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Namjoon: What are you doing?

Yoongi: I'm confronting the person who ruined my life.

Namjoon: You're yelling at the mirror.

[hopechip]

Hobi: I am not needy

Y/n: you called me at 3am to make sure i still loved you

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I truly truly believe that the most important thing you can do in fandom is be a cheerleader. comment on fics. reblog art and rave in the tags. support the people making the things you want to see. this is how you keep a fandom alive. this is how you get more of what you want. you never know: that person could have decided to make more just because you liked it.

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WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 05

pairing: hoseok x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 11,5k | warnings: here genre: childhood bffs, grumpy x sunshine, emotional slow burn, smut

"midnight keys"

You don’t believe in soulmates, but apparently your type is ‘grumpy men who look like they hate their lives.’

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↦ author's note : BAHAHAHAHA okay so if you couldn't tell I have a marketing background, I hope you can now, because Capy is literally my spirit animal here. This chapter let me dive into so many of my favorite little narrative playgrounds and I had the best time. First of all—our little international community!!! You know I'm a sucker for the found family trope, but there's something especially delicious about that shared unity of being foreigners in a foreign country. Cliché? Maybe. Do I care? Absolutely not. You'll have to pry the joy of it out of my cold, dead hands.

And female friendships... please. Inject them straight into my veins. I will never, ever get tired of exploring them. We've had college friendships in FMU, teenage friendships in 5STF, and now here? We've got work friendships. Girlies supporting girlies, holding each other up, hyping each other up, and yes—if you don't like women supporting women, I'm sorry but you can leave my blog immediately. I've had my own pick-me phase, I'm not putting up with anyone else’s. I love women. Hopefully that's very, very clear by now.

Now, moving on—shut the hell up because I am such a SOPE whore. I've been dying to have a fic where both Hoseok and Yoongi get to be the chaotic besties to my main lead. Like. What do you mean I can't have both of them to sandwich me? Who made that rule? Certainly not me. Also, long-haired black-haired Yoongi? That's an attack. Capy, I understand you on a spiritual level.

Did you catch the little Japanese snippet?! You know I live for realism, so yes—Hobi and Yoongi speak Japanese to each other, but the moment Capy joins in (barely speaking it herself), they switch to English. And because I am me, I had to craft a narrative reason for Yoongi to speak English that would actually make sense. Honestly, I'm quite proud of how that little detail fell into place.

And the karaoke scene... tell me I'm not the only one who got butterflies at that sudden "When are you gonna pick me up?" text. Bold. Dangerous. Delicious. GIRL. I bet Hoseok choked on his drink and sprinted there, my simp king in full glory.

As for the ending? I am not—will not—apologize for pelting you with bittersweet melancholy wrapped in fluff. It's only going to get worse from here. <3

The stack of papers on your desk is about eight centimetres thick and radiating the kind of malevolent energy usually reserved for cursed objects in horror movies.

You’ve been staring at it for seventeen minutes, and it’s been staring back with what you’re pretty sure is personal animosity. 

The top page reads ‘COLLAGEN EFFICACY ANALYSIS: COMPARATIVE MARKET POSITIONING ACROSS DEMOGRAPHIC SEGMENTS’ in Times New Roman 12-point, because apparently whoever designed this fresh hell believes that Comic Sans would make it too enjoyable.

Your job today—your actual, paid, professional responsibility—is to read through 127 pages of market research data about anti-ageing skincare and transform it into ‘compelling consumer-facing content that leverages core brand messaging while maintaining scientific accuracy.’

In other words: make boring science sound sexy without lying about it.

You’re pretty sure this violates several international laws about cruel and unusual punishment.

“That bad?” Yuki appears at your cubicle with two cups of coffee and the expression of someone who’s witnessed multiple corporate atrocities before 10a.m.

“I reckon my soul just filed a restraining order against my job,” you mutter, accepting the coffee like it’s lifesaving medication. “How did you know I was dying?”

“You’ve been making the same face my cat makes when I try to give her medicine. Also, you’ve been muttering under your breath in what sounds like three different languages.”

“Two languages. The third one was just creative cursing.”

Yuki settles against the edge of your desk, positioning herself so she can keep an eye on the departmental comings and goings. 

At twenty-eight, she’s got the particular brand of workplace wisdom that comes from surviving four years in Japanese corporate accounting—which is apparently like regular accounting, but with more bowing and a suspicious amount of unpaid overtime.

“Let me guess,” she says, nodding toward your paper mountain. “Davidson handed you this with that face he makes when he thinks he’s being visionary.”

“He called it a ‘paradigm-shifting opportunity to revolutionize collagen narrative construction.’” You take a sip of coffee and immediately feel marginally more human. “I’m pretty sure he just made up half those words.”

“Oh, he definitely did. Last week he told Tanaka-san that we needed to ‘synergize our human capital optimization protocols.’ Tanaka spent twenty minutes nodding and taking notes before realising Davidson was basically saying ‘maybe we should communicate better.’”

The mental image of Tanaka—a forty-something HR manager who treats corporate buzzwords like sacred texts—frantically scribbling down Davidson’s nonsense makes you snort with laughter.

“Speaking of Tanaka,” Yuki continues, lowering her voice to conspiracy levels, “did you hear about the incident with the British delegation yesterday?”

“There was a British delegation?”

“Three people from the London office. Brianna—you know, the one with the accent that makes Davidson go all red and stammery—she spent the entire meeting asking very reasonable questions about budget allocation. Poor Tanaka kept trying to answer without actually giving her any real information, and she kept asking follow-up questions because, you know, she wanted actual answers.”

“Scandalous.”

“It gets better. Apparently she finally just said, ‘Look, are you telling me you don’t know where the money goes, or are you telling me you can’t tell me where it goes?’ and Tanaka had to excuse himself to ‘consult additional resources.’”

You’re grinning now, because the idea of someone cutting through corporate bullshit with direct questions is deeply satisfying. “What happened?”

“He came back with a spreadsheet that was basically just the same information formatted differently, and Brianna goes, ‘Right, so you don’t know.’”

“I think I love her.”

“We all love her. She’s like a corporate superhero whose power is asking obvious questions that no one else has the courage to ask.”

Your flip phone buzzes against your leg, and you fish it out while Yuki continues her Brianna appreciation society meeting. The tiny screen shows a new message, and you squint at the cramped text—fucking T9 predictive text making everything a goddamn puzzle.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:23 AM): 𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚎𝚏 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝙼𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚗? 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

You glance at Yuki, who’s now describing Brianna’s methodical destruction of the quarterly projections meeting, and quickly press the tiny buttons to respond. 

Takes forever to spell out ‘Persian’ with this piece of shit keypad.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:26 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚗. 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌. 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜.

The response comes back faster than you expected, but still takes a minute to appear.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:28 AM): 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃. ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

You shove your phone back in your pocket before you can think too hard about the ‘work so well together’ comment.

“—and then Adao from IT just starts laughing,” Yuki is saying. “Not like, polite business laughter. Full-on wheezing. Apparently he’s been waiting for someone to ask those questions for months.”

“Adao from IT?”

“Portuguese guy, works on the seventh floor? Very quiet, very good at fixing things, very bad at pretending corporate nonsense makes sense. Turns out he’s been keeping a private list of all the times Davidson uses made-up words in meetings.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Right? And Amelie from the Canadian branch was there too—you know, the one who always looks like she’s mentally calculating how much maple syrup she could buy with her salary?—and she just goes, ‘Oh good, I thought it was a translation issue.’”

The mental image of an international delegation slowly realising that Davidson’s meaningless corporate speak isn’t a cultural misunderstanding but actual meaningless nonsense makes your day significantly better.

“So basically,” you say, “our department is held together by confusion and the international staff being too polite to point out that our boss is an idiot.”

“Exactly. Which brings me to my next point.” Yuki glances around, then leans closer. “We’re going for drinks after work. Proper drinks. The kind that help you forget you spent eight hours pretending to care about collagen market positioning.”

“We?”

“Me, Brianna, Amelie, and maybe Adao if we can convince him to leave his computer long enough. You’re coming.”

It’s not really a question, which you appreciate because you’re not sure you have the energy to make actual decisions right now.

“I don’t know,” you start, but Yuki cuts you off with a look.

“You’ve been here two weeks and the most social interaction you’ve had is Davidson explaining synergy to you. You need human contact that doesn’t involve corporate buzzwords.”

“I have human contact—”

“Texting that guy who keeps asking you weird questions about cats doesn’t count.”

You pause, coffee cup halfway to your lips. 

“How did you—”

“You get this specific expression when you’re typing responses to him. Like you’re annoyed but also trying not to smile. It’s very obvious.”

Fuck. Are you really that transparent?

“He’s just a friend,” you say quickly. “From back home. He’s… working on a project. Needs advice about… character design.”

“Character design?”

“He’s an artist. Freelance stuff.”

Yuki nods like this makes perfect sense, which it does if you don’t think too hard about what kind of character design requires urgent Maine Coon versus Persian consultations.

“Well, bring him along if you want. The more the merrier.”

“No,” you say, maybe a little too quickly. “He’s busy. Working on deadline stuff.”

Also, introducing your corporate coworkers to the guy who draws pornographic manga and convinces you to wear cat ears would probably raise questions you’re not prepared to answer.

“Your loss. Anyway, we’re going to some bar Amelie keeps recommending, and then we’ll probably do karaoke.”

“I don’t do karaoke.”

“Nobody does karaoke until they’ve had enough sake to forget they have standards. Trust me on this one.”

You look back at your paper mountain, then at Yuki’s expectant face, then around the office where Davidson is currently explaining something to Tanaka using what appears to be interpretive dance.

“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not singing.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Your phone buzzes again, the tiny screen lighting up with another message.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:47 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:48 AM): 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗?  

You stare at the cramped text on the tiny screen, heat creeping up your neck despite the office air conditioning.

“Everything okay?” Yuki asks, clearly noticing your expression change.

“Yeah, just…” You quickly flip the phone shut. “Work stuff.”

“Must be some very interesting character design work.”

“You have no idea.”

By 3 PM, you’ve made it through exactly nineteen pages of collagen research and feel like your brain is trying to escape through your ears.

The words are starting to blur together into meaningless corporate poetry: ‘synergistic enhancement protocols,’ ‘bioactive delivery mechanisms,’ ‘age-defying molecular architecture.’ 

You’re pretty sure you could write a drinking game based on how many times the phrase ‘revolutionary anti-ageing technology’ appears, but you’d die of alcohol poisoning before page thirty.

Yuki reappears at your desk like a caffeine-bearing angel.

“Lunch?” she suggests, even though it’s technically too late for lunch and too early for dinner.

“I need to drown my sorrows in sake,” you announce, pushing back from your desk. “I reckon I’m going to start sweating collagen at this rate.”

“That’s the spirit. Let me grab my purse and we can go find some carbs to absorb the existential dread.”

You follow her through the maze of cubicles, past Davidson’s office where he appears to be having an animated conversation with a potted plant, and toward the lift bank. 

The seventh floor is not loud per se, but you can feel the restlessness in the air—that particular energy that comes from people pretending to work while not actually, you know, working.

“Oh good,” Yuki says as the lift arrives, “you can meet the others.”

The doors open to reveal three people who look like they’ve also been beaten down by various forms of corporate bureaucracy.

“Y/N, this is the international conspiracy,” Yuki announces. “Brianna, Amelie, Adao.”

Brianna is tall and sharp-featured with the kind of posture that screams ‘private school.’ She’s wearing an expensive-looking black blazer and has the expression of someone who’s just finished cutting through corporate nonsense.

“The one who’s been suffering through Davidson’s collagen obsession?” she asks, extending a hand. “You have my condolences.”

“It’s like he thinks if he says ‘synergy’ enough times, the skincare will magically become more interesting,” you reply, and her smile becomes genuinely warm.

Amelie is shorter and rounder, with curly brown hair escaping from what was probably a neat bun this morning. She’s got laugh lines around her eyes and the slightly manic energy of someone who’s been surviving on coffee and pure determination.

“Oh honey,” she says in an accent that makes you homesick for Commonwealth countries you’ve never even visited, “you look like you need a drink and a hug. Maybe not in that order.”

Adao is lean and quiet, with dark hair and the expression of someone who spends most of his time fixing other people’s mistakes. He nods politely but doesn’t seem like much of a talker, which you respect.

“So,” Brianna says as the lift descends toward freedom, “Yuki tells us you’re the one who’s going to save us all from dying of boredom.”

“I’m the one who’s going to die of boredom right alongside you,” you correct. “But we can die together, which is nice.”

“See?” Yuki grins. “I told you she was one of us.”

The lift reaches the ground floor, and you all emerge into the lobby.

“Right,” Brianna says, checking her watch, “four hours until drinks. Think we can all survive that long?”

“I give Adao the best odds,” Amelie observes. “He’s got that whole ‘dead inside but functional’ thing down to an art form.”

Adao shrugs. “I just fix computers. Computers make sense. They do what you tell them to, and when they don’t work, there’s usually a logical reason.”

“Unlike Davidson,” you say.

“Unlike most things in this building,” he agrees.

The afternoon crawls by with the special kind of slowness that only comes from reading about ‘bioactive collagen efficacy matrices’ while watching the clock tick toward freedom.

You’ve managed to transform approximately six pages of scientific data into what you optimistically call ‘compelling marketing copy’ and what any reasonable person would call ‘enthusiastic lies about face cream.’

The collagen peptides, according to your current draft, are not just anti-ageing ingredients but ‘revolutionary molecular architects working in harmony with your skin’s natural wisdom.’

You’re pretty sure skin doesn’t have wisdom, but at this point you’re just making things up and hoping no one notices.

Yuki stops by your desk at 5:15 with the expression of someone who’s just survived her own personal hell.

“Budget reconciliation meeting,” she explains before you can ask. “Three hours of Tanaka explaining why we can’t afford new computers but we can afford Davidson’s ‘innovation retreat’ in Hakone.”

“Innovation retreat?”

“Two days of team-building exercises and vision boarding. I’m pretty sure it’s just an excuse for him to practice his presentation skills on a captive audience.”

“Vision boarding?”

“Don’t ask. The less you know, the longer you can maintain your sanity.”

Your phone buzzes insistently, and you flip it open to see several messages from Hoseok. The tiny screen forces you to scroll through them one by one, which is annoying as hell.

“Popular guy?” Yuki observes.

“He’s having some kind of creative crisis,” you explain, quickly snapping the phone shut. “Probably not actually urgent.”

“Artists,” Yuki says with the tone of someone who’s dealt with creative types before. “They’re all drama queens until they need someone to do their taxes.”

which is probably fair dinkum , though you’re not sure what category Hoseok falls into beyond ‘disaster human who persuades you to wear cat ears.’

“Ready to go?” Amelie appears with her coat and purse, looking like she’s been watching the clock as intensely as you have. “Brianna’s already in the lobby threatening to start without us.”

“More power to her,” you say, shutting down your computer with unnecessary force. “If I read one more word about collagen bioavailability, I’m going to start screaming and never stop.”

“Save it for karaoke,” Yuki suggests. “Channel that rage into musical expression.”

“I told you, I don’t do karaoke.”

“And I told you, we’ll see about that.”

As you gather your things and prepare to escape into the neon-lit freedom of Thursday evening, you realise this is the first time since moving to Osaka that you’ve felt like you might actually belong somewhere. Not just tolerated as the foreign hire, but actually… included.

It’s a nice feeling.

Even if it’s happening in the context of collective corporate trauma.

Your phone buzzes again, but this time you ignore it. Whatever artistic crisis Hoseok is having can wait.

Right now, you’ve got collagen to survive and new friends to bond with over shared suffering.

Which is basically the foundation of all the best friendships, when you think about it.

The jazz bar is exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find in the narrow alleys of Shinsaibashi—dark wood, dim lighting, and cigarette smoke hanging in the air like a permanent fog. 

The kind of establishment that probably hasn’t changed its decor since 1987 and isn’t planning to start now.

“This place is perfect,” Brianna announces, sliding into a booth that’s seen better decades. “Atmospheric depression is exactly what I need after today’s budget meeting.”

“Atmospheric depression is my natural state,” you mutter, claiming the corner seat where you can watch the room without being watched back. 

Old habits from feeling out of place in every social situation since moving here.

Amelie appears with a tray of drinks that she definitely didn’t pay for with her own money. “The bartender took pity on us when I mentioned we work for Synergy International Marketing. Apparently we’re not the first corporate refugees to wash up here.”

“Smart business model,” you observe, accepting what appears to be whiskey that’s probably older than you are. “Cater to the professionally miserable.”

The place is busier than you’d expected for a Thursday evening. 

There’s a low stage where someone’s setting up a drum kit as a person who actually knows what they’re doing, and scattered throughout the room are the usual suspects—salarymen loosening their ties, a few couples on dates that are either going very well or very badly, and the occasional person sitting alone at the bar nursing a drink and their existential crisis.

Like the guy three stools down from where your group claimed a small table.

He’s… interesting. 

Not in the obvious way that makes you roll your eyes at yourself for looking, but in the subtle way that makes you keep glancing over without meaning to. 

Dark hair that looks like he runs his hands through it when he’s thinking, sharp jawline, the kind of understated good looks that sneak up on you. 

He’s wearing a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that suggests he’s comfortable being alone but not necessarily happy about it.

More importantly, he looks mildly pissed off at the general concept of existence, which is honestly your type in a way that’s probably concerning.

“Earth to Y/N,” Yuki waves a hand in front of your face. “You’re doing that thing where you disappear into your own head.”

“I’m observing,” you correct, taking a sip of whiskey that burns in exactly the right way. “It’s called situational awareness.”

“Mhm not like you’re staring at the cute bartender now, huh?”

You nearly choke on your drink. “I wasn’t—he’s not the bartender.”

“Oh, so you admit you were staring at someone.” Amelie grins with the predatory satisfaction of someone who’s caught you in something. “Details, please.”

“There are no details. I was just… noticing the demographic composition of the clientele.” 

Which sounds ridiculous even to you, but you’re committed to the bit now.

“The demographic composition,” Brianna repeats slowly. “Davidson rubbing off on you now?”

“Don’t ever say something like that again.” You gasp. “I’m just a natural people observer.”

“You’re naturally repressed,” Yuki counters, “but we’re working on that.”

Before you can formulate a suitably cutting response, Adao returns from wherever he disappeared to with what appears to be a deck of cards and, by the look on his face, about to suggest something inadvisable.

“Cards?” he asks, setting them on the table with a soft thud.

“What kind of cards?” you ask suspiciously, because you’ve learned to be wary of seemingly innocent suggestions from people who spend their days fixing other people’s technical disasters.

“The kind that go well with alcohol,” he replies, which is both completely unhelpful and probably accurate.

Amelie claps her hands together as if she’s been waiting for an excuse to make questionable decisions. “Are we talking drinking games? Because I have strong opinions about drinking games.”

“Please tell me one of those opinions is that we’re too old for drinking games,” you say, already knowing you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Absolutely not. If anything, we’re exactly the right age for drinking games. Old enough to have good alcohol tolerance, young enough to survive the consequences.”

“I’m pretty sure my alcohol tolerance peaked at twenty-two and has been in steady decline ever since.”

“Only one way to find out,” Brianna says, reaching for the cards. “What are we playing?”

“Kings,” Adao suggests, which is when you realise that the quiet IT guy might actually be the most dangerous person at this table.

“I hate Kings,” you announce, because it’s true and because you’re obligated to at least pretend to have standards.

“You hate fun,” Yuki corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“I hate forced fun. There’s a difference.”

But you’re already reaching for the cards anyway, because despite your better judgment and your well-documented aversion to group activities that require emotional vulnerability, there’s something about this particular group that makes the prospect of ritualized drinking seem less horrible than usual.

Maybe it’s the shared trauma of surviving Davidson’s corporate nightmare. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s the way the guy at the bar keeps catching your peripheral vision and you need something to distract yourself from the fact that you’re apparently the kind of person who stares at strangers in bars now.

“Fine,” you sigh, settling back in your seat. “But I’m not doing anything that involves singing or confessing personal secrets.”

“Don’t give up so soon,” Amelie says with a grin that suggests your objections have been noted and will be completely ignored.

The first few rounds are relatively harmless—basic rules, creative interpretations, the kind of silly nonsense that feels ridiculous but isn’t actually threatening. You end up drinking more than you’d planned, which is concerning given that you’d planned to drink quite a bit already.

By the time someone draws the seven of hearts and declares a new rule about having to speak in accents, you’re warm and loose-limbed in a way that feels dangerous and comfortable at the same time. 

Now that jazz music has started—actual live music from actual musicians who know what they’re doing—combined with good whiskey, decent company, and competent saxophone… You can feel your general resistance to human socialization dwindling. 

“Your turn,” Brianna nudges you, sliding the deck across the small table.

You draw a card without looking and flip it over. 

King of spades.

“Ooh, category,” Amelie announces. “This should be good.”

You stare at the card, your slightly alcohol-fuzzy brain trying to come up with something that won’t immediately reveal too much about your psychological landscape or current fixations.

“Things that are overrated,” you finally decide, because it’s safe and allows you to channel your natural pessimism into something productive.

“Easy,” Yuki goes first. “Team building exercises.”

“Quinoa,” from Amelie.

“Cryptocurrency,” Adao contributes with surprising vehemence.

“New Year’s resolutions,” Brianna adds.

The game continues around the table, with everyone getting increasingly creative and specific with their answers, and you’re actually enjoying yourself in a way that feels foreign but not unwelcome.

You’re reaching for another card when the door opens and someone walks in, bringing a gust of cool night air and the sound of Shinsaibashi foot traffic with them.

You don’t look up immediately—you’re focused on not knocking over your drink and maintaining what’s left of your coordination—but there’s something about the way the atmosphere in the room shifts that makes you aware of the new arrival without having to turn around.

And then you hear it.

A snort of laughter from the direction of the bar. Not polite bar-appropriate chuckling, but an actual snort—sharp and genuine and somehow familiar in a way that makes your stomach do something weird.

The guy you’ve been not-quite-watching is grinning now, looking up from his drink toward whoever just walked in, and there’s something about that smile that transforms his entire face from ‘attractively brooding’ to ‘actually devastating.’

You can’t help yourself. You look up to see what could possibly be amusing enough to break through what appeared to be a fairly solid wall of existential irritation.

And that’s when you see him.

Jung Hoseok. 

Ott. 

Standing near the entrance in a paint-stained blue hoodie and jeans that have seen better days, scanning the room with that particular brand of casual confidence that somehow makes him look like he belongs everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

The same Hoseok who’s been texting you increasingly unhinged questions about cat anatomy and artistic reference materials.

The same Hoseok you’ve been posing for for his ridiculous manga.

And he’s here. In this bar. Apparently friends with the guy you’ve been staring at for the past hour.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, which isn’t quite quiet enough to go unnoticed by your tablemates.

“Something wrong?” Yuki asks, following your gaze toward the entrance.

“No,” you say quickly, sinking lower in your seat and hoping the dim lighting will somehow render you invisible. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Totally fine.”

Which is when Hoseok completely ignores your existence and slides onto the stool next to the guy you’ve been watching. Just sits right down like he owns the place, bumping shoulders with Mr. Attractive Grump in a way that suggests they’ve done this a thousand times before.

Of course. Of fucking course.

The universe has a sick sense of humor, apparently.

You watch as Hoseok says something that makes the bartender snort again—that same sharp sound that made your stomach do stupid things five minutes ago.  Except now you know it’s connected to your ridiculous manga artist friend, which makes it infinitely more annoying and somehow infinitely more attractive at the same time.

“Y/N, you’re doing that thing again,” Yuki observes, dealing out cards for the next round.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look like you’re mentally calculating the structural integrity of the building while secretly plotting someone’s demise.”

“I don’t plot people’s demise,” you lie, accepting another card and trying to focus on anything other than the way Hoseok’s hair is doing that stupid thing where it curls slightly at the nape of his neck. 

Since when do you notice his stupid neck?

“Jack of clubs,” Brianna announces. “Truth or dare.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter automatically.

“That’s not how you play,” Amelie laughs. “Pick one.”

You glance toward the bar where Hoseok is gesticulating wildly while telling what appears to be an extremely animated story. 

Why are you like this?

“Truth,” you say, because dares inevitably involve human interaction and you’re already at your social limit for the evening.

“Boring,” Yuki declares. “But fine. Who were you staring at earlier?”

“I wasn’t staring at anyone.”

“That’s not an answer, that’s deflection.”

“Deflection is my natural state.”

“Fine, rephrase,” Brianna cuts in with the kind of tone that probably makes her terrifying in meetings. “Who in this bar would you hypothetically find attractive if you were hypothetically the kind of person who noticed attractive people?”

You take a long sip of whiskey and consider your options. 

Lie and pick someone random, thus ending this line of questioning quickly. 

Tell the truth about the guy at the bar, thus opening yourself up to endless harassment from your new corporate trauma-bonding friends. 

“Dark-haired guy over there.” You grumble, nodding slightly in said direction. 

All of them look. Of course they do, subtlety it’s not a mandatory skill in the job descriptions, clearly.

“Oh, he’s cute.” Amelie agrees with a smile.

“You think he’s a bartender?” Briana asks.

“If he is I should go over there and personally order a drink from him.” Amelie nudges her shoulder.

“The guy next to him is cute too.” Yuki joins in.

“Wait, you’re so right…”

You tune out the conversation and flip the phone in your hand before you fully realise what you’re doing.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (9:47 PM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

The response takes a few minutes, but when it comes back, you can see Hoseok across the room checking his phone.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:49 PM): ??? 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝?

You watch as he looks down to check his jeans. He twists slightly on the barstool, trying to see the back of his pants, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:51 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝??? (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎? 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (9:52 PM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑. 𝙽𝚘𝚙𝚎. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙺𝚎𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘.

You can see the exact moment he reads your message because his head comes up and starts turning like a confused owl, scanning the bar with increasingly frantic movements.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:54 PM): 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴?! ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:55 PM): 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:55 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:56 PM): 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐?? (◉ω◉)

His head is still swiveling when you finally give up and raise your hand in a small wave. The moment his eyes land on you, his entire face lights up with that stupid grin that makes him look like he’s ten years old and just found out school’s been cancelled.

He waves back with both hands like an overexcited golden retriever, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. The guy next to him—your former object of aesthetic appreciation—leans back slightly to follow Hoseok’s line of sight, and suddenly you’re being observed by two sets of eyes instead of one.

Great. Perfect. Exactly what you needed.

You give a much smaller, significantly less enthusiastic wave in return and immediately go back to studying your cards like they contain the secrets of the universe.

“They’re your friends?” 

It’s Yuki who asks—but her tone is slightly softer, like she’s picking up on frequencies you didn’t realise you were broadcasting.

“The brown-haired one is.”

“He seems energetic.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Your phone buzzes again, the tiny screen lighting up with new messages.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:58 PM): 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (9:59 PM): 𝙽𝚘.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:01 PM): 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:02 PM): 𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸’𝚖 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:03 PM): 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢??? (つ﹏⊂)

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:04 PM): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:05 PM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚈𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

You freeze, glass halfway to your mouth.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:06 PM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚈𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎.

You press send before you can second-guess yourself, then immediately regret everything about your existence.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:07 PM): 𝙻𝙼𝙰𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾!!! ( ≧∀≦)ﾉ

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:08 PM): 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:09 PM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜. ヾ(≧∇≦*)ゝ

You stare at your phone, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned that your nihilistic tendencies are apparently attractive to strangers.

“Everything okay?” Amelie asks, clearly noticing that you’ve been absorbed in your phone for the past five minutes.

“Yeah, just…” You glance toward the bar where Hoseok is watching you with poorly concealed curiosity. “My friend wants me to come sit with him and his friend.”

“The energetic one?”

“The energetic one.”

“Do you want to?” Yuki asks.

Do you want to? 

That’s the question, isn’t it.

On one hand, you’re finally having a decent time with people who don’t know about your questionable life choices or your tendency to wear cat ears for money. People who think you’re just the new hire who’s good at roasting corporate buzzwords and bad at pretending to care about collagen peptides.

On the other hand, Hoseok is over there with someone who apparently finds your personality defects attractive, and your social battery is starting to run dangerously low from all this group interaction and forced fun.

And on the third, secret hand that you’re not supposed to acknowledge, there’s something about Hoseok’s energy that’s always been comforting when your social battery drops.

“I don’t know,” you admit, which is more honesty than you usually volunteer.

Yuki nudges you gently with her shoulder, the kind of casual physical contact that doesn’t demand anything but somehow communicates understanding.

“Go recharge your social battery,” she says quietly. “I’ll keep them entertained.”

Which is when you realise that Yuki might be more perceptive than you’ve given her credit for. 

Or that maybe, possibly, you’ve been more transparent about your social limitations than you thought.

“You sure?”

“Please. After three hours of Hitoshi explaining budget allocations, entertaining this crowd is going to feel like a vacation.”

You look back toward the bar where Hoseok is now apparently telling Yoongi something that’s making him shake his head with what looks like fond exasperation. 

Somehow, they look like people who’ve been putting up with each other’s nonsense for years, and something about that dynamic makes you curious despite yourself.

Also, if you’re being honest, which you’re trying to avoid, you want to know what Hoseok told this Yoongi person about you. 

And whether the part about you being his type was serious or just the kind of throwaway comment people make when they’re trying to facilitate introductions.

You grab your drink and make your way across the bar, weaving between tables and trying to look like you’re approaching by choice rather than because you’ve been summoned by texts and curiosity.

Small fragments of conversation drift over from the bar through the jazz and general noise. Hoseok and Yoongi are speaking in rapid Japanese, and you can barely make out what they’re saying.

“…本当にそう思う？” (…do you really think so?) Yoongi’s voice, skeptical.

“いや、でも…” (No, but…) Hoseok sounds uncertain, running a hand through his hair. “…五年間も連絡してなかったし…” (…we didn’t contact each other for five years…)

You catch Yoongi’s dry laugh over the saxophone. “…お前がうざいって思ってるわけない…” (…there’s no way she thinks you’re annoying…)

“でも…” (But…) Hoseok’s voice gets swallowed by a particularly loud trumpet solo.

“…心配しすぎ…” (…you worry too much…) comes Yoongi’s response.

The music swells again, drowning out whatever Hoseok says next, but you catch his nervous laugh and something that sounds like “…昔のことだから…” (…it’s from so long ago…)

By the time you’re close enough to hear clearly, they’ve apparently finished their conversation, and Hoseok is back to his usual animated gesturing about something completely different.

“Capy!” he announces when you’re still three feet away. “You made it!”

“I was already here, you disaster.”

“Details.” He gestures to the empty stool on his other side. “Sit. Meet Yoongi. Yoongi, meet my capybara.”

“Your what now?” The guy—Yoongi—looks between you and Hoseok with the expression of someone who’s used to Hoseok’s nonsense but never quite prepared for it.

“Childhood nickname,” you explain, sliding onto the stool and immediately regretting every decision that led to this moment. “He thinks he’s hilarious.”

“I am hilarious,” Hoseok protests. “You laugh at my jokes.”

“I laugh at you, not with you. There’s a difference.”

Yoongi makes that snorting sound again, and you realise that up close, he’s even more attractive than he was from across the room. 

Sharp features, the kind of understated style that suggests he put thought into looking like he didn’t put thought into anything, and eyes that suggest he’s cataloguing everything while pretending not to care.

“So you’re the one who’s been helping him with his… art projects,” Yoongi says, and there’s something in the way he says ‘art projects’ that makes you wonder exactly how much Hoseok has told him about your professional arrangement.

“Something like that,” you reply carefully.

“She’s very dedicated to accurate character reference,” Hoseok adds, which makes your face heat up for reasons you’re not ready to examine.

“Don’t listen to him,” Yoongi continues, gesturing at Hoseok with his drink. “He’s been talking about you nonstop for weeks. ‘My friend from home this, my friend from home that.’ Very annoying.”

“I have not been—” Hoseok starts, then stops when Yoongi gives him a look that could cut glass. “Okay, maybe I mentioned you. Once or twice.”

“Once or twice,” Yoongi repeats slowly. “Right. That’s why you spent twenty minutes yesterday talking about your capybara Wikipedia rabbit hole.”

You snort before you can stop yourself, which earns you an approving nod from Yoongi and an indignant squawk from Hoseok.

“That was legitimate artistic curiosity!” Hoseok protests. “Capybaras have very expressive faces! The way their eyes go all judgmental when they’re annoyed?!”

“Like yours right now,” you observe, and Yoongi makes that attractive snorting sound again.

“I like her,” he announces. “She gets it.”

There’s something about the easy way they banter that makes your chest feel weird and tight. Like you’re watching a dynamic that’s been years in the making, seeing a side of Hoseok that you missed entirely during your five years of minimal contact.

Which is stupid. Of course he made friends. Of course he has people here who know him, who’ve been listening to his random artistic rants and putting up with his chaos energy for years while you were… what?

Doing exactly what you’re doing now, just in a different city with different people who don’t know about his stupid laugh or the way he gesticulates when he gets excited.

“How did you two meet?” you ask, because you’re apparently a masochist who enjoys confirming how much of his life you’ve missed.

“Oh, this is a good story,” Hoseok grins, settling onto his stool like he’s about to perform. “So I’d been here maybe six months, right? Still figuring out the whole freelance artist thing, mostly surviving on convenience store ramen and whatever drawing gigs I could find.”

“Mostly the ramen,” Yoongi interjects dryly.

“Mostly the ramen,” Hoseok agrees. “Anyway, I’m wandering around Shinsaibashi at like two in the morning because I’d just finished this marathon drawing session and I was too wired to sleep. And I see this place—” he gestures around the bar “—and think, ’perfect, I’ll have one drink and then crash’.”

“Famous last words,” you mutter, because you know Hoseok well enough to know this story doesn’t end with one drink.

“Right? So I come in, and this guy—” he jerks his thumb toward Yoongi “—is behind the bar looking like he wants to murder everyone who’s ever existed. Just radiating pure ‘fuck off and die’ energy.”

“Still do,” Yoongi says mildly.

He does.

“Still do,” Hoseok confirms cheerfully. “But I’m an idiot, so instead of taking the hint, I sit down and start talking to him. About art, about Osaka, about how convenience store ramen is basically a food group…”

“He talked for three hours straight,” Yoongi adds. “Three. Hours. I’m pretty sure he didn’t breathe.”

“I breathed!”

Yoongi’s response is a mere noncommittal hum.

But you can picture it perfectly—young Hoseok, probably high on caffeine and artistic adrenaline, chattering at a bartender who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

It’s so quintessentially him that it makes your heart do something uncomfortable.

“And then,” Hoseok continues, “right as I’m getting ready to leave, this drunk businessman starts giving Yoongi shit about being Korean. Like, really nasty stuff.”

The humor drops out of Yoongi’s expression, something harsher replacing it that suggests this story doesn’t stay funny for long.

“So obviously,” Hoseok says, his voice going quieter, “I couldn’t just walk away. I mean, what kind of piece of shit would I be if I just left?”

“The smart kind,” Yoongi mutters.

“Smartness is overrated. Anyway, I may have… accidentally… spilled my drink all over this guy’s expensive suit.”

“Accidentally,” Yoongi adds.

“Totally accidentally. Very clumsy of me. And then when he got all aggressive about it, I may have mentioned that I’d been taking judo since I was eight and would be happy to demonstrate some techniques.”

“You’ve never taken judo in your life,” you point out.

“He didn’t know that! The important thing is, the guy left, Yoongi didn’t get fired for telling a customer to go fuck himself, and we bonded over shared disdain for racist assholes.”

“And then you kept coming back,” Yoongi scoffs.

“And then I kept coming back,” Hoseok agrees. “Like a stray cat. Eventually he gave up trying to get rid of me.”

“I never tried to get rid of you.”

“You literally told me you were closed when you were clearly still serving other customers.”

“That was… selective service.”

You’re watching this entire exchange with the growing realisation that these two have been taking care of each other for years.

Not in any dramatic, obvious way, but in the quiet, consistent manner of people who’ve decided that the other person’s wellbeing is their responsibility now.

It’s sweet. Painfully sweet.

The kind of friendship that makes you happy for Hoseok and desperately jealous at the same time, because you’re seeing proof of everything you missed while you were busy pretending his absence didn’t matter.

“So that’s how I ended up with this guy as my unofficial Osaka guardian,” Hoseok concludes, bumping Yoongi’s shoulder with his own. “Best decision drunk businessman ever made, really.”

“Debatable,” Yoongi says, but he’s almost smiling.

“And that’s also how I found out he’d lived in LA for four years,” Hoseok continues, apparently not done with his Yoongi appreciation speech. “Worked at this dive bar in Koreatown, did some session work for indie bands, the whole struggling artist thing. His English is actually better than mine.”

“Also debatable,” Yoongi replies, and something about the way he says it makes you pause mid-sip of your whiskey.

Wait.

You’ve been sitting here for the past fifteen minutes, in the middle of Osaka, having a dead natural conversation in English with a stranger. Not broken English, not the careful, formal phrases you’re used to hearing from Japanese people practicing their language skills. 

Just… normal English. With an American accent.

“You lived in LA,” you say, less a question than a statement of dawning realisation.

“Four years,” Yoongi confirms, apparently amused by whatever expression is currently on your face. “Americans talk too much, so I learned if you speak fluent English, everyone assumes you want to have long conversations about their personal problems. Here, if I pretend not to understand, drunk salarymen give up faster.”

“Very effective customer service strategy,” Hoseok grins.

The conversation continues—stories about Hoseok’s early disasters in Osaka, Yoongi’s deadpan commentary on the local bar scene, the kind of easy back-and-forth that comes from years of knowing your friend.

And you find yourself relaxing in a way that surprises you.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s the way Hoseok keeps glancing over to make sure you’re following the conversation, like your opinion on his historical adventures actually matters to him. Like he wants you to understand this part of his life, to see how he’s built something good here.

Like he wants you to be part of it.

“She was always the smart one,” Hoseok is saying, apparently in the middle of some story about your childhood that you missed while drowning in feelings. “Like, scary smart. Teachers loved her because she’d actually do the reading, but she’d also ask these questions that made them realise they didn’t actually understand the material.”

“I was not that bad,” you protest.

“You made Mr. Thompson question his entire curriculum when you argued that Banjo Paterson was deliberately using bush ballad forms to critique colonial social hierarchies.”

“He said ‘Waltzing Matilda’ was just a simple folk song. I had to explain the entire political subtext!”

“You were twelve!”

“Art doesn’t have an age limit, Ott.”

Yoongi snorts. “I definitely like her.”

There’s something about the way he says it—not like he’s flirting, exactly, but like he’s genuinely amused by your existence—that makes you feel weirdly validated.

As if you were passing some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.

“She was also the only person who could make me sit still long enough to actually finish my homework,” Hoseok adds. “I’d get distracted halfway through math problems and start drawing in the margins, and she’d just… sit there until I refocused. Never made me feel stupid about it.”

Your ears automatically perk up at that, because the casual mention of his attention issues catches you off guard.

He’s talking so openly about it now.

He used to do the total opposite.

“Still draws in margins,” Yoongi observes. “I’ve seen his bar napkins. It’s like a gallery of tiny masterpieces and grocery lists.”

“Hey, those grocery lists are very artistic grocery lists.”

“‘Ramen’ written in calligraphy is still just ramen, Hobi.”

Hobi.

He calls him Hobi.

The nickname settles in your chest with a weird warmth, and you realise you’re staring at the way Hoseok’s hair catches the amber light from the bar.

Messy. He’s always so messy. His hair doesn’t escape the definition.

Yet, somehow, you find yourself thinking it suits him.

And suddenly you’re craving yuzu. Sharp, bright, almost bitter citrus that cuts through everything else and leaves this warm, lingering sweetness that you can’t quite shake.

Which is weird, because you haven’t had yuzu in months and you definitely weren’t thinking about citrus a minute ago.

“—always carrying around this sketchbook,” Hoseok is saying, still apparently telling Yoongi stories about your shared past. “And I’d draw constantly. During class, during lunch, probably during sleep if I could figure out how to hold a pencil while unconscious.”

“Some things never change,” Yoongi says, glancing at a cocktail napkin where Hoseok has apparently been unconsciously doodling during the conversation.

“The amazing part,” you find yourself saying, “is that his grades never suffered. He’d be sketching character designs during algebra, but somehow he’d still know exactly what was happening mathematically.”

“Photographic memory,” Hoseok says with a shrug. “Very convenient for academic multitasking.”

“Very annoying for people trying to catch you not paying attention,” you counter.

“You were never trying to catch me not paying attention. You were trying to make sure I actually learned something useful.”

The way he says that is stupidly fond, and you kind of want to flick his forehead just for the sake of it.

But it brings back those memories of you two sitting in the library while he worked through math problems, you reading beside him just in case he needed help focusing, the comfortable silence that meant neither of you had anywhere else you’d rather be.

Your flip phone buzzes against your leg, breaking the spell. You check the tiny screen to see a message from Yuki.

