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shattered-matrix · 10 days ago

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Chapter 1: Part 2

Indiana Jones inspired AU | San x Reader

Themes: secret identity, slow-burn romance, academic tension, emotional pining, rooftop kisses, chaotic tech team support, fieldwork shenanigans, San falls first (hard)

8.6k words

Taglist: open

It’s too late to be thinking about this.

San scrubs a hand over his face, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room. The bedside lamp hums softly, casting faint shadows across a half-unpacked duffel and a pile of half-translated reference notes. His laptop is open on the desk, glowing faintly with the remnants of a draft he hasn’t touched in hours.

He should let it go.

It’s not like him to fixate on things like this. Not without evidence. But today in class—that girl. The one from the back of the room. Quiet. Covered. Always paying attention like she’s trying not to be seen.

And then that voice.

He still doesn’t know what made him look up. The sound wasn’t sharp or loud. Just... familiar in a way that caught between his ribs and stayed there.

It’s probably nothing.

He keeps telling himself that.

But he hasn’t talked to his partner in over a week. Not since the Italy mission wrapped. No briefings, no casual check-ins. Just silence. He doesn’t usually notice the gap until she’s back again—but this time, it’s been pressing down. Making space for doubt to fester.

If he hears her voice—really hears it—it’ll settle him. That’s all this is. Familiarity. Routine.

He opens the call line. Secure ping. No video, like always. She never turns it on.

Three rings. Then four.

Then her voice.

“Hey,” she says, soft and unhurried, like she’s been reading or maybe already winding down. “What’s up?”

San exhales slowly.

Nothing strange in the words. No sharp edges, no confessions. But still—he listens harder. To the rhythm. The weight behind each syllable. To the way she says what’s up, casual but with that faint curve at the end, like she’s already bracing for something stupid.

He’s heard that cadence in two dozen time zones. In the dark. In the static. In the silence right before something goes sideways.

Now it’s here again.

Just like this afternoon.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

“You good?” she asks after a beat, voice warm but neutral. “You don’t usually call without a flag.”

He shakes his head, forgetting for a moment she can’t see it. “Nah. I’m good. Just needed a familiar voice, I think.”

That earns him a faint laugh—dry and tired in the way she gets after too many hours on a screen. “Big day?”

He hesitates. “Something like that.”

She doesn’t press. She rarely does unless it’s mission-critical. So instead, she asks if he ever got the Carthage files sorted, if the scroll data was corrupt or just mislabeled. She fills the space like she always does—with quiet competence, a grounded steadiness that never tries too hard.

He lets her talk.

And he listens. More than usual.

Because he was twenty-percent sure, at best. Some ghost of her tone in the air today, haunting him just because he missed her.

But now?

Now it’s closer to fifty.

Not proof. Not even enough to confront. But enough to make him pause. Enough to make him wonder. The hitch in her tone when he asked if she was free last week. The way she deflected. The way she always deflects.

They sign off seventeen minutes later. No strange notes, no awkward silences.

When the line goes quiet, San doesn’t move right away. He just sits there, elbows braced on his knees, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth.

Half of him still thinks he’s imagining it. The other half is starting to think he’s not.

The room is quiet. Dim, save for the soft light of his desk lamp. Outside, campus hums with low weekend energy—bikes on the walkways, laughter in the courtyard below—but none of it registers.

He’s still thinking about her voice.

It wasn’t the words. Not really. Just a short exchange about the usual—field notes, tech logs, support coverage. She sounded like she always does: calm, capable, a little dry around the edges. But there was something about the cadence. The hesitation. A particular inflection when she said “still no update from the Naples dig” that lodged in his chest like splintered glass.

It brought him straight back to the classroom.

To the girl in the hoodie. The notebook. The breathy, offhand “fuck, sorry” that had made his heart skip like a misfire.

He’s spent the last few days convincing himself that he’s chasing a ghost—projecting the absence of someone he misses into the shape of a stranger. But tonight, the weight of her voice has him tipping closer to uncertainty. No longer twenty-percent sure. More like fifty. A coin flip. A quiet question that won’t leave him alone.

He exhales slowly, fingers drumming once against the edge of his chair.

Then he opens his laptop.

Just to check. To see if there’s anything tracable.

The university’s internal system takes a moment to load. He types in the name from his roster—her name—and clicks. A file opens.

And he goes very still.

The basic info is there. Student ID. Term enrollment. Area of focus. A neutral headshot that tells him nothing—no visible jewelry, no telling background, no smile. Like a passport photo scrubbed clean of context.

