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mountaesan · 10 days ago

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VIVE LA CRUSH ───★ ˙ ̟ !!

۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : Jaehyun's Historical Play to Modern Heartbreak !!

۶ৎ PAIRING : history nerd!jaehyun x history classmate!reader ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : competitive pining, fluff, mild angst, comfort ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : second-hand embarrassment (from Jaehyun's attempted flirting), Jaehyun has self-deprecating thoughts, Jaehyun is a bit of a loser ( a cute one ofc!! ) ۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 6.1k words

۶ৎ A/N : I present to you, my spin-off to "Ridiculously Yours" !! 😉 Remember when Woonhak mentioned that Jaehyun keeps talking about the French Revolution instead when he tries talking to his crush? Well, this is the story!!~

New here? Start with the main fic! : 🤍

Act I :

The cafeteria smells faintly of whatever crime against humanity they're calling “Wednesday Special.” but Jaehyun can't focus on anything except the knot in his stomach that tightens every time he thinks about you. Two tables away, you're laughing at something your friend said, and the sound makes his chest do this weird fluttery thing that definitely isn't mentioned in any history textbook.

"—and then she just looked at me with those dead eyes and said 'shut up,' but like, in a cute way? Does that make sense?" Woonhak is saying, waving his chopsticks around like he's conducting an orchestra of romantic confusion.

"No," Jaehyun mutters, stabbing his rice with unnecessary violence. "None of what you just said makes sense."

"I think it's romantic," Taesan chimes in, clearly enjoying this mess. "Very enemies-to-lovers."

"We're not enemies! We're... academically challenged seatmates."

Jaehyun snorts, but there's no real humour in it. The truth is, he'd kill to be your academically challenged anything. He'd settle for being the guy you borrow pens from

"That's not a thing," he says flatly.

"Speaking of academically challenged, how's your French Revolution girl?" Woonhak grins, turning his focus on Jaehyun.

Jaehyun's stomach drops. "She's not my—"

But she kind of is, isn't she? You've been sitting two seats away from him in History for three months now, and he's been pathetically, hopelessly in love with you for about two months and three weeks of that time.

"She's fine,"

"Fine?" Taesan raises an eyebrow. "That's all you've got after pining for her since—what, the dawn of time?"

"I haven't been pining."

"You have her schedule memorized," Woonhak points out.

"You've researched her favourite historical periods so you can 'accidentally' bring them up in conversation." Taesan adds.

Jaehyun opens his mouth to deny them, then closes it because those are unfortunately true. Last week he spent four hours researching the Tudor dynasty just because you mentioned liking period dramas.

"Okay, fine. But I'm being strategic."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Like a revolution that ends in public execution," Jaehyun thinks miserably.

"Have you actually talked to her? Like, beyond asking to borrow a pen?"

"Of course I've talked to her. We have conversations."

"About what?"

"History."

"Specifically?"

"The French Revolution."

Woonhak and Taesan exchange a concerned look that makes Jaehyun want to crawl under the table.

"Every time?" Woonhak asks.

"What did you talk about yesterday when she asked about the homework?"

"...Robespierre's execution."

"And when she complimented your notes?"

"The economic factors leading to the storming of the Bastille."

"When she said hi to you this morning?"

"Marie Antoinette's trial transcripts," he whispers.

Taesan is grinning now. "You know what this sounds like to me?"

"Please don't,"

"A challenge."

"No."

"A bet, even."

"Absolutely not."

"Hear me out, you think you're so smooth with your historical facts and your 'strategic' approach. Woonhak here thinks his dead-eyed Chemistry girl is going to fall for his chaotic energy. Why don't we see who can actually get the girl first?"

Woonhak perks up immediately.' "I'm in."

"I'm not," Jaehyun says quickly.

"Scared?" Taesan asks with fake innocence.

Yes, Jaehyun is scared. Terrified, actually. Terrified that you'll never see him more than the weird history guy, scared that he'll spend the rest of high school watching you from across classrooms.

"No, I'm being sensible. Betting on relationships is stupid."

"So you admit it's a relationship you're after?"

"I... that's not what I said."

"It's what you meant. Come on, Jaehyun. You've been talking about this girl for months. Put your money where your mouth is."

"What are the terms?" Woonhak asks, because of course he's already invested in this terrible, wonderful idea.

"Simple. Whoever gets with their girl first wins. The loser pays me fifty thousand won."

"Why do you get money out of this?" Jaehyun demands.

"Because I'm the one smart enough not to fall for anyone. I'm just here for the entertainment.”

Jaehyun looks between his two friends, both wearing matching expressions of anticipation, and realizes he's going to do this even though it's probably the worst idea in the history of terrible ideas.

"Fine," he says. "But I'm going to win."

"We'll see about that," Woonhak says, extending his hand for a shake.

Jaehyun takes it, his palm embarrassingly sweaty, already regretting this decision and desperately hoping it works.

"May the best man win," Taesan says cheerfully. "This is going to be fun."

Fun, Jaehyun thinks as anxiety churns in his stomach. Right. Fun.

Act II :

It's Thursday morning, and Jaehyun's been staring at the back of your head for ten minutes trying to work up the courage to say something that doesn't involve dead French people.

Professor Lee is droning on about the causes of World War I, but Jaehyun isn't listening. He's too busy crafting the perfect opening line.

Just say hi. Normal people say hi. Hi is good. Hi doesn't involve anyone getting their head chopped off.

You drop your pen.

This is it. This is his moment. The universe has handed him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter, and all he has to do is not mess it up.

He scrambles to pick up the pen before you can turn around, his hands shaking slightly as he holds it out to you.

"You dropped this," he says, and he's proud that his voice comes out steady.

"Oh, thanks." You take the pen, and your fingers brush his for just a second. "You're Jaehyun, right? From History?"

His brain completely short-circuits. You know his name. You know his name and you're looking at him with those eyes that are so much prettier up close—

"Did you know," he hears himself saying, "that the immediate cause of World War I was the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but the underlying tensions had been building since the French Revolution fundamentally altered the balance of power in Europe?"

Your eyebrows raise slightly. "That's... a very long historical timeline," you say.

"Right, well, the thing about historical causation is that it's rarely linear, and if you trace back the origins of modern European nationalism, you really have to start with the revolutionary period and how it inspired—"

"Mr. Myung," Professor Lee's voice cuts through his rambling. "Since you seem so eager to share your knowledge, perhaps you'd like to tell the class about the alliance system that contributed to the war's escalation?"

Jaehyun's face burns as he realises thirty pairs of eyes, including yours, all focused on his spectacular public humiliation.

"The, uh, the Triple Alliance and the Triple Entente were..." He stumbles through the answer, hyperaware of you watching him with what he really, desperately hopes is amusement and not second-hand embarrassment.

When class ends, Jaehyun is ready to pack up his things and disappear into the nearest historical archive for the rest of his life. However, when you pause next to his desk, he can feel his heart doing backflips.

"That was impressive," you say.

Jaehyun blinks, sure he misheard what you just said. "You... you think so?"

"I do. Most people just memorize dates and events, but you actually see the connections between different periods. It's cool."

Cool. You think he's cool. Jaehyun's brain is having trouble processing this information because it doesn't fit with his usual narrative of romantic hopelessness.

"Would you..." he starts, then chickens out completely. "I mean, if you ever want to study together, I have pretty comprehensive notes on the revolutionary period."

"I might take you up on that," you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "See you tomorrow, Jaehyun."

You leave, and Jaehyun sits there for a full minute processing what just happened. You complimented his historical thinking. You said his name twice. You might want to study together.

He pulls out his phone with shaking fingers.

Jaehyun : She said my historical connections were cool.

Woonhak : Did you ask her out?

Jaehyun : We're going to study together.

Taesan : That's not asking her out.

Jaehyun : It's progress.

Woonhak : I left a note on my girl's desk today. It said “Don't die today 💗”

Taesan : That’s either very sweet or very threatening.

Woonhak : She smiled when she read it.

Jaehyun : That doesn't count as progress.

Woonhak : It counts more than talking about dead French people.

Jaehyun stares at his phone, then looks around the now-empty classroom. Woonhak has a point, but Jaehyun has something Woonhak doesn’t : a shared intellectual interest. Historical analysis is basicalling flirting, right?

Right?

Act III :

Woonhak : Update: she keeps the sticky note I left on her water bottle.

Jaehyun : That doesn't mean anything.

Woonhak : Update 2 : I found out her favourite chips and left them in her locker.

Taesan : How did you get into her locker?

Woonhak : I have my ways.

Jaehyun : That's called breaking and entering.

Woonhak : That's called romantic gestures.

Jaehyun's chest tightens as he watches the group chat blow up with Woonhak's increasingly bold moves. Meanwhile, his own "progress" consists of you borrowing his notes twice and saying thank you both times.

"Earth to Jaehyun," you say, sliding into the seat across from him in the library. “You look like you're planning someone's execution.”

"What? No, just… reading about the Directory."

"The Directory? We covered that last week."

"I like to review. Historical context is important for understanding the broader implications of political instability—"

"Jaehyun."

"Yeah?"

"You're rambling about the French Revolution again."

The words hit him like a slap because of course he is. His face burns with embarrassment.

"I do that a lot, don't I?"

"Every conversation we've had has ended up there. Yesterday you connected the cafeteria's pizza shortage to bread distribution in 1789."

"That was a valid comparison."

"It was revolutionarily insane."

Jaehyun blinks, looking up at you in confusion. "Revolutionarily?"

"It's a word now. I'm making it a thing."

Despite his mortification, he feels a small smile tugging at his lips. "That's not how language works."

"It's how my language works." You grin at him. "Besides, if anyone's going to create words about revolutions, it should be you."

"Why me?"

"Because you're revolutionarily obsessed with the French Revolution."

"I'm not obsessed, I'm passionate."

"Same thing."

His phone buzzes against the table, and he glances down automatically to see another text : Made her a playlist called "For When You Wanna Punch a Textbook." She said it was good.

The moment of lightness evaporates, replaced by the familiar ache of inadequacy.

"Everything okay?" you ask, noticing his expression.

"Yeah, just... friend drama." The words taste bitter because it's not really drama, it's just him being pathetically jealous of his friend's romantic confidence.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really. It's just..." He sighs. "Do you think some people are naturally better at... connecting with people?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, some people just know how to talk to others, how to make them feel special, how to... I don't know, be interesting without boring them with facts about dead French people."

You study his face carefully, "Is this about a girl?"

Jaehyun's cheeks burn. "No. Maybe. It's complicated."

"Most things involving feelings are," you say softly.

"I'm not good at feelings. I'm good at facts and dates and historical analysis. But feelings..." He shrugs helplessly, the gesture encompassing all his romantic failures and social awkwardness.

"You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're better at feelings than you realize. You just express them differently."

"By talking about the French Revolution?"

"By caring enough to research Tudor England because someone mentioned liking period dramas."

Jaehyun stares at you. “What...?"

"You researched Tudor England after I mentioned 'The Crown,' didn't you?"

His mouth goes dry. "I... how did you know?"

"Because the next day you 'casually' brought up Henry VIII's impact on English reformation during our study session. It was very sweet."

Sweet. You think his desperate attempts to impress you are sweet…

"Sweet?"

"Revolutionarily sweet."

"You're never going to stop using that word, are you?"

"Revolutionarily never."

His phone buzzes again : She texted me back at midnight. She wished me good night.

This time, you definitely notice his expression change.

"Jaehyun?"

"I should go," he says abruptly, gathering his books with shaking hands. "I just remembered I have... a thing."

"A thing?"

"A historical thing. Very important. Revolutionary, even."

You watch him scramble to pack up, clearly flustered.

"Okay, but—"

"See you tomorrow!"

He practically runs out of the library, leaving you sitting there with a confused expression and the distinct feeling that he's just made everything worse.

Act IV :

Woonhak : She missed school for three days. I'm going to her house.

Taesan : That's either very romantic or very stalkerish.

Woonhak : I prefer romantically concerned.

Jaehyun : You can't just show up at someone's house uninvited.

Woonhak : Watch me.

The confidence in those two words makes Jaehyun's chest ache with longing. When was the last time he felt that sure about anything involving you? When had he ever been brave enough to take a real risk instead of hiding behind historical facts and carefully researched conversation topics?

"You look like you've seen a ghost," you say, appearing beside his locker.

"More like witnessed a revolution," he mutters, shoving his phone into his pocket before you can see Woonhak's latest romantic triumph.

"Everything's a revolution with you." You lean against the lockers. "What's wrong? You seem stressed."

"I'm not stressed."

"You explained the economic theories of mercantilism when I asked how your morning was going."

"That was... relevant context."

"For 'good morning, how are you?' Jaehyun, mercantilism has nothing to do with your current emotional state."

He closes his locker with more force than necessary. How is he supposed to explain that his emotional state is entirely dependent on whether you'll ever see him as more than the weird history guy? That every interaction feels like a test he's failing?

"Fine. I've been thinking too much."

"About what?"

"Just... things. Historical things. Revolutionary things."

You study his face with that focused attention you usually reserve for difficult exam questions. "You know, you do this thing when you're upset."

"What thing?"

"You retreat into facts. Start explaining historical concepts instead of talking about what's actually bothering you."

"I don't do that."

"Yesterday you launched into a twenty minute explanation about the Directory when I asked if you wanted to eat lunch together. That's not exactly light conversation."

"The Directory was a fascinating period of political instability—"

"See? You're doing it right now."

His phone buzzes against his leg, his fingers wrap around his phone, tugging it out of his pocket like muscle memory, to discover another message from Woonhak : She let me in. Brought snacks and emotional support. This is going well.

His eyes linger on the screen, heart stuttering as reality sinks in. While Woonhak is being brave, direct and romantically successful, Jaehyun is explaining the economic factors behind the collapse of feudalism when asked about his weekend plans.

"I should get to class," he says abruptly, his voice coming out sharper than intended.

"Jaehyun, wait—"

But he's already walking away, his mind racing with all the ways he's failing at this.

The hallway feels endless as he walks away from you, each step echoing with the realization that being himself isn't enough. That maybe it's never been enough, and all his careful research and passionate explanations are just elaborate ways of avoiding the truth : he doesn't know how to be the kind of person you could fall for.

His phone buzzes again, but this time he doesn't look. He can't handle another update about Woonhak's romantic success when his own feelings are eating him alive from the inside out, when every conversation with you feels like another opportunity to prove how hopeless he really is.

Act V :

The screen lights up Jaehyun's face in the dim cafeteria, the message from weeks ago glowing like a beacon of his romantic failure.

Woonhak : Update : we're dating. She said yes.

The words blur together as Jaehyun reads them over and over, each repetition driving the reality deeper into his chest like a stake through the heart.

The worst part isn't losing the bet. It's the crushing understanding that he's been doing everything wrong. Every carefully researched conversation topic, every passionate explanation, every moment he thought he was connecting with you, it was all just him being too scared to actually try.

That afternoon, turning the corner with Taesan, he nearly walks straight into Woonhak and a girl with tired eyes but a radiant smile, wrapped up in each other in the middle of the hallway.

They look ridiculously, devastatingly happy.

"FINALLY!" Taesan shouts, causing both Woonhak and his girlfriend to turn around with matching startled expressions.

"Seriously?" Jaehyun calls out, forcing enthusiasm into his voice even though it feels like swallowing glass. "We've been waiting for this for months."

And it's true, even through his own heartbreak. Watching Woonhak light up when he talks about her, seeing him stress over whether she likes him back , Jaehyun has been rooting for his friend even as his own romantic prospects crumbled into historical dust.

"Pay up," Taesan says, his hand extended.

"I thought it would take at least another week," he says, his voice barely audible over the sound of his heart breaking.

Jaehyun hands over the money, watching as Woonhak puts his arms around his girlfriend with the kind of casual intimacy that Jaehyun has only dreamed about.

"You bet on us?" Woonhak's girlfriend asks, looking incredulous.

"Of course we bet on you," Taesan says cheerfully. "It was painful watching you two dance around each other."

"We weren't dancing around each other," Woonhak protests.

"You made her a playlist," Jaehyun points out, remembering the texts that had made his stomach churn with envy.

"So?"

"You learned her favorite snacks."

"That's just being observant."

"You skipped class to check on her."

"That's just being a good friend."

"You bought her a stuffed animal."

Woonhak opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, that one might have been a little obvious."

"A little?" his girlfriend asks, raising an eyebrow with the kind of fond exasperation that makes Jaehyun's chest ache with longing.

"Fine. Very obvious. Ridiculously obvious."

"There you go again with the ridiculously."

"It's my thing now."

"It's ridiculous."