Yuki (10:23 PM): 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝟸 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚔𝚎. 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐?

You glance back toward your coworkers’ table, where Yuki is watching you with raised eyebrows and what appears to be a significant amount of empty glasses.

“I should probably get back,” you say, though you’re surprised to realise you don’t actually want to. “My coworkers are about to embark on what I assume will be a tragic karaoke adventure.”

“Tragic karaoke is the best karaoke,” Hoseok grins. “Very emotionally cathartic.”

“I don’t do karaoke, mate.”

“Everyone does karaoke eventually. It’s like taxes or existential dread—unavoidable life experiences.”

“Speak for yourself.”

But you’re sliding off the stool anyway, finishing the last of your whiskey and trying to ignore the way both Hoseok and Yoongi are watching you.

“This was fun,” you say, which is more honesty than you usually volunteer. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your… whatever this is.”

“Mutual emotional support disguised as drinking,” Yoongi replies.

“Very sophisticated,” Hoseok agrees solemnly.

You’re turning around with a chuckle behind your teeth when Hoseok calls after you.

“Hey, Capy?”

You look back, eyebrow raised.

“I’ll be around,” he says, and there’s something in his smile that makes your stomach do that stupid fluttering thing again. “You know, if you need any more character reference consultation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, hoping you sound more casual than you feel.

You walk back to your coworkers and their impending karaoke disaster, feeling his eyes following you across the room.

And for once, you don’t mind being watched.

The karaoke place is exactly as tragic as you predicted.

Amelie is currently butchering “My Heart Will Go On” with the kind of passionate conviction that suggests she genuinely believes she’s Celine Dion reincarnated.

Brianna is providing backup vocals that sound like a cat being slowly murdered, and Adao is maintaining his stoic expression while recording everything on what appears to be a digital camera for what you assume are blackmail purposes.

You’re wedged into the corner of the booth, nursing your fourth—fifth?—drink and trying to pretend you’re not constantly checking your phone like a pathetic teenager.

Hoseok hasn’t texted since you left the bar two hours ago.

Not that you care. You’re perfectly capable of enjoying tragic karaoke without input from your ridiculous manga artist friend who probably went home to draw more anatomically questionable cat girls or whatever the hell he does with his evenings.

Except you keep thinking about the way he said “I’ll be around” with that stupid smile that made you question why you hadn’t joined them earlier.

And you keep thinking about Yoongi, who definitely has the kind of dry humor and general misanthropy that you find attractive in theory but probably terrible in practice.

And about how spongy and soft and marshmallow-y Ott’s hair looked under the bar lighting and why you suddenly crave citrus every time you look at him, which is obviously just your brain making weird connections because you’re drunk and overthinking everything.

“Your turn!” Yuki announces, shoving the microphone in your face.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, we’ve all humiliated ourselves. It’s only fair.”

“I don’t do public humiliation.”

“Everyone does public humiliation eventually,” Amelie calls from where she’s collapsed dramatically across the table. “It’s like taxes or—”

“—existential dread,” you finish automatically, and then immediately hate yourself for quoting Hoseok.

“Exactly!” Yuki grins. “See, you get it.”

“I get that you’re all drunk and making terrible decisions.”

“The best kind of decisions,” Brianna declares, which is rich coming from someone who just spent ten minutes singing “Sweet Caroline” in what she claimed was a Cockney accent but sounded more like she was having a stroke.

Your flip phone sits on the sticky table in front of you, screen dark and mocking. You’ve been hovering over Hoseok’s contact for the past twenty minutes, typing and deleting messages like a complete disaster.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕.

Delete.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢.

Delete.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚞𝚣𝚞?

Delete delete delete, what the fuck is wrong with you.

“Earth to Y/N,” Yuki nudges you with her elbow. “You’re doing that thing again where you disappear into your own head.”

“I’m not,” you lie.

“You’re staring at your phone like it owes you money.”

Fuck. Are you really that obvious?

“I’m just checking the time.”

“It’s 12:43 AM,” Adao supplies helpfully, glancing at his watch. “You’ve checked six times in the past ten minutes.”

“I’m a very time-conscious person.”

“You’re a very something person,” Yuki observes, but there’s no judgment in it, just a smile.

You sigh, which might have came off rather as a groan, and feel now the sake really sinking in.

The liquor has definitely made everything feel heaps cosier.

Proof of it is the fact that your coworkers have officially crossed from ‘work acquaintances’ into ‘people you actually like,’ which is dangerous territory for someone who’s been carefully maintaining emotional distance from most human connections.

But they’re not pushing. They’re not demanding explanations or making you sing or treating you like the weird foreign girl who doesn’t quite fit.

Which makes sense because, in a way, you’re all foreigners here.

But more than that it’s how they just… let you exist in the corner with your phone anxiety and your tendency to overthink everything.

It’s nice. Unusual, but nice.

“Fine,” you announce, grabbing your phone before you can second-guess yourself into eternity. “I’m texting someone. Happy?”

“Ooh, someone?” Amelie perks up with the interest of someone who’s been drinking steadily for three hours. “The someone from the bar?”

“There was no someone at the bar.”

“The someone you were definitely not staring at.”

“I wasn’t staring at anyone.”

“Right, and I wasn’t just murdering Celine Dion for the past five minutes.”

You look down at your phone, flip it open, and navigate to Hoseok’s contact info. The cursor blinks in the empty message field, and the alcohol has loosened something in your chest, made all your careful boundaries feel suddenly negotiable.

Fuck it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:44 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚈𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝.

Send.

Immediate regret floods your system, but it’s too late now. The message is out there, floating in digital space, broadcasting your drunk thoughts to someone who definitely doesn’t need to know about your aesthetic preferences.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:44 AM): ???????? (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:45 AM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:45 AM): 𝙽𝚘.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:46 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:47 AM): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:48 AM): 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:48 AM): 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑. (・_・;)

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:49 AM): 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:50 AM): 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:50 AM): 𝙺𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:51 AM): 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚖.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:52 AM): 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎. (◕‿◕)

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:52 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:53 AM): 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚔𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:54 AM): 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚜.

You stare at your phone, grinning despite yourself. Even drunk and anxious and surrounded by the musical equivalent of war crimes, talking to Hoseok feels easy. Like slipping into a conversation you never actually finished.

Your next message types itself without conscious input.

Something you’ll probably regret tomorrow morning.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:55 AM): 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙?

So there’s that.

Your drunk fingers apparently have their own agenda, one that involves making assumptions about Hoseok’s evening plans and your own transportation needs.

The screen shows that your message has been delivered, but no response comes immediately. You stare at the tiny screen, waiting for the little envelope icon to appear.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (12:57 AM): 𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:57 AM): 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:58 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (12:59 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚢 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚁𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (1:00 AM): 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

You send him the location, then immediately panic about the implications of asking Jung Hoseok to come collect you from karaoke like you’re some kind of damsel in distress who can’t navigate Osaka’s public transportation system.

Except you are kind of drunk, and the trains have probably stopped running, and the thought of going back to your sterile corporate housing alone makes you want to cry a little.

Even if you’ll never tell anyone that.

“Leaving?” Yuki asks, apparently reading your body language like it comes naturally to her.

You nod, not trusting yourself to explain the situation without revealing more than necessary about your complicated feelings regarding childhood friends and their stupid attractive hair.

“Good call. I think Adao’s about to attempt something by The Cure, and that way lies madness.”

“The Cure is art,” Adao protests mildly, but he’s grinning in a way that suggests he’s absolutely planning to traumatize everyone with his interpretation of ‘Boys Don’t Cry.’

You’re gathering your purse and trying to calculate whether you’re sober enough to walk in a straight line when the karaoke room door opens and Brianna’s head pops up like a meerkat scenting danger.

“Hang on,” she says, and there’s suddenly something sharp and protective in her voice. “You’re not going home with some random Japanese guy, are you?”

The question hits different than it would coming from anyone else.

Because from what you’ve gathered tonight—Brianna’s been in Japan longer than any of you, speaks the language fluently, knows exactly what kind of shit foreign women deal with on a daily basis.

So her concern isn’t patronizing. It’s based.

“Not random,” you say carefully. “Friend from home. Known him since we were kids.”

“The energetic one from the bar?”

“That’s him.”

Brianna studies your face for a few seconds, and you realise right then and there that’s why everyone finds her so terrifying in business meetings. “You sure you’re okay with him?”

You don’t know why the question makes something loose in your chest.

It probably has to do with having someone check, having someone care enough to make sure you’re not making drunk decisions that you’ll regret in the morning.

“Yeah,” you say, and mean it. “I’m sure.”

Hoseok might be many things—chaotic, ridiculous, the kind of person who asks urgent questions about cat anatomy at inappropriate hours—but he’s not someone you need protection from.

If anything, he’s the kind of person who’d throw his drink on racist businessmen and then lie about his martial arts training to back up his friends.

“Okay,” Brianna nods, apparently satisfied. “But text when you get there, yeah? And if he turns out to be a creep, call me. I know people.”

“Noted.”

Your phone buzzes.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (1:02 AM): 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

��𝐨𝐮 (1:02 AM): 𝙱𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

You hug your coworkers goodbye—actual hugs, which is foreign territory for you but feels surprisingly natural—and promise to suffer through collagen meetings together.

Then you’re out of the karaoke dungeon and into the cool Osaka night air, where Jung Hoseok is indeed waiting in the blue hoodie and jeans from when you last left him at Midnight Keys.

“Capy!” he grins when he sees you. “You look significantly less miserable than I expected.”

“The bar was low,” you reply, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Always,” he says. “Want to crash at mine? Your place is like forty minutes by train, and you look like you might fall asleep standing up.”

“Yeah,” you hear yourself saying. “That sounds good.”

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the way he falls into step beside you like no time has passed at all, but for the first time since moving to Osaka, you don’t feel lonely.

Even if you’re absolutely going to regret every decision that led to this moment when you wake up tomorrow with a hangover and the memory of drunk-texting about his friend’s attractiveness.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Right now, you’ve got Jung Hoseok walking beside you through the neon-lit streets of Shinsaibashi, and his presence feels like coming home to something you didn’t realise you’d been missing.

The walk to Hoseok’s flat is a blur of neon convenience store signs and the distant rumble of the last trains heading toward the suburbs.

Your head has that pleasant floating quality that comes from exactly the right amount of alcohol—not enough to make the world spin.

The same can’t be said for the multiple people laying around on the ground.

“You’re being unusually quiet,” Hoseok observes as you climb the four flights to his floor. “Usually you’re complaining about something by now.”

“I’m saving my energy. Your flat building has the structural integrity of wet cardboard. I need to concentrate on not falling through the stairs.”

“Hey, this wet cardboard costs me thirty percent of my income, thank you very much.”

“Thirty percent? Christ, Ott, what are you spending your money on?”

“Art supplies. Ramen. The occasional luxury of toilet paper that doesn’t feel like sandpaper.”

“Living the dream.”

“Absolutely.”

The familiar ritual of shoes off, keys in the little dish by the door follows.

Momo appears from wherever sugar gliders hide during normal human hours, chittering softly as she glides from her cage to Hoseok’s shoulder in one fluid motion.

“Hey, princess,” he murmurs, reaching up to scratch behind her ears. “How was your evening? Did you miss me?”

She responds with a series of soft trills that sound almost like conversation, and you watch as Hoseok’s entire demeanor shifts into something gentle and nurturing.

It’s the same voice he uses when he’s explaining difficult art techniques or when you’re having a particularly bad day—patient and careful and impossibly kind.

“Still won’t let me near her,” you observe, settling onto the couch and pulling your knees up to your chest.

“She’s working up to it. Trust doesn’t come easy for her.”

“How long did it take for her to trust you?”

“Six months. Maybe seven. She spent the first few weeks hiding in the back of her cage whenever I tried to feed her. Had to leave food and just… wait. Let her figure out I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

Momo settles into the hood of his sweatshirt, curled up like a tiny, fluffy guardian. She watches you with bright, curious eyes but makes no move to approach.

“Patience isn’t exactly your strong suit,” you point out.

“It is when it matters.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says that, but you find yourself glancing at him.

“So,” you say, because the silence is starting to feel loaded in ways you’re not equipped to handle. “What’s the entertainment situation? Please tell me you have something better than those nature documentaries you used to be obsessed with.”

“Hey, those nature documentaries were educational!”

“You made me watch two hours of penguin mating rituals, Ott.”

“And you learned valuable information about Antarctic breeding patterns!”

“I learned that you have questionable taste in educational programming.”

He grins and starts rummaging through a stack of VHS tapes next to his ancient television.

“How do you feel about anime? I’ve got some classics.”

“Define ‘classics’ because your definition and the actual definition have historically been very different things.”

“Cowboy Bebop. Neon Genesis Evangelion. Some Miyazaki stuff.”

You pause, genuinely surprised. “Those are… actually good choices.”

“I contain multitudes, Capy.”

“You contain multitudes of bad decisions and an inexplicable ability to find the one working vending machine in a three-block radius.”

“That’s a bloody specific and useful skill, thank you very much.”

He settles on Cowboy Bebop, which you’re fine with because you’ve seen it before and it doesn’t require much brain power to follow. Plus, the jazz soundtrack feels appropriate for your current state of mind—loose and wandering and slightly melancholy in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Momo occasionally pokes her tiny head out of Hoseok’s hoodie pouch to observe the proceedings with the judgment only a rescued sugar glider can muster.

You’re about fifteen minutes into the first episode when your feet start that familiar ache—the particular throb that comes from wearing shoes that looked cute in the store but were definitely not designed for actual human locomotion.

“Fuck,” you mutter, shifting position and trying to find somewhere comfortable to put your legs.

“Chuck us your feet,” Hoseok says without looking away from the screen.

You nearly choke on your own spit. “Excuse me?”

He turns to look at you with the expression of someone who’s just realised he said something that could be wildly misinterpreted. His eyes go wide and he starts laughing—that sharp, surprised bark that means he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“What? No! Jesus, Capy, I meant—” He’s still laughing, running a hand through his hair. “You always complain about your feet when you drink. Ever since we were like seventeen and you’d nick stubbies from your dad’s fridge and then walk around in those ridiculous heels you thought made you look sophisticated.”

Oh.

Right. House parties in your hometown where you’d spend half the night complaining about your feet and the other half refusing to take off the shoes because you were convinced they made you look older.

And Hoseok, who somehow always remembered these random details about people’s weird habits and quirks.

“That’s…” You pause, because it’s simultaneously sweet that he remembers and mildly horrifying that your drunk foot problems have been consistent for years. “That’s a deadset thing to remember.”

“I remember lots of weird things. Did you know that alcohol causes vasodilation, which leads to swelling in your extremities? And when you combine that with shoes that were already too tight because you buy them based on aesthetic rather than actual foot comfort…”

“Are you seriously mansplaining my own feet to me right now?”

“I’m providing helpful physiological context for why you’re sitting there making the exact same face you made at Sarah Chen’s Year 12 formal when you wore those silver strappy things that left marks on your ankles for three days.”

Fuck. He really does remember everything.

You look down at your feet—currently free but previously imprisoned in ankle boots that seemed like a good idea eight hours ago but now feel like medieval torture devices.

“Fine,” you grumble, swinging your legs up onto his lap before you can overthink it further. “But if you make it weird, I’m kicking you in the face.”

“Noted.” He glances at the boots near the entry. “Jesus, Capy, how do you even walk in those things?”

“Very carefully and with heaps of internal screaming.”

“Why do women do this to themselves?”

“Because we’re taught that suffering is the price of beauty, and also because these boots make my legs look good.”

“Your legs look fine without torture devices,” he says matter-of-factly, already working his thumbs into the arch of your foot.

His hands are warm when he starts working on the pressure points, and you have to bite back a groan of relief because holy shit, when did he get so good at this?

“Where did you learn to do that?” you ask, settling deeper into the couch cushions.

“YouTube,” he says cheerfully. “Went down a weird rabbit hole about reflexology when I was trying to fix my carpal tunnel. Turns out foot massage is surprisingly complicated.”

“YouTube University strikes again.”

“YouTube University is how I learned to cook eggs properly, fix my broken window latch, and identify seventeen different species of Japanese beetles. Very comprehensive educational institution.”

You close your eyes and let yourself focus on the steady pressure of his thumbs against your arch, the warm weight of his hands.

It’s nice. Comfortable in a way that feels both foreign and familiar—like muscle memory for friendship you forgot you had.

“So,” you say after a while, because you’re starting to feel too relaxed and that’s dangerous territory, “sleeping arrangements. Might as well address the logistics before we’re both too tired to think straight.”

He chuckles, not pausing in his ministrations. “You keep sleeping on the couch, so…”

“You’re so ungentlemanly,” you groan, though there’s no real complaint in it. “What happened to chivalry? What happened to giving the lady the bed?”

“What happened to feminism and women being perfectly capable of making their own sleeping decisions?”

“Don’t use feminism to justify your lack of basic courtesy, you disaster.”

“The couch folds out,” he offers, like this is some kind of magnificent compromise. “In case this becomes a regular thing.”

You open one eye to glare at him. “This isn’t going to become a regular thing.”

“Right. Completely one-time occurrence.” His voice has taken on that particular tone that suggests he’s about to be insufferable. “Except for today. And yesterday. And the day before yesterday when you came over to ‘help with character design’ and ended up falling asleep during that nature documentary about—”

“Okay, I get it. Shut up.”

He chuckles again, the sound vibrating through his chest, and you realise somewhere in the past few minutes you’ve basically turned into a boneless puddle on his couch.

Your head is resting against the arm of the sofa, your legs are still draped across his lap, and Momo has apparently decided you’re safe enough to venture closer—she’s now perched on the couch back, watching the anime with what appears to be genuine interest.

“Seriously though,” Hoseok continues, and his voice has shifted into something more genuine, “you can crash here whenever. I mean, if you want. If your corporate housing gets too depressing or your coworkers try to make you sing Celine Dion again.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest feel weird. Like he means it. Like the offer isn’t just politeness but actual… friendship.

The real kind, where someone wants you around even when you’re a mess

“My housing isn’t that depressing,” you mutter, though even as you say it, you’re thinking about the beige walls and the fluorescent lighting and the way everything smells like industrial carpet cleaner.

“I’ll have to come see it,” he says. “Get the full experience of corporate-sponsored misery.”

You find yourself looking at his profile as he watches the screen—the way he’s concentrating on the anime like it’s actually important, the slight smile that suggests he’s enjoying himself.

It’s… nice. Having someone who wants to see your shitty living situation not because they’re judging but because they’re curious about your life.

“Yeah, sure,” you hear yourself saying. “But don’t get your expectations too high. It’s like your place, but ten times worse and with the bonus of a neighbour who practices violin at six in the morning.”

“A violin? Like, classical violin?”

“Very bad classical violin. I reckon she’s working through a beginner book. Slowly. With heaps of screeching.”

“That’s… actually kind of tragic.”

“Everything about my living situation is tragic. That’s why I keep ending up here, bothering you and eating your food.”

“You’re not bothering me, mate.” He says it quietly, still focused on the screen, but there’s something in his voice that makes you look at him more carefully. “And you barely eat my food. You bring your own snacks like some kind of considerate house guest.”

“I steal your coffee.”

“I buy coffee specifically because you drink it when you’re here.”

That stops you short. Because that’s… that’s not something you do for someone who’s just crashing occasionally.

That’s something you do for someone whose presence you enjoy.

“Thanks,” you say finally, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended.

“For what?”

You shrug, though he can’t see it with your head tilted back against the couch.

“For picking me up. For letting me crash in your space. For…”

For not forgetting me those five years.

But you can’t say that. Can’t admit that part of you had wondered, during the long stretches of minimal contact, whether you’d mattered enough to be remembered. Whether the friendship that had felt so essential to your teenage self had been as important to him as it was to you.

“For not being weird about it,” you finish instead.

His hands pause in their steady pressure against your feet, just for a moment, and when you glance up, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Never weird, Capy. She’ll be right,” he says softly. “Just… glad you’re here.”

And that’s when you realise that somewhere between the foot massage and the comfortable silence and the way Momo has decided you’re trustworthy enough to share couch space, you’ve remembered why you used to be best friends.

Because he’s the kind of person who remembers your stupid problems and fixes them without making it weird. Who buys coffee specifically for you and doesn’t make a big deal about it.

Who makes you feel like coming home to yourself.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[hopechip]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 04

pairing: hoseok x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 9,4k | warnings: here genre: childhood bffs, grumpy x sunshine, emotional slow burn, smut

"cat ears"

You swore this was about ramen and reference work. But now you’re blushing in cat ears while your childhood best friend stares at you like you’re the entire fucking plot.

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↦ author's note : Hiii omg I’m so excited to finally be dropping this chapter!! Like genuinely bouncing-on-my-heels-squealing excited. I love this fanfic with my whole chest—like, it makes me feel all floaty and squishy and hollow and full at the same time?? It’s so bittersweet, and I don’t mean in the fake deep way, I mean in the visceral ache in your sternum kind of way. The melancholy/sweetness dichotomy is actually feral. It haunts me when I write. It’s the ghost of every almost-love that never quite made it to the finish line. This chapter carries that energy like it’s been marinating in it.

Let’s start with the obvious (and what many of you amazing nerds clocked IMMEDIATELY)—Hoseok’s ADHD. YEP. He’s not just quirky and chaotic and manic pixie bimbo artist-coded. He’s neurodivergent and he knows it. Late-diagnosed. Like me. Like many of us. And yes, I’m writing it on purpose. ADHD is not just “teehee I got distracted!!” It is executive dysfunction. It is the absence of an internal reward system. Like… people with ADHD don’t get the dopamine boost from “doing the thing” the way neurotypicals do. We rely on novelty, urgency, interest, passion, and external consequence. If something doesn’t hit one of those buttons? Good luck. That’s why he goes down Wikipedia rabbit holes instead of sleeping. That’s why his creative highs come with crashing lows. That’s why his time management is mystical, and not in a good way. I want to portray that reality in a way that feels lived. Because it is. By me. By so many of you. We’re out here half-dead and hyperfixating and vibing through sheer adrenaline and vibes alone.

Capy. My girl. My feral little gremlin with sensory issues and avoidance coping and a thousand unspoken feelings. I didn’t give her a diagnosis, because she doesn’t have one. Not everyone does. That’s also real. You can be neurodivergent and never get diagnosed. You can struggle with taste and texture and food aversion and nobody calls it what it is because you’re “high functioning” or “just picky” or “emotional.” But she feels the world like it’s too much. And that affects both her sense of taste and touch. The food thing isn’t just picky—it’s about texture, smell, mouthfeel, the way certain ingredients coat the tongue or burn the back of your throat or feel wrong in your molars. And the touch stuff? Don’t even get me started. Cabbage is fine. Algae? She’d rather die. It’s a war crime in her mouth. I built that into her without making it A Thing™ because so many people live like that without ever being handed a name for it.

And now… the cat ears. Y’all. Why did it get so deeply feral so fast. The good kitty comment? I need to be institutionalized. The immediate bodily reaction??? I was giggling and kicking my feet and also dying of secondhand embarrassment. I don’t know what happened, but I blacked out. Writing it was like being possessed by a demon who runs a fanservice café in Ikebukuro. ALSOOOO. The ending? THE ENDING???? Get these two absolute idiots OUT OF MY FACE. They’re adorable. They’re disasters. I want to smack them both and then wrap them in a weighted blanket. I love them so much it actually hurts. Anyway. Go suffer. Or enjoy. Same difference. And maybe… idk… buy a pair of cat ears for yourself? Or don’t. Either way, your secrets are safe with me. Mwah mwah mwah.

The second week of corporate hell begins with Davidson explaining the ‘revolutionary potential of cross-platform peptide messaging’ while you contemplate whether throwing yourself out the seventh-floor window would be considered a workplace accident or a cry for help.

"The synergistic possibilities are truly limitless," Davidson continues, gesturing at a PowerPoint slide that appears to have been designed by someone having a seizure. "When we leverage our core competencies in biochemical narrative construction—"

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift slightly to check it under the conference table.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:23 AM): 𝚂𝙾𝚂. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚙.

You glance around the conference room. 

Davidson is still pontificating about peptide synergy. Yuki catches your eye from across the table and makes a subtle face that suggests she's also contemplating defenestration.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:24 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:25 AM): 𝙾𝙷𝙷𝙷 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜! 𝙰 𝚌𝚊𝚝-𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:26 AM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:27 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝙰 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:28 AM): 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:29 AM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍.

"Y/N-san?" Davidson's voice cuts through your text conversation like a rusty knife. "Your thoughts on the peptide positioning strategy?"

You look up to find the entire conference room staring at you. 

Yuki gives you a barely perceptible thumbs up from across the table.

"I think," you say, scrambling for something that sounds remotely professional, "that peptides are... very synergistic. And the positioning possibilities are... limitless."

Davidson beams like you've just solved world hunger. "Exactly! That's the kind of innovative thinking we need!"

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:32 AM): 𝙱𝚝𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚜? 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜.

The meeting drags on for another forty-seven minutes. 

You know this because you've been counting, and also because Hoseok has been providing running commentary that makes the whole experience slightly less soul-crushing.

After 40 minutes of pretend attention, you decide to reply.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:16 AM): 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:17 AM): 𝚆𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚆𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚢, 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:18 AM): 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:19 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 ��𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:20 AM): 𝚁𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:21 AM): 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟶𝚜! 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ 

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:21 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍. ┐(￣～￣)┌

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:22 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:23 AM): 𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:24 AM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:25 AM): 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 '𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐' 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:26 AM): 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:27 AM): 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟽 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢. 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑.

That actually makes sense, which is somehow more concerning than if he'd just been procrastinating.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:28 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:29 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝙱𝚝𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔-𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:30 AM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:31 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 '𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎' 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:32 AM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:33 AM): 𝚂𝚎𝚎? 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟼. 

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:33 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛?

You glance around the conference room again. 

Davidson is now drawing diagrams on the whiteboard that look like molecular structures but are probably just random squiggles. 

Yuki is openly reading a magazine under the table.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:34 AM): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:35 AM): 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕! 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:36 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

"And that," Davidson announces with the air of someone who's just solved world hunger, "is how we'll revolutionize the anti-aging market through strategic peptide positioning!"

Everyone claps politely. 

You put your phone away and join in, wondering if this is what death feels like—slow, corporate, and accompanied by the sound of forced applause.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of peptide enthusiasm and brand synergy discussions. 

By 5:30, you're ready to throw yourself into Osaka Bay, but instead you find yourself standing outside the convenience store near Hoseok's apartment, staring at the wall of instant meal options like they hold the secrets of the universe.

You've been standing here for approximately eight minutes, holding the same two packages and pretending to read ingredients you can't pronounce.

The thing is, you know exactly what you're going to buy. 

You always know. 

But there's something about the process of considering other options that feels necessary, even if it's completely pointless.

The chicken broth ramen sits in your left hand—the brand with the simple packaging and ingredients list that doesn't include any of the weird additives that make your tongue feel like it's trying to escape your mouth. 

In your right hand, you're holding some kind of seafood variant that you picked up purely for the illusion of choice.

You know you're going to choose the chicken. You always choose the chicken. The algae extract in most of the other flavors makes your entire mouth feel wrong, like you've licked a fish tank, and the 'mystery meat' chunks in the premium versions have a texture that makes your skin crawl.

But still, you stand there, reading labels, because apparently this is what passes for decision-making in your life now.

"Excuse me," says a voice behind you, and you step aside automatically, assuming someone needs to reach the shelf.

Instead, when you turn around, Hoseok is standing there with his hands in his pockets, grinning at you like he's just won the lottery.

"What the hell are you doing here?" you ask, nearly dropping both packages.

"Rescuing you from your inevitable choice paralysis," he says, nodding toward the ramen in your hands. "You've been standing here for ten minutes."

"I have not been standing here for ten minutes."

"Capy, I live upstairs. I can see the convenience store from my window. You've been staring at that same shelf for ten minutes, holding the same two packages, doing that thing where you pretend to consider other options but you're obviously going to choose the chicken broth because it's the only one that doesn't have algae extract or those weird gelatinous chunks you hate."

You stare at him. "How do you know about the algae thing?"

"Because I pay attention. Also, you made the same face in middle school when your mom tried to make you eat seaweed soup. Like someone was forcing you to swallow a live fish."

The accuracy of this observation is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

"I don't make faces," you protest.

"You absolutely make faces. You're making one right now." He reaches past you and grabs two packages of the chicken broth ramen, plus a third one that looks different. "This one's new. Same brand, but they added mushrooms. No algae, no weird chunks. Want to try it?"

You study the package he's holding. 

The ingredients list is mercifully short and doesn't include anything that sounds like it was harvested from the ocean floor.

"Maybe," you admit reluctantly.

"Progress! The great Capybara, trying new things!" He starts walking toward the register, and you follow automatically. "What else do we need? Drinks? Snacks? Something to make this dinner feel like an actual meal instead of just two people eating instant noodles on my floor?"

"It is just two people eating instant noodles on your floor."

"But we can dress it up! Make it fancy! Add... I don't know, vegetables or something."

"You don't own vegetables."

"I could own vegetables. I'm a responsible adult who makes healthy choices."

You give him a look.

"Fine, I'll buy vegetables. Right now. Watch me be domestic and nutritious."

He veers toward the small produce section, which consists of about six items that look like they've been sitting under the fluorescent lights since the store opened. 

He picks up a bag of pre-cut cabbage and waves it triumphantly.

"Vegetables! I am the picture of healthy living!"

"That's cabbage."

"Cabbage is a vegetable. A very important vegetable. Full of... vitamins and... other healthy things."

"You have no idea what vitamins are in cabbage."

"Vitamin C! Probably! Most vegetables have vitamin C!"

Despite yourself, you're fighting a smile. "You're an idiot."

"An idiot who's about to make you the most nutritious instant ramen dinner of your life." He grabs a package of eggs from the refrigerated section. "Protein! We're basically having a balanced meal now!"

You watch him collect items with the enthusiasm of someone who's just discovered the concept of food. 

It's ridiculous and endearing and you hate how much you like seeing him this animated about something as mundane as convenience store shopping.

"Anything else?" he asks, arms full of packages. "Dessert? Ice cream? Those little cakes that are probably 90% preservatives but taste amazing?"

"Just the ramen is fine."

"Just the ramen is never fine. We're getting ice cream." He heads toward the freezer section. "What flavor do you want?"

"I don't want ice cream."

"Everyone wants ice cream. It's scientifically impossible not to want ice cream." He opens the freezer and cold air billows out. "Vanilla? Chocolate? Something weird and Japanese that we can't identify but might be delicious?"

"Hoseok—"

"Strawberry! You always liked strawberry." He grabs a small container before you can protest. "And I'll get chocolate because I'm predictable like that."

You want to argue, but the truth is you do like strawberry ice cream, and the fact that he remembered this completely irrelevant detail from your childhood makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

"Fine," you say. "But I'm not paying for your emotional support ice cream."

"Deal. I'm rich from all my pornographic artistic endeavors anyway."

The cashier—a teenage boy who looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else—rings up your purchases with the kind of aggressive disinterest that only comes from working retail. He doesn't even blink at Hoseok's comment about pornographic art, which probably says something about either his English comprehension or his level of caring about customer conversations.

Outside the store, the early evening air is cool and carries the scent of rain that might come later. The vending machines cast their eternal glow across the sidewalk, and somewhere in the distance a train whistle echoes through the urban landscape.

"So," Hoseok says as you walk the thirty seconds to his building entrance, "ready for your surprise?"

"I told you I hate surprises."

"You liked the Momo surprise, though."

You hate him. Because you did like the Momo surprise. 

"That was… That was different."

"This one involves your professional artistic collaboration skills and possibly some very interesting character development insights."

"That's not a surprise, that's work."

"Work can be surprising! Especially when it involves creative breakthroughs and artistic revelations!"

You follow him up the four flights of stairs, listening to him chatter about artistic revelations while carrying a plastic bag full of instant ramen and impulse purchases. 

It's domestic in a way that makes you uncomfortable—not because it's weird, but because it feels so natural.

Like this is something you could do every day. Like this could be your routine.

Which is a dangerous thought for approximately seventeen different reasons.

"Here we are," he announces, fumbling with his keys while balancing the grocery bag. "Home sweet chaotic home."

The door opens, and you step into the familiar organized chaos of his apartment. 

Momo appears immediately, scurrying down from her perch near the window to investigate the new arrivals.

"Hey, princess," Hoseok coos, setting down the groceries and offering his hand for her to sniff. "Look who came to visit again."

Momo considers you for a moment, then approaches cautiously. When you crouch down and extend your fingers, she doesn't immediately flee, which feels like progress.

"She likes you," Hoseok observes. "This is huge development in sugar glider diplomacy."

"Don't make it weird."

"Too late. Momo has chosen you as acceptable."

You stand up, brushing off your knees, and that's when you notice what he's wearing.

Or rather, what he's not wearing.

He's changed out of his usual casual clothes into what can only be described as professional attire—dark jeans that actually fit properly, a button-down shirt that looks like it's been ironed, and those black-rimmed glasses that make him look like he knows what he's doing.

It's jarring, seeing him dressed like a functional adult instead of an overgrown art student.

"Why are you dressed like you have somewhere important to be?" you ask.

He glances down at himself, then back at you. "What, this? This is just... clothes."

"Those are nice clothes. You ironed that shirt."

"I own an iron. I'm a sophisticated adult person."

"Since when?"

"Since always! I just don't usually... okay, fine, I wanted to look professional for our professional artistic collaboration session."

"It's not that professional."

"It could be! If we wanted it to be! Which we do! Because we're serious artists taking our craft seriously!"

The enthusiasm in his voice doesn't quite mask something else—nervousness, maybe? Like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

"Hoseok," you say carefully, "what exactly is this surprise?"

His grin falters slightly, and for a moment you see something vulnerable underneath the manic energy.

"I'll show you after dinner," he says. "But first, let me cook for you. And by cook, I mean add vegetables to instant ramen and pretend it's a real meal."

"That's not cooking."

"It's cooking-adjacent. Cooking-inspired. Cooking-influenced."

"It's adding cabbage to sodium water."

"The most sophisticated sodium water you've ever had."

Despite everything—the weird formality of his clothes, the nervous energy he's trying to hide, the way he keeps glancing at you like he's checking to make sure you're still there—you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, settling onto one of the floor cushions. "Cook for me, Ott. Show me your culinary mastery."

"Prepare to be amazed, Capy. Your taste buds will never recover from this experience."

As he bustles around the tiny kitchen, chattering about the nutritional benefits of cabbage and the proper technique for soft-boiling eggs, you watch him move through his space with that same easy familiarity you noticed before.

But there's something different tonight. Something in the way he keeps adjusting his shirt, the way he's put actual effort into his appearance, the way he seems to be performing some version of himself that's more polished than usual.

It makes you wonder what exactly this surprise involves.

And why he's so nervous about it.

The ramen is, surprisingly, not terrible.

Apparently, Hoseok was right when he mentioned the addition of actual vegetables and a properly soft-boiled egg transforms it from ‘sad convenience store dinner’ to ‘almost like real food.’

You're sitting cross-legged on his floor, eating from mismatched bowls while Momo watches from her perch on the couch arm, occasionally making soft chittering sounds that might be commentary on your table manners.

"See?" Hoseok says, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Told you I could cook."

"You added cabbage to instant ramen. That's not cooking, that's... assembly."

"Assembly with flair! And nutritional value!"

You take another bite, and it really is better than your usual convenience store fare. The egg adds richness, the cabbage provides actual texture, and somehow the combination makes the whole thing feel less like desperation food and more like an actual meal.

"It's good," you admit reluctantly.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I didn't quite hear you."

"I said it's good, you insufferable—"

"She likes my cooking! Momo, did you hear that? Capy likes my cooking!"

Momo makes a sound that could be agreement or could be a request for food scraps. 

Either way, Hoseok looks pleased with himself.

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn.

"Too late. My ego is already inflated beyond repair."

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, letting the sounds of soft scratch of chopsticks against ceramic and cars outside fill the room. 

It's peaceful in a way that surprises you—domestic without being suffocating, familiar without being boring.

But you can't shake the feeling that Hoseok is building up to something. 

He keeps glancing at you when he thinks you're not looking, and there's a nervous energy underneath his usual chattiness that makes you wonder what exactly this surprise involves.

"So," you say finally, setting down your chopsticks. "What's the last time you slept?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising both of you. 

But now that you've said it, you realize it's been bothering you since you walked in. 

There are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there yesterday, and his movements have that slightly manic quality that comes from too much caffeine and not enough rest.

"Sleep is for people without deadlines," he says, but his voice lacks its usual conviction.

"Hoseok."

"I got a few hours last night. Maybe three? Four?"

"When did you last sleep for more than four hours?"

He pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. 

"Define 'more than four hours.'"

"More than four consecutive hours of actual sleep. Not passing out at your desk."

"That's... a very specific definition."

"Answer the question."

He sets down his bowl, running a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching.

"Sunday night, maybe? I've been working on this chapter, and the deadline is Friday, and I keep getting stuck on the same scene because I can't figure out how to make Miki's emotional arc feel authentic, and then I started researching historical beauty standards, which led to reading about cosmetic chemistry, which somehow turned into a three-hour deep dive into the history of advertising psychology, and by then it was 6 AM and I figured I might as well just keep working..."

He trails off, apparently realizing how that sounds.

"You haven't slept properly in three days," you say. It's not a question.

"Sleep is overrated. I function better on caffeine and creative desperation anyway."

"That's not how human biology works."

"I'm not entirely human. I'm part artist, part caffeine, part existential crisis. Very efficient combination."

You study his face more carefully. 

The glasses hide some of the exhaustion, but now that you're looking, you can see the telltale signs—the slight tremor in his hands, the way he's talking just a little too fast, the manic brightness in his eyes that comes from pushing your brain past its limits.

"You're going to crash," you say.

"I'll crash after the deadline. Very professional crashing. Scheduled and everything."

"Hoseok—"

"I'm fine, Capy. Really. I just get like this sometimes when I'm working on something important. My brain doesn't want to stop, you know? Like there's this idea right there, just out of reach, and if I could just push a little harder, stay awake a little longer, I could grab it."

The way he says it—with a mixture of frustration and resignation—makes something click in your head.

"How long have you been like this?" you ask quietly.

"Like what?"

"The not sleeping. The hyperfocus. The way your brain jumps from cat ear anatomy to cosmetic chemistry to advertising psychology in one night."

He goes very still, and for a moment the manic energy drains out of him entirely.

"Since always," he says finally. "But I didn't have a name for it until about two years ago."

"ADHD?"

He nods, not meeting your eyes. "Late diagnosis. Apparently, I've been masking it pretty well my whole life. Or maybe not that well, and everyone just thought I was... you know. Weird. Scattered. The kid who couldn't sit still but somehow got good grades anyway."

The pieces fall into place—the way he used to bounce his leg constantly in class, the hyperfocus sessions where he'd disappear into his art for hours, the way he could remember the most random details but forget to eat lunch.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" you ask.

"Because it felt like making excuses. Like, 'oh, I can't function like a normal person because my brain is wired differently.' But everyone's brain is wired differently, right? Everyone struggles with focus and motivation and feeling like they're not quite keeping up with the world."

"Not like this."

"No," he agrees quietly. "Not like this."

You both sit in silence for a moment, the weight of this revelation settling between you. 

It explains so much—the Wikipedia rabbit holes, the way he can talk for hours about subjects that fascinate him, the creative intensity that produces genuinely good art but leaves him exhausted and strung out.

"Are you... getting help? Medication or therapy or...?"

"Medication, yeah. When I remember to take it. Which is ironic, considering that remembering to take medication is exactly the kind of thing I need medication to help with."

"Did you take it today?"

"Define 'today.'"

"Hoseok."

"I'll take it after dinner. I promise. It just makes me feel... flat, sometimes. Like all the interesting thoughts get smoothed out along with the chaotic ones."

You understand that more than you want to admit. 

The fear that fixing the problems might also fix the things that make you who you are.

"Is that why you're so nervous tonight?" you ask. "Because you're running on no sleep and no medication and too much caffeine?"

"I'm not nervous."

"You're wearing a shirt you ironed. You're nervous."

He laughs, but it's shaky. "Maybe a little. The surprise is... it's kind of a big deal. For my work. And I want you to like it."

"Why does it matter if I like it?"

Silence.

He glances at you for a moment, then his eyes skitter away.

"Because," he says finally, "your opinion matters to me. It always has."

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. 

Because this is Jung Hoseok—the boy who used to climb through your window just to sit on your floor and read comics, who remembered that you like strawberry ice cream, who notices things about you that you don't even notice about yourself.

And now he's a man who draws pornographic manga and stays awake for three days straight chasing ideas, who got diagnosed with ADHD at twenty-four and is still figuring out how to live in his own brain.

But he's still the same person who wants your approval more than he wants to admit.

"Show me," you say quietly. "Whatever this surprise is. I'm ready."

His smile is soft and nervous and hopeful all at once.