But beyond that?

Nothing.

No undergraduate records. No transcript data. No scholarship entries, no transfer history, no reference attachments. No thesis advisory notes or prior academic affiliations.

No footprint.

San frowns and clicks deeper. Even under data privacy protocols, there’s usually something. A list of previous institutions, a set of placement results, even a timestamped login for the standard onboarding modules.

She has none.

It’s not a red flag exactly. But it’s wrong.

Clean in a way that isn’t normal. Or at the very least, not natural.

His hand stills on the trackpad.

This isn’t the first time something’s tugged at him. The way she moves through crowds. The way she never speaks unless prompted—and when she does, it’s calculated, not shy. Measured. Familiar. Like she already knows how much to say to pass unnoticed.

Now this.

A file that reads like someone let it be visible but swept the rest.

He leans back slowly, mouth a thin line, a knot forming low in his chest.

There are explanations. Private records. Administrative glitches. Hell, maybe it’s just a weird edge case no one caught. He wants to believe that.

But the sense of wrongness lingers. Because if it is her—if the voice on the line and the girl in his class are the same person—

Then someone went to a lot of trouble to keep it quiet.

And if it isn’t?

Then he needs to understand why it’s getting harder to believe that.

The connection pings just after sunset. You settle back into your desk chair, headset already in place. A fresh tumbler of coffee sits next to you—just in case this runs long. The call routes clean, secure tag active, and the field ops ID attached reads familiar.

Choi, S. – Active. Location: Morocco. Status: Tracking.

You accept the call.

His camera comes online before his voice does—warm light flickering over sand-colored stone, glass lanterns casting geometric shadows across the walls behind him. He’s somewhere tucked away again, a rooftop maybe, or a guesthouse just off-grid. There’s a familiar hum to it. Desert air and distance and long nights on the chase.

San appears on screen, already in fieldwear. Button-up sleeves pushed to his elbows, collar loose, headset snug against his jaw. A canvas bag leans against the wall beside him, half-zipped, a glimpse of worn notes and rolled maps tucked inside.

“Hey, angel,” he says, casual and warm.

“Hey,” you return, heartbeat settling at the sound of him.

“Still with me, huh?”

“Still dragging your ass out of ruins, yeah.”

His grin softens. “Some things never change.”

You bring up the shared map on your second screen. “New intel puts the scroll near a private holding—Tangier perimeter. Auction trail flagged a few days ago.”

“Yeah. Got confirmation this morning. Holding’s secure, not publicly registered, but I’ve got a contact getting me eyes on the courier’s path.”

You nod. “I’ll set up the passive monitor. Shouldn’t trigger alarms.”

There’s a pause on his end. Not tense, exactly. But weighted. Then:

“…Hey,” he says lightly, almost like an afterthought. “Random question.”

You flick your gaze to the video feed, cautious. “Hmm?”

He’s not looking at the camera. Just rifling through a pouch, rearranging tools. Easy. Unhurried.

“What’s your comfort wear?”

You blink. “My what?”

He glances up at the camera then, all innocence. “Comfort wear. Like, if you had to be holed up in a safehouse for two weeks, what would you pack? Hoodie? Pajamas? A closet full of old t-shirts?”

You eye the screen warily. “What happened to operational relevance?”

“This is operational,” he counters, completely straight-faced. “I’m updating my human intel profiles. Figured I’d take notes. Your voice is all I’ve got to go on. Gotta build the rest somehow.”

“Uh-huh.” You narrow your eyes, but your tone stays even. “And how many other agents are you asking that question?”

He flashes a grin. “Just you.”

Your stomach flips. You ignore it.

“…Hoodies,” you mutter. “And a very old pair of NASA sweatpants. They’re tragic.”

San hums like he’s writing it down.

You adjust your screen, covering the way your fingers twitch. “Why?”

“No reason,” he says. “Just curious.”

But there’s something in the way he says it. The same tone he used when he asked about Yerevan. Testing. Quiet. Measured.

And you—damn you—you feel your pulse spike in response.

Not because he knows. But because you think he suspects.

You get back to work.

The mission picks up pace in small, precise increments. San switches his camera to chest-cam as he begins moving again—low light, narrow alleys, soft street sounds muffled by distance. You monitor the perimeter grid, logging route markers and ambient shifts, checking timestamp differentials with one hand while updating his nav overlay with the other.

It’s smooth. Familiar. A rhythm you’ve missed.

