thick as he yanks the back of your shirt up, untucking your thermal as his fingers grow desperate for the warmth of skin on skin. "Please forgive me, please."

"You're an idiot. You make me fall in love with you for two years, you parade me around, you take me on trips, just to dump me because you're a fucking wimp. You're absolutely awful and there is no reason that I should forgive you, because I deserve more." You grumble, and he buries his face into your neck, his lips brushing against your skin. Your eyes prick with tears, feeling his arms squeeze you tighter.

"And I wish you would've said something earlier." You sigh, your lips brushing his cheek as you sniffle, "I wish you would've told me because I would've told you that you're wrong. And you knew you were wrong, too. That's why you feel stupid now."

"I do. God, I feel so fucking stupid." "Good."

There is a moment of silence, his hands sliding up and down your sides as he holds you impossibly closer. You rest your head on his shoulder, sighing before he pulls back. He peers at you through wet lashes, making you shake your head as you hold five fingers up. You put your thumb down, "one, if I leave my apartment, you are paying that fat fee they're gonna charge me for breaking my lease."

His eyes widen slightly as you put your forefinger down, "two, you desperately need a new mattress. The one you have is too soft and it does nothing for my back."

"Three: you are gonna talk to Jian about my schedule. You want me around? You make that effort." You put your middle finger down, before putting your ring finger down as well, "four, we are not together. You're gonna court me, all over again, and I want to go to Mingyu's diner. Tonight, at six."

He doesn't interrupt you, glancing at your pinky finger still up.

"And five, I need a toothbrush. Get me one." You pat his chest, giving him a curt smile as you move to pull away; only for his arms to tighten around you. You look at him, brows raised as he juts his lip out, "no way you're pouting right now. Is this Lee Jihoon?"

You knock on his head gently, and the pout only grows deeper as you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Stop laughing at me." "You're so cute." "I love you."

"I know, Jihoon." You nod, cradling his cheeks in your hands, "I know you love me. But that doesn't mean I'll forgive you right now."

"I'm not asking you to." He says softly, "I just want you to know. To hear it from me."

"Show me, Jihoon." You press a chaste kiss to his lips, ignoring the absolute eruption of fluttering in your lower belly at the feeling of his soft lips on yours. You give him another, his hands on your sides squeezing tightly as he tries to deepen it — but you use all the willpower you have to pull away. "Toothbrush. Need it."

"I'll be back." He nods, but can't seem to let go of you. He keeps himself rooted to the ground, and you hold his face gently, "you've gotta get a move on. I'm tired."

"Don't leave. Please. Be here when I get back." "Where would I go?" "Home?"

"I wasn't aware you wanted me to go with you?" Your voice is cheeky, and you press a kiss to his jaw before squeezing his shoulder. "Hurry back."

Jihoon is forces himself out of his spot as you slip out of his grasp, and you stretch your arms over your head as you make your way to his bathroom — the apartment hadn't changed a bit. Your eyes are glued to all the photos on the wall, your chest warming as you see the one of you; your first anniversary, and you had gone out in a pretty black dress that Jihoon chose, to a restaurant neither of you ended up liking.

And the photo was taken at your gamjatang place right after. Your dress strap had fallen from your shoulder, and you were holding a soju bomb with a wink. It was in a heart-shaped frame, the receipt from that date night tucked into the edge of the frame with the stamp of your red lipstick on it.

You stood closer, looking around the wall of framed photos. So many of you — so many small memories tucked into frames. Receipts, movie tickets, two concert ticket stubs from when you both got to see AKMU. There was dozens of little papers with your red lipstick kissed onto it, and in the middle of all the photos was you and him — a photo taken from behind that you don't remember ever seeing. He's kissing your cheek in front of Gwangjang Market, your hands clutched inside his pocket as your brown coat compliments his navy blue one that he only wore on dates with you.

Even if it was just to get gamjatang.

There is a gum wrapper stuck to the frame, folded into a small heart. You glance over your shoulder, not seeing Jihoon as your fingers ghost over it. You pluck it off, peeling it open to see yesterday's date scrawled across the top in familiar handwriting, scrunched to fit the small canvas.

september 14: day 369 since you made the biggest mistake of your life. how can you love the heartbreak, when she's the one you love? i know you still do. i know you listen to that song and think of her. stop being a coward and get her back. double date gamjatang awaits you! - your friendly neighborhood matchmaker, jian (and hoshi!)

You blink, the smell of the gum still fresh though mixed with the ink. You look at the photo, the white strip at the bottom also having something written on it. This time, in Jihoon's penmanship.

The One I Love — February 17.

Your eyes burn with tears as you fold the gum wrapper back perfectly, sticking it back in the corner as you wrap your arms around yourself. There is a photo of you on your second anniversary, in another black dress chosen by Jihoon — the sleeves long, covering your arms aside from the sparkle of a gold bracelet Jihoon had gotten you earlier that day. You were smiling brightly in the photo, Jihoon's hand seen holding yours at the bottom of the frame, where another receipt sat.

Your handwriting, your lipstick stamped over it once more.

always yours, my angel! ♡ i love you, lee jihoon.

Hot tears roll down your face, and you fan at your face as you trill your lips.

"Stupid man." You grouse, wiping at your face haphazardly as you make your way to his bedroom. You sniffle, your hand shoving his door open to reveal his neatly made bed. Fumbling around for the light switch, warm lighting fills the room as you move around. Opening drawers, procuring shirts and sweatpants he doesn't wear because he once told you they're too heavy.

Whatever that means.

You change your clothes, folding your work uniform into a neat little pile and putting it atop his dresser — opting not to hide your black bra under your shirt. Wandering into his bathroom, you see the picture of you and Jihoon brushing your teeth the first time you ever slept over still nailed to the wall by the light switch — a wink from both of you as you held the camera high. You feel a small smile tug at the corner of your lip, turning his sink on to wash your face when you hear the beeping of his front door.

You hear him walking around slowly, the rustle of a bag in his hand getting closer as he lets out a breath of relief when he crosses the threshold of his bedroom. You snort inwardly, swiping some of his face moisturizer on your cheeks as you lean back out of the bathroom to see him moving your clothing into an empty drawer in his dresser, and he's wearing pajamas. He glances at you, and you raise a brow before shaking your head and moving back into the bathroom.

"You don't like that toothpaste." He mumbles as he slides in behind you, your hands smoothing the rest of the cream into your neck as you look down at it. It's cinnamon-mint, and you scrunch your nose, "you're right. Ugh, why do you like that stuff?"

"It feels fresh longer! I explained this to you so many times." He huffs, and you purse your lips as he pouts, pulling a new box of toothpaste out of the bag. He picks at the box, tearing into it before holding the tube out to you. You take it gingerly, opening it as he fishes the toothbrush out. Pink.

You brush your teeth in silence, neither of you saying anything as you disregard his cinnamon-mint toothpaste on the sink. You glance at him, holding the toothbrush between your teeth before holding your hand out.

"Give me your phone."

He pats his pockets, reaching into the left one before handing it over. You swipe onto the camera, holding it high as you pull him closer. You wink at the camera, watching him do the same as you press the shutter. You shove his phone back into his pocket, crossing your arm over your chest as you continue brushing your teeth.

"Send it to Jian later." You mutter when you rinse your mouth out, rooting around his medicine cabinet for floss. He hands it to you from the drawer, giving you a deadpan look as you make a point to place it in the medicine cabinet. You continue about, giving him room to wash his face as you obnoxiously gargle mouthwash while walking around his room.

"They're kind of annoying, aren't they?" You ask as you flick the lights off, watching him dab on lip balm as he snorts.

"Who, Jian and Soonyoung?" "Yes, Jian and Hosh. Who else?"

He shrugs, swiping his finger in the pot of lip balm once more and holding it out to you. You oblige, letting him swipe it on as you think.

"I think they just care." "I mean, obviously. But why? Why do they need double dates?" "Couple friends are just important as regular ones, honey."

"Sure, but why do they know everything about us?" You put your hands on your hips, tapping your socked foot as Jihoon nods, pulling his duvet back. You quickly round the bed, pulling your corner out and hugging the display pillows to your chest, "Jian calls you Loverboy when you go pick me up."

"Soonyoung says your name out of nowhere to psych me out. Asshole." He grumbles. You bite back your smile, placing his pillows at the bench on the end of his bed. You stretch your arms over your head, rolling your shoulders back before sliding into bed. Jihoon dims the lights down but doesn't turn them all the way off, the clock on his nightstand reading six-forty-nine in the morning.

"You're gonna be late to work." You sit up, and he shakes his head, sliding under the covers.

"I took vacation time." "Why?"

He turns on his side, looking up at you with tired eyes. You slide back down, resting your face on the back of your hand as you face him.

"I wanted time to settle myself if you said no." He admits, "I wasn't prepared for this today. I thought I'd have more time. If I hadn't left my lighter at Soonyoung's, you wouldn't be here right now."

"Then I don't think you missed me as much as you want me to believe." You scoot closer, the minty smell of toothpaste wafting up as you rest your forehead on his. He scrunches his nose as you press a kiss to it, "was it hard? Without me?"

He nods as much as your proximity will allow, a tear rolling down his face and onto his pillow as he looks away. You sigh, throwing your leg over his hip and pulling him into you. His arm immediately wraps around you, his face burying into your neck as you dip your fingertips into the collar of his shirt. He shivers, inching impossibly closer to you.

"You'll tell me more later, right?" You whisper into his hair, feeling him nod as his lips brush your throat. He presses a kiss to the skin, nuzzling the area with his nose before you click your tongue.

"Goodnight, Jihoon." "I love you."

You trace circles into the nape of his neck, smoothing your fingertips across the necklace he never takes off. His breathing slows, his fingers gripping the back of your shirt loosening slightly as he falls asleep with your perfume filling his nose. You feel tears brim your eyes, and you let out a shaky breath as you card your fingers through his hair.

"I love you, too."

ONE YEAR LATER — SEPTEMBER 10.

You nibble on your lip as you stare at the door. It's a Friday night, and Jihoon is standing next to you with your sweater draped over his arm and chewing his cheek. The aunties were the fear here, knowing you'd get scolded for disappearing after they've had a bunch of pictures of you both posted up on their guest wall like you were celebrities. Mrs. Kang was the owner, and you are worried.

You hadn't been here in two years. Two full years, and much to your surprise — Jihoon had also stopped coming. He'd stopped eating gamjatang period, saying it reminded him of you and the break-up only soured it for him. You both agreed you'd go back when you felt ready, and you'd go together…

So now, six months into your rekindled relationship, you stand in front of it. Your hand is in his, and you're wearing a pretty white dress, holding your purse strap tightly; watching him reach for the door. He pulls it open, and you take a deep breath as you walk in, not letting go of his hand as the aunties barely glanced up from the counter. You glimpse at him as he closes the door behind him, your hand tight around his as Mrs. Lee, an older woman with dyed burgundy hair that had scolded Jihoon for spilling soup on you once, tells you to take a seat anywhere in the empty restaurant and she'll be right with you — without looking up from the register.

Jihoon pulls you into the corner booth you used to sit in, the left side of the booth still comforting as you slid in first, his thigh brushing yours as he sat next to you. Neither of you bother to speak, his hand in yours pinching the hem of your dress skirt and pulling it down slightly to cover the bite mark on your inner thigh. You feel your cheeks hot as you rest your chin on his shoulder, making him look at you as you silently beg for a kiss.

He presses a chaste one to your lips as clambering is heard, one of the aunties carrying two steaming bowls of gamjatang to your table when her eyes meet yours.

Mrs. Kang.

She blinks, sliding the bowls onto the table as you shift slightly. She crosses her arms on her chest, looking at you like she's disappointed. Jihoon's hand squeezes yours, almost like he's bracing for something when she throws her hands up.

"It's about time you find your way back to one another. This was getting ridiculous." She huffs, your cheeks burning hot as she yells over her shoulder for rice wine. "Do you know how annoying your friends are? They eat here every Thursday, whine about the two of you breaking up for an hour and they drink like fish. I had to take your pictures off the wall because they kept crying against it."

"I'm sorry." You both murmur, Jihoon earning a soft smack on his shoulder.

"And you! How can you break this poor girl's heart, Jihoon? Two years! You came to my restaurant every Friday for two years, and that's not counting the other times you were here together! Two anniversaries I saw you celebrate together, four birthdays!" She shoves his shoulder lightly, huffing with tears pricking at her eyes. Your own widen as she lets out an annoyed breath.

"Don't do it again! I won't have it!" She scolds, before her hand picks up one of the bowls. She rolls her eyes, "you still hate perilla leaf?"

You shift again, nodding silently as she scoffs, "picky girl. I missed you."

She bites back her smile, whisking the bowl away as Jihoon pouts.

"How come she misses you and not me?" "You wanna ask her?" "Absolutely not. She scares the socks off me."

Jihoon waits patiently for Mrs. Kang to return with your bowl, leaning his head against yours as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You watch the steam rise off his bowl, your stomach growling just as Mrs. Kang makes her way back — the door nearly being torn off the hinges and making you all jump. You look over Jihoon to see Soonyoung and Jian standing in the threshold, sweaty and out of breath with Jian's phone on full brightness; her screen displaying your location on FindMy.

"You're here!" Jian cries, shoving past Soonyoung and throwing her arms over you and Jihoon. Mrs. Kang scowls as Soonyoung joins the dog pile, giving you an annoyed look as she holds up your soup and a kettle of rice wine. You hurriedly pat Jian's back, and she pulls away with a quickness that rivals the beating of your heart as Jihoon covers the bite mark on your thigh with his hand.

"Sorry," you breathe out, and Mrs. Kang just shakes her head as she slides your bowl onto the table. Soonyoung and Jian greet her quietly, making her suck her teeth, "two more?"

"Please," Jian nods, and she purses her lips as she turns on her heel. She stops, glancing over her shoulder at Soonyoung, "no perilla leaf?"

He nods quickly, practically shoving Jian into the booth as she disappears back into the kitchen. You all watch her walk away, before Jian kicks Jihoon under the table.

"You bitch! Why didn't you tell us you were coming? I said gamjatang double date." She complains, and Jihoon just scowls as you rub his shin.

"We hadn't been back yet." You reply, rolling your eyes. "Mrs. Kang hates you guys."

"No she doesn't." Soonyoung argues, and Mrs. Kang appears next to his head with two bowls.

"Yes, I do. Stop crying in here. I had to take down my favorite pictures because of you." She huffs, setting the bowls down and procuring a camera from her apron pocket. "Y/N and Jihoon, take two?"

You grin, inching closer to Jihoon as he fixes the pendant on your necklace. A gold locket — holding a picture of you and him.

"Ready? 3, 2, 1, money!" She holds it up to her face, and you both smile brightly as you smush your cheeks together. The flash goes off, and you feeling Jihoon's lips press a quick kiss to your cheek. You see Jian and Soonyoung pout across the table from you as you blink away the effects of the flash, and Mrs. Kang tongues her cheek as she moves to your side of the booth, resting her arm around the back and leaning down.

"What do you think? Jian and Hoshi, take one?" She smiles, and you nod your head as they wrap their arms around each other excitedly, pressing their cheeks together with animated smiles. She rolls her eyes, taking their picture before patting your head, "welcome back, sweet girl."

"Thank you." You smile softly, your cheeks sore as she rubs her knuckles on the back of Jihoon's head, making him pout as she huffs, "be good to her. She loves you."

"I will! I am!" He sulks, sinking into the booth as she chuckles, "you want extra broth? I'll bring you some, sit tight."

You watch her walk away again, laughing as Jihoon rubs the back of his head, "see? She missed you, too."

"Whatever." He huffs, reaching for spoons as Soonyoung and Jian lean across the table. He raises a brow at them, "what!?"

Soonyoung grins, "so…double dates again?"

"We can get ice cream after this! Double trouble!" Jian claps her hands cheerfully, and you give Jihoon an amused look. He tongues his cheek.

"They are annoying." He mutters, sliding a spoon into your soup and draping his sweater over your lap so you won't stain your dress. You snicker, "ice cream sounds good. We're in."

"Perfect! Because I also have sixteen other places we need to hit before the end of the year. Oh, and how do you feel about Japan for New Years? I really wanna go back to Mr. Iguchi's, he's been texting Hoshi nonstop!"

You and Jihoon let your friends ramble on and on, eating quietly as Mrs. Kang refills your rice wine pot twice before cutting it off when Soonyoung and Jian start getting sappy. He sends you up to pay with his card, helping Jian pull a heavily tipsy Soonyoung to his feet as Mrs. Kang gives you a receipt.

"Can I get a pen, please?" You ask softly, and she hands you one as you carefully reapply your lipstick. She watches you with her arms crossed, a lopsided smirk on her face as you scribble your note on the top of the receipt paper before kissing it gently.

"You be good, okay? I'll see you on Friday." She says, eyes pointed as you give the pen back.

"Yes ma'am. I will see you on Friday. Thank you!" You stuff his card in your purse, carefully folding the receipt as Jihoon lugs Soonyoung out the door with shouted thanks to the aunties. She waves you off, and you quickly catch up to them as Soonyoung forces himself upright at Jian's mention of ice cream. The door shuts behind you, and you press a kiss to Jihoon's cheek as his arm wraps around your waist. His cheeks are warm from the alcohol, but you watch the way his eyes soften before pressing his lips to yours.

"Do you like the ring?" He whispers, and you glance down at your left hand. It sparkles up at you, like it knows something. You fix it so the stone is centered on your finger, and you hold it up the light, "it's pretty on me, isn't it?"

"Stunning." "You're buttering me up, I know it. We're already engaged, knock it off."

"Why would I need to do that? You're mine anyway. Something about 'til death do us part, I heard." He rolls his eyes, pressing another kiss to your cheek as you make it outside, the air cool against your hot skin. You rest your head on his shoulder, his fingers squeezing your waist lightly before pressing another kiss to your head.

"I love you, honey." "I love you, my angel."

You make a note to stop and by a picture frame, and to pick up your copy of the photo from Mrs. Kang next Friday.

After all, you've got a new little scrap of paper.

let's take the long way home, my angel. ♡ i love you so much, lee jihoon. always yours, take two!

Campus is buzzing. Not the usual hum of sleep-deprived students dragging themselves to class, but the kind of chaotic energy that only comes around when the weekend stretches ahead, warm and wide open.

The quad is drenched in golden late-afternoon sunlight, and the air smells like grass, iced coffee, and the subtle hint of sweat from people pretending they aren’t trying to look hot in 85-degree heat.

You’re weaving between bodies, textbooks tucked under your arm, when it catches your eye: a bright neon flier taped to nearly every lamppost, tree, and bulletin board in sight.

SINS & SAINTS BIGGEST PARTY OF THE SEMESTER — 10PM @ THE PIT SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN GAME 🔥 DON’T BE LAME

Yanni snatches one off a pole as you pass. “This is the moment, ladies.”

You don’t even give the flyer a second glance. “What moment? The one where you both fail your ethics paper because you were too busy shotgunning White Claws in someone’s moldy basement?”

“Oh my god, relax,” Jenna says, laughing. “It’s not moldy. They fixed the leak in April.”

You roll your eyes but let yourself smile as the three of you walk along the sidewalk, the late sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Yanni and Jenna look like they just stepped out of an Urban Outfitters ad — crop tops, layered jewelry, and enough confidence to set fire to half the student population.

And then there’s you. Not quite invisible, but definitely more “background character” than “main event.”

“You know this party’s gonna be huge, right?” Yanni says, waving the flier like it’s a golden ticket. “Last year someone jumped off the roof into the kiddie pool.”

“And broke their collarbone,” you point out.

“Legendary,” Jenna says, smirking.