"Okay," he says, standing up and offering you his hand. "But remember—you said you'd keep an open mind about my artistic vision."

"I said no such thing."

"You implied it. Very strongly implied it."

"I implied that I'd look at whatever ridiculous thing you've created and try not to mock you too harshly."

"Close enough."

You take his hand and let him pull you to your feet, trying to ignore the way his fingers feel warm and steady against yours.

"This better not be weird, Ott."

"Define weird."

"You know what weird means."

"Everything I do is weird, Capy. That's my brand."

He disappears into his bedroom (not without telling you to wait in the living room first) with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering a new Wikipedia article about something completely useless.

You settle your weight onto one foot, listening to what sounds like a one-man demolition crew operating in the next room. 

Thuds, scraping sounds, what might be cursing in multiple languages, and at least one crash that makes Momo’s ears perk up in alarm.

“Everything okay in there, Ott?” you call out.

“Fine! Just… reorganizing! Very professional reorganization!”

Another crash, followed by more creative cursing.

“Maybe I should—”

“Don’t come in! It’s a surprise! A very organized, professional surprise that’s definitely not a complete disaster right now!”

Momo makes a chirping noise, probably commenting on the chaos emanating from the bedroom.

“I know,” you murmur to her. “He’s always been like this.”

She makes a small sound that might be agreement or might be a request for snacks. 

Either way, talking to the furball feels like another small victory in the ongoing campaign for sugar glider acceptance.

The sounds from the bedroom reach a crescendo of furniture scraping and what definitely sounds like him tripping over something.

“That’s it,” you announce. “I’m coming in before you actually hurt yourself.”

“No! Wait! I almost—shit!”

You push open the bedroom door just as Hoseok loses his balance while standing on his desk chair, arms windmilling wildly as he tries to grab something from the top shelf of his bookcase.

Time slows down in that particular way it does when you’re about to witness someone do something spectacularly stupid.

He’s stretching up, one hand braced against the wall, the other reaching for what looks like a small box wedged behind some manga volumes. 

His t-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin at his lower back, and his hair is completely disheveled from whatever organizational chaos he’s been conducting.

And there’s something about the way he looks in that moment—slightly desperate, completely focused, unconsciously graceful despite being balanced precariously on an office chair—that makes something unfurl low in your abdomen.

Something warm and insistent and absolutely unwelcome.

You clear your throat loudly.

He startles, loses his grip on whatever he was reaching for, and the chair wobbles dangerously before he manages to steady himself against the bookcase.

“Jesus, Capy! You scared the shit out of me!”

“You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing?”

“Retrieving important artistic materials from their secure storage location.” He climbs down from the chair with as much dignity as someone can muster after nearly falling face-first into a bookshelf. “Very professional retrieval methods.”

“You were about to break your neck.”

“I was about to achieve storage access through innovative height solutions.”

“You were about to die trying to reach something on a shelf like an idiot.”

His hair is sticking up in at least three different directions, and there’s a faint flush across his cheekbones from the exertion. 

He runs a hand through the mess, trying to restore some semblance of order, but it only makes it worse.

You definitely don’t think about what he might look like in other situations that would leave his hair messed up and his cheeks flushed.

Definitely not.

“What’s so important that you needed to risk life and limb to get it?” you ask, because focusing on his questionable decision-making is safer than focusing on… other things.

“The missing piece of tonight’s professional artistic collaboration session.” He reaches behind the manga volumes again, this time from the safety of the floor, and produces a small box. “Behold!”

You stare at the box, which appears to be made of high-quality cardboard and has the kind of professional packaging that suggests it cost more than a convenience store purchase.

“What is it?”

“Revolutionary reference enhancement technology.” He opens the box with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “Custom-commissioned, professionally crafted, anatomically accurate…”

He trails off, carefully lifting something black and furry from the tissue paper.

Cat ears.

Not the cheap costume shop variety you were expecting, but actual, professional-quality cat ears that look like they could have come off a real cat if real cats were black and slightly larger than normal.

“You bought cat ears,” you say flatly.

“I commissioned cat ears,” he corrects, holding them up to the light like they’re made of precious metals. “From a professional cosplay artist. Look at the craftsmanship! The attention to detail! They’re articulated!”

He demonstrates by gently moving one of the ears, and it responds with realistic feline movement—tilting, swiveling, even flattening slightly against the headband.

“They respond to head movement and touch,” he continues, genuinely excited. “So when you’re modeling, they’ll move naturally, just like Miki’s would. For accuracy!”

“You commissioned professional cat ears for me to wear while posing for your hentai manga.”

“For character reference accuracy!” he protests. “Miki’s ears are a crucial part of her design! They express emotion, respond to stimuli, add to her overall character development!”

You take the ears from his hands, studying the craftsmanship. 

They are, grudgingly, impressive. 

The fur is soft and realistic, the articulation mechanisms are nearly invisible, and the headband looks like it’s designed for actual extended wear rather than a one-time costume party.

“How much did these cost?”

“That’s not important.”

“Hoseok.”

“They’re an investment in artistic authenticity.”

“How. Much.”

He mumbles something under his breath.

“What?”

“Twelve thousand yen,” he says quickly. “But that includes rush delivery and custom color matching and—”

“You spent 150 bucks on cat ears.”

“On professional-grade character reference enhancement accessories!”

“On cat ears, Ott. For me to wear. While posing for your porn.”

“Adult-oriented sequential art with emotional depth and realistic character development.”

You stare at him. He stares back, glasses slightly askew, hair still a disaster, clutching the empty box like it might provide moral support.

“You’re insane,” you say finally.

“I’m dedicated to my craft.”

“You’re absolutely unhinged.”

“I’m artistically committed.”

“You spent more than 100 Aussie—”

“They’re really well made!”

Despite yourself, you find your lips twitching toward a smile. 

Because this is peak Jung Hoseok behavior—spending ridiculous amounts of money on something completely unnecessary because he got excited about the technical details.

“Fine,” you say, settling the headband onto your head. “But if these look stupid, I’m never letting you live it down.”

“They won’t look stupid. They’re going to look amazing. You’re going to look exactly like—”

He stops mid-sentence as the ears settle into place.

The headband is surprisingly comfortable, lightweight enough that you barely notice it’s there. The ears themselves sit naturally, positioned just right to look like they actually belong on your head rather than like a costume accessory.

You turn to look in the small mirror above his dresser, and…

Shit.

They look good.

Not just ‘acceptable for the purposes of artistic reference’ good, but actually good. 

The black fur complements your hair color, the positioning flatters your face shape, and the way they move slightly when you turn your head is genuinely cute.

Which is a problem.

Because you’re not supposed to like how you look in cat ears. 

You’re supposed to be above this kind of thing. 

You’re supposed to think it’s ridiculous and juvenile and exactly the sort of male fantasy bullshit that makes you roll your eyes.

Instead, you’re looking at yourself in the mirror and thinking… you look cute.

Really cute.

And that’s… horrifying.

“They look…” Hoseok starts, then clears his throat. “I mean, the proportions are exactly right for Miki’s design. The color match is perfect. The positioning looks completely natural.”

You catch his eyes in the mirror, and there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

“They look stupid,” you lie, because admitting you like them feels too much like admitting something else entirely.

“They don’t look stupid.”

“They look ridiculous.”

“They look perfect.”

You turn away from the mirror, which is a mistake, because now you’re facing him directly and he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite identify. Something softer than his usual manic enthusiasm, something that makes the air in the small bedroom feel thicker.

“So,” you say, voice slightly wavery. “What’s the pose?”

“Right. The pose.” He blinks, seeming to remember why you’re here. “It’s for chapter six. Miki’s supposed to be… well, she’s in a vulnerable moment, but trying to maintain her independence. The cat characteristics become more pronounced when she’s emotional.”

He moves to his desk, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil with the kind of movements that suggests he’s trying very hard to focus on the technical aspects of what you’re doing.

“She’s sitting on the floor,” he continues, not quite meeting your eyes. “Knees drawn up, but not defensively. More like… comfortable vulnerability, if that makes sense. And the ears would be…” He makes a vague gesture. “Attentive, but not aggressive. Curious but cautious.”

You settle onto the floor, adjusting your position until it feels natural. The movement makes the ears shift slightly, and you notice the way they respond to your movement.

“Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s good. But maybe tilt your head slightly to the left? And soften your expression a bit. She’s not angry, just… guarded.”

You adjust your position, trying to find the balance between confidence and softness. 

It’s… weirdly easy to slip into the character’s headspace—the duality of wanting to be seen and wanting to hide.

“Perfect,” Hoseok murmurs, pencil already moving across the paper. “Hold that.”

The scratch of graphite on paper fills the silence as he works, occasionally asking you to adjust your expression or the tilt of your head. 

But something about it makes your skin erupt in goosebumps.

Maybe it’s the ears. Maybe it’s the way he keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re realizing how small his bedroom is, how close you’re sitting, how warm the lamplight is.

“Tilt your head a bit more,” he says quietly. “Yeah, like that. The way the light hits… that’s exactly right.”

His voice has gotten softer, more focused, and there’s something about the way he’s studying your face that makes heat creep up your neck.

“The ears,” he continues, still sketching. “The way they move when you adjust your position, the way they frame your face… it’s exactly what I needed for the character design.”

You hold the pose, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. 

It’s just reference work. 

It’s just Hoseok being professional about his art. 

“You’re being very good about this,” he says absently, not looking up from his sketch. “Very patient. Very professional. Good kitty.”

The words slip out so naturally that it takes a moment for both of you to process what he’s just said.

Good kitty.

He called you good kitty.

In that soft, focused voice he uses when he’s completely absorbed in his work. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re actually…

Heat explodes across your face so fast and so intensely that you’re surprised you don’t burst into flames on the spot.

Your heart rate spikes to somewhere around the level usually reserved for medical emergencies, and there’s a rushing sound in your ears that might be your blood pressure trying to achieve escape velocity.

Because why the fuck did that make your stomach drop in the best possible way?

Why did those two words, said in that tone, with that casual assumption of… of what, exactly? Authority? Affection? Ownership?

Why are you blushing like a teenage girl who just got asked to prom by her crush?

Why does your chest feel tight? Why are your hands shaking? Why is there a warm, liquid feeling spreading through your stomach like you’ve just swallowed something that’s too hot?

Why do you like it?

Oh god, why do you like it?

And why—why—is there a small, traitorous part of your brain that wants him to say it again?

You hiccup.

It’s an involuntary, mortifying little sound that escapes before you can stop it, born of shock and embarrassment and something else you absolutely refuse to name.

Hoseok’s pencil stops moving.

He looks up, and the moment he sees your face—which is probably the color of a fire truck at this point—his eyes widen with dawning horror.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “I just… I didn’t mean… that just came out…”

“It’s fine,” you manage, but your voice comes out pitched too high and slightly strangled.

“No, it’s not fine, I just called you…” He runs a hand through his hair, making it even more chaotic. “I was thinking about Miki, and the character work, and I just… it slipped out.”

“Really, it’s—”

“I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate, I wasn’t thinking about you as… I mean, not that you’re not… but I didn’t mean to make it weird…”

He’s spiraling now, words tumbling out faster than his brain can process them, and you can see the exact moment he realizes he’s making it worse.

You’re still wearing cat ears. He just called you good kitty. And you liked it.

You liked it enough that your entire body reacted like he’d just whispered something dirty in your ear instead of offering casual praise.

This is fine. This is normal. 

This is just two friends helping each other with work-related projects and definitely not discovering anything weird about themselves or each other.

Except your face is still burning, and you can’t stop thinking about the way his voice sounded when he said it, and the way he’d made the praise sound like—

“Should I—” you start, your voice coming out rougher than intended. “Should I try a different expression?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, still not looking up. “Different expression. Good idea. Very professional.”

He adjusts his position in the chair, crossing his legs, and you definitely don’t notice the way he shifts like he’s uncomfortable.

“What expression?” you ask, because apparently your mouth has decided to keep working even though your brain has completely shut down.

“Uh…” He finally glances up, and his gaze immediately skitters away again. “Maybe… surprised? Like someone just caught you off guard?”

Well, that shouldn’t be hard to fake, considering someone just caught you very off guard indeed.

You widen your eyes slightly, letting your lips part just a little, and the ears twitch forward with the movement.

“Good,” Hoseok says, his voice carefully controlled. “That’s… that’s very good.”

His pencil moves across the paper with more focus than necessary, like he’s trying to lose himself in the motions of drawing.

But you can see how rigidly his shoulders are set, and how he keeps shifting in his chair, the careful way he’s avoiding eye contact.

And you’re not much better. You can feel your pulse in your throat, and there’s a weird awareness of your own body that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. 

The way the ears sit on your head, the way they move when you breathe, the way they make you feel like you’re playing some kind of role that you don’t entirely understand.

But you like it.

And that’s the most disturbing part of all of this.

“Maybe we should…” you start, then realize you have no idea how to finish that sentence.

Take a break? Stop pretending this is normal? Address the fact that you just discovered something about yourself that you’re not sure you want to know?

“I should…” Hoseok starts, then clears his throat and tries again. “Maybe we should take a break? Get some air?”

“Yeah,” you agree quickly, grateful for any excuse to escape the suffocating tension of his bedroom. “Air. Good idea.”

But as you start to reach up to remove the cat ears, he speaks again.

“You can… I mean, if you want to keep those on, that’s… they look good. I mean, they look accurate. For the character reference.”

Your hand freezes halfway to your head.

“Should I keep them on?” 

“Do you want to keep them on?”

It’s a simple question, but the way he asks it makes it feel loaded with implications.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Do you want me to take them off?”

“I don’t know either.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, looking at each other across the small space of his bedroom, and the silence feels different now. Heavier. Like there are words neither of you knows how to say.

“We could…” Hoseok starts, then stops.

“What?”

“We could keep going. With the reference work. If you want.”

“If I want.”

“If you want.”

You study his face, looking for some clue about what he’s really asking. But all you see is the same uncertainty you’re feeling.

“Okay,” you say finally. “But no more… you know.”

“Good kitty comments?”

“Good kitty comments.”

“Right. Completely professional from here on out.”

“Completely professional.”

The cat ears stay on.

The living room feels enormous compared to the claustrophobic tension of the bedroom, even though it’s objectively the same cramped space it was twenty minutes ago.

You settle back onto the floor cushions, super aware of the way the ears move with your head, while Hoseok busies himself with rummaging the freezer for the ice cream you bought earlier.

He’s moving around the tiny kitchen—looking for clean teaspoons—with the kind of aggressive purposefulness that suggests he needs something to do with his hands.

Momo appears immediately, gliding from her perch to investigate the situation. She lands on the couch arm nearest to you and sits up on her hind legs, studying you curiously like you’re a wildlife documentary.

“She’s staring at me,” you observe.

“She’s probably wondering why you smell different,” Hoseok calls from the kitchen, where he’s clattering around with unnecessary force. “The ears are new. Different scent.”

“They have a scent?”

“Everything has a scent. Momo’s very scent-oriented. She probably thinks you’re… I don’t know. Part cat now.”

“Part cat,” you repeat flatly.

“In a good way! Cats are very dignified! Very independent!”

You glance at Momo, who tilts her head and makes a soft chittering sound that could be commentary or could be approval. 

“Can I…” you hesitate, then extend one finger toward her slowly. “Would she let me pet her?”

Hoseok’s clattering stops abruptly. “You want to pet Momo?”

“Is that weird?”

“No, it’s just… she doesn’t usually let people touch her. She’s very particular about personal space.”

But Momo has already made the decision for herself, leaning forward to sniff your extended finger.

After a moment of consideration, she presses her tiny head against your fingertip.

Something blooms in your chest.

Because last time she sniffed you, she scurried away.

But this time—this time she’s actually chosen you to pet her.

“Oh,” you breathe, because her fur is impossibly soft and she’s so small and warm and trusting. “She’s…”

“She likes you,” Hoseok says, and there’s something in his voice that makes you look up.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, ice cream boxes in hand, watching you pet his sugar glider with an expression that’s soft and surprised and something else you can’t quite identify.

“She doesn’t do that with strangers,” he continues. “Ever. You’re officially part of the ecosystem now.”

“The ecosystem?”

“This apartment. This space. Momo’s very territorial. If she accepts you, it means you belong here.”

The way he says ‘belong here’ makes something flutter in your chest that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

“She’s just being friendly,” you say, but you don’t stop the gentle head scratches that are making Momo practically purr with contentment.

“Momo is never just friendly. She’s a very serious judge of character.”

“What’s her verdict on me?”

“Apparently, you’re acceptable.”

“High praise.”

“The highest. She once bit my neighbor for trying to give her a piece of apple. Drew blood.”

You pause in your petting. “You mentioned.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what happens when you try to touch her without permission. And the apple was too big. She has very specific opinions about appropriate offering sizes.”

Momo makes a small sound then—immediately fleeing.

“Just like someone I know,” Hoseok observes.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Hmmm. Nothing.”

You give him a death glare as he settles onto the cushion across from you, mouthful of chocolate ice cream coating his lips.

“So,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes as he hands you the strawberry one. “How was that? The reference session?”

“It was…” You pause, taking the ice cream from his hands. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean… I learned that professional cat ears are surprisingly comfortable.”

“And that Momo has excellent taste in humans.”

“And that your bedroom is a death trap of precariously balanced furniture.”

He laughs, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “Hey, that storage system is very efficient. Just requires some athletic skill to access.”

“It requires a death wish and questionable judgment.”

“Same thing, really.”

You bring the spoon to your mouth, tasting the strawberry ice cream that is actually good despite looking like the cheapest brand available.

“The ears,” Hoseok says suddenly, then stops.

“What about them?”

“They look… I mean, for the reference, they’re perfect. Exactly what I needed to understand how Miki’s would move and position and…”

He trails off, apparently lost in some technical artistic consideration that involves staring at your face like it’s a museum piece.

“You’re staring,” you point out.

“I’m observing. For artistic purposes.”

“Artistic purposes.”

“The way they frame your face, the proportion relative to your features, the way they respond to head movement…” He’s talking faster now, the words tumbling out like he’s trying to convince himself of something. “It’s exactly the reference material I needed to make Miki’s design more realistic.”

“Right.”

“Very professional artistic observation.”

“Of course.”

But the way he’s looking at you doesn’t feel particularly professional. It feels… different. Warmer.

Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect to see.

You shift slightly under his gaze, and the movement makes the ears tilt in response. 

His eyes track the motion.

“They’re very responsive,” he observes, voice slightly rougher than usual.

“You said they were articulated.”

“They are. But seeing it in practice is… different. More natural than I expected.”

“Good thing you spent twelve thousand yen on them.”

“Very good thing,” he agrees, but he’s still staring and his voice has gotten quieter.

There’s a few beats of silence that translate into you not knowing what to do with your stupid hands.

“I should probably head home soon,” you say, even though the thought of going back to your corporate housing makes you want to sink through the floor. “Early meeting tomorrow about brand cohesion strategies.”

“Brand cohesion strategies,” Hoseok repeats. “That sounds…”

“Soul-crushing?”

“I was going to say ‘very corporate,’ but soul-crushing works too.”

You laugh, and it feels good to laugh about something normal after the last few hours of weirdness.

But then the silence stretches out again, and you can see Hoseok fidgeting with his spoon, turning it around in his hands like it holds the secrets of the universe. 

He keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, then closing it again.

You're not much better. Your fingers have found your cuticles and you're picking at them in that nervous habit you thought you'd grown out of, trying very hard not to think about the way your stomach dropped when he said ‘good kitty’ in that soft, focused voice.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Come on. This is Hoseok. Jung Hoseok. The boy who used to eat dirt on dares and cried when his pet goldfish died. Your childhood friend who draws cartoon porn for a living and can't remember to take his medication.

You're not supposed to get hot and bothered when he calls you good kitty while you're wearing cat ears in his bedroom.

That's not... that's not normal friend behavior.

That's not normal you behavior.

"So, um..." Hoseok starts, then stops, rubbing the back of his neck. "I should probably... I mean, you probably want to..."

He trails off, turning the ice cream container in his hands.

"Yeah," you say quickly, reaching up to remove the cat ears. "I should head back."

Your fingers fumble with the headband, and you can feel heat creeping up your neck again as you carefully lift the ears off your head. They're still warm from your skin, and for some stupid reason that makes you blush harder.

You hold them out to him, pressing your lips together and not quite meeting his eyes.

"Thanks for letting me borrow them," you manage. "For the... reference thing."

"Right. Reference." He takes the ears from you, and his fingers brush yours for just a second before you both jerk your hands back like you've been burned. "Very professional reference work."

"Very professional," you agree, even though your ears are probably bright red and your voice sounds slightly strangled.

Hoseok sets the cat ears carefully next to him, like they're made of glass instead of fur and plastic.

"I could..." he starts, then stops. 

Clears his throat. 

Tries again. “I mean, if you want, I could give you a lift home? On my bike?"

You nod without saying anything, because words feel dangerous right now. Like if you open your mouth, something embarrassing might come out. Something that acknowledges what just happened, or how you felt about it, or why your stomach is still doing weird fluttery things.

Better to just... not.

"Right," Hoseok says, apparently taking your silence as agreement. "Let me just... grab my keys."

He disappears into his bedroom for a moment, and you use the time to collect yourself. 

To remind yourself that you're a rational adult who doesn't get flustered by childhood friends making casual comments during work-related activities.

Even if those comments made you feel things you definitely shouldn't be feeling.

Even if you're still thinking about the way he looked at you when you were wearing those ears.

Stop it.

When he emerges, he's got his keys what appears to be a leather jacket that's seen better days.

You follow him down the four flights of stairs in silence, both of you carefully not looking at each other, both of you moving with the kind of exaggerated casualness that screams 'nothing weird happened here.'

Hoseok leads you around the side of his building towards his bike, which makes you curious because…

But then he stops next to a bicycle.

Not just any bicycle. 

A bright blue bicycle with a basket on the front and what appear to be reflective streamers hanging from the handlebars and a bell shaped like a cartoon cat.

You stare at it.

He stares at you staring at it.

"It's..." he starts defensively. "It's very practical. Good for the environment. Excellent exercise."

A snort escapes before you can stop it.

"What?" Hoseok asks, looking genuinely confused.

"You said bike," you manage between barely suppressed giggles. "I thought you meant... like a motorbike.”

"This has pedals. Very efficient pedals."

"It has streamers, Ott."

"They're safety streamers. For visibility."

The absurdity of it—standing outside his apartment building at nine PM, arguing about bicycle safety features after the most awkward modeling session in history—finally breaks the tension that's been building all evening.

You start laughing. Really laughing, not the careful polite laughter from before, but the kind of helpless giggles that make your stomach hurt.

"It's not that funny," Hoseok protests, but he's grinning now too. "It's a very respectable bicycle. I bought it from a very serious bicycle shop."

"With streamers," you gasp.

"With safety features."

"And a basket."

"For groceries! Very logical!"

"And the cat-shaped bell was necessary?"

He swings his leg over the bike with the kind of dignity that only someone riding a bright blue bicycle with streamers and a bell can muster, then pats the seat behind him.

"Come on, your chariot awaits."

"I'm not getting on that thing."

"It's perfectly safe. I've been riding it for three years without a single accident."

"How many near-accidents?"

"That's not relevant to current safety statistics."

Despite your protests, you find yourself climbing onto the back of his ridiculous bicycle, trying to figure out where to put your hands that won't result in you falling off or accidentally grabbing something inappropriate.

"Just hold onto my shoulders," Hoseok says, apparently reading your mind. "Or my waist, whatever's comfortable. I promise not to dump you in the street."

"Your promises aren't worth much considering your track record with furniture safety."

"What?! I didn't fall!"

"You almost fell. There's a difference."

"A very important difference."

You settle your hands lightly on his shoulders as he pushes off, and the bicycle wobbles slightly before finding its balance. The movement brings you closer to his back, close enough that you can smell that sharp, citrusy scent that seems to follow him everywhere.

Yuzu peel. 

It's stronger now, mixed with the evening air and the faint scent of his laundry detergent, and it makes you think of summer mornings and sticky fingers and the way citrus juice stings when you get it under your fingernails.

Without really thinking about it, you let your forehead rest against his shoulder blade as he pedals through the quiet streets. 

The rhythm is soothing—the soft whir of bicycle wheels, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional ding of his bell when he needs to navigate around pedestrians.

It's peaceful in a way that surprises you. 

Familiar. 

Like being kids again, when the most complicated thing in your life was whether you'd finished your maths homework and if there would be good snacks in the school canteen.

"You smell like yuzu," you say without thinking, then immediately regret it because that sounds weird and personal and not the kind of thing you should be noticing about your childhood friend.

"It's my shampoo," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Same brand I've been using since high school. Very consistent personal grooming choices."

"Makes me want pastries. Those little yuzu tarts from that bakery near the station."

"We could get some tomorrow. If you want. After your corporate brand cohesion thing."

"Maybe."

This is what you missed, you think. 

Not the complications or the confusing feelings or the way he looked at you when you were wearing those ridiculous ears.

Just this. 

The simplicity of being around someone who's known you since you were kids, who remembers that you like strawberry ice cream and hate algae extract and get cranky when you're hungry.

Someone who gives you lifts home on a bicycle with a cat-shaped bell and doesn't think twice about it.

The ride to your corporate housing is shorter than you'd like, and when he pulls up outside the bland concrete building, you're almost disappointed.

"Here we are," he says, steadying the bike while you climb off. "Safe and sound, as promised."

"Thanks," you say, getting off cautiously because falling off right now would be embarrassing. "For dinner, and the... work thing, and the lift."

"Thanks for being my professional reference model. Very valuable artistic collaboration."

"Very professional," you agree, and this time when you say it, it feels true.

"See you tomorrow? For yuzu pastries and post-corporate recovery?"

"Maybe. If I survive the brand cohesion."

"You'll survive. You're tougher than peptide synergy."

You laugh, and it feels good, and normal—just as if everything is exactly as it should be.

"So," Hoseok says finally. "Same time next week? For the... work thing?"

"Yeah," you agree. "Same time next week."

"Cool. I'll probably have more reference questions by then. Very professional reference questions."

"I'm sure you will."

"Nothing weird."

"Definitely nothing weird."

You both know you're lying, but it feels necessary to pretend otherwise.

"Goodnight, Ott."

"Goodnight, Capy."

You watch him pedal away into the neon-lit darkness, cat bell chiming softly as he disappears around the corner, and you realize you're smiling.

Whatever weirdness happened earlier, whatever confusing feelings got stirred up by cat ears and casual praise—it doesn't matter.

What matters is that Jung Hoseok is still Jung Hoseok, and you're still you, and some things never change.

Even when everything else does.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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[hopechip]

So, reading it again, I feel like interpreting that post about good smut being a character study as saying "smut has to be intellectual to have value" is kind of a bad faith reading. I mean I get it, free expression is under attack right now and we're feeling rightly defensive about our right to enjoy porn for porn's sake, and I don't disagree with that.

But that's just the thing. Sex scenes are character studies because sex is just another piece of the human experience, like gardening or cooking or solving a mystery or getting into a fight. It's a thing people do sometimes which it can be very enjoyable to watch fictional characters do. Sometimes, a scene where a character does something can show us a lot about that character. I think that is a neutral statement. I'm not disparaging mystery novels by saying that how a detective solves a mystery says a lot about that character.

Yes, of course it's okay to write a sensationalized and unrealistic car chase just because you enjoy watching high-speed car chases. Does the chase scene still not say something about the characters involved? Can we not still be interested in what kind of vehicles they're driving and what choices they make to propel the scene and make it exciting? Can we not still appreciate a well-choreographed car chase knowing it was made primarily to give us a fun little adrenaline rush as we watch?

What I'm trying to say it, sex is just a thing people do. It's not a special category of behavior, regardless of how our culture treats it. Smut isn't a special category of art with special rules. If you can say that you enjoy character study in fiction generally, there is no reason to read sinister motives into someone saying they like character study in porn. Horniness is no more and no less valid a reason to engage with art than any other, and by the same token it's not somehow anti-smut to engage with more than one reason.

Art about sex shouldn't be required to be "high art" (whatever the fuck that means) to have value because no art should. Complex readings of art that embrace multiple motives and meanings isn't in itself a "slippery slope" to devaluing art, and to say that it is... starts to feel like anti-intellectualism to me.

[hopechip]

The ceaseless work of trying to love others as you wish to be loved, eclipsed only by the work of trying to love yourself as you wish to be loved.

[hopechip]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 04

pairing: hoseok x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 9,4k | warnings: here genre: childhood bffs, grumpy x sunshine, emotional slow burn, smut

"cat ears"

You swore this was about ramen and reference work. But now you’re blushing in cat ears while your childhood best friend stares at you like you’re the entire fucking plot.

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↦ author's note : Hiii omg I’m so excited to finally be dropping this chapter!! Like genuinely bouncing-on-my-heels-squealing excited. I love this fanfic with my whole chest—like, it makes me feel all floaty and squishy and hollow and full at the same time?? It’s so bittersweet, and I don’t mean in the fake deep way, I mean in the visceral ache in your sternum kind of way. The melancholy/sweetness dichotomy is actually feral. It haunts me when I write. It’s the ghost of every almost-love that never quite made it to the finish line. This chapter carries that energy like it’s been marinating in it.

Let’s start with the obvious (and what many of you amazing nerds clocked IMMEDIATELY)—Hoseok’s ADHD. YEP. He’s not just quirky and chaotic and manic pixie bimbo artist-coded. He’s neurodivergent and he knows it. Late-diagnosed. Like me. Like many of us. And yes, I’m writing it on purpose. ADHD is not just “teehee I got distracted!!” It is executive dysfunction. It is the absence of an internal reward system. Like… people with ADHD don’t get the dopamine boost from “doing the thing” the way neurotypicals do. We rely on novelty, urgency, interest, passion, and external consequence. If something doesn’t hit one of those buttons? Good luck. That’s why he goes down Wikipedia rabbit holes instead of sleeping. That’s why his creative highs come with crashing lows. That’s why his time management is mystical, and not in a good way. I want to portray that reality in a way that feels lived. Because it is. By me. By so many of you. We’re out here half-dead and hyperfixating and vibing through sheer adrenaline and vibes alone.

Capy. My girl. My feral little gremlin with sensory issues and avoidance coping and a thousand unspoken feelings. I didn’t give her a diagnosis, because she doesn’t have one. Not everyone does. That’s also real. You can be neurodivergent and never get diagnosed. You can struggle with taste and texture and food aversion and nobody calls it what it is because you’re “high functioning” or “just picky” or “emotional.” But she feels the world like it’s too much. And that affects both her sense of taste and touch. The food thing isn’t just picky—it’s about texture, smell, mouthfeel, the way certain ingredients coat the tongue or burn the back of your throat or feel wrong in your molars. And the touch stuff? Don’t even get me started. Cabbage is fine. Algae? She’d rather die. It’s a war crime in her mouth. I built that into her without making it A Thing™ because so many people live like that without ever being handed a name for it.

And now… the cat ears. Y’all. Why did it get so deeply feral so fast. The good kitty comment? I need to be institutionalized. The immediate bodily reaction??? I was giggling and kicking my feet and also dying of secondhand embarrassment. I don’t know what happened, but I blacked out. Writing it was like being possessed by a demon who runs a fanservice café in Ikebukuro. ALSOOOO. The ending? THE ENDING???? Get these two absolute idiots OUT OF MY FACE. They’re adorable. They’re disasters. I want to smack them both and then wrap them in a weighted blanket. I love them so much it actually hurts. Anyway. Go suffer. Or enjoy. Same difference. And maybe… idk… buy a pair of cat ears for yourself? Or don’t. Either way, your secrets are safe with me. Mwah mwah mwah.

The second week of corporate hell begins with Davidson explaining the ‘revolutionary potential of cross-platform peptide messaging’ while you contemplate whether throwing yourself out the seventh-floor window would be considered a workplace accident or a cry for help.

"The synergistic possibilities are truly limitless," Davidson continues, gesturing at a PowerPoint slide that appears to have been designed by someone having a seizure. "When we leverage our core competencies in biochemical narrative construction—"

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift slightly to check it under the conference table.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:23 AM): 𝚂𝙾𝚂. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚙.

You glance around the conference room. 

Davidson is still pontificating about peptide synergy. Yuki catches your eye from across the table and makes a subtle face that suggests she's also contemplating defenestration.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:24 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:25 AM): 𝙾𝙷𝙷𝙷 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜! 𝙰 𝚌𝚊𝚝-𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:26 AM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:27 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝙰 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (10:28 AM): 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:29 AM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍.

"Y/N-san?" Davidson's voice cuts through your text conversation like a rusty knife. "Your thoughts on the peptide positioning strategy?"

You look up to find the entire conference room staring at you. 

Yuki gives you a barely perceptible thumbs up from across the table.

"I think," you say, scrambling for something that sounds remotely professional, "that peptides are... very synergistic. And the positioning possibilities are... limitless."

Davidson beams like you've just solved world hunger. "Exactly! That's the kind of innovative thinking we need!"

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (10:32 AM): 𝙱𝚝𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚜? 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜.

The meeting drags on for another forty-seven minutes. 

You know this because you've been counting, and also because Hoseok has been providing running commentary that makes the whole experience slightly less soul-crushing.

After 40 minutes of pretend attention, you decide to reply.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:16 AM): 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:17 AM): 𝚆𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚆𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚢, 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:18 AM): 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:19 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:20 AM): 𝚁𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:21 AM): 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟶𝚜! 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ 

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:21 AM): 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍. ┐(￣～￣)┌

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:22 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:23 AM): 𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:24 AM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:25 AM): 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 '𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐' 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:26 AM): 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:27 AM): 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚒'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟽 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢. 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑.

That actually makes sense, which is somehow more concerning than if he'd just been procrastinating.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:28 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:29 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝙱𝚝𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔-𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:30 AM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:31 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 '𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎' 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:32 AM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:33 AM): 𝚂𝚎𝚎? 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟼. 

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:33 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛?

You glance around the conference room again. 

Davidson is now drawing diagrams on the whiteboard that look like molecular structures but are probably just random squiggles. 

Yuki is openly reading a magazine under the table.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:34 AM): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:35 AM): 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕! 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:36 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

"And that," Davidson announces with the air of someone who's just solved world hunger, "is how we'll revolutionize the anti-aging market through strategic peptide positioning!"

Everyone claps politely. 

You put your phone away and join in, wondering if this is what death feels like—slow, corporate, and accompanied by the sound of forced applause.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of peptide enthusiasm and brand synergy discussions. 

By 5:30, you're ready to throw yourself into Osaka Bay, but instead you find yourself standing outside the convenience store near Hoseok's apartment, staring at the wall of instant meal options like they hold the secrets of the universe.

You've been standing here for approximately eight minutes, holding the same two packages and pretending to read ingredients you can't pronounce.

The thing is, you know exactly what you're going to buy. 

You always know. 

But there's something about the process of considering other options that feels necessary, even if it's completely pointless.

The chicken broth ramen sits in your left hand—the brand with the simple packaging and ingredients list that doesn't include any of the weird additives that make your tongue feel like it's trying to escape your mouth. 

In your right hand, you're holding some kind of seafood variant that you picked up purely for the illusion of choice.

You know you're going to choose the chicken. You always choose the chicken. The algae extract in most of the other flavors makes your entire mouth feel wrong, like you've licked a fish tank, and the 'mystery meat' chunks in the premium versions have a texture that makes your skin crawl.

But still, you stand there, reading labels, because apparently this is what passes for decision-making in your life now.

"Excuse me," says a voice behind you, and you step aside automatically, assuming someone needs to reach the shelf.

Instead, when you turn around, Hoseok is standing there with his hands in his pockets, grinning at you like he's just won the lottery.

"What the hell are you doing here?" you ask, nearly dropping both packages.

"Rescuing you from your inevitable choice paralysis," he says, nodding toward the ramen in your hands. "You've been standing here for ten minutes."

"I have not been standing here for ten minutes."

"Capy, I live upstairs. I can see the convenience store from my window. You've been staring at that same shelf for ten minutes, holding the same two packages, doing that thing where you pretend to consider other options but you're obviously going to choose the chicken broth because it's the only one that doesn't have algae extract or those weird gelatinous chunks you hate."

You stare at him. "How do you know about the algae thing?"

"Because I pay attention. Also, you made the same face in middle school when your mom tried to make you eat seaweed soup. Like someone was forcing you to swallow a live fish."

The accuracy of this observation is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

"I don't make faces," you protest.

"You absolutely make faces. You're making one right now." He reaches past you and grabs two packages of the chicken broth ramen, plus a third one that looks different. "This one's new. Same brand, but they added mushrooms. No algae, no weird chunks. Want to try it?"

You study the package he's holding. 

The ingredients list is mercifully short and doesn't include anything that sounds like it was harvested from the ocean floor.

"Maybe," you admit reluctantly.

"Progress! The great Capybara, trying new things!" He starts walking toward the register, and you follow automatically. "What else do we need? Drinks? Snacks? Something to make this dinner feel like an actual meal instead of just two people eating instant noodles on my floor?"

"It is just two people eating instant noodles on your floor."

"But we can dress it up! Make it fancy! Add... I don't know, vegetables or something."

"You don't own vegetables."

"I could own vegetables. I'm a responsible adult who makes healthy choices."

You give him a look.

"Fine, I'll buy vegetables. Right now. Watch me be domestic and nutritious."

He veers toward the small produce section, which consists of about six items that look like they've been sitting under the fluorescent lights since the store opened. 

He picks up a bag of pre-cut cabbage and waves it triumphantly.

"Vegetables! I am the picture of healthy living!"

"That's cabbage."

"Cabbage is a vegetable. A very important vegetable. Full of... vitamins and... other healthy things."

"You have no idea what vitamins are in cabbage."

"Vitamin C! Probably! Most vegetables have vitamin C!"

Despite yourself, you're fighting a smile. "You're an idiot."

"An idiot who's about to make you the most nutritious instant ramen dinner of your life." He grabs a package of eggs from the refrigerated section. "Protein! We're basically having a balanced meal now!"

You watch him collect items with the enthusiasm of someone who's just discovered the concept of food. 

It's ridiculous and endearing and you hate how much you like seeing him this animated about something as mundane as convenience store shopping.

"Anything else?" he asks, arms full of packages. "Dessert? Ice cream? Those little cakes that are probably 90% preservatives but taste amazing?"

"Just the ramen is fine."

"Just the ramen is never fine. We're getting ice cream." He heads toward the freezer section. "What flavor do you want?"

"I don't want ice cream."

"Everyone wants ice cream. It's scientifically impossible not to want ice cream." He opens the freezer and cold air billows out. "Vanilla? Chocolate? Something weird and Japanese that we can't identify but might be delicious?"

"Hoseok—"

"Strawberry! You always liked strawberry." He grabs a small container before you can protest. "And I'll get chocolate because I'm predictable like that."

You want to argue, but the truth is you do like strawberry ice cream, and the fact that he remembered this completely irrelevant detail from your childhood makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

"Fine," you say. "But I'm not paying for your emotional support ice cream."

"Deal. I'm rich from all my pornographic artistic endeavors anyway."

The cashier—a teenage boy who looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else—rings up your purchases with the kind of aggressive disinterest that only comes from working retail. He doesn't even blink at Hoseok's comment about pornographic art, which probably says something about either his English comprehension or his level of caring about customer conversations.

Outside the store, the early evening air is cool and carries the scent of rain that might come later. The vending machines cast their eternal glow across the sidewalk, and somewhere in the distance a train whistle echoes through the urban landscape.

"So," Hoseok says as you walk the thirty seconds to his building entrance, "ready for your surprise?"

"I told you I hate surprises."

"You liked the Momo surprise, though."

You hate him. Because you did like the Momo surprise. 

"That was… That was different."

"This one involves your professional artistic collaboration skills and possibly some very interesting character development insights."

"That's not a surprise, that's work."

"Work can be surprising! Especially when it involves creative breakthroughs and artistic revelations!"

You follow him up the four flights of stairs, listening to him chatter about artistic revelations while carrying a plastic bag full of instant ramen and impulse purchases. 

It's domestic in a way that makes you uncomfortable—not because it's weird, but because it feels so natural.

Like this is something you could do every day. Like this could be your routine.

Which is a dangerous thought for approximately seventeen different reasons.

"Here we are," he announces, fumbling with his keys while balancing the grocery bag. "Home sweet chaotic home."

The door opens, and you step into the familiar organized chaos of his apartment. 

Momo appears immediately, scurrying down from her perch near the window to investigate the new arrivals.

"Hey, princess," Hoseok coos, setting down the groceries and offering his hand for her to sniff. "Look who came to visit again."

Momo considers you for a moment, then approaches cautiously. When you crouch down and extend your fingers, she doesn't immediately flee, which feels like progress.

"She likes you," Hoseok observes. "This is huge development in sugar glider diplomacy."

"Don't make it weird."

"Too late. Momo has chosen you as acceptable."

You stand up, brushing off your knees, and that's when you notice what he's wearing.