"Ridiculously ridiculous."

Jaehyun watches this exchange, and despite the crushing weight of his own romantic failure, he finds himself genuinely happy for his friend. Woonhak deserves this. They both do.

"You two are disgusting," Taesan says, but he sounds fond.

"Ridiculously disgusting," Woonhak agrees cheerfully, pulling his girlfriend closer, making Jaehyun's heart ache because it hurts too much to witness the kind of easy affection he's been dreaming about for months.

Woonhak's girlfriend looks around at all of them, then back at Woonhak, who's still got his arms around her.

"You know what?" she says, and the soft tone in her voice makes Jaehyun's throat tight.

"What?"

"I think I'm okay with ridiculous."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. As long as it's your ridiculous."

Woonhak's grin is blindingly bright, and when he kisses her, Jaehyun has to look away because the happiness radiating from them is almost too much to bear. It's everything he wants and everything he's convinced he'll never have.

"I should have bet on the kiss too," he mutters under his breath, but inside he's thinking about how confident Woonhak is, how easily he expresses his feelings, how he doesn't hide behind facts and information when it matters. How he's everything Jaehyun isn't, brave, direct, emotionally available.

How he's everything Jaehyun wishes he could be for you.

Act VI :

You find Jaehyun in the library the next day, sitting alone at a table covered in books about the French Revolution. He's not reading them, just staring at the pages with an expression that suggests he's seeing nothing.

"Rough day?" you ask, sliding into the seat across from him.

"You could say that."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"How about we sit here quietly while you brood dramatically over Voltaire then?"

Despite the weight of his romantic failure pressing down on his shoulders, Jaehyun's mouth twitches.

"It's actually Rousseau."

"My mistake. Very different kind of brooding."

"Completely different philosophical approach to brooding."

"Revolutionarily different?"

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Never." You lean back in your chair, studying his face. "So what's really going on? And don't say it's nothing, because you've been weird for days and now you look like someone cancelled the French Revolution."

The question hits closer to home than you realize because in a way, someone has canceled his revolution. The quiet uprising of feelings he'd been nurturing, the hope that maybe he could win both the bet and your heart.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" he asks.

"For you? Devastating. You'd have to find a new historical period to obsess over."

"I don't obsess."

"Jaehyun, you once spent an entire lunch period explaining the difference between the Girondins and the Jacobins because I mentioned the word 'politics.'"

"Those are important distinctions."

"They are. But that doesn't mean you're not obsessed."

He's quiet for the next few seconds, the weight of his failures pressing down on him. He closes the book in front of him with more force than necessary.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you think there's something wrong with someone who can only connect with people through historical facts?"

"Is this about you?"

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically, I think that person probably connects with people just fine. They just do it differently."

The gentleness in your voice almost breaks him because it's exactly what he needs to hear and exactly what he can't bring himself to believe.

"But what if they want to connect in other ways and don't know how?"

"Then they could try learning. Connection is a skill like any other."

"What if they're afraid they'll mess it up?"

"Jaehyun, what's this really about?"

He looks at you for a long moment, then down at his hands. "I watched my friend get together with someone yesterday."

"That's good, right?"

"It is. He's happy, she's happy, it's all very... successful." The word tastes bitter in his mouth because success feels like such a foreign concept when it comes to his own romantic life.

"But?"

"But watching them, seeing how easy it was for him to just... be himself and connect with someone..." His voice breaks slightly, and he has to swallow hard before continuing. "It made me realize how terrible I am at this."

"At what?"

"At people. At relationships. At being someone worth caring about."

The words hang in the air between you, and Jaehyun immediately regrets saying them because now you know exactly how pathetic he really is.

"Jaehyun—"

"I mean, look at me. I can tell you everything about the Committee of Public Safety, but I can't figure out how to have a normal conversation without bringing up dead French people. I research historical periods to impress people, then panic and info-dump about revolutions instead of just... talking."

You reach across the table and close the book he's been fidgeting with.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"The reason I like studying with you isn't because you're some master of social connection."

"Okay?"

"It’s because when you talk about history, your face lights up like you’re seeing a hidden beauty only you understand, and you want everyone else to understand it too."

Jaehyun looks up at you, surprised by the warmth in your voice, the genuine affection that he's somehow never noticed before.

"You think you're bad at connecting with people, but you've spent months trying to share something you love with me. That's not bad at connection. That's just... your way of connecting."

The words hit him like a revelation, reframing every awkward conversation and historical tangent in a new light.

"Even when I ramble about the French Revolution?"

"Especially when you ramble about the French Revolution. Because you light up. You get excited, passionate and you forget to be self-conscious. That version of you, the one who cares so much about things that happened centuries ago that you want everyone else to understand why they matter, that's the person worth caring about."

Jaehyun stares at you, his brain struggling to process this new information. You don't just tolerate his historical obsessions, you actually like them.

"Really?"

"Revolutionarily really."

"I can't believe you're still using that word."

"I told you, I'm making it a thing."

"It's not a thing."

"It's my thing."

"Your thing is grammatically incorrect."

"My thing doesn't have to be grammatically correct."

"That's not how language works—"

"Jaehyun."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and let me compliment you."

He blinks, then nods, his throat too tight for words.

"You are not terrible at people. You're just different. And different isn't bad."

"It feels bad when everyone else seems to know what they're doing."

"Everyone else is just better at pretending. Trust me."

You sit in comfortable silence for a moment, until Jaehyun speaks up again.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Always."

"Would you..." He takes a deep breath, gathering every scrap of courage he possesses. "I mean, if someone hypothetically wanted to ask you to study together, but not just study, like actually spend time together because they enjoyed your company..."

"Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically."

You smile. "Hypothetically, I'd say that person should probably just ask instead of hiding behind hypotheticals."

"What if they were nervous?"

"Then I'd say being nervous is normal when you care about the answer."

"And what if they had a tendency to ramble about French revolutionaries when they were nervous?"

"Then I'd say that sounds revolutionarily endearing."

Jaehyun takes a deep breath, looking directly at you.

"Would you like to—" he starts, then stops as his phone buzzes against the table.

He glances at it instinctively, a text from his mother about dinner plans, completely irrelevant but enough to break the moment.

When he looks back up, you're watching him with an amused expression.

"You know what," you say, standing up and gathering your books. "When you figure out how to finish that sentence without checking your phone, let me know."

"Wait, I—"

"I'll be revolutionarily patient," you call over your shoulder with a grin that makes his heart race with possibility, and for the first time in days, Jaehyun allows himself to hope.

Act VII :

Jaehyun finds you in the same spot in the library the next afternoon, but this time he comes prepared. No phones, no distractions, and a heart full of determination.

"Hi," he says, sliding into the seat across from you.

"Hi yourself." You look up from your textbook with a smile. "Figure out how to finish that sentence?"

"Working on it." The words come out steadier than expected.

"Take your time. I'm revolutionarily patient, remember?"

"About that," Jaehyun says, leaning forward slightly. "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday."

"Which part?"

"The part about being different not being bad."

"It's not."

"I know. Or, I'm starting to believe it." He takes a breath. "I also realized something else."

"What's that?"

"I've been so worried about not being good at talking to people, at connecting, at being normal… that I forgot to just be myself."

"And what's yourself like?"

"Apparently someone who researches Tudor England to impress people and connects everything back to 18th-century France."

"Sounds revolutionarily charming."

"There you go again."

"I warned you it was my thing now."

"Your revolutionarily grammatically incorrect thing."

"Exactly." You close your textbook and give him your full attention. "So what did you want to ask me yesterday?"

Jaehyun looks at you, taking in the way the afternoon light catches in your hair, the patient kindness in your eyes, the small smile playing at the corners of your mouth, and realizes that all his carefully rehearsed words have completely disappeared.

But for once, that doesn't send him into a panic spiral about the Directory or the Committee of Public Safety. He just lets himself feel everything he's been carrying around for months, the admiration, the longing, the desperate hope that maybe you could see him the way he sees you.

"I wanted to ask if you'd like to spend time with me," he says simply. "Not studying, not because we have a project or an exam coming up, but just... because."

"Because why?"

"Because I like talking to you. You listen when I get excited about historical connections and you don't make me feel weird for caring about things that happened centuries ago. You made 'revolutionarily' into a word just to tease me, and somehow that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done."

"And because," he continues, gaining confidence from the warmth in your expression, "I've been half in love with you since you corrected Professor Lee about the Battle of Waterloo, and I'm tired of pretending I'm not."

"Half in love?"

"Okay, completely in love. Revolutionarily in love, if we're using your vocabulary."

"We are definitely using my vocabulary."

"Then yes. I am revolutionarily in love with you, and I would like to take you on a date where we can talk about anything you want, as long as I get to spend time with you."

Jaehyun feels his heart hammering against his ribs like it's trying to write its own historical document about this moment, this conversation that feels like it's changing the entire course of his life.

"That," you say, "was revolutionarily romantic."

"Really?" The word comes out breathless with hope and disbelief.

"Really. Although I have one question."

"What?"

"When you say anything I want to talk about… what if I want to talk about the French Revolution?"

Jaehyun blinks, then starts laughing. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. I've been listening to you talk about it for months, and I'm genuinely curious about the economic factors that led to the collapse of the Old Regime."

"You want me to explain the French Revolution to you? On our date?"

"I want you to share something you're passionate about with someone who wants to understand why you love it so much."

Jaehyun stares at you, wondering how he got so incredibly, impossibly lucky. How he managed to fall for someone who thinks his historical ramblings are endearing rather than exhausting, who made up a word just to tease him, who's willing to spend their first date listening to him explain the socioeconomic factors that led to the execution of Louis XVI.

"In that case, would you like to go get coffee tomorrow after class so I can tell you about how the financial crisis of the 1780s created the perfect conditions for revolutionary change?"

"I would revolutionarily love that."

"You know, I'm starting to like your made-up word."

"It's growing on you?"

"Revolutionarily growing on me.”

Act VIII :

"So let me get this straight," Taesan says at lunch Monday, looking between Jaehyun and you. "You finally asked her out by explaining the socioeconomic factors of 18th-century France?”

"It was more romantic than it sounds," Jaehyun says defensively.

"He was revolutionarily romantic," you add.

"You're both using that made up word now?" Taesan looks physically pained.

"It's not made up if we both use it," you point out.

"That's not how language works."

"It's how our language works," Jaehyun says, then pauses in amazement at his own words. "Did I just defend a grammatically incorrect word?"

"You revolutionarily did."

"I can't believe I'm dating someone who thinks 'revolutionarily' is a word."

"You can't believe you're dating someone." Taesan says with brutal honesty. "I was starting to think you'd propose a thesis on the Committee of Public Safety instead of asking her out."

"That's not—" Jaehyun starts, then stops himself. "Okay, that's fair."

Woonhak appears at their table, sliding into the seat next to Taesan with his girlfriend beside him.

"I heard congratulations are in order," Woonhak says.

"From who?" you ask, looking curious.

"Everyone. You two aren't exactly subtle."

"We're revolutionarily subtle," Jaehyun protests.

"You've been holding hands since you walked into the cafeteria," Woonhak points out with amusement.

"That's not unsubtle."

"You also keep looking at each other like you've discovered the secret to historical analysis," Woonhak's girlfriend adds with a knowing smile.

"We have," you say with complete seriousness. "It's called intellectual compatibility."

"That's not a thing," Taesan says.

"Everything's a thing if you believe in it enough," Jaehyun says, then pauses in wonder at his own philosophical statement. "Did I just quote philosophy?"

"Revolutionarily quoted philosophy," you correct.

"I'm going to be sick," Taesan mutters. "You two are disgustingly perfect for each other."

"Revolutionarily disgusting," Woonhak agrees cheerfully, then looks at his own girlfriend. "Right, babe?"

"Ridiculously disgusting," she corrects, and they share one of those looks that makes Taesan pretend to gag.

"Great, now we have two couples with their own made-up vocabulary," Taesan announces. "But I'm happy for you both. Even if Jaehyun did lose the bet spectacularly."

"What bet?" you ask, looking between them with sudden interest, and Jaehyun realizes with horror that he never actually told you about this particular aspect of his romantic journey.

"The bet about who would get a girlfriend first," Woonhak says cheerfully, apparently having forgotten that this was supposed to be a secret. "Jaehyun owed Taesan fifty thousand won."

"You bet on our relationship?" you ask, but instead of sounding angry, you sound rather amused.

"Not exactly," Jaehyun says quickly, his face burning with embarrassment. "We bet on... the timing of our respective romantic endeavours."

"You bet on who would get a girlfriend first," you say flatly, cutting through his attempt at diplomatic language.

"...Yes."

When you don't respond, Jaehyun starts to panic, thinking you're upset, that you'll see this as some kind of objectification or reduction of your relationship to a competition. However, you laugh instead.

"That's revolutionarily ridiculous," you say between giggles.

"You're not mad?" Jaehyun asks, hardly daring to believe it.

"Why would I be mad? It's hilarious. You were so worried about winning a bet that you spent months researching historical periods to impress me instead of just asking me out."

"I wasn't trying to impress you with the research—"

"Jaehyun, you spent four hours learning about Tudor England because I mentioned liking 'The Crown.'"

Woonhak is cackling now, the sound echoing through the cafeteria. "That's even worse than when I thought explaining molecular bonds was flirting."

"At least molecular bonds are relevant to your shared class," Taesan points out with gleeful cruelty. "Jaehyun was out here giving historical lectures because she mentioned pizza."

"One time!" Jaehyun protests. "And it was a valid comparison between food distribution systems!"

"You connected cafeteria pizza to the economic policies of pre-revolutionary France," you say, grinning at him. "It was revolutionarily insane."

"But you liked it," Jaehyun says, suddenly uncertain again.

"I loved it. You cared enough to make those connections. You wanted to share something you were passionate about with me, even if your method was completely unhinged."

"Revolutionarily unhinged," Woonhak's girlfriend corrects, and everyone turns to stare at her in amazement.

"Did you just—" Taesan starts.

"It's spreading," she says with a shrug and a grin. "Like a linguistic revolution."

"That's not how language evolution works," Jaehyun says automatically, his inner history nerd unable to resist the correctio.

"It's how our language evolution works," you say firmly.

"I give up," Taesan announces, throwing his hands up in defeat. "You're all insane, I'm going to be surrounded by historically themed couple vocabulary for the rest of the year."

"Revolutionarily surrounded," you and Jaehyun say in perfect unison.

"Ridiculously surrounded," Woonhak and his girlfriend add together, not to be outdone.

"I need new friends," Taesan mutters, but he's smiling as he says it.

"So," you say, leaning against Jaehyun’s shoulder. "Want to study together after school? I'm still curious about those economic factors you mentioned."

"The ones that led to the collapse of the Old Regime?" Jaehyun asks, perking up immediately.

"Those are the ones."

"Did you know that the financial crisis was actually decades in the making, stemming from France's involvement in multiple costly wars, particularly the Seven Years' War and their support of the American Revolution, which created a massive national debt that constituted roughly 80% of the government's annual revenue by the 1780s..."

As he launches into explanation mode once again, he catches sight of your face, how you're listening with genuine interest, asking thoughtful questions, it's exactly what he's wanted all along, and the realization hits him like a perfectly preserved historical document. This moment, this person, this life where he gets to share his passions with someone who thinks they're worth hearing about.

History has never felt more relevant than it does right now, sitting in a high school cafeteria with the girl he loves, surrounded by friends who tease him but support him, talking about economic policy like it's the most romantic subject in the world.

Vive la révolution, indeed.

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

taglist: @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @reibelhearts @beomev @woonhakntaesansgf @perlleta

#min's favs .ᐟ #SHUT UPPPPP #idt i’ve ever talked about it here before but i double major in history and journalism #and as a history nerd #this fic just filled an empty part of my heart i didn’t even know existed #WHERE IS MY HISTORY NERD MYUNG JAEHYUN WHERE WE CAN WORD VOMIT HISTORY FACTS TO EACH OTHER #oh my god i just developed a new standard #even if they’re not a history nerd they need to be able to listen and be genuinely interested in what i talk about #my baby jaehyun :((#i can imagine his eyes glimmering whenever he mentioned the 1780s #and the way oc is so responsive and receptive of him #they’re so cute 😭😭😭#10/10 i need a myungjae now #boynextdoor #boynextdoor fluff #myung jaehyun fluff #myung jaehyun

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mountaesan · 10 days ago

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leehan bf headcannons!