You snatch the flier from Yanni’s hand, skimming it again. “Why would anyone voluntarily go to something with a ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ game advertised like a feature? We’re adults.”

“Are we?” Yanni asks, eyes twinkling.

“Technically,” Jenna adds. “But also—imagine the chaos. What if someone pulls Jungkook’s name?”

Your heart does a completely unacceptable little stutter at that.

Jeon Jungkook.

Tattooed, mysterious, chronically late to lectures (if he shows up at all), and very much the guy every girl on campus either wants to date, make out with, or get over. He’s got a motorcycle. He barely talks. He shows up to parties, hooks up with girls, then disappears like smoke.

And he’s beautiful. Obviously.

You’re not immune. You’ve had a crush on him since last semester, when he walked into your shared Intro to Media class twenty minutes late, helmet under his arm, chewing gum like he wasn’t the reason every girl in the room forgot what the professor was saying.

But Jungkook is a walking red flag. A whole carnival of them. And you’re smarter than that.

At least, you pretend to be.

“Literally everyone wants him,” Jenna says, reading your mind. “Even the TA from psych. She was full-on blushing when he asked for an extension.”

“Not surprised,” Yanni mutters. “He has that look — like he’s good at everything and knows it.”

“He probably is,” you say before you can stop yourself, then immediately regret it.

Your friends both stare at you, smirking like sharks.

“Wait,” Jenna says slowly, “do you have a thing for Jungkook?”

“No.” You say it too quickly. “God, no. I mean—everyone does. But I’m not stupid.”

“Just stupid-adjacent,” Yanni teases.

“Shut up.”

Before they can press you further, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”

You look up to see Park Jimin approaching, all sunshine and mischief, with Kim Taehyung sauntering behind him like he owns the sidewalk.

Jimin’s wearing a denim jacket over a mesh tank, and Taehyung’s got sunglasses on even though the sun’s nearly down. Between the two of them, they look like trouble you want to get into.

“Hey, ladies,” Jimin says, flashing a grin as he throws an arm over Yanni’s shoulders. “You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”

“Obviously,” Yanni replies, leaning into the attention.

“Can’t miss the annual disaster,” Jenna adds, high-fiving Taehyung like they’re in on some secret joke.

You cross your arms. “You guys seriously hyping up a party where people get locked in closets like it’s summer camp?”

“It’s not just any party,” Jimin says. “It’s The Pit. Sins & Saints theme. Black lights. Fake angel wings. Maybe some fake confessions.”

“Cages,” Taehyung adds casually, like that’s normal.

You blink. “Cages? What kind of party is this?”

“The fun kind,” Jimin winks. “You coming, Y/N?”

“I have an essay due.”

“So bring it with you. I’ll give you moral support while you drink tequila.”

“Tempting,” you say, deadpan. “But I actually want to pass this semester.”

Taehyung leans in, smirking. “Well, in case you change your mind… Jungkook’s gonna be there.”

There it is again. The name. The spark that lights your nerves like a match to gasoline.

You try to play it cool. “Why would that matter to me?”

Yanni coughs loudly. Jenna bites her lip to keep from laughing.

Jimin just grins, already turning away. “No reason. See you at ten.”

And with that, the two boys melt back into the crowd, leaving you with your friends, your unfinished essay, and the creeping sense that this night might not go according to plan.

The quad’s stretched out like a painting, glowing and slow, the heat bleeding off the pavement in soft waves. Everything’s dipped in gold — the trees, the brick buildings, even the stupid neon flyers plastered to every pole.

The bench — their bench — is right where it always is, half in shade, half in sun, like it can’t decide whether it wants to be chill or dramatic. Typical.

Jungkook drops down into his usual spot on the backrest, boots braced on the seat like he owns it. He probably does, at this point — nobody ever sits there unless one of them’s already claimed it.

Taehyung arrives next, flopping into the grass with a sigh so theatrical it could win awards.

“Dying,” he declares. “Melting. This is my final form.”

Jimin shows up with a popsicle he definitely didn’t pay for. “It’s like 85. You’re from Daegu, you’ve survived worse.”

“I have delicate lungs now,” Taehyung replies. “I’m an artist.”

“Your lung capacity’s fine, bro,” Jungkook says. “You were yelling at Rocket League until three.”

Taehyung scowls but doesn’t argue.

A group of girls walks by — upperclassmen, probably — and Jungkook doesn’t miss the way they glance over, not subtle at all. One of them straightens her hair in her reflection on a car window.

He ignores it. Sips his drink. Lets the sun warm his tattoos.

“Party’s gonna be insane tonight,” Jimin says through a mouthful of cherry ice. “Everyone’s going.”

“You say that like you’re not part of the chaos,” Jungkook mutters.

“I am the chaos.”

Jungkook smirks. “You’re five feet of glitter and bad decisions.”

“I’m five-nine,” Jimin says automatically.

“You’re lying.”

“Anyway,” Taehyung cuts in, flopping back so his head hits the grass with a dull thump, “I heard there’s gonna be like… cages. Real ones. Hanging from the ceiling.”

“Where the hell are they getting cages?” Jungkook asks.

“Probably the theater department,” Jimin says. “They owe me after I fixed their soundboard last semester.”

Jungkook makes a face. “You fixed it by slapping it until it stopped buzzing.”

“And it worked.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a bit — the kind only friends with a lot of shared damage can fall into. People keep walking past, all heading somewhere, all talking too loud, dressed like they're auditioning for the same indie film.

A guy on a skateboard nearly eats it trying to check his reflection in the library windows. A girl in a baby tee trips on absolutely nothing when she sees Jungkook watching her. Classic.

He doesn’t react. Barely blinks.

“You know,” Taehyung says, eyes still closed, “I was thinking about that Seven Minutes thing.”

“Oh god,” Jungkook mutters.

“No, listen. Imagine someone wild pulls your name. Like that girl who wears fangs and drinks blood out of a Hydro Flask.”

“She’s a performance artist,” Jimin corrects. “You’re so uncultured.”

“Imagine,” Taehyung continues, undeterred, “you walk into the closet and it’s just like—BAM. Straight-up vampire romance. Feral energy. No escape.”

“I’d rather die,” Jungkook says.

“Sounds like fear,” Jimin singsongs.

“It’s common sense,” Jungkook replies. “That game is high school energy. It's gonna be twenty minutes of giggling and some drunk dude falling through the door trying to kiss someone who already regrets being born.”

Jimin snorts. “Wow. Poetic.”

“Look, I’m going,” Jungkook says, “but I’m not doing closet games. Not my scene.”

“You say that,” Taehyung mutters, cracking one eye open, “but if someone hot pulls your name…”

Jungkook shrugs. “Then she’s unlucky.”

And he means it — mostly. It’s just that… parties like this always end the same. Music too loud, drinks too warm, somebody crying in the bathroom, somebody making bad decisions on a lawn chair.

He doesn’t know why he keeps showing up. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe it’s the thrill of it — the crash of noise, the lights, the way nothing matters for a few hours.

Or maybe it's that feeling.

The possibility.

The moment right before something happens — when everything is charged and uncertain, and the right glance could flip the night on its head.

He exhales, eyes flicking toward a passing group of students. One girl — vaguely familiar — walks by clutching a tote bag and a half-melted iced matcha. Her face jogs something in his brain. A lecture hall, maybe? Media Studies?

He thinks he remembers her — quiet. Always early. Never looked at him, not even when he showed up late and took the seat next to the plug.

But it’s gone in a blink. Just another girl. Just another day.

Taehyung claps his hands suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Alright, sluts. Waffle truck or convenience store noodles?”

“Why are those the only options?” Jimin asks.

“Because I’m a man of taste.”

They get up, stretching, moving like they’re already vibrating with pre-party adrenaline. Jungkook trails behind, helmet in one hand, unread messages buzzing in his pocket.

He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t notice the girl from the quad still sitting under the tree, book open, eyes half-lifted just as he passes.

He doesn't know her name.

Not yet.

The Pit is already pulsing when you arrive.

Bass thumps under your feet before you even step inside — not just music, but vibration, like the building itself is alive and slightly pissed off. The air smells like tequila, cheap perfume, and those weird vanilla vapes everyone insists are “barely noticeable.” Spoiler: they are very noticeable.

You stop just inside the doorway, blinking.

The party is absolutely unhinged.

There are blacklights everywhere — mounted on the rafters, strung across the ceilings, probably duct-taped to questionable surfaces. Someone’s set up an old confessional booth near the far wall, graffitied and backlit in red. A girl in a rhinestone halo is taking selfies in front of it while a guy dressed as a fallen angel — shirt unbuttoned to nowhere — does a keg stand behind her.

Above it all, a massive banner reads:

SINS & SAINTS: ENTER IF YOU DARE.

...which feels both deeply dramatic and deeply accurate.

There are actual cages suspended from the ceiling — only waist-high, like glorified birdcages, but still. One of them has a guy in white mesh pants swinging in it like it’s Cirque du Soleil. He howls something about forgiveness. No one knows what’s going on.

You take all of this in with wide eyes.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “what the hell.”

“I TOLD YOU,” Yanni shouts over the music, eyes lit up like a kid on Halloween. “They WENT OFF this year!”

“They should be arrested,” you mutter.

Jenna laughs beside you, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I feel like I just walked into the end of the world but make it horny.”

Yanni is wearing a sheer black top over a bralette made entirely of tiny silver crosses, her eyeliner winged out to her temples. Her skirt is so short it might be a threat to public safety.

Jenna went full Saint — white silk slip dress, little feathery halo bobbing over her curls, but with Doc Martens that say she’d still throw hands in the bathroom line.

And then there’s you.

You’d protested the theme all afternoon, but eventually gave in. You’re wearing ripped black jeans, a mesh top over a tank, and a red ribbon choker Yanni tied on you with too much enthusiasm. You didn’t go all-out like them, but you’re here. You showed up. That’s saying something.

Yanni loops her arm through yours and yells, “I swear to God, if I don’t end up in a cage by midnight, I’m suing.”

“They have cages, Yanni,” you say, scandalized. “That’s not normal.”

“I’m not normal,” she grins.

“That’s not comforting!”

You’re halfway toward the drink table when a blur of movement passes you — a guy in a leather jacket, dark hair, jaw like a hate crime. You don’t get a good look, just the impression of tattoos, combat boots, and a casual arrogance like he’s got the party rigged in his favor.

You turn back to the drinks.

Jenna, meanwhile, is adjusting her halo in her phone’s camera. “Okay, I’m thinking I make out with someone with wings. That’s my only rule.”

“Are they required to earn them first?” you ask.

“No, they just have to not be annoying.”

“So… no one here, basically,” you deadpan.

Yanni dumps some suspicious jungle juice into a cup and hands it to you. “Drink. Or at least pretend to. You’re giving off ‘I’m only here for field research’ energy.”

You take a sip and grimace. “This tastes like Hawaiian Punch and college debt.”

“Exactly,” Jenna says. “We’re setting the tone.”

You pass by a hallway draped in red curtains — probably where the Seven Minutes game is happening. Someone stumbles out with smeared lipstick and a dazed smile.

“Oh my god,” you say. “This is summer camp. This is hot, humid, horny summer camp.”

Yanni beams. “A dream come true.”

You’re halfway across the room when you bump into someone — solid chest, sharp elbows. You step back, muttering, “Sorry,” but the guy’s already moving, weaving through the crowd like he’s done it a thousand times.

Again, you don’t get a good look.

Again, you feel that flicker — like something important just brushed past you.

“Who was that?” you ask, mostly to yourself.

Jenna squints after him. “I don’t know. Pretty sure he walked out of a Calvin Klein ad though.”

You shake it off.

This night is too much already — too loud, too crowded, too… Jungkook-shaped. And you’re not here for that. You’re here to survive, observe, and possibly rescue your friends from questionable decisions.

So far, you’re one-for-three.

Yanni grabs your arm. “Okay. I’ve spotted three girls from my art class, two guys I ghosted, and a literal priest costume. Where are the drinks that don’t taste like regret?”

“There are none,” you say. “We are the drinks that taste like regret.”

Jenna raises her cup like a toast. “To sinning responsibly.”

“To surviving this chaos,” you mutter, sipping again.

And across the room, under strobing lights and smoke machine haze, Jungkook leans against the wall near the DJ booth, scanning the crowd.

His eyes flick right past you.

Just a blur of black mesh, red ribbon, and glittering annoyance.

He doesn’t even register it.

But something in him shifts — like he knows he’s missing something. Or someone.

He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, lifts his drink, and watches the crowd move like waves around him.

You’re both here.

You’re both waiting.

You just don’t know it yet.

Jungkook leans against the wall like he’s not trying.

He isn’t.

He’s dressed in all black — ripped jeans, oversized button-down left open over a tank, silver chains catching just enough light to look intentional. His boots are scuffed from the bike ride over, and he hasn't even bothered to fix the strands of hair falling into his eyes.

Still, people look.

People always look.

The Pit is packed. The lights strobe like they’re malfunctioning, bodies moving in all directions, glitter and sweat and wings everywhere. The blacklight catches on teeth, neon paint, the rims of Solo cups. Music throbs like a second heartbeat, drowning out anything that sounds like common sense.

Jungkook watches it all unfold with the calm detachment of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

Which, to be fair, he has.

“Cages,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Really.”

Taehyung reappears at his side, holding two drinks and no sense of subtlety. “You say that like you’re not impressed.”

“I’m not not impressed,” Jungkook says, eyeing a girl in LED horns who’s currently being hoisted into one of the hanging cages by two frat boys in priest collars. “I’m just wondering if this place passed fire code.”

Jimin sidles up on the other side, chewing gum like a menace. “God, I love when everyone’s desperate and underdressed. The vibe tonight is filthy.”

“It’s not a vibe,” Jungkook says, deadpan. “It’s a liability.”

“You’re just mad because you haven’t been recognized by someone hot yet.”

“I literally got here three minutes ago.”

“That’s three whole minutes too long, lover boy.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling faintly.

He scans the room again, letting the visuals wash over him: angel wings, devil horns, fake blood, fake rosaries, someone with a real sword (???), a couple making out aggressively near the “Confess Here” booth. Typical Pit energy, just turned up to eleven.

His gaze passes over a trio near the drink table — glitter, halos, fishnets — then slides away again, uninterested.

Then—

No. He pauses.

Barely.

There’s a girl in black mesh, red ribbon tight around her throat. Not the type trying to be seen. Not the type posing or pouting or clinging to someone’s arm. Just… there. Head tilted. Brows drawn. Like she’s trying to make sense of the chaos.

She’s not looking at him.

He doesn’t know why he notices.

Something about the way she holds herself — casual, a little stiff. Like she showed up for the party but didn’t want to. Like she’s in it, but not of it. It’s a detail, but he’s always been good at catching those.

He’s pretty sure he’s seen her before. Class maybe? One of the early ones, back when he still showed up?

He narrows his eyes. Something tickles the back of his mind — a row of seats, a laptop screen, a girl who never once looked his way even when he was late and loud and trying not to be noticed by a professor.

He’d filed it away as nothing.

And maybe it still is.

He watches her for one more second — how she crinkles her nose at the drink in her hand, how her friend with the silver cross top yells something and throws her head back laughing.

Then someone claps a hand on his shoulder, and the moment breaks.

“Hyung,” a guy shouts over the music — some junior he’s barely talked to — “the Seven Minutes room is right there. You better hope someone sins you into the closet.”

“I’m good,” Jungkook says without missing a beat.

“You sure?” the guy winks. “Heard even the quiet girls are wild tonight.”

Taehyung lets out an ungodly laugh.

Jimin fans himself. “God, I love this place.”

Jungkook exhales slowly and glances back toward the girl in the mesh top, the one he maybe-kinda remembers from Media Studies.

She’s walking away now, swallowed by bodies and wings and fog machine haze.

And just like that, she’s gone again

SINS & SAINTS

10:47 PM — The Pit

You’re halfway through your second regrettable drink — something red and radioactive that tastes like melted cherry Jolly Ranchers and lies — when you realize:

Jenna is gone.

Not lost in the crowd gone. Not hooked up with some guy in a halo gone. Like, vanished.

You scan the sea of limbs and glitter, the swirling blacklights and wall-to-wall bass drops.

No halo. No white silk dress. No Doc Martens stomping some poor frat guy’s foot for getting handsy.

“Wait,” you say, turning to Yanni. “Where’s Jenna?”

Yanni’s still dancing, holding her drink above her head and vibing to something bass-heavy. She doesn’t hear you.

You poke her side. “Yanni. Where. Is. Jenna.”

She freezes, eyes scanning the room with the same dawning horror you’re feeling.

“Oh my god,” she says, gripping your arm. “She was just here.”

“She was literally next to us two minutes ago.”

“She does this sometimes,” Yanni says, frowning. “Remember Halloween? She disappeared for an hour and came back with a matching tattoo with a guy named Car Battery.”

“That was ONE time,” you groan. “And she still won’t tell us where the tattoo is.”

Yanni downs the rest of her drink like it’s going to give her psychic powers. “Okay, we split up. You check the front half, near the drinks. I’ll do a lap by the DJ booth. Scream if she’s in a cage.”

“Or if you end up in one,” you mutter.

She kisses your cheek and takes off, glitter trailing in her wake.

You push through the crowd, slipping past a group of devils grinding to a slowed-down Britney remix, dodging a couple who are definitely fighting and definitely still holding hands.

You pause near the drink station again, heart thumping a little harder than it should.

Still no Jenna.

Just more suspicious liquids in plastic cups and a guy pouring straight vodka into a Capri Sun.

Then—

“Y/N!”

You whip around just as Yanni reappears, hair a little more disheveled, glitter smudged under one eye like war paint.

“I found her,” she pants, grabbing your hand. “You’re not gonna believe where she is.”

“Dead in a bathtub?”

“No.”

“In a cage?”

“Worse.”

“Yanni—”

“She’s at the Seven Minutes in Heaven room.”

You blink. “You’re lying.”

“I swear on my third ex’s face tattoo.”

You let her drag you toward the back hallway — the one that’s been curtained off with red velvet and glowing like Satan’s waiting room. A line snakes down the corridor, people laughing and hollering and shoving toward a closet door guarded by two dudes in fake pope robes.

You round the corner and — yup. There’s Jenna.

Sitting on a stool like royalty, halo tilted sideways, red Solo cup in hand, absolutely thriving.

She’s laughing, clapping, cheering as two strangers stumble out of the closet, sweaty and flushed and looking either victorious or traumatized. Probably both.

You stop in your tracks. “She’s a ringmaster.”

“She’s drunk on power,” Yanni adds, mouth open.

Jenna spots you both and waves like you’re long-lost war heroes.

“MY GIRLS!!” she yells. “You made it!!”

“You left us,” you shoot back.

She shrugs like that’s a problem for another timeline. “I was recruited.”

“What does that even mean?”

“They needed a hostess! I’m very charming!”

Yanni sighs. “This is how cults start.”

Before you can pry her off the stool, someone shouts, “NEXT UP!” and the line shoves forward. A girl pulls her own roommate in by the arm, both of them shrieking as the door slams shut behind them.

You look at Jenna. “This is out of control. We’re leaving.”

“Not until you try it!”

“Absolutely not.”

Yanni laughs. “Let’s just grab her and go—”

But the line moves again, someone shoves forward, and suddenly—

Everything goes wrong at once.

Hands. Shouting. Laughter. Some guy yells, “MAKE ROOM!”

You’re trying to yank Jenna off her unofficial throne, still yelling about how this is not how a party should go, when chaos breaks loose.

Someone shoves the line. A drink spills. People are yelling. The couple in front of the closet stumbles out like they’ve just done three laps around a football field.

You try to back away — but too late.