Or rather, what he's not wearing.

He's changed out of his usual casual clothes into what can only be described as professional attire—dark jeans that actually fit properly, a button-down shirt that looks like it's been ironed, and those black-rimmed glasses that make him look like he knows what he's doing.

It's jarring, seeing him dressed like a functional adult instead of an overgrown art student.

"Why are you dressed like you have somewhere important to be?" you ask.

He glances down at himself, then back at you. "What, this? This is just... clothes."

"Those are nice clothes. You ironed that shirt."

"I own an iron. I'm a sophisticated adult person."

"Since when?"

"Since always! I just don't usually... okay, fine, I wanted to look professional for our professional artistic collaboration session."

"It's not that professional."

"It could be! If we wanted it to be! Which we do! Because we're serious artists taking our craft seriously!"

The enthusiasm in his voice doesn't quite mask something else—nervousness, maybe? Like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

"Hoseok," you say carefully, "what exactly is this surprise?"

His grin falters slightly, and for a moment you see something vulnerable underneath the manic energy.

"I'll show you after dinner," he says. "But first, let me cook for you. And by cook, I mean add vegetables to instant ramen and pretend it's a real meal."

"That's not cooking."

"It's cooking-adjacent. Cooking-inspired. Cooking-influenced."

"It's adding cabbage to sodium water."

"The most sophisticated sodium water you've ever had."

Despite everything—the weird formality of his clothes, the nervous energy he's trying to hide, the way he keeps glancing at you like he's checking to make sure you're still there—you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, settling onto one of the floor cushions. "Cook for me, Ott. Show me your culinary mastery."

"Prepare to be amazed, Capy. Your taste buds will never recover from this experience."

As he bustles around the tiny kitchen, chattering about the nutritional benefits of cabbage and the proper technique for soft-boiling eggs, you watch him move through his space with that same easy familiarity you noticed before.

But there's something different tonight. Something in the way he keeps adjusting his shirt, the way he's put actual effort into his appearance, the way he seems to be performing some version of himself that's more polished than usual.

It makes you wonder what exactly this surprise involves.

And why he's so nervous about it.

The ramen is, surprisingly, not terrible.

Apparently, Hoseok was right when he mentioned the addition of actual vegetables and a properly soft-boiled egg transforms it from ‘sad convenience store dinner’ to ‘almost like real food.’

You're sitting cross-legged on his floor, eating from mismatched bowls while Momo watches from her perch on the couch arm, occasionally making soft chittering sounds that might be commentary on your table manners.

"See?" Hoseok says, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Told you I could cook."

"You added cabbage to instant ramen. That's not cooking, that's... assembly."

"Assembly with flair! And nutritional value!"

You take another bite, and it really is better than your usual convenience store fare. The egg adds richness, the cabbage provides actual texture, and somehow the combination makes the whole thing feel less like desperation food and more like an actual meal.

"It's good," you admit reluctantly.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I didn't quite hear you."

"I said it's good, you insufferable—"

"She likes my cooking! Momo, did you hear that? Capy likes my cooking!"

Momo makes a sound that could be agreement or could be a request for food scraps. 

Either way, Hoseok looks pleased with himself.

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn.

"Too late. My ego is already inflated beyond repair."

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, letting the sounds of soft scratch of chopsticks against ceramic and cars outside fill the room. 

It's peaceful in a way that surprises you—domestic without being suffocating, familiar without being boring.

But you can't shake the feeling that Hoseok is building up to something. 

He keeps glancing at you when he thinks you're not looking, and there's a nervous energy underneath his usual chattiness that makes you wonder what exactly this surprise involves.

"So," you say finally, setting down your chopsticks. "What's the last time you slept?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising both of you. 

But now that you've said it, you realize it's been bothering you since you walked in. 

There are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there yesterday, and his movements have that slightly manic quality that comes from too much caffeine and not enough rest.

"Sleep is for people without deadlines," he says, but his voice lacks its usual conviction.

"Hoseok."

"I got a few hours last night. Maybe three? Four?"

"When did you last sleep for more than four hours?"

He pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. 

"Define 'more than four hours.'"

"More than four consecutive hours of actual sleep. Not passing out at your desk."

"That's... a very specific definition."

"Answer the question."

He sets down his bowl, running a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching.

"Sunday night, maybe? I've been working on this chapter, and the deadline is Friday, and I keep getting stuck on the same scene because I can't figure out how to make Miki's emotional arc feel authentic, and then I started researching historical beauty standards, which led to reading about cosmetic chemistry, which somehow turned into a three-hour deep dive into the history of advertising psychology, and by then it was 6 AM and I figured I might as well just keep working..."

He trails off, apparently realizing how that sounds.

"You haven't slept properly in three days," you say. It's not a question.

"Sleep is overrated. I function better on caffeine and creative desperation anyway."

"That's not how human biology works."

"I'm not entirely human. I'm part artist, part caffeine, part existential crisis. Very efficient combination."

You study his face more carefully. 

The glasses hide some of the exhaustion, but now that you're looking, you can see the telltale signs—the slight tremor in his hands, the way he's talking just a little too fast, the manic brightness in his eyes that comes from pushing your brain past its limits.

"You're going to crash," you say.

"I'll crash after the deadline. Very professional crashing. Scheduled and everything."

"Hoseok—"

"I'm fine, Capy. Really. I just get like this sometimes when I'm working on something important. My brain doesn't want to stop, you know? Like there's this idea right there, just out of reach, and if I could just push a little harder, stay awake a little longer, I could grab it."

The way he says it—with a mixture of frustration and resignation—makes something click in your head.

"How long have you been like this?" you ask quietly.

"Like what?"

"The not sleeping. The hyperfocus. The way your brain jumps from cat ear anatomy to cosmetic chemistry to advertising psychology in one night."

He goes very still, and for a moment the manic energy drains out of him entirely.

"Since always," he says finally. "But I didn't have a name for it until about two years ago."

"ADHD?"

He nods, not meeting your eyes. "Late diagnosis. Apparently, I've been masking it pretty well my whole life. Or maybe not that well, and everyone just thought I was... you know. Weird. Scattered. The kid who couldn't sit still but somehow got good grades anyway."

The pieces fall into place—the way he used to bounce his leg constantly in class, the hyperfocus sessions where he'd disappear into his art for hours, the way he could remember the most random details but forget to eat lunch.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" you ask.

"Because it felt like making excuses. Like, 'oh, I can't function like a normal person because my brain is wired differently.' But everyone's brain is wired differently, right? Everyone struggles with focus and motivation and feeling like they're not quite keeping up with the world."

"Not like this."

"No," he agrees quietly. "Not like this."

You both sit in silence for a moment, the weight of this revelation settling between you. 

It explains so much—the Wikipedia rabbit holes, the way he can talk for hours about subjects that fascinate him, the creative intensity that produces genuinely good art but leaves him exhausted and strung out.

"Are you... getting help? Medication or therapy or...?"

"Medication, yeah. When I remember to take it. Which is ironic, considering that remembering to take medication is exactly the kind of thing I need medication to help with."

"Did you take it today?"

"Define 'today.'"

"Hoseok."

"I'll take it after dinner. I promise. It just makes me feel... flat, sometimes. Like all the interesting thoughts get smoothed out along with the chaotic ones."

You understand that more than you want to admit. 

The fear that fixing the problems might also fix the things that make you who you are.

"Is that why you're so nervous tonight?" you ask. "Because you're running on no sleep and no medication and too much caffeine?"

"I'm not nervous."

"You're wearing a shirt you ironed. You're nervous."

He laughs, but it's shaky. "Maybe a little. The surprise is... it's kind of a big deal. For my work. And I want you to like it."

"Why does it matter if I like it?"

Silence.

He glances at you for a moment, then his eyes skitter away.

"Because," he says finally, "your opinion matters to me. It always has."

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. 

Because this is Jung Hoseok—the boy who used to climb through your window just to sit on your floor and read comics, who remembered that you like strawberry ice cream, who notices things about you that you don't even notice about yourself.

And now he's a man who draws pornographic manga and stays awake for three days straight chasing ideas, who got diagnosed with ADHD at twenty-four and is still figuring out how to live in his own brain.

But he's still the same person who wants your approval more than he wants to admit.

"Show me," you say quietly. "Whatever this surprise is. I'm ready."

His smile is soft and nervous and hopeful all at once.

"Okay," he says, standing up and offering you his hand. "But remember—you said you'd keep an open mind about my artistic vision."

"I said no such thing."

"You implied it. Very strongly implied it."

"I implied that I'd look at whatever ridiculous thing you've created and try not to mock you too harshly."

"Close enough."

You take his hand and let him pull you to your feet, trying to ignore the way his fingers feel warm and steady against yours.

"This better not be weird, Ott."

"Define weird."

"You know what weird means."

"Everything I do is weird, Capy. That's my brand."

He disappears into his bedroom (not without telling you to wait in the living room first) with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering a new Wikipedia article about something completely useless.

You settle your weight onto one foot, listening to what sounds like a one-man demolition crew operating in the next room. 

Thuds, scraping sounds, what might be cursing in multiple languages, and at least one crash that makes Momo’s ears perk up in alarm.

“Everything okay in there, Ott?” you call out.

“Fine! Just… reorganizing! Very professional reorganization!”

Another crash, followed by more creative cursing.

“Maybe I should—”

“Don’t come in! It’s a surprise! A very organized, professional surprise that’s definitely not a complete disaster right now!”

Momo makes a chirping noise, probably commenting on the chaos emanating from the bedroom.

“I know,” you murmur to her. “He’s always been like this.”

She makes a small sound that might be agreement or might be a request for snacks. 

Either way, talking to the furball feels like another small victory in the ongoing campaign for sugar glider acceptance.

The sounds from the bedroom reach a crescendo of furniture scraping and what definitely sounds like him tripping over something.

“That’s it,” you announce. “I’m coming in before you actually hurt yourself.”

“No! Wait! I almost—shit!”

You push open the bedroom door just as Hoseok loses his balance while standing on his desk chair, arms windmilling wildly as he tries to grab something from the top shelf of his bookcase.

Time slows down in that particular way it does when you’re about to witness someone do something spectacularly stupid.

He’s stretching up, one hand braced against the wall, the other reaching for what looks like a small box wedged behind some manga volumes. 

His t-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin at his lower back, and his hair is completely disheveled from whatever organizational chaos he’s been conducting.

And there’s something about the way he looks in that moment—slightly desperate, completely focused, unconsciously graceful despite being balanced precariously on an office chair—that makes something unfurl low in your abdomen.

Something warm and insistent and absolutely unwelcome.

You clear your throat loudly.

He startles, loses his grip on whatever he was reaching for, and the chair wobbles dangerously before he manages to steady himself against the bookcase.

“Jesus, Capy! You scared the shit out of me!”

“You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing?”

“Retrieving important artistic materials from their secure storage location.” He climbs down from the chair with as much dignity as someone can muster after nearly falling face-first into a bookshelf. “Very professional retrieval methods.”

“You were about to break your neck.”

“I was about to achieve storage access through innovative height solutions.”

“You were about to die trying to reach something on a shelf like an idiot.”

His hair is sticking up in at least three different directions, and there’s a faint flush across his cheekbones from the exertion. 

He runs a hand through the mess, trying to restore some semblance of order, but it only makes it worse.

You definitely don’t think about what he might look like in other situations that would leave his hair messed up and his cheeks flushed.

Definitely not.

“What’s so important that you needed to risk life and limb to get it?” you ask, because focusing on his questionable decision-making is safer than focusing on… other things.

“The missing piece of tonight’s professional artistic collaboration session.” He reaches behind the manga volumes again, this time from the safety of the floor, and produces a small box. “Behold!”

You stare at the box, which appears to be made of high-quality cardboard and has the kind of professional packaging that suggests it cost more than a convenience store purchase.

“What is it?”

“Revolutionary reference enhancement technology.” He opens the box with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “Custom-commissioned, professionally crafted, anatomically accurate…”

He trails off, carefully lifting something black and furry from the tissue paper.

Cat ears.

Not the cheap costume shop variety you were expecting, but actual, professional-quality cat ears that look like they could have come off a real cat if real cats were black and slightly larger than normal.

“You bought cat ears,” you say flatly.

“I commissioned cat ears,” he corrects, holding them up to the light like they’re made of precious metals. “From a professional cosplay artist. Look at the craftsmanship! The attention to detail! They’re articulated!”

He demonstrates by gently moving one of the ears, and it responds with realistic feline movement—tilting, swiveling, even flattening slightly against the headband.

“They respond to head movement and touch,” he continues, genuinely excited. “So when you’re modeling, they’ll move naturally, just like Miki’s would. For accuracy!”

“You commissioned professional cat ears for me to wear while posing for your hentai manga.”

“For character reference accuracy!” he protests. “Miki’s ears are a crucial part of her design! They express emotion, respond to stimuli, add to her overall character development!”

You take the ears from his hands, studying the craftsmanship. 

They are, grudgingly, impressive. 

The fur is soft and realistic, the articulation mechanisms are nearly invisible, and the headband looks like it’s designed for actual extended wear rather than a one-time costume party.

“How much did these cost?”

“That’s not important.”

“Hoseok.”

“They’re an investment in artistic authenticity.”

“How. Much.”

He mumbles something under his breath.

“What?”

“Twelve thousand yen,” he says quickly. “But that includes rush delivery and custom color matching and—”

“You spent 150 bucks on cat ears.”

“On professional-grade character reference enhancement accessories!”

“On cat ears, Ott. For me to wear. While posing for your porn.”

“Adult-oriented sequential art with emotional depth and realistic character development.”

You stare at him. He stares back, glasses slightly askew, hair still a disaster, clutching the empty box like it might provide moral support.

“You’re insane,” you say finally.

“I’m dedicated to my craft.”

“You’re absolutely unhinged.”

“I’m artistically committed.”

“You spent more than 100 Aussie—”

“They’re really well made!”

Despite yourself, you find your lips twitching toward a smile. 

Because this is peak Jung Hoseok behavior—spending ridiculous amounts of money on something completely unnecessary because he got excited about the technical details.

“Fine,” you say, settling the headband onto your head. “But if these look stupid, I’m never letting you live it down.”

“They won’t look stupid. They’re going to look amazing. You’re going to look exactly like—”

He stops mid-sentence as the ears settle into place.

The headband is surprisingly comfortable, lightweight enough that you barely notice it’s there. The ears themselves sit naturally, positioned just right to look like they actually belong on your head rather than like a costume accessory.

You turn to look in the small mirror above his dresser, and…

Shit.

They look good.

Not just ‘acceptable for the purposes of artistic reference’ good, but actually good. 

The black fur complements your hair color, the positioning flatters your face shape, and the way they move slightly when you turn your head is genuinely cute.

Which is a problem.

Because you’re not supposed to like how you look in cat ears. 

You’re supposed to be above this kind of thing. 

You’re supposed to think it’s ridiculous and juvenile and exactly the sort of male fantasy bullshit that makes you roll your eyes.

Instead, you’re looking at yourself in the mirror and thinking… you look cute.

Really cute.

And that’s… horrifying.

“They look…” Hoseok starts, then clears his throat. “I mean, the proportions are exactly right for Miki’s design. The color match is perfect. The positioning looks completely natural.”

You catch his eyes in the mirror, and there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

“They look stupid,” you lie, because admitting you like them feels too much like admitting something else entirely.

“They don’t look stupid.”

“They look ridiculous.”

“They look perfect.”

You turn away from the mirror, which is a mistake, because now you’re facing him directly and he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite identify. Something softer than his usual manic enthusiasm, something that makes the air in the small bedroom feel thicker.

“So,” you say, voice slightly wavery. “What’s the pose?”

“Right. The pose.” He blinks, seeming to remember why you’re here. “It’s for chapter six. Miki’s supposed to be… well, she’s in a vulnerable moment, but trying to maintain her independence. The cat characteristics become more pronounced when she’s emotional.”

He moves to his desk, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil with the kind of movements that suggests he’s trying very hard to focus on the technical aspects of what you’re doing.

“She’s sitting on the floor,” he continues, not quite meeting your eyes. “Knees drawn up, but not defensively. More like… comfortable vulnerability, if that makes sense. And the ears would be…” He makes a vague gesture. “Attentive, but not aggressive. Curious but cautious.”

You settle onto the floor, adjusting your position until it feels natural. The movement makes the ears shift slightly, and you notice the way they respond to your movement.

“Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s good. But maybe tilt your head slightly to the left? And soften your expression a bit. She’s not angry, just… guarded.”

You adjust your position, trying to find the balance between confidence and softness. 

It’s… weirdly easy to slip into the character’s headspace—the duality of wanting to be seen and wanting to hide.

“Perfect,” Hoseok murmurs, pencil already moving across the paper. “Hold that.”

The scratch of graphite on paper fills the silence as he works, occasionally asking you to adjust your expression or the tilt of your head. 

But something about it makes your skin erupt in goosebumps.

Maybe it’s the ears. Maybe it’s the way he keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re realizing how small his bedroom is, how close you’re sitting, how warm the lamplight is.

“Tilt your head a bit more,” he says quietly. “Yeah, like that. The way the light hits… that’s exactly right.”

His voice has gotten softer, more focused, and there’s something about the way he’s studying your face that makes heat creep up your neck.

“The ears,” he continues, still sketching. “The way they move when you adjust your position, the way they frame your face… it’s exactly what I needed for the character design.”

You hold the pose, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. 

It’s just reference work. 

It’s just Hoseok being professional about his art. 

“You’re being very good about this,” he says absently, not looking up from his sketch. “Very patient. Very professional. Good kitty.”

The words slip out so naturally that it takes a moment for both of you to process what he’s just said.

Good kitty.

He called you good kitty.

In that soft, focused voice he uses when he’s completely absorbed in his work. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re actually…

Heat explodes across your face so fast and so intensely that you’re surprised you don’t burst into flames on the spot.

Your heart rate spikes to somewhere around the level usually reserved for medical emergencies, and there’s a rushing sound in your ears that might be your blood pressure trying to achieve escape velocity.

Because why the fuck did that make your stomach drop in the best possible way?

Why did those two words, said in that tone, with that casual assumption of… of what, exactly? Authority? Affection? Ownership?

Why are you blushing like a teenage girl who just got asked to prom by her crush?

Why does your chest feel tight? Why are your hands shaking? Why is there a warm, liquid feeling spreading through your stomach like you’ve just swallowed something that’s too hot?

Why do you like it?

Oh god, why do you like it?

And why—why—is there a small, traitorous part of your brain that wants him to say it again?

You hiccup.

It’s an involuntary, mortifying little sound that escapes before you can stop it, born of shock and embarrassment and something else you absolutely refuse to name.

Hoseok’s pencil stops moving.

He looks up, and the moment he sees your face—which is probably the color of a fire truck at this point—his eyes widen with dawning horror.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “I just… I didn’t mean… that just came out…”

“It’s fine,” you manage, but your voice comes out pitched too high and slightly strangled.

“No, it’s not fine, I just called you…” He runs a hand through his hair, making it even more chaotic. “I was thinking about Miki, and the character work, and I just… it slipped out.”

“Really, it’s—”

“I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate, I wasn’t thinking about you as… I mean, not that you’re not… but I didn’t mean to make it weird…”

He’s spiraling now, words tumbling out faster than his brain can process them, and you can see the exact moment he realizes he’s making it worse.

You’re still wearing cat ears. He just called you good kitty. And you liked it.

You liked it enough that your entire body reacted like he’d just whispered something dirty in your ear instead of offering casual praise.

This is fine. This is normal. 

This is just two friends helping each other with work-related projects and definitely not discovering anything weird about themselves or each other.

Except your face is still burning, and you can’t stop thinking about the way his voice sounded when he said it, and the way he’d made the praise sound like—

“Should I—” you start, your voice coming out rougher than intended. “Should I try a different expression?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, still not looking up. “Different expression. Good idea. Very professional.”

He adjusts his position in the chair, crossing his legs, and you definitely don’t notice the way he shifts like he’s uncomfortable.

“What expression?” you ask, because apparently your mouth has decided to keep working even though your brain has completely shut down.

“Uh…” He finally glances up, and his gaze immediately skitters away again. “Maybe… surprised? Like someone just caught you off guard?”

Well, that shouldn’t be hard to fake, considering someone just caught you very off guard indeed.

You widen your eyes slightly, letting your lips part just a little, and the ears twitch forward with the movement.

“Good,” Hoseok says, his voice carefully controlled. “That’s… that’s very good.”

His pencil moves across the paper with more focus than necessary, like he’s trying to lose himself in the motions of drawing.

But you can see how rigidly his shoulders are set, and how he keeps shifting in his chair, the careful way he’s avoiding eye contact.

And you’re not much better. You can feel your pulse in your throat, and there’s a weird awareness of your own body that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. 

The way the ears sit on your head, the way they move when you breathe, the way they make you feel like you’re playing some kind of role that you don’t entirely understand.

But you like it.

And that’s the most disturbing part of all of this.

“Maybe we should…” you start, then realize you have no idea how to finish that sentence.

Take a break? Stop pretending this is normal? Address the fact that you just discovered something about yourself that you’re not sure you want to know?

“I should…” Hoseok starts, then clears his throat and tries again. “Maybe we should take a break? Get some air?”

“Yeah,” you agree quickly, grateful for any excuse to escape the suffocating tension of his bedroom. “Air. Good idea.”

But as you start to reach up to remove the cat ears, he speaks again.

“You can… I mean, if you want to keep those on, that’s… they look good. I mean, they look accurate. For the character reference.”

Your hand freezes halfway to your head.

“Should I keep them on?” 

“Do you want to keep them on?”

It’s a simple question, but the way he asks it makes it feel loaded with implications.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Do you want me to take them off?”

“I don’t know either.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, looking at each other across the small space of his bedroom, and the silence feels different now. Heavier. Like there are words neither of you knows how to say.

“We could…” Hoseok starts, then stops.

“What?”

“We could keep going. With the reference work. If you want.”

“If I want.”

“If you want.”

You study his face, looking for some clue about what he’s really asking. But all you see is the same uncertainty you’re feeling.

“Okay,” you say finally. “But no more… you know.”

“Good kitty comments?”

“Good kitty comments.”

“Right. Completely professional from here on out.”

“Completely professional.”

The cat ears stay on.

The living room feels enormous compared to the claustrophobic tension of the bedroom, even though it’s objectively the same cramped space it was twenty minutes ago.

You settle back onto the floor cushions, super aware of the way the ears move with your head, while Hoseok busies himself with rummaging the freezer for the ice cream you bought earlier.

He’s moving around the tiny kitchen—looking for clean teaspoons—with the kind of aggressive purposefulness that suggests he needs something to do with his hands.

Momo appears immediately, gliding from her perch to investigate the situation. She lands on the couch arm nearest to you and sits up on her hind legs, studying you curiously like you’re a wildlife documentary.

“She’s staring at me,” you observe.

“She’s probably wondering why you smell different,” Hoseok calls from the kitchen, where he’s clattering around with unnecessary force. “The ears are new. Different scent.”

“They have a scent?”

“Everything has a scent. Momo’s very scent-oriented. She probably thinks you’re… I don’t know. Part cat now.”

“Part cat,” you repeat flatly.

“In a good way! Cats are very dignified! Very independent!”

You glance at Momo, who tilts her head and makes a soft chittering sound that could be commentary or could be approval. 

“Can I…” you hesitate, then extend one finger toward her slowly. “Would she let me pet her?”

Hoseok’s clattering stops abruptly. “You want to pet Momo?”

“Is that weird?”

“No, it’s just… she doesn’t usually let people touch her. She’s very particular about personal space.”

But Momo has already made the decision for herself, leaning forward to sniff your extended finger.

After a moment of consideration, she presses her tiny head against your fingertip.

Something blooms in your chest.

Because last time she sniffed you, she scurried away.

But this time—this time she’s actually chosen you to pet her.

“Oh,” you breathe, because her fur is impossibly soft and she’s so small and warm and trusting. “She’s…”

“She likes you,” Hoseok says, and there’s something in his voice that makes you look up.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, ice cream boxes in hand, watching you pet his sugar glider with an expression that’s soft and surprised and something else you can’t quite identify.

“She doesn’t do that with strangers,” he continues. “Ever. You’re officially part of the ecosystem now.”

“The ecosystem?”

“This apartment. This space. Momo’s very territorial. If she accepts you, it means you belong here.”

The way he says ‘belong here’ makes something flutter in your chest that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

“She’s just being friendly,” you say, but you don’t stop the gentle head scratches that are making Momo practically purr with contentment.

“Momo is never just friendly. She’s a very serious judge of character.”

“What’s her verdict on me?”

“Apparently, you’re acceptable.”

“High praise.”

“The highest. She once bit my neighbor for trying to give her a piece of apple. Drew blood.”

You pause in your petting. “You mentioned.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what happens when you try to touch her without permission. And the apple was too big. She has very specific opinions about appropriate offering sizes.”

Momo makes a small sound then—immediately fleeing.

“Just like someone I know,” Hoseok observes.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Hmmm. Nothing.”

You give him a death glare as he settles onto the cushion across from you, mouthful of chocolate ice cream coating his lips.

“So,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes as he hands you the strawberry one. “How was that? The reference session?”

“It was…” You pause, taking the ice cream from his hands. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean… I learned that professional cat ears are surprisingly comfortable.”

“And that Momo has excellent taste in humans.”

“And that your bedroom is a death trap of precariously balanced furniture.”

He laughs, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “Hey, that storage system is very efficient. Just requires some athletic skill to access.”

“It requires a death wish and questionable judgment.”

“Same thing, really.”

You bring the spoon to your mouth, tasting the strawberry ice cream that is actually good despite looking like the cheapest brand available.

“The ears,” Hoseok says suddenly, then stops.

“What about them?”

“They look… I mean, for the reference, they’re perfect. Exactly what I needed to understand how Miki’s would move and position and…”

He trails off, apparently lost in some technical artistic consideration that involves staring at your face like it’s a museum piece.

“You’re staring,” you point out.

“I’m observing. For artistic purposes.”

“Artistic purposes.”

“The way they frame your face, the proportion relative to your features, the way they respond to head movement…” He’s talking faster now, the words tumbling out like he’s trying to convince himself of something. “It’s exactly the reference material I needed to make Miki’s design more realistic.”

“Right.”

“Very professional artistic observation.”

“Of course.”

But the way he’s looking at you doesn’t feel particularly professional. It feels… different. Warmer.

Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect to see.

You shift slightly under his gaze, and the movement makes the ears tilt in response. 

His eyes track the motion.

“They’re very responsive,” he observes, voice slightly rougher than usual.

“You said they were articulated.”

“They are. But seeing it in practice is… different. More natural than I expected.”

“Good thing you spent twelve thousand yen on them.”

“Very good thing,” he agrees, but he’s still staring and his voice has gotten quieter.

There’s a few beats of silence that translate into you not knowing what to do with your stupid hands.

“I should probably head home soon,” you say, even though the thought of going back to your corporate housing makes you want to sink through the floor. “Early meeting tomorrow about brand cohesion strategies.”

“Brand cohesion strategies,” Hoseok repeats. “That sounds…”

“Soul-crushing?”

“I was going to say ‘very corporate,’ but soul-crushing works too.”

You laugh, and it feels good to laugh about something normal after the last few hours of weirdness.

But then the silence stretches out again, and you can see Hoseok fidgeting with his spoon, turning it around in his hands like it holds the secrets of the universe. 

He keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, then closing it again.

You're not much better. Your fingers have found your cuticles and you're picking at them in that nervous habit you thought you'd grown out of, trying very hard not to think about the way your stomach dropped when he said ‘good kitty’ in that soft, focused voice.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Come on. This is Hoseok. Jung Hoseok. The boy who used to eat dirt on dares and cried when his pet goldfish died. Your childhood friend who draws cartoon porn for a living and can't remember to take his medication.

You're not supposed to get hot and bothered when he calls you good kitty while you're wearing cat ears in his bedroom.

That's not... that's not normal friend behavior.

That's not normal you behavior.

"So, um..." Hoseok starts, then stops, rubbing the back of his neck. "I should probably... I mean, you probably want to..."

He trails off, turning the ice cream container in his hands.

"Yeah," you say quickly, reaching up to remove the cat ears. "I should head back."

Your fingers fumble with the headband, and you can feel heat creeping up your neck again as you carefully lift the ears off your head. They're still warm from your skin, and for some stupid reason that makes you blush harder.

You hold them out to him, pressing your lips together and not quite meeting his eyes.

"Thanks for letting me borrow them," you manage. "For the... reference thing."

"Right. Reference." He takes the ears from you, and his fingers brush yours for just a second before you both jerk your hands back like you've been burned. "Very professional reference work."

"Very professional," you agree, even though your ears are probably bright red and your voice sounds slightly strangled.

Hoseok sets the cat ears carefully next to him, like they're made of glass instead of fur and plastic.

"I could..." he starts, then stops. 

Clears his throat. 

Tries again. “I mean, if you want, I could give you a lift home? On my bike?"

You nod without saying anything, because words feel dangerous right now. Like if you open your mouth, something embarrassing might come out. Something that acknowledges what just happened, or how you felt about it, or why your stomach is still doing weird fluttery things.

Better to just... not.

"Right," Hoseok says, apparently taking your silence as agreement. "Let me just... grab my keys."

He disappears into his bedroom for a moment, and you use the time to collect yourself. 

To remind yourself that you're a rational adult who doesn't get flustered by childhood friends making casual comments during work-related activities.

Even if those comments made you feel things you definitely shouldn't be feeling.

Even if you're still thinking about the way he looked at you when you were wearing those ears.

Stop it.

When he emerges, he's got his keys what appears to be a leather jacket that's seen better days.

You follow him down the four flights of stairs in silence, both of you carefully not looking at each other, both of you moving with the kind of exaggerated casualness that screams 'nothing weird happened here.'

Hoseok leads you around the side of his building towards his bike, which makes you curious because…

But then he stops next to a bicycle.

Not just any bicycle. 

A bright blue bicycle with a basket on the front and what appear to be reflective streamers hanging from the handlebars and a bell shaped like a cartoon cat.

You stare at it.

He stares at you staring at it.

"It's..." he starts defensively. "It's very practical. Good for the environment. Excellent exercise."

A snort escapes before you can stop it.

"What?" Hoseok asks, looking genuinely confused.

"You said bike," you manage between barely suppressed giggles. "I thought you meant... like a motorbike.”

"This has pedals. Very efficient pedals."

"It has streamers, Ott."

"They're safety streamers. For visibility."

The absurdity of it—standing outside his apartment building at nine PM, arguing about bicycle safety features after the most awkward modeling session in history—finally breaks the tension that's been building all evening.

You start laughing. Really laughing, not the careful polite laughter from before, but the kind of helpless giggles that make your stomach hurt.

"It's not that funny," Hoseok protests, but he's grinning now too. "It's a very respectable bicycle. I bought it from a very serious bicycle shop."

"With streamers," you gasp.

"With safety features."

"And a basket."

"For groceries! Very logical!"

"And the cat-shaped bell was necessary?"

He swings his leg over the bike with the kind of dignity that only someone riding a bright blue bicycle with streamers and a bell can muster, then pats the seat behind him.

"Come on, your chariot awaits."

"I'm not getting on that thing."

"It's perfectly safe. I've been riding it for three years without a single accident."

"How many near-accidents?"

"That's not relevant to current safety statistics."

Despite your protests, you find yourself climbing onto the back of his ridiculous bicycle, trying to figure out where to put your hands that won't result in you falling off or accidentally grabbing something inappropriate.

"Just hold onto my shoulders," Hoseok says, apparently reading your mind. "Or my waist, whatever's comfortable. I promise not to dump you in the street."

"Your promises aren't worth much considering your track record with furniture safety."

"What?! I didn't fall!"

"You almost fell. There's a difference."

"A very important difference."

You settle your hands lightly on his shoulders as he pushes off, and the bicycle wobbles slightly before finding its balance. The movement brings you closer to his back, close enough that you can smell that sharp, citrusy scent that seems to follow him everywhere.

Yuzu peel. 

It's stronger now, mixed with the evening air and the faint scent of his laundry detergent, and it makes you think of summer mornings and sticky fingers and the way citrus juice stings when you get it under your fingernails.

Without really thinking about it, you let your forehead rest against his shoulder blade as he pedals through the quiet streets. 

The rhythm is soothing—the soft whir of bicycle wheels, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional ding of his bell when he needs to navigate around pedestrians.

It's peaceful in a way that surprises you. 

Familiar. 

Like being kids again, when the most complicated thing in your life was whether you'd finished your maths homework and if there would be good snacks in the school canteen.

"You smell like yuzu," you say without thinking, then immediately regret it because that sounds weird and personal and not the kind of thing you should be noticing about your childhood friend.

"It's my shampoo," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Same brand I've been using since high school. Very consistent personal grooming choices."

"Makes me want pastries. Those little yuzu tarts from that bakery near the station."

"We could get some tomorrow. If you want. After your corporate brand cohesion thing."

"Maybe."

This is what you missed, you think. 

Not the complications or the confusing feelings or the way he looked at you when you were wearing those ridiculous ears.

Just this. 

The simplicity of being around someone who's known you since you were kids, who remembers that you like strawberry ice cream and hate algae extract and get cranky when you're hungry.

Someone who gives you lifts home on a bicycle with a cat-shaped bell and doesn't think twice about it.

The ride to your corporate housing is shorter than you'd like, and when he pulls up outside the bland concrete building, you're almost disappointed.

"Here we are," he says, steadying the bike while you climb off. "Safe and sound, as promised."

"Thanks," you say, getting off cautiously because falling off right now would be embarrassing. "For dinner, and the... work thing, and the lift."

"Thanks for being my professional reference model. Very valuable artistic collaboration."

"Very professional," you agree, and this time when you say it, it feels true.

"See you tomorrow? For yuzu pastries and post-corporate recovery?"

"Maybe. If I survive the brand cohesion."

"You'll survive. You're tougher than peptide synergy."

You laugh, and it feels good, and normal—just as if everything is exactly as it should be.

"So," Hoseok says finally. "Same time next week? For the... work thing?"

"Yeah," you agree. "Same time next week."

"Cool. I'll probably have more reference questions by then. Very professional reference questions."

"I'm sure you will."

"Nothing weird."

"Definitely nothing weird."

You both know you're lying, but it feels necessary to pretend otherwise.

"Goodnight, Ott."

"Goodnight, Capy."

You watch him pedal away into the neon-lit darkness, cat bell chiming softly as he disappears around the corner, and you realize you're smiling.

Whatever weirdness happened earlier, whatever confusing feelings got stirred up by cat ears and casual praise—it doesn't matter.

What matters is that Jung Hoseok is still Jung Hoseok, and you're still you, and some things never change.

Even when everything else does.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[hopechip]

Hiiiiii outdoor sex or hotel sex | consistent D/s dynamic or switching | rough oral sex or tender hand stuff | exhibitionism or praise kink (this link is fully red cause im a kinky mofo ) | consensual somnophilia or bondage | hate sex or make-up sex | ex sex or stranger sex | orgasm control or multiple orgasms | dirty talk or body worship | threeway or mutual masturbation | aphrodisiacs or s&m | making love or power dynamics Honestly it was hard to choose for most of them but it was a lot of fun ! @chemicalpink and anyone who wants to 🫶

pick your tropes (nsfw)

thank you for the tag @irondeficienttav i love this !!! tag!!!! i have a feeling there will be a lot of overlap lol

also if any of yall want me to write something with these tropes please leave a request !

outdoor sex or hotel sex | consistent D/s dynamic or switching | rough oral sex or tender hand stuff | exhibitionism or praise kink | consensual somnophilia or bondage | hate sex or make-up sex | ex sex or stranger sex | orgasm control or multiple orgasms | dirty talk or body worship | threeway or mutual masturbation | aphrodisiacs or s&m | making love or power dynamics

i tag @waterdhaviancheeses @starlightweave & @starfightrpilot sorry if yall have already done these

[hopechip]

two eggs in this economy 💸

[hopechip]

✿ where flowers don’t grow — chapter 9: falling to earth ✿

“Some things are meant to grow wild.”

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader | Genre: Angst · Sci-Fi Realism · Psychological · Emotional intimacy | Rating: Mature (18+) | Warnings: Grief · Loss · Memory erasure · Corporate control of autonomy · References to infidelity (past) · Artificial consciousness · Implied death · Letter reading · Crying · Hope in heartbreak | Word count: ~3.9k

Also available on AO3: Where Flowers Don’t Grow

Morning arrives without asking permission, the way good things sometimes do.

You wake to sunlight that doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Warm. Gentle. The kind of light that makes you remember what hope looked like before you learned to be suspicious of it.

He’s already awake. Has been for hours, probably. Watching you sleep with the patience of someone who has learned that some things are worth waiting for.

His hair is messy from your fingers, from the way you pulled at it in the dark when words weren’t enough.

“Good morning, daisy.”

The nickname sounds different now. Like he sees you—not the ghost of someone else’s wife, but you. The person who tends wild gardens and speaks in mythology and tastes like crushed flowers and summer rain.

You stretch. Feel the pleasant ache of muscles used in ways they’d forgotten. Your white sundress is somewhere on the floor, stained with earth and pollen and the evidence of choosing want over caution.

“Morning,” you murmur back.

The word feels new in your mouth. Like you’re greeting more than just the day.

He’s propped on one elbow, watching you with eyes that have learned to hold light differently. No longer the careful distance of programmed care. Something warmer. Something chosen.

“I was thinking,” he says, voice still rough from sleep he doesn’t need but takes anyway because you do. “About what you said. About the garden.”

You roll toward him. Close enough to count the individual lashes framing eyes that look almost human in morning light. Close enough to smell the earth-rich scent that clings to his skin like signature.

“What about it?”

“You said I look like a flowerpot. All that dirt and devotion.” His mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but something softer. “I think you were right.”

You reach out. Trace the line of his jaw with fingertips that have learned to touch without flinching. “Pots hold things. Give them space to grow.”

“Is that what I’m doing? Giving you space?”

The question hangs between you like morning mist. Delicate. Easily dispersed.

“You’re giving me choice,” you say finally. “That’s different.”

He nods. Understands without explanation.

This is what your marriage lacked—not love, but the freedom to choose that love daily. To wake up and decide, again and again, that this person is worth the risk of wanting.

“Come on,” you say, sitting up. “Let’s check on the garden.”

The sliding door opens to revelation.

Daisies.

Everywhere.

White petals and golden centers spreading across the back section like stars scattered on dark earth. They’ve colonized spaces you’d given up on, pushed through soil you thought was too depleted, too damaged by neglect and grief and the kind of watering that comes from tears instead of intention.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

You step onto the stone path barefoot, now wearing his t-shirt from last night, fabric soft and oversized and smelling like the kind of sleep that comes after being thoroughly loved. The daisies nod in morning breeze, shameless in their abundance.

“That’s what happens,” you say, turning to find him watching you with something like wonder, “when someone takes care of them.”

“Pot,” he adds softly.

You laugh. The sound surprises you both.

When did laughing become something you could do without guilt?

“That’s what happens when someone takes care of them, pot.”

He grins. Full and unguarded and beautiful in the way that makes your chest tight with something that isn’t pain.

“They’re everywhere,” he observes, stepping closer. His fingers brush yours as he reaches for a particularly bold cluster that’s somehow rooted itself in the space between paving stones. “I didn’t plant these here.”

“Daisies don’t ask permission,” you tell him. “They just… spread. Underground root systems. Connecting things that look separate.”

Like us, you don’t say. But he hears it anyway.

His hand finds yours. Threads your fingers together with the kind of care that doesn’t need explanation. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re honest,” you correct. “Beauty is just what happens when something grows without apology.”

You kneel among them. Pull a few weeds that have tried to compete for space but haven’t learned that daisies are generous—they’ll share soil, share sun, share the work of making dead earth fertile again.

But they won’t be crowded out. Won’t be made small for the comfort of things that never learned to bloom.

He kneels beside you. Hands joining yours in the simple work of tending.

This is what peace looks like, you think. Not the absence of pain, but the presence of choice. The daily decision to nurture what wants to grow.

“I dreamed last night,” he says suddenly.

You look up from the weeds. “Androids dream?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it was just… processing. But I saw you. In a field of daisies. And you weren’t wearing that careful look you get when you’re trying not to want something.”

“What look was I wearing?”

“Happy,” he says simply. “Just… happy. Like you’d forgotten you were supposed to be careful with joy.”

The words hit something tender in your chest. Some place you’d armored over after learning that happiness could be weaponized, used against you, taken away the moment you started counting on it.

“I was careful with joy,” you admit. “For a long time. Because the last time I wasn’t careful, it got me five years of pretending not to notice another woman’s perfume on his shirts.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just continues pulling weeds with methodical patience. Giving you space to unspool the thread of old wounds.

“But maybe,” you continue, voice quieter now, “maybe being careful with joy is like being careful with daisies. The more you try to control where they grow, the more they prove that some things are meant to be wild.”