【 ## 】 PAIRING … 김동현 x fem!reader ⋆ fluff!! // brief mention of kissing + skinship … 1.9k — boynextdoor masterlist ˖ ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗ note. not much dialogue in this one cause i have way too many ihan scenarios… also i tried to stray away from fish but it’s built in this guy i had to

01. would be one of those sassy boyfriends

do u guys remember that one horror what?door episode where they were trying to find the mafias and jaehyun accused him and he literally was like 😒 fine dont let me in the car then and turned around… yeah that’s what i mean by sassy

you and leehan were sitting in the car after a date, debriefing about the fact that you two happened to run into an old friend of yours from high school. now, you don’t remember much about this friend, but what you do remember is her hot ass dad… so you decided to make a joke to bring up that little tiny fact

he was kinda gagged at first while you laughed at your dilf joke, so you thought it landed!! so imagine you’re confusion when leehan put his drink down and fully turned in his seat, now looking out the window…

now you’re laughing harder because oh my GOD since when did he get so sassy. you’re pulling at his shoulder, trying to get him to turn back towards you, but he’s literally crossing his arms over his chest and huffing while you do

it doesn’t last long though, especially after you practically climbed on top of him to kiss his face all over as an unspoken apology

02. prefers when you call him your [insert petname]

it’s usually said when you guys greet each other, like when he comes back home from work or when he picks up your calls.

his body would be aching from his hard day, but a simple “hi my sweet boy” can make you physically SEE him melt

03. teaches you phrases from his hometown late at night

there’s always something so oddly intimate about laying in bed with leehan and being awake in the later hours of the night

he’s sitting against headboard of your bed while your back is pressed against his chest, both of you looking at his hands while you’re mindlessly playing with his fingers. for some reason, neither of you are all that tired. he just tells you different phrases in his little busan accent with his deep voice slightly above a whisper.

even if the activity isn’t intimate, he still gives you praises whenever you use a phrase correctly or kisses your neck when you get the accent down. it’s like he’s proud to see you embrace his home

04. get’s giddy when you love him loudly

he really tries not to care about wherever the conversation is leading when you’re on the phone with your best friend, but his ears perked up when he heard his name coming out of your mouth.

i dont think he’s used to loud affection directed towards him, so in full honesty, he probably didn’t think you were going to be lovey dovey… but then he hears a “yeah, donghyun has been so good to me, i love him a lot”

he literally drops what he’s doing to look at you with a shit eating grin and he’s mouthing the words “i love you too” while flailing his arms around so you see him. everytime you love him loudly he will ALWAYS have that shit eating grin on him

05. always get’s matching stuff whenever he travels

after coming back from his stop in japan and greeting you at the door, you two have been practically merged together since he arrived. laying in silence, he was completely laying on top of you while kissing around your shoulder or neck, while you played with his hair

it was peaceful, like it usually is when you’re with him, until he suddenly jumped up with an “oh!”

“remember that one picture i sent you of that cute blind box shop in osaka?” you hummed as he climbed off of you and made his way towards his suitcase

“look what i got you.” you made your way to his suitcase and literally GASP at the array of different trinkets, all in duplicates of two

“donghyun, you didn’t…”

“oh but i did,” he said as he pulled you onto his lap, “and i always will.”

06. says the randomest things out of nowhere

like in the last with bnd episode where jaehyun said he speaks “randomese,” leehan literally makes no sense ever

he’ll make random noises when he eats something he likes or dislikes, he makes you look through his camera roll while he talks about literally anything on the picture, if you’re washing the dishes he’ll start talking about how depicting fish in media isn’t good for wildlife or something ???? he’s very random, but you’re not complaining

it honestly makes things interesting, and he loves that you put up with it

07. really respectful when it comes to serious talks

it seems surprising since he’s literally so unserious all the time, but the second you voice any kind of concern, he is at your every beck and call. most of the time he won’t make any advances until you come to him first, just in case you don’t feel like talking anything out

he doesn’t talk when you vent about your bad day, he doesn’t talk if you’re talking about your perspective of a small argument you guys got into earlier, and he definitely doesn’t talk if you start to cry out of frustration. he just sits and listens, always offering you a shoulder to cry on whether you’re mad or not

it did take him a while to realize you don’t come to him for solutions though… sometimes you just want your cute boyfriend to listen to you and oh that he does

08. very into pda (surprise!)

i truely believe he would make out with you anywhere in front of anyone if you didn’t care, but you do…. because you have decorum….

if you’re out in public he ALWAYS has a hand on you, whether it’s in subtle ways like at the small of your back or in some “in your face” ways like wrapping his hands around your waist. if you two are at a get together he Will pull you onto his lap in front of everyone and you just have to be okay with it

if it is truely something you’re not comfortable with however, he would one hundred percent adjust to the way you show affection and not complain once. if you did reciprocate in any way (if you like pda or not) he’s geeked all day and he’s looking at where your hands meet all day with a shit eating grin on his face

09. recommends his hobbies whenever you feel stressed

he doesn’t really know how else to help, so when you want to really take your mind off of it, he’ll offer you his hobbies! decorating fish tanks are his personal favorite (this wouldnt be a leehan headcannon if i didn’t mention fish).

he would have everything set up for you after you stepped out of a bath (he it drew up while you were crashing out), and have you talk about your pent up stress and anxiety while quietly decorating tanks for his fish friends that you are VERY acquainted with (:

10. has thousands of off guard pictures of you

and yes he is one of those boyfriends that thinks your ugliest pictures are absolutely jaw dropping. sometimes his members will catch him scrolling through his pictures of you with a grin on his face, and all of the pictures are… so questionable

if you ever ask him what his favorite pictures are of you it’s either the ones where you’re feeding his fish, or the completely off guard ones where he calls your name and takes a picture the second you look at him

his lockscreen is definitely something similar, like a picture of you sleeping with a bunch of tiktok trends on your face or doing something completely stupid that he happened to capture. he opens his phone with a big huge smile everytime

11. the only times he would ever get upset at you is if you’re not taking care of yourself

he has this weird sixth sense whenever it comes to you. you haven’t eaten since breakfast and now it’s 6pm? somehow, he knows, and he orders you food with a note that says “I Know you haven’t eaten in a while. I just know it. You better eat or im going over there and feeding you myself. Love you. Eat.”

pulling multiple all nighters to study for your finals? he’s next to you the entire night, dead silent while watching his youtube videos about deep sea facts. the only time he would bother you was to feed you throughout the night and urge you to drink anything other than caffeine. when you decide you’re done for the day, he’s visibly very upset, and he makes sure you know to take care of yourself. (he does get over it after pulling you for a couple hours of sleep in his arms though)

and he does get upset if you watch an episode of the show you two have been watching together without him. like he doesn’t talk to you for an hour until your literally begging him to… he’s just a sassy guy that cares too much about u

12. BRAINDUMPS

sometimes he’s reminded of certain facts he learned and he gets so excited that he just has to tell you then and there. especially if you’re at the aquarium…

but it could also be literally anywhere. you order salmon at your favorite restaurant?

“babe did you know that most adult salmons die after reproduction and become nutrients and food in the freshwater systems?”

“that’s… really sad leehan”

you two are walking along the han river late at night?

“… and remember the skygazer fish i was telling you about earlier?”

“the ugly one?”

“yes!! yeah, super ugly. they’re everywhere here. and they use electric shock to stun prey isn’t that crazy?”

he get’s super happy if you remember anything or retain the information in any way. it’s like when you get reminded that your friends actually like you; he’s reminded that his girlfriend (who he loves and cherishes with everything in him) actually can see him how he sees her. your interest in his interests make him love you tenfold

13. and although he is a talker, quiet intimate moments is what he loves most

the type to look at you with those huge boba eyes full of love whenever you walk up to him while he’s sat at the kitchen island. you have one hand around his neck and one hand playing with his hair. in moments like these, he lives for the intimate stares you give each other as he wraps his arms around your stomach. it’s like you two are the only people on this planet; all the buzzing stopped and it’s just you looking at him, and him looking at you. even the loud protests and suggestions from the members being thrown at you guys are hushed.

and in the end, that’s all it is when it comes to you. to him, just looking at you is enough to quell his struggles. to him, laying in bed together in silence is enough to quiet his mind. you are the calm to his chaos, and for that, he’s forever reminded of why you are his person <3

nay speaks! FINALLY POSTING AGAIN i have been leehan brain for a minute i love him :p anyways i hope u guys like my song recs too ㅠㅠ

#min's favs .ᐟ #oh i’m SICK #something about a guy who loves you quietly and intimately #but remains silly URFUFH THJS IS WHAT I NEEDED #suffering from immense leehan brain rot #and i fear this only fed the flames #i feel like leehan wouldn’t be into the grand sweeping pda gestures #but more into the smaller intimate gestures #like tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear when it comes loose from the wind #BUT he would def surprise you from to time with a kiss with some dramatic flourish just because he felt like it o3o #UGH MT CUTIE

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mountaesan · 11 days ago

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꽃말 ; k. leehan

pairing. ex!leehan x reader genre. exes to lovers , slight angst , smau oneshot + written word count. 678 warnings. none ? roleplaying ? in the least weirdest way possible ? playlist. you're so lonely now, so you need me back by your side again by baek yerin notes. 꽃말 directly translates to "flower talk" "flower word(s)" or "flower language", which is what we say in korean instead of saying 'meaning of flowers' which i think is adorable also i tried using a kkt messaging app instead of imessage lmk what you guys think ! do we like it ??

my ex opened up a flower shop.

"Okay, but like... when'd you open a flower shop anyway?" you asked, laughter curling at the edge of your voice as you leaned over the cluttered counter, fingertips grazing the velvet-soft petal of a rose. The surface was dusted with soil, scattered with stray leaves and floral tape, the kind of beautiful mess that felt alive.

Donghyun leaned in from the other side, sleeves of his flannel pushed up to his elbows, a faded green apron slung around his waist and streaked with earth. Sunlight streamed in through the glass ceiling above, soft and golden, casting halos around him as if the whole place had been built just to frame him like this—half in bloom, half in mischief.

The greenhouse-turned-flower-shop was a quiet marvel, every wall draped in green, shelves overflowing with blossoms in all colors of softness. It smelled like sun-warmed petals and something unspoken.

"I mean seriously… where’d you even get all this stuff? The money? The materials?"

Donghyun wiped a smudge of dirt from his arm, his mouth twitching into a smirk. “I didn’t.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“This isn’t mine.” His grin grew, just a fraction, like he was waiting for your delayed reaction. “It’s my mom’s friend’s place. She’s out of town for the day. I’m just covering for her.”

“Huh??” Your jaw dropped—dramatically, involuntarily. It only made him laugh.

“What?!” you sputtered, half-scandalized, half-delighted.

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to break no contact. So I did.”

You playfully narrowed your eyes as you brought the bouquet closer to your face, the scent delicate and sweet. “Played me like a fool again, huh?”

“Do you hate me for it?” he asked, reaching across the counter to brush his fingers against yours. “It got you here, didn’t it?”

“Whatever...” you muttered, but you were already smiling, already folding into the warmth of his hand closing around yours.

“I gotta say, I’m impressed,” you admitted, glancing down at the twine-wrapped bouquet. “You really committed to the bit. Even your profile picture. What flower is that, anyway?”

Donghyun blinked, eyes flicking from your entwined hands to your face. “Oh. Uh. It was just the first one I saw on Google.”

You scoffed. “Seriously? No flower language, no secret symbolism?”

“Google came in clutch again,” he said, grinning.

You shook your head. Donghyun's voice was soft when he asked, “Do you think it’s pretty? The bouquet, I mean. I know the shape’s kind of off and the colors are a little chaotic, but... I tried.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, watching the way his gaze lingered on the arrangement—red roses, baby’s breath, white lilies, all slightly uneven, all wrapped in crinkled kraft paper and tied with a crooked bow of twine.

“I love it,” you said quietly.

You didn’t know—and he wouldn’t tell you—that he had spent over an hour searching for the exact right flower for that profile picture. That he'd gone down a rabbit hole of meanings and colors and unspoken things. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

You were here.

And in a shop that wasn’t his, surrounded by blooms he didn’t own, Donghyun had still managed to give you something real.

extra. —

ᰋ liked this ? consider liking, reblogging, or providing feedback !

ᰋ want more ? send in an ask to be added to my permanent taglist !

permanent taglist. @taylorluvation @mimimimiaa @nineooooo @amarecerasus

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mountaesan · 11 days ago

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Hello, I'm Asmaa from north Gaza.

https://chuffed.org/project/129260-urgent-please-help-asma-and-shahd-to-survive-this-genocide

I come from a lifeless neighborhood with no color other than the color of blood and destruction.

I was born in 1991.

I'm a girl from a family of seven boys and six girls, and I'm the youngest.

My mother and I live in a house left to us by my father. I studied at university and graduated with a degree in basic education.

I worked in a private job.

I received a salary that covered my and my mother's expenses as much as possible.

We were happy until the war came.

The war on Gaza began on October 7, 2023.

Here, hell began for us in Gaza. I lost my job and became unemployed. My mother owns nothing, and I own nothing.

My mother was displaced to the southern Gaza Strip for 15 months. I didn't go with her. It was months of longing for my mother and siblings.

My brothers Mahmoud and Ashraf stayed behind.

We were displaced several times because I live in the Shuja'iyya neighborhood, a border area close to the army.

During the displacement on June 27, 2024, we left the house and raced along the road to escape the shells and planes. Then came the lightning strike. The shock was that death was faster than my brothers could escape...

Here, here, we lost our loved ones. I lost my brothers, the apple of my eye, Mahmoud and Ashraf. Mahmoud left no children. As for Ashraf, he left behind his sons who grieve, and my mother is in pain because they departed to God without a farewell, without a kiss on their foreheads, a farewell kiss. After a while, we returned home. The house had been severely damaged by demolition and stones that had fallen from their places, which used to shelter us and protect us. Now, nothing protects us except some worn-out tarpaulins that do not protect us from the heat of summer or the cold of winter. Our suffering is great, but with your help, we may reach a better and dignified life. I appeal to you to help me support myself, my mother, my loved ones, and my family. What you provide makes a difference in our lives as individuals.

We live in a world that has forgotten the meaning of humanity and giving. May God bless you all.

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mountaesan · 11 days ago

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officially back from my semi hiatus , i’m gonna have to get to my taglists and comments and reblogs a little later today but i’m hoping to upload a leehan smau oneshot i worked on during my flight LOL

GUESS WHO’S BACKKKKKK

#min talks #guys hmu abt lolla it was so fun oml 💔

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mountaesan · 11 days ago

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GUESS WHO’S BACKKKKKK

#min talks #oh my god guys i have sm shit to say

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mountaesan · 20 days ago

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hi guys !! quick little announcement :

i'll be out of town for the next week because i'm flying out to chicago to see boynextdoor at lollapalooza !! this is super exciting for me but i fear i won't have the time or energy to write ( i'll also be without my laptop ) :< i'm so so sorry but i promise to get back on the grind as soon as i get back !

soooo i'll be ia starting tomorrow ^-^ love you guys and thank you so much for all the love on soft spot ~~

#min talks

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mountaesan · 20 days ago

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aaaa thank you so much !! i’m so glad you enjoyed 🤍

OHH MY GOD THATS WHAT THE SONG WAS I LOVE THAT SONG I JS COULDNT FIND IT AND EVENTUALLY GAVE UP ON ADDING IT TO THE PLAYLIST thank you so much for reminding me !!! :3

the sun, the moon, and the stars ; p. sungho

pairing. bf!sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship word count. 1.6k warnings. none ? kissing playlist. can’t help falling in love by kina grannis , lover by taylor swift notes. i just finished ‘i’ll give you the sun’ by j. nelson and noah and jude’s bantering inspired this in the middle of the night hope you guys enjoy !

The morning light slipped in slow, golden and quiet, like it didn’t want to wake you. It brushed over the curve of the window frame, kissed the walls in a soft glow, and spilled across the empty space beside you—where his warmth should’ve been.

Still half-asleep, your hand wandered into the crease of the wrinkled sheets, instinctively reaching for a presence that was no longer there. Your fingers met nothing but cooling cotton. A faint frown tugged at your lips, not from surprise—because this was becoming a pattern—but from that ache, small and sharp, that came with missing someone even in sleep.

You forced your eyes open, squinting against the light as your mind caught up with the absence. The spot beside you was empty. Of course it was. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, head still heavy, sleep still clinging, and scanned the quiet room for him.

And as if summoned by the shape of your longing, Sungho appeared in the doorway, towel slung carelessly around his neck, drops of water clinging to the ends of his bangs like morning dew. His pajama pants—matching yours—sat low on his hips, revealing the faint trace of skin you always found comfort in. You watched him, still bleary-eyed and not quite real, until his voice broke the hush.