Hands shove you forward. “Next up!”

Yanni screams, “Wait, she’s not playing!”

“I’m not playing!” you yell, too.

Doesn’t matter. The crowd’s already decided.

The closet door swings open.

You get pushed inside — completely alone.

Click.

The door slams shut behind you. Darkness swallows everything.

You stumble, trip over a shoe or someone’s forgotten dignity, and land against the back wall, trying to breathe.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “Oh my god. I’m gonna die in here. This is it. I’m gonna be found in a party closet.”

You fumble toward the doorknob, already plotting your escape—

And then the door opens again.

A warm body stumbles in, tall and solid and smelling unfairly good — like cedarwood, clean laundry, and a bad idea.

The door slams shut again.

Across the party, Jungkook is just trying to find a bathroom that doesn’t reek of four Loko and sin.

He’s halfway through a hallway that looks suspiciously off-limits when someone calls his name.

“Jeon Jungkook!”

He turns.

It’s some girl he barely knows. She’s got lipstick on her teeth and one shoe in her hand.

“Come ON,” she says, “we need more hot people for the closet game. You’ll save this party. I swear.”

He blinks. “I’m not doing that.”

“Too late!” she says, grabbing his arm with terrifying strength. “Come on, it’ll be funny! You’re hot and mysterious and your face should be illegal.”

“I’m going to sue this entire building,” Jungkook mutters, but the girl is already dragging him.

He doesn’t know why he lets her. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s because this party has reached new heights of ridiculous and he needs a story to make it worth the hangover.

They reach the red curtain. The line parts.

You don’t know who you hate more — Jenna for signing a blood pact with the party demons, or the crowd for shoving you into this glorified coat coffin like it’s part of the plan.

You've been in here for maybe a minute. Two tops. But time moves differently when you’re trapped in darkness, breathing the humid remains of other people’s bad decisions.

It’s cramped. It smells like body spray and spilled White Claw. The door has no handle from the inside. And you're about to start monologuing to the ceiling when—

The door opens again.

You freeze. “Wait—”

A guy stumbles in. Tall, broad-shouldered, all dressed in black with just enough chain action to suggest this person owns at least one motorcycle and zero alarm clocks.

You recognize him in an instant — because your subconscious hates you and made sure to memorize that face like it was an exam topic.

Jeon Jungkook.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy brushing off whoever just shoved him in.

“Okay, okay—Jesus. Don’t break my arm,” he mutters. Then, to the closet, “Sorry, whoever you are. I’m not here voluntarily.”

You don't say anything.

He finally glances your way.

A pause.

“…Huh.”

You cross your arms. “Not who you were expecting?”

“Not even close,” he says, like it’s a compliment and a complaint in one.

The door slams behind him. The lock clicks.

Now it’s just you. Him. Darkness. And a six-inch gap of air between you that’s slowly shrinking the longer you try not to acknowledge how small this closet actually is.

Jungkook shifts, probably trying to give you space, which is hilarious because there is none.

“Look,” you say, “I’m only in here because someone shoved me.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Cool. So neither of us is having fun.”

“Yet,” he says, too easily.

You narrow your eyes, not that he can see it. “You really think that line works on girls in closets?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”

You make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Okay, no. You’re not allowed to be hot and full of shit.”

“Not full of shit,” he says. “Mildly irritating at most.”

“Mildly?”

He leans back against the wall. “Okay, moderately. Maybe.”

“Glad we agree.”

You try to shift your weight without brushing against him, which fails, because there’s nowhere to move. Your elbow bumps his arm. Your knee grazes his boot.

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright, I’m putting you on a movement ban.”

“Excuse me?”

“You keep flailing around like that, I’m gonna get accused of starting something in here.”

“You are starting something. With your whole… vibe.”

He grins. “My vibe?”

“Yeah, the ‘mysterious party menace’ thing.”

“Didn’t realize that was my brand.”

“Oh, come on. You walk into every lecture like you’re arriving late to your own funeral.”

“You know me from lecture?”

Shit.

You freeze.

“I—” You recover, sort of. “I mean, yeah. You’re not exactly hard to notice. Motorcycle helmet? Black hoodie in May? The whole tortured poet aura?”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“No, I—shut up.”

He steps closer, just barely. His voice drops into that annoying, amused register that you suspect makes girls fall in love against their will.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m trapped. There’s a difference.”

“Still,” he says, tone low, teasing, “you’re very talkative for someone who didn’t want to be in here.”

You suck in a breath. “I’m trying to defuse the awkward tension.”

“Well,” he says, leaning slightly closer, “you’re not doing a great job.”

You go still. “…Why?”

“Because if you don’t stop fidgeting and talking at a hundred miles an hour,” he says, voice light but just a little dangerous, “I’m gonna kiss you just to shut you up.”

Your brain whites out.

You forget how to stand.

You definitely forget how to breathe.

You make a noise that could be a laugh, or possibly a system reboot.

“…That’s rude,” you manage.

Jungkook grins. “Is it working?”

You blink at him. Slowly.

“…That’s your solution? Kissing as a silencing tactic?”

Jungkook smirks. “Efficient.”

You squint at him in the dark. “That’s assault with extra steps.”

“Only if it’s not well received.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, shoving lightly at his arm. “You’re actually worse in real life.”

He laughs, like that didn’t wound you at all. “In real life? What, you’ve imagined a better version of me somewhere else?”

You hesitate for half a second too long.

He catches it. Of course he does.

His smile shifts — not smug now, but curious. “Wait. Do I know you?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? You’re acting like you’ve had a whole character arc about me.”

“I just have good observational skills.”

“And a little crush?”

You snort. “Please. I only crush on emotionally available people.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” he says, mock offended. “I just don’t like… people.”

“That’s literally the definition.”

Jungkook moves a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to invade. Like someone stepping past your comfort zone just to prove they can. His voice is quiet, playful.

“Okay, but be honest — if I had kissed you, what would you have done?”

You meet his gaze in the dim light. Your heart does an actual backflip, but your mouth?

Deadpan.

“Bitten you.”

He grins, all teeth. “Kinky.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost see god. “You are unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”

Another beat passes.

The party noise pulses outside. The door shakes once, like someone bumped into it. Neither of you move.

He tilts his head, watching you more carefully now. “So who are you, anyway?”

You blink. “What?”

“You know who I am. Everyone knows who I am, apparently. But I don’t know you.”

You shrug, trying to sound unfazed. “Just a girl in your class.”

“Which class?”

“I’m not telling you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve seen how your brain works. The second you find out, you’ll start showing up late on purpose to make an entrance.”

He grins, wide and dangerous. “So you have been watching me.”

Damn it.

“That’s not—”

“Obsessed,” he says.

“Oh my god, I’m going to strangle you with one of those dumb chains on your pants.”

“They’re not dumb. They’re functional.”

“For what, exactly? Attaching yourself to reality?”

“Wow,” he says, smiling now like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “You’ve got jokes.”

You glance at the door. “Seven minutes better be almost up.”

“Why?” he asks, voice dipping just slightly. “You scared you’re starting to like me?”

You look back at him. “I’m scared you’re starting to like me.”

That shuts him up for half a second.

Then—

“…Touché.”

There’s a pause. You can hear your own heartbeat in the quiet.

He steps just a little closer. “Okay. Serious question.”

“Unlikely, but sure.”

“Are you always like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“This,” he says. “You know—snarky. Quick. Unimpressed. Kind of mean in a fun way.”

You stare at him. “Are you into being bullied?”

“I’m starting to wonder.”

The door bangs open just then, and the light hits both of your faces. You flinch at the sudden glare. Outside, someone yells, “ALRIGHT, CLOSET DWELLERS, TIMES UP!”

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Finally, he leans a little closer and says under his breath, only loud enough for you to hear:

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You raise a brow.

“You didn’t earn it.”

He laughs, and it’s way too genuine. Like he didn’t expect this night to go like this at all — and somehow, that makes two of you.

As you duck out of the closet, brushing past him in the doorway, you hear him murmur:

“I’m gonna find out, you know.”

You throw a look over your shoulder, smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Good luck.”

The door flings open.

Air, light, freedom.

You stumble out like someone just dragged you back from the underworld. The world is louder now, messier. Colors sharper. Sounds distorted, like everything’s underwater and also on fire.

Your heart is still pounding. Your brain? Gone. Missing. Presumed dead. Your dignity? Filing a police report.

You turn in a daze, blinking through the chaos—and find Yanni, breathless, holding a very giggly and wine-drunk Jenna by the elbow.

“THERE you are!” Yanni yells over the music. “We thought you got kidnapped by the Pit goblins!”

Jenna cackles. “I told her you were probably in the closet making out with a stranger. I WAS RIGHT.”

You blink at them.

Open your mouth.

Immediately close it again.

Yanni frowns. “Wait. Are you okay? You look like you just got hit by a really hot bus.”

You stare at her.

Then—

“I need air. I need, like, seventeen breaths of non-sweaty air. I—do you have water? I think I forgot how to swallow. I forgot—I forgot my name.”

Yanni’s eyes go wide. “Did you actually make out with someone?! Oh my god, who was it? Was he hot? Did he have a tongue ring? Was it that guy with the fake angel wings? Please tell me he had wings.”

“I—no. No wings.”

“Okay, so not a red flag. Good start.”

You grab both of them by the arms and start dragging them away from the closet, feet moving on autopilot. “We need to go. Just—somewhere. Away. Outside. Antarctica. I don’t care.”

Jenna, still loopy from the cocktail she stole from a girl dressed as the Pope, squints at you. “You’re acting weird.”

“Something happened,” you say, voice a little unhinged. “Something catastrophic.”

Yanni gasps. “Did you black out?!”

“No, worse.”

“Did you throw up on someone?!”

“WORSE.”

Yanni pulls you down onto a sagging patio couch under a string of flickering lights. The Pit’s back deck is quieter — only a handful of people out here, laughing or making out or both.

You sit between them, trying to remember how to form human sentences.

Jenna leans her head dramatically on your shoulder. “You definitely kissed someone.”

“I didn’t.”

Yanni narrows her eyes. “You wanted to.”

“I didn’t!”

They both stare at you.

You sigh. Long. Shaky.

Then you say, very quietly, like it might summon him if you say it too loud:

“I was in the closet with Jeon Jungkook.”

.

.

.

Jenna sits up so fast she elbows you in the boob.

Yanni chokes on her drink and coughs, “I’m sorry—WHAT?”

You hold up your hands, like it’ll protect you from the emotional storm about to erupt. “It was an accident! I got pushed in first, and then some drunk idiots shoved him in after me, and then the door locked and we were just there. Together. In the dark. Breathing the same air.”

Jenna is vibrating. “YOU WERE BREATHING JEON JUNGKOOK’S AIR. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GIRLS WOULD PAY FOR THAT EXPERIENCE.”

“I didn’t ask for the experience!”

Yanni grabs your arm, shaking it. “Okay but what happened?! Tell us everything. Did you talk? Did he recognize you? Did you touch his hair? Did he touch you? Did your souls kiss?!”

You stare at her. “What the hell is a soul kiss?”

“Shut up and answer me!!”

You drag your hands down your face. “We talked. He was annoying. And hot. And annoying about being hot. He said if I didn’t stop panicking he was gonna kiss me and I think my nervous system flatlined for like ten seconds.”

Jenna screams. A real one.

Yanni grabs her cup and throws it into a bush just so she can clap. “That’s it. That’s the plot of a Netflix movie. I’m calling a casting director right now.”

“Guys, stop—”

“Did he know who you were?” Jenna asks, eyes wide.

You deflate. “No.”

Yanni freezes.

Jenna gasps like she’s watching a baby deer get hit by a truck.

“He didn’t recognize you?”

You shake your head, slumping into the couch like your spine is giving up. “Not even a little. I told him I was in his class, and he just blinked at me like I was an off-brand yogurt at the back of the fridge.”

“But—but you sit in the second row!”

“Yeah, apparently that’s not enough to pierce through the wall of apathy and leather jackets.”

Jenna is personally offended. “You’ve been thirsting over him for MONTHS.”

“Not out loud!”

“Your search history says otherwise.”

“That was ONE TIME—”

“‘Does Jeon Jungkook have a girlfriend’ is not a casual search, Y/N.”

Yanni throws an arm around your shoulder. “Okay. So. We have a situation.”

You groan. “No, we don’t. The situation is over. I will simply crawl into a hole and never speak to anyone again.”

“OR,” Yanni says, grinning, “we make him fall in love with you.”

You snort. “Hard pass.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I! The guy barely knows what day of the week it is. He didn’t even know my name, and I was two inches from his face.”

Jenna fans herself. “God, I wish I was two inches from his face.”

Yanni is already spiraling into scheming mode. “Okay but hear me out: what if this is your origin story?”

“I don’t need an origin story. I need ice and maybe a lobotomy.”

“You’re gonna end up married to him.”

“I’m gonna end up IN A STRAITJACKET.”

They both lean in at the same time, grinning like devils.

And somewhere inside you — beneath the panic and the humiliation and the complete collapse of your self-esteem — something sparks.

A very tiny, very traitorous thought:

He doesn’t know who I am yet.

But what if he wanted to?

.

.

.

No. Absolutely not. You refuse to be delusional.

But still…

You clutch your drink with both hands and whisper to yourself like a prayer:

“…I cannot go back in that closet.”

Jungkook steps out into the warm night air, the noise of the party still thrumming behind him like a heartbeat that’s had too much sugar and zero regard for consequences.

He barely gets two steps out the door before he sees movement near the gate — a blur of color, of bare shoulders and tangled hair and wild, frantic energy.

Her.

The girl from the closet.

She’s running.

Well, not running — but walking very quickly in a way that screams “I just made a horrible decision and I’m trying to disappear into the night like it never happened.”

He watches as she yanks her friends down the sidewalk, arms waving, words too far away to make out. One of them glances back at the house, laughing. The other throws her arm around the girl’s shoulder like she’s trying to keep her from disintegrating.

Jungkook can’t hear them. Can’t read their lips.

But he doesn’t need to.

He’s seen that look before.

People don’t leave parties like that unless something got to them.

And apparently… that something was him.

He watches them disappear around the corner. The wind shifts, warm and sweet and heavy with the scent of grass and spilled vodka.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, the edges of his mouth tugging up, involuntarily.

He doesn’t smile a lot.

But right now?

He’s grinning.

11:18 PM — Inside, Kitchen

He finds Jimin first, leaning against the fridge, sipping from a red cup with glitter smeared across one cheek like someone tried to make out with a rave.

Jungkook walks up, casual as hell. “Hey.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “You’re still vertical. Closet girl didn’t kill you?”

Jungkook leans on the counter beside him, eyes scanning the room lazily. “Nope. She was fun.”

Jimin grins. “Define fun.”

“Annoyed. Loud. Mean. Called me out within the first two minutes.”

“So, your type.”

Jungkook gives him a lazy look. “Do you know who she was?”

Jimin blinks. “You mean you didn’t?”

“No. She said we’re in the same class, but…” He shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly focused on academics in there.”

Jimin sips his drink, way too amused. “You’re telling me you spent seven minutes pressed up against someone and didn’t bother to ask her name?”

“I didn’t get her name. She wouldn’t give it to me.”

Jimin whistles. “Damn. Girl’s got boundaries.”

Jungkook turns his full attention to him now. “So… do you know her?”

Jimin smiles. Slow. Evil.

“Maybe.”

Jungkook straightens. “What.”

“I mean, I’ve seen her around. Could be anyone.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an answer adjacent.”

“Jimin.”

Jimin just grins wider, like this is his favorite hobby. “Why? You wanna see her again?”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice is too quick, too defensive. Then: “I just—she seemed familiar.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Before Jungkook can retaliate, Taehyung appears, wearing someone else’s sunglasses and holding a plate of mini cupcakes he absolutely did not make.

Jungkook turns to him like salvation. “Tae. Please tell me you know who the girl in the closet was.”

Taehyung pauses, cupcake halfway to his mouth.

Then, slowly, he lowers it and says: “Ohhhh. You mean the girl with the smart mouth and trust issues?”

“Yes!”

“Yup. Definitely know her.”

“Who is she?!”

Taehyung smiles with all his teeth. “Can’t say.”

Jungkook stares at him.

“What do you mean you can’t say?”

“Non-disclosure agreement.”

“That’s not a real thing!”

“It is now.”

Jungkook throws his hands in the air. “Are you both insane?”

“Yes,” Jimin says, grinning.

“We’re protecting the plot,” Taehyung adds solemnly.

Jungkook blinks. “What plot?”

“The enemies-to-lovers one,” Jimin says, sipping his drink. “You’re in the first act. Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not—!” Jungkook cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose, then mutters, “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re welcome,” Taehyung says cheerfully.

Jungkook turns, heading for the living room, but Jimin calls after him:

“You really gonna let a girl roast you in a closet and disappear without finding out her name?”

Jungkook doesn’t stop walking.

But he does smirk.

“Of course not.”

11:42 PM — Later, Upstairs Hallway

Jungkook leans against the wall, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. But his head isn’t in it.

He’s thinking about the sound of her voice. The way she said, “You didn’t earn it.” The way she pushed past him and didn’t look back.

He still doesn’t know her name.

But he’s starting to think he needs to.

Desperately.

You’re early. Not obnoxiously so, but early enough to get your usual seat — second row, slightly to the left. Close enough to focus, far enough to keep your laptop screen hidden when you’re secretly Googling niche references during class.

You’re wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt. Nothing fancy. Hair pulled back. Glasses on. A normal girl living a normal life, unbothered and deeply uninterested in emotionally reckless men with perfect jawlines and leather jackets. You are zen. You are healed.

...You are lying to yourself.

Your leg has been bouncing under the desk for a solid five minutes. You haven’t even opened your laptop. You’re just staring at the professor’s slides like they personally betrayed you.

And then—

The door opens.

You hear it before you see it. That faint creak of poorly oiled hinges and the collective inhale of every girl in the room.

You don’t turn around.

You don’t have to.

You know it’s him.

Because everyone in a ten-foot radius straightens like they’re about to be graded on posture. There’s a flutter of lip gloss applications. Someone actually whispers his name.

You pretend to be deeply focused on the “Media Ethics and Digital Responsibility” slide.

Jeon Jungkook walks in. On time.

The professor blinks like he’s hallucinating. “Huh. Welcome, Mr. Jeon. Look at you.”

Jungkook just nods, loose and casual, but you can feel it.

He’s different today.

He doesn’t do his usual routine — no airpods, no gum chewing, no half-lidded stroll like he’s walking into a photoshoot instead of a lecture.

No, this time… he’s scanning.

Not in a weird way. Just—calculated. Eyes moving across each row like he’s checking a list in his head. Looking for something. Someone.

Your stomach tightens.

And then—

His gaze glides right past you.

Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t flicker. Nothing.

He slides into a seat a few rows back, drops his bag, and leans back like he didn’t just steamroll your entire emotional ecosystem last night.

You blink at your screen.

Wow.

Okay.

Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.

So he just… forgot you existed? Already?

You tell yourself it’s a good thing. That you’re off the hook. But still—

Your phone vibrates in your lap.

Then again. And again.

You glance down.

YANNI [9:57AM] FIND US AFTER CLASS

JENNA [9:57AM] LIKE IMMEDIATELY

YANNI [9:58AM] BIG. SHIT. IS. HAPPENING.

YANNI [9:58AM] HUGE.

JENNA [9:58AM] YOU MIGHT BE FAMOUS

You: 🙃

11:07AM — Campus Library, Third Floor (aka Gossip HQ)

You find them between the graphic novel section and the fake potted plant that hides the worst Wi-Fi signal on campus.