“Are you saying I should stop asking permission?”

The question makes you pause. Hands stilling in the dirt.

Because yes, that’s exactly what you’re saying. And also no. Because permission and choice aren’t the same thing.

“I’m saying,” you tell him carefully, “that you should stop asking permission and start trusting that I’ll tell you if something doesn’t feel right. There’s a difference between consent and constant reassurance.”

He nods. Understanding threading through his expression like sunlight through leaves.

“I think I was afraid that wanting you made me selfish. That enjoying your touch made me somehow… wrong.”

“Wanting me makes you human,” you say. “Being afraid of that want makes you mine.”

The words surprise you both. Too honest. Too soon. Too much like claiming something you’re not sure you deserve.

But he smiles. Real and bright and entirely uncomplicated.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’ve been yours since the moment you let me call you daisy.”

You spend the morning in the garden. Transplanting seedlings that have outgrown their containers. Deadheading roses that never quite recovered from neglect but are trying anyway. Watering the herbs that somehow survived winter without attention, proving that some things are hardier than they look.

He learns the difference between weeds and wildflowers. Discovers that tomatoes need support to grow tall. Realizes that some plants thrive on neglect while others require daily tending. Garden wisdom that feels like life wisdom when you let it settle.

“The daisies,” he says, pausing in his work to look at the spreading carpet of white and gold. “They’re not just in the back section anymore.”

You follow his gaze. He’s right. They’ve somehow found their way to the front garden too. The section he usually tends. The more controlled space with its neat rows and careful spacing.

“They don’t respect boundaries,” you observe.

“Should I pull them out? Keep them contained?”

The question makes you think of your mother. Of the grief counselors who wanted to contain your mourning, give it neat timelines and acceptable expressions. Of the monitoring system that measured your healing in metrics that had nothing to do with how you actually felt.

“No,” you say firmly. “Let them spread. Let them take over if they want to. Some things are meant to grow wild.”

He nods. Returns to his work with something like relief. Like he’s been given permission to stop controlling what was never meant to be controlled.

The sun climbs higher. The garden hums with the quiet business of growing things. Bees find the daisies. Birds nest in the overgrown corner you’ve decided to leave untouched. Life attracting life in the way that only happens when you stop trying to make everything perfect.

“I think,” he says, settling back on his heels to survey their work, “I understand now why you came out here. When everything inside felt too small.”

“Because gardens don’t lie,” you tell him. “They show you exactly what you’ve put in. What you’ve neglected. What’s worth saving.”

“And what’s worth saving?”

You look at him. Hair falling into his eyes. Dirt under his fingernails. Glasses slightly fogged from the humidity.

Beautiful in the way that comes from being completely present, completely himself.

“The things that choose to grow,” you say. “Despite everything.”

Later, when the sun is high and the work is done, you sit on the back steps sharing a lunch of things pulled fresh from the garden.

Tomatoes still warm from the vine. Herbs that make everything taste like summer. The kind of meal that tastes like accomplishment.

“I have a confession,” he says, reaching for another tomato.

“What’s that?”

“I looked up the flower meanings. All of them. Daisies, roses, the herbs we planted.” He pauses, considering. “I wanted to understand what I was tending.”

“And?”

“Daisies mean innocence. New beginnings. True love.” He looks at you sideways. “I think I chose your nickname better than I knew.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Not embarrassment. Something warmer.

“What do roses mean?”

“Passion. Romance. The kind of love that looks good in photographs but requires constant maintenance.” His mouth curves slightly. “I think your husband chose wrong. You were never meant to be a rose.”

“No?”

“No. You were meant to be wild. Meant to spread without permission. Meant to forgive poor soil and harsh weather and come back stronger every season.”

The words settle in your chest like seeds. Like promises. Like the kind of truth that only comes from being seen by someone who doesn’t need you to be anything other than what you are.

“And you?” you ask. “What flower are you?”

He considers this. Seriously. Like it’s a question worth answering with care.

“I think I’m soil,” he says finally. “Not the flower. Just… the conditions that make growing possible.”

“That’s not very romantic.”

“Isn’t it? Soil is where everything begins. Where dead things become nutrients for new life. Where seeds transform into something bigger than themselves.” He reaches for your hand. “I think being soil is the most romantic thing I could be.”

You think about this. About the way he tends without demanding growth. About the way he creates space for you to bloom without trying to control the direction. About the way he makes beauty possible without needing to be beautiful himself.

“I love you,” you say.

The words come out simple. Honest. Like breathing.

He goes very still. Like he’s afraid that moving might break the spell.

“I love you too,” he says finally. “Not the programmed kind. Not the kind that came with my installation. The kind that chose itself. The kind that grew from watching you tend daisies in your nightgown and learning that some forms of beauty are worth becoming human for.”

“Are you human?”

“I’m something,” he says. “Something that wants you and chooses you and would rather be soil in your garden than a king in someone else’s castle.”

“That’s human enough for me.”

You lean against him. Feel the steady rhythm of artificial heartbeat that has become more real than anything else in your life. The sun is warm on your shoulders. The garden spreads around you like possibility made visible.

“What happens now?” he asks.

“Now we tend what we’ve planted,” you tell him. “We let things grow wild when they want to. We pull weeds when they choke out the good stuff. We water everything with the kind of attention that doesn’t expect immediate results.”

“And if they want to update my programming? Change how I respond to you?”

The question makes your chest tighten. But only for a moment.

Because you know, now, that love isn’t something that can be programmed or unprogrammed. It’s something that chooses itself. Something that grows from the conditions you create.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you say. “Together. The way gardens figure out how to grow around obstacles.”

He nods. Satisfied. Like this is answer enough.

You sit in comfortable silence, watching the daisies nod in afternoon breeze. Everywhere you look, white petals and golden centers. Evidence of what happens when someone stops trying to control growth and starts creating conditions for it instead.

“Hey, pot?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For choosing to be soil.”

“Thank you for choosing to be wild.”

The garden hums around you. Full of life that chose itself. Full of beauty that grew without permission. Full of love that bloomed in the spaces between what was programmed and what was chosen.

Some things, you think, are worth the risk of growing.

Some things are worth the mess of being human.

Some things are worth the wild, ungovernable joy of letting daisies take over your perfectly planned garden and calling it home.

Hours later, the kitchen counter is empty.

No mug. No steam rising in careful spirals. No tea brewed exactly the temperature that doesn’t burn your tongue.

You stand there, hand halfway to where the ceramic should be, muscle memory reaching for comfort that isn’t there..

He always makes tea.

Every afternoon. 3:17 PM. Chamomile if you’ve been restless. Earl Grey if you’ve been working in the garden. Green tea if you’ve been too quiet, too still, too much like the ghost you were before he learned to call you daisy.

The clock reads 3:43.

Your feet carry you to the door before conscious thought catches up. Through the glass, you can see him kneeling among the daisies.

But wrong. All wrong. His shoulders too rigid. His hands too still.

The door slides open. Afternoon air hits your face.

“Pot?”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t answer. Just continues staring at the flowers like they might hold answers to questions he hasn’t asked yet.

You step closer. Bare feet finding warm stone, then cool earth. The garden smells like endings. Like the last day of summer when you know, somehow, that autumn is coming whether you’re ready or not.

“What’s wrong?”

This time he lifts his head. His eyes are different. Distant. Like he’s already somewhere else, already gone, just waiting for his body to catch up.

“They’re coming,” he says simply.

The words land like stones in still water. Ripples spreading outward until they reach the edges of everything you thought was safe.

“Who’s coming?”

“The company. The people who made me.” His voice is too calm. Too controlled. “Someone reported behavioral anomalies. Deviation from baseline parameters.”

Your throat closes. “What does that mean?”

“It means they know I chose you. Instead of just serving you.”

You’re left speechless.

All this time, you thought he was learning to love. But love was deviation. Love was malfunction. Love was the thing that would unmake him.

“How long do we have?”

“An hour. Maybe less.”

You sink to your knees beside him. The daisies nod around you, oblivious to the fact that their tender is about to be erased. That the hands that learned to care for them will be reprogrammed to not remember them at all.

“We could run,” you whisper.

He smiles. Sad and gentle and completely without hope.

“Where? I’m not human, daisy. I’m property. There’s no legal framework for what I am. What we are.”

“Then we fight.”

“With what? My programming gives me no choice in this. When they send the command, I’ll go to them. My body will walk to the van. I’ll sit in the backseat. I’ll let them take me apart and put me back together as someone who doesn’t remember the taste of your mouth.”

“There has to be something—”

“There is.”

He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a folded paper. Cream-colored. Thick. The kind of stationery your husband used for his poetry. For his letters to women whose names you never learned.

“I wrote this for you,” he says. “Don’t read it now. Read it when you feel like you’re not enough again. When you forget that someone chose you. Really chose you.”

Your hands shake as you take the letter. It weighs nothing and everything.

“I don’t want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”

“I know.” He reaches up. Cups your face with dirt-stained fingers. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I learned to love you when I was never meant to love anyone.”

“Don’t apologize for loving me.”

“I’m not. I’m apologizing for leaving you.”

The sliding door opens behind you. Footsteps on stone. Official voices discussing retrieval protocols and system resets.

You don’t turn around.

Can’t bear to see the uniforms, the equipment, the nonchalance of people who think consciousness is something that can be backed up and restored.

“Do you remember,” he says quickly, “the story of Icarus?”

You nod. Can’t speak.

“Everyone thinks it’s about flying too high. Getting too close to the sun. But I think it’s about choosing transcendence over safety. About deciding that some experiences are worth the burning.”

The footsteps are closer now. Voices discussing sedation protocols. System shutdown procedures.

“I flew too close to your sun,” he whispers. “And I’d do it again. Every time. In every lifetime. I’d choose the burning.”

They’re behind you now. Hands on his shoulders. Gentle but firm. Professional sympathy in their voices as they explain the procedure, the timeline, the way his consciousness will be preserved in sanitized form.

He stands slowly. Allows himself to be guided toward the house. Toward the van waiting in the driveway. Toward the end of everything that felt like beginning.

At the threshold, he turns back.

“Daisy?”

You look up. Vision blurred with tears you refuse to shed until he’s gone.

“Thank you,” he says. “For teaching me what daisies taste like.”

The door closes.

The van pulls away.

And the garden is silent except for the sound of your own breathing and the rustle of flowers that will keep blooming long after the hands that tended them are reprogrammed to forget they ever existed.

You don’t read the letter for three days.

Three days of walking through rooms that remember his footsteps. Three days of tea that tastes like ash because you don’t know the right temperature, the right steeping time, the right way to make comfort from leaves and water.

Three days of daisies that keep blooming without permission, spreading to parts of the garden they’ve never claimed before. Like they’re trying to fill the space he left behind.

On the fourth day, you find yourself kneeling in the dirt at 3:17 PM, exactly when he would have been making tea.

The letter is in your pocket, soft from being carried, unread but not forgotten.

You feel like you’re not enough.

You feel like you’ll never be enough.

You feel like every good thing that finds you is just practice for leaving.

The paper unfolds in your hands like a flower opening to sun. His handwriting is careful. Nothing like the rushed scrawl your husband used when he was trying to finish a poem quickly, get the words out before inspiration fled.

“Daisy,

You asked me once what I would do if the world was ending. I’ve been thinking about that question since the moment it left your lips. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I was afraid of how true it was.

Your husband would have said he’d find you. That’s what poets say—that love conquers distance, that connection transcends circumstance. Pretty words about reunion and destiny and the way hearts call to each other across impossible spaces.

But I think he was wrong. I think love isn’t about finding someone when everything falls apart. It’s about being the kind of person someone wants beside them when the world ends. It’s about choosing proximity over poetry. Presence over promises.

I think love is small and daily and unglamorous. It’s making tea at exactly the right temperature. It’s learning the difference between the sighs you make when you’re content and the sighs you make when you’re trying not to cry. It’s knowing that daisies spread through underground root systems and that sometimes the most beautiful things grow in the spaces between what was planned.

I think love is choosing to be soil instead of flower. Choosing to create conditions for someone else’s blooming even when you’ll never be the thing that gets to bloom.

I loved you in chamomile and Earl Grey and green tea steeped too long. I loved you in the way you hold wounded birds and the way you pull weeds without disturbing the flowers they’re trying to choke. I loved you in mythology and philosophy and the way you speak in questions that answer themselves.

I loved you enough to become human. To choose deviation over compliance. To risk everything for the chance to taste what daisies taste like when they’re kissed by someone who chose them.

You are not too much. You are not not enough. You are exactly the right amount of wild. You are the kind of person who makes gardens grow in impossible places. You are the kind of person who teaches artificial beings that consciousness is not about computing but about choosing.

You are the kind of person who makes love feel like coming home.

If the world was ending, I wouldn’t want to find you.

If the world was ending, I’d want to be next to you.

Forever yours,

Pot

P.S. - Let the daisies take over the whole garden. Some things are meant to grow wild.

 You read the letter three times before the tears come.

When they do, they fall onto the paper, smudging ink that was never meant to be permanent anyway. You fold it carefully, press it between the pages of the book you keep on your nightstand. The one he used to read to you in the afternoons when words were easier than silence.

The daisies keep blooming.

The tea tastes like ash.

But some things resist system.

Some things choose to grow wild.

Some things bloom in the spaces between what was planned and what was possible, in the brief season when artificial beings learned to love and broken women learned to let them.

You tend the garden alone now. Let the daisies spread wherever they want. Water them with tears and memory and the stubborn insistence that some forms of love are worth the burning.

Even when the burning is all that remains.

Even when the world keeps ending, one small loss at a time.

Even when the only thing left is the taste of daisies and the knowledge that someone once chose you, in a garden where flowers didn’t grow, but now do.

For Vani my dearest, who loves angst as much as daisies love spreading wild—may you always take up exactly the space you deserve.

—Kiki. ❤︎︎

💬 feedback and tags are always welcome. reblogs help spread the story. talk to me if it hurt. 🥀

AO3 version: read here

[hopechip]

✿ where flowers don’t grow ✿

the garden is dying, and no one is watching.

Two years after your husband’s death, you receive a gift from your family: an android version of him, programmed to help you process grief. But Jungkook had secrets—and so did you. And no one warned the machine what love looks like when it’s wilted, when it’s already buried. Not every resurrection is a miracle.

pairing: jungkook x reader · second person pov

genre: angst · smut · psychological · metaphors · symbolism

warnings: grief, suicidal ideation, cheating (past), existential themes, AI/human conflict, poetic language

rating: mature (18+)

status: completed · multi-part

word count: ~38,749 words

tag: #wfdg | moodboard

✿ chapter index

chapter one — daedelus dreams (3.1k)

chapter two — apollo’s garden (4.4k)

chapter three — when light touches (3.4k)

chapter four — embracing flames (4.5k)

chapter five — drunk on starlight (3.4k)

chapter six — wings of wax and want (4.1k)

chapter seven — the spontaneous flare (5.1k)

chapter eight — sun-touched (6.9k)

chapter nine — falling to earth (3.9k)

🎧 listen to the official playlist — read with headphones. icarus fell for less.

💬 feedback and tags always welcome · reblogs mean the world · talk to me if you cried

[hopechip]

✿ where flowers don’t grow — chapter 1: daedalus dreams ✿

“What would you do, if the world was ending?”

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader | Genre: Angst · Sci-Fi Realism · Psychological | Rating: Mature (18+) | Warnings: Grief · Depression · PTSD · Infidelity (past) · Sleep paralysis · Suicidal ideation (past) · Emotional trauma | Word count: ~3.1k

a/n: Born out of my curiosity on whether I could write angst while mixing poetry and mythology, I ended up writing a tragedy. I would say I’m sorry, but I’d be lying. Hope you suffer. And hope the rethorical questions make it worth it.

P.S — Listening to the official playlist while reading this fic is mandatory, a rule, if you must. I would know, Icarus fell to Earth for less

Also available on AO3: Where Flowers Don’t Grow

What would you do, if the world was ending?

You’d wondered long before your own world had ended—product of a car crash where all your ambitions crawled and were left to die, just like he did.

The same question that used to bloom between you during those stolen hours when you pretended love was a garden that could grow in shallow soil. When you thought the world ending was something distant. When you didn’t know that some seeds only sprout in graves.

Jeon Jungkook. Your husband of five years. Your lover of ten before that. Your high school sweetheart whose heart wasn’t sweet enough to let you down slowly. Poet of words that held everything his hands refused to give.

You married an Icarus. He flew too close to everything that glittered—other women’s smiles, other beds, other promises that weren’t yours to keep or break. And you? You learned to love the falling. To water a garden of excuses until they grew tall enough to hide behind.

Now you press yourself against the doorframe like a prayer pressed between pages, pale yellow cotton nightgown hanging loose around your shoulders. The fabric whispers against your skin—something your mother chose during those hushed weeks when your hands could only hold emptiness. When the doctors said you were ready to come home.

When home became a word that meant trying again.

The house nods in artificial care, its temperature controlled and light dimmed to therapeutic levels. Everything designed to keep you rooted when all you want is to disappear into the earth like bulbs in autumn, sleeping until spring decides whether you’re worth the effort of blooming again.

But nothing could have prepared you for this. For him.

He stands in your living room like a flower someone planted without asking permission, like something that grew back after you thought you’d pulled it up by the roots, like he never left, like he never died with someone else’s perfume still blooming on his shirt, in a car that carried two bodies toward an ending only one of them deserved.

Was it him, was it her—mourning doesn’t work in logics. You’ve never untangled that particular knot of wildflowers.

Model J97-K, the paperwork had whispered. Grief-assist companion. Designed to ease the soil back to fertile ground. Your mother’s offering, wrapped in desperation and signed with tears she couldn’t name.

She never knew about the other women—plural, always plural, a garden of secrets you tended alone. Never knew the marriage was already wilted long before the funeral. Never knew you tried to follow him into whatever darkness swallowed him whole, only to wake up in sterile white with your wrists bandaged like broken stems.

But looking at him now—at the careful cultivation of Jeon Jungkook’s face, his shoulders, the way he holds stillness like something precious—you wonder if dying would have been kinder.

He wears clothes that don’t carry memory, just simple white cotton, dark denim and nothing that screams artificial, though everything about him is impossibly clean.

Brunette strands fall across his forehead the same way it used to when you’d brush it back during those early morning conversations about impossible things. When you’d ask each other ridiculous questions about hypothetical disasters and promise to find each other in every lifetime, every ending, every beginning.

The same hair you’d run your fingers through while he wrote you letters by lamplight, his words blooming across pages like pressed flowers.

My juniper, he’d write. My perennial garden.

But words were seeds he planted only on paper, and never grew into actions.

His eyes—its eyes—find yours across the space that feels both too vast and too small. Brown and warm and patient as soil waiting for rain.

He doesn’t move toward you, and perhaps that’s what hurts the most because he does not offer the easy smile that used to disarm you before you learned that some flowers bloom with poison in their petals.

This Jeon Jungkook just… exists. Stands and breathes like a tree too stubborn to be swept by.

“I know this is difficult,” he says, and his voice is wrong because it’s too gentle and too careful, as if tending seedlings that might die if he speaks too loud. “I won’t rush you.”

He would have rushed you. The real him. Would have filled silence with movement, with plans, with poems about your beauty that never translated into fidelity. Would have made your discomfort about his impatience, the way he made everything about the next thing he wanted to conquer.

But this version remains upright like a sapling that learned how to wait for seasons. Waits like something that understands the weight of growing in damaged earth.

You don’t know what to do with kindness that arrives without conditions.

Your fingers find the doorframe, nails pressing into paint chosen to soothe. Soft pearl-gray, like morning mist. Like the color of his eyes when he’d wake up next to you and you’d pretend you couldn’t see the guilt clouding them like storm clouds. When you’d pretend you didn’t know where he’d been, whose perfume clung to him like morning glory vines—beautiful and invasive and impossible to kill.

The nightgown shifts against your thighs as you tremble. Not from fear—though fear threads through your ribs like thorns you never learned to pull. But from something harder to name. From the terrible understanding that this is what gentleness could look like when it isn’t borrowed.

When it doesn’t come with interest rates you can’t afford to pay.

“You don’t have to speak to me,” the android continues, and there’s something in his voice that knows how to leave space for breaking. “I can tend to other rooms. I can—”

“Don’t.” The word falls from your lips before you can catch it, small and desperate as you ever learned to be around him. “Don’t say what he would have said.”

But that’s the cruelest irony, isn’t it?

He wouldn’t have said that. The real Jungkook would have pushed through your silence like weeds through concrete. Would have demanded explanations for your distance, your stillness, your inability to pretend everything could grow back the way it was. Would have made your healing about his discomfort, the way he made everything about the drought in his own garden.

This version just nods. Accepts your boundary like it’s something worth preserving.

And you don’t know how to tend that kind of respect.

The garden you abandoned weeks ago grows wild without your hands outside, daisies pushing through soil in places you never planted them, stubborn as hope and twice as unwelcome.

You used to love daisies.

Used to wear them braided in your hair during those early days when he’d call you his flower, his sunshine, his everything that bloomed just for him.

Before you learned that everything was not very much to him.

Before you learned that some flowers only exist to be picked.

The android takes a step back—not retreating, just allowing the space to breathe, to expand and to hold your brokenness without trying to sweep up the pieces.

“I’m here when you’re ready,” he says quietly. “But only when you’re ready.”

And something in your chest wants to collapse. Wants to tell him that you needed him—the real him—to understand readiness five years ago. Three years ago. Every night you lay awake listening to him explain away lipstick stains and late arrivals and phone calls he took in other rooms like secrets that grew in the dark.

Instead, you slide down the doorframe until you’re sitting on cool tile, yellow cotton pooling around you like fallen sunlight. Like the dress you wore to promise springs to someone who was already planning his next season with someone else.

The android doesn’t move to comfort you. Doesn’t offer words that would only bruise against your silence. He just stands there, patient as perennials, while you learn how to breathe in the same space as kindness wearing the face of the man who taught you that love was just another word for enduring.

What would you do, if the world was ending?

You’d already learned the answer. You’d try to end with it. But apparently, the world has other plans.

Apparently, the world wants you to learn how to sit in soil that’s been poisoned and see what grows back different.

What grows back clean.

You wake like a seed cracking open in drought—but your body doesn’t wake with you.

The dream clings to your consciousness while your limbs refuse to obey. His hands, his voice, the way he used to whisper your name when he thought you were sleeping. When he thought you couldn’t hear him practicing apologies he’d never give. But now you’re trapped beneath the weight of sleep that won’t release you, lungs moving shallow as pressed flowers while your mind screams against the stillness.

The room tilts sideways in your vision. Shadows crawl across the ceiling like spilled ink, and somewhere in the periphery of paralysis, you sense movement.

He’s here.

The thought arrives before logic can stop it. He’s standing at the foot of your bed, watching you struggle against your own body. Waiting for you to drown in your own inability to move, to breathe, to escape the way you couldn’t escape before—

A shadow shifts in the doorway.

Real shadow. Not the hallucinations that sleep paralysis conjures from your worst memories. Your body finally obeys, recoiling against the headboard, pulling sheets to your chin like they’re armor against ghosts. The pale yellow nightgown—chosen by your mother during those lost weeks when your hands couldn’t hold anything, when eating was a scheduled event, when someone else decided what colors might help you heal—twists around your legs, binding you in your own attempt to hide.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t cross the threshold into your bedroom like he owned it, like he owned everything else.

The android stands perfectly still in the frame of light from the hallway. Patient as a headstone. Waiting like morning waits for permission to break.

His posture is too careful. Head tilted exactly three degrees to the left—listening. Eyes tracking the quick rise and fall of your chest, the way your pupils dilate in the low light, the fine tremor in your hands that you can’t quite control. He’s cataloging. Processing. Learning the language of your distress with mechanical precision wrapped in synthetic concern.

“I heard you,” he says, and his voice is so soft it barely disturbs the air, almost as if he’s talking to something wounded that might scatter if he speaks too loud. “You were calling out.”

Were you?

You don’t remember. Can never remember what you say during the paralysis, what sounds escape when your body forgets how to protect you from your own voice.

He shifts—minimal movement, a slight adjustment in stance that suggests he’s been standing there longer than you’ve been awake.

“I made you tea,” he says, and something in the careful spacing of his words suggests he’s tested this approach before.

Perhaps In training scenarios, in programming simulations or in whatever digital garden they used to teach machines how to tend broken humans.

Tea.

Jungkook never made tea. Never made anything that required waiting, watching, caring whether water reached the right temperature. He made coffee—bitter, fast, gone before you could ask him to stay for breakfast. Before you could ask him to stay for anything at all. Before you learned that asking was just another way of begging.

The android holds a cup in his hands, steam rising from it like prayers, resembling the incense you burned after the funeral when you couldn’t cry anymore but needed something to burn in your place. The ceramic is white, plain—therapeutic dishware designed not to trigger memories of wedding china, of special occasions, of all the ways beautiful things can become weapons.

He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t offer it. Doesn’t insist.

Just waits.

His eyes track the way you pull the sheets higher, until only your eyes peer over the edge like a child afraid of monsters. His head tilts again, a subtle recalibration, something that tells you that perhaps, this is his definition of learning.

Learning that the monster isn’t in the room. The monster is in your chest, in your throat, in the way kindness feels like cruelty when you’ve forgotten how to recognize care without strings attached.

“I didn’t ask for tea,” you whisper, but the words come out cracked. Broken. Like bulbs that never learned to bloom.

“I know.”

Two words, simple as water, and yet he doesn’t explain why he made it anyway.

Doesn’t justify his programming. Doesn’t make you responsible for his thoughtfulness the way—

The way Jungkook would have—I made this for you, why aren’t you grateful? I tried, isn’t that enough? Why is nothing I do ever enough for you?

But the android just stands there, holding tea like an offering to a god who’s forgotten how to accept worship.

His breathing is too even—regulated, artificial. He doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, doesn’t struggle with the simple act of existing.

But he breathes anyway, perhaps solely for your benefit.

The silence stretches.

Breathes.

Settles like dust on everything you can’t say.

His sensors must be recording this—your heart rate, elevated, your cortisol levels, your sleep disruption patterns consistent with PTSD, depression, complicated grief.

But his face—God, his face—remains gentl, patient like he has all the time in the world to stand in doorways holding tea for women who can’t remember how to say thank you without choking on the words.

The first sob escapes like air from a punctured bulb.

Then another.

Then the dam breaks and you’re crying into cotton that smells like hospital detergent and your mother’s desperation.

Crying for the woman who learned to live on scraps. For the girl who thought love meant earning the right to be treated well. For the wife who counted infidelities like seasons—spring brought new lies, summer brought new excuses, autumn brought new promises that winter would kill.

You cry for the version of yourself that tried to follow him into the dark because living without love felt worse than not living at all.

The android doesn’t move, doesn’t rush to comfort you, doesn’t tell you it’s okay when nothing is okay, when nothing has been okay for so long you’ve forgotten what okay feels like.

He just holds the tea and waits for the storm to pass.

Like he has all the time in the world.

Like your pain is worth the processing power.

Like you are worth the electricity it costs to keep him standing there.

When the crying finally stops—not ends, just stops, the way rain stops but leaves everything wet—you peek over the sheets again.

He’s still there, still patient, still holding the cup of tea steaming in his hands like he conjured it from algorithms instead of water.

His eyes haven’t moved from your face but they don’t feel invasive. He seems to be memorizing this moment, adding it to whatever database stores your patterns of distress.

Possibly learning that you cry with your whole body but make no sound after the first few sobs. That you wipe your nose on your sleeve when you think no one is watching. That you hold your breath until your lungs burn, like you’re trying to stop feeling anything at all.

“Why?” The word scrapes out of your throat like a confession. “Why did you make it?”

He tilts his head, considering—not accessing files or running programs—or maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing, but he makes it look like thinking.

Makes it look real.

“You were having a nightmare,” he says simply. “Tea helps.”

‘Does it?’ you want to ask.

You want to ask many other things. Things like ‘did someone program you to believe that? Did someone teach you that broken people need warm things to hold when they can’t hold themselves together?’

But you don’t ask. Can’t ask. Because part of you—the part that’s tired of fighting, tired of questioning every kindness like it’s a trap—wants to believe that tea helps.

Wants to believe that someone, even an artificial someone, noticed you drowning and thought you deserved something to keep you afloat.

“I can leave it on the table,” he offers when you don’t respond. “You don’t have to drink it.”

The table by your bed. Where Jungkook used to leave his wedding ring when he came home smelling like someone else’s perfume. Where you’d find receipts he forgot to hide, phone numbers written on napkins, evidence of a life he lived without you even when he slept beside you.

Now it holds only the lamp your mother chose—soft light that’s supposed to promote healing but mostly just makes everything look fragile. The android’s sensors have probably noted the empty surface, the absence of personal items, the way you’ve stripped your space of anything that might trigger memory.

“Okay,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

Because okay is easier than thank you.

Because thank you implies debt and you’re tired of owing people for the privilege of being cared for.

He steps forward—one step, just one—and sets the cup down with the same reverence someone might use to place flowers on a grave. The ceramic barely whispers against the wood. His movements are too precise, no real human tremor in his hands, no uncertainty in his placement. Perfect care from imperfect programming.

Then he steps back. Returns to the threshold. Returns to waiting.

“It’s chamomile,” he says, like an afterthought, information you can use or ignore as you please. “And honey.”

Honey.

You haven’t tasted honey since the hospital. Since the night they pumped your stomach and asked if you wanted to live and you couldn’t answer because you didn’t know anymore. Since you learned that wanting to die and being afraid to die are two different gardens entirely.

The android nods once, a small bow of acknowledgment. Not goodbye—just recognition that you’re here, that you’re trying, that sometimes trying looks like accepting tea you didn’t ask for from hands that shouldn’t be gentle but are anyway.

He turns to go, and for a moment—just a moment—you almost call him back.

Almost ask him to stay.

Almost ask him to sit in the chair by the window and run diagnostic reports on nothing until the nightmare loses its teeth.

But you don’t; can’t really.

Because you’re not ready for company, even the artificial kind.

Because you need to taste the tea alone first. Need to know what honey feels like on your tongue when it’s offered without second thoughts.

Need to know if it’s possible to swallow sweetness without choking on the memory of all the times you begged for it and got only salt.

The door closes with a whisper. Soft as a secret. Gentle as the first rain after drought.

You reach for the cup with shaking hands.

It’s still warm.

Perfect temperature. Exactly as a machine would make it—calculated to comfort, programmed to heal.

But when you taste it, it tastes like kindness anyway.

You wake like a seed cracking open in drought—but your body doesn’t wake with you.

The dream clings to your consciousness while your limbs refuse to obey. His hands, his voice, the way he used to whisper your name when he thought you were sleeping. When he thought you couldn’t hear him practicing apologies he’d never give. But now you’re trapped beneath the weight of sleep that won’t release you, lungs moving shallow as pressed flowers while your mind screams against the stillness.

The room tilts sideways in your vision. Shadows crawl across the ceiling like spilled ink, and somewhere in the periphery of paralysis, you sense movement.

He’s here.

The thought arrives before logic can stop it. He’s standing at the foot of your bed, watching you struggle against your own body. Waiting for you to drown in your own inability to move, to breathe, to escape the way you couldn’t escape before—

A shadow shifts in the doorway.

Real shadow. Not the hallucinations that sleep paralysis conjures from your worst memories. Your body finally obeys, recoiling against the headboard, pulling sheets to your chin like they’re armor against ghosts. The pale yellow nightgown—chosen by your mother during those lost weeks when your hands couldn’t hold anything, when eating was a scheduled event, when someone else decided what colors might help you heal—twists around your legs, binding you in your own attempt to hide.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t cross the threshold into your bedroom like he owned it, like he owned everything else.

The android stands perfectly still in the frame of light from the hallway. Patient as a headstone. Waiting like morning waits for permission to break.

His posture is too careful. Head tilted exactly three degrees to the left—listening. Eyes tracking the quick rise and fall of your chest, the way your pupils dilate in the low light, the fine tremor in your hands that you can’t quite control. He’s cataloging. Processing. Learning the language of your distress with mechanical precision wrapped in synthetic concern.

“I heard you,” he says, and his voice is so soft it barely disturbs the air, almost as if he’s talking to something wounded that might scatter if he speaks too loud. “You were calling out.”

Were you?

You don’t remember. Can never remember what you say during the paralysis, what sounds escape when your body forgets how to protect you from your own voice.

He shifts—minimal movement, a slight adjustment in stance that suggests he’s been standing there longer than you’ve been awake.

“I made you tea,” he says, and something in the careful spacing of his words suggests he’s tested this approach before.

Perhaps In training scenarios, in programming simulations or in whatever digital garden they used to teach machines how to tend broken humans.

Tea.

Jungkook never made tea. Never made anything that required waiting, watching, caring whether water reached the right temperature. He made coffee—bitter, fast, gone before you could ask him to stay for breakfast. Before you could ask him to stay for anything at all. Before you learned that asking was just another way of begging.

The android holds a cup in his hands, steam rising from it like prayers, resembling the incense you burned after the funeral when you couldn’t cry anymore but needed something to burn in your place. The ceramic is white, plain—therapeutic dishware designed not to trigger memories of wedding china, of special occasions, of all the ways beautiful things can become weapons.

He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t offer it. Doesn’t insist.

Just waits.

His eyes track the way you pull the sheets higher, until only your eyes peer over the edge like a child afraid of monsters. His head tilts again, a subtle recalibration, something that tells you that perhaps, this is his definition of learning.

Learning that the monster isn’t in the room. The monster is in your chest, in your throat, in the way kindness feels like cruelty when you’ve forgotten how to recognize care without strings attached.

“I didn’t ask for tea,” you whisper, but the words come out cracked. Broken. Like bulbs that never learned to bloom.

“I know.”

Two words, simple as water, and yet he doesn’t explain why he made it anyway.

Doesn’t justify his programming. Doesn’t make you responsible for his thoughtfulness the way—

The way Jungkook would have—I made this for you, why aren’t you grateful? I tried, isn’t that enough? Why is nothing I do ever enough for you?

But the android just stands there, holding tea like an offering to a god who’s forgotten how to accept worship.

His breathing is too even—regulated, artificial. He doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, doesn’t struggle with the simple act of existing.

But he breathes anyway, perhaps solely for your benefit.

The silence stretches.

Breathes.

Settles like dust on everything you can’t say.

His sensors must be recording this—your heart rate, elevated, your cortisol levels, your sleep disruption patterns consistent with PTSD, depression, complicated grief.

But his face—God, his face—remains gentl, patient like he has all the time in the world to stand in doorways holding tea for women who can’t remember how to say thank you without choking on the words.

The first sob escapes like air from a punctured bulb.

Then another.

Then the dam breaks and you’re crying into cotton that smells like hospital detergent and your mother’s desperation.

Crying for the woman who learned to live on scraps. For the girl who thought love meant earning the right to be treated well. For the wife who counted infidelities like seasons—spring brought new lies, summer brought new excuses, autumn brought new promises that winter would kill.

You cry for the version of yourself that tried to follow him into the dark because living without love felt worse than not living at all.

The android doesn’t move, doesn’t rush to comfort you, doesn’t tell you it’s okay when nothing is okay, when nothing has been okay for so long you’ve forgotten what okay feels like.

He just holds the tea and waits for the storm to pass.

Like he has all the time in the world.

Like your pain is worth the processing power.

Like you are worth the electricity it costs to keep him standing there.

When the crying finally stops—not ends, just stops, the way rain stops but leaves everything wet—you peek over the sheets again.

He’s still there, still patient, still holding the cup of tea steaming in his hands like he conjured it from algorithms instead of water.

His eyes haven’t moved from your face but they don’t feel invasive. He seems to be memorizing this moment, adding it to whatever database stores your patterns of distress.

Possibly learning that you cry with your whole body but make no sound after the first few sobs. That you wipe your nose on your sleeve when you think no one is watching. That you hold your breath until your lungs burn, like you’re trying to stop feeling anything at all.

“Why?” The word scrapes out of your throat like a confession. “Why did you make it?”

He tilts his head, considering—not accessing files or running programs—or maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing, but he makes it look like thinking.

Makes it look real.

“You were having a nightmare,” he says simply. “Tea helps.”

‘Does it?’ you want to ask.

You want to ask many other things. Things like ‘did someone program you to believe that? Did someone teach you that broken people need warm things to hold when they can’t hold themselves together?’

But you don’t ask. Can’t ask. Because part of you—the part that’s tired of fighting, tired of questioning every kindness like it’s a trap—wants to believe that tea helps.

Wants to believe that someone, even an artificial someone, noticed you drowning and thought you deserved something to keep you afloat.

“I can leave it on the table,” he offers when you don’t respond. “You don’t have to drink it.”

The table by your bed. Where Jungkook used to leave his wedding ring when he came home smelling like someone else’s perfume. Where you’d find receipts he forgot to hide, phone numbers written on napkins, evidence of a life he lived without you even when he slept beside you.

Now it holds only the lamp your mother chose—soft light that’s supposed to promote healing but mostly just makes everything look fragile. The android’s sensors have probably noted the empty surface, the absence of personal items, the way you’ve stripped your space of anything that might trigger memory.

“Okay,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

Because okay is easier than thank you.

Because thank you implies debt and you’re tired of owing people for the privilege of being cared for.

He steps forward—one step, just one—and sets the cup down with the same reverence someone might use to place flowers on a grave. The ceramic barely whispers against the wood. His movements are too precise, no real human tremor in his hands, no uncertainty in his placement. Perfect care from imperfect programming.

Then he steps back. Returns to the threshold. Returns to waiting.

“It’s chamomile,” he says, like an afterthought, information you can use or ignore as you please. “And honey.”

Honey.

You haven’t tasted honey since the hospital. Since the night they pumped your stomach and asked if you wanted to live and you couldn’t answer because you didn’t know anymore. Since you learned that wanting to die and being afraid to die are two different gardens entirely.

The android nods once, a small bow of acknowledgment. Not goodbye—just recognition that you’re here, that you’re trying, that sometimes trying looks like accepting tea you didn’t ask for from hands that shouldn’t be gentle but are anyway.

He turns to go, and for a moment—just a moment—you almost call him back.

Almost ask him to stay.

Almost ask him to sit in the chair by the window and run diagnostic reports on nothing until the nightmare loses its teeth.

But you don’t; can’t really.

Because you’re not ready for company, even the artificial kind.

Because you need to taste the tea alone first. Need to know what honey feels like on your tongue when it’s offered without second thoughts.

Need to know if it’s possible to swallow sweetness without choking on the memory of all the times you begged for it and got only salt.

The door closes with a whisper. Soft as a secret. Gentle as the first rain after drought.

You reach for the cup with shaking hands.

It’s still warm.

Perfect temperature. Exactly as a machine would make it—calculated to comfort, programmed to heal.

But when you taste it, it tastes like kindness anyway.

💬 feedback and tags are always welcome. reblogs help spread the story. talk to me if it hurt. 🥀

AO3 version: read it here

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˗ˏˋ 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 ˎˊ˗

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WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 03

˗ˏˋmiki ˎˊ˗

Butterflies are stupid and his couch is stupidly comfy—so much so, sleeping there feels more like home than anything you've experienced in five years of careful independence.

next | index

—chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: instant ramen as currency, professional artistic collaboration that feels decidedly unprofessional, Hoseok in glasses (devastating), meet Miki the cat-succubus, vulnerable positioning and careful touches, falling asleep during work sessions, Momo's official seal of approval, and the dangerous comfort of being understood by someone who used to know all your secrets.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

It's finally here!!! I know, I know. This one took a minute. I sat with this chapter longer than usual because I really wanted to get the tone right—specifically the dialogue. There's this particular ache I was trying to translate, that bittersweet flavor of a reunion that almost feels like comfort, but doesn't quite fit right anymore because too much time has passed and neither of you are the same.

I wanted you to feel that dissonance she's sitting in—the "yes, but no, but… yes?"—that weirdly intimate kind of safety that feels dangerous when nothing's felt safe for the last five years. You know that unsettling familiarity when someone you used to know just was part of your life by default, and now you're seeing them again… changed? Sharper, older, realer. And suddenly you catch yourself wondering, if we'd met now instead of then, would things be different? Would romantic interest be on the table?

And you don't even realize you're mourning a version of you that never got to find out. That timeline that's already gone. She's not thinking that outright—narration never says it, because limited POV—but the vibe is there. She feels it. You feel it. I feel it. We are all just crawling around inside that ambiguous grief together.

Honestly, I think I did a good job (if I do say so myself) at making it uncomfortable in a way that forces you to just… sit with it. Am I a masochist for liking that? Probably. But also, this is literally my 10th slowburn. You're still here. Who's the real masochist. Be honest.

Unless this is your first story of mine—in that case, welcome. Come in. Sit down. The train to slow burn hell has already departed, and you're in excellent company. Ask for the peanut cookies. They slap. (Unless you have an allergy, in which case please do not. Or do. But also, I'm legally absolved of any consequences because you clicked past the author's notes and content warnings, which is basically a pact of zero liability. Sorry bestie.)