“You’re awake?” he asked, voice soft. “I was going to let you sleep a little longer.”

You closed your eyes again and smiled faintly, voice a murmur. “You know I can’t sleep without you. Why’d you sneak off?”

He padded over with a sheepish shuffle, and you let out a breathy giggle as he climbed over you—never around, always over—a habit left over from those early days of living together when everything still felt too new and too precious to disturb.

“Guilty,” he whispered as he slipped beneath the covers, arms winding instinctively around your waist to pull you in. His head found its home on your chest, and your fingers, without thinking, wove into his damp hair, tracing along the strands with the ease of familiarity. He sighed, a sound that rumbled low and content, and when he looked up, he kissed the tip of your nose like it was something sacred.

“Good morning, baby,” he murmured, like it was a secret meant only for you.

“Good morning,” you whispered back.

The light climbed slowly up the sky while the two of you remained tucked beneath the covers, pressed together in silence that asked for nothing more than to stay like this. At some point, you had traded places—your cheek now resting against the warmth of his bare chest, his arms still loosely around you, thumb tracing lazy circles over the skin just above your waistband.

You did the same to him, fingers drawing small, shapeless things across his ribs. He shivered when your touch got too close to ticklish spots, giggling between his protests and never really meaning them.

You leaned up to press a kiss to his collarbone, just because, and the stillness settled again—quiet, golden, soft.

“I’d give you the sun,” he said, voice barely above a breath, like he’d been holding it in for a while.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“There was this article I read,” he said, shifting slightly. “About how people in love expect things from each other without saying them out loud. Like, sacrifices. Little ones. Big ones. And I was thinking… maybe instead of waiting for people to prove it, maybe we should just say it.”

Your brows furrowed, not fully awake, not fully following.

“I’m saying,” he clarified, “that I would give you the sun. Just so you’d never have to ask.”

You smiled, slow and sleepy. “Really?”

“Mhm.” He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s how much I love you.”

You nestled closer, voice barely audible. “Then I’d give you the moon.”

“And I’ll give you the stars.”

“I’d give you the sky. And the clouds.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, we’re doing this now?”

“Why?” you teased. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

“Oh, it’s on.”

And just like that, the game began. A quiet competition between kisses and laughter, naming all the things in the world you would give up for each other in the name of love.

“The ocean.”

“The trees.”

“The wind.”

“The sea glass.”

“The flowers.”

“The tide pools.”

“The grass.”

“The rivers.”

The list stretched longer than time itself, your words tumbling between giggles and tangled limbs, hands intertwining somewhere in the lull. You didn’t notice when the sun had risen fully above the city, or when the morning bled into afternoon. All you knew was the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his promises, folded gently between your own.

You would’ve stayed in that bed forever if the world had let you.

You loved Sungho. That was never up for debate. But the knowing—the bone-deep knowing—hit the moment he sat on the edge of the kitchen table, peeling open a pomegranate with the kind of tender precision usually reserved for prayer. His fingers stained red, your favorite fruit in a bowl you hadn’t even asked for. That was the moment your heart whispered, this is the one.

He was everything good you could name and then some.

Romantic. Gentle. Quietly fierce. A man with a spine of iron and a heart soft enough to hold yours. He never sought attention, but he never let injustice pass unchecked. And he never let anyone make you feel small.

So when you stepped into your apartment that night—bag sliding from your shoulder, the hallway lit only by flickering candles and shadows—and saw him on one knee, your breath caught in your throat.

“Sungho…”

Your name trembled from his lips, his hands clutching a small velvet box—the one he’d hidden beneath his socks for months. The one that held the rest of your lives.

“[Name]…”

He said your name like it was the only thing keeping him steady. His voice was trembling, his hands were trembling, but his eyes—his eyes were clear, unshakable, even with tears balanced at the brim.

“I’ve thought about this moment every day since I met you. How it might look. What I might say. And I still don’t think I’ll ever have the right words, not really. Because how do you describe something that just is?

“I used to think love was something that made your heart race. Something loud. Dramatic. Like lightning or thunder or fire. And for a while, I waited for that kind of love. That movie love. But then you came along, and it was… different.”

His voice trembled, so he paused to steady it.

“You didn’t crash into my life. You slipped in like a quiet season. Like spring after a long winter. Gentle. Unassuming. And before I even knew what was happening, you were just… there. In every part of my day. In the way I took my coffee. In the songs I played on the drive home. In the empty side of my bed that didn’t feel so empty anymore because it was waiting for you.”

He smiled softly through a tear, his eyes fixed on yours like he needed you to feel this in your bones.

“I don’t think love is thunder anymore. I think it’s a quiet kitchen at midnight. I think it’s peeling pomegranates because you love them and I hate the mess. I think it’s letting you steal the blanket even when you kick in your sleep. It’s folding your laundry while you nap, and memorizing the sound of your laugh, and loving you so much it doesn’t fit in my chest some days.”

His voice thickened with emotion, but he kept going, like every word had been waiting for this moment.

“You are the best part of every day I’ve ever had. And if you’ll let me… I want to be the best part of yours. I want to grow old with you. I want to hold your hand in every version of forever we get. I want a life with you—not the perfect one, not the easy one—but the real one. With messy mornings and sleepy kisses and everything in between.”

You sank to your knees in front of him, eyes wet, heart full.

“I gave you the sun,” he whispered.

You let out a breathy laugh between tears. “And the stars. And the trees. And the sea glass.”

He grinned, tearful. “I did. And I still have more to give. I’ll give you the moon, and the wind, and the ocean—”

“Baby, those were the ones that I gave you,” you sniffled, swatting at him through your tears.

Sungho laughed, the sound choked and beautiful. “I love you, [Name]. And I’d give up everything I have, everything I am, just to keep you happy. So…”

He opened the box, revealing the ring that had been burning a hole in his drawer for months. The one you’d been sneaking glances at for weeks now—but no matter how often you looked at it, it managed to steal your breath away.

“…will you let me love you and cherish you for the rest of our lives?”

You nodded, too choked up to speak. “Yes. God, yes.”

He rose to his feet, gently pulling you with him, his thumbs brushing away your tears before he cupped your face and kissed you—slow, sure, full of everything you didn’t need to say out loud.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

“I love you too. Thank you.”

He smiled, his forehead resting against yours. “The sun, the moon, and the stars.”

“And everything in between.”

ᰋ liked this ? consider liking, reblogging, or providing feedback !

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#min’s fav notes .ᐟ

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mountaesan · 21 days ago

Text

the sun, the moon, and the stars ; p. sungho

pairing. bf!sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship word count. 1.6k warnings. none ? kissing playlist. j’s lullaby by delaney bailey notes. i just finished ‘i’ll give you the sun’ by j. nelson and noah and jude’s bantering inspired this in the middle of the night hope you guys enjoy !

“You’re awake?” he asked, voice soft. “I was going to let you sleep a little longer.”

You closed your eyes again and smiled faintly, voice a murmur. “You know I can’t sleep without you. Why’d you sneak off?”

“Good morning, baby,” he murmured, like it was a secret meant only for you.

“Good morning,” you whispered back.

You leaned up to press a kiss to his collarbone, just because, and the stillness settled again—quiet, golden, soft.

“I’d give you the sun,” he said, voice barely above a breath, like he’d been holding it in for a while.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

Your brows furrowed, not fully awake, not fully following.

“I’m saying,” he clarified, “that I would give you the sun. Just so you’d never have to ask.”

You smiled, slow and sleepy. “Really?”

“Mhm.” He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s how much I love you.”

You nestled closer, voice barely audible. “Then I’d give you the moon.”

“And I’ll give you the stars.”

“I’d give you the sky. And the clouds.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, we’re doing this now?”

“Why?” you teased. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

“Oh, it’s on.”

And just like that, the game began. A quiet competition between kisses and laughter, naming all the things in the world you would give up for each other in the name of love.

“The ocean.”

“The trees.”

“The wind.”

“The sea glass.”

“The flowers.”

“The tide pools.”

“The grass.”

“The rivers.”

You would’ve stayed in that bed forever if the world had let you.

He was everything good you could name and then some.

“Sungho…”

Your name trembled from his lips, his hands clutching a small velvet box—the one he’d hidden beneath his socks for months. The one that held the rest of your lives.

“[Name]…”

His voice trembled, so he paused to steady it.

He smiled softly through a tear, his eyes fixed on yours like he needed you to feel this in your bones.

His voice thickened with emotion, but he kept going, like every word had been waiting for this moment.

You sank to your knees in front of him, eyes wet, heart full.

“I gave you the sun,” he whispered.

You let out a breathy laugh between tears. “And the stars. And the trees. And the sea glass.”

He grinned, tearful. “I did. And I still have more to give. I’ll give you the moon, and the wind, and the ocean—”

“Baby, those were the ones that I gave you,” you sniffled, swatting at him through your tears.

Sungho laughed, the sound choked and beautiful. “I love you, [Name]. And I’d give up everything I have, everything I am, just to keep you happy. So…”

“…will you let me love you and cherish you for the rest of our lives?”

You nodded, too choked up to speak. “Yes. God, yes.”

He rose to his feet, gently pulling you with him, his thumbs brushing away your tears before he cupped your face and kissed you—slow, sure, full of everything you didn’t need to say out loud.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

“I love you too. Thank you.”

He smiled, his forehead resting against yours. “The sun, the moon, and the stars.”

“And everything in between.”

ᰋ liked this ? consider liking, reblogging, or providing feedback !

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mountaesan · 21 days ago

Note

HELLO. user mountaesan. i’m lowkey convinced you are a lawyer yourself with how euphoria inducing your fic was. because OH WAS IT PURE EUPHORIA READING THAT. i’ve never seen an author who has such amazing characterization and world building as you do trust me my eyes were GLUEDDDD to my phone I CANT PUT DOWN THE CUP. and oh my god don’t get me started on the plot itself. SUITS MENTION TOO 👅 that was better than any episode of suits. and oh my god i seriously felt like i was watching a show with how descriptive things were like i really felt like i was there in that damn meeting room with sungho. and DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE TA DETAIL…. them having that background and his fondness remembering all that was just JHEEMFNDKSJDB i loved it i loved every word of it. i’m so excited for the next parts of your series!!!! my only complaint was that THIS STORY WAS TOO SHORT MAKE IT A SCREENPLAY AND TURN IT INTO A SHOW ILL FUND!!!

me being seated gripping my phone reading this fic

HELLO. user lcvclywon. STOPP YOU'RE TOO KIND WHAT THE FART SMELLA. you are acc way too sweet I AM SWINGING MY FEET RN THANK YEW :< BUT OH MY LORDY A FELLOW SUITS FAN HI HELLO HEYY bye this entire series was created because i was obsessed with that show ( i'm acc watching s7e1 as i'm writing this LOLL )

BUT RAAA I'M SO GLAD YOU ENJOYED !! thank you so much for your interest and your kind words and i hope you enjoy the rest of the series !!!

( bye you're too sweet i love you )

#min's mail .ᐟ #; don't debate it just litigate it

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mountaesan · 22 days ago

Text

COURT FILE ONE — P. SUNGHO

📂 pairing. senior partner!sungho x newbie associate!reader

📂 genre. mentor/mentee , lawyer!au , slow burn , reader tries to be angsty but sungho shuts it down

📂 synopsis. you’re a sharp first-year associate trying to keep your head down—until park sungho, the firm’s youngest partner and brutal courtroom closer, starts pushing you harder than anyone else. at first, it’s just strategy meetings and late nights on the case he placed you as lead. but something shifts—small glances, quiet confessions, a closeness that starts to feel less like mentorship and more like something neither of you can name. just as the line between professional and personal begins to blur, an anonymous note lands on your desk: end it, or face the consequences. with your career hanging in the balance and sungho’s past beginning to unravel in ways you didn’t expect, both of you are forced to decide what’s worth protecting more—the job both of you learned to love, or the connection that could cost you everything.

📂 word count. 14.6k

📂 warnings. cursing , kissing , inaccurate legalese , this is honestly more law than romance ㅠㅠ

📂 notes. it's finally here !! this part one of my ongoing don't debate it, just litigate it ! series ! if you're interested, feel free to check out the rest / comment , dm , or send in an ask to be added to the series taglist !!

The elevator crawled.

You shifted on your feet, your weight rocking between the toes of your heels and the worn-down back edge of your heel that’s been dragged through too many office hallways in the past month alone. The glowing numbers above the steel doors changed with the pace of molasses—slow, cruel, almost deliberate in their lack of urgency. They hummed a dull red, floor by floor, and each new number flickering to life only reminded you of how far you were from where you wanted to be.

No one else seemed bothered. Around you, everyone existed in their own little curated silences—thumbs tapping on phones, pages rustling in manila folders, mouths occasionally parted in silent reading. They didn’t fidget. They didn’t worry. They were either better at hiding it than you were or were far less concerned about the time.

You were the only one crammed in the farthest corner, arms full with a precariously stacked mess of annotated briefs and color-coded case files—documents you barely finished scanning at 3 a.m., under the dim glow of your kitchen light, nerves prickling with the weight of how important today was supposed to be.

Papers shifted in your grip every time the elevator jolted, and you were so tightly pressed against the back wall that you could feel the cool steel seeping through the fabric of your blazer.

It's only been a month.

Four weeks since you joined BND Law—this sharp, gleaming monolith of ambition and power. The place you dreamt about while scraping by in the last two years of law school, sleepless and stubborn, convinced that one day you would walk these halls like you belonged here.

And maybe you did. Or maybe you were still pretending.

Regardless, today was supposed to prove something.

You were meant to be in a meeting—an actual, real meeting—not a coffee-fetching, ‘take notes and keep quiet’ kind of meeting. You were invited to sit in on a contract negotiation prep with none other than Park Sungho himself.

The man. The myth. The firm’s own executioner in a $2,000 suit. He was ruthless in the courtroom and even more brutal in negotiation.

You’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. They called him “The Closer” because he didn’t miss. He wasn’t loud or flashy. He didn't need to be.

He killed deals with the precision of a scalpel, not a hammer. His voice was calm, steady—the kind that didn’t rise because it didn’t have to. It would cut, clean and quiet. And somehow, that was worse.

The first time you saw Sungho, he was eviscerating a billion-dollar client.

Not yelling—no. Much worse.

He didn’t blink when the CFO tried to interrupt. He didn't move when the general counsel swallowed air like a dying fish. He dismantled the entire room and walked out with his tie still knotted and not a single file out of place.

You were nothing but a shadow pressed against the glass wall, one foot half out the door, assigned only to shadow. Intern-level, practically. A week fresh on the job and still blinking at your badge like it was a joke left unfinished.

He didn’t look at you then.

And you could only hope, as the elevator finally lurched open to floor 48, that he still wouldn’t.

You muttered something that might be an apology as you slipped out, weaving through the bodies that didn’t move fast enough. Your heels clicked down the hallway—too loud, too rushed, too revealing of how late you were. You passed cubicles in a blur of beige and navy, dropping your coat to the edge of your desk without bothering to hang it, and barely managed to steady your breath before the conference room came into view.

“Hey, you okay?”

You spun at the sound. It was Woonhak, an intern who had been here a grand total of two days longer than you have. He was wearing the same shirt from yesterday, rumpled tie askew, and had eyes that looked like he’d seen four apocalypses and decided to catalog them in Excel. And he was smiling, because, of course he was. It was the same tired smile that somehow kept showing up even when nothing else in him did.

“I’m late, what else is new?” you gasped. “Are you?”

You kept moving, urgency pulling at your spine, and he followed.

“Morgan had me up all night sorting litigation docs.”

“Did you even sleep?”

He shrugged and pulled a pen from the pocket of his wrinkled shirt before offering it to you like a talisman. “I squeezed in a power nap between 3:30 and 3:45. I’m practically thriving.”

You took the pen with trembling fingers. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“No, just your last line of defense.”

You reached the conference room and stopped, half-shielded behind the wall, just out of sight from the glass that revealed everyone already seated inside. Regret began building a home in your throat.

Woonhak gestured with his head. “Go. You’re already dead, might as well haunt them.”

You mouthed a thank-you and he vanished down the hallway like a ghost in business school drag.

You inhaled once. Then again. You pushed the door open and six heads turned at the same time.

Sungho’s gaze was the last to land on you, but it was the one that stuck.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, slipping into the nearest empty chair like the way you used to when you were late to Monday morning lectures during your time at law school. You kept your head low and eyes down until the murmurs of discussion resumed.

But not for long. Before you could manage to pull out all the necessary documents from your files, Sungho’s voice sliced clean through the chatter in the conference room.