Yanni is pacing. Jenna is sitting on the floor with a laptop open, half a croissant in her mouth and murder in her eyes.

“FINALLY,” Yanni breathes, grabbing your wrist and yanking you down beside her.

“What is happening?” you whisper. “Did someone die?”

“YOU might,” Jenna says around a bite. “From cardiac arrest.”

You blink. “Why?”

Yanni flips her phone around.

It’s an Instagram story. Jungkook’s account. You recognize the handle from your extremely short-lived stalking phase.

The video is short. A dim hallway, flashing lights, the thump of party music in the background.

Text overlaid:

"7 minutes wasn’t long enough. If you know who she is… tell her." 👀🖤

Your heart stops.

You stare at the screen like it might explode.

“Wha—”

“He’s looking for you,” Yanni whispers, eyes wild.

“He’s trying to CROWD-SOURCE you,” Jenna adds. “LIKE A MISSING PERSON.”

You genuinely don’t know what to do with your hands. “I—I don’t even have Instagram. I didn’t see this.”

“Well, now the entire internet has,” Yanni says, scrolling through dozens of replies and reshared stories. “People are putting up theories. One girl swears it was her and her friends are backing her up.”

You feel a little sick.

“I—he doesn’t even remember me.”

“He does now.”

Before you can spiral further, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Aha. Found you.”

You whip around.

Taehyung and Jimin are approaching, looking like they just stepped out of a K-drama fight scene. Jimin is in an oversized hoodie and glasses, sipping from a matcha latte. Taehyung is holding a leather-bound journal like it’s a prop.

“Oh my god,” Yanni whispers, straightening like she’s about to present a thesis.

Jimin nods at you. “Closet girl.”

Taehyung gasps. “I knew it!”

You slap both hands over your face. “I am going to dissolve into the carpet.”

Jimin flops down next to you. “You’re literally a phenomenon.”

“I don’t want to be a phenomenon! I want to be anonymous.”

“Too late,” Taehyung sing-songs. “He’s obsessed.”

“He’s not—”

Jimin cuts you off. “He made us look through the security footage of the Pit to try and find you.”

You blink. “There’s security footage?!”

“That’s not the point.”

Yanni claps like she’s been waiting for this all her life. “Okay, okay, okay. NEW PLAN.”

Jenna nods. “Mission: Keep Her Hidden.”

You snap your head to look at him. “Wait, what—?”

“We cannot let him find you too easily. The mystery is part of the power.” Yanni explained, a smile that was a little too enthusiastic spreading across her face.

“She’s right.” Jimin chimed in.

You blink between them all, a growing sense of terror blooming in your chest.

“I feel like I’m in a YA novel.”

Taehyung beams. “You are. And it’s about to get so much worse.”

If Jungkook knew his Instagram story would cause an actual phenomenon, he would’ve thrown his phone in the nearest sewer.

He’s seated on the edge of the fountain, legs stretched out, black boots dusted with dry grass. Sunglasses perched on his head, arms crossed, regret pouring off of him in waves.

There is a line.

A real, breathing, giggling line of girls waiting to speak to him.

“I swear,” the third one in a row says, flipping her hair, “it was me. I had this red tank top on—”

“You weren’t wearing red,” Jungkook says flatly, not even looking up.

She blinks. “You remember that?”

He sighs. “Unfortunately.”

She pouts, tosses her hair again, and walks off.

The next girl steps forward with more confidence than he’s emotionally prepared to deal with.

“Hey,” she says, batting her lashes. “So, I was totally gonna come up to you last night, but I got pulled into beer pong, and—”

“Not you either,” he says, already tired.

Behind him, Jimin is sprawled on the grass like a cat in the sun, sipping iced coffee and watching the chaos like it’s live theater.

“I don’t know, man,” he says. “Closet Girl’s starting to sound like a fever dream.”

“She was real,” Jungkook mutters.

Taehyung, perched dramatically on the fountain’s edge, hums. “This feels like a modern fairy tale. Only instead of a glass slipper, she left behind unresolved sexual tension and a mild existential crisis.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond. Just drags a hand down his face.

“You know,” Jimin adds, “you could just let her go. Move on. Forget it happened.”

Jungkook stares at him like he’s just suggested licking a subway pole.

“I mean it,” Jimin continues. “Is this really worth it?”

Jungkook leans back, letting the sun hit his face.

And after a pause, he says:

“…She was funny.”

Taehyung blinks. “Funny?”

“She was… sharp. Gave me shit. Told me I didn’t earn the right to flirt with her.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was just… real.”

Jimin and Taehyung exchange a look.

But before either can respond—

“Hey, Jeon.”

They all glance up.

A girl in a glittery top and too-high heels struts up like she’s approaching a casting call.

“I was wearing angel wings last night,” she purrs.

“Congratulations,” Jungkook says dryly.

“I think I’m the girl you’re looking for.”

“You’re not.”

“How would you know?”

Jungkook blinks slowly. “Because I just would.”

She scoffs and storms off, muttering something about him not being that hot anyway.

Jimin snorts. “The delusion is wild today.”

Taehyung raises his brows. “You know, you did make her a mystery. People love a good mystery.”

“I hate this mystery,” Jungkook mutters.

And then—

Taehyung straightens suddenly.

“Oh,” he says, too casually. “There she goes.”

Jungkook’s eyes snap up.

“What?!”

“She’s walking past,” Jimin adds, barely containing his grin.

Jungkook jumps to his feet, scanning the path just ahead of them.

He sees a group of students. A couple laughing. A guy with a skateboard. A girl in a floral skirt. Another in an oversized sweater.

But no one familiar.

No her.

“Where?” he demands, turning back to them.

Taehyung just shrugs, biting back a smile. “Hm. Maybe she slipped away again.”

Jimin’s grinning like the devil. “So mysterious.”

Jungkook stares at them.

And then slowly, slowly, sits back down, glaring at nothing.

“I hate you both.”

“You’re welcome,” Jimin says cheerfully.

Meanwhile — You, Just 20 Feet Away

You’re clutching a smoothie and telling Jenna that you swear to God if Yanni says the words “power move” one more time, you’re going to commit a crime.

You do not see Jungkook.

You do not see the crowd of girls.

You do not see your entire romantic fate spiraling out in a perfect storm of timing, ego, and extremely bad luck.

But you do hear Yanni’s voice crackling through your group chat ten seconds later:

YANNI [12:43PM] HE’S OUTSIDE RN. WALKING DISTANCE. I REPEAT: JEON JUNGKOOK IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE.

You pause. Look up.

“…The universe is playing games with me,” you mutter.

Jenna just takes your smoothie and sips like it’s none of her business. “Welcome to Act Two.”

Three Days Later – 12:19PM Campus Lawn, under the shade of an old oak tree

Yanni is dramatically slicing into her overpriced salad like it’s personally offended her.

“I swear to God,” she says, spearing a piece of lettuce, “if she doesn’t just tell him soon, I’m going to combust.”

“She doesn’t even want him to know!” Jenna laughs, peeling the wrapper off her sandwich. “She’s surviving off vibes and secondhand embarrassment.”

Across from them, lounging on the grass, Jimin snorts into his iced chai. “Honestly, mood.”

Taehyung is lying flat on his back, sunglasses on, using Jimin’s thigh as a pillow and holding his phone above his face like it’s too exhausting to lift it further.

“It’s better this way,” he hums. “Mystery. Intrigue. Emotional damage.”

Yanni points at him with her fork. “See? That’s the energy we’re all riding on.”

“I don’t know how she hasn’t just imploded,” Jenna says, sipping her drink. “She had a panic attack in the psych building bathroom yesterday because someone said Jungkook's name too loud.”

Taehyung laughs. “That could’ve been anyone.”

“No,” Yanni corrects. “She knew exactly how he said it. Deep voice. Tiny rasp. A little pouty. ‘Jungkook.’” She mimics it, exaggerated and ridiculous.

Jimin wheezes.

Taehyung props himself up on one elbow, turning to the girls with mock-serious eyes. “You guys are evil.”

“Thank you,” Yanni says, deadpan.

And then—

“You’re evil,” comes a familiar, slightly exasperated voice behind them.

All four turn.

Jeon Jungkook walks up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, black jeans, silver chain catching the sunlight.

He looks… tired.

Not in a tragic way. More like haunted by the choices that led him to this exact moment.

Taehyung lifts two fingers in a lazy peace sign. “Ah. The lover boy returns.”

Jimin just grins like Christmas came early. “How’s your army of imposters?”

Jungkook drops onto the grass with a groan. “Still growing. I got ambushed by three more girls outside the business building this morning.”

“Business building girls,” Jimin mutters. “That’s a bold demographic.”

“She said she left her earring in the closet with me,” Jungkook says, running a hand through his hair. “She was wearing cat ears.”

“Oh no,” Jenna whispers behind a laugh.

Yanni coughs into her drink.

Jungkook narrows his eyes at them. “Do I know you two?”

“Nope,” Yanni says, biting into a cherry tomato. “Just enjoying the show.”

Jenna shrugs, fighting a grin. “Free entertainment.”

Taehyung watches them both like he’s just realized something.

Jungkook leans back on his palms, legs stretched out, expression a mix of exhaustion and suspicion. “You guys ever regret making me post that?”

Jimin doesn’t even blink. “Nope.”

“I knew this would happen,” Jungkook mutters.

“You didn’t know people would create full conspiracy boards,” Taehyung points out. “Someone literally mapped out Closet Girl’s shoe print from the party photo.”

“Don’t forget the girl who recreated the closet,” Jimin adds. “Like. Bought a closet. Filmed a fake interaction.”

“God,” Jungkook groans, scrubbing his face. “I’m an idiot.”

He exhales through his nose, still half-distracted, when—

“Well, it’s even funnier,” Jenna says, not quite under her breath, “because she doesn’t even have socials.”

Yanni chokes on her soda.

Jimin and Taehyung both freeze mid-laugh.

And Jungkook— Whips his head around so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.

“Wait.”

Yanni slaps Jenna’s arm.

Jungkook’s eyes are wide. “You—” He points between them. “You know her?!”

Jenna blinks. “Who?”

“Closet Girl,” Jungkook says, sharp now, sitting up straighter. “You just said she doesn’t have socials—how would you know that?”

Yanni lifts her cup to her mouth, speaking through her straw. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“But it’s not,” Jungkook says, eyes narrowing. “You know who it is.”

He looks at Taehyung and Jimin like they’ve personally betrayed him. “You said you didn’t know!”

Taehyung holds up his hands, unbothered. “We didn’t say that.”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, already laughing. “We just didn’t say anything helpful.”

Jungkook glares. “You assholes.”

Yanni leans in, chin resting on her hand, absolutely loving this. “Why do you want to find her so bad?”

Jungkook hesitates. Just for a beat.

And then, quieter than expected, he says:

“…Because I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Taehyung blinks.

Jimin’s mouth parts a little.

Yanni and Jenna exchange a look.

“That was almost sweet,” Jenna says.

“Almost,” Yanni echoes.

Jungkook looks at them like he’s debating a crime. “Please. Just give me one clue.”

Jimin just smiles, stretching out on the grass again. “Mmm. No.”

“Not even her name?” Jungkook tries.

Taehyung grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Jungkook scrubs his hands over his face. “You people are evil.”

Yanni smiles sweetly. “We’ve been over this.”

After another beat of sulking, he finally stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

“You’re all the worst.”

“We know,” Jimin says, cheerful as ever.

Jungkook sighs, starts walking away— And turns back around.

“If she ever asks about me—”

“She won’t,” Yanni says.

“Okay, if she does,” he presses, “can you just tell her I’m not as annoying as I seem?”

“No promises,” Jenna says.

He groans again and walks off, muttering something under his breath.

The moment he’s out of earshot, the group erupts.

“THAT,” Jimin says, sitting upright, “WAS TOO CLOSE.”

Yanni fans herself. “I panicked, okay?! I didn’t mean to say it—he just appeared.”

“You almost ruined the whole thing!” Taehyung says gleefully. “But also… he’s losing his mind.”

“And she has no idea,” Jenna adds, grinning.

Jimin leans back with a content sigh. “This is better than television.”

Same Day — 4:42 PM Campus Library — Second Floor

The study area is quieter than usual, with just the occasional cough, a rogue phone vibration, or someone smacking their space bar like it owes them money.

You, Yanni, and Jenna are huddled around your usual table — highlighters scattered, tabs open, coffees half-melted. It’s productive chaos. Or it was, until Jenna froze mid-sentence.

“...Don’t look now,” she says, voice already breathless with suppressed panic, “but Jungkook and his friends just walked in.”

Your soul immediately ejects from your body.

“WHERE—”

“Don’t look,” Yanni hisses, stabbing her pen in warning. “You’ll give us away.”

You stare down at your laptop like you’re trying to astral project into it.

Footsteps shuffle closer, closer—

And then.

They sit at the table directly behind you.

Your chair is now back-to-back with Jungkook’s. There is a shared inch of air between you. You can feel the heat off his stupid, beautiful, back-in-black hoodie.

Jenna mouths OH MY GOD. Yanni is gripping her iced latte like she’s about to squeeze it into mist.

Across from Jungkook, Jimin and Taehyung sit — and the moment they spot Yanni and Jenna?

They grin. Smug. Pleased. Silent little devils. Not a word — not a wave — just the occasional flicker of laughter and shared glances while you sit there about to spontaneously combust.

“I swear to god,” Jungkook says behind you, low and miserable, “if one more girl corners me between classes and asks if I like strawberry lip gloss, I’m dropping out.”

“She had a presentation,” Jimin offers. “She brought visual aids.”

“She brought a poster board,” Jungkook groans. “With a QR code to her TikTok.”

“Impressive,” Taehyung hums.

Jungkook thumps his head gently on the table. “I just wanted to meet her. One girl. Now I can’t go to class without hearing someone yell ‘closet king’ at me.”

Yanni chokes into her drink.

You’re doing breathing exercises you learned in a freshman wellness seminar. They are not working.

“I hate all of you,” Jungkook mutters. “You said you’d help.”

“I did help,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious.

“You gave me nothing.”

“False,” Taehyung says, adjusting his sunglasses indoors like a menace. “We gave you... ✨context✨.”

Jungkook scoffs. “No. You gave me trauma.”

There’s a pause. Then, Jimin goes, “Fine. Want another clue?”

You tense so hard your back pops.

Jenna grabs your thigh under the table. Yanni is vibrating. Everyone is vibrating.

“Yes. Something real this time.”

“...She has elbows.”

There’s a pause.

A very long one.

“She has what?” Jungkook asks, flat.

“Elbows,” Taehyung says innocently.

You almost die.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook says slowly, like he's speaking to a small child, “everyone has elbows.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung nods. “She fits right in.”

Jimin is snorting into his hoodie sleeve.

You, meanwhile, are clamping your hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.

“Is this a joke to you?” Jungkook asks, exasperated. “Do you want me to suffer?”

“I’m not lying,” Taehyung says, clearly delighted. “She definitely had elbows. Two, even.”

“Wow,” Jungkook deadpans. “A girl with two elbows. I’ll just walk around campus asking people to show me their joints.”

Jimin shrugs. “Could work.”

Your hand is cramping from clutching your pencil so tightly. Yanni is in physical pain from holding in her laughter. Jenna scribbles onto her piece of paper, turning it to you.

THEY SAID ELBOWS. I’M LOSING IT.

Jungkook groans behind you, slumping so hard in his chair you feel it through the back of yours. “I’m going insane. I’m actually insane. This is what insanity feels like.”

“And yet,” Taehyung says, completely deadpan, “she walks among us.”

Jimin sips his drink with a smirk. “Right under your nose.”

Behind your screen, you scream silently. Jenna writes out another message:

RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE. THEY’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.

You’re certain of two things:

You will never emotionally recover from this.

Jungkook is going to need a therapist when he finally figures it out.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even turn around.

Not once. He gets up after ten minutes, mumbles something about “going to get gum,” and walks off—shoulders tense, head down, frustration rolling off him in waves.

The second he’s gone, your table explodes.

“I CAN’T,” Jenna whispers, doubled over.

“ELBOWS?!” Yanni wheezes. “HE’S GOING TO BE HAUNTED BY ELBOWS NOW.”

You drop your face into your arms. “If he finds out it was me, I’m changing schools.”

Jenna wipes a tear from her eye. “You’ll be a myth. A cryptid. A legend with joints.”

Taehyung and Jimin? Still sitting there. Still smirking. Still saying nothing.

Later That Night, Jungkook’s Dorm

“I’m not giving up,” Jungkook mutters, scrolling through his DMs.

“What are you even looking for?” Jimin asks from the other bed.

“Someone with elbows,” Jungkook mutters.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

The meeting room was too loud for how little anyone was saying.

Seungcheol sat at the head of the table, not speaking, just watching. His expression didn’t give much away—but those who worked under him knew the silence was dangerous. And the flick of his pen against the glossy report file? A quiet warning shot.

“Redo this,” he said, voice low and measured, but with an edge sharp enough to silence the room.

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t stay to hear excuses.

By the time he was back in his office, the ticking inside his head had grown unbearable. Deadlines, investors, expectations—stacked up like dominoes waiting to collapse. His fingers itched to loosen the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t. Not yet. He reached for his phone instead, already knowing who he needed.

He didn’t even think. Just pressed call.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hi, Cheol.”

His breath left him all at once. A slow, quiet exhale, as if he hadn’t realized how tight his chest had been until he heard her voice.

“…Hey,” he said, a little rougher than he intended.

“Tough day?” she asked softly, like she already knew. She always knew.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The sunlight streaming in through the blinds painted slats of gold across his sharp features, but they softened, ever so slightly, with each second of her voice in his ear.

“The usual,” he muttered. “Numbers didn’t add up. People didn’t listen. You’re the only thing making sense today.”

She laughed—gentle and warm. “I hope that’s not just the exhaustion talking.”

“It’s not,” he replied instantly, and the speed of his answer made her go quiet for a second.

His eyes fluttered open. He stared out the window at the city skyline, but it wasn’t the view that grounded him. It was her.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said after a beat. “I just… needed to hear you.”

“You never bother me.”

Silence stretched between them, but it was the kind that comforted, not strained.

“I wish I was there,” she added.

And God, he wished the same.

There were things he couldn’t say during the day. Not to his staff, not to anyone. He wasn’t cruel—just meticulous, precise. No-nonsense. And if that made people keep their distance, all the better. It made things easier.

Except when it came to her. With her, everything unraveled in the best way.

His shoulders finally slumped. “I’m in my office.”

“Lights off, sleeves rolled up?” she teased lightly.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know me too well.”

“I do.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then— “Talk to me,” he murmured. “Doesn’t matter what. Just… keep talking.”

So she did. She told him about her day, about the weird dream she had the night before, about the cat she saw perched dramatically on a taxi roof downtown. And Seungcheol—CEO, perfectionist, powerful—sat back and let her voice pour through the cracks of his armor like sunlight through broken blinds.

He didn’t need fixing. He just needed her. And somehow, without even trying, she was enough to make the world feel a little less loud.

The clock on the wall blinked 2:14 AM in soft red light.

Seungcheol unlocked the front door with a weary sigh, the click of the handle almost deafening in the stillness of the apartment. The kind of silence that stretched long after a day like his—after meetings gone sideways and numbers that danced too close to disaster.

He slipped his shoes off slowly, rolling his neck with a wince. Every muscle in his body ached from hours of tension, and all he had wanted by the end of it was to walk into the quiet, undisturbed dark and pass out.

But the lamp in the living room was on.

And so was she.

Curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around her like armor, feet tucked beneath her. She blinked drowsily up at him, eyes soft and warm and a little guilty.

“…Hi,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say it.