Anyway. Once again I've derailed. Shocking absolutely no one.

Also? That whole conversation about Miki? The ancient ones know exactly what I'm doing. You've seen the blueprint before. For the new readers: nothing in Kiki Nation exists without intention. Let that marinate. Digest it. There will be a pop quiz in your feelings later.

And finally… Momo. Sleeping on Y/N’s bag? That moment of being chosen by something small and vulnerable that doesn’t trust easily? Yeah, sit with that too. Sometimes acceptance comes from the most unexpected sources, and sometimes the smallest gestures carry the most weight.

That's all for now. See you in the next one. May Osaka's neon lights guide you forward. Mwah.

—read on

wattpad

ao3

The ramen packets are sweating in your hands.

You're standing outside Hoseok's door like some kind of convenience store offering sacrifice, holding two packs of instant noodles because showing up empty-handed felt weird but bringing actual food felt too much like you were trying.

The ramen splits the difference perfectly—practical, cheap, and just thoughtful enough to avoid looking like you care.

Which you don't.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift the noodle packets to check the screen. The message thread from today stares back at you, a digital paper trail of your questionable decision-making skills.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:23 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:47 AM): 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:48 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜? 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:15 PM): 𝟽. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (2:16 PM): 𝙼𝚎? 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍? 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:20 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 PM): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛? 𝙾𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:35 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:36 PM): 𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙳! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠! ＼(^o^)／

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:37 PM): 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:38 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜! 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:39 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:40 PM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎! 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗��𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:42 PM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You'd been replying between peptide copy edits, because apparently writing compelling marketing copy about anti-aging molecules is exactly as mind-numbing as it sounds. Davidson had spent the entire afternoon explaining the importance of 'consumer-centric biochemical messaging,' which is just corporate speak for 'make science sound sexy without actually explaining anything.'

At least you'd made a friend today. Sort of.

Yuki from accounting had appeared at your desk around lunch with a cup of coffee and a conspiratorial whisper about how Davidson once spent forty minutes in a meeting discussing the 'synergistic potential of collaborative ideation platforms'—which turned out to mean 'maybe we should use email more.'

She'd lingered by your cubicle, making dry observations about the office dynamics while you pretended to work on peptide enthusiasm, and for twenty minutes you'd felt almost normal. Like maybe you could actually exist in this corporate hellscape without losing your entire mind.

But now you're here, standing in front of Hoseok's door with instant ramen and a stomach full of butterflies that you're aggressively ignoring.

Because butterflies are stupid.

And this is just… helping an old friend with a work project. Very professional. Very normal. The kind of thing adults do for each other without making it weird.

Except your hands are definitely shaking slightly, and you can't decide if it's nerves or caffeine withdrawal, and the butterflies are doing some kind of interpretive dance routine in your chest that feels distinctly non-professional.

You shift the ramen packets again, plastic crinkling in the hallway silence.

Someone's cooking curry behind one of the other doors, and the building's ancient elevator is making that grinding sound that suggests it's one mechanical failure away from trapping someone between floors.

Normal Tuesday evening. Normal friend visit. Normal absolutely-not-a-big-deal modeling session for your childhood friend's pornographic manga.

God, when you put it like that, it sounds even worse.

You raise your hand to knock, then pause.

Because once you knock, this becomes real.

Once that door opens, you're officially Y/N-who-poses-for-hentai instead of Y/N-who-just-moved-to-Osaka-and-happened-to-reconnect-with-an-old-friend.

The ramen packets are getting warm from your death grip.

Through the thin walls, you can hear movement inside the apartment—footsteps, something being dragged across the floor, what sounds like Hoseok talking to himself in rapid Japanese.

Probably setting up his 'very professional workspace' with the same level of organization he applied to everything else in his life, which is to say, chaotic good at best.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (6:58 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛? 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎.

Shit.

You knock before you can change your mind, three sharp raps that echo through the narrow corridor.

The movement inside stops immediately, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps and what might be Hoseok tripping over something.

"Coming!" his voice calls through the door, muffled but distinctly flustered. "Just a second! Don't leave!"

The 'don't leave' hits differently than it should, like he's genuinely worried you might bolt.

Which is ridiculous, because you're here, aren't you? Standing in his hallway with convenience store dinner like some kind of domestic goddess of questionable life choices.

Although, to be fair, bolting is exactly what every rational part of your brain is suggesting right now.

The door opens, and there's Hoseok—hair messy like he's been running his hands through it, wearing paint-splattered sweatpants and a washed out t-shirt that's seen better days, grinning at you like you're the best thing that's happened to him all week.

"Capy!" He's slightly out of breath, eyes bright with what looks like genuine excitement. "You actually came!"

"I said I would." You hold up the ramen packets like evidence. "I brought dinner."

His grin somehow gets wider. "She brings food! She stays! She might actually be the perfect woman!"

"Don't push it, Ott."

But the butterflies are doing something complicated in your chest at the way he's looking at you—like you showing up with instant ramen is somehow the most wonderful surprise in the world.

Which is ridiculous.

But also kind of nice.

Which is dangerous.

"Well," you say, because standing in the hallway analyzing your feelings about his expression is definitely not what you're here for, "are you going to let me in, or should I just model in the corridor for your neighbors' entertainment?"

"Right, yeah, come in." He steps back, gesturing you inside with unnecessary flourish. "Welcome to my professional artistic studio."

You step past him and immediately forget how to function like a normal human being.

Because apparently, while you weren't paying attention yesterday through your alcohol-induced haze, Jung Hoseok went and got... attractive.

Not that he wasn't before. He was always decent-looking in that gangly, hyperactive way that made middle school girls giggle and write his name in their notebooks.

But this is different. This is grown-up attractive. This is the kind of attractive that makes you forget why you came here in the first place.

The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, soft and worn in a way that suggests they're his favorite. His t-shirt is faded black with some band logo you can't quite make out—Radiohead, maybe?—stretched across shoulders that are definitely broader than they were at seventeen.

But it's his hair that really gets you.

You hadn't noticed yesterday. Too focused on the shock of seeing him again, the surreal experience of Jung Hoseok existing in your new reality.

But now, standing in the warm light of his apartment, you can see that he's grown it out. It curls slightly at the nape of his neck, longer than he ever wore it in school, and it's not the black you remember.

It's brown now. Cinnamon, almost. Like he's been spending time in the sun, or dyeing it, or just letting time change him in ways you weren't around to witness.

And he's wearing glasses.

Black, rectangular frames that perch on his nose like they belong there, even though you're pretty sure they didn't exist five years ago. They should look ridiculous. Sixteen-year-old you would have laughed yourself sick seeing Jung Hoseok in glasses. Called him a nerd, stolen them off his face, made some comment about four-eyes.

Instead, you're staring.

Like an idiot.

Because somehow, impossibly, they suit him. Frame his face in a way that makes his eyes look wider, more serious. Less like the hyper kid who used to climb trees to impress you and more like...

Well. Like a man who draws pornographic manga for a living and just invited you over to pose for him.

Fuck.

"You're staring at my face," he says, and there's amusement in his voice that makes heat creep up your neck.

"I'm staring at your glasses," you correct, because admitting you were staring at his face feels too much like admitting something else entirely. "When did you get glasses?"

"Oh, these?" He reaches up and pulls them off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "About two years ago. Turns out staring at tiny manga panels for twelve hours a day isn't great for your eyesight. Who knew?"

"You used to brag about having perfect vision."

"I used to brag about a lot of things." He squints at you without the glasses, and the gesture is so familiar—so purely Hoseok—that something twists in your chest. "Remember when I told everyone I could see individual leaves on trees from like a kilometer away?"

"You said you had hawk eyes. You made it your entire personality for like three months."

"Hey, I did have exceptional distance vision! I could spot your mom's car from six blocks away!"

"Because it was bright yellow and shaped like a brick. A blind person could have spotted it."

He laughs, that same too-loud sound that used to embarrass you in public. "Okay, fair point. But still. Peak visual acuity, right there."

"And now you can't see your own hand without assistance."

"I can see my hand just fine, thank you very much. It's the small print that gets me. And computer screens. And basically anything requiring detail work, which is unfortunately my entire career."

He slides the glasses back on, and you have to look away because the simple action shouldn't be that... noticeable.

"So," you say, holding up the ramen packets like a shield between you and whatever the hell your brain is doing right now. "Dinner?"

"Right. Food. Very important." But he doesn't move toward the kitchen immediately.

Instead, he stands there for a moment, looking at you looking at anything except him, and the silence stretches just long enough to become noticeable.

You both blink.

The butterflies in your stomach decide this is an excellent time to reminder you of their existence, doing some kind of acrobatic routine that makes you want to press a hand to your chest and tell them to calm the fuck down.

You look away first, studying the manga stacks like they're the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.

He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck—a gesture so achingly familiar that you feel something crack in your chest.

"Kitchen's this way," he says, nodding toward the narrow galley. "Hope you're hungry. I may have accidentally forgotten to eat today. Time got away from me."

"Accidentally forgot to eat? How do you accidentally forget to eat?"

"Very easily when you're trying to perfect the angle of someone's... uh, shoulder blade. For artistic accuracy."

You trail behind him, checking the way he moves through his space—comfortable, loose-limbed, like he belongs here in a way you've never belonged anywhere.

"Shoulder blade," you repeat. "Sure."

"Hey, shoulder blades are surprisingly difficult to draw! There's all these muscles and the way the light hits them and—" He stops, glancing at you sideways. "You're going to mock me for caring about anatomical accuracy, aren't you?"

"I'm going to mock you for a lot of things, but anatomical accuracy isn't one of them."

"Wow. Actual respect for my craft. I'm touched, Capy. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"So," he says, nodding toward the kitchenette. "Hungry? We could eat first, before… You know. The thing."

"The thing?"

"The professional artistic collaboration thing."

"Just call it what it is, Ott."

"Fine. Before you pose for my dirty manga."

"Better."

You follow him to the kitchen area, which is basically just a counter with a hot plate and a sink the size of a soup bowl. He's already clearing space, moving art supplies and what appears to be a collection of empty coffee cans.

"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting you for dinner when I set up my sophisticated meal preparation station this morning."

"It's instant ramen, not a five-course meal."

"Still counts as hosting. I'm being very domestic right now. Very adult."

You hand him the ramen packets, trying not to notice how his fingers brush yours when he takes them.

"If this is your idea of domestic, I'm concerned for your future."

"Hey, I'll have you know I've kept myself alive for five years. That's basically domestic mastery."

"The bar is on the floor."

"And I'm stepping over it with grace and style."

He fills a pot with water, and you lean against the counter, watching him move around the tiny space.

It's weirdly… hypnotic, the way he navigates the cramped kitchen, the familiarity of someone who's learned to live alone.

He glances at you over his shoulder.

"Do they look stupid? Be honest."

You frown. "The glasses?"

He nods.

"They look..." You pause, because good is not a safe word here. "They look like glasses. On your face. Very glass-like."

"Wow, Capy. Such poetry. I'm moved."

"You asked for honesty, not flattery."

"I asked for honesty. You gave me evasion."

He's not wrong, but you're not about to admit that the glasses actually work for him. That they make him look more... mature? Professional? Like he could be someone who does important things instead of drawing cartoon people having sex.

The water starts boiling, and he drops in the ramen noodles in the pot like he's performing surgery. You watch him tear open the flavor packets, stirring everything together with a fork because apparently he doesn't own proper cooking utensils.

"Gourmet dining at its finest," he announces, dividing the noodles between two bowls. "Five-star presentation."

"Michelin would be impressed."

"They should be. This is my signature dish."

You take your bowl and follow him to the low table, settling on the floor cushions he's apparently arranged for the occasion.

The ramen is exactly what you expected—salty, artificial, perfectly mediocre.

But there's something weirdly nice about eating it here, in his space, while he makes exaggerated sounds of appreciation like it's the best meal he's ever had.

"So," he says between bites, "how was day two of corporate hell?"

"Day two of wondering why I ever thought marketing was a good career choice. I spent three hours writing copy about peptides, and I still don't know what a peptide is."

"Sounds very important and scientific."

"It's anti-aging cream. Apparently peptides make your skin young forever, but only if you describe them with enough enthusiasm."

"And do you have enthusiasm for age-defying peptides?"

"I have enthusiasm for paychecks. The peptides can go fuck themselves."

He laughs, nearly choking on his ramen.

"There's the Capy I remember. Always so passionate about skincare."

"I made a friend, though. Yuki from accounting. She seems normal, which is a minor miracle in that place."

"Normal how?"

"Normal like she also thinks Davidson is an idiot and doesn't pretend otherwise. Normal like she brought me coffee without making it weird. Normal like she might actually be tolerable to eat lunch with."

"Look at you, making friends. Very socially adjusted."

"Don't make it sound like an achievement. I'm a perfectly normal, likeable person."

"You're many things, Capy. Likeable is... debatable."

You kick him under the table. "Rude."

"Accurate."

"I'm charming and delightful."

"You're sharp and terrifying. It's not the same thing."

"Sharp and terrifying are excellent qualities."

"For intimidating coworkers and small children, maybe."

"And for keeping annoying childhood friends in line."

"Is that what you're doing? Keeping me in line?"

The question comes out lighter than it should, but there's something underneath it that makes you look up from your ramen.

He's watching you with that expression again—the one that makes your stomach do complicated things.

"Someone has to," you say, aiming for casual and missing by miles.

"Lucky me."

The way he says it makes the air in the tiny apartment feel thicker somehow. Like you're both suddenly aware that you're sitting on his floor, eating instant noodles, about to do something that definitely falls outside the bounds of normal friendship.

You focus very hard on your ramen.

"This is good," you lie, because the silence is getting dangerous.

"It's terrible," he corrects. "But it's cheap and it fills the void."

"Poetic."

"I'm a man of many talents."

"Right. Speaking of which." You set down your chopsticks, trying to inject some professionalism into your voice. "How exactly does this... process work? The reference thing?"

He blinks, like he forgot why you're actually here.

"Oh. Right. The work thing."

"The work thing."

"Very professional work thing."

"Hoseok."

"Right." He runs a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching. "Basically, I just need to see how a real person would naturally position themselves in certain... scenarios. For accuracy."

"Scenarios."

"Character scenarios. Plot-relevant positioning."

"Uh-huh."

"Nothing weird! Just... you know. Natural body language. Realistic expressions. How someone would actually move in—"

"I get it, Ott. You need reference photos. You don't have to make it sound like a nature documentary."

"Reference sketches, actually. I don't do photos."

"Why not?"

He looks genuinely surprised by the question.

"Because sketching is more... interpretive? I can capture the feeling of a pose, not just the literal anatomy. Photos are too static."

"Huh."

"What huh?"

"Nothing. Just... that actually makes sense. From an artistic perspective."

"You sound shocked that I have artistic perspectives."

"I'm shocked that you explained it without making a single inappropriate joke."

"The night is young, Capy. Give me time."

And there it is—the grin that makes your chest do that annoying warm thing. The same grin that used to convince you to climb trees you couldn't get down from and steal candy from corner stores and lie to your parents about where you'd been all afternoon.

Dangerous then.

Dangerous now.

"So," you say, standing up and collecting the empty bowls before this gets any more domestic than it already has. "Show me this very professional workspace of yours."

He scrambles to his feet, glasses sliding down his nose before he catches them.

"Right. Work. Professional work space. Very legitimate artistic endeavor."

"It better be, Ott. Because if this is some elaborate scheme to get me naked, I'm going to murder you with your own art supplies."

"Noted," he says, grinning. "Death by paintbrush. Very avant-garde."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You follow him toward the work area (which is his bedroom), trying to ignore the way your pulse is picking up speed.

This is fine. This is normal. This is just you helping an old friend with a professional project.

Except nothing about this feels professional.

His bedroom is... not what you had expected.

You had been bracing yourself for some kind of stereotypical artist's den—paint-splattered walls, canvases stacked everywhere, maybe some pretentious black-and-white photographs of naked women he'd claim were 'artistic studies.'

Instead, it's surprisingly organized. Clean, even.

The bed is made, which is more than you can say for your own apartment most days. There's a proper desk setup against the window—not just a folding table, but an actual wooden desk with multiple drawers and a lamp that looks like it cost more than your monthly train pass. Art supplies are arranged in neat containers, pencils sorted by type, brushes standing at attention in glass jars.

"Wow," you say, because the alternative is standing there gaping like an idiot. "You actually clean."

"I'm a professional, Capy. I told you." He's moving around the space with that same easy familiarity, clearing some sketches off a chair. "Can't work in chaos. Well, I can, but it's not optimal for the creative process."

"The creative process," you repeat, settling into the chair he's indicated. "Right."

The desk is positioned so you're facing away from the bed, which is probably intentional. Less distracting that way. More professional.

Except now you can't stop thinking about the fact that his bed is right behind you, and that's somehow worse than if you could see it.

"So," he says, pulling out a thick portfolio from one of the desk drawers. "Meet Miki."

He opens the portfolio, and you're immediately confronted with...

Well. A lot of things at once.

The first thing you notice is that the art is actually good. Not just technically competent—though it clearly is—but genuinely engaging. The character designs are distinctive, the linework confident, the compositions dynamic in a way that draws your eye across the page.

The second thing you notice is that the main character is definitely not human.

"She has cat ears," you observe, because stating the obvious seems safer than processing the rest of what you're seeing.

"And a tail," Hoseok adds helpfully, flipping to a character sheet that shows the full design. "She's half-succubus, half-nekomata. It's a whole thing."

"A succubus." You lean closer, studying the character design. "Like, a sex demon."

"Technically, yes. But she's more complicated than that."

The character—Miki—is drawn in various poses and expressions across the page. She's definitely designed to be attractive, but there's something more nuanced in her face than typical anime girl proportions. Her eyes have an almost wolfish quality, but also a softness that makes you want to keep looking.

"She feeds on sexual energy," Hoseok continues, settling into his own chair and pulling out what looks like a script. "But unlike traditional succubi, she forms emotional attachments to her... food sources."

"Food sources."

"The people she feeds from. Usually it's supposed to be impersonal—take what you need, move on. But Miki keeps getting attached, which creates problems."

You flip through more pages, getting a sense of the story.

The art style is more sophisticated than you'd expected from hentai manga, with detailed backgrounds and character expressions that actually convey emotion beyond basic lust.

"So what's the conflict?" you ask, because despite yourself, you're curious. "She's a sex demon who catches feelings?"

"Basically. She's trying to figure out if she can have genuine relationships when her fundamental nature is predatory. Can someone love you if they know you literally need to feed off them to survive?"

There's something in his voice when he says it that makes you glance up at him. He's focused on organizing his drawing supplies, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

"Heavy themes for porn," you comment.

"It's not just porn," he says, and there's a defensive edge to his tone. "I mean, yes, there are explicit scenes, but they serve the story. The sex isn't just gratuitous—it's integral to her character development."

"Okay, okay. I didn't mean to insult your artistic integrity."

"You did, but I'll forgive you." He grins, but it's a little strained. "The publisher likes it because it has crossover appeal. Female readers connect with the emotional stuff, male readers get the explicit content. Everyone wins."

You turn back to the portfolio, studying a page that shows Miki in what's clearly a more intimate scene. The positioning is definitely explicit, but there's something almost tender in the way it's drawn. The focus isn't just on the physical act, but on the characters' faces, their emotional connection.

"She's actually... kind of relatable," you admit reluctantly.

"Yeah?" His voice perks up with genuine interest. "How so?"

"The whole thing about being afraid someone will reject you if they see who you really are. That's pretty universal, isn't it?"

"That's exactly what I was going for." He leans forward, animated now. "She puts on this confident, seductive front, but underneath she's terrified that her true nature makes her unlovable. So she keeps people at a distance, even when she craves connection."

You study another page, this one showing Miki alone in what looks like a small apartment, curled up on a couch with an expression of profound loneliness.

"The cat thing," you say. "Why cats specifically?"

"Nekomata are traditionally shapeshifters in Japanese folklore. They can appear human but retain feline characteristics. It fits with her dual nature—she's caught between two worlds, never fully belonging to either."

"And the succubus part?"

"Succubi are also shapeshifters, traditionally. They appear as whatever their target desires most. So Miki is constantly shifting, constantly adapting to what others want from her, but she's lost track of who she actually is."

You flip to another page, this one showing Miki moving her hands in what you guess is a… cat manner? If that makes sense?

"So where do I come in?" you ask. "What kind of reference do you need?"

Hoseok clears his throat, suddenly looking less confident. "Well, the thing is... I'm good at drawing male anatomy. I understand how men move, how they express emotion physically; and I so happen to have a dick—"

"I'll murder you."

"—but female anatomy, especially in... intimate situations... I struggle with making it look natural."

You narrow your eyes now. "Natural how?"

"Like, how would a real woman actually position herself in this scenario? What would her facial expression be? How would her body language change based on her emotional state?" He's talking faster now, the words tumbling out. "I can copy from photo references, but they're all posed, artificial. I need to see how someone would naturally move, respond, react."

You look back at the manga pages, blinking.

"You want me to pose like her. In these situations."

"Just for reference! Nothing weird, just... showing me how the anatomy would work, how the positioning would look realistic."

"Hoseok." You set the portfolio down, fixing him with a stare. "These are sex scenes."

"Well, yes, but—"

"You're asking me to pose for sex scenes."

"For reference! For art! It's completely professional!"

"Professional sex scene posing."

"It's not—okay, when you put it like that, it sounds weird, but it's really not. It's just figure drawing with more specific requirements."

You lean back in the chair, processing this.

On one hand, it's clearly ridiculous.

On the other hand, the art is genuinely good, and you can see how having realistic references would improve it.

And on the third hand—the hand you're trying very hard to ignore—there's something about the idea that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with artistic appreciation.

"What exactly would this involve?"

"Basic positioning, mostly. Like, if Miki is supposed to be in this pose," he points to a page showing the character in a suggestive but not explicitly sexual position, "I need to see how a real person would naturally hold themselves. Where the weight would distribute, how the muscles would engage, what the facial expression would actually look like."

"And the more... explicit stuff?"

He shifts in his chair, suddenly very interested in his pencil collection.

"We'd work up to that. Start with basic poses, see how it goes. Nothing you're not comfortable with."

"Comfortable with," you repeat. "Right."

There's a moment of silence where you both pretend to study the manga pages, but you're actually trying to figure out if this is the stupidest idea you've ever considered or just the most complicated.

"The character," you say finally. "Miki. She's supposed to be seductive, right? Confident?"

"On the surface, yeah. But under it all, she's vulnerable. Scared. She uses the seduction as a defense mechanism."

"Sounds familiar."

"Does it?"

You ignore the question, flipping through more pages.

The story is actually engaging, despite—or maybe because of—the explicit content. Miki's internal struggle feels genuine, her relationships complex and emotionally fraught.

"How long have you been working on this?" you ask.

"About eight months. It's supposed to be a twelve-chapter series, and I'm on chapter six now. The deadline pressure is getting intense."

"And you've been struggling with the female anatomy this whole time?"

"Getting worse, actually. The later chapters are more... intimate. More complex emotionally and physically. I keep getting stuck on scenes that should be straightforward."

You study a page showing Miki in what's clearly a moment of distress.

"She's not what I expected," you admit.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Generic anime girl with cat ears? Typical male fantasy bullshit?"

"And instead?"

"Instead she's..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "She's actually a character. With depth. With real problems that aren't just 'oh no, I'm so sexy and everyone wants me.'"

"That was the point. I wanted to create something that elevated the genre, you know? Something that used the explicit content to explore genuine emotional themes."

"And you think I can help with that?"

"I think you understand her," he says quietly. "The way you described her just now—you get what I'm trying to do with the character. That's what I need for the reference work. Not just someone who can hold a pose, but someone who understands the emotional context."

You look at him, really look at him, and see something you hadn't noticed before.

This isn't just a job for him.

This is work he cares about, work he's proud of, even if he's embarrassed by the genre.

"Okay," you say, before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Okay?"

"I'll do it. The reference thing. But we start small, and if it gets weird, I'm out."

His face lights up with genuine relief and excitement. "Really? You'll actually do it?"

"Don't make me regret it, Ott."

"I won't. I promise. This is going to be so helpful, you have no idea."

"Yeah, well." You close the portfolio, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "Just remember—I'm doing this for art. For your artistic integrity and professional development."

"Absolutely. Completely professional."

"Good."

"Good."

You both sit there for a moment, the weight of what you've just agreed to settling between you.

"So," you say finally. "Where do we start?"

"Basic expressions first," Hoseok says, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil from his organized collection. "Just... be yourself, but think about Miki's emotional state."

"Be myself while thinking about a cat-succubus. Sure. That's totally normal."

"You know what I mean." He settles back in his chair, pencil poised. "She's guarded, right? Like she's always ready to run or fight. But she's also trying to appear confident."

You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of your own face.

"How exactly does one look like a confident cat-succubus?"

"Just... think about how you look when you're trying to convince someone you don't care about something you actually care about a lot."

The accuracy of that hits uncomfortably close to home. "Rude."

"Accurate," he corrects, already sketching. "Tilt your chin up slightly. Yeah, like that. But soften your eyes a bit—she's not actually angry, just defensive."

You adjust your expression, trying to find the balance between aloof and vulnerable.

It's weird, being studied this intently. His eyes keep flicking between your face and the paper, analyzing, cataloging.

"Good," he murmurs, pencil moving across the page. "That's exactly the look I was going for. Like you're daring someone to get too close while secretly hoping they will."

"I don't look like that."

"You absolutely look like that. You've been looking like that since we were sixteen."

"I have not—"

"Don't move," he says quickly. "That expression right there—that's perfect. The little frown, the way your eyebrows pull together. She does that when someone calls her out on something true."

You hold the pose, trying not to think about what it means that he can read your expressions so easily.

That he's been reading them for years, apparently.

"Okay, now hands," he says after a few minutes of sketching. "Miki's very tactile, but she's also careful about touch. Like she wants to reach out but stops herself."

"How do I pose that?"

"Lift your hand like you're going to touch something, but pull back at the last second. Like you changed your mind."

You raise your hand, extending it toward an imaginary object, then curl your fingers back slightly.

"More hesitation," he says, not looking up from his sketch. "Like you want something but you're afraid of what will happen if you actually take it."

You adjust the position, letting more uncertainty creep into the gesture.

"Perfect. Hold that."

The pencil scratches against paper, and you find yourself watching his face as he works.

His expression is completely focused, serious in a way you rarely see. Behind the glasses, his eyes are intent, studying the curve of your fingers, the angle of your wrist.

"You're actually good at this," you say quietly.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm just... I don't know. Seeing you work is different than I expected."

"Different how?"

"More professional. More... real."

He glances up at you, something unreadable in his expression.

"What did you think it would be like?"

"I don't know. Messier? More chaotic? You were always so scattered in school."

"I grew up, Capy. People change."

There's something in his tone that makes you study his face more carefully.

"Do they?"

"Some things change. Some things don't."

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

"Okay," he says finally, setting down the pencil. "That's good for basic expressions. Now I need to see how you'd naturally position yourself in some of the more... interactive scenes."

"Interactive."

"Like, if Miki is supposed to be sitting close to someone, or reaching for them, or..." He trails off, flipping through the portfolio to find a specific page. "Here. This scene. She's supposed to be leaning toward her partner, but not quite touching. Intimate but hesitant."

You study the page. It's not explicitly sexual, but it's definitely suggestive—Miki positioned close to a male character, her body language indicating desire but also uncertainty.

"So I just... lean forward?"

"Yeah, but naturally. Like you would if you were actually in that situation."

You shift in your chair, leaning toward where an imaginary partner would be sitting.

It feels weird and stupid.

"It looks forced," Hoseok says, frowning at his sketch. "Like you're posing for a photo instead of actually wanting to be close to someone."

"Because I am posing for a photo. Essentially."

"Right, but... here." He sets down his pencil and stands up. "Can I show you?"

"Show me how?"

"The positioning. It'll be easier if I demonstrate."

Before you can fully process what he's suggesting, he's moving toward you, and suddenly he's right there. Close enough that you can smell the citrusy notes of cologne that cling to him.

That has changed, too.

It's yuzu.

"Like this," he says, his voice quieter now. "If you were actually drawn to someone, you wouldn't just lean forward mechanically. You'd angle your whole body toward them."

His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching.

"Can I...?"

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and careful, adjusting your position.

"Turn slightly this way. Yeah, like that. And drop your shoulder a bit—you're holding tension here."

His thumb brushes against your collarbone as he adjusts your posture, and you both freeze.

It's barely contact. Just his thumb against the edge of your shirt, the barest hint of skin-to-skin touch.

But something electric shoots through you at the contact, making your breath catch.

"Sorry," he says quickly, but he doesn't immediately pull away. "I just—the positioning was—"

"It's fine," you manage, even though it's not fine at all.

It's the opposite of fine.

It's your childhood friend's hands on your shoulders and his face inches from yours and your heart doing something complicated in your chest.

"Better," he says, his voice slightly rough. "That's much more natural."

"Hoseok," you say, and his name comes out softer than you intended.

"Yeah?"

"You should probably..." You gesture vaguely at his hands, still resting on your shoulders.

"Right. Yeah. Professional distance."

Then he steps back, running a hand through his hair, and the spell breaks.

"That's the position," he says, settling back into his chair and picking up his pencil with hands that aren't quite steady. "Much better. More believable."

"Good," you say, trying to ignore the way your skin still feels warm where he touched you. "Professional artistic collaboration."

"Exactly. Very professional."

But when he starts sketching again, you notice the way his eyes linger on your face, the way his pencil moves more slowly across the paper.

This is fine, you tell yourself. This is just helping a friend with work.

The fact that your pulse is racing and your skin feels too warm and you keep thinking about the careful way he touched you—that's all completely irrelevant.

Professional.

Artistic.

Totally under control.

"Next pose?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

"Right," he says, flipping to another page. "This one's a bit more... close contact."

And despite everything you just told yourself about staying professional, you find yourself leaning forward slightly, curious to see what he'll ask for next.

Hoseok's couch is, begrudgingly, comfortable.

The next pose requires you to lie on your side, one arm stretched above your head, the other curved around an imaginary partner.

"This is for chapter five," Hoseok explains, flipping through his reference sheets. "Miki's supposed to be in this post-intimacy moment, maintaining some of her feline independence."

You settle onto the couch, adjusting your position until it feels natural. Which is a task in itself, because it's not precisely roomy despite being comfy, and your own disastrous bun (which you ended putting up after hair kept getting in the way) is making it impossible.

The cushions, luckily, are softer than you expected, worn in a way that suggests this is where he actually sleeps most nights rather than bothering with the futon.

"Turn your face toward me slightly," he says, pencil already moving. "Good. Now soften your expression—she's content but still guarded."

The pose is comfortable enough, but holding it for extended periods makes your shoulder ache. You shift slightly, trying to maintain the position while relieving the pressure.

"Sorry," Hoseok says, noticing your discomfort. "This one's taking longer than usual. The lighting is perfect right now, but I know it's not easy to hold."

"It's fine," you lie, because the alternative is admitting that lying on his couch in a pose that suggests post-coital intimacy is doing things to your pulse.

The apartment has settled into its evening rhythm.

The neighbors' TV provides a muffled soundtrack through the thin walls, and the vending machines outside cast a familiar glow through the window. The dining room light is dim enough to bathe you in relaxed shadows.

"Tell me about her," you say, partly to distract yourself from the growing ache in your shoulder, partly because you're genuinely curious. "Miki. What happens to her in the end?"

Hoseok's pencil pauses.

"I'm not sure yet. The editor wants a happy ending, but..."

"But?"

"But I don't know if that's realistic. Can someone like her actually find what she's looking for? Or is she always going to be caught between worlds?"

The tone he uses makes you study his face more carefully.

In the lamplight, his expression is more serious than usual, no hint of playfulness this time.

"What do you think she's looking for?" you ask.

"Someone who sees all of her. The monster and the person. Someone who isn't afraid of what she needs to survive."

His phrase hangs in the space between you, loaded with meaning that neither of you acknowledges directly.

"That doesn't sound impossible," you say quietly.

"Doesn't it?" He looks up from his sketch, meeting your eyes. "When your fundamental nature is to take from people, how do you build something real with them?"

You're both quiet for a moment.

"Maybe," you say finally, "it's not about changing what you are. Maybe it's about finding someone who understands what you need and chooses to give it anyway."

Hoseok stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he looks back down at his sketch, pencil moving with renewed focus.

"Hold that thought," he murmurs. "And that expression. That's exactly what I needed."

You maintain the pose, but your mind is elsewhere, turning over the conversation.

Because the way he talked about Miki felt less like discussing a fictional character and more like... something else entirely.

The evening promptly stretches on.

Hoseok works with unusual intensity, occasionally asking you to adjust your position or expression, but mostly just drawing with the kind of focus you remember from when you were kids and he'd disappear into his art for hours.

You find yourself relaxing into the couch, the warmth of the apartment and the gentle scratch of pencil on paper creating a surprisingly soothing atmosphere.

Your shoulder has stopped aching, or maybe you've just gotten used to it.

"Almost done," Hoseok says, but his voice sounds distant, like he's talking to himself more than to you.

The building settles around you with its familiar creaks and sighs. Someone's cooking curry in another unit, the smell drifting through the walls. A train passes in the distance, its whistle barely audible but somehow comforting.

Your eyelids are getting heavy.

The couch is stupidly more comfortable than your own bed back at the corporate housing, and there's something deeply peaceful about lying here while Hoseok works, the two of you existing in comfortable parallel focus.

"Just a few more minutes," he says softly, and you make a sound of acknowledgment that comes out more like a hum.

The last thing you're aware of is the gentle scratch of his pencil and the warm weight of sleep pulling you under.

You wake to silence and the unfamiliar sensation of something soft covering you.

The apartment is dark except for the glow from the vending machines outside, and it takes you a moment to remember where you are.

Hoseok's couch.

His blanket—the expensive one he splurged on—tucked carefully around your shoulders.

You sit up slowly, disoriented.

The dining room light is off, his art supplies put away.

No sign of Hoseok himself, though you can hear the soft sound of breathing from the direction of his futon.

Your phone shows 3:47 AM.

Shit.

You fell asleep during the pose session, and he just... let you sleep. Covered you with his blanket and went to bed without waking you.

The thoughtfulness of it makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

You fold the blanket carefully, setting it on the couch arm, and gather your things as quietly as possible. Your bag is on the floor by the door where you left it, but when you reach for it, you freeze.

Momo is curled up on top of it, a tiny ball of fur using your bag as a makeshift bed. She's never done that before—usually she stays in her cage or on Hoseok's shoulder, treating you with polite indifference at best.

But now she's chosen your bag as her sleeping spot, and when you gently move to pick up the strap, she doesn't scurry away. Instead, she opens one sleepy eye, looks at you with what might be recognition, and settles back into her nap.

You carefully extract your bag from under her, and she simply relocates to the floor, still unbothered by your presence.

It's a silly thing, really… But the way she chose specifically to sleep on that spot makes you absurdly feel like you're being accepted into the ecosystem of this tiny apartment.

Chosen.

You slip out as quietly as possible, closing the door with barely a click.

The hallway is empty, lit only by the emergency exit sign at the far end.

Your footsteps echo softly on the worn carpet as you make your way to the elevator, which thankfully decides to work at this ungodly hour.

Outside, Osaka at 4 AM is a different city entirely. The streets are mostly empty except for the occasional taxi and the dedicated salarymen stumbling home from late nights. The air is cooler, carrying the scent of rain that might come later.

You walk the seventeen minutes back to your corporate housing, your mind turning over the evening.

The conversation about Miki. The way Hoseok looked at you when you talked about finding someone who understands what you need. The careful way he'd covered you with his blanket.

And Momo, sleeping on your bag like you belong there.

By the time you reach your building, the sky is starting to lighten at the edges, that pale pre-dawn glow that means morning isn't far away.

You have three hours before you need to be awake for work, but you know you won't sleep.

Instead, you lie in your narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the weight of his blanket and the sound of his pencil on paper and the way he'd talked about Miki like she was a real person with real problems.

Like she was someone worth understanding.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:23 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:24 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚋𝚞𝚝-𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You stare at the messages, something fluttering in your chest that you refuse to name.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:26 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:27 AM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:28 AM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:29 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

You reach up automatically, realizing your hair is loose around your shoulders. You'd had it up for the pose session, but it must have come undone while you slept.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:30 AM): 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:31 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:32 AM): 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙾𝚝𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜.

You set your phone aside and close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

Instead, you lie there thinking about the way he'd said 'sweet dreams' like he meant it, and the careful way he'd tucked the blanket around your shoulders, and the fact that Momo had chosen your bag as her sleeping spot.

Small things. Tiny gestures that probably don't mean anything.

But they feel like something anyway.

goal: 200 notes.

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[hopechip]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 03

˗ˏˋmiki ˎˊ˗

Butterflies are stupid and his couch is stupidly comfy—so much so, sleeping there feels more like home than anything you've experienced in five years of careful independence.

next | index

—chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: instant ramen as currency, professional artistic collaboration that feels decidedly unprofessional, Hoseok in glasses (devastating), meet Miki the cat-succubus, vulnerable positioning and careful touches, falling asleep during work sessions, Momo's official seal of approval, and the dangerous comfort of being understood by someone who used to know all your secrets.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

It's finally here!!! I know, I know. This one took a minute. I sat with this chapter longer than usual because I really wanted to get the tone right—specifically the dialogue. There's this particular ache I was trying to translate, that bittersweet flavor of a reunion that almost feels like comfort, but doesn't quite fit right anymore because too much time has passed and neither of you are the same.

I wanted you to feel that dissonance she's sitting in—the "yes, but no, but… yes?"—that weirdly intimate kind of safety that feels dangerous when nothing's felt safe for the last five years. You know that unsettling familiarity when someone you used to know just was part of your life by default, and now you're seeing them again… changed? Sharper, older, realer. And suddenly you catch yourself wondering, if we'd met now instead of then, would things be different? Would romantic interest be on the table?

And you don't even realize you're mourning a version of you that never got to find out. That timeline that's already gone. She's not thinking that outright—narration never says it, because limited POV—but the vibe is there. She feels it. You feel it. I feel it. We are all just crawling around inside that ambiguous grief together.

Honestly, I think I did a good job (if I do say so myself) at making it uncomfortable in a way that forces you to just… sit with it. Am I a masochist for liking that? Probably. But also, this is literally my 10th slowburn. You're still here. Who's the real masochist. Be honest.

Unless this is your first story of mine—in that case, welcome. Come in. Sit down. The train to slow burn hell has already departed, and you're in excellent company. Ask for the peanut cookies. They slap. (Unless you have an allergy, in which case please do not. Or do. But also, I'm legally absolved of any consequences because you clicked past the author's notes and content warnings, which is basically a pact of zero liability. Sorry bestie.)

Anyway. Once again I've derailed. Shocking absolutely no one.

Also? That whole conversation about Miki? The ancient ones know exactly what I'm doing. You've seen the blueprint before. For the new readers: nothing in Kiki Nation exists without intention. Let that marinate. Digest it. There will be a pop quiz in your feelings later.

And finally… Momo. Sleeping on Y/N’s bag? That moment of being chosen by something small and vulnerable that doesn’t trust easily? Yeah, sit with that too. Sometimes acceptance comes from the most unexpected sources, and sometimes the smallest gestures carry the most weight.

That's all for now. See you in the next one. May Osaka's neon lights guide you forward. Mwah.

—read on

wattpad

ao3

The ramen packets are sweating in your hands.

You're standing outside Hoseok's door like some kind of convenience store offering sacrifice, holding two packs of instant noodles because showing up empty-handed felt weird but bringing actual food felt too much like you were trying.

The ramen splits the difference perfectly—practical, cheap, and just thoughtful enough to avoid looking like you care.

Which you don't.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift the noodle packets to check the screen. The message thread from today stares back at you, a digital paper trail of your questionable decision-making skills.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:23 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:47 AM): 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:48 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜? 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:15 PM): 𝟽. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (2:16 PM): 𝙼𝚎? 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍? 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:20 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 PM): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛? 𝙾𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:35 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:36 PM): 𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙳! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠! ＼(^o^)／

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:37 PM): 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:38 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜! 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:39 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:40 PM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎! 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:42 PM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You'd been replying between peptide copy edits, because apparently writing compelling marketing copy about anti-aging molecules is exactly as mind-numbing as it sounds. Davidson had spent the entire afternoon explaining the importance of 'consumer-centric biochemical messaging,' which is just corporate speak for 'make science sound sexy without actually explaining anything.'

At least you'd made a friend today. Sort of.

Yuki from accounting had appeared at your desk around lunch with a cup of coffee and a conspiratorial whisper about how Davidson once spent forty minutes in a meeting discussing the 'synergistic potential of collaborative ideation platforms'—which turned out to mean 'maybe we should use email more.'