“Who redlined the indemnity clause?” Everyone fell quiet. Even the HVAC felt like it went quiet.

Your eyes tracked the movement of his finger as it landed on a page you knew too well—the one with your notes, your redline. Your tiny attempt at protecting the client before you convinced yourself not to guess it.

You swallowed. “I did.”

You weren’t sure why you owned up to it. Maybe it was the heat in the room. Maybe it was the way he said it, like a dare.

Sungho looked up for the first time. Really looked. Something flickered behind his gaze—not irritation. Not quite.

His voice was a scalpel, not sharp in volume but in clarity when he spoke again. “And why did you change a clause that’s been standard for this client for five years?”

You could feel your pulse in your teeth. The senior associate next to you shifted in his seat, ever so slightly. Maybe to warn you. Maybe to get further away.

“Because it leaves our client exposed,” you said, voice steady. You squared your shoulders before you continued. “If the supplier defaults, we eat the cost. It’s not just bad optics—it’s dangerous precedent.”

There was a pause, long enough to make your heart thud in your throat.

Sungho’s lips twitched. “Dangerous precedent,” he repeated, mostly to himself. Then—and this part would haunt you later—he smiled. Just slightly, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Well,” he said, shutting the folder with a single, deliberate motion. “Looks like someone’s been reading more than the onboarding packet.”

You blinked. “Did I… do something wrong?”

“No.” He leveled you with a look. “That’s the problem. Come see me after.”

And then he was gone.

And the room exhaled.

You stood at the threshold of his office with the case summary clutched in your hand, your fingers leaving little half-moons in the margin. The sun had dipped low behind the skyline, casting the floor in long amber shadows.

You thought he hadn’t noticed you lingering out, but you were obviously wrong.

“Come in,” Sungho said without looking up. “Shut the door.”

You did. The latch clicked behind you, suddenly too loud.

He was at his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, cuffs crisp. Jacket draped over the back of his chair like it was afraid to wrinkle. He was reviewing a file with the kind of intensity reserved for cross-examinations and chess matches. You didn’t breathe until he finally looked up.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You blinked. “You asked me to.”

He hummed, noncommittal. He leaned back in his chair.

“You always follow orders that quickly?”

“I follow logic,” you replied sharper than you intended. “You flagged my redline, and I assumed you wanted to talk about it.”

“I did.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You did.

The chair was uncomfortable, but maybe that was just the way he was watching you—like a puzzle missing its final piece, and he couldn’t decide if that was a flaw or a challenge.

He tapped the folder on his desk. “You went rogue on a legacy contract. Most first-years wouldn’t dare.”

You met his gaze, even though it scorched. “Most first-years didn’t spend their summer internships watching billion-dollar companies crash because someone didn’t speak up in time.”

For a second, just a second, something in his expression flickered. Then—

“So you’re the moral compass type,” he said, like it was a diagnosis. “Do-gooder. Believer in justice. I should’ve guessed.”

“I believe in not getting sued,” you said.

He laughed.

It startled you. It startled him, too, from the way his smile faltered like it wasn’t used to staying long. He ran a hand through his hair, leaned forward, elbows on the desk now.

“And here I thought I’d have to waste another quarter breaking in the new hire.”

“I’m not a horse, sir.”

“No,” he said, gaze still fixed on you. “You’re something else.”

Silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut. You knew how these conversations usually ended—with him tearing your logic apart, poking holes just to see if you could patch them fast enough. But this felt different; curious. Dangerous.

He reached for the brief you were holding, and your fingers brushed as he took it from you. Barely a graze, but it stayed. In your skin. In your spine.

“You’re not bad,” he murmured, skimming the first page. “Rough. Green. But sharp.”

You tried not to let the praise sink in too deep. Tried.

“Thank you,” you said, quieter.

“Don’t thank me yet.” He glanced up. “I’ll be correcting your work personally from now on.”

You blinked. “Isn’t that the senior associate’s job?”

He smiled again—small and unreadable. “Not anymore.”

Your pulse stuttered.

He returned to the file like nothing had shifted. And just as you stood, thinking the conversation was over, he added—with looking up:

“Next time you change a contract, bring it to me first.”

You paused. “To get approval?”

“To see if I agree. And so far, you’re batting one for one.”

The sun had nearly vanished by the time you stepped back into the corridor, but your shadow stretched across his desk like a question left unanswered.

You had walked in as another first-year with something to prove.

You walked out with Park Sungho’s attention like a weight across your spine—heavy, sharp, and impossible not to feel.

You almost didn’t step in.

You could’ve stayed where you were—just outside the threshold of the elevator, half-invisible, half-deciding. You could’ve fiddled with the strap of your heel, pretended your badge was caught on your lanyard, murmured something about an email, a calendar alert, anything that might’ve bought you a sliver of time. Ninety seconds. Just long enough to breathe, to recalibrate, to unspool the wire wound tight in your chest.

But then you looked up. And he was already there.

Park Sungho stood inside the elevator like he’d been waiting for no one—and still, somehow, like he knew exactly who was coming. The overhead lights cast soft shadows across his face, catching at the hollow of his throat and the sharp line of his jaw, unshaven just slightly, like perfection that had the audacity to be effortless.

His tie was loose, one side uneven. His thumb rested just beneath his lower lip, like he’d been in the middle of thinking something through—something ruthless, something human. Something that maybe had nothing to do with you. And maybe everything.

And then—impossibly, maddeningly, he smiled.

Not the kind you could prepare for. Not polite. Not empty.

Just a slow, slanted thing that flickered at the corner of his mouth and didn’t reach his eyes but still made your stomach tighten like a pulled thread.

“Are you getting in,” he asked, his voice dry and casual and razor-clean, “or giving the carpet a performance review?”

There wasn’t a right answer to that. So you stepped inside.

The doors slid closed behind you with a hush that sounded too much like consequence.

The silence was immediate. Thick with the low hum of electricity and the soft whisper of moving air. Your coffee cup wobbled slightly in your grip. You shifted the folder in your arms. Tried your best to stand still. But everything about the moment felt slightly off-balance—like standing too close to the edge of something tall.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

The numbers above the door glowed one by one—32, 33, 34. Each floor felt slower than the last. His cologne, clean and cool with a trace of cedar, lingered in the air between you, a fervent presence of its own. It smelled expensive. Precise. Not warm, but not cold either.

It shouldn’t have affected you. You told yourself that as your lungs betrayed you anyway.

He waited until the 35th floor.

“So,” he said suddenly, like the two of you had been mid-conversation and he’d just decided to rejoin it, “I read your write-up on the Dunbrook acquisition.”

You turned toward him, startled. “That was meant for Ahn, not you.”

“I know,” he replied, unfazed. “I still read it.”

Of course he did.

You took a second before speaking again. “What did you think?”

“I think,” Sungho said, tilting his head, “you have a habit of burying the lead in the fourth paragraph. I also think you’re dangerously fond of moral arguments in an M&A report.”

Your grip on the folder tightened. “I didn’t realize conviction was a flaw here.”

“It’s not,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “It’s just rare. Like a vintage error. Idealism in this field—it’s either fascinating or fatal.”

You didn’t hesitate. “And which am I?”

That’s when he turned. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes found yours—and this time, they stayed.

He looked at you like you were a question he didn’t remember writing down. Like your face was something he wasn’t expecting to catalog today but couldn’t bring himself to skip over. The seconds stretched. His voice dropped an octave lower when it returned.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Something shifted. The air, maybe. The lighting. Or maybe just the space between you—the space that now felt charged with something wordless and half-dared.

You turned away, gaze fixing on the elevator doors again, trying to keep your breath steady, your face unreadable. You weren’t sure if he noticed the way your hand flexed slightly around the cup. You weren’t sure if he was supposed to.

He let the silence bloom again, slow and warm like steam rising off asphalt.

Then—right as the elevator chimed and the number 48 lit up in quiet red—he said, casually:

“You’re coming to the strategy meeting with me this afternoon.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t on my schedule.”

“It is now.”

You turned to face him again, brows furrowing. “Why me?”

He stepped forward—not too close, but close enough that you had to look up slightly to meet his eyes. The elevator’s ceiling light caught on the edge of his cheekbone, cutting gold into the sharp silhouette of him. He didn’t smile this time.

He just said, low and certain:

“Because no one else argues with me. And I’m tired of being right.”

The elevator dinged again. The doors slid open with a breath of cold air.

You stepped out first, unsure whether you were walking or floating or falling, heart stammering in your throat. You didn’t dare look back.

Behind you, the elevator doors closed with a whisper.

A couple weeks later, you stopped checking your calendar. There wasn’t a point.

If Sungho was in a meeting, you were expected to be in that meeting. If he was on a call, your phone rang next. If a file hit his desk, it landed on yours thirty seconds later with his handwriting bleeding across the margins like a challenge only you could decode.

The other first-years started noticing. So did the senior associates.

Kim Woonhak tried to be subtle about it—dropping off coffee with increasingly sympathetic glances and whispering things like “You’re basically his paralegal now” behind his hand while pretending to refill the printer.

The more jaded ones weren’t as kind.

“Guess she’s his new favorite,” someone muttered once outside the elevators.

You heard it. So did Sungho. He didn’t even blink.

You expected it to bother you. It didn’t. Not really. The pressure? Sure. The stares? You could live with them.

But the work—God, the work—you liked it. It made your bones hum and your brain fire and your spine stand a little straighter. You liked reading between the lines of every clause and clawing through risk assessments like puzzles left behind for you to solve.

And as for Sungho…

Well. You liked the way he operated. You liked the way he saw you—not as the intern or the tag along or the bright-eyed newbie but as something sharper. Not polished, but capable of polish. Not seasoned, but promising. His kind of promising.

(You told yourself it wasn’t that kind of like. You told yourself that more than once.)

Which is why—when it happened—it didn’t feel like a plot twist. Just a slow-building storm you should’ve seen coming.

The strategy meeting was running late. It was past 9, the windows reflecting nothing but the city’s exhausted glow and your own face looking back at you—tired, alert, and suddenly you’re trying not to jitter your leg.

Sungho leaned back in his chair, flipping through the draft complaint with one hand and a pen between his teeth.

The room was full. Legal counsel, two senior associates, a paralegal, even Ahn. Everyone was locked in.

Then, without warning, Sungho lowered the file, looked directly at you, and said:

“She’s taking first chair.”

The room went silent.

You blinked. “What?”

“She’ll lead.”

Ahn frowned. “You mean for discovery?”

“No,” Sungho replied calmly, gaze still on you. “First chair. Trial counsel.”

It was the kind of silence that followed a meteor.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your heartbeat was suddenly in your throat, thudding so loud it drowned out your ability to speak.

You managed to squawk out a single syllable. “Me?”

“Yes,” he said, like it was obvious. “You’ll lead first chair on the Reed case. Opening, cross, everything.”

Across the table, one of the senior associates paused mid-highlight. Another raised an eyebrow. Not out of disrespect, but surprise. No one questioned Sungho. Still, people whispered. People noticed. The Closer didn’t share the floor. The Closer didn’t delegate.

Except now—he had.

“To be clear,” you said, trying to keep your voice from splintering, “you want me to argue in front of Judge Han?”

He nodded once. “You’re the one who caught the conflict in the supplier contracts. You built the leverage. You know the case better than anyone in this room.” His pen tapped once against the page. “You’re ready.”

You weren’t. Not on paper. Not by firm hierarchy. And yet—

“But I’ve barely been here for three months. I haven’t even— I’ve never—”

“You’ll learn.”

“Sungho,” Ahn interjected, “are you sure that’s—”

“I’m not opening it for debate,” he said coolly.

The meeting moved on, or tried to. You barely heard it.

When the meeting ended, people filtered out like smoke, murmuring softly. Sungho stayed seated until it was just you. Still rooted to your chair, still stunned.

He glanced over. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m processing,” you said.

He closed his notebook, leaned back. “Same thing.”

“I haven’t even done direct questioning in a mock trial since law school.”

“You’ll prepare.”

“You want me to do this—why?”

He paused, just long enough to make the room feel too quiet.

“Because you’re not afraid to speak when everyone else goes silent,” he said, like it was obvious. “Because you ask the right questions. Because your instinct is good—your integrity better. Because no one can fake the kind of clarity you have when you care.”

You sat there, stunned.

He set the folder down and folded his hands over it, elbows on the table.

“I’m not throwing you in the deep end to watch you drown,” he said. “I’m walking in with you. Every motion. Every objection. Every prep call, every late night, every fuck-up, every win. I’ll be right there.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You think I can do this.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded.

“I know you can.”

And for a moment, you let that settle. Let yourself believe him.

The next few weeks blurred. Not because you forgot them—but because every second was dense with movement, thought, and adrenaline. You lived in the war room and inside your own head.

You were drowning in timelines and case law and evidence lists, and somehow also rising—with every step Sungho matched beside you, every dry-run cross-examination in the dim-lit back offices, every outline he redlined and handed back with a comment that pushed you harder.

You started knowing what he would say before he said it. He started handing you arguments before you asked.

You worked out of his office so often that Woonhak joked about installing a second desk. You ignored him. Mostly.

Sometimes Sungho would lean against the edge of your chair while you read out loud, circling flawed logic. Other times he’d stay late, jacket off, tie loosened, eyes half-closed as he listened to you recite your opening until you stopped tripping over the third sentence.

He never raised his voice. He never let you slack off. He never let you think less of yourself for a second too long.

And somehow, in between the whirlwind of law and late nights and whispered strategies scribbled across glass walls—he became something constant. Not soft, not sweet, but solid.

A fixed point in the storm.

The sky was still the color of ink when you arrived—blue so deep it bordered on black, the kind of hour that felt borrowed, suspended between night and morning, as if the city itself hadn’t decided whether or not to wake. Streets were hushed, office windows still dark, and you walked the lobby like someone trespassing inside a sleeping beast, your footsteps muffled by marble and instinct.

The elevator ride was quiet. Just you and your reflection in fractured gold, your face caught in the faint flicker of passing floor numbers, hair pinned back like armor, suit precise, posture sharper than it felt. In your hands, the deposition outline fluttered faintly with each breath, worn soft at the edges from overuse—notes rehearsed to muscle memory, exhibits cross-referenced, questions dry-run into choreography. You’d practiced this so many times it had stopped feeling like language and started feeling like steps. Movement. Tempo.

But standing alone in the firm’s glass-paneled deposition suite—with the long lacquered table stretching out like a runway and the court reporter quietly setting her machine like someone arming a weapon—your rhythm slipped.

You adjusted the microphone. Your hands didn’t shake, but they wanted to.

“Water?”

The voice came from behind you—warm, low, and familiar.

You turned.

Sungho stood at the door, coat folded over one arm, shirt crisp enough to catch light, gaze steadier than your own. In one hand, he held a water bottle. In the other, there was something quieter: reassurance. The kind that didn’t announce itself, didn’t hover and didn’t push—just stood close enough for you to breathe around it.

You took it. “Didn’t think you’d be here yet.”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth tugging in a way that didn’t quite reach a smile. “Wanted to see how tall the waves were before you jumped in.”

You huffed a breath, too soft to be a laugh. “They’re… medium tall.”

He stepped closer—just enough to lower his voice, not enough to crowd you. His words came like they always did in moments like this, stripped of pretense, shaped by precision. Steady. Measured.

“You know the file. You know the timeline. And you’re better at drawing blood with a question than half the senior counsel on this floor.”

You didn’t answer at first. Your throat had tightened, not from panic, exactly, but from the pressure of being the one who couldn’t afford to miss. Not now. Not here.

“What if I miss something?”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do—”

“Then we catch it,” he said, not missing a beat. “Together.”

You looked up, and he was already watching you—not with scrutiny, not the way most did, waiting for your confidence to fray at the edges. No, Sungho watched like he already knew how it would play out. Like he trusted you enough to let you lead. Like he wanted you to see what he already did.

“You’re ready,” he said quietly.

The door opened behind him. Opposing counsel stepped in, followed by a man in a tailored coat and the kind of smirk money teaches. Marcus Reed. CEO. The deponent. Arrogant. Exhibit A.

Sungho didn’t shift. Just stepped back, subtly ceding the space to you without conceding anything. You felt it. That unspoken signal: This is yours. Take it.

You sat.

Clicked the pen open, and began.

“State your name for the record.”

“Marcus Reed.”

“Mr. Reed, do you understand you’re under oath today?”

“Yes.”

The court reporter’s keystrokes began, soft and staccato in the background—your soundtrack, your pulse.

“Let’s start with Exhibit 3A. Can you confirm this is the contract your team signed with our client in June of last year?”