He asks for intel—quiet and direct—and you provide it. Sector clear. Two paths forward. Wind pattern confirms minimal foot traffic.

He murmurs confirmation and moves.

Fifteen minutes pass this way. Just mission. Just flow.

Then, as he ducks into a corridor flanked by ancient tilework and sun-faded signage, he says it—soft and idle, like a note passed across a desk.

“You know, this archway? Reminds me of that piece we reviewed in class last week. The Arslan excavation report. There was that line about monolithic arches used to disguise storage vaults beneath border fortresses.”

You hesitate. But not long enough.

“Arslan didn’t have full confirmation on that. It was an inferred structure—nothing conclusive in the core samples.”

One beat of silence. Just slightly too long.

Then San, gently amused: “Ah. So you’ve read that one.”

You still.

Then scoff, sharp and defensive. “I don’t live under a rock, San. I do have a life outside saving your ass.”

He hums. “Wasn’t judging. Just surprised.”

“You never are,” you mutter, trying to redirect your pulse away from your throat.

He doesn’t push. Just murmurs a soft, thoughtful “mm,” and moves on like nothing happened at all.

But you know him. You know that pause meant something. And the way your stomach twists says you might’ve just confirmed something he didn’t have proof of.

“Second time you’ve mentioned my ass tonight, angel,” he says after a beat, voice all teasing warmth. “Point of fixation?”

You choke. Audibly, judging by the smug laughter that follows.

“I swear to god, San—”

He just laughs again and rounds the corner, leaving you to glare at your screen and wonder if maybe you didn’t deflect as smoothly as you thought.

A beat. Then his voice, casual but almost too sincere:

“I don’t mind. I worked hard on it.”

You can feel the heat rush to your face.

“There is something wrong with you.”

“Good thing you’re here to watch my back, then.”

You’re tired. Bone-deep. The kind of tired that settles in your spine and makes your eyelids heavy before noon. The late night comm and stress-soaked dreams filled with relay codes and collapsing ruins haven’t exactly left you refreshed.

Still, you make it to class. Hoodie, black joggers, coffee gripped in both hands like a lifeline. You slip into your usual seat near the back, head down, expression blank.

Then San walks in.

He’s tired too. You can see it in the way his shirt clings to him slightly, the rolled sleeves shoved up like a second thought rather than a choice. His hair’s a little unkempt, eyes shadowed beneath the weight of too many time zones and not enough rest. You doubt he’s slept at all, not when he traveled back to teach.

He greets the class, voice low and warm, then starts the lecture with barely a glance at his notes. It should be routine. Familiar.

Then he turns toward the whiteboard, and your brain—traitorous gremlin that it is—throws up last night’s comm like a neon sign:

“I don’t mind. I worked hard on it.”

You don’t even blink. You just think:

Do not look at his ass.

And then immediately look at his ass.

It’s not even on purpose. He’s just... there. In his shirt rolled to the elbows, sleeves wrinkled like he got dressed in a hurry. He’s still got a bandaid on one knuckle and maybe a smudge of something ancient near his collarbone.

And then there’s his slacks. Hugging his hips.

You blink like maybe you can reset your own brain. Nope. Still there. Still very much... present.

You clutch your coffee harder.

You’ve been working with this man for years. You’ve heard his voice in your ear while he’s ankle-deep in ruins and bugged by satellites. You’ve debugged his field notes while eating cereal in your pajamas. You’ve talked him through literal explosions.

But apparently, one flirtatious comment about working hard on his ass and suddenly you’re in a lecture hall contemplating the sculptural qualities of a man in tactical slacks like it’s part of the curriculum.

You try to look away. Fail. Try again. Fail harder.

You are not making it through this lecture.

San, meanwhile, is up there talking about structural anomalies in sub-desert catacombs like he didn’t just fundamentally alter the geometry of your daydreams. He’s animated. Focused. Gesturing toward the board with his pen, explaining arch stress points and erosion patterns like he didn’t say something deeply unhinged into comms last night that now lives rent-free in your skull.

He shifts his weight onto his back foot and your brain—traitor that it is—decides now is the moment to remember the exact inflection of “I worked hard on it.”

You clutch your coffee like it can anchor you to this realm. Eyes fixed on your notes. Do not look. Do not look. Do not—

He says something wrong.

It’s subtle. Not something most of the class would catch. A phrasing error, a backwards attribution. But it hits your ear wrong because you do know better. You corrected him on it last night, in fact, over a secure line while he was half-hidden behind a date stand in the Tangier market.