He blinked, not quite believing she was real for a moment. “You’re still awake?”

“You told me not to wait,” she murmured, pushing the blanket off her lap. “I tried. I really did.”

Seungcheol swallowed, guilt twisting somewhere low in his chest. He stepped closer, kneeling in front of her wordlessly.

“I didn’t want you to be tired,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You have your presentation tomorrow.”

“And you had the kind of day that would’ve driven anyone else to put their fist through a wall,” she countered softly, resting her hand over his. “I wasn’t going to sleep not knowing how you were doing.”

His jaw clenched—not from anger, but the effort of keeping his emotions in check. Her voice, even this late, still made him feel like the tension in his bones was finally loosening. She always had that effect on him.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” he said again, but this time it came out gentler, almost pleading.

She just smiled, the kind of tired smile that still felt like home. “And you shouldn’t have to come back to an empty apartment after a day like that.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that. Because she was right.

Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. Her hands came up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. He felt like he could finally breathe.

“I missed you,” he said, voice a whisper against her lips.

“I’m right here.”

And she was. Warm and real and everything good in his life.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing her in, her presence calming the storm still lingering beneath his skin. Eventually, she tugged him toward the couch, and he followed, letting her wrap the blanket around both of them. His head dropped to her shoulder, and for the first time all day, he let his guard down.

Not the CEO. Not the man everyone walked on eggshells around.

Just Seungcheol. Just hers.

And when she pressed a soft kiss to his temple and whispered, “You did your best today,” that was all he needed.

He finally closed his eyes.

The presentation had gone better than she expected.

There had been nerves—of course there had. The weight of all those eyes on her, the pressure to deliver something flawless after weeks of late nights and revisions. But the moment it ended, and the conference room erupted in polite applause, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

Relief washed over her in waves.

Still, as she walked out of the building, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only exhaustion behind. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, the mid-morning sun warming her cheeks.

And then she saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car, hair slightly tousled from the wind, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, sunglasses pushed into his hair. A paper bag in one hand, a drink carrier in the other.

And a bouquet of her favorite flowers cradled in the crook of his arm.

She froze, heart stuttering.

He looked up from his phone, then smiled when he saw her. The smile—the one that was just for her. The one he never wore in meetings or in boardrooms or in front of anyone else.

Her feet moved on instinct, almost running by the time she reached him.

“You—” she began, breathless. “What—?”

Seungcheol handed her the bouquet before she could finish.

“For your nerves,” he said casually, like showing up outside her office before 11AM with her favorite drink and a fresh raspberry croissant was normal. “And because I know you skipped breakfast.”

She blinked down at the flowers in her arms, the familiar colors and soft petals almost making her emotional. “Cheol…”

He held up the coffee. “Extra shot of vanilla. Just how you like it.”

She took it slowly, like if she moved too fast the whole moment might disappear.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said simply. “That’s why I wanted to.”

His voice was quieter now. More tender. “You did good today. I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, everything she’d been holding together all morning threatened to unravel. The late nights, the self-doubt, the mental notes scribbled at 2AM—it all felt worth it, just to hear those words from him.

“I didn’t think you’d be up,” she whispered.

He reached out, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t gonna miss this. Not after you stayed up for me.”

She smiled, blinking quickly to keep the tears at bay. “You’re unfair.”

“I know,” he said with a soft grin. “But I’m cute, so you’ll forgive me.”

“Barely.”

He chuckled, and then pulled her gently into his arms, careful not to crush the flowers. She melted against his chest, his scent grounding her in the quietest, sweetest way.

“I love you,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

His grip around her tightened. “I know. I love you too.”

The restaurant they headed to afterwards was the kind of place you didn’t find on Google Maps.

It didn’t need reviews. It didn’t need ads. The kind of place where your name alone got you a table—and Seungcheol’s name carried more weight than most.

Tucked into the top floor of an art gallery building, the restaurant opened out into floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. The air smelled of aged wine and freshly baked truffle bread. Gentle jazz played in the background, echoing off warm mahogany panels and velvet-draped walls.

When the hostess saw them walk in—his hand on the small of her back, her fingers curled into the front of his shirt—she bowed deeply, almost reverently.

“Welcome back, Mr. Choi. Your usual table?”

He nodded once, eyes flickering down to the woman beside him. “Yes. Thank you.”

Their table wasn’t in the center of the room. It was nestled into a corner, semi-enclosed by sheer drapes, with an uninterrupted view of the skyline. Private. Quiet. Safe.

And instead of sitting opposite her, Seungcheol guided her to the inside of the half-moon shaped booth, sliding in right beside her like it was second nature.

Because it was.

Their knees touched. Their shoulders bumped. His hand immediately found hers under the table.

“You’re really spoiling me today,” she said with a small laugh, glancing around at the gold-rimmed plates and the personalized menu printed with her name.

“You deserve it,” he said, simple as anything. “You killed it today.”

She blushed, tucking her face into his shoulder for a second before peeking up at him again. “So… just how expensive is this place?”

Seungcheol smirked. “You don’t want to know.”

“That bad?”

“Let’s just say…” he leaned in, brushing his nose against her temple, “I could’ve bought us a weekend in Paris. But you looked too pretty to make wait for a plane.”

She gawked at him, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Choi Seungcheol.”

“Worth it,” he said with a grin, catching her wrist and pulling her hand back to intertwine with his again. “Every cent.”

The waiter came and went like a ghost—present only to refill wine glasses and deliver each artful course with quiet precision. Caviar with crème fraîche. Handmade pasta rolled so thin it nearly dissolved on the tongue. Wagyu that melted the moment it touched her mouth.

But Seungcheol only had eyes for her.

“You always look at me like that,” she murmured at some point, cheeks still warm from the wine and the weight of his gaze.

“Like what?”

“Like I hung the stars.”

He tilted his head, thumb brushing her knuckles beneath the table. “Because you do. For me, you do.”

She couldn’t say anything to that without her heart falling out of her chest, so she leaned in and kissed him instead—just a short, sweet press of lips that left him smiling against her mouth.

“You know…” he whispered against her cheek, “if you ever want to quit your job and let me pamper you like this every day…”

“Nope,” she laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. “But I’ll let you keep feeding me wagyu if you insist.”

“Deal,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “But you have to keep looking this proud of yourself. I like this version of you.”

She turned her face slightly toward his neck, murmuring, “You bring it out of me.”

And so they sat—shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, the city beneath them, the world hushed around them—and for once, there were no meetings, no presentations, no pressure.

Just him. Just her. Just them.

You pause by the pastry case, pretending to consider a scone. It buys you time to glare at him with a level of passive aggression only caffeine deprivation can power. He doesn’t notice. He’s on the phone, murmuring something about image rights and venue capacity, wrist flicking as he gestures to someone who isn’t there. 

The barista, Felix, catches your eye. Offers a sympathetic shrug. This is the third time this week.

You settle at the small table near the bathroom. It wobbles. It always wobbles. You shove a napkin under the leg and mutter a curse that sounds polite. .

Seungcheol. That’s the name of the notorious seat-stealer. 

You learned his name from one of his calls, spoken with the clipped efficiency of someone used to being listened to. “Yes, this is Choi Seungcheol from Carat Company. Let me loop you in.” He says it like he’s not just looping someone in, but reeling them from the goddamn abyss. Like he’s personally saving the entertainment industry one Bluetooth earpiece at a time.

He always wears a suit. Not the stiff kind. Tailored, navy or charcoal, with subtle check patterns. The kind that whispers rather than shouts. The kind that makes you sit up straighter just being near it.

He orders an Americano. Never anything sweet. You know this because you’re close enough to hear him order, not because you’re listening. You’re not listening. You just… absorb things. By proximity.

He types like he means it. Fingers flying, brow furrowed. You once watched him for a full minute before realizing your tea had gone cold.

You don’t like him.

You don’t like that he’s taken your seat, your sunlight, your outlet. You don’t like that he seems to be having Important Conversations while you’re over here editing product descriptions for cat backpacks. You’re just about to settle for your second-best seat when disaster strikes.

Correction: Seungcheol strikes.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. With coffee.

It happens fast. One second, you’re adjusting your chair, the next, you feel a splat of lukewarm liquid soaking through the shoulder of your sweater. Your body jerks. Your mouth opens. Nothing elegant comes out.

“What the ever-loving fuck—” 

Seungcheol freezes. His cup is a crumpled paper carcass in his hand. The coffee is mostly on you, some on the floor, a tragic few drops clinging to his knuckles like guilt.

“I—oh no. No, no, no, I am so sorry,” he says, setting the mangled cup down like it might still be saved. “Are you okay? Did I burn you?”

There’s coffee dripping from your hair. “It’s fine,” you say, in the voice of someone who is not fine.

He winces. “That sounded like a lie.”

You glance down at your sweater. It was oatmeal-colored. Now it looks like oat milk with trauma. “I mean, no third-degree burns,” you say, standing. You shake your arm out. It flings a splatter onto a nearby bookshelf. “Just first-degree humiliation.”

He grabs a stack of napkins from the counter and starts dabbing at your sleeve with the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb.

“You really don’t have to—” you’re saying, but Seungcheol is relentless. 

“No, I do. I definitely do,” he blabbers, all that usual composure gone like the coffee he’s unceremoniously splashed you with. “I’ve basically assaulted you with caffeine. This is… wow. This is not how I usually network.”

You blink at him. “Network?”

He goes still. “That was a joke. I’m joking. This is a joke. I mean, the situation, not your… sweater.” 

You raise an eyebrow.

He flushes. A subtle pink, but obvious. He has the decency to look horrified at himself. “Oh my God. I mean, your sweater was nice. It is nice. I’m just going to stop talking.”

“That would be nice,” you say curtly, and then immediately feel bad about it.

Because he looks sheepish now. His shoulders have gone all slopey. He holds out the last dry napkin like a peace offering. You take it.

Felix, equal parts amused and exasperated, leans over the counter. “Do we need the mop again?”

“I deserve the mop,” Seungcheol mutters underneath his breath.

It’s set in stone. You really, really don’t like him. 

To your surprise, he keeps coming back.

Seungcheol, that is. The man who ruined your sweater and your dignity in one well-aimed Americano.

He returns to The Greeting Committee like nothing happened. Only now, he avoids the window seat. In fact, he avoids your whole half of the café. Sits near the potted ficus, headphones in, coffee clutched like a holy artifact.

You’d almost feel bad if it weren’t kind of funny.

There’s a silent detente. You don’t glare at him anymore. He doesn’t knock beverages into your lap. You coexist. Cautiously. Like squirrels.

Until, one Tuesday, it happens.

You’re halfway through an editing gig that involves correcting SEO tags for eco-friendly deodorant when Felix  appears with a pastry on a plate and a too-big smile. “From your secret admirer,” he says, setting it down with a flourish.

You eye the pastry warily. It’s round. Golden. Gleaming with honey. A little too perfect. “Is this a trick?” you ask.

“It’s from the Suit,” Felix stage-whispers, as if Seungcheol is in witness protection and not six feet away, pretending not to watch. You glance over. Seungcheol immediately looks down at his phone.

Felix nudges the plate closer. “He said you looked like you needed something sweet.”

Your eyebrows do something complicated. You pick up the pastry. It smells good. Really good.

You take a bite. It takes three seconds.

One to register the taste. Two to realize there are slivers of almond inside. Three to remember, with crystal clarity, what it was like to be poked and prodded as a child so your allergies could be found out. “Oh no,” you say around a mouthful of the croissant. 

“Oh no, it’s the best croissant ever—right?” Felix beams. 

You cough. “Not exactly.” 

And then all hell breaks loose.

Seungcheol’s chair scrapes violently against the floor. He’s by your side in less time than it takes your throat to tighten. You don’t realize you’ve dropped the pastry, that your face is turning that brilliant shade of anaphylactic pink. Felix is already halfway to the back counter, yelling something about the EpiPen he keeps near the register just in case.

“Breathe slowly,” Seungcheol says frantically, crouching beside you. “Wait, no, don’t breathe slowly. Or do? Should you breathe faster?”

You wheeze out something that sounds suspiciously like I am going to fucking kill you. 

Your attempted murderer looks stricken. His tie is slightly askew again, like stress physically unravels him. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I swear. Almonds. Why is it always almonds?”

Felix returns with the EpiPen like a knight with a sword. You brace for it. Seungcheol turns paler than the foam on his usual coffee. After the injection, after the flurry, after the adrenaline kicks in and your lungs start acting like lungs again, you sit back against the chair, heart thudding against your ribs.

Seungcheol hovers beside you, holding a water bottle. You would jokingly ask if that, too, had some slow-moving poison, if Seungcheol didn’t look sufficiently spooked.  “You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod, sipping the proffered water. “Yeah. Could’ve used a warning. Or a label. Or maybe a pastry without biological warfare.”

His laugh is helpless. “I was trying to be nice.”

“You nearly killed me.”

“But nicely.”

Felix, wiping the counter, calls over, “On the bright side, at least he didn’t spill the water on you!”

You and Seungcheol both groan.

You return two days later with a tight throat and a new sweater. Dark green. Nut-proof in spirit, if not in textile.

The Greeting Committee is half full. Quiet, save for milk steaming and a playlist that leans too hard on acoustic covers. You pick your seat—the window, as always. Felix waves with both hands, sheepish. You wave back with one, cautious.

Seungcheol is already there.

This time, he’s at the counter, pacing lightly, muttering to himself while staring at the pastry display. He points at something. Felix nods with visible hesitation. There’s a to-go box involved. A whisper. A squint. This feels... coordinated. Conspiratorial.

You brace.

When he approaches, he holds out the box like it might explode.

“Hi,” he says, tentative. “I come in peace.”

You stare at the box.

“It’s carrot cake,” he adds quickly. “I checked. Three times. No nuts. No hidden almonds. No sabotage. I even made Felix read me the ingredients out loud.”

“Did he cry?”

“A little.”

You gesture for the box. Open it. The slice is thick, aggressively frosted, and improbably orange. It smells safe. “Carrot cake,” you repeat.

“I Googled ‘pastries least likely to kill someone with allergies.’ That was top three.”

“That explains the pacing.”

He sighs, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Look, I swear I’m not usually this... destructive.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mmm.” 

“I mean it. I’m a functioning adult. I have a job. A dry cleaner. A filing system.”

“A coffee-related injury and a near-death croissant would suggest otherwise."

“Okay. Fair,” he huffs. “Look, maybe this is just… the universe telling me to leave you alone.”

You stare at him blankly, as if trying to agree with the universe’s supposed assessment. He shrugs and keeps talking—does this man ever shut up?—trying for breezy. Failing. “I mean, clearly, we can’t exist in the same proximity without one of us needing medical attention or therapy.” 

That gets you. A laugh slips out, involuntary. Quick and warm. You try to catch it, but it’s too late.

He freezes. It happens so fast you almost miss it. His whole face softening. Like the sound surprised him. Like he hadn't planned for the possibility of your amusement.

He looks at you, dazed. Eyes a little wide. Mouth a little open. Like you’ve told him a secret without speaking. “That was a laugh,” he says with the sort of reverence that belongs in cathedrals instead of this overpriced coffee shop.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. You pick up your fork. Take a cautious bite of the cake.

Safe.

He watches like he’s waiting for a verdict from a judge on Culinary Class Words. You chew. Swallow. Say, “This might be your least disastrous attempt yet.”

His grin breaks, full and boyish. The sun cracking through storm clouds. “So you’re saying there’s hope for attempt four,” he breathes. 

“I’m saying,” you huff, “don’t push it.” 

You look out the window to hide the smile threatening to fill your face.

Seungcheol stays looking at you.

You have a routine. Five days a week. Headphones in. Laptop open. Coffee always lukewarm by the time you remember it.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, has a rhythm. Three days if the stars align. Never the same ones. He’s a Monday-Wednesday guy. Then a Thursday-Saturday surprise. He shows up like a plot twist, wearing button-downs and the kind of watch that says my meetings run looong.

You’ve learned to expect him, even if you don't expect anything from him.

The greetings are polite now. Nods. Small smiles. He no longer treats your existence like a delicate diplomatic situation. You no longer imagine stapling his tie to the table.

Progress.

Some days he takes calls near the door, pacing like he’s afraid someone will steal the air. Other times, he just stares at his screen, typing fast, deleting faster. Once, you caught him playing Wordle with the focus of a man solving a hostage crisis.

You don’t talk. Not really. But you know when he’s had a rough day—he stirs his coffee too hard and forgets to say thank you to Felix. And you know when he’s having a good one, because he hums under his breath, terribly off-key.

One rainy afternoon, everything else is full. You’re already settled in. Window seat. Usual latte. Document open. Rain tapping the glass in a rhythm that matches your brain.

Seungcheol stands in the middle of The Greeting Committee like a man who’s lost his passport. Scans the tables. Sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. He approaches, cautious. Like he thinks you might hiss.

“Hey. Uh.” He gestures vaguely at the table. “Can I—?”

You glance around. Nothing else is open. Sighing, you give a jerky nod of acquiescence. He exhales and slides into the chair across from you.

There’s a moment. Awkward. Familiar. Like two commuters who ride the same bus but never speak. He sets down his drink. The usual plain Americano—probably scalding, probably vindictive. You go back to your screen. He goes back to pretending not to watch you type.

Five minutes in, you sigh. He looks up from his company-issued MacBook. “Something wrong?”

“Just this client,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. “Wants a brand voice that’s ‘youthful but ancient, fresh but nostalgic.’ Like a time-traveling Gen Z monk.”

He chokes on his drink. You glance at him, and he stumbles to explain, “Yeah. Just picturing a TikTok monk explaining skincare with Gregorian chants.”

You snort. It feels dangerous, this sharing. Even in passing. You type. He sips.

Time passes. The rain doesn’t. At some point, Felix drops off another slice of carrot cake. No note this time. Just a wink. Seungcheol catches your eye. “I figured it was safer than flowers,” he says with the shrug of a man trying to act calm, cool, and collected.

You poke your fork into the cake. “This your way of asking to sit here again?”

“I would never assume.”

“But you are assuming.”

He smiles, soft around the edges. “Only a little.”

You shake your head. Take a bite. Let the silence settle again. 

Not quite friendship. Not quite strangers. Something else. Something quietly growing between sips of coffee and shared space.

By late afternoon, the light slants golden through the windows, soft and syrupy. Your laptop screen reflects it back at you in glaring defiance. The carrot cake is half-eaten. The air smells like espresso and mild ambition.

You stretch. He cracks his knuckles. The silence has been comfortable, companionable—until he speaks. “So. Freelancing,” he says, testing the waters. “That’s just... vibing with deadlines?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “That’s rich coming from a guy who wears a wristwatch like it owes him rent.”

He lifts his coffee cup in a lazy toast. “Touché,” he hums. “But at least corporate structure keeps things predictable. Stable.”

“Stable? You get sixty Slack notifications an hour and call that stability?”

He winces. “Okay, yes. But there’s a paycheck. A health plan. A desk that isn’t being commandeered by an iced matcha spill.”

You level a look at him. “Are you judging my system?”

He glances at your spread: laptop, two notebooks, highlighters of questionable age, and a sticker-covered planner that might be more decorative than functional. “I would never,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow.

He grins. “Okay. Mildly.”

“You color-code your calendar and get passive-aggressive about Outlook invites,” you taunt. 

“You wound me.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Please don’t be mean to me,” he says, deadpan. “I get turned on when pretty girls are mean to me.”

The words hang in the air.

Your typing stutters. Seungcheol goes pale. Then pink. Then a shade of red that belongs in a fruit bowl. “That was—I didn’t—I meant it as a joke,” he stammers. 

You let out a low whistle. “Bold choice.”

“I panicked.”