He barely glanced at it before smirking. “Looks like it.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Your voice never wavered. Every word came clipped and clean, like you were threading wire through silk—controlled tension. Sharp edges.

Sungho stayed quiet and observant. But you could feel the energy shifting across the room, slowly, degree by degree. The witness leaned back. You leaned forward. You weren’t floundering. You were circling.

By the second hour, Marcus Reed had stopped smiling.

He wasn’t sweating—not quite. But his answers were slipping. Confidence thinning. There was something in the margins he didn’t want you to find, and you could feel yourself nearing it.

You leveled your voice. Soft and precise. The kind of softness that cuts.

“Mr. Reed, can you point me to the clause in this agreement that authorized you to modify delivery schedules without written approval?”

He hesitated. Flipped through pages. Flipped again.

“I—uh—it was implied.”

“Implied where?”

“In the discussions.”

“Discussions we have no record of?”

He shifted in his chair.

And across the room, you saw Sungho move—just the smallest shift. One leg crossed over the other, chin tipped slightly, the faintest flicker in his eyes. The one he got when he was enjoying the game.

You went for the kill, quiet and deliberate.

“You signed an agreement with clear performance metrics,” you said. “You failed to meet them. Then billed our client for a service you didn’t deliver. Do you understand how that might look?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then another.

“Yes,” he muttered.

You nodded, expression neutral. “No further questions at this time.”

The court reporter clicked her laptop closed. Counsel began whispering sharply into the deponent’s ear. But the buzz in your blood didn’t come from them.

It came from across the room.

Sungho stood up and walked toward you slowly, his jacket buttoned and expression unreadable.

But when he stopped beside you, the walls in his eyes cracked open—revealing pride, restraint, and something… more dangerous beneath the surface. You weren’t sure what to do with the weight of it.

“That was surgical,” he murmured, just loud enough for you alone.

You exhaled. And only then did you realize just how long you’d been holding your breath.

“I thought I was going to throw up.”

“You didn’t.” He reached out—adjusted the edge of your collar like it mattered. Like it meant something. His knuckles brushed your skin, a brief and unspoken thing. “You killed it.”

The door opened again. Noise returned, and the moment dissolved like fog in light.

You both stepped back.

But something stayed in the air between you—thin, humming, alive. Not quite named. Not quite denied.

And maybe you hadn’t started falling today.

Maybe it had been slow. Inevitable. A quiet unraveling, thread by thread, question by question, until something in you gave.

But now—sitting straighter, heart steady, head clear—you understood one thing without doubt:

You weren’t standing in Sungho’s shadow anymore.

The courthouse smelled like old marble and older nerves.

You stood in the hallway outside the courtroom, spine pressed against the chilled tile wall, notes tucked under one arm, breath fogging faintly in the air-conditioned quiet. Your heels clicked once, then twice, as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

Your hands were shaking.

Not violently—but enough. Enough that the paper you’d just pulled from your folder fluttered slightly at the edges. Enough that you had to curl your fingers into fists and tuck them inside your sleeves to hide the tremble.

Get it together. Get it together.

You had your lines memorized. Your citations? Perfect. Your strategy? Airtight. You’d run through this moment a hundred times. In your bedroom. In the strategy room. In the women’s restroom with Woonhak timing you between mouthfuls of stale granola bar. But nothing—nothing—could replicate the hush of the courtroom just before it began.

But none of that mattered here. Not now. Not with the thick silence of the hallway pressing in and the weight of the courtroom waiting like a tide behind the door.

You didn’t hear him approach.

Not until he was beside you.

Sungho’s hand landed gently on your wrist, stilling you. His presence slipped into your orbit like gravity.

“Stop,” he said, voice low. Steady.

You turned to him. He didn’t say anything for a second—just looked at you.

And then, with a quiet familiarity that made your throat tighten, he reached forward and smoothed the edge of your collar. Precise. Intentional. Like the gesture mattered more than anything he could say.

“You’ve done everything you could to prepare for this,” he said. “And then some.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve seen the way you’ve worked. The way you think. The way you’ve built this from the ground up like it had your name etched into it from the start.”

Your chest ached—not from fear, but from the weight of it. From the way he meant it.

“You’ve already won, in every way that matters,” he added softly. “Now go in there and show them why I put you in that chair.”

You couldn’t speak—not yet. So you nodded, sharp and silent, and turned.

And as you reached for the courtroom door, he added:

“I’ll be right behind you.”

The wooden double doors gave way with a weighty creak, the kind that carried through the room like the overture of a symphony. You stepped through, your breath a practiced rhythm, heels tapping a steady staccato against the polished floor.

The courtroom was exactly as intimidating as you'd expected.

High ceilings. A towering bench. The jury sat to your left, twelve strangers watching you with varying degrees of curiosity and caffeine withdrawal. Opposing counsel was already seated at their table, murmuring among themselves. Their lead attorney, a man named Halvorsen with gray temples and a reputation for bulldozing junior associates, didn’t even bother to look up when you passed him.

You stood at the plaintiff’s table, fingertips grazing the polished oak, trying not to let your nerves show as the morning light filtered in through the tall windows, staining the carpet in faded amber and ivory. Your notes were in perfect order, your blazer pressed, your collar (Sungho’s subtle adjustment) straightened.

“Please rise,” the bailiff intoned.

The scrape of chairs. The creak of shoes on tile. You rose with the others as the judge entered, robes sweeping like thunderclouds.

“Be seated.”

Sungho was already watching you.

He sat in the gallery, row three, shoulder slouched just enough to seem relaxed—but you knew better. His eyes never left you. His chin rested lightly on one hand, index finger curved against his cheek, the picture of cool detachment.

Except that look in his eyes wasn’t detached. Not even close.

You drew a breath.

And then it began.

“Your Honor, members of the jury—” Your voice was steady. Strong. Maybe stronger than you felt. Definitely stronger than your knees that were currently knocking against each other like a newborn baby deer.

“In this case, we’re not just talking about breach of duty. We’re talking about a betrayal of trust. Of protocol. Of people who relied on the system to protect them, and were met with silence instead.”

You didn’t look at your notes. Not once.

The words flowed—not memorized, but lived. You saw the jurors shift forward in their seats. One woman nodded, just slightly, her mouth pinched in something like agreement. Opposing counsel tapped a pen against his legal pad, quicker now.

By the time your second witness took the stand—a soft-spoken engineer with calloused hands and blueprints tucked under his arm—you were in command. Your questions came clean. Sharp. Confident. And when the opposing tried to rattle him with a fast cross, you objected—calmly, firmly.

“Objection. Misstates prior testimony.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

Your witness exhaled. You nodded to him, just once.

Control was a current running just beneath your skin. You caught Halvorsen’s gaze. He looked faintly annoyed.

Good.

The rest of the day unfolded like a trial ballet. You blocked opposing’s best plays. You recentered the jury’s focus. Your cross-examination danced on the line of assertive and respectful.

By the time court recessed, the judge offered a faint nod your way before standing. And when the gavel dropped, the bailiff called for silence, and the courtroom began to scatter—

You turned toward the gallery.

Sungho was already walking down the aisle, hands in his pockets, watching you with that quiet, infuriating, impossible look of his. Nothing short of pride.

Like he’d known it all along.

The doors shut behind you with a final echo. You stood at the top of the courthouse steps, blinking into the sun. Everything was too loud now—the traffic, the voices, the soft click of a woman’s heels as she passed.

You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for days. Then you felt him behind you.

“You survived,” Sungho said, voice lower now. Warmer. Almost amused.

You turned. “Barely.”

“You opened like a veteran. That precedent you pulled in rebuttal?” He nodded. “Impressive.”

You shrugged, suddenly awkward under the praise. “I had a good teacher.”

He stepped closer, slow. Intentional. And this time, he didn’t look at you like a mentor. Not a superior. Not even a peer. Just Sungho. The man who picked you. The man who’d trusted you when you couldn’t even trust yourself.

“You proved something today,” he said. “To the judge. The jury. The opposing counsel.”

You tilted your head. “And to you?”

A long pause. “No,” he said, and the way his voice softened undid you completely. “I already knew.”

The sun hit his features just right—jaw sharp, eyes unreadable, but quieter now, something softened behind the usual steel. He looked at you like the trial had never been the battlefield at all. You had.

And he hadn’t just been watching you win. He’d been waiting for you to realize you could.

The building had quieted in that singular way only office towers manage—when the rush finally thins, and the hum of fluorescent ambition dims to a hush. Hallway lights softened to low glows, elevators moving now and then like mechanical sighs. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fall, but settles.

You moved slowly, bare feet on cold tile, heels hanging from your fingertips, the strap brushing against your wrist with each step. A paper cup of tea, lukewarm at best, sat loosely in your other hand. The caffeine wouldn’t help now, but it felt like something to hold.

Most of the floor had emptied hours ago. But down the corridor, his office still glowed—soft and amber behind frosted glass, the light diffused like it was meant to stay hidden, not bright enough to draw attention, just… enough. The door was open. Not wide. Just enough to feel deliberate.

You paused in the hallway, your reflection faint in the glass. Then you stepped forward.

Inside, the air was warmer than expected—quiet in a different way. Not empty, but full. The city outside spilled in through the windows in fragmented constellations: the pulse of taillights far below, neon signage flickering like dying stars, and somewhere in the distance, the low wash of wind against steel and sky. You felt suspended in it all, like the night had pulled you aside for a private moment that didn’t quite belong to the rest of the world.

Sungho sat at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves pushed up, the jacket he’d worn earlier now carefully draped over the back of his chair like it, too, had earned a rest. One hand rested at his temple, fingers curled lightly as though holding a thought in place. The light caught on the face of his watch, throwing pale arcs across the desk’s polished surface.

He didn’t look up.

“You can come in,” he said, voice even and low. Like he’d known it was you. Like maybe he’d been waiting.

You stepped inside and let the door click shut behind you, soft but definite. The silence adjusted—denser now, like it had taken you both into account. There was something familiar in the room, even if you’d never quite called it that before: the faint smell of coffee, aged paper, and the trailing hint of his cologne that lingered in the air the way memory does—quietly, insistently.

“I figured you’d be gone by now,” you said, lowering yourself into the chair opposite his. Your voice came softer than usual—not out of hesitation, exactly, but out of instinct. As if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever this moment was trying to become.

He finally lifted his gaze, and when he did, there was none of the usual edge to it. None of the steel you’d learned to anticipate. No expectation. Just calm. Steady.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said simply. “Too much adrenaline.”

You let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “You? Adrenaline? I thought you were built immune.”

“I’m human,” he murmured, tone dry enough to draw a smile from you. Then, softer: “Contrary to popular belief.”

You both laughed then—quiet, tired. The kind of laughter that existed more in breath than sound. It faded slowly, but something lingered in its place. Not silence, exactly. Something warmer.

The victory was still in the air, hovering like the final chord of a song neither of you were ready to let go of.

“You were incredible today,” he said, eyes back on the desk now, his fingers tracing the rim of a glass absently, as though the motion helped him stay grounded. “Not good. Not fine. Incredible.”

Your breath caught in the place between ribs where things tend to land too hard. You tried to play it cool, but something in your throat tightened anyway.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it. “That… means a lot. Especially from you.”

He looked up again. And whatever passed across his face in that moment—carefully concealed or not—left you feeling like something important had just shifted, even if neither of you acknowledged it aloud.

“I wasn’t just saying it earlier,” he said. “You did something in there.”

You glanced down at your tea, now fully cold, your fingers tightening around the cup.

“I still feel like I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

“That’s how you know you’re doing it right.”

You blinked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Sungho leaned forward, arms resting on the edge of his desk, and the way he looked at you then was different—softer, unguarded. His voice came quiet, but it didn’t waver.

“Fear means you care. Doubt means you’re not arrogant. And the fact that you keep showing up anyway?” He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. “That’s how I know you’re the real thing.”

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t. The words settled somewhere inside you that hadn’t been touched in a while—not by praise, not by clarity, not by someone who saw past the act of keeping it all together.

The silence stretched again—but it didn’t feel heavy anymore. If anything, it felt holy. Like the space between you had quietly collapsed into something more intimate than either of you had prepared for.

Outside, the city moved on without you, windows flickering in patterns, a wind brushing against the glass just loud enough to remind you the world was still turning.

You glanced sideways, caught both your reflections in the darkened window—your face next to his, both of you suspended in glass.

“I should probably go home,” you said softly, not moving.

He smiled faintly. “Probably.”

But neither of you stood.

The desk between you felt different now. Less like a boundary, more like a shared threshold. The kind of thing people gather around late at night, not for business, but for what comes after—the truth, the weight, the ache of things unsaid.

You looked at him again, and this time, he didn’t look away.

Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was everything you’d fought through together to get to this place.

But something in the air had undeniably shifted—toward something unspoken, but not uncertain.

And still, he didn’t cross the line.

And you didn’t ask him to.

The rest of the team had cleared out an hour ago.

Files lay open like bodies on the table—exhibits, cross tabs, deposition transcripts scattered like the wreckage of a long campaign. The city outside the window bled gold into dusk, and the halogen lights buzzed overhead, dimmer than they should’ve been. Or maybe your eyes were just tired.

You sat with your elbows on the table, fingers still hovering over your notes. The legal pad in front of you had started to blur at the edges, a testament to hours of strategy breakdowns and exhibit timelines.

Sungho hadn’t moved for the last seven minutes. He was across the table, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, collar undone just slightly. One hand rested over his mouth, the other spinning a black pen between long fingers with quiet focus. You could hear the soft click of it turning, over and over again.

A metronome for your heartbeat.

“I’ve been thinking about the witness flow,” he finally said, breaking the silence without looking up. “If opposing counsel leads with the safety inspector, we pivot. Don’t take the bait.”

You nodded, pushing your pen across the page to mark it down. “I’ll prep for a redirect, just in case.”

He looked at you then. “Already done, haven’t you?”

You blinked. “Well. Mostly.”

His mouth tilted. “Of course you have.”

There it was again—that look. Not quite approval. Not quite amusement. Something softer. Something worse. It curled in your stomach like a secret you weren’t ready to name.

You reached for a different file. Something to busy your hands. “You haven’t eaten,” you murmured.

“Neither have you.”

“I’m surviving off vending machine almonds and adrenaline,” you deadpanned.

“Classic rite of passage.”

You looked up—and found him already watching you, elbow on the table now, chin in hand, like he was studying you from the distance of a chessboard. Measuring you not as a junior associate, not even as a colleague, but as something else entirely.

“Do I have something on my face?” you asked lightly, trying to make it easier to breathe.

He didn’t smile. “No. You’re just—different. When you’re in the zone.”

You raised a brow. “Different good or different concerning?”

He tilted his head. “Different dangerous.”

The word hung between you. Heavy. Too charged. Your throat tightened.

He looked away first, finally. He reached for a post-it note and scribbled something quickly. Then he stood, circling the table to drop it in front of you. His hand brushed yours as he placed it down—just a whisper of contact, but enough to spark something warm that chased up your spine.

“Try this framework for closing,” he said. His voice was low and careful. “You’re almost there.”

You glanced down. It was your argument—your own phrasing—but more distilled. A bit sharper at the edges. Your logic, his precision.

“Our styles clash,” you said quietly. “But somehow it works.”

He was still standing close. Closer than he needed to be.

“Maybe that’s why it works,” he said.

You looked up at him again.

And this time, the quiet between you wasn’t filled with strategy or deadlines or legal jargon.

It was full of the echo of every moment that hadn’t been addressed—every soft look, every almost-touch, every wordless thing building in the spaces left unsaid.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second.

Then, just as fast, he stepped back.

And the moment broke like glass.

“We should call it,” he said, all business again. “You’ve got court prep in the morning.”

You nodded, swallowing the crackle in your chest. “Right. Yeah.”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. You gathered your files. Your hands brushed again as you both reached for the same highlighter. This time, he didn’t pull away.

“Get some rest,” he said, voice low. “Tomorrow matters.”

It started with the little things.

It started subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

The shift in his gaze—not during strategy meetings or depositions or anything that might be documented—but in the in-between spaces, when the firm had quieted and no one else was looking. The way he passed you a highlighter before you even realized you were reaching for one. How he began reading you with a precision usually reserved for witness statements—how your shoulders stiffened when you were second-guessing, how your pen tapped faster when caffeine withdrawal hit but pride kept you silent.

You told yourself he was just perceptive. Attentive in the way good mentors were trained to be.

But he wasn’t like that with everyone.

And that truth—small and electric—clung to you like static. Invisible to the eye, but impossible to ignore once it touched your skin.