Your frown betrays you, made heavy by exhaustion.

San turns. Casual. Smooth. A teacher scanning his class for engagement. His eyes slide past three rows of blank faces and land directly on you.

Your heart stutters.

“What seems to be the matter, miss?”

The words fall so lightly. Not accusing. Not pointed. But they land like a hammer.

A few students glance over, more curious than anything. You sit still. Your hoodie’s too warm. Your hands feel clumsy on your pen. He’s waiting.

And if you say nothing—you look checked out. Rude. If you say something, and you’re right—

You meet his gaze. Just briefly.

“The structural timeline is inverted,” you say, quietly. Even. “Primary vaults were post-lintel. Arches were a retrofit, added during the second wave of occupation.”

His eyes don’t narrow. His posture doesn’t shift. He just nods once, measured and easy.

“Correct. Good eye.”

Then he turns back to the board and continues like nothing happened.

Like your voice didn’t just fold into the room the same way it always does over comms—low, precise, calmly annoyed with his nonsense.

You stare at your notebook, heart hammering like you just triggered a tripwire.

He knows.

Or—no. Not knows. But suspects.

You can feel it.

You’ve operated in lockstep with this man across six continents and seventeen classified recoveries. You know when he’s testing a theory. When he’s circling the answer. When he’s halfway to certainty and just waiting for confirmation. That intensity is one of the things you enjoy about him.

But if you’re not careful—if you slip even once more—he’s going to put all the pieces together.

God help you if he already has.

He’s running on fumes. Flew in at 2 a.m. Slept maybe twenty minutes, if shutting his eyes and listening to the ghost of her voice count as sleep. Drank enough caffeine to fuel a convoy. Walked into class with a half-limp from a rooftop stumble he’s still not ready to talk about.

Still, he’s here. Teaching. Focused. Professional.

Mostly.

It started simple enough. Lecture slides loaded. Structural timelines queued. He’s done this a hundred times before. She was in her usual seat—in the back, hoodie up, coffee gripped in both hands like it might hold her together.

She looked tired.

Something about that—the shared weight of exhaustion, maybe—rattled him harder than it should’ve. Because he was tired too.

And her voice was still in his head from that ‘goodbye’ at 1:45 in the morning, exhausted and quietly annoyed from his teasing.

“I don’t mind. I worked hard on it.”

She’d said nothing at the time. But he heard the silence. Felt her blush across a hemisphere and two secure servers.

Now, that quiet woman is sitting there, avoiding his eyes, and all San can think is: It’s her.

Fifty percent, he told himself yesterday. Then she answered the reading slip. Voice calm, clipped, just the tiniest bit annoyed. Seventy now, at least.

Maybe higher.

He should leave it there. He knows he should. Should teach his class, stick to the lesson, keep the line between field and academic exactly where it belongs.

Then she frowns.

Not just any frown. A specific kind of furrow. Precise. Telling. A correction forming behind her eyes. And he can’t help it. He tests.

“What seems to be the matter, miss?”

He sees the way she stills. The way she weighs her choices. And when she speaks—

“The structural timeline is inverted,” she says. “Primary vaults were post-lintel. Arches were a retrofit, added during the second wave of occupation.”

San’s pulse stutters.

It is her.

He should say something. Acknowledge the correction. Thank her. Move on. But it’s not the words that get him. It’s the tone. That voice, modulated and controlled. The same voice that has gotten him through ruins, field extractions, near-disasters.

Low. Precise. Calmly annoyed with his nonsense.

He nods. Easy. Professional.

“Correct. Good eye.”

Then he turns back to the board and pretends to go on. Pretends he didn’t just have the wind knocked out of him. Pretends his hands aren’t shaking.

It’s her.

She’s here. In his classroom. Has been for weeks. The partner he’s worked with for years. The woman whose voice steadied his pulse through gunfire and godsdamned earthquakes. The one who always knew when to speak, when to stay silent, when to hold him together without ever needing to say much at all.

He wanted so badly to meet her. But this? He doesn’t know what to do with this.

If he’s wrong, it’s the worst kind of breach. If he’s right—

If he’s right, she’s been hiding in plain sight, and he has no idea why.

His jaw tightens. He forces himself to keep talking. Keep teaching, but his focus is fractured. Shattered like old glass.

He knows that voice. Now that he’s heard it here—face-to-face, no headset, no mission feed to mediate—it’s never going to stop echoing in his head.

He doesn’t just suspect anymore. He knows. And he’s going to find out why she’s hiding from him.