You laugh. Loud, sudden, and unfiltered. It startles the couple next to you. Seungcheol looks like he might curl into his coffee mug and disappear. “Okay, okay,” you say, still smiling. “Let’s set some ground rules before this table implodes.”

He nods solemnly. “No horniness before five?”

“Four-thirty. I’m flexible.”

He exhales a laugh, hands up in surrender. “Understood.”

The sun slips lower. Your coffee is cold again. The world outside looks dipped in gold foil. Across from you, Seungcheol relaxes a little. You don’t look directly at him, but you know he’s smiling.

The next few weeks pass in soft edits.

No dramatic reveals. No sudden declarations. Just a slow, accidental choreography.

Seungcheol starts arriving earlier. Not every day, but often enough to make it a pattern. He never asks to sit with you. Not at first. He just hovers close, table-hopping like a caffeinated bee until one day he drops his laptop across from yours like it’s always been that way.

“Morning,” he says casually, as if this is not a minor emotional event.

“You’re in my eye-line,” you reply flatly.

“I’m in your heart-line,” he says, complete with finger guns and an exaggerated wink.

You blink.

He sips his coffee, very focused. “Sorry,” he grumbles, now appropriately shamed. “Still workshopping that one.”

It becomes a new bullet point in the routine. Shared table. Shared silence. Occasionally, shared WiFi when yours decides to enter a fugue state. Sometimes you squabble over seating. Sometimes you share pastries. Once, you both accidentally ordered the same scone and acted like it was a legal dispute.

“Just split it,” Felix suggested.

“Absolutely not,” you both said. (In the end, he let you have it.) 

Another time, Seungcheol caught you stress-doodling in the margins of your planner and started rating your sketches like a judge on a chaotic art show.

“This frog has emotional range.”

“That’s a pigeon.”

“Even better.”

The Greeting Committee becomes less a café and more a stage for the most low-stakes, high-tension sitcom known to man. One Thursday, though, Seungcheol brings someone with him.

You look up at the new arrival. Mid-twenties. Good bone structure. Nervous smile. The kind of person who says thank you twice just to be safe.

Seungcheol ushers her to a corner seat, sliding into professional mode like a second skin. Back straight. Voice low, reassuring. Hands used sparingly, deliberately. A talent he’s trying to recruit, you realize. 

He’s good at this. It shows.

You don’t eavesdrop. Not really. But your laptop screen is less interesting when he leans forward, nodding with the kind of attention that makes you feel seen by proxy.

You watch him talk about contracts and career growth like he believes in people. Like he sees possibility in them and is simply here to translate it to paper.

It makes you feel something.

Maybe admiration.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe the sudden realization that beneath the tie knots and tragic Americano habit, Seungcheol might actually be kind of brilliant.

He glances up mid-meeting and catches you watching. You look away, pretending to be fascinated by a blank spreadsheet. In the corner of your eye, you see him bite back a smile. 

Later, when the talent leaves, he slides into the seat across from you again, a little smug.

“You were staring.”

“I was judging.”

“You judge with very starry eyes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, but the heat in it is doused by whatever residual admiration you’ve been trying to fight down. 

“Too late,” Seungcheol sing-songs as he unpacks his things, readying to be your seatmate once more until five in the afternoon. “Already added it to my morning affirmations.”

It’s a Wednesday. The kind where the air smells like over-steamed milk and deadlines. The windows of The Greeting Committee are fogged at the edges, and the playlist is stuck somewhere between folk optimism and indie despair.

You’re halfway through your second coffee and the fourth paragraph of an email you’ve rewritten five times when Seungcheol walks in. He looks like someone who lost an argument with his alarm clock, his inbox, and possibly God.

His tie is loose. His hair is defying gravity in three directions. He drops his briefcase three tables away and immediately starts pacing with his phone pressed to his ear.

“No, I said the 17th, not the 7th,” he says, voice a low, stressed hiss. “Yes, because they’re filming in Thailand, not, I don’t know, the moon.”

He hangs up. Sits for all of five minutes. Stands. Sits again. Calls someone else. Wash, rinse, repeat.

You try to focus. You really do. But there’s something magnetic about watching a usually unflappable man unravel like a department store sweater. “Not worried,” you mutter to yourself, clicking back to your work. He’s fine. Just corporate molting. 

But then you hear him exhale. Hard. He rubs his eyes like the day is a contact sport, and you feel a twang of sympathy because you’re not a goddamn monster.

You walk up to Felix, who’s wiping down the espresso machine with the casual grace of someone who moonlights as a Disney prince. You slip him a five.

“What’s this for?”

“A carrot cake emergency.”

He glances at Seungcheol, eyebrows lifting.

“Make it look natural,” you add. “No obvious charity. Just… coincidence.”

Felix winks and executes the drop with spy-level precision. Mid-call, Seungcheol barely notices the plate until the scent catches up to him.

He pauses. Looks down. Then up, but not at Felix.

Right at you.

He smiles. Not the usual cocky smirk or the teasing grin. No. This one is quieter. Warmer. A tight-lipped gratitude that has your traitorous heart skipping a beat. Maybe two. 

He mouths, Thank you.

You raise your mug in reply.

He takes a bite. For the first time that day, his shoulders drop. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens. Like cake under a fork. The café hums around you—a gentle orchestra of foam, glass, and familiarity.

You go back to your laptop, a little smile playing on your lips. Still not worried, of course. Merely bservationally invested.

You pack up as the sun angles lower in the window, slanting gold across your keyboard. The drone of the café shifts with the hour. A quieter crowd now, more book than laptop, more wine than espresso. You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to melt into the early evening.

You’re halfway to the door when Seungcheol calls your name. He’s still at his table, carrot cake reduced to crumbs, a little less frazzled than before. He jogs to catch up, a hand running through his hair, trying and failing to tame it.

“Thanks,” he says, a little out of breath. “For the cake drop. Very subtle. Almost untraceable.”

You feign innocence. “No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe Felix just really likes you.”

“Yeah, he also gave me a drawing of a frog once. But I have a feeling this was you.”

You shrug. “I prefer plausible deniability.”

He smiles. That damned smile again. Not practiced, not perfect. Real. “It helped,” he confesses. “More than I thought it would.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward, more aware. Then he gestures toward the street. “You headed home? Want a ride?” he offers. 

For a flicker of a moment, you feel panic. Real, dumb, heart-skipping panic. It’s stupid, but there’s only so much changes to the routine that you can manage. 

You shake your head too quickly. “Oh—no, I’m good. I like the walk. Clears the head. You know. Air. Legs. Exercise. The usual.”

Seungcheol tilts his head to one side, amused. “Right. Wouldn’t want to deprive your legs.”

You wince. “That came out weird.”

“A little.”

You make a vague getaway motion with your thumb. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Or whenever your Google Calendar allows.”

He steps back with a hand over his heart. “Rejected. Brutally,” he says, probably half-serious in his petulance. “I’ll add it to the long list of things humbling me today.” 

You laugh, finally breathing again.

He grins. “Get home safe, leg defender.”

You toss him a wave as the door jingles shut behind you, the night warm and a little kinder than before.

The next time, though, it’s your turn to fray. 

Not frayed like the fashionable kind, like the artfully undone cuffs of your oldest hoodie. No. Frayed like a wire that’s been chewed on, left buzzing and dangerous, held together by the last threads of caffeine and hope.

You take your usual seat by the window, laptop open but untouched. There’s a tab open for invoices and another for a brand guideline doc you swear was written by an alien. The client has emailed five times since sunrise. Each message contradicts the last. You can’t even be mad anymore. Only tired.

The Greeting Committee smells like cinnamon and second chances. Felix slides your drink over with a gentle smile. It doesn’t help much.

Seungcheol arrives half an hour later, still slightly windblown, suit jacket over one arm. He spots you, hesitates, then sits at the table beside yours.

“Hey,” he says, carefully. “You look industrious.” 

You grunt.

He peeks at your screen. “Stressed from freelancing?” he says, aiming for a friendly jab. “Didn’t know that possible. I thought you’d have it easier, you know. Not having to deal with soul-crushing clients.”

It hits wrong. Off-key. The joke doesn’t land; it crash lands.

You glance up. Maybe he sees the sharpness in your jaw, the sheen in your eyes. Maybe not. You stand abruptly, chair scraping a little too loud against the floor. “Excuse me,” you say, voice too even.

You retreat to the bathroom. Lock the door. Breathe once. Twice. And then it happens.

Your chest caves, just a little. The tears come fast and hot. Not the kind you can blink away. These are stubborn, panicked, silent sobs. Messy ones. The kind you don’t want anyone to see.

You wash your face after. Pat your cheeks until they stop looking flushed, though they don’t. Your eyes are still red, like you lost a fight with a mascara wand and your own emotional stability. 

When you emerge, the café looks the same, but something has shifted. Seungcheol looks up immediately. He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches you, eyes soft, mouth slightly open like he started a sentence but forgot how to finish it. There’s none of his usual machismo. He just looks like someone kicked his favorite puppy.

You sit back down, mute. Felix gives you a glance, like he’s debating giving you a cookie. You shake your head. Not today.

Seungcheol clears his throat, shifts, but says nothing.

The silence is a kindness. So you let it be.

You go back to your screen and pretend to work. Seungcheol stays in his seat beside you. Quiet, still, and present.

He doesn't come by the next day. Or the one after.

It shouldn’t matter. And yet, your eyes flick to the door more than they should. There’s a particular flow you’ve both unconsciously followed, a choreography built of glances and coffee steam, shared space and sidelong banter. You miss it. Or him. Or whatever weird, ambiguous thing he is.

On the third day, though, he returns.

You feel him before you see him. His presence has a particular gravity, like someone dragged in a suitcase full of decisions and contradictions. He walks up, eyes careful, a coffee in each hand.

“Peace offering?” he says, nudging one cup toward you.

“Is it poisoned?” you ask, trying not to sound too pleased at his reappearance. 

“Only with charm and sincerity.”

You take it. He sits. Not at the next table. Not across the room. But right across from you. “Okay,” he says, settling in. “I want to understand what you do. Freelancing. The whole… lifestyle."

“You mean the glorious, cobbled-together hustle powered by imposter syndrome and caffeine?” you throw back, 

“Exactly,” he grins. “That.”

You peer at him. “Don’t you have a mountain of corporate souls to harvest today?”

He leans back, eyes closed dramatically. “Took an emergency leave.”

You stare. “An emergency leave. For freelance empathy research.”

“And because my boss told me I was breathing too loudly on calls. Also that I needed to stop quoting BTS lyrics in pitch decks. But yes. Research.”

You snort despite yourself. “Fine,” you say, gesturing to your screen. “Give me an hour. I have to finish this edit before my client finds another designer who doesn’t cry in public bathrooms."

He lifts both hands in surrender. “No rush. I’m just here to sponge up wisdom and avoid responsibility.”

You nod once, then dive into your screen, fingers tapping in a slow, precise rhythm. Every so often, you feel his gaze. Like he’s watching someone solve a puzzle he never knew existed. You finish the edit in record time, hit send, close your laptop with a satisfying click.

He perks up. “That it? Are we about to enter the magical world of self-employment lore?”

You stretch, then take a long sip of your not-poisoned coffee. “Welcome to hell, Seungcheol. There are no benefits, but sometimes people send you cheese in the mail."

He grins, eyes lighting up. “Sounds oddly romantic.”

“It’s a lifestyle of extremes.”

For the first time in days, the air between you feels loose again. You tell him all the details. The ability to work from wherever, at the price of the constant availability. The power to pick and choose your battles. The legal threats issued when you’re not paid on time. Seungcheol is expressive; he shuttles from amusement and horror every so often. 

As you close up your tirade, you rest your chin on your palm and squint at him over the rim of your cup. “So what are you like outside the nine-to-five costume party?” 

He hums. “Define ‘outside.’”

“The part of the day where you're not actively recruiting K-pop idols or quoting RM at your boss.”

He taps his fingers on the table, mock-pensive. “Well. I play padel.”

You actually flinch. “Of course you do.” 

“And indoor golf,” he adds, almost sheepish.

“You absolute LinkedIn man.”

He gasps, fake-offended. “Take that back.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me you use Notion to organize your fridge.”

“That was one time. And the color-coding was inspired.”

You point at him, triumphant. “I knew it.”

He chuckles, leans in a little like he can't help it. “And what do you do outside of crying over client feedback and judging my recreational habits?”

“I doodle in margins. Watch bad reality TV and pretend it’s for character study. Occasionally rearrange my bookshelf like it’s therapy,” you answer as you roll your shoulders. 

He nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

You tilt your head. “You know, you’re very defensive about your Very Normal Corporate Hobbies.”

“You asked. I answered.”

“You answered like a man who has a separate gym bag just for tennis whites.”

“Only on weekends.”

You laugh, louder than intended. A few heads turn. Seungcheol watches you, smile stretching slowly, like he’s soaking it in.

“So,” he says, after a beat. “You want to know me, huh?”

You bite back a grin. “You’re the one who took emergency leave to decode the mysteries of my working habits.”

“But you’re asking the personal questions.”

You go to sip your coffee again but pause mid-air. Okay. Fair. You set your mug down. “Maybe I do. Want to know you.”

He blinks, surprised. You swear there’s a slight flush to his ears. “Wow,” he says, voice lighter. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s purely investigative.”

“Of course. For science.”

“For society.”

“For the greater good.”

You both grin into your drinks. For a moment, it feels easy again—like maybe you’re two people in a café, not an ironic universe crashing softly into each other. Just you, him, and the slow unfurling of something not yet named.

You start bringing extra pens, just in case he forgets his again. He never asks, but he always takes them, twirling the cap between his fingers as if it’s part of his pitch strategy. You pretend not to notice the way he always slides it back across the table when he leaves, perfectly aligned with your notebook.

He starts remembering how you like your coffee. Not the way you order it, but the way you drink it. When it should be sweet, when it needs to be strong. He doesn’t ask. Just shows up with a cup that tastes like exactly the kind of day you’re having.

Once, you swap playlists. He laughs at your affinity for melancholic ballads and sends you one too many motivational bops in return. You retaliate with obscure indie rock. He retaliates harder with vintage K-pop. It spirals quickly.

Your seating becomes a ritual. You gravitate toward each other like satellites, or maybe like rival planets that keep brushing orbits. Not always talking, but near. Comfortable in the shared silence of productivity, in the occasional sarcastic quip lobbed across laptops.

Then, one Thursday, you can’t make it. A meeting across town. A cousin’s birthday. Something outside the orbit. You don’t text. It’s not that kind of arrangement.

The next day, you return to The Greeting Committee, windblown and half-apologetic for reasons you can’t name. Felix greets you at the counter with a too-wide grin.

“Someone was a little antsy yesterday,” he says, sliding your usual across the bar.

Your brow furrows. “Antsy?”

Felix leans in, tone conspiratorial. “Your boy was pacing,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Kept checking the door like a golden retriever who lost his owner at the park. Ordered three espressos and didn’t drink any of them.”

You don’t even have the energy to clock Felix for calling Seungcheol your boy. You glance over to your usual table. Seungcheol is there. Head down. Pretending he can’t hear Felix. He’s gone stock-still.

You approach slowly. “Three espressos?”

Seungcheol already has his face buried in his hands. “I hate him,” he groans. 

You set your things down. “Were you worried about me?”

“I was... mildly alarmed that my study subject had vanished,” he mumbles. “For science.”

You grin at the now-inside joke. “For society.”

He squints at you from between his fingers. “I should’ve taken another emergency leave.”

“Better clear it with HR.”

He sighs dramatically, then glances at you. “Glad you’re back.”

Your heart stumbles. “Yeah,” you murmur, trying not to smile too much. “Me too.”

The day stays with you.

Like a bit of sugar stuck on your lip, or a phrase you can’t remember the origin of. It trails behind you into the evening, clings to your sweater the next morning, settles in the folds of routine. His face, half-horrified under Felix’s grin. The way he said glad you’re back. Too casual. Too real.

It sits beside you when he doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next. Or the three after that. By day six, you’ve graduated from confused to mildly insulted. Not that it matters. Not that you care. Not that you check the door every time it opens.

You try to reason with yourself. He has a job. A corporate one. With meetings. Flights. Possibly a high-stakes padel tournament. But still, the café feels off-kilter without him. Like one chair always pulled out too far.

Day eight, you’re settled into your seat—headphones in, deadlines glaring—when a shadow flits across your screen. You look up.

He’s back. Tan coat, navy slacks, guilty smile. Holding a coffee cup like a peace treaty.

You don’t look up again. Not really. Just enough to let him pass. You type a little more pointedly than usual. Sip your drink a touch too loud. “Okay,” he says eventually, dropping into the seat across from you with a sigh. “Are we doing this?”

You don’t stop typing. “Doing what?”

“This thing. Where you pretend not to notice me because I disappeared for a week.”

You arch a brow. “You disappeared?” you ask, even though the tick of your jaw gives away your feigned nonchalance. 

“I had a work trip,” he says, halfway exasperated. “I didn’t fake my own death.”

“Would’ve been less dramatic.”

He exhales a laugh, then leans forward, arms on the table. “You know, we could exchange numbers. Save you the emotional labor next time.”

You glance at him. He’s smirking. Just a little. But there’s a hopefulness under it, peeking out like socks that don’t match.

“You think I want your number?” 

“No. I think you want me to want your number.” 

You snort. You hate it when he’s right. Wordlessly, you hold out your hand; he stares at it like it’s some sort of bomb. 

“Phone,” you say dryly. “Before I change my mind.”

He fumbles it out, unlocking it with shaking fingers. You type in your number, add your name, and for no good reason, a croissant emoji. You hand it back. “There,” you huff. “Now next time you vanish, I can file a formal complaint.”

He grins, and it’s a little too wide for his face. A little too happy to be friendly. “I’ll have my people forward it to legal.”

You finally meet his eyes.

It feels like stepping into warm light.

Your phone buzzes, mid-sip, mid-scroll, mid-holding-back-a-yawn. A text. From Seungcheol. Who is, rather notably, sitting four feet in front of you.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:03 PM]: did you sleep last night or are you just naturally corpse-chic today?

You look up. He’s got the gall to raise his brows at you over his laptop, like he didn’t just insult you through cellular waves. Like this is normal behavior for a grown man in business casual.

You respond with a slow, deliberate middle finger under the table. He grins. Felix swats you both and murmurs something about children being around. 

The next day, Seungcheol does it again.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:25 PM]: is that your third cup? do i need to stage an intervention or just sponsor it as a startup?

This time, you reward him with a middle finger emoji. Something a little more permanent, and a lot less damning to Felix. Seungcheol’s responding cough is suspiciously laughter-adjacent.

It becomes a rhythm, a beat stitched between sips and keystrokes. You never text outside of The Greeting Committee. Not once. But inside its sun-drenched walls, with the clatter of cups and the low hum of indie folk, you have your own thread. A quiet thing. A private game.

Sometimes, it’s teasing.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:43 PM]: felix gave you the bigger muffin. favoritism.

Sometimes, it’s curious

Seungcheol ☕ [3:10 PM]: what are you working on today? looks serious. also your nose scrunches when you’re focused.

Sometimes, it’s borderline sentimental:

Seungcheol ☕ [5:04 PM]: i like mondays better now.

You don’t always respond.

Sometimes you just smile, or shake your head, or raise an eyebrow that says you’re on to him. Sometimes he takes that as victory. Sometimes he gets mock-wounded.

You pretend not to notice the way he watches your face light up, but you do. You always do.

You don’t know what to make of it—this strange little performance. This theater of text bubbles and muffled laughs. But your fingers start lingering over your phone when he walks in. Your heart bumps when it buzzes. You catch yourself rereading his old messages when he’s in the restroom.