You were supposed to be prepping the cross-examination outline. Instead, you found yourself pacing the far end of the law library, your notes forgotten, your legal pad drooping loosely in one hand. The cap of your highlighter had disappeared somewhere, and the tip bled quietly into the cardboard cover—a small, fluorescent evidence of your unraveling.

“You look like someone asked you to recite the penal code backwards,” a voice called from the next table over.

You startled, turning toward the familiar corner seat.

Woonhak was there, half-slouched, legs stretched out beneath the table like he owned the place. A legal ethics casebook was propped lazily against his stomach, and a torn-open bag of vending machine trail mix sat beside him. His eyes looked tired and his grin cocky. A lethal combination.

You groaned, dragging out a chair with a scrape that made your headache worse. “Do you ever mind your own business?”

“Rarely,” he said, tossing a peanut into his mouth like punctuation. “Now talk to me.”

You hesitated—just for a second—before sighing and letting the words drop like a confession you’d been circling for days.

“I think I have a crush on my boss.”

There was a pause. Long enough for both you and him and the secretary outside to feel it.

Then Woonhak sat up straighter, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. “Your boss? As in the boss? Sungho? The Closer?”

You nodded slowly, miserably. “Yeah.”

He slammed the book shut like it had personally betrayed him. “Oh my God. This explains everything. No wonder you’ve been walking around like someone surgically rearranged your internal organs.”

You let your forehead drop into your hands. “I didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”

“This is Suits in real life,” he whispered, scandalized. “Wait. Is he the Mike to your Rachel? The Harvey to your Donna? They’re so hot. Oh my God, please don’t tell me he’s the Louis to your Sheila. I love them, but they are freaky in the bedroom.”

“Woonhak!” You swatted his shoulder, laughing despite yourself.

He grinned, unrepentant. “I’m serious. Does he know?”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “At least… I don’t think so. I mean—he looks at me sometimes, but maybe I’m just—ugh. I don’t know.”

For a moment, he was quiet. Then he leaned in, eyes narrowing like he was about to blow the case wide open.

“Oh my God.”

“Stop.”

“No. No, I’m serious. This is everything. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. That man does not have neutral facial expressions—he either looks like he’s planning a hostile takeover or he’s looking at you. Which is somehow his version of softness. The man unfurrows his brow for you. That is basically a love confession in Sungho language.”

You let out a helpless laugh, slumping forward until your head rested against the cool edge of the study carrel. The relief of it—saying it aloud, having someone see it without judgment—felt like finally loosening a too-tight collar.

“I hate you,” you mumbled.

“You love me,” he said confidently, nudging the trail mix toward you. “And let’s be real—you love him.”

Your heart hiccuped. You didn’t deny it.

But then his voice shifted, softened—less teasing now, more careful.

“Look. I’m rooting for you, obviously. But…”

You already knew. “The power thing.”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “He’s your supervisor. You’re a first-year. You’re on the same floor, same cases, same hours locked in that pressure cooker together. That’s not nothing.”

You nodded, the movement small. “I know. The firm has a zero tolerance policy, too.”

“Exactly. And even if he does like you back—and I’m convinced he does—it’s… risky. It’s not about who you are. It’s about where you are.”

You stared at your hands and realized you’d been clicking your highlighter cap on and off without noticing. “Sometimes I think I’m imagining it,” you said quietly. “Like I’ve built this whole narrative in my head, projected everything I’m feeling onto him and filled in the blanks with hope.”

“No,” Woonhak said, his voice firm now. “You’re not crazy. But it is complicated. For both of you.”

You didn’t respond. Just let your eyes drift up toward the library’s high windows, where the city glimmered outside in soft halos of light. It felt far away. Like it was watching, but uninterested in the small chaos unfolding beneath it.

“So?” Woonhak nudged your shoulder. “What are you gonna do?”

You closed your eyes for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I want to keep working with him. I like working with him. I don’t want anything to change.”

“And if he feels the same?”

You looked down at your notes. The outline was still blank. The highlighter had bled through.

“I don’t know,” you said again, this time quieter. “If he feels the same… then everything changes.”

Woonhak didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Because he knew. And so did you.

That love—if that’s what this was, or what it might become—never came cleanly in a place like this. It came with risk. With weight. With the potential to burn down everything you’d both worked so hard to build.

And yet, you also knew this: you couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t real. Couldn’t keep pretending that every look, every almost-touch, every late night reviewing case files wasn’t quietly changing the shape of something between you.

Maybe the fall had already started.

And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t entirely afraid of where it might land you.

The conference room was a battlefield dressed in glass and mahogany, the kind of space that mistook cold precision for prestige. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a low, electric hum, casting an unforgiving glare across the polished table, where tablets blinked with open briefs and annotated exhibits sat like unfinished weapons. You sat near the end, shoulders squared beneath the weight of expectation, the plastic barrel of your pen pressed into your palm harder than it needed to be.

Sungho lounged across from you, posture loose but calculated, the kind of composure that made others lean in without realizing they had. His expression gave nothing away, but his gaze tracked every word, every shift in the room, every flicker of hesitation like it was another piece of evidence to catalog. You weren’t sure if it unsettled you or steadied you.

Around the table, the senior partners listened—or pretended to. Eyes skimming, jaws set, posture stiff with the kind of thinly veiled doubt that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be felt. You could sense it settling along your spine, sharp and clinical, the kind of skepticism they only reserved for newcomers with too much to say.

Still, when you spoke, your voice held. Not loud. Not defiant. Just even. Anchored.

“If we rely only on technicalities and aggressive positioning, we run the risk of making our client look hollow. A faceless entity doesn’t win sympathy, and juries don’t side with ghosts. People respond to narrative. To humanity. That’s where trust begins.”

The room didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, for a second.

Sungho tilted his head just slightly, something sharp flickering behind his eyes—not mockery, but interest. His fingers drummed once against the table before stilling.

“Empathy as a tactic,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “Interesting choice. But in court, emotion is volatile. It doesn’t just sway. It cuts both ways.”

One of the senior partners—lean, silver-haired, the kind of man who probably hadn’t second-guessed his own authority in years—let out a soft scoff, the sound surgical in its precision. “Idealism is a luxury first-years cling to before they learn what litigation actually demands.”

You met his gaze and didn’t look away. There was no bravado in it, just a quiet kind of resolve, the kind that had taken months to carve out of sleepless nights and redlined briefs and the endless ache of trying to prove that you belonged here.

“It’s not idealism,” you said, steady. “It’s calculated vulnerability. Empathy doesn’t mean weakness. It means control—the kind that earns trust. The kind that wins cases.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Somewhere down the hall, a printer whirred to life. Someone shifted in their chair.

Then, quietly, Sungho smiled. Not the cold, distant one he wore like armor—but the smaller, rarer kind. A sliver of approval, maybe. Or recognition.

“Your fire,” he murmured, “is refreshing.” His eyes held yours for a beat longer than necessary. “Just make sure you know how to handle the burn.”

The clock on Sungho’s office wall blinked 9:47 p.m., though inside these walls, time moved differently. It didn’t tick so much as stretch—soft at the edges, slow and warping, like heat rising off concrete. That kind of late where ambition and exhaustion start to blur into the same thing.

The two of you had been at it for hours, the Reed case sprawling out between you in a paper-scattered chaos that felt more like a battlefield than a workspace. Red tabs jutted from manila folders like wounded flags, ink-stained post-its clung to depositions, and your handwriting—crooked, urgent, messy in a way that betrayed your usually precise veneer—threaded through the margins like a pulse.

Sungho sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled past his elbows, tie loosened just enough to look human. Not undone enough to be vulnerable, but close. He looked less like the headline-grabbing legal wunderkind the firm liked to parade and more like a boy you might have once sat next to in a classroom. Someone who’d borrowed your notes. Someone who’d stayed too late without saying why.

You were scanning a page for an indemnity clause when your attention drifted—to the photo behind his elbow, just barely catching the office light. A graduation picture.

Not remarkable at first glance. Black robes. A forced smile.

But the banner in the background—familiar in a way that scraped at something in your memory. You leaned in slightly, squinting past the reflection in the glass.

“...You went to Koz Law?”

He didn’t even bother glancing up as he shrugged. “Summa cum laude.”

“That’s my alma mater.”

“I know.”

That made you pause. “You know?” You narrowed your eyes. “Did you run a background check on me?”

That got his attention. The pen tapping against his lip stilled as his head lifted. His brow arched, eyes glinting with something like surprise—tempered by faint offense.

“You’re kidding,” he said, his voice softer now, stripped of its usual edge. “You really don’t remember me?”

Your brows pinched. “What do you mean?”

“TA for your Lega; Ethics class? I was two years ahead of you. I was in my final year, you were in your first?”

You blinked again, the fluorescent lights suddenly felt too bright, like someone had turned the world up a notch. Your brain felt like it tripped over itself trying to rewind four years in two seconds. “Wait—what?”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed like he was watching something ridiculous unfold.

“I was your TA,” he repeated slowly, like the words themselves might unlock the memory. “You came to office hours all the time. We had dinner together a couple times—not like, dates or anything—just study sessions that ran late. Grabbed food when everything else was closed.”

You searched your own memory like it was a locked filing cabinet in the dark. Legal Ethics had been your Monday morning hellscape. Taught by a professor who spoke like every sentence was a death sentence. But the TA…

A soft-spoken guy in wire frames and navy sweaters. Who blushed when you asked questions too directly. A quiet presence that never pushed for attention but always stayed late when the room emptied. The kind of person you remembered by comfort, not by name.

“No way.” You breathed, the realization settling somewhere behind your ribs.

You blinked at him like you were trying to overlay the memory onto the man in front of you now. Gone were the found glasses, the sweater vests, and the awkward hesitations. In their place was a steel-eyed, silver-tongued Park Sungho. BND’s youngest closer. Partner before thirty-five.

“You changed,” you said, almost to yourself.. “So much.”

His smile flickered—small, real. Not smug. Just quiet. “Honestly? I recognized you on your first day. Thought you recognized me too. I figured that’s why you came at me so hard in that client meeting.”

You let out a weak laugh, fingers curling around the armrest. “Nope. That was just me being... a little too bold.”

“Ballsy,” he corrected, amused. “Impressive, actually. I kept waiting for the moment it would click. Thought it’d be funnier this way.”

You huffed out a laugh, still mildly dazed. “In my defense, most of law school’s a blur. Blacked out half my first year from stress. It's a trauma response.”

That got a genuine laugh out of him. Not sharp, not polished. A warm, real one. The kind that echoed faintly between the bookshelves and the window panes. “Valid point. But hey, something must’ve stuck if you’re this good now.”

You looked down, caught off guard by the compliment. It wasn’t the words, it was the way he said them—without the usual teasing, without any angle.

When you looked back up, he was still watching you. Not with scrutiny. Just… curiosity. Like he was trying to re-meet you, now that the façade had cracked.

“You really don’t remember any of it?” he asked again, quieter now. “Not even the Thai place two blocks off campus? You hated pad see ew, but ordered it every time.”

The memories rushed in like a slow tide. Late nights with casebooks and plastic takeout containers. Heated debates over moral hypotheticals. The TA who used to stay long after hours to walk you through the mess of it all.

Your lips parted.

“Holy shit.”

He smiled again, more shy than smug this time.

“You were nice back then,” you murmured. “Quieter. Nervous. You always looked like you were on the verge of apologizing.”

“I still am,” he said lightly, but there was a flicker of something behind it. “I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

You felt that.

All the polish, the posture, the press-ready charm—it was armor. Carefully built. Painstakingly maintained. And here, now, in the low light of a quiet office too late into the night, you could finally see the shape of what lived underneath.

You leaned forward slightly. “Wait. If you were two years ahead of me, how are you already a senior partner?”

He leaned back like he’d been waiting for that. Fingers laced behind his head, he slipped back into familiar ground. “Guess I was just that good.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Bullshit.”

A beat passed.

“...My uncle’s a major shareholder of BND Law,” he admitted, almost sheepish.

Your jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

He laughed again, this time full and free. “Don’t worry. Nepo baby or not, I still earned my nickname.”

You tilted your head, smiling despite yourself. “I cannot believe I used to study with you.”

“You mean, used to eat dinner with me. Debate case law with me. Fall asleep in my office during midterms week—”

“Sungho.”

“Just saying.” His voice was teasing again, but softer than usual. “I wasn’t always this scary.”

You shook your head, grinning.

But something had changed.

Because you saw it—that boy in the photo. The one who used to walk home in the cold with library ink on his fingers. Who once stayed late because he cared, not because it was expected.

And sitting here now, in the golden glow of a night that had no business feeling this soft, you realized something else.

Maybe this version—the one without the armor—was the one you liked best.

You weren’t ready. Not in the way you wanted to be—not with your heart still pounding too fast, not with your hands slightly unsteady, not with the ache of too many sleepless nights coiled between your shoulder blades like a weight you’d grown used to carrying.

But you stood anyway.

Your fingers curled around your notes, trembling just enough to betray the truth of it, and you didn’t fight it this time. You let the nerves live in your limbs and not in your voice. You let the fear hum beneath the surface while your tone stayed even, steady, clear.

“Your Honor,” you began, eyes sweeping over the jury like a breath you couldn’t hold for long, “members of the jury…”

You didn’t command the courtroom the way Sungho did. You didn’t strike like a blade or outmaneuver like a tactician. You didn’t build walls or knock them down. You built bridges. Threaded stories through silence. You found your edge in empathy, not force—and you leaned into it now.

You spoke of retaliation not written in policy but felt in bone. Of corporate gray zones, where intent and impact blur, where the ones who followed the rules still ended up bleeding. You didn’t ask them to be outraged. You didn’t demand that they care.

You just told them what happened.

The truth, plain and soft around the edges. The kind that didn’t need to be dressed up in rhetoric to matter.

And when you finished—when your voice finally gave out and the weight of it all landed in the quiet—you stepped back.

The courtroom didn’t move. Not at first.

Someone clicked a pen behind you. A chair shifted. But no one filled the silence with doubt. No one looked away.

You walked back to your seat on legs that didn’t feel entirely like your own, your pulse still loud in your ears. And then—just before you sat—you let yourself glance at him.

Sungho.

Who was already watching you.

Not with a smirk. Not with that usual glint of amusement he wore like armor. But with something quieter. Something that looked like it didn’t belong in a courtroom at all—something reverent. Like he was memorizing you.

The jury didn’t take long.

Verdict in favor of the defendant.

You had won.

It came down clean—brutally, surgically clean. No drama. No theatrics. Just a verdict, a stamp, a ripple across your ribs that didn’t feel like victory but something colder.

The client shook your hand with both of his. A senior partner clapped your back with a grin wide enough to split his face. Someone joked about giving you their office, and you laughed—because you were supposed to.

You smiled. You thanked them. You played the role.

But it didn’t settle in you until later—until the courthouse doors swung shut behind you and the noise dulled to a hush and Sungho found you beneath the pale marble steps, just far enough from the crowd that your breath could catch up with you.

“You were good in there,” he said.

You turned at the sound of his voice. The suit jacket slung over his arm. The tie now loosened like it meant something different than fatigue. His gaze steady on you, not trying to read you—just trying to be here, in it.

“I didn’t spin anything,” you said. “I didn’t try to manipulate. I just… told the truth.”

He nodded, slow. “You made them listen.”

A pause passed—wind pulling at your sleeves, the sun half-set behind the skyline, coloring the edges of the day with a kind of gold that made everything feel borrowed.

“I don’t know how I feel about winning,” you admitted. Quiet. Not because you were ashamed—but because some truths only lived in low tones.

“I do,” he said, without hesitation.

You blinked. Looked at him fully now. And then, more softly—because the doubt had settled under your skin and refused to leave—

“Even if it wasn’t right?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked at you like he was weighing the entire world on his tongue. And then—

“It was the kind of right we get,” he said, with that tired honesty he only let out after hours. “In here? In this system? It’s messy. It’s flawed. But today, you didn’t let that be an excuse. You made the case. You made it matter. You made it enough.”

You exhaled slowly, like your body had been waiting for permission to do so.

It still didn’t feel like a win, not really. Not in the storybook way you’d imagined. But something had shifted—something in your chest, something between you.

Because standing there on the courthouse steps, still wearing the weight of everything the case didn’t fix, you realized this wasn’t about absolutes.

It was about making space for something human to exist within the machine.

And maybe—just maybe—that was its own kind of justice.

Or at the very least, a beginning.

You didn’t mean to follow him. Or maybe he didn’t mean to follow you.

Either way, you ended up here.