He makes it through the rest of the lecture on instinct alone. The words are there—he’s done this long enough to go on autopilot when necessary—but his focus keeps slipping. Sliding toward the back of the room. Toward her.

She doesn’t look up again. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t shift in her seat or draw any more attention than she already has.

He can feel her awareness. The stillness of someone trying not to breathe too loud. San knows that stillness. Has moved through it beside her more times than he can count.

The voice was confirmation. But now he’s watching for everything else. Posture. Reaction time. The way she holds her pen—not like a student, but like someone trained to take fast notes in low-light conditions.

She’s too composed.

That—more than the voice, more than the correction—is what seals it.

By the time the lecture wraps, he’s made up his mind. He assigns end-of-class work—comparative site analysis, partner optional—and opens the floor for questions, though no one really has any. They're tired. Distracted. Ready to leave.

Except him.

He types quickly, glancing once toward the back of the room as he sends it.

From: San Choi Subject: Follow-up Body: My office, please. After class.

Then he closes the laptop. Steps away from the podium. Casual. Controlled.

And waits.

You’re halfway through rereading the site excerpt when the notification pings in the corner of your screen. You glance down, already expecting some mass reminder about midterms or library hours.

But it’s not from admin. It’s from him.

My office, please. After class.

Your stomach drops like a stone in water.

You reread it. Once. Twice. As if the wording might change. As if it might suddenly become something less direct, less personal, less—pointed.

It doesn’t.

Slowly, like the movement might buy you a second or two of reprieve, you raise your eyes. He’s at the front of the room, leaning one hand on the edge of the podium as he watches the class scatter into small clumps of whispered conversation and lazy note-taking.

But his eyes—His eyes are on you.

Not casual. Not curious. Tired, maybe—but sharp. Focused. Too bright for the rest of his expression. Like he’s not running on fumes and caffeine but something closer to adrenaline. Like he’s tracking.

You don’t flinch. Not visibly. But your throat goes dry and your pulse spikes because you’ve seen that look before. It’s the one he gets when a theory starts making sense. When fragments slide into place. When a ruin gives up its secrets and the floor is about to fall out from beneath you.

You drop your gaze. Force your shoulders to stay loose. Type something in your notes that you won’t remember later.

You’re not slipping. You’ve slipped. Now—you just have to survive whatever comes next.

As class begins to dissolve—papers rustling, laptops closing, chairs scraping across tile—you wait for the window. The lull. That narrow sliver of time where movement blends into background, where one more student slipping out the side door isn’t worth a second glance.

He left first.

Gave some half-muttered comment about the “next thing,” waved a hand vaguely toward the hallway, didn’t look at anyone in particular. You’d hoped he meant it. That he’d left. That maybe you could make it out clean, let your nerves settle before whatever came next.

You slip your bag over your shoulder, walk casual. Hoodie up, head down, file into the flow of students like you belong there. Just another bleary-eyed grad making a break for caffeine or sunlight.

Left turn at the stairwell. Quick slide past the bulletin board. Down the service corridor that cuts behind the faculty offices. You’re halfway there.

Then—there he is.

Leaning against the wall just past the narrow corridor bend—the one most students don’t take. The one he knows you do. Because he’s the one who taught you to take halls like this. Fewer witnesses. Fewer obstacles. Better sightlines. Best option for a clean exit.

You freeze for half a second.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you with a kind of quiet, bone-tired fondness that makes your stomach twist.

His sleeves are still rolled up. There’s a coffee stain just visible near the hem. His hair’s a mess. His posture is lazy but his eyes are sharp.

Then—he smiles.

Not mocking. Not smug. Just… resigned. Pleased. Something complicated and sleep-deprived and so very him.

“I don’t know if I’m proud or pissed,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. Because the truth is—you don’t know either. You’ve never seen this expression before.

Your mouth is dry. Words crowd your throat but none of them are useful. Still, you try.

“Doctor—”

He tilts his head.

“That sounds strange, coming from you…I don’t think I like it.”

The silence stretches just a moment too long.

San pushes off the wall, slow and casual, like like he just happened to be in the hallway you definitely chose to slip through unnoticed. His hands settle in his pockets. He tilts his head like he’s considering something. Maybe the angle of your shoulders. Maybe the very existence of this moment.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says at last, voice low and unsteady in a way you’ve never heard from him. “For a long time, I wasn’t sure. But I kept thinking about your notes. The way you speak. The phrasing. The timing