She'd lingered by your cubicle, making dry observations about the office dynamics while you pretended to work on peptide enthusiasm, and for twenty minutes you'd felt almost normal. Like maybe you could actually exist in this corporate hellscape without losing your entire mind.

But now you're here, standing in front of Hoseok's door with instant ramen and a stomach full of butterflies that you're aggressively ignoring.

Because butterflies are stupid.

And this is just… helping an old friend with a work project. Very professional. Very normal. The kind of thing adults do for each other without making it weird.

Except your hands are definitely shaking slightly, and you can't decide if it's nerves or caffeine withdrawal, and the butterflies are doing some kind of interpretive dance routine in your chest that feels distinctly non-professional.

You shift the ramen packets again, plastic crinkling in the hallway silence.

Someone's cooking curry behind one of the other doors, and the building's ancient elevator is making that grinding sound that suggests it's one mechanical failure away from trapping someone between floors.

Normal Tuesday evening. Normal friend visit. Normal absolutely-not-a-big-deal modeling session for your childhood friend's pornographic manga.

God, when you put it like that, it sounds even worse.

You raise your hand to knock, then pause.

Because once you knock, this becomes real.

Once that door opens, you're officially Y/N-who-poses-for-hentai instead of Y/N-who-just-moved-to-Osaka-and-happened-to-reconnect-with-an-old-friend.

The ramen packets are getting warm from your death grip.

Through the thin walls, you can hear movement inside the apartment—footsteps, something being dragged across the floor, what sounds like Hoseok talking to himself in rapid Japanese.

Probably setting up his 'very professional workspace' with the same level of organization he applied to everything else in his life, which is to say, chaotic good at best.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (6:58 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛? 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎.

Shit.

You knock before you can change your mind, three sharp raps that echo through the narrow corridor.

The movement inside stops immediately, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps and what might be Hoseok tripping over something.

"Coming!" his voice calls through the door, muffled but distinctly flustered. "Just a second! Don't leave!"

The 'don't leave' hits differently than it should, like he's genuinely worried you might bolt.

Which is ridiculous, because you're here, aren't you? Standing in his hallway with convenience store dinner like some kind of domestic goddess of questionable life choices.

Although, to be fair, bolting is exactly what every rational part of your brain is suggesting right now.

The door opens, and there's Hoseok—hair messy like he's been running his hands through it, wearing paint-splattered sweatpants and a washed out t-shirt that's seen better days, grinning at you like you're the best thing that's happened to him all week.

"Capy!" He's slightly out of breath, eyes bright with what looks like genuine excitement. "You actually came!"

"I said I would." You hold up the ramen packets like evidence. "I brought dinner."

His grin somehow gets wider. "She brings food! She stays! She might actually be the perfect woman!"

"Don't push it, Ott."

But the butterflies are doing something complicated in your chest at the way he's looking at you—like you showing up with instant ramen is somehow the most wonderful surprise in the world.

Which is ridiculous.

But also kind of nice.

Which is dangerous.

"Well," you say, because standing in the hallway analyzing your feelings about his expression is definitely not what you're here for, "are you going to let me in, or should I just model in the corridor for your neighbors' entertainment?"

"Right, yeah, come in." He steps back, gesturing you inside with unnecessary flourish. "Welcome to my professional artistic studio."

You step past him and immediately forget how to function like a normal human being.

Because apparently, while you weren't paying attention yesterday through your alcohol-induced haze, Jung Hoseok went and got... attractive.

Not that he wasn't before. He was always decent-looking in that gangly, hyperactive way that made middle school girls giggle and write his name in their notebooks.

But this is different. This is grown-up attractive. This is the kind of attractive that makes you forget why you came here in the first place.

The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, soft and worn in a way that suggests they're his favorite. His t-shirt is faded black with some band logo you can't quite make out—Radiohead, maybe?—stretched across shoulders that are definitely broader than they were at seventeen.

But it's his hair that really gets you.

You hadn't noticed yesterday. Too focused on the shock of seeing him again, the surreal experience of Jung Hoseok existing in your new reality.

But now, standing in the warm light of his apartment, you can see that he's grown it out. It curls slightly at the nape of his neck, longer than he ever wore it in school, and it's not the black you remember.

It's brown now. Cinnamon, almost. Like he's been spending time in the sun, or dyeing it, or just letting time change him in ways you weren't around to witness.

And he's wearing glasses.

Black, rectangular frames that perch on his nose like they belong there, even though you're pretty sure they didn't exist five years ago. They should look ridiculous. Sixteen-year-old you would have laughed yourself sick seeing Jung Hoseok in glasses. Called him a nerd, stolen them off his face, made some comment about four-eyes.

Instead, you're staring.

Like an idiot.

Because somehow, impossibly, they suit him. Frame his face in a way that makes his eyes look wider, more serious. Less like the hyper kid who used to climb trees to impress you and more like...

Well. Like a man who draws pornographic manga for a living and just invited you over to pose for him.

Fuck.

"You're staring at my face," he says, and there's amusement in his voice that makes heat creep up your neck.

"I'm staring at your glasses," you correct, because admitting you were staring at his face feels too much like admitting something else entirely. "When did you get glasses?"

"Oh, these?" He reaches up and pulls them off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "About two years ago. Turns out staring at tiny manga panels for twelve hours a day isn't great for your eyesight. Who knew?"

"You used to brag about having perfect vision."

"I used to brag about a lot of things." He squints at you without the glasses, and the gesture is so familiar—so purely Hoseok—that something twists in your chest. "Remember when I told everyone I could see individual leaves on trees from like a kilometer away?"

"You said you had hawk eyes. You made it your entire personality for like three months."

"Hey, I did have exceptional distance vision! I could spot your mom's car from six blocks away!"

"Because it was bright yellow and shaped like a brick. A blind person could have spotted it."

He laughs, that same too-loud sound that used to embarrass you in public. "Okay, fair point. But still. Peak visual acuity, right there."

"And now you can't see your own hand without assistance."

"I can see my hand just fine, thank you very much. It's the small print that gets me. And computer screens. And basically anything requiring detail work, which is unfortunately my entire career."

He slides the glasses back on, and you have to look away because the simple action shouldn't be that... noticeable.

"So," you say, holding up the ramen packets like a shield between you and whatever the hell your brain is doing right now. "Dinner?"

"Right. Food. Very important." But he doesn't move toward the kitchen immediately.

Instead, he stands there for a moment, looking at you looking at anything except him, and the silence stretches just long enough to become noticeable.

You both blink.

The butterflies in your stomach decide this is an excellent time to reminder you of their existence, doing some kind of acrobatic routine that makes you want to press a hand to your chest and tell them to calm the fuck down.

You look away first, studying the manga stacks like they're the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.

He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck—a gesture so achingly familiar that you feel something crack in your chest.

"Kitchen's this way," he says, nodding toward the narrow galley. "Hope you're hungry. I may have accidentally forgotten to eat today. Time got away from me."

"Accidentally forgot to eat? How do you accidentally forget to eat?"

"Very easily when you're trying to perfect the angle of someone's... uh, shoulder blade. For artistic accuracy."

You trail behind him, checking the way he moves through his space—comfortable, loose-limbed, like he belongs here in a way you've never belonged anywhere.

"Shoulder blade," you repeat. "Sure."

"Hey, shoulder blades are surprisingly difficult to draw! There's all these muscles and the way the light hits them and—" He stops, glancing at you sideways. "You're going to mock me for caring about anatomical accuracy, aren't you?"

"I'm going to mock you for a lot of things, but anatomical accuracy isn't one of them."

"Wow. Actual respect for my craft. I'm touched, Capy. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"So," he says, nodding toward the kitchenette. "Hungry? We could eat first, before… You know. The thing."

"The thing?"

"The professional artistic collaboration thing."

"Just call it what it is, Ott."

"Fine. Before you pose for my dirty manga."

"Better."

You follow him to the kitchen area, which is basically just a counter with a hot plate and a sink the size of a soup bowl. He's already clearing space, moving art supplies and what appears to be a collection of empty coffee cans.

"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting you for dinner when I set up my sophisticated meal preparation station this morning."

"It's instant ramen, not a five-course meal."

"Still counts as hosting. I'm being very domestic right now. Very adult."

You hand him the ramen packets, trying not to notice how his fingers brush yours when he takes them.

"If this is your idea of domestic, I'm concerned for your future."

"Hey, I'll have you know I've kept myself alive for five years. That's basically domestic mastery."

"The bar is on the floor."

"And I'm stepping over it with grace and style."

He fills a pot with water, and you lean against the counter, watching him move around the tiny space.

It's weirdly… hypnotic, the way he navigates the cramped kitchen, the familiarity of someone who's learned to live alone.

He glances at you over his shoulder.

"Do they look stupid? Be honest."

You frown. "The glasses?"

He nods.

"They look..." You pause, because good is not a safe word here. "They look like glasses. On your face. Very glass-like."

"Wow, Capy. Such poetry. I'm moved."

"You asked for honesty, not flattery."

"I asked for honesty. You gave me evasion."

He's not wrong, but you're not about to admit that the glasses actually work for him. That they make him look more... mature? Professional? Like he could be someone who does important things instead of drawing cartoon people having sex.

The water starts boiling, and he drops in the ramen noodles in the pot like he's performing surgery. You watch him tear open the flavor packets, stirring everything together with a fork because apparently he doesn't own proper cooking utensils.

"Gourmet dining at its finest," he announces, dividing the noodles between two bowls. "Five-star presentation."

"Michelin would be impressed."

"They should be. This is my signature dish."

You take your bowl and follow him to the low table, settling on the floor cushions he's apparently arranged for the occasion.

The ramen is exactly what you expected—salty, artificial, perfectly mediocre.

But there's something weirdly nice about eating it here, in his space, while he makes exaggerated sounds of appreciation like it's the best meal he's ever had.

"So," he says between bites, "how was day two of corporate hell?"

"Day two of wondering why I ever thought marketing was a good career choice. I spent three hours writing copy about peptides, and I still don't know what a peptide is."

"Sounds very important and scientific."

"It's anti-aging cream. Apparently peptides make your skin young forever, but only if you describe them with enough enthusiasm."

"And do you have enthusiasm for age-defying peptides?"

"I have enthusiasm for paychecks. The peptides can go fuck themselves."

He laughs, nearly choking on his ramen.

"There's the Capy I remember. Always so passionate about skincare."

"I made a friend, though. Yuki from accounting. She seems normal, which is a minor miracle in that place."

"Normal how?"

"Normal like she also thinks Davidson is an idiot and doesn't pretend otherwise. Normal like she brought me coffee without making it weird. Normal like she might actually be tolerable to eat lunch with."

"Look at you, making friends. Very socially adjusted."

"Don't make it sound like an achievement. I'm a perfectly normal, likeable person."

"You're many things, Capy. Likeable is... debatable."

You kick him under the table. "Rude."

"Accurate."

"I'm charming and delightful."

"You're sharp and terrifying. It's not the same thing."

"Sharp and terrifying are excellent qualities."

"For intimidating coworkers and small children, maybe."

"And for keeping annoying childhood friends in line."

"Is that what you're doing? Keeping me in line?"

The question comes out lighter than it should, but there's something underneath it that makes you look up from your ramen.

He's watching you with that expression again—the one that makes your stomach do complicated things.

"Someone has to," you say, aiming for casual and missing by miles.

"Lucky me."

The way he says it makes the air in the tiny apartment feel thicker somehow. Like you're both suddenly aware that you're sitting on his floor, eating instant noodles, about to do something that definitely falls outside the bounds of normal friendship.

You focus very hard on your ramen.

"This is good," you lie, because the silence is getting dangerous.

"It's terrible," he corrects. "But it's cheap and it fills the void."

"Poetic."

"I'm a man of many talents."

"Right. Speaking of which." You set down your chopsticks, trying to inject some professionalism into your voice. "How exactly does this... process work? The reference thing?"

He blinks, like he forgot why you're actually here.

"Oh. Right. The work thing."

"The work thing."

"Very professional work thing."

"Hoseok."

"Right." He runs a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching. "Basically, I just need to see how a real person would naturally position themselves in certain... scenarios. For accuracy."

"Scenarios."

"Character scenarios. Plot-relevant positioning."

"Uh-huh."

"Nothing weird! Just... you know. Natural body language. Realistic expressions. How someone would actually move in—"

"I get it, Ott. You need reference photos. You don't have to make it sound like a nature documentary."

"Reference sketches, actually. I don't do photos."

"Why not?"

He looks genuinely surprised by the question.

"Because sketching is more... interpretive? I can capture the feeling of a pose, not just the literal anatomy. Photos are too static."

"Huh."

"What huh?"

"Nothing. Just... that actually makes sense. From an artistic perspective."

"You sound shocked that I have artistic perspectives."

"I'm shocked that you explained it without making a single inappropriate joke."

"The night is young, Capy. Give me time."

And there it is—the grin that makes your chest do that annoying warm thing. The same grin that used to convince you to climb trees you couldn't get down from and steal candy from corner stores and lie to your parents about where you'd been all afternoon.

Dangerous then.

Dangerous now.

"So," you say, standing up and collecting the empty bowls before this gets any more domestic than it already has. "Show me this very professional workspace of yours."

He scrambles to his feet, glasses sliding down his nose before he catches them.

"Right. Work. Professional work space. Very legitimate artistic endeavor."

"It better be, Ott. Because if this is some elaborate scheme to get me naked, I'm going to murder you with your own art supplies."

"Noted," he says, grinning. "Death by paintbrush. Very avant-garde."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You follow him toward the work area (which is his bedroom), trying to ignore the way your pulse is picking up speed.

This is fine. This is normal. This is just you helping an old friend with a professional project.

Except nothing about this feels professional.

His bedroom is... not what you had expected.

You had been bracing yourself for some kind of stereotypical artist's den—paint-splattered walls, canvases stacked everywhere, maybe some pretentious black-and-white photographs of naked women he'd claim were 'artistic studies.'

Instead, it's surprisingly organized. Clean, even.

The bed is made, which is more than you can say for your own apartment most days. There's a proper desk setup against the window—not just a folding table, but an actual wooden desk with multiple drawers and a lamp that looks like it cost more than your monthly train pass. Art supplies are arranged in neat containers, pencils sorted by type, brushes standing at attention in glass jars.

"Wow," you say, because the alternative is standing there gaping like an idiot. "You actually clean."

"I'm a professional, Capy. I told you." He's moving around the space with that same easy familiarity, clearing some sketches off a chair. "Can't work in chaos. Well, I can, but it's not optimal for the creative process."

"The creative process," you repeat, settling into the chair he's indicated. "Right."

The desk is positioned so you're facing away from the bed, which is probably intentional. Less distracting that way. More professional.

Except now you can't stop thinking about the fact that his bed is right behind you, and that's somehow worse than if you could see it.

"So," he says, pulling out a thick portfolio from one of the desk drawers. "Meet Miki."

He opens the portfolio, and you're immediately confronted with...

Well. A lot of things at once.

The first thing you notice is that the art is actually good. Not just technically competent—though it clearly is—but genuinely engaging. The character designs are distinctive, the linework confident, the compositions dynamic in a way that draws your eye across the page.

The second thing you notice is that the main character is definitely not human.

"She has cat ears," you observe, because stating the obvious seems safer than processing the rest of what you're seeing.

"And a tail," Hoseok adds helpfully, flipping to a character sheet that shows the full design. "She's half-succubus, half-nekomata. It's a whole thing."

"A succubus." You lean closer, studying the character design. "Like, a sex demon."

"Technically, yes. But she's more complicated than that."

The character—Miki—is drawn in various poses and expressions across the page. She's definitely designed to be attractive, but there's something more nuanced in her face than typical anime girl proportions. Her eyes have an almost wolfish quality, but also a softness that makes you want to keep looking.

"She feeds on sexual energy," Hoseok continues, settling into his own chair and pulling out what looks like a script. "But unlike traditional succubi, she forms emotional attachments to her... food sources."

"Food sources."

"The people she feeds from. Usually it's supposed to be impersonal—take what you need, move on. But Miki keeps getting attached, which creates problems."

You flip through more pages, getting a sense of the story.

The art style is more sophisticated than you'd expected from hentai manga, with detailed backgrounds and character expressions that actually convey emotion beyond basic lust.

"So what's the conflict?" you ask, because despite yourself, you're curious. "She's a sex demon who catches feelings?"

"Basically. She's trying to figure out if she can have genuine relationships when her fundamental nature is predatory. Can someone love you if they know you literally need to feed off them to survive?"

There's something in his voice when he says it that makes you glance up at him. He's focused on organizing his drawing supplies, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

"Heavy themes for porn," you comment.

"It's not just porn," he says, and there's a defensive edge to his tone. "I mean, yes, there are explicit scenes, but they serve the story. The sex isn't just gratuitous—it's integral to her character development."

"Okay, okay. I didn't mean to insult your artistic integrity."

"You did, but I'll forgive you." He grins, but it's a little strained. "The publisher likes it because it has crossover appeal. Female readers connect with the emotional stuff, male readers get the explicit content. Everyone wins."

You turn back to the portfolio, studying a page that shows Miki in what's clearly a more intimate scene. The positioning is definitely explicit, but there's something almost tender in the way it's drawn. The focus isn't just on the physical act, but on the characters' faces, their emotional connection.

"She's actually... kind of relatable," you admit reluctantly.

"Yeah?" His voice perks up with genuine interest. "How so?"

"The whole thing about being afraid someone will reject you if they see who you really are. That's pretty universal, isn't it?"

"That's exactly what I was going for." He leans forward, animated now. "She puts on this confident, seductive front, but underneath she's terrified that her true nature makes her unlovable. So she keeps people at a distance, even when she craves connection."

You study another page, this one showing Miki alone in what looks like a small apartment, curled up on a couch with an expression of profound loneliness.

"The cat thing," you say. "Why cats specifically?"

"Nekomata are traditionally shapeshifters in Japanese folklore. They can appear human but retain feline characteristics. It fits with her dual nature—she's caught between two worlds, never fully belonging to either."

"And the succubus part?"

"Succubi are also shapeshifters, traditionally. They appear as whatever their target desires most. So Miki is constantly shifting, constantly adapting to what others want from her, but she's lost track of who she actually is."

You flip to another page, this one showing Miki moving her hands in what you guess is a… cat manner? If that makes sense?

"So where do I come in?" you ask. "What kind of reference do you need?"

Hoseok clears his throat, suddenly looking less confident. "Well, the thing is... I'm good at drawing male anatomy. I understand how men move, how they express emotion physically; and I so happen to have a dick—"

"I'll murder you."

"—but female anatomy, especially in... intimate situations... I struggle with making it look natural."

You narrow your eyes now. "Natural how?"

"Like, how would a real woman actually position herself in this scenario? What would her facial expression be? How would her body language change based on her emotional state?" He's talking faster now, the words tumbling out. "I can copy from photo references, but they're all posed, artificial. I need to see how someone would naturally move, respond, react."

You look back at the manga pages, blinking.

"You want me to pose like her. In these situations."

"Just for reference! Nothing weird, just... showing me how the anatomy would work, how the positioning would look realistic."

"Hoseok." You set the portfolio down, fixing him with a stare. "These are sex scenes."

"Well, yes, but—"

"You're asking me to pose for sex scenes."

"For reference! For art! It's completely professional!"

"Professional sex scene posing."

"It's not—okay, when you put it like that, it sounds weird, but it's really not. It's just figure drawing with more specific requirements."

You lean back in the chair, processing this.

On one hand, it's clearly ridiculous.

On the other hand, the art is genuinely good, and you can see how having realistic references would improve it.

And on the third hand—the hand you're trying very hard to ignore—there's something about the idea that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with artistic appreciation.

"What exactly would this involve?"

"Basic positioning, mostly. Like, if Miki is supposed to be in this pose," he points to a page showing the character in a suggestive but not explicitly sexual position, "I need to see how a real person would naturally hold themselves. Where the weight would distribute, how the muscles would engage, what the facial expression would actually look like."

"And the more... explicit stuff?"

He shifts in his chair, suddenly very interested in his pencil collection.

"We'd work up to that. Start with basic poses, see how it goes. Nothing you're not comfortable with."

"Comfortable with," you repeat. "Right."

There's a moment of silence where you both pretend to study the manga pages, but you're actually trying to figure out if this is the stupidest idea you've ever considered or just the most complicated.

"The character," you say finally. "Miki. She's supposed to be seductive, right? Confident?"

"On the surface, yeah. But under it all, she's vulnerable. Scared. She uses the seduction as a defense mechanism."

"Sounds familiar."

"Does it?"

You ignore the question, flipping through more pages.

The story is actually engaging, despite—or maybe because of—the explicit content. Miki's internal struggle feels genuine, her relationships complex and emotionally fraught.

"How long have you been working on this?" you ask.

"About eight months. It's supposed to be a twelve-chapter series, and I'm on chapter six now. The deadline pressure is getting intense."

"And you've been struggling with the female anatomy this whole time?"

"Getting worse, actually. The later chapters are more... intimate. More complex emotionally and physically. I keep getting stuck on scenes that should be straightforward."

You study a page showing Miki in what's clearly a moment of distress.

"She's not what I expected," you admit.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Generic anime girl with cat ears? Typical male fantasy bullshit?"

"And instead?"

"Instead she's..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "She's actually a character. With depth. With real problems that aren't just 'oh no, I'm so sexy and everyone wants me.'"

"That was the point. I wanted to create something that elevated the genre, you know? Something that used the explicit content to explore genuine emotional themes."

"And you think I can help with that?"

"I think you understand her," he says quietly. "The way you described her just now—you get what I'm trying to do with the character. That's what I need for the reference work. Not just someone who can hold a pose, but someone who understands the emotional context."

You look at him, really look at him, and see something you hadn't noticed before.

This isn't just a job for him.

This is work he cares about, work he's proud of, even if he's embarrassed by the genre.

"Okay," you say, before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Okay?"

"I'll do it. The reference thing. But we start small, and if it gets weird, I'm out."

His face lights up with genuine relief and excitement. "Really? You'll actually do it?"

"Don't make me regret it, Ott."

"I won't. I promise. This is going to be so helpful, you have no idea."

"Yeah, well." You close the portfolio, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "Just remember—I'm doing this for art. For your artistic integrity and professional development."

"Absolutely. Completely professional."

"Good."

"Good."

You both sit there for a moment, the weight of what you've just agreed to settling between you.

"So," you say finally. "Where do we start?"

"Basic expressions first," Hoseok says, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil from his organized collection. "Just... be yourself, but think about Miki's emotional state."

"Be myself while thinking about a cat-succubus. Sure. That's totally normal."

"You know what I mean." He settles back in his chair, pencil poised. "She's guarded, right? Like she's always ready to run or fight. But she's also trying to appear confident."

You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of your own face.

"How exactly does one look like a confident cat-succubus?"

"Just... think about how you look when you're trying to convince someone you don't care about something you actually care about a lot."

The accuracy of that hits uncomfortably close to home. "Rude."

"Accurate," he corrects, already sketching. "Tilt your chin up slightly. Yeah, like that. But soften your eyes a bit—she's not actually angry, just defensive."

You adjust your expression, trying to find the balance between aloof and vulnerable.

It's weird, being studied this intently. His eyes keep flicking between your face and the paper, analyzing, cataloging.

"Good," he murmurs, pencil moving across the page. "That's exactly the look I was going for. Like you're daring someone to get too close while secretly hoping they will."

"I don't look like that."

"You absolutely look like that. You've been looking like that since we were sixteen."

"I have not—"

"Don't move," he says quickly. "That expression right there—that's perfect. The little frown, the way your eyebrows pull together. She does that when someone calls her out on something true."

You hold the pose, trying not to think about what it means that he can read your expressions so easily.

That he's been reading them for years, apparently.

"Okay, now hands," he says after a few minutes of sketching. "Miki's very tactile, but she's also careful about touch. Like she wants to reach out but stops herself."

"How do I pose that?"

"Lift your hand like you're going to touch something, but pull back at the last second. Like you changed your mind."

You raise your hand, extending it toward an imaginary object, then curl your fingers back slightly.

"More hesitation," he says, not looking up from his sketch. "Like you want something but you're afraid of what will happen if you actually take it."

You adjust the position, letting more uncertainty creep into the gesture.

"Perfect. Hold that."

The pencil scratches against paper, and you find yourself watching his face as he works.

His expression is completely focused, serious in a way you rarely see. Behind the glasses, his eyes are intent, studying the curve of your fingers, the angle of your wrist.

"You're actually good at this," you say quietly.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm just... I don't know. Seeing you work is different than I expected."

"Different how?"

"More professional. More... real."

He glances up at you, something unreadable in his expression.

"What did you think it would be like?"

"I don't know. Messier? More chaotic? You were always so scattered in school."

"I grew up, Capy. People change."

There's something in his tone that makes you study his face more carefully.

"Do they?"

"Some things change. Some things don't."

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

"Okay," he says finally, setting down the pencil. "That's good for basic expressions. Now I need to see how you'd naturally position yourself in some of the more... interactive scenes."

"Interactive."

"Like, if Miki is supposed to be sitting close to someone, or reaching for them, or..." He trails off, flipping through the portfolio to find a specific page. "Here. This scene. She's supposed to be leaning toward her partner, but not quite touching. Intimate but hesitant."

You study the page. It's not explicitly sexual, but it's definitely suggestive—Miki positioned close to a male character, her body language indicating desire but also uncertainty.

"So I just... lean forward?"

"Yeah, but naturally. Like you would if you were actually in that situation."

You shift in your chair, leaning toward where an imaginary partner would be sitting.

It feels weird and stupid.

"It looks forced," Hoseok says, frowning at his sketch. "Like you're posing for a photo instead of actually wanting to be close to someone."

"Because I am posing for a photo. Essentially."

"Right, but... here." He sets down his pencil and stands up. "Can I show you?"

"Show me how?"

"The positioning. It'll be easier if I demonstrate."

Before you can fully process what he's suggesting, he's moving toward you, and suddenly he's right there. Close enough that you can smell the citrusy notes of cologne that cling to him.

That has changed, too.

It's yuzu.

"Like this," he says, his voice quieter now. "If you were actually drawn to someone, you wouldn't just lean forward mechanically. You'd angle your whole body toward them."

His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching.

"Can I...?"

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and careful, adjusting your position.

"Turn slightly this way. Yeah, like that. And drop your shoulder a bit—you're holding tension here."

His thumb brushes against your collarbone as he adjusts your posture, and you both freeze.

It's barely contact. Just his thumb against the edge of your shirt, the barest hint of skin-to-skin touch.

But something electric shoots through you at the contact, making your breath catch.

"Sorry," he says quickly, but he doesn't immediately pull away. "I just—the positioning was—"

"It's fine," you manage, even though it's not fine at all.

It's the opposite of fine.

It's your childhood friend's hands on your shoulders and his face inches from yours and your heart doing something complicated in your chest.

"Better," he says, his voice slightly rough. "That's much more natural."

"Hoseok," you say, and his name comes out softer than you intended.

"Yeah?"

"You should probably..." You gesture vaguely at his hands, still resting on your shoulders.

"Right. Yeah. Professional distance."

Then he steps back, running a hand through his hair, and the spell breaks.

"That's the position," he says, settling back into his chair and picking up his pencil with hands that aren't quite steady. "Much better. More believable."

"Good," you say, trying to ignore the way your skin still feels warm where he touched you. "Professional artistic collaboration."

"Exactly. Very professional."

But when he starts sketching again, you notice the way his eyes linger on your face, the way his pencil moves more slowly across the paper.

This is fine, you tell yourself. This is just helping a friend with work.

The fact that your pulse is racing and your skin feels too warm and you keep thinking about the careful way he touched you—that's all completely irrelevant.

Professional.

Artistic.

Totally under control.

"Next pose?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

"Right," he says, flipping to another page. "This one's a bit more... close contact."

And despite everything you just told yourself about staying professional, you find yourself leaning forward slightly, curious to see what he'll ask for next.

Hoseok's couch is, begrudgingly, comfortable.

The next pose requires you to lie on your side, one arm stretched above your head, the other curved around an imaginary partner.

"This is for chapter five," Hoseok explains, flipping through his reference sheets. "Miki's supposed to be in this post-intimacy moment, maintaining some of her feline independence."

You settle onto the couch, adjusting your position until it feels natural. Which is a task in itself, because it's not precisely roomy despite being comfy, and your own disastrous bun (which you ended putting up after hair kept getting in the way) is making it impossible.

The cushions, luckily, are softer than you expected, worn in a way that suggests this is where he actually sleeps most nights rather than bothering with the futon.

"Turn your face toward me slightly," he says, pencil already moving. "Good. Now soften your expression—she's content but still guarded."

The pose is comfortable enough, but holding it for extended periods makes your shoulder ache. You shift slightly, trying to maintain the position while relieving the pressure.

"Sorry," Hoseok says, noticing your discomfort. "This one's taking longer than usual. The lighting is perfect right now, but I know it's not easy to hold."

"It's fine," you lie, because the alternative is admitting that lying on his couch in a pose that suggests post-coital intimacy is doing things to your pulse.

The apartment has settled into its evening rhythm.

The neighbors' TV provides a muffled soundtrack through the thin walls, and the vending machines outside cast a familiar glow through the window. The dining room light is dim enough to bathe you in relaxed shadows.

"Tell me about her," you say, partly to distract yourself from the growing ache in your shoulder, partly because you're genuinely curious. "Miki. What happens to her in the end?"

Hoseok's pencil pauses.

"I'm not sure yet. The editor wants a happy ending, but..."

"But?"

"But I don't know if that's realistic. Can someone like her actually find what she's looking for? Or is she always going to be caught between worlds?"

The tone he uses makes you study his face more carefully.

In the lamplight, his expression is more serious than usual, no hint of playfulness this time.

"What do you think she's looking for?" you ask.

"Someone who sees all of her. The monster and the person. Someone who isn't afraid of what she needs to survive."

His phrase hangs in the space between you, loaded with meaning that neither of you acknowledges directly.

"That doesn't sound impossible," you say quietly.

"Doesn't it?" He looks up from his sketch, meeting your eyes. "When your fundamental nature is to take from people, how do you build something real with them?"

You're both quiet for a moment.

"Maybe," you say finally, "it's not about changing what you are. Maybe it's about finding someone who understands what you need and chooses to give it anyway."

Hoseok stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he looks back down at his sketch, pencil moving with renewed focus.

"Hold that thought," he murmurs. "And that expression. That's exactly what I needed."

You maintain the pose, but your mind is elsewhere, turning over the conversation.

Because the way he talked about Miki felt less like discussing a fictional character and more like... something else entirely.

The evening promptly stretches on.

Hoseok works with unusual intensity, occasionally asking you to adjust your position or expression, but mostly just drawing with the kind of focus you remember from when you were kids and he'd disappear into his art for hours.

You find yourself relaxing into the couch, the warmth of the apartment and the gentle scratch of pencil on paper creating a surprisingly soothing atmosphere.

Your shoulder has stopped aching, or maybe you've just gotten used to it.

"Almost done," Hoseok says, but his voice sounds distant, like he's talking to himself more than to you.

The building settles around you with its familiar creaks and sighs. Someone's cooking curry in another unit, the smell drifting through the walls. A train passes in the distance, its whistle barely audible but somehow comforting.

Your eyelids are getting heavy.

The couch is stupidly more comfortable than your own bed back at the corporate housing, and there's something deeply peaceful about lying here while Hoseok works, the two of you existing in comfortable parallel focus.

"Just a few more minutes," he says softly, and you make a sound of acknowledgment that comes out more like a hum.

The last thing you're aware of is the gentle scratch of his pencil and the warm weight of sleep pulling you under.

You wake to silence and the unfamiliar sensation of something soft covering you.

The apartment is dark except for the glow from the vending machines outside, and it takes you a moment to remember where you are.

Hoseok's couch.

His blanket—the expensive one he splurged on—tucked carefully around your shoulders.

You sit up slowly, disoriented.

The dining room light is off, his art supplies put away.

No sign of Hoseok himself, though you can hear the soft sound of breathing from the direction of his futon.

Your phone shows 3:47 AM.

Shit.

You fell asleep during the pose session, and he just... let you sleep. Covered you with his blanket and went to bed without waking you.

The thoughtfulness of it makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

You fold the blanket carefully, setting it on the couch arm, and gather your things as quietly as possible. Your bag is on the floor by the door where you left it, but when you reach for it, you freeze.

Momo is curled up on top of it, a tiny ball of fur using your bag as a makeshift bed. She's never done that before—usually she stays in her cage or on Hoseok's shoulder, treating you with polite indifference at best.

But now she's chosen your bag as her sleeping spot, and when you gently move to pick up the strap, she doesn't scurry away. Instead, she opens one sleepy eye, looks at you with what might be recognition, and settles back into her nap.

You carefully extract your bag from under her, and she simply relocates to the floor, still unbothered by your presence.

It's a silly thing, really… But the way she chose specifically to sleep on that spot makes you absurdly feel like you're being accepted into the ecosystem of this tiny apartment.

Chosen.

You slip out as quietly as possible, closing the door with barely a click.

The hallway is empty, lit only by the emergency exit sign at the far end.

Your footsteps echo softly on the worn carpet as you make your way to the elevator, which thankfully decides to work at this ungodly hour.

Outside, Osaka at 4 AM is a different city entirely. The streets are mostly empty except for the occasional taxi and the dedicated salarymen stumbling home from late nights. The air is cooler, carrying the scent of rain that might come later.

You walk the seventeen minutes back to your corporate housing, your mind turning over the evening.

The conversation about Miki. The way Hoseok looked at you when you talked about finding someone who understands what you need. The careful way he'd covered you with his blanket.

And Momo, sleeping on your bag like you belong there.

By the time you reach your building, the sky is starting to lighten at the edges, that pale pre-dawn glow that means morning isn't far away.

You have three hours before you need to be awake for work, but you know you won't sleep.

Instead, you lie in your narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the weight of his blanket and the sound of his pencil on paper and the way he'd talked about Miki like she was a real person with real problems.

Like she was someone worth understanding.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:23 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:24 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚋𝚞𝚝-𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You stare at the messages, something fluttering in your chest that you refuse to name.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:26 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:27 AM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:28 AM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:29 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

You reach up automatically, realizing your hair is loose around your shoulders. You'd had it up for the pose session, but it must have come undone while you slept.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:30 AM): 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:31 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:32 AM): 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙾𝚝𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜.

You set your phone aside and close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

Instead, you lie there thinking about the way he'd said 'sweet dreams' like he meant it, and the careful way he'd tucked the blanket around your shoulders, and the fact that Momo had chosen your bag as her sleeping spot.

Small things. Tiny gestures that probably don't mean anything.

But they feel like something anyway.

goal: 200 notes.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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© jungkoode 2025

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[hopechip]

死 KKANGPAE | #20 死

† ghosts that haunt †

"Sometimes the most dangerous wounds are the ones that never bleed on the outside—they fester in silence until one wrong touch makes everything spill out."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 9.4k

content: post-mission decompression featuring motorcycle rides through neon seoul, convenience store philosophy over cheap beer, jeon's emotional walls slamming back up harder than ever, j-hope's seven-year sobriety streak broken to protect y/n from v's predatory games, ad and j-hope's complex friendship revealing itself through crisis, gang members arguing about getting high like college kids, and the discovery that everyone in kkangpae carries demons they're trying to outrun

☠ author's note ☠

This chapter gutted me to write. Not because of the action (though, yes, Fervio's eye contact is a jumpscare), but because it begins cracking open the emotional center of the story. What begins as a seemingly quiet moment—a late-night beer, a 7/11 pit stop, a chance to breathe—becomes a confrontation with identity, projection, and the illusion of normalcy.

The psychology of this chapter is all about what we don't say. What we deflect. What we bury so deep, even tenderness feels like violence.

Jeon isn't pushing the reader away because he hates her. He's pushing because she sees him. And when your entire survival has depended on being unreadable, invisible, dangerous on purpose? Being seen is fucking terrifying. It strips you. It asks, what's left of me once I put the gun down?

Reader's mistake—understandable, human—is thinking that wanting to understand someone is inherently safe. That intention equals permission. And it doesn't. Not always. The line between empathy and intrusion is razor-thin when trauma's involved. And Jeon is not healed. He's fragmented, coiled like wire, and for him, vulnerability is not romantic—it's lethal.

This chapter is also the turning point where the reader starts to understand that being in Kkangpae isn't about who you kill. It's about who you let live in your head. Hobi, Jeon, AD—every single one of them is haunted. You don't get to this point in the underworld without dragging ghosts behind you, and this is the chapter where those ghosts stop being metaphorical.

Some of you will hate that Jeon lashes out. That he refuses softness. That he uses cruelty as armor. But that's the point. This story isn't about quick healing arcs or morally sanitized character growth. It's about what happens when you try to love someone who doesn't think they're lovable. And what happens when you realize you might not be either.

I'll say this again, because it matters: you are not owed someone's vulnerability just because you want it. And love—real love, the kind that survives places like this—isn't about unraveling someone until they break. It's about waiting at the door and letting them open it.

And sometimes, they don't.

Anyway. Hope you like the chapter ♡

— read on

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The thing about riding through Seoul at night with a man who's trying really hard to pretend you don't exist? It fucking sucks.

The wind whips past as you race through Seoul's neon jungle and it feels good—like it's scrubbing away all that weird tension from Jeon's ice-queen act earlier. At this point, the city's just a blur of lights and shadows, the bike's engine drowning out everything except your thoughts.

There's something weirdly freeing about being just another couple of idiots on a motorcycle at night.

Nobody knows you're gang members. Nobody knows about the psychos you just left behind. Nobody knows about whatever the fuck that 'Sylvia' thing was about.

Right now, you're just... existing.

You keep your arms wrapped around Jeon because you n̶e̶e̶d̶ have to. That cold dismissal of his still stings, but the speed and the night air make it easier to pretend it doesn't.

Almost easier.

The 7/11 sign catches your eye—this bright, artificial beacon of normalcy in the middle of all this chaos.

Something about it calls to you. Maybe it's because it's so fucking normal. Maybe you just need a minute to breathe air that doesn't taste like pine and secrets.

"Pull over," you say, tapping his shoulder and pointing at the store.

You're not even sure why you want to stop. Maybe you just need to stand on solid ground for a minute. Maybe you need to remind yourself that the regular world still exists outside of Kkangpae's bubble.

Jeon doesn't argue, just guides the bike to the curb with that nonchalance of his that makes everything look easy. The engine rumbles for a second before he kills it, and suddenly the night feels too quiet.

Your legs are shaky when you climb off, but it's not from the ride. It's something else—this weird mix of leftover adrenaline and... whatever the fuck that conversation did to your nerves.

You need something normal. Something that doesn't involve creepy yellow contacts or coded warnings or names that make Jeon shut down completely.

You watch the man himself pull off his helmet, his hair falling into his eyes in that annoyingly perfect way that one would think probably takes hours to practice.

He doesn't even steal a glance your way—just keeps this unreadable expression that doesn't give anything away.

Back to his usual self, huh.

He nods toward the store's entrance, and you think maybe he needs this break from reality too.

The 7/11's wacky lights hit different after spending so much time in that fancy-ass castle hidden in the woods.

The doors whoosh shut behind you, and suddenly you're wrapped in this bubble of artificial cool air and the smell of cheap coffee.

It's weirdly comforting, like stepping into a pocket dimension where you're just a normal person buying normal things.

If only.

You wander down the aisles, running your fingers over bags of chips and candy bars. It feels surreal—like playing pretend at being regular.

Four months ago, this was just another convenience store. Now it feels like visiting a museum of your old life, everything familiar but somehow distant.

Jeon's still outside, probably looking like the world's hottest security guard as he leans against his bike. You can feel him watching you through the windows, probably wondering what the fuck you're doing.

But he doesn't come in, doesn't rush you.

Maybe he gets it—this need to pretend everything's normal for five fucking minutes.

You grab some chips because your stomach's been doing that angry growling thing for the past hour. Add a drink because your throat's still dry from all that talking with Fervio and his creepy yellow contacts. Then your eyes land on the beer fridge, and yeah—after the night you've had? You definitely deserve alcohol.

The cashier looks about as dead inside as you feel, barely glancing at your random assortment of convenience store therapy. You kind of want to tell him "hey, at least you don't have to flirt with psychopaths for a living," but that might blow your cover.

Back outside, you hold up the beer like a peace offering.

"Thought you might need this," you say, trying to sound casual even though there's still this weird tension hanging between you from the whole thing.

His eyes flick from the beer to his bike, and suddenly there's this little smirk playing around his lips.

"You trying to get me fined?" The words come out all low and rough, and fuck—your body really needs to stop reacting every time he uses that voice. "Not sure how driving under the influence is gonna look on my resume."

You lean back against the bike, trying to look cool and unbothered even though your skin's still buzzing from earlier.

"Please," you scoff, "I've seen how you handle this thing. Pretty sure you could drive it in your sleep."