You know it isn’t just caffeine making you giddy, no matter how badly you want to make the claim.

Seungcheol doesn’t come in one morning. You notice before the door finishes not opening.

Felix does, though, gliding past your table with a steaming latte and a smirk like he knows a secret. He wipes down the counter with theatrical flair before leaning over it to say, “So. Are you two ever going to get together, or should I just start a betting pool?”

You laugh. Too quickly. Too high. “We’re not—” You wave your hand in a vague gesture that means something like, Don’t be ridiculous, but also, maybe, Please don’t ask me that when I haven’t had my coffee.

Felix raises both eyebrows and hums. “Sure. Okay. Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You spend the next thirty minutes trying to focus on your screen and not on the vacant corner of the cafe where Seungcheol’s laptop usually glows and his stupid phone buzzes with texts he won’t say out loud. It’s like trying to work with half your keyboard missing. Or your second favorite limb.

Around lunchtime, when the loneliness gets just a touch too loud, you do something unhinged.

You open LinkedIn.

It starts off innocent. Curious, even. You want to see what he looks like in a professional headshot. You want to know if his job title is as unnecessarily long as you suspect. (It is. “Senior Talent Acquisition Specialist & Strategist, Creative Industries Division.” Ugh.)

You scroll through his accolades, which are infuriatingly impressive. Fluent in three languages. Led multiple region-wide talent campaigns. There’s a photo of him at some conference, smiling and mid-sentence, looking… God, competent. That’s, unfortunately for you, really hot. 

You hate how charming his bullet points are. You hate that he probably made a slide deck about them. You close the app. You reopen it. You check his endorsements.

And then, as you're packing up, phone zipped away, pretending like you haven’t spiraled into corporate espionage, your screen lights up.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: you know i have linkedin premium, right? i can see who views my profile.

Your soul leaves your body. You stop dead, laptop halfway into your tote. Another buzz.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: did you miss me that bad?

A third, before you can reply:

Seungcheol ☕ [2:23 PM]: you could’ve just texted, you little coward.

You type back with trembling thumbs.

You [2:25 PM]: You should be banned from the internet.

He sends a smirking emoji, and the emoji with hearts on the face. 

You hate him. You hate that you’re smiling. You hate that your heart is fluttering like it just got a calendar invite to something thrilling.

You slide your phone into your bag. It buzzes again. You leave it there. 

You don’t need to check it to know exactly who it is.

The next time you see Seungcheol, he’s already sitting at your table.

He has the audacity to look smug, half-grin tilting upward as you approach, coffee in hand and dignity in tatters. “Hope you found what you were looking for on my profile,” he says without preamble.

You set your cup down with deliberate care. “Actually,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him, “I did. Very informative. I especially liked the bit where you led a cross-functional recruitment initiative. That was hot.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he chokes on his Americano.

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your latte with practiced coolness. “What?”

He coughs into his sleeve. “Nothing,” he wheezes. “Just didn’t realize I had a fan.”

You tilt your head. “LinkedIn says you’re results-driven. I just wanted to see if you lived up to the branding.”

He goes very still. There’s a beat, then another, and then his ears go pink. It’s kind of glorious. He clears his throat, fiddling with the lid of his cup like it’s suddenly become complicated engineering.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses. 

This, as in corporate flirting? “Immensely,” you chirp. 

He lifts his gaze just long enough to give you a look that says two can play this game, but not very well, apparently. “You know, I was going to bring you a croissant to make fun of you gently, but now I’m reconsidering.”

“Fear is the beginning of wisdom,” you say, quoting something you may or may not have pulled from a fortune cookie.

He groans softly, but there’s laughter behind it. There always is, lately. He looks at you a little too long, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment. You feel it, the shift—somewhere between banter and something gentler, something a little more reckless. But then he breaks the moment, leaning back with a crooked grin.

“Remind me to revoke your internet access,” he says.

“Try it,” you say. “I dare you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

The evening’s already blushing gold by the time Seungcheol says, “Let me walk you home tonight.”

It’s casual, tossed in like garnish. But there’s a new kind of weight to it. Not the kind that sinks, but the kind that anchors.

You sip the last of your lukewarm latte and reply, “Okay. But we’re walking. No car. It’s only twenty minutes, and you need the humility.”

He squints like you’ve personally offended his shin splints. “Twenty minutes? That’s practically cardio.”

You stand, grab your tote, and shoot him a look. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

He groans but follows, waving a lazy goodbye to Felix, who grins way too knowingly.

The air outside is warm with the memory of the sun. The streets are still holding onto their buzz, slow and syrupy. You walk side by side, his arm brushing yours just often enough to register. He doesn’t make a show of it. That would be too easy.

At the end of the block, you turn left instead of right.

Seungcheol pauses. “Hey. That’s not the way to your place. Unless you’re secretly living behind the dumpster.”

You shrug. “Need to make a stop.”

His eyes narrow. “Is this how it happens? You lure me out, make me walk, then finish me off behind a coffee shop? Classic femme fatale behavior.”

“Stop being dramatic,” you sigh. “I’m feeding someone.”

You lead him to the back of The Greeting Committee, where the air smells like cooling bricks and old pastries. There, curled beneath a battered crate and a weather-worn sign, is a stray tabby blinking lazily up at you.

“This is Pumpkin,” you say, crouching to pull a packet of wet food from your bag as if it’s completely normal to carry gourmet feline meals in a tote next to your charger and existential despair.

Seungcheol just stares. “You—what—is that tuna mousse?”

“Chicken and pumpkin puree,” you correct. “He has a sensitive stomach.”

The tabby slinks forward, mewling. You set the food down, and Pumpkin immediately goes to town. Seungcheol is still watching, expression somewhere between disbelief and awe. “You do this every day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Most days. Felix lets me stash a few cans under the sink. He pretends not to know.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, crouching beside you. His knees crack with such dramatic flourish you can't help but look at him. “I’m too young to make those sounds,” he mutters.

“Corporate life ages you.”

He glances at you. “So does pining after someone who makes fun of your LinkedIn.”

You pretend to study Pumpkin more closely. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, it is,” he says, and his smile feels like the first sip of something warm on a cold morning.

The two of you watch Pumpkin finish off his meal. You could probably get going, but you quite like seeing Seungcheol—immaculately pressed suit, Aventus Creed Seungcheol—crouched in a random alleyway, watching a cat with immense concentration. Makes him look more human, less robot. 

Pumpkin mewls appreciatively at you as he finishes off his meal. The stray gives Seungcheol a hiss that suspiciously sounds like a warning. It doesn’t really make sense until you get to your feet, Seungcheol in tow, and you realize he’s giving you a Look. The preemptive kind that warns of something ahead. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

“Like pet the cat even though he’ll hiss at you again?” you say, because it’s easier to joke about things than take anything seriously. 

He takes a breath. His gaze flicks to your lips. “Worse.”

And then, before you can ask, Seungcheol says, “Sorry,” like it’s the preamble to a crime scene, and leans in.

The kiss is not polite. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test or a maybe.

It’s the undoing of a thousand little silences.

Your back hits the wall. You let out a surprised sound, half laugh, half breathless awe. The alley smells like coffee grounds and rain-slicked pavement. His tie is the first casualty; you tug it loose and toss it over a bike rack without ceremony. Seungcheol groans into your mouth. His hands are warm and everywhere, grounding you while one of your legs hitch over his waist. 

You taste his Americano on his tongue, bergamot from his cologne, and something sharper that must be everything he hasn’t said. The way he kisses you like an overdue confession. You don’t stop to think about the logistics. Or the implications. Or whether Pumpkin the cat is scandalized.

You just think about how this man—who wears suits to cafés, who once made you cry with a poorly timed joke, who texts you across the room just to see you smile—is kissing you, like the world might end if he doesn’t.

Your breath is still caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat when he pulls back. Not fully, not even really. Just enough for air to cool your lips, for the night to slip between your mouths, for you to hear him say, between peppered kisses along your jaw and neck, “I’ve dreamt of doing that since the moment I saw you in that damn cafe.”

You let your head tip back against the brick wall. “You can’t call it love at first sight,” you murmur, voice wobbly but amused. “This isn’t some drama your company produced, Choi.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He says it with no real bite, his mouth still brushing against your throat. “But I’ve known I wanted to kiss you since I laid my fucking eyes on you, so what does that make me?”

You choke on a laugh. It bubbles between your ribs, tangled with the aftershock of his lips and the humiliating truth that you’d let him keep kissing you all night if he wanted.

Your fingers are still laced in the lapels of his coat. His hands—well, one is braced against the wall behind your head and the other has begun to roam with alarming curiosity, curling possessively at your waist, tugging you flush against him like he could make up for the months lost in one touch.

It’s reckless. A little indecent. Unwise in about seventeen different ways.

You kiss him again anyway, because you’re not a coward. But when his thumb slips under the hem of your shirt and your knees actually threaten mutiny, you pull back, panting, forehead resting against his.

“We can’t be like teenagers groping each other in an alleyway,” you whine. 

He grins widely, a little wild around the edges. “Why not?”

You push gently at his chest, which is about as effective as shoving a tree. “Because I live around the corner, and I have dignity.”

“Debatable,” he murmurs, but he steps back all the same. The loss is enough to almost make you sob. 

You grab his hand, and tug him along. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go make more questionable decisions in the comfort of my very adult, very allergy-safe apartment,” you manage. 

He hastily grabs his tie with his free hand. “If there’s carrot cake, I might propose.”

“There’s vodka in the freezer.”

“Close enough.”

The two of you make it to your apartment in record time, breathless and disheveled, a tangle of limbs that barely manages to key open the door. You’re laughing, the kind of laugh that shakes with adrenaline.

Your back hits the inside of the door before it even closes properly, and Seungcheol is already kissing you again. Less alleyway, more frantic prayer. His hands at your hips, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt, all coordination gone to hell.

“Wait… we should talk,” you try, mouth brushing against his as you speak. Your hands are on his collar, but your words are trying to wrangle the last of your common sense.

He nips at your jaw. “We will.”

Your jacket slips off your shoulders. His tie joins it on the floor. “Seungcheol,” you say with more force, stepping back as much as he lets you. “We can't make out for three episodes and then just forget to have a conversation."

His shirt is halfway undone, and his hair’s in beautiful, stupid disarray. He pauses then, forehead against yours. His breath is still shallow. So is yours. “You’re right,” he says. “This shouldn’t be like the dramas.”

Your heartbeat is in your throat. “So?” you choke out. 

He exhales. It rumbles against your sternum, where your bodies are still close enough to feel the echo. “So we do both. We kiss first, talk after. We do it all. As long as neither of us runs.”

Your hand stills against his chest. It would be the easiest thing to make a joke—say something coy, derail the tension with a smirk and a shrug. But Seungcheo’s eyes are honest in a way that leaves no room for denial. No games, no marketing language, no curated storylines. Just him, a man still half-dressed and fully sincere.

“Deal,” you decide, and then you kiss him again.

It carries you all the way to the couch, to the warmth of pressed skin and the ridiculousness of two adults trying not to knock over a lamp while tangled in each other. You tell yourself you’ll talk after. You will.

But right now, there’s nothing but the soft thud of clothes hitting your floor and the sound of Seungcheol whispering your name.

You wake up to sunlight smeared across your floor like a crime scene. The throw blanket is wrapped halfway around your thigh, a heel of it digging into the couch cushion. You blink. The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that knows something is missing.

Seungcheol is gone.

Not vanished. His shoes are gone, his jacket too, but he’s left a note. Folded in half and propped up against your half-empty water glass like a tiny paper tent.

Didn’t want to wake you. You looked criminally peaceful. Not running, just got dragged into an early meeting. I owe you coffee. And at least three kisses. Minimum. — Choi (Not A Flight Risk) Seungcheol

You stare at it for a beat too long. It’s charming. Earnest, even. The ink slightly smudged where he might’ve hovered too long over the word criminally. But your chest feels taut. Like a rubber band wound too tight around something soft.

Your phone buzzes.

Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: i meant what i said. i’m not disappearing. Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: also, how do you feel about bagels? asking for a future breakfast. Seungcheol ☕ [7:22 AM]: also pt2: you drool in your sleep. it’s very cute.

You chuckle. Which turns into a sigh. Which turns into you setting the phone face down and pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

It’s not the leaving, exactly. You understand work. You understand early meetings and obligations and shoes that need to be polished. It’s the ache of the aftermath. The warmth of him still clinging to your sheets and skin, and the chill of the apartment now that he’s no longer in it.

How easily he’d done it. How easily he could still do it, if he wanted to. In the imminent future. 

You move through the morning like someone wearing someone else’s shoes. Make coffee, forget to drink it. Brush your teeth, stare too long in the mirror. You’re not angry. But there’s something like bitter lodged in the back of your throat, and it won’t quite go down.

Later, at your at-home desk, he sends a selfie from a conference room. Half his tie is undone, and someone’s arm is motioning animatedly beside him, blurred in mid-gesture.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:30 PM]: currently dying. cpr not required unless administered by you.

You do laugh. A little. Quietly. Still, the unsettled thing inside you rolls over, sighs. Unimpressed.

You wonder, absurdly, if he’s kissed anyone else like that in an alleyway. If he’s made out with a woman behind a coffee shop, all suit and stubble and soft declarations. If he’s left notes for other people, claiming they looked criminally peaceful.

You know it’s silly. But that doesn’t stop the wondering, or the weight of wanting more.

You text him back something flippant. Light. Exactly the tone he always teases you for having.

You [2:02 PM]: If you die in that meeting, I’m keeping your coffee points.

It earns you a photo of his exaggerated gasp, hand to chest like a silent movie star. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach where it has to. 

You don’t go to The Greeting Committee the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

At first, you tell yourself it’s because you need a change of scenery. The café chairs were always a little too firm, anyway. And there are so many other places to try! Like that plant-filled co-working space that smells faintly of eucalyptus and overly ambitious startups. Or your kitchen table, which wobbles like it’s been cursed by a very specific and petty god.

But the truth is less glamorous. The truth is, you miss him. And missing him makes you squirm. You don’t know what to do with that kind of intimacy—the kind that follows you home, seeps into your dreams, and then sends you sweet messages about bagels as if it didn’t completely undo you.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:09 PM]: missing my coffee buddy. when am i seeing you again?

You reply an hour later.

You [5:10 PM]: Got a deadline this week. Might be a while.

The next day:

Seungcheol ☕ [6:19 PM]: i’m starting to think i hallucinated the whole thing. very elaborate dream. excellent production value. You [9:32 PM]: Definitely real. Probably. 87% sure.

You try a different café. The espresso tastes like regret. The barista spells your name with a Q. You spill oat milk on your notes.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:20 PM]: Thinking about filing a missing person report. You [10:13 PM]: I’m just very elusive. Like a fox. Or Carmen Sandiego.

You’re doing it. The dance. Light-footed and clever. Skipping across the surface before anything can pull you under.

But it gnaws at you. Not the silence, because there is none. Seungcheol still texts. Every day. A silly update. A selfie with an Americano. A picture of a squirrel he insists is giving him side-eye. It’s the consistency of it. The unrelenting sweetness. The way he keeps showing up, even if you don’t.

On the fifth day, your phone buzzes with something different.

Seungcheol ☕ [8:04 AM]: door.

You open the door in your worst t-shirt—a sleep-soft relic from a failed music festival, collar stretched, logo faded into oblivion. Seungcheol stands there like the dramatic ending to a mid-season K-drama. Tousled hair. Scowl on his face. Cardboard pastry box in one hand, a bouquet in the other that looks like it could finance a small wedding.

“Really?” he says, before you can even fake a good morning.

You blink. “Hi?”

He holds up the pastries, slightly tilted. A peace offering gone stale. “You’ve been dodging me like I’m a subscription service you forgot to cancel,” he deadpans. 

“You could've just texted again,” you mutter.

“I did. Several times. Look where that got me.”

You sigh and step aside. He brushes past, trailing the scent of espresso and patience thinned to a thread.

He places the pastry box on your counter and sets the bouquet down with exaggerated care. It doesn’t match your kitchen. Too pristine. Too blush-colored and wrapped in sheer paper that shimmers slightly. You resent it for being beautiful. For being from him.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” you say, arms crossing over your chest.

“Yeah, well.” He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t sure if I was showing up for a conversation or a war.”

You lean against the counter, the cold tile pressing into your hip. The kitchen feels too quiet, too bright. You think about the last few days and how you’ve been avoiding your usual coffee like it might burn more than just your tongue.

“I wasn’t trying to ghost you,” you say finally.

“No,” he agrees, watching you. “Just haunt me a little.”

There’s something too knowing in his tone, but not unkind. He isn’t angry. Just... here. Uninvited and stubborn and still charming in a very irritating way. 

“I needed time,” you offer. It sounds thinner out loud than it did in your head.

“Time I can do,” he shoots back, “but disappearing without telling me why? Not really my favorite genre of heartbreak.”

You glance at the pastries. At the bouquet. At him. He looks ridiculous. And sweet. And maybe a little scared under all that posturing. “Fine,” you say. “We can talk.”

You set the kettle on the stove. He takes a spot on your counter stool.

You make the tea to buy yourself time. Seungcheol doesn’t press, just watches, elbows on the counter and jaw tucked into his hand like he’s willing to wait forever or until the kettle screams.

It does, eventually. You pour the water. Set down mugs. Curl your fingers around yours like it might anchor you.

“I just… I don't know what we're doing,” you say, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of your tea. “It feels like two people on opposite tracks pretending they aren’t going to crash into something.”

Seungcheol exhales a soft laugh, more breath than amusement. “You think we’re crashing already? We haven’t even started anything.” 

“That’s the problem,” you say, glancing at him. “You wear suits. You chase clients. You probably have a skincare fridge and a Google Calendar color-coded within an inch of its life.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just sips his tea and lifts an eyebrow like, And?

You press on. “I work out of cafes. I write brand copy for sock companies and only recently stopped paying my rent late. I have... retroactive jealousy issues.”

“Retroactive?”

“Like, I’ll be jealous of things that happened before I even knew you.”

He stares at you for a minute. Then: “That is both deeply irrational and weirdly flattering.”

You groan into your tea.

“Okay,” he says, putting the mug down. “Full honesty? I don’t even really like The Greeting Committee.”

Of all the things Choi Seungcheol could have said in that moment, that was not the one you were expecting.

Your head snaps up so fast, you’re surprised your neck didn’t damage somehow. “What?” you stammer. 

“Yeah,” he grimaces. “Their lattes are overpriced and their playlist is one bad Sufjan Stevens song away from sending me into a spiral.”

You’re scandalized. “You—you’ve been coming there for months!”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Because the first day I walked in, I saw you by the window. Eyes on your screen, hair in that ridiculous little claw clip, frowning like the fate of the world depended on a semicolon. And I thought, holy shit. There goes my weekday.” 

You want to scoff. You want to melt. Instead, you accuse, “So you treated me like a talent to chase.” 

His head snaps back. “Oh my God,” he says, nearly knocking over his tea. “Do you hear yourself? You make it sound like I had a casting binder labeled ‘Girl In Cute Sweater By Window.’”

“I mean—”

“I liked you. I like you. And every time I tried to talk to you, you dodged me like I was pitching a pyramid scheme. What else was I supposed to do?”

You falter. Your mug has gone cold. Your pulse has not. “Maybe,” he continues, quieter now, “if you weren’t so busy building exits in your head, you’d see I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at him. Earnest. Exasperated. Still holding on. He stares back at you, and he must find something there underneath all the frazzled panic and the indignation. He must see it. Whatever you can’t say, hiding just right on the surface. 

You don’t know who leans in first, but your nose bumps his, and neither of you laugh. Not at first.