The rooftop had the hush of somewhere meant to be forgotten—high above the city’s pulse, tucked behind concrete ledges and weathered railings, where the wind felt colder and time a little slower. Below, the celebration still spilled in warm waves from the firm’s glass doors—handshakes tight with power, champagne passed like victory was currency, the client grinning like the verdict hadn’t been soaked in moral gray.

But up here, it was quiet. Muted in the way only the sky can be.

Detached. Still.

He stood near the edge, his back to you, the city stretching out in front of him like a story he wasn’t ready to read. His tie hung loose around his collar, sleeves rolled.

You stayed a few feet behind him, neither of you reaching for the silence. Letting it stretch. Letting it settle.

There was a particular kind of ache that came with winning like this—not the kind that sharpened, but the kind that softened. The kind that lived in your bones afterward. Not triumph. Not relief. Just... emptiness. A hollowed-out kind of full.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke.

“You taught me this,” you said quietly. “Back in class. The part no one wants to write down. About how moral compromise is never clean. Never simple.”

He didn’t move. Not even a breath.

“I hated you for it,” you added, the words folding into the wind.

A soft laugh broke from him then—hoarse, spent. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I remember. You used to glare at me.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Because he was right. You remembered sitting in the back row, arms crossed and heart stubborn, thinking him cold for telling you the truth too early.

But the smile faded.

And something quieter took its place. The thing you hadn’t meant to say. The one that had lived beneath your sternness, beneath the backtalk and ambition and the desire to out-argue him, even then.

“I thought it was just because you were right,” you said. “But maybe it was because I already wanted to impress you. And I didn’t know how.”

That silenced him.

You didn’t need to look to know it landed. The breath he took was sharper. The shift in his stance—subtle, deliberate, like something inside him had tipped and wasn’t sure how to fall.

When he turned, it was slow. Careful. Like the moment might collapse if he moved too fast.

“You did,” he said. “Impress me. More than you know.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

And it hit you—not just what he was now, but who he’d been this whole time. The man in the courtroom. The TA who stayed late. The version of him no one else got to see, not when he was wrapped in his sharp suits and sharpened silence.

The city buzzed far below, headlights flickering like veins of light beneath your feet. But up here, it felt like none of it could touch you. Like this moment—this breath between truths—existed outside of gravity.

You swallowed. “And now?”

He exhaled, gaze steady. “Now you undo me.”

The wind moved through the space between you, rustling his sleeves, tugging at your hair, but neither of you stepped back. You’d spent so long holding this—weeks, months, maybe longer. Folding it into glances, tucking it into after-hours conversations that always veered too close.

And now it was here. Unfolding. Soft and unstoppable.

His voice was lower when he spoke again. Raw around the edges. “I’ve spent months pretending I don’t feel something every time you walk into a room.”

You didn’t move.

“I’ve written over your name in a thousand emails just to stop myself from saying what I shouldn’t.”

And then, quieter—

“But I can’t keep pretending I don’t care.”

You didn’t answer. You simply let it break.

The restraint. The silence. The weight of it all.

Not in some grand unraveling, not with a kiss you weren’t ready for. Just—a step. Forward.

Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that the air between you stilled.

You lifted your chin. Pressed your forehead to his.

A breath was shared and that was enough.

Eyes closed, heart open, you let the words fall.

“Then don’t.”

You told yourself it would feel the same.

That you’d walk through the revolving glass doors with your usual rhythm—shoulders squared, file in hand, heels echoing against the polished floor like punctuation marks you didn’t have to think about. That your reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls wouldn’t betray the difference. That the shift, whatever it was, would stay tucked beneath the surface where no one else could see it.

But you felt it anyway.

In the air between you. In the pause between glances. In the memory of something nearly confessed beneath the hush of rooftop wind.

You lingered at your desk longer than necessary, pretending to organize briefs that were already arranged, pretending not to glance in the direction of his office every time the light changed through the glass. And when the quiet hum of waiting became too loud to ignore, you found yourself at his door—without reason, without plan, only instinct.

Two soft knocks.

“Come in,” came his voice, smooth and familiar in the way something becomes once it’s been memorized.

You stepped inside.

The door shut behind you with a hushed finality, and the room seemed to settle around it. He was where he always was—behind his desk, sleeves rolled to the forearm, tie slung carelessly over the back of his chair, like formality was a costume he’d shed just for you. He looked up slowly, and though his face held that same practiced calm, you knew better now. Knew what it meant—how stillness in him was never emptiness, only restraint.

“Morning,” you offered lightly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

You smiled despite yourself, heart skipping in that traitorous, all-too-familiar way.

A silence passed between you—not uncomfortable, just heavy with implication—before you crossed your arms and stepped deeper into the room.

“I figured we should probably talk,” you said carefully. “About… us.”

The slight crease in his brow deepened. “Talk?”

You nodded once. “You know. Define it. Decide if we’re avoiding it or admitting it or pretending it never happened.”

A long pause.

Then, quietly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world: “I’m courting you.”

You blinked.

And then laughed, half-snorted. “Who the hell still says courting in the twenty-first century?”

But he doesn’t flinch. He stood.

And when he came around the desk—measured steps, calm and utterly unhurried—you felt your breath catch before he even reached you. He stopped just short of touching, like the nearness itself was a kind of gravity neither of you could resist.

“Me,” he murmured.

Then, closer now, a whisper against your ear, voice silk-threaded with something darker: “And if you have a problem with it, I suggest you take it up with my lawyer.”

You turned toward him, lips quirking despite the heat blooming low in your chest. “Oh? And who’s your lawyer?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“She’s brilliant,” he said softly. “Terrifying, really. Quick-witted. The only person in this firm who scares me a little.”

He took your hand gently, as if you were made of something precious and fragile and maybe even a little dangerous. And just as he began to lift it to his lips—

You pulled it back, breath hitching. “Wait. There are regulations—”

“I don’t care about regulations,” he said, voice suddenly firm, low. “Or bylaws. Or fine print. If there’s a rule that says I can’t want this—can’t want you. Can’t court you? I’ll rewrite it myself.”

You stared at him, stunned into stillness by the quiet conviction in his voice.

“You seriously have to stop saying ‘courting,’” you said at last, voice barely above a breath.

His smile tilted, soft at the edges. “Make me.”

The moment cracked at the sound of a knock—sharp, sudden, urgent.

His name was called. Woonhak’s voice filtered through the door like a reminder of the world you both still belonged to. “Mr. Park? The Denton client’s here—they want you in the room. Now.”

Sungho didn’t look away from you. “I’ll be right there.”

You stepped back, reluctantly. “Go save the world, Batman.”

He reached for his jacket, paused only to press a kiss to your temple—featherlight, reverent—and whispered, “We’ll finish this later.”

Then he was gone.

You barely had a moment to exhale before Woonhak appeared at your side, eyes wide, grinning.

“Don’t,” you warned, raising a hand as you walked past him, trying not to smile.

“What was that?!” he stage-whispered, trailing behind you like a caffeinated shadow.

“Keep your voice down,” you hissed, elbowing him sharply as Sally walked by with a raised brow and a half-smile.

“So are you, like, dating now?” he pressed, eyes gleaming.

You didn’t answer—not really. Just looked at him, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts.

“He says he’s courting me,” you said.

“Courting?!” Woonhak clutched his chest. “What is this, Bridgerton?”

You stomped on his foot before he could continue. “I said quiet.”

But his grin only grew wider.

“Sungho and [Name], sittin’ in a tree—”

“I swear to God, Woonhak—”

You slid into your chair, determined to block him out, but something tugged at your focus. You pushed your keyboard aside, and a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor like an omen.

Woonhak leaned in over the wall of your cubicle. “Ooh. A love letter?”

You flipped him off as you picked it up. No name. No handwriting you recognized. Just plain and ominous.

You unfolded it.

We all see what’s going on. With you and Partner Park. That kind of relationship violates more than just ethics bylaws. You have until Friday to end it or I go to HR. Then the board. Enjoy your career while it lasts.

The words hit like ice. Cold. Measured. Cruel.

You barely registered Woonhak guiding you into the records alcove, or the way he shut the door behind you like the room itself needed to be insulated from what you’d just read.

“You look pale,” he said gently. “What did it say?”

You handed him the paper.

He read it once. Then again.

“Okay. That’s new. Who in their right mind threatens love?”

“Can we focus?”

“No, I am focusing. On the fact that this is clearly written by someone who’s bitter and petty and probably hasn’t had a date since 2011.”

You sank into the chair, trying to quiet the rising tremble in your hands by pressing your palms into your thighs.

“Who does this?” you whispered. “Why now? It’s been—what? A day?”

Woonhak leaned forward, quieter now. “People get nasty when they smell power. And let’s be real—the way Sungho looks at you is practically a crime in and of itself.”

You gave him a sharp glance.

“Sorry. Too soon.”

A beat.

Then, more softly: “So. Is there a power imbalance?”

“He was my TA,” you murmured. “Back in law school.”

“Wait—like, years ago?”

“Four; I’m not that old, Woonhak. And we weren’t… anything. Not then.”

“But now?”

You swallowed.

“He’s never used it. Never pulled rank. He challenges me, sure. But he’s never crossed a line. Not once.”

Woonhak nodded slowly. “And what are you going to do?”

You looked at the note again, then back at him.

“I’m going to him.”

His mouth quirked in that way it always did when he was impressed.

“To tell him?”

You shook your head. “To fix it.”

He leaned back, smiling. “There’s my favorite lawyer.”

The door was already ajar when you arrived, the low rustle of paper and the hum of Sungho’s voice leaking into the quiet hallway like a thread tugging you forward. You hesitated for a beat—hand hovering just above the wood—before knocking twice, light and uncertain.

He looked up at the sound, gaze lifting from a sea of documents that spilled across his desk like wreckage after a storm. There was a tension in the set of his jaw, sharp and habitual, but it softened the moment he saw you standing there—like recognition alone was enough to pull the gravity from his shoulders.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and low, worn down by too many hours and not enough rest. He gestured vaguely toward the chair across from him. “Sorry about the mess. Denton’s case is turning into a fucking labyrinth. There's a jurisdictional clause tangled in precedent I can’t untangle, and—”

You didn’t answer. Just walked in and lowered yourself slowly into the chair, already feeling the weight pressing down before the words even came.

Then you reached into your bag.

The letter had been folded so many times the edges were soft and worn, the crease in the center nearly translucent from the pressure of your thumb. You held it in both hands like it might bite if you let it go. When you spoke, your voice barely rose above a whisper.

“I got this,” you said. “It says we have to end things. Or they’ll go to HR. To the board. They say… this is unethical.”

You placed the paper on the desk between you. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. Like surrender.

Sungho stilled.

His eyes darkened as they scanned the page, jaw ticking once, then again. When he finally reached for it, his fingers were careful, but you could feel the anger in them—coiled and contained, not yet unleashed.

“Who sent it?” he asked, each word clipped and sharp enough to draw blood.

“I don’t know.” You exhaled slowly, but your lungs didn’t feel any lighter. “I’ve looked at the handwriting. I’ve tried to guess. But I don’t know.”

You were still staring at your hands, knotted tightly in your lap, like they were the only things keeping you tethered to yourself. “Sungho…” Your voice caught before it steadied again. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

His eyes snapped up. “What?”

“This,” you said, barely louder than before. “Us.”

There was no accusation in your tone—just exhaustion. Just fear in its quietest form.

“Have you thought about what this looks like from the outside?” you asked, gaze drifting toward the window but not really seeing the skyline beyond it. “You’re a senior partner. I’m a first-year associate. No matter what we are behind closed doors, that’s all they’re going to see.”

“I don’t give a damn what they see,” he said, already bristling. “If I care about you and you care about me—”

“But that’s the point,” you interrupted, voice fraying around the edges. “You can afford not to care. You’re protected. Respected. Untouchable. But me?” You shook your head, trying to breathe through the tightness curling in your chest. “I’m the one they’ll talk about in break rooms. I’m the one they’ll call names behind closed doors. I’m the liability.”

He went quiet.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he took off his glasses—round and strangely nostalgic—and leaned back in his chair like the truth weighed more than the casework on his desk.

“A couple months before you joined,” he said slowly, “there was an internal audit. Someone flagged unauthorized access to private case files. For weeks, every email, every login, every revision was combed through. No one knew who they were looking for.”

You stayed silent, listening.

“In the end, they found out one of the paralegals had been ghostwriting for an associate he was seeing. First-year, like you. He was brilliant—quiet, kind. He’s done work for Morgan and Ahn and he—he’s helped me handle a few briefs as well. He knew the law better than some of the junior partners. But that didn’t matter. He got fired and the associate quit two weeks after the audit was over.”

He paused, like the memory itself was still raw.

“It wasn’t the breach,” he said quietly. “Not really. We’ve had bigger ones. We’ve covered worse. But it was the relationship that killed their careers. That was the threat.”

Your grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

“I was in Chicago during the audit,” he said. “I wasn’t here when it happened. I couldn’t protect Sanghyeok and Min from being investigated. But I’m here now.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Not as your supervisor. Not even as the man you almost kissed on a rooftop.

But as someone who saw you shaking and wanted to make the world stop spinning just long enough for you to breathe.

“If you think I’m going to sit here and watch them tear you down,” he said, low and dangerous, “then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”

Something lodged in your throat, too thick to swallow.

Because in that moment, there was no distance between you. No title. No hierarchy. No rulebook.

Just you and him.

The knock was perfunctory, if it was one at all. Sungho pushed open the door to Managing Partner Lee’s office without waiting for permission, stepping inside with the calm, coiled energy of someone who’d already made up his mind. His suit was immaculate as ever, but there was something sharper in the way he carried himself today—a tension just beneath the surface, like a storm waiting for the right place to strike.

Lee didn’t bother to look up right away. He stayed seated, flipping through a contract draft like it mattered, like he wasn’t already aware of exactly why Sungho had come.

“You’re not on my calendar,” Lee said eventually, voice clipped and unimpressed.

Sungho didn’t sit. He remained standing just across from the desk, eyes leveled and voice even.

“This won’t take long.”

Lee finally looked up. His expression was blank, expectant, but the amusement was there—tucked into the corner of his mouth, the smug glint in his eyes like he was already waiting to be proven right.

“This is about my associate and me,” Sungho said. Calm. Measured. Deliberate.

“I assumed as much.” Lee leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “And let me be perfectly clear. I don’t approve. It’s inappropriate. It violates firm policy. The ethics bylaws—”

“Are outdated,” Sungho cut in, still composed but firm. “Punitive. They exist to intimidate, not protect.”

There was a brief silence, heavy with the undercurrent of challenge. Lee tilted his head slightly, the pretense of professionalism beginning to slip away.

“Well,” he said, voice dipped in disdain. “Sounds like “The Closer” has finally grown a soft spot. A chink in the armor.”

It was meant to sting. To provoke. But Sungho didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He just stared at him—long enough that the air between them felt weighted and still.

And then, quiet but loaded, he said two words:

“Rayton Motors.”

Lee went still. The color drained from his face so quickly it might’ve been theatrical, if it weren’t so real.

Sungho took a step closer to the desk. His voice remained calm, but the edge in it now was unmistakable.

“You want to talk about ethics?” he said. “Let’s start there. Rayton Motors. The silent partnership. The offshore funnel. I still have the original memo in archive. Signed by you. Let’s start there. Or should I call Compliance myself?"

Lee’s expression had flattened into something pale and hard. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Sungho didn’t need him to.

“I want a committee formed by the end of the week,” he continued. “I’ll draft the new bylaws myself. The current ones are written like a threat. That ends now.”

Lee’s jaw twitched. He looked like he wanted to argue, to reach for the kind of power he used to wield without question. But whatever leverage he thought he had—Sungho had just stripped it away. Fully.

Without another word, Lee gave a single, rigid nod.

That was enough.

Sungho turned and walked toward the door, no glance backward, no parting shot. He didn’t need to say anything else. The silence he left behind said everything.

You were already there when he stepped out, standing just beyond the frosted glass, the tension in your face giving away the fact that you'd heard more than a little. He didn’t speak, not yet. Just reached for your hand gently—no pretense, no hesitation—and led you down the hallway as if the firm still didn't have eyes. As if everything had already changed.

And in a way, it had.

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mountaesan · 23 days ago

Text

COURT FILE ONE — P. SUNGHO

📂 pairing. senior partner!sungho x newbie associate!reader

📂 genre. mentor/mentee , lawyer!au , slow burn , reader tries to be angsty but sungho shuts it down

📂 word count. 14.6k

📂 warnings. cursing , inaccurate legalese , this is honestly more law than romance ㅠㅠ