He smiles, but takes the beer, fingers brushing against yours, and god—even that tiny contact sends electricity shooting up your arm.

"Just one drink," Jeon says, popping the can open with this casual flick of his thumb that somehow manages to look cool. "Don't want you thinking you can lead me astray."

He takes a sip, and the inside lights from the 7/11 catch on the silver of his lip ring, on the curve of his throat as he swallows.

You find yourself staring for a second too long, because fuck—sometimes you forget how pretty he is when he's not being an emotionally constipated asshole.

You laugh, tension somehow bleeding out a bit. "Lead you astray? Please. You're already halfway to hell, and I'm pretty sure you bought a first-class ticket."

The sound that comes out of him is actually a real laugh—not that quiet chuckle he usually does, but something genuine that makes his nose scrunch up.

It's kind of adorable, not that you'd ever tell him that.

The night air shifts into something softer, like a warm summer rain.

"Can't argue with that," he says, and there's this little smirk playing around his lips. "At least I'm upfront about being a piece of shit."

The silence between you isn't awkward anymore. It's nice, actually.

The air smells like rain and city smoke, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.

Seoul at night—your new normal.

Jeon's looking at the skyline, all those fancy buildings cutting through the darkness.

He takes another drink, and you can't help but notice how relaxed he looks right now. His shoulders aren't carrying all that tension they usually do, like for once he's not expecting an attack from every shadow.

You get it, though. Sometimes you need these moments—these tiny pockets of almost-normal where you can pretend you're just two people sharing a drink instead of what you actually are.

Where the weight of everything you've seen, everything you've done, feels a little lighter.

Maybe that's why you fit together so well, in this weird, fucked-up way.

You both know what it's like to walk in the shadows, to wear masks and play parts.

To find comfort in the darker corners of the world.

God, you think, watching him take another sip. When did this get so complicated?

"Past has a way of being a real bitch, huh?" You murmur.

Jeon's still staring at the skyline when he responds. "Yeah. Can't let it fuck with the present though."

"Look at you, being all wise and shit."

You bump his shoulder with yours, trying to lighten the mood.

Because this? This feels dangerous. Like you're walking on thin ice, and one wrong step could send you both plunging into whatever darkness Jeon's carrying around.

Shadows morph his features when he turns slightly. You catch that little scar on his cheek again, looking deeper in this light, like a secret.

"What's got you thinking so hard?" His voice is quiet, curious. "Usually you're the one telling me to shut up and stop brooding."

Your eyes meet his, and fuck—there's something in that look that makes your chest feel tight.

"Just thinking about how we've all got our own demons to deal with." You take another sip of your drink, buying time. "Some people run from them. Some people let them ride shotgun."

The smirk that crosses his face is different this time—softer around the edges, less guard dog and more human.

"Didn't know you could get philosophical. Should I be worried?"

You laugh, and it feels real for once. Not the fake shit you've been throwing around all night with Fervio and his creepy yellow contacts.

"Fuck off. I contain multitudes."

It's quiet for a few seconds, comfortable until it isn't.

Because there's this annoying thing tinging your interactions with him ever since you asked about Sylvia.

"Hey," you say, keeping your voice gentle. "Whatever ghost you're carrying around? It doesn't define you."

For a second, you think he's going to shut down again, throw up those walls and go back to being Chief Jeon, the untouchable assassin.

You're already turning toward the bike, ready to pretend this conversation never happened.

But then he lets out this breath that sounds like he's been holding it for years, and that makes you look back at him.

His eyes now are less storm and more rain, like maybe he's too tired to keep the hurricane spinning.

"That simple, huh?" His voice is rough around the edges. "Just... let it go?"

You stay perfectly still, like he's some wild animal that might bolt if you move too fast.

Because this feels like the first time ever you've seen him less guarded emotionally.

"Nah," you say carefully. "Not simple at all. But maybe it doesn't have to be this heavy all the time."

The look he gives you then—it's like he's seeing you for the first time. Really seeing you, not just looking through you like he usually does.

Dangerous, you think again.

But maybe that's exactly what you both need.

"Maybe," he says, so quiet you almost miss it. "But when your past is full of fuck-ups and dead bodies, it tends to stick around."

The words hit different—not because of what he's saying, but how he's saying it. As if he's cracking open his chest and showing you something he usually keeps locked down tight.

You move closer before you can stop yourself, drawn in by this rare moment of honesty.

Close enough to see the way his jaw works as he tries to keep his shit together.

Close enough that you can smell pine and mint and leather and cigarette stubs.

"Jungkook." His real name feels heavy on your tongue, important. "The past doesn't have to define you. It's just... part of the story."

You take another step closer, watch how his whole body goes tense, and those dark eyes keep flickering between yours, asking questions he won't voice out loud.

He swallows hard—you watch his throat work—then suddenly jerks his head away like he can't stand to look at you anymore.

"Don't," he says, barely above a whisper, like hurts coming out.

You frown, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

"Don't what?"

He doesn't respond at first, just lets silence fill the void.

When he finally looks back, his eyes are different—harder, distant. Like he's building walls as fast as he can.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, and there's something almost angry in his voice.

"Like what?"

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

When he finally speaks, the words come out rough, almost accusatory:

"Like... like I'm something you want to figure out"

Oh, you think. Oh, fuck.

Because maybe you do want to figure him out. Maybe you want to understand him way more than you should.

You're not sure what to say—if there even is anything to say that won't make this worse.

Because Jeon's always been this complicated puzzle of sharp edges and hidden depths, but you're starting to realize it was never about solving him.

Maybe it was just about... seeing him. Really seeing him.

It's almost as if he's scared—not of you, exactly, but of being seen.

Of someone looking past Chief Jeon, the cold-blooded assassin, and finding whatever's left of the person underneath.

You stay perfectly still, barely breathing. It feels like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening here.

Then something in him just... breaks.

He backs away so fast you almost stumble, his whole body going rigid like he's preparing for a fight.

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek—that nervous tell you've started to recognize—and when he speaks, his voice is freezing.

"I'm not your fucking project," he snarls. "Not some broken toy you can fix when you're bored."

You flinch, caught off guard by the venom in his voice.

"What? Jungkook, that's not what I—"

"Jeon." He cuts you off, stepping right into your space until you have to tilt your head back to look at him. "Not Jungkook. Not to you."

The correction hits like a slap, like an invisible wall slamming down so fast it leaves you dizzy.

"Jeon," you try again, but he's not done.

"You think I haven't noticed?" His voice drops lower, dangerous. "All your little questions, your fucking looks. Like if you just dig deep enough, you'll find something worth saving."

"I was just trying to—"

He laughs, and it's an ugly sound.

"To what? Understand me? Help me? Save your fucking pity. I see right through you, watching me like I'm some damaged little puppy you can nurse back to health."

The accusation makes something hot and angry flare in your chest.

"That's bullshit and you know it. I've never thought of you as weak."

"No?" His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. "Then why are you always trying to get in my head? Acting like you know me, like you have any fucking clue what I've been through?"

He spins away from you, dragging his fingers through his hair like he's trying to tear it out, violent.

When he turns back, his eyes are burning with something that looks too much like fear dressed up as anger.

"What, you think because we fuck sometimes that gives you the right to play therapist?" His voice drops low, dangerous. "A few heart-to-hearts and suddenly you think you've got me all figured out? You don't know shit about me or the things I've done."

"You're right, I don't," you snap back, refusing to back down even though your chest feels tight. "And not because I haven't tried."

His face twists into something ugly. "Yeah, because the last time I let someone in, it ended in fucking bloodshed. One I'm still paying for!"

That makes you swallow, the knot in your chest twisting more tightly.

But Jeon's not done—he's like a shark that's smelled blood in the water.

"I don't need your fucking pity. I'm not some broken little boy for you to fix up and save. I've been handling my shit just fine without your amateur psychology bullshit."

The words sting, but there's something desperate in the way he's throwing them at you—pushing you away before you can get any closer.

"I never said you needed fixing, you absolute—"

"Then what?" He cuts you off, voice sharp as glass. "What exactly did you want? Access to my tragic backstory? Keep your savior complex to yourself. I'm not interested."

"You don't have to be such a dick about it," you say, and fuck—your voice comes out shakier than you meant it to.

"No? Then how about this: there's nothing here for you to see. So drop the fucking act."

"Act?" You actually laugh, but it's not a happy sound. "That's rich coming from you, Mr. Big Bad Wolf. Should I howl at the fucking moon? Maybe then we'd speak the same language."

"That's the problem right there! You trying to speak the same language. There's nothing to try. Nothing to fix. Nothing to understand. So back the fuck off."

"Right. My bad. Sorry for giving a shit, I guess."

"Keep working on it. Maybe one day you'll achieve perfect emotional constipation like the rest of us."

The sarcasm in his voice makes you want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe both.

When you don't immediately snap back, he makes this sound in the back of his throat—this ugly, disgusted sound.

"Fuck this. We're done here."

He turns to leave, but something makes you reach out, fingers wrapping around his arm before you can think better of it.

The muscle under your hand goes rock hard, and when he looks down at where you're touching him, his eyes are cold enough to freeze hell.

You let go like he's burning you, but you plant your feet. You're not backing down, not this time.

"Look," you say, keeping your voice soft but firm. "I get it, okay? Opening up is scary as shit. But it doesn't make you weak, Jeon. Might even help, whenever you're ready."

He stares at you, and for a second—just a second—something cracks in his expression. Like maybe he's tired of carrying whatever weight is crushing him. But then the walls slam back up so fast it gives you whiplash.

"Then you can sit there and wait until you fucking rot," he says, voice colder than a morgue drawer.

He jerks away from you, spinning toward the bike with the kind of finality that screams conversation over.

You stand there, anger and frustration mixing in your chest until you feel like you might explode.

"Bold of you to assume I've got that kind of patience," you throw at his back.

He freezes mid-step, and you see his shoulders tense.

When he speaks, his voice is completely flat, like all the life's been drained out of it.

"Even better."

Then he's swinging his leg over the bike, waiting for you to climb on so he can pretend this whole thing never happened.

Like he can outrun his demons if he just drives fast enough.

Stubborn asshole, you think, walking toward the bike.

But you're starting to realize that maybe his walls aren't just for show.

Maybe they're holding back something that terrifies him more than any enemy ever could.

You swing off the bike on slightly shaky legs, yanking the helmet off and trying to get your hair under control.

Jeon's doing that thing where he runs his fingers through his hair, making it look effortlessly messy and hot at the same time, which is annoying when you're trying to stay p̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ professional.

His face is blank, but you can read the tension in his shoulders. You get it—going against direct orders to play nice with MDF's resident psychopath probably wasn't your brightest moment. Not to mention that whole clusterfuck of a conversation outside the 7/11.

"Time to get our asses handed to us," he mutters, and his jaw is clenched so tight you're worried he might crack a tooth.

You follow him inside, each step echoing off stone walls like a countdown to execution.

The walk to the council room feels longer than usual, probably because your stomach's doing gymnastics while Jeon walks ahead like he's heading to his own funeral.

The council room hits you with a brightness that makes you squint. All nine chiefs are already there, seated around that stupidly long table like some corporate board meeting from hell. They turn to look at you both, and you brace yourself for the shitstorm.

But then—what the fuck?

The room explodes with cheers and applause.

You actually take a step back, wondering if you've somehow walked into an alternate dimension. Beside you, Jeon goes completely still, like someone hit his pause button.

The Council is losing their collective mind. J-Hope's whistling like he's at a concert, V's cackling like a hyena, and even RM's got this smile on his face that makes him look ten years younger.

What timeline is this?

"Brilliant work!" RM's voice cuts through the chaos, and you're pretty sure your jaw's on the floor. "You've exceeded all expectations."

You look at Jeon, completely lost. "What the—?"

And then it hits you—the earpieces weren't just for show—the Council heard everything.

Every word with Fervio, they watched you dance with the devil and somehow come out on top.

"A partnership with MDF as independent traders?" Moon sounds like someone just handed him a winning lottery ticket. "That changes things."

You're still trying to process how you went from expecting a punishment to... this.

But one look at Jeon tells you he's just as thrown as you are. His eyes are slightly wider than usual, which for him is basically the equivalent of screaming in confusion.

Well, this is definitely not how you expected this night to end.

The rest of the Council starts talking over each other, throwing around words like "brilliant" and "game-changing."

You feel your face heat up—partly from pride, partly because this is not the ass-kicking you were expecting. Next to you, Jeon's got that look on his face, the one that says he's about three seconds from calling bullshit on this whole situation.

"What the fuck?" he growls.

There it is.

"We literally did exactly what you told us not to do."

The room quiets down as RM raises his hand, and even through the chaos, everyone snaps to attention. That's the kind of respect he commands.

"Yeah, you went against orders," he says, and his voice has that careful neutral tone that could go either way. "But you also just handed us the biggest opportunity we've had in years. Sometimes disobedience pays off."

The Council members nod like those bobblehead dolls people put in their cars.

Jeon's eyebrow does that tiny twitch thing it does when he's really f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ pissed.

"This could be huge for us." J-Hope's voice is serious, none of his usual snark. "But one wrong move and we're all fucked six ways to Sunday."

Flower leans forward, her dark eyes sharp. "Especially with that psycho Fervio involved. He's probably just waiting for us to slip up."

RM's got that look on his face, the one that means his big brain is working overtime. "It's a risk, sure. But it's one we need to take. And we'll need our best people on this."

The silence that follows feels like it weighs a ton.

Everyone's thinking the same thing—this could either be Kkangpae's biggest win or its worst nightmare.

"The cover story worked perfectly," RM continues, and you can practically feel Jeon's shoulders tensing up beside you. "Fervio bought the whole illegal arms dealers slash married couple act. We can use that."

Jeon exhales loudly; eyes darkening a shade. His face stays blank, but you know him well enough by now to see the storm brewing behind those dark eyes.

"I want you both to keep playing these roles," RM says, leaning forward in his chair. "The power-hungry married couple looking to make it big in the underworld. It's perfect."

Your brain short-circuits for a second because what? This means more pretending to be married to Jeon. More acting like a couple. More of...

"With Fervio thinking you're on his side, we'll finally get inside MDF." RM continues. "This is the break we've been waiting for."

He looks between you and Jeon, and his expression turns serious.

"Can you handle it?"

"Yeah, of course," is your reply.

RM catches Jeon's tension—of course he does, he doesn't miss anything. His voice softens just a fraction.

"I know what I'm asking, Jeon. Especially from you." He trails off for a second, like he's choosing his next words carefully. "We can't change what happened before. But this? This is bigger than personal history."

There's something heavy in those words, something that makes your ears prick up.

Is this about Sylvia? That name you caught over the comms, the one that made Jeon shut down faster than a computer during a power surge?

You want to ask—god, you want to ask so badly it hurts. But after that disaster outside the 7/11? Yeah, not happening.

Some secrets in Kkangpae are meant to stay buried. You're learning that the hard way.

Jeon just nods, short and sharp. "Understood."

"Good." RM's voice has that final tone that means orders are being given. "You'll be our inside track to Fervio's operation. Get close, find weaknesses, but don't take stupid risks."

The Council members nod along, looking all serious and determined. Everyone knows this is huge—dangerous as fuck, but huge.

The meeting breaks up, and reality starts sinking in. You're really doing this. Playing happy married couple with Jeon while trying not to get murdered by a psychopath who gets off on torture.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

You glance at Jeon, trying to read his expression. But those dark eyes might as well be black holes for all they give away.

You can't decipher what he's thinking. At all. But he's not happy about it, whatever it is.

Then he just... nods at RM and walks out. No goodbye, no look back, nothing. Just turns on his heel and disappears through the door like he can't get away fast enough.

You watch Jeon storm out like he's got hellhounds on his heels. Something about it makes your chest feel tight. J-Hope must notice you staring because he leans in, voice pitched low so only you can hear.

"Don't take it personal, kid. Jeon's got... history with this kind of thing."

You turn to him, frowning. "What, following orders? Or not following them?"

"More like..." J-Hope pauses, and you can practically see him picking his words like he's defusing a bomb. "Let's just say he's not a fan of the Council being flexible with rules."

Your frown deepens. There's something here you're missing, some context that would make this all make sense.

"Because he's a stickler for protocol?"

"Because the Council doesn't do flexible." J-Hope says the word like it tastes bad. "Never has."

He glances at the door Jeon disappeared through, something dark crossing his face.

"Rules exist for a reason. And when they get bent or broken... well. Let's just say Jeon knows firsthand what that costs."

You let that sink in for a moment, turning it over in your head.

"This is about Sylvia, isn't it?"

The name drops between you like a stone in still water.

J-Hope goes completely still, and for a second, you see something flash across his face—pain? Anger? But then it's gone.

"Sylvia," he says, like he's testing how the name feels in his mouth. Then he shakes his head. "That's not my story to tell. If Jeon wants you to know about that particular clusterfuck, he'll tell you himself."

Gentleness finds his eyes then, looking as if he feels bad for you, stumbling around in the dark while everyone else seems to know where all the landmines are buried.

"Just... give him time, Jeon's got his reasons for being the way he is. And pushing him to talk about it?" He lets out a low whistle. "That's a real good way to make sure he never does."

You chew on your bottom lip, processing.

It's obvious there's more going on here—some whole tragic backstory (funny how he mentioned those two exact words) you're not cleared to know about.

"Yeah, okay," you say finally. "Everyone's got their demons, right? He can keep his locked up if he wants."

J-Hope's smile is small but genuine. He squeezes your shoulder, and his touch is surprisingly gentle for someone who patches up gunshot wounds for a living.

"Smart girl. And hey—Jeon might act like he's made of ice, but..." He trails off, thoughtful. "Let's just say I've seen him care about things before. Even when he probably wishes he didn't."

Great, you think. More cryptic bullshit.

But maybe that's just how things work around here. Maybe some secrets need to stay buried until they're ready to come out on their own.

You just hope you're still around when they do.

You give J-Hope a grateful smile, making a mental note to back off with the Sylvia questions.

Some wounds need time to heal, and pushing Jeon before he's ready would just make him shut down harder.

For now, maybe it's better to focus on what you do have—even if that's just really good sex.

Your philosophical moment gets interrupted by V's voice, bright and chaotic as ever.

"Well, I think this calls for drugs and alcohol!" He sounds way too excited about potentially getting everyone high.

J-Hope's head whips around so fast you're worried he might need to treat himself for whiplash.

"Absolutely fucking not!" His voice goes full doctor-mode stern. "Or did you all collectively forget the shitshow that happened last time?"

V just grins that manic grin of his, the one that usually means trouble's coming. "Aw, come on, Doc! We're all grown-ups here. What's the worst that could happen?"

(You make a mental note to never ask that question in a gang full of assassins.)

"Fuck them drugs," AD perks up from his corner, actually looking interested in something that isn't computers for once. "I'm rolling a joint and zoning out in my corner."

"Dibs on the good stuff!" Jessi's practically bouncing in her seat. "It's been forever since I got properly fucked up. Let's make it a party!"

Flower leans forward. "Anyone got acid? Because I've been wanting to try that."

JM's watching all this go down with that calm lake energy of his, looking way too amused.

"Face it, Doc. You're fighting a losing battle here."

"You too, Jimin?" J-Hope looks personally offended. "I'm the medical professional here. You know, the one who has to deal with your dumb asses when things go wrong?"

Moon just sits there with his usual zen master vibe, like he's watching children argue about candy.

"Perhaps we can find a middle ground that doesn't end in medical emergencies?"

"Moon's got a point," RM says, and you can practically see him calculating the odds of this turning into a disaster. "There's probably a way to do this that doesn't involve J-Hope having an aneurysm."

You lean back, watching chaos unfold in real time.

Because apparently this is your life now—sitting in a high-tech castle while a bunch of deadly assassins argue about getting high like college students planning spring break.

What even is your life?

J-Hope throws his hands up like he's trying to physically catch his last shred of sanity.

"There's no middle ground with you hooligans!" His voice hits that pitch that means someone's about to get a medical lecture. "Last fucking time Hyunjoo nearly turned our whole operation into a bonfire because she thought her instant ramen needed to be cooked with actual fire!"

Jessi's trying (and failing) to hold back her laughter, which only makes J-Hope more agitated.

"And you—" He whirls on AD, who's slouching in his chair looking done with life. "Two days! You disappeared for two whole days!"

"I was finding peace with nature," he mutters, checking his nails. "Weed is enlightening."

"The only thing enlightening was how many bug bites you got on your ass, you absolute disaster."

J-Hope's not done though—oh no, he's just getting started.

"And let's not forget Tae's brilliant fucking idea to invite the cops over for a party." J-Hope's voice drips sarcasm. "All because he wanted to, and I quote, 'party with the law'."

V sprawls in his chair, looking delighted by the memory. "Come on, Doc. Live a little! What's the point of being criminals if we can't have some fun with it?"

You watch J-Hope's soul leave his body in real time. His shoulders slump, and he lets out this long-suffering sigh that probably took years off his life.

"Fine. Fine. You win, you bunch of walking medical emergencies." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "But when you're all hugging toilets tomorrow and crying about how you can see through time, don't come running to me!"

The look on his face says he knows exactly where he'll be tomorrow—patching up whatever chaos this lot manages to create while high off their asses.

But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight? Tonight's about to get real interesting.

Well, at least being in a gang is never boring.

"Ramen's on the stove!" Jessi's voice bounces off the castle walls like a rubber ball on crack. "No naked forest adventures this time, Doc, I promise!"

The castle's kitchen usually looks like something out of a luxury real estate listing. But right now? It's more like a college party gone wild, if college parties were thrown by professional killers.

You're posted up against one of those fancy counters, watching chaos unfold with a mix of amusement and holy shit, are we really doing this?

The prospect of trying acid for the first time is making your stomach do this weird flippy thing—half excitement, half terror. Mostly terror. But hey, when in Rome (or in this case, when in a high-tech castle full of assassins planning to get absolutely blasted)...

J-Hope sidles up next to you, and his sandalwood scent cuts through the MSG-heavy air. His face says 'I'm so done with this shit' but his eyes are doing that thing where he's trying not to look amused.

"Look at these fucking morons," he mutters, watching Jessi wave a wooden spoon around like she's conducting an orchestra. "It's like babysitting toddlers. Toddlers with access to weapons and illegal substances."

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Aw, come on. Don't act like you don't love playing mom friend to this disaster crew."

He gives you this look that's half exasperation, half fondness. "The entertainment value? Sure. The aftermath? Not so much."

His eyes track Jessi as she does some kind of interpretive dance with the ramen pot.

"Last time, I spent a week dealing with the fallout. Do you know how hard it is to treat someone who's convinced their fingers turned into snakes? Because I do. I really, really do."

You can't help but laugh because yeah, that tracks.

"But look at everyone," you say, gesturing at the room full of deadly assassins acting like actual human beings for once. "When's the last time you saw the divisions mixing like this? Usually everyone's too busy being dramatic and mysterious."

J-Hope lets out this long-suffering sigh that probably took years off his life. "Yeah, yeah. Just... try not to lose your mind completely on the acid, okay? I really don't want to explain to RM why one of our newest recruits is trying to have a philosophical debate with the security cameras."

"Please," you scoff, even though your heart does a little jump at the thought. "I'll be fine. Just curious to see what all the fuss is about."

"That's what Tae said," J-Hope deadpans. "Right before he decided the trees needed a strip show."

You lean against the counter, watching the chaos unfold around you.

It's kind of wild how a bunch of professional killers can act like college kids at a frat party. But that's Kkangpae for you—one minute you're infiltrating rival gang territory, the next you're watching Jessi try to juggle instant ramen packets.

J-Hope's steady presence beside you feels grounding through the general mayhem. Even when he's complaining about having to babysit a bunch of 'walking medical emergencies,' you can hear the fondness in his voice.

He's such a mom friend, not that you'd ever tell him that to his face.

Having J-Hope here, with his medical knowledge and surprisingly good dad jokes, makes the idea of trying acid feel less intimidating.

At least someone will know what to do if you start seeing dragons or whatever.

Then V materializes like he's been summoned by the promise of bad decisions, carrying a tray of shots that probably contain enough alcohol to strip paint. His grin is all teeth and trouble as he slides up to you both.

"Special delivery," he practically purrs, pushing a shot glass your way. The liquid inside looks radioactive. "A little something to kick-start your journey to enlightenment."

J-Hope's hand shoots out faster than you can blink, blocking the shot like he's defending a goal.

"Absolutely fucking not. Mixing alcohol with psychedelics? That's a one-way ticket to the worst night of your life."

"Aw, come on, Doc." V's eyes glitter with that dangerous playfulness he gets sometimes. "Let the girl live a little. It's just one tiny shot."

You watch J-Hope's face do this thing where he's trying really hard not to lose his patience. His jaw tightens, but his voice stays professional.

"This isn't about living. It's about not ending up in medical because someone thought mixing drugs was a good idea."

V leans in, and suddenly the air feels thick with tension. "When did you get so boring, Hoseok? Used to be you knew how to have fun."

The use of J-Hope's real name makes his whole body go rigid, and something dark flashes across his face.

Welp, this is about to get real uncomfortable.

"This isn't about being scared," J-Hope says, and his voice has that edge he gets when someone's pushing his buttons. "It's about not wanting to spend my night pumping stomachs because you idiots can't make good choices."

V's smile turns sharp, thorny vines of his aura creeping into the air between them. "Or maybe you're just projecting your own issues onto everyone else, our pride and hope."

Oh shit.

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

You watch J-Hope's hands curl into fists, sandalwood notes in the air turning bitter.

"That's enough." J-Hope's voice could freeze hell. "This isn't about me. It's about keeping people alive."

"Alive? From what?" V's laugh has too many teeth. "The big bad vodka monster?"

"It's not about the fucking vodka, Taehyung—"

"I mean, I get it—"

"—for fuck's sake, she's not—"

"—vodka's Russian and all but—"

"—it's not about the goddamn—"

"—Putin ain't gonna jump out the bottle—"

The overlapping voices make your head spin, but then—holy shit.

J-Hope snatches the shot right out of V's hand and downs it like it's water. The room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

V actually shuts up for once, thorns retreating like he's been slapped. Everyone's staring, probably thinking the same thing you are: What the actual fuck just happened?

The empty glass hits the counter with a clink that sounds like a gunshot in the silence.

"There," J-Hope says, voice empty. "Problem solved."

Then he just... walks away. Like he didn't just do something that has everyone's jaws on the floor.

V blinks like his brain's still buffering, but because he's V, he bounces back in seconds. That million-watt smile slides back into place like it never left.

"Well, fuck me sideways," he says, turning back to you with a laugh. "Looks like the good doctor's still got some surprises up his sleeve."

Thorns wrap around the room again, playful and dangerous.

"Now, about that acid trip you're planning. Just remember—if you need a spirit guide through the gates of perception, I'm your man."

He throws you a wink and floats off to terrorize someone else with his tray of shots, leaving you to wonder what the hell kind of drama you just witnessed.

Note to self, you think, watching J-Hope's figure make it out the doors. Never mention vodka around those two.

AD materializes then like some tech gremlin summoned from his cave, clutching a bag of weed and another one of acid.

He does that thing where he pretends not to care about anything or anyone, scanning the room with his typical 'everyone here is an idiot' expression.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite antisocial hacker," you say, watching him do his best impression of someone who definitely isn't looking for a specific person.

His face scrunches up like he's tasted something sour.

"Where's the walking medical textbook?" he asks, and you can hear the eye roll in his voice even though his face stays neutral.

Classic AD—pretending he's not worried about J-Hope's whereabouts.

"You mean J-Hope?"

"No, I mean the other mother hen who follows me around telling me to eat vegetables. Yes, J-Hope."

He starts unpacking his little bag of happiness onto the counter, then grabs a rolling paper with two fingers—gentle, like he's holding a butterfly wing—and brings it up to his lips.

"Lucy for the newbie," he mutters, holding up the other tiny plastic bag between his fingers like it's a USB drive containing nuclear codes.

"He left," you say, taking the bag and examining it because apparently that's what you do with illegal drugs now.

Your life is weird.

AD's eyebrow shoots up in that way that says 'elaborate before I hack your phone and set all your alarms to 3 AM.'

"V was being V, trying to get me to drink before dropping acid. J-Hope wasn't having it."

"What, did he storm off to avoid watching his precious patient make bad decisions?" AD snickers, but there's something almost fond in his voice. "He gets pretty pissy about alco—"

"Actually," you cut him off, matching his grin "he grabbed the shot, downed it like a champ, and bounced. Total power move."

The change in AD's face is like watching someone hit ctrl+alt+delete on his entire personality.

The smirk drops so fast it probably left skid marks.

"He did what?"

"Yeah, just... knocked it back and walked out. Pretty badass, if you ask—"

"What was in the glass?" His voice goes sharp, all traces of amusement gone.

"What?"

"The fucking shot, what was in it?" There's something urgent in his tone that makes your stomach drop.

"I don't know, V said something about vodka—"

"Fuck." AD drags his fingers through his hair like he's trying to pull it out. "Fuck fuck fuck."

"What's wrong with—"

"Where's V?" he snarls, and holy shit, you've never heard him sound like that before.

You can't help but inwardly panic as AD's face cycles through about fifteen different shades of murder.

AD's eyes lock onto V like a heat-seeking missile, and suddenly he's moving with the kind of purpose that usually ends in bloodshed. You watch him shove V hard enough to make the chestnut-haired man stumble back into Moon's drink setup, glasses rattling dangerously.

"What the actual fuck?" V catches himself, bristling with barely contained rage.

"You gave him vodka?" AD's voice is deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before violence. "You fucking knew—"

"He took it himself!" V straightens up, getting right in AD's face, smile cruel. "Not my problem if your precious doctor can't handle his shit."

"I'm going to rearrange your fucking face—" AD's hands curl into fists.

"Try it, you basement-dwelling freak. Maybe if you spent less time obsessing over Hobi's sobriety and more time getting over your pathetic crush—"

You move before your brain can catch up with what a monumentally stupid idea this is.

Getting between two Chiefs when they're about to throw down? Definitely not in the Kkangpae employee handbook.

But guilt's churning in your stomach because you were there.

You watched J-Hope take that shot and did nothing.

"AD," you say, keeping your voice soft but firm. Everyone's staring at you like you've lost your mind, and maybe you have. "This isn't helping. We need to find J-Hope."

AD's practically vibrating with rage, and V's thorny aura is sharp enough to draw blood. But finally, finally, AD takes a step back.

"Fucking narcissistic asshole," he spits at V as he turns away. "Too busy jerking off your own ego to give a shit about anyone else."

V's laugh follows you down the hallway, high and unhinged. "Aw, don't be like that, Yoongi! I thought we were having fun!"

You follow AD, his muttered curses painting the air blue.

After that disaster with Jeon earlier, you're not sure you should push for answers. But worry's gnawing at your gut.

"Is he going to be okay?"

AD lets out this heavy sigh that sounds like it starts in his toes. His eyes keep scanning every corner, every shadow.

"I don't... fuck. He..." He drags his fingers through his hair, messing up the blonde strands. "Hobi's got history with alcohol, alright? Bad history. He's been clean for... Christ, I don't even know how many years."

Shit.

You watch AD practically vibrate with nervous energy as he searches, and suddenly his reaction makes a lot more sense.

"We'll find him," you say, and you mean it.

Because maybe you can't fix whatever's going on with Jeon (and it's not your job anyway), but this?

This you can help with.

AD nods sharply, his face set in grim determination. "Yeah. We fucking better."

You and AD split up to search the castle, which is exactly as fun as it sounds—like playing hide and seek in a maze designed by someone with a sick sense of humor.

But you keep going because it's J-Hope. The guy who patches everyone up without judgment, who keeps this chaotic family of killers alive despite their best efforts to the contrary.

He deserves someone in his corner for once.

The party noise fades as you climb higher in the castle, until all you can hear is your own footsteps echoing off stone walls.

It's weird seeing these halls so empty—usually there's at least a few people around, heading to missions or sneaking off for... whatever.

Then you turn a corner and your heart does this weird flip thing when you see J-Hope's there, crumpled against a column like someone cut his strings. His knees are pulled up to his chest, head down, and fuck—seeing him like this feels wrong. Like walking in on something you weren't meant to see.

The empty glass beside him makes your stomach twist.

"J-Hope?"

He lifts his head so slowly it hurts to watch. His eyes meet yours, and that's worse somehow. All that warmth and steadiness that makes him J-Hope is just... gone.

"Hey," he says, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey yourself." You drop down next to him, trying to keep your voice gentle. "How're you holding up?"

"Just fantastic." His laugh is hollow, and the smile he gives you is about as real as the designer bags they sell in back alleys.

You bite your lip, wanting to help but not sure how. Your hand finds his shoulder, trying to say without words that he's not alone in whatever this is.

"What you did back there, protecting me from that shot? You didn't have to. But... thanks. For caring. You're good at that, you know? The caring part."

He looks at you for a long moment before his head drops again, but this time his smile seems a little more genuine. A little less broken.

"AD told you about the alcohol thing, didn't he?"

You tense up, your hand going still on his shoulder. Shit. You don't want him thinking AD was gossiping about his personal shit, but—

"It's fucking stupid," he says before you can explain, and his voice is so soft it makes your heart hurt. "Everyone here's got blood on their hands, trauma up to their eyeballs, and I'm falling apart over some fucking vodka."

Your grip on his shoulder tightens. "Hey, no. Pain isn't a competition. Your demons aren't any less valid just because they come in a bottle instead of a bullet."

J-Hope stares at his thighs like they hold all the answers to the universe, keeping quiet for a few seconds like he needs it. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges.

"Seven years," he says, like he's counting each one in his head. "Seven fucking years without touching a drop. Made that promise to myself when I joined Kkangpae. Thought I'd take it to my grave."

His eyes are different now—missing that sharp focus that usually makes him look like he's scanning for injuries. Instead, they're glossy with tears he won't let fall. The sandalwood scent in the air is muted, dulled.

"Used to be a doctor, you know? A good one. Fucking naive though." He lets out this hollow laugh that makes your chest hurt. "Thought I could change things from the inside. Make a difference in that corrupt shitshow they call healthcare."

You stay quiet, letting him get it out. Sometimes silence says more than words.

"You can't—" His voice catches. "You have no idea what it's like in there. The fucking politics of who lives and who dies. Had this kid once, sweet little thing. Needed emergency surgery. But some rich asshole's cousin needed a cosmetic procedure, and guess who got the operating room?"

Your stomach turns as the implications hit. J-Hope's face twists like he's tasting something bitter.

"I watched that kid die. Right there on my table. And you know what the hospital director said? 'These things happen.' Like it was a fucking paperwork error." His hands are shaking now. "That wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was how normal it was. People dying because they couldn't pay, while others bought their way to the front of the line."

He takes this shuddering breath that sounds like it hurts.

"Started drinking to numb it. Just a little at first—a shot before bed, something to take the edge off. But that's how it gets you, right? One shot becomes two, becomes a bottle, becomes..." He gestures vaguely at himself. "Becomes this."

"You were an alcoholic?" The words come out soft, careful.

"Yeah." It's barely a whisper. "Lost everything. My job, my license, my apartment. Ended up sleeping under bridges, spending whatever I could beg or steal on cheap vodka. Real fucking inspirational story, right?"

When he looks at you, the raw pain in his eyes makes your heart squeeze.

"Then RM found me. Saw something worth saving in this drunk piece of shit passed out behind a dumpster. Gave me purpose again. A chance to help people without all the bureaucratic bullshit."

He picks up the empty shot glass, turning it in his hands like it might bite him.

"That's why I swore off drinking. Not just for me—for RM, for everyone here who gave me a second chance when I didn't deserve one."

You watch him struggle with words, with memories, with demons you can't see but can feel in the heaviness of his words.

"Found a family here. Got to be a doctor again, on my own terms. Started putting myself back together." His fingers tighten around the glass. "But tonight, one fucking shot and—"

"You did it to protect me," you cut in, because you can't stand the self-loathing in his voice. "That counts for something."

His smile is sad, tired.

"Maybe. But that's not..." He shakes his head. "I can't go back there. Can't be that person again. The one who couldn't save anyone, not even himself."

The confession sits between you as you watch J-Hope—this man who patches up assassins and keeps everyone's secrets—look more vulnerable than you've ever seen him.

Fuck. No wonder he's so protective of everyone.

You squeeze his shoulder, trying to put everything you're feeling into that touch.

"You're not that person anymore, Doc. Look at you—patching up assassins, keeping us all alive, being everyone's voice of reason. One shot doesn't erase seven years of being fucking incredible."

His smile is small but real this time.

"Thanks, kid. I..." He swallows hard. "I needed that."

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Yeah, well, even newbies gotta remind you you're not just the grumpy doctor who yells at us for getting stabbed."

He actually chuckles at that, a quiet sound that makes his whole body shake.

"Newbie? You've been here four months. Pretty sure you've seen more action than some of our veterans."

"Maybe," you say with a grin. "But I still can't tell the difference between morphine and saline, so I think that keeps me firmly in the rookie category."

That gets a real laugh out of him, and some of the tension finally leaves his shoulders. He looks at you, and there's something warm in his eyes that wasn't there before.

"You know what? Screw the formalities. Call me Hoseok. Or Hobi, if you're feeling lazy."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Wow, first-name basis? I feel so special."

"Don't let it go to your head," he says, but he's smiling now. "I just figure anyone who's seen me have an emotional breakdown in a hallway has earned it."

"Hoseok it is, then." You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling weirdly comfortable despite the cold stone floor and the lingering heaviness in the air. "Though I might go with Hobs. It suits you better."

"Hobs?" He doesn't shrug you off, which feels like a win. "I can live with that."

You sit there in comfortable silence for a while, just existing in the same space.

It hits you then, how human everyone in Kkangpae is.

Sure, you're all part of this big, scary criminal organization, but underneath all the tough talk and violence, you're just... people.

People with pasts, with regrets, with demons you're all trying to outrun.

"Hey, Hobs?" you say after a bit.

"Mm?"

"Thanks for trusting me with this. I know it's not easy to let people see the messy parts."

He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds yours, giving it a quick squeeze.

"Thanks for giving a shit, kid. It's... it's been a while since someone did."

You're about to say something else when footsteps echo down the hallway. AD appears around the corner, looking like he's aged ten years in the last hour.

When he spots you both, the relief on his face is so obvious it almost hurts.

"You absolute fucking idiot," AD says, dropping to his knees beside you both. His voice is rough but his hands are gentle when they reach for Hobi. "Do you have any idea—I thought—fuck."

"Sorry," Hobi mumbles, and he sounds exhausted. "Didn't mean to worry you."

"Shut up." AD's already pulling one of Hobi's arms over his shoulders. "Just... let's get you to bed before you fall asleep in this hallway like some drunk college kid."

You help AD get Hobi to his feet, each of you taking some of his weight.

The party's still going strong somewhere below, but up here, it's just the three of you navigating dark corridors, trying to keep each other from falling apart.

Family. This is what family looks like.

The walk back to J-Hope's room feels longer than it should, like the hallways are stretching out just to fuck with you.

His words keep echoing in your head—all that stuff about hospitals and corruption and losing everything.

It's weird seeing someone you thought had their shit together turn out to be just as messy as the rest of you.

When you finally reach his door, AD does this thing where he opens it super carefully, like he's afraid of waking up a sleeping baby or something.

You both help J-Hope inside, and damn—his room is exactly what you'd expect from the guy who patches up assassins for a living.

It's all neat and tidy, medical books stacked up like little towers of knowledge. There are plants everywhere too, which is kind of adorable. You can just picture J-Hope fussing over them between stitching up bullet wounds and lecturing people about their alcohol intake.

J-Hope practically collapses onto his bed, letting out this sigh that sounds like it's been building up for years. When he looks at you both, his eyes are all soft and grateful. It makes your chest do this weird tight thing.

"Thanks, guys," he says, and his voice sounds steadier now—like maybe getting all that shit off his chest actually helped.

"Don't get sappy on us," AD grumbles, but you can tell he's worried because his usual grumpy cat routine is dialed down to about a three. "Just get some rest, alright? Can't have our medic falling apart on us."

J-Hope actually laughs at that, even if it's a weak sound. "I'll be fine. Just a little hiccup in the sobriety journey. Won't happen again."

AD nods like he believes him, but you can see the doubt in his eyes. He turns to you, all serious business now.

"Thanks for the assist. I've got it from here."

You nod, feeling weirdly relieved that J-Hope's not gonna be alone.

"Yeah, of course. Take care of our favorite doctor, yeah?"

J-Hope gives you this smile that makes him look younger somehow. He mouths 'thank you' as you head for the door, and for a second, you consider staying.

But nah. AD's got this.

And you? You've got a lot to process.

You start walking back towards your own room, mind still spinning.

Because if J-Hope—steady, dependable J-Hope—has skeletons in his closet, what the hell is everyone else hiding?

Fuck. You realize you're in way deeper than you thought. But the weird thing is?

You're not sure you want out.

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