Your lips find his, soft and familiar, and then softer still when he sighs against your mouth. It’s unfair, how easily kissing him feels like home. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before and you’ll do it again, again, again.

Your hand fists the back of his collar, tugging him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish for another meeting, or for some other girl by the window who catches his eye.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” you murmur between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, his cheekbone. “But you wear nice shoes and own stock options and know how to pronounce ‘acquisition’ without choking on your own tongue.”

He chuckles into the shell of your ear. “You’re literally straddling me right now,” he grunts, hands already roaming over your curves. “Do you really want me to start listing your resume?”

You ignore that. Instead, your voice comes out in one of those flurried half-whispers, tangled in the haze of heat and nerves. “Sometimes I make up fake ex-girlfriends of yours in my head so I can stop wanting you so much,” you confess. You’re already on a roll. Might as well keep going. 

He pulls back briefly to look at you. “You…. what?”

You groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “They’re really pretty in my imagination. The type that remember to water their plants and own matching socks.”

He laughs, full and honest, and rests his forehead against yours. “Do the fake ones also haunt The Greeting Committee?” he teases. “Or just the real ones you make up to ruin your own day?”

You swat at his shoulder, but he catches your wrist and presses a kiss there, which only melts you more. “I’m a freelancer,” you babble. “I can’t even guarantee what my income will look like next month. I eat leftovers three times a week. My savings account cries itself to sleep.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for your benefit. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He threads his fingers through your hair, his voice low. “You think I didn’t bribe Felix for your schedule, so I could time my work-from-home’s around you?” 

“That makes you sound like a stalker.” 

“A handsome one. Who brought pastries and a ninety dollar bouquet.” 

“Was it really necessary to mention the price of the flowers?” 

“Why the fuck are we even still talking right now?” 

You kiss him again before you can say something overly earnest. He kisses back with the kind of conviction that feels like a vow. Hands wandering. Shirts lifting. Breathless little nothings in between.

“Wait,” he murmurs, as you fumble backward, hand on his belt buckle. “Where’s your bedroom?”

You gesture vaguely to the left. “Through the hallway. First door. Don’t judge my laundry basket.” 

“I won’t judge,” he says, hauling you up bridal style without warning. You yelp. He grins and nips at your earlobe. “But if you keep making up fake girlfriends, I might have to fight one in a dream.” 

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing and mortified and a little bit in love.

That guy who used to always be in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s still not your seat. The Greeting Committee hasn’t suddenly been overtaken by bureaucracy and gold nameplates. But it doesn’t matter. You’re at the same table now.

Window seat, second from the left, with sunlight that softens instead of sears. An outlet for both your laptop and your lingering cynicism, and enough ambient chatter to feel alive without being overwhelmed.

Seungcheol is there. Across from you. Laptop open, tie conspicuously absent, sleeves rolled up like he’s auditioning for the part of everyone’s favorite approachable CEO. He’s editing something, you think. Or maybe pretending to. Every few minutes, he looks up like he’s going to say something, then doesn’t. 

When you finally glance at him over the rim of your coffee cup, he gives you that smile—the one that says, I can’t believe you picked me.

Felix brings a blueberry scone cut neatly in half. “For my favorite couple,” he announces, loud enough for the older woman at the neighboring table to coo in amusement. You groan. Seungcheol winks.

“We’re not your couple, Felix,” you mutter.

“You literally are,” Felix says, already walking away. “I made the bouquet for your first fight makeup. I’m emotionally invested now.”

You shoot Seungcheol a look. He raises both hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell him anything! He just knows things. Like a romance bloodhound.”

You roll your eyes and nudge half the scone toward Seungcheol. His fingers brush yours, deliberate and warm. You’re still getting used to that. The small intimacies. The way he lingers now.

How your things have started to mix at each other’s places: his tie in your laundry bin, your socks peeking out from under his couch. How he texts you silly memes during meetings and starts grocery lists in your Notes app like it’s always been shared.

There are days you still trip over the difference between solitude and comfort. Days when you want to crawl back into your shell of low-stakes independence and low-commitment caffeine. Days you remember all the reasons you told yourself not to do this.

That he’s too polished, too stable, too everything-you-aren’t. That he comes from a world of network pitches and tailored blazers and you, on some days, can barely remember if you own an iron.

But then he smiles across the table like you’re not a gamble, just a good choice. And it becomes easier.

Seungcheol leans in a little, conspiratorial. “What do you think Felix would do if I kissed you right now?”

You glance toward the counter. Felix is absolutely watching. “Probably write about it in his next customer newsletter.”

“Worth it.”

You kick Seungcheol lightly under the table. He nudges back, grinning. There’s a softness to his grin now. He’s not just amused; he’s grateful. You catch the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his thumb taps idly on the side of his mug like it wants to be touching you instead.

You pretend to read something on your screen. Seungcheol pretends to work on his edit. It’s mostly an excuse to sit in your shared silence, warm and companionable.

It’s not official. No brass plaque. No velvet rope. But it’s understood. It’s set in stone.

You’re the vision of calm control.

Every morning at 6:45 a.m., like clockwork, you sweep into the downtown fitness complex with your pastel wrap-top tied neatly at the waist and your hair twisted into a ballerina bun so tight it could survive a storm. You drink your matcha through a glass straw. You carry your mat like it’s an accessory. Your shoes are spotless, your voice is melodic, and your posture is the kind that makes people instinctively stand taller when you pass by.

You glide into your reformer pilates studio with the serenity of someone who’s mastered both her breath and her boundaries. Former ballet prodigy turned core activation coach, you teach five reformer sessions a day—each one a display of elegance, intensity, and razor-sharp muscle control. Your clients both adore and fear you. You have the kind of presence that makes people fix their own form before you even say a word. When you do correct them, it’s precise, polite, and just pointed enough to sting.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t sweat. You don't slouch. You float. And online? You’re even worse. Your Instagram is a minimalist’s dream: toned arms on reformers in golden lighting, skin like silk, cryptic captions. Every third post is a quote in muted beige serif.

You’re elegant. Controlled. Inkless. A vision of untouched skin and core stability.

But lately, your control is being tested.

By him.

He’s not like the others at the gym.

You first noticed him three months ago. It was leg day for him, glutes and inner thighs for you. You were coaching a private session—soft music playing, aromatherapy diffusing gently from the wall—and then: A thud. A guttural grunt. The sharp, echoing clang of 140kg hitting the floor like war drums.

He was lifting right outside your studio window.

Tank top soaked. Forearms vascular. Hood up. Headphones in. He never looked around. Never checked his form in the mirror. He just moved with raw, thunderous efficiency. Quads like carved stone. Tattoos crawling up his arms and peeking out from his neckline—dark, mythic things that looked like they were alive.

At first, you were annoyed. He disrupted the peace. You had to close the door to keep your clients focused. His grunts threw off your cadence.

Then you started watching.

The first time he took off his hoodie mid-set, you caught a flash of the ink across his back—two black dragons twisted together in an ouroboros loop, scales razor-fine and smoke curling over his spine. You stared longer than you meant to. Long enough to miss a cue in your own session. Long enough to have to repeat it.

You looked him up that night.

Seo Changbin.

Co-owner of NO SAINT INK—a notoriously hard-to-book, high-end tattoo studio. His pieces? Blackwork. Ornamental. Gothic.

He did ink like it was cathedral architecture. Intricate beasts. Baroque rib cages. Sacred geometry that bled into chaos at the edges. He played with negative space and muscle flow like a sculptor. There were rumors he did some biomech and anatomical fusion work too—stuff that made it look like your bones were crawling up your skin.

He only took on clients by referral. He didn’t do walk-ins. And he never, ever did colour.

He never looked at you.

Three months of the same schedule. You, in your silk-press pastel perfection. Him, in his dark gymwear and smudged chalk palms. You passed each other in the hallway sometimes. He never said a word.

Until the day you snapped.

You were mid-session with a new client—she was struggling with core control, every breath shallow, every motion tense—and there he was again. Deadlifting to the tempo of a war anthem. Slamming weights like gravity owed him something.

You stepped outside, hands on hips, breathing through your nose.

“Some of us are trying to center, not detonate.”

He paused mid-lift. Turned. Pulled out one earbud. A beat. A smirk.

Then: “Want me to show you how to really activate your core?”

And then he turned back to his barbell like it was nothing.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You’d never been so simultaneously furious and flustered in your life. After that, he started showing up earlier. Lifting closer. Watching your warmups from the squat rack. Making comments.

“You know, your foot arch collapses on your second lunge set.” “Your glute engagement’s solid. You ever load it?”

And then one day—after a particularly intense set of weighted split squats—you sat down on your mat, breathless and sweaty, and saw him watching you through the mirror. Just... watching.

When you looked back, he only said: “You’ve got perfect spine alignment.”

And walked away.

You told yourself it was nothing. You weren’t interested. You were focused. He was chaos. Loud. Covered in ink. Rough around the edges. You were all about precision and peace. You weren’t even into tattoos.

...Except lately, you’d been thinking about them.

About what it would feel like to have his hands on your skin—not in the gym, but in that studio you’d stalked online a hundred times. About the fine-line blackwork on his clients’ ribs. The sacred geometry down their thighs. The way he seemed to carve stories into people. You started wondering what he’d draw for you. What he’d see in you.

And one day, without thinking, you murmured: “I’ve got a clean canvas.”

And he’d grinned. “You ever wanna ruin it—come find me.”

You’re standing in front of it.

NO SAINT INK.

You grip your tote bag tighter, heart jackhammering beneath your zip-up. You can’t believe you actually booked this. You’d pulled every favour, begged one of your fitness clients to refer you. You filled out the intake form, submitted references, proof of healing care, even a fucking aesthetic moodboard. You never expected to get approved.

And yet… Here you are.

You glance at your phone one last time. The design you sent him glows on the screen: A fine-line ornamental dagger wrapped in black lace. Minimalist. Symmetrical. Inspired by the old ballet blades you used to train with in theater. You asked for placement on your ankle—something graceful but a little dangerous, hidden unless you chose to show it.

Finally, you move inside the studio and the scent hits you: vetiver, eucalyptus, ink. The kind of clean that hums with sterility—but underneath it, warmth. Masculine warmth. Leather and musk.

And then—

“OH SHIT—PILATES BARBIE MADE AN APPOINTMENT?”

You blink.

Behind the desk, crouched in an ergonomic chair with wheels and way too much energy, is a messy-haired, coffee-chugging creature. Han Jisung.

He is nothing like Changbin.

Where Changbin is broad, silent menace, Han is chaos in a hoodie. He’s wearing socks with avocados on them and a smirk that says he knows exactly how much your blood pressure just spiked.

You try to keep your voice neutral. “I have a 2PM with Changbin.”

“OH you do, do you?” He spins dramatically in his chair. “Chan-hyung! Bro! Pilates Princess has entered the temple!”

From behind the wall, you hear a deep, amused voice. One that sends a traitorous ripple down your spine.

“Be nice, Jisung-ah.”

Enter Bang Chan, who appears wearing all black, a beanie, and the warmest smile known to man. He’s muscle and honey—sharp arms, soft voice. And somehow, despite your anxiety, he makes you feel like you just got wrapped in a weighted blanket.

“Hey. You must be…?”

“She’s Miss Breath Control,” Han chimes. "As Changbin says of course.”

You ignore him.

“Yes. 2PM. With Changbin.”

Chan nods, warm and non-threatening. “He’s finishing up a back piece right now. Should be out in five. You can sit if you want—or look around.”

You sit. Which is insane, because your legs never shake and now they’re doing a little wobble dance beneath the stool. You try to sip water but miss your mouth and curse under your breath.

Han watches all of this with way too much joy. “You want some calming tea? Or, like, whiskey?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You’re gripping that water bottle like it owes you money.”

You take a deep breath. Count to four. Exhale through your core. Then: “Don’t you have something to sterilize?”

“I do, but watching you try not to panic is a lot more fun.”

Before you can respond, there’s movement in the hallway. Boots. Heavy steps. You know it’s him before you see him. He steps out of the back studio like he owns the whole fucking planet.

Changbin.

All black, sleeves rolled, dark tattoo gloves still half-on. A sleeveless muscle tee clings to his chest, neck shimmering slightly from exertion. His jaw is tight. His lips are flushed. His hair’s pulled back in a half-tied knot that makes you irrationally angry. His arms are covered in fresh ink smudges. And his eyes? Locked right on you.

The world narrows.

“You came,” he says. Not a question. A statement. Like he knew you would.

You nod.

He gestures with a tilt of his chin, lazy and deliberate. “Come on back.”

The moment you step into his space, and sit down on the tattoo chair you simply go still. You’ve been in control of your body your whole life. Every breath, every joint, every limb—trained, refined, disciplined. You know how to hold your spine like a prayer and your voice like a blade. You’ve never fidgeted in a professional setting.

So why are you perched on a leather tattoo chair with your hands folded tight in your lap like a chastised schoolgirl?

Because the room smells like ink and amber and him. Because there’s bass-heavy music playing low through the built-in speakers—wordless, sultry, like the kind of thing you’d move your hips to if he ever pressed you against a wall. Because Seo Changbin is leaning over his iPad, reviewing your submission with a furrowed brow and one ringed hand cradling his jaw.

You’re trying not to hold your breath as he scrolls. Then he glances up at you, eyes sharp but unreadable. But then, his mouth twitches—almost a smile and he turns the iPad to you.

“Here’s what I designed.”

Your breath catches. It’s yours—but not. It’s alive.

He’s taken the dagger and curved it slightly, so it follows the natural line of your ankle and rises just a little up the calf. The blade’s body is woven with the lace, yes—but his lace moves. It ripples like real fabric, and within its folds are secret things: a single rosebud at the hilt. A glint of barbed wire hidden in the shadows. He’s added a moon crest at the base—almost imperceptible—and along the edge of the dagger, in the subtlest script: tempus vincit omnia.

“Time conquers all,” he translates, before you can ask.

You blink. You don’t remember putting that in your references.

“It felt like you,” he says, gaze holding yours. “You act like you’re untouched. But your silence says otherwise.”

You should say something. Anything. But your throat is dry. The room is warm. His voice is velvet dipped in command. And the way he’s looking at you now—eyes flickering down to your ankle, then up to your mouth—is not professional.

“May I see the placement?” he asks.

You nod, because you’re a coward. A good one.

You slowly pull your pant leg up, exposing your bare ankle, the pale skin taut from crossed legs and tension. He crouches in front of you, rolls his stool close, and gently sets the iPad aside.

“Pretty canvas,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your pulse jumps.

He slips on a fresh glove, snaps it into place. The sound is surgical, threatening, hot.

Then he touches you.

His fingers are firm but slow, tilting your foot, angling your leg just right. He’s completely focused. One hand on your arch, the other gently brushing your ankle bone.

“This spot will hurt a little,” he says, glancing up. “But you’re good at pain, aren’t you?”

You want to say yes. Want to say show me. Instead you say: “I breathe through it.”

“Good girl.”

You flinch. Not from the words—but from how good they feel.

He doesn’t apologize.

He rises to his feet and starts prepping the stencil, moving around the room with focused precision. Gloves. Transfer paper. Sanitary wipes. Ink tray. You sit there, skin buzzing, ankle still tingling from his touch, wondering how the fuck you’re supposed to survive this session.

He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he has. Stencil fluid. Gauze. He lays out everything on the side tray with quiet precision, occasionally glancing your way like he’s clocking your posture, your breath, your jitters.

He doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary. No showmanship. No dramatics. Just work.

You respect that. You also kind of want to bite your lip off because the tension is unbearable.

He crouches again beside your ankle, wiping the area clean with clinical care. The alcohol is cold, startling. You inhale through your nose, quietly.

He notices. “Still good?”

You nod.

“You sure?” He glances up. His brows are slightly lifted. Not teasing—checking.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Alright.” He holds the stencil in one hand, then gestures with his other. “I’m gonna press this on now. Just stay relaxed. Let your leg fall natural.”

You obey.

When he applies the stencil, it’s methodical. He rolls it from heel to calf, smoothing it into place with both thumbs, then steps back to check alignment. He adjusts your foot slightly. Tilts your knee. Scans the angle. Then he nods to himself and grabs the handheld mirror from the cart.

“Take a look. Tell me if anything feels off.”

You lean forward, lift the mirror—

—and freeze.

It’s perfect.

The dagger curves with your bone like it was meant to be there. The lace hugs the dip above your heel. The little Latin script rests just where your Achilles flares. Somehow, it’s sharp and delicate at the same time.

You don’t speak right away.

So he does. “You hate it?”

“I—what? No. It’s perfect.”

He hums under his breath. Like he knew. But he gives you space. “Alright. If you’re good, I’ll get set up.”

You nod again, a little too quickly. He moves back to his cart.

Machine. Cartridge. Ink caps.

The buzz of the tattoo gun doesn’t startle you like you thought it would. But the sound of it? It changes something in the air. The room goes quiet except for that hum.

He settles beside you again on the rolling stool, anchoring your foot with a towel. He sets your ankle on a support, angles it just right. The touch is firm but careful.

Then he looks at you. Straight-on. Steady.

“I’m gonna start with the outline. We’ll go slow. You tell me if anything feels weird, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Last chance to tap out.”

“Do it.”

His mouth twitches again. A small curve. A breath of something smug.

“Tough girl.”

Then the machine kicks on.

And the first needle hits skin.

You inhale sharp through your nose. Fuck. You knew it would sting, but it’s different than you expected. Not unbearable. Not sharp like glass. More like a scratch that keeps going—a hot drag along nerve endings that wakes up everything. You exhale. Count. Re-center.

“Breathe through it,” you murmur out loud, mostly to yourself.

His voice is quiet. Low. Unshakably calm.

“You’re doing great.”

He keeps working.

The dagger begins to take shape—delicate linework up the edge of your ankle, the fine curve of the hilt tucked beneath your calf. You don’t look at him, but you feel him—close, focused, his forearm braced gently across your leg as he works in deliberate strokes.

It’s intimate in a way you didn’t expect.

Not sexual. Not yet. But close. Controlled. Charged.

After a few minutes, he speaks again—quiet but with a grin in his voice this time.

“Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

“Good. I’d hate to lose you halfway through.”

You snort under your breath. “You’d lose your best linework.”

“Exactly.” Beat. “Wouldn’t look right on anyone else anyway.”

That makes your chest stutter.

You don’t reply. Not out loud. But you shift slightly in the chair—tense. Hot. And he knows it.

He keeps working.

You hear the buzz. You feel the heat. The pain is low-key addictive now—every new line something you earn. And through it all, Changbin stays steady. Anchored. The perfect storm of pressure, skill, and focus.

But, you've had enough of the silence, especially with how it was stretching and so, you decided to break it.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Tattooing?” His thumb brushes against the arch of your foot to hold it steady. “Seven years. Shop’s been open for four.”

“Always wanted to do it?”

“Nah.” He leans back for a second, wipes the needle tip. “Thought I’d be a strength coach. Maybe gym ownership. Did some personal training for a while.”

“That checks out.” You glance down at his forearm, thick and corded with muscle, tattoos crawling up to his elbow like they’re trying to escape.

“Yeah?” he says, smirking faintly. “You profile every guy who squats heavy during your classes?”

“Only the ones who grunt like they’re in labor.”

That earns a real laugh—short, rich, warm.

“Okay, Pilates Princess. Maybe I do get dramatic when it’s above four plates.”

“You were scaring my client.”

“She was on a reformer. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her own smug exhale.”

You bite back a smile.

“Still. You disrupted the chi.”

“And you walked out in pastel spandex and told me I was ‘rupturing lungs.’ What was I supposed to do? Not flirt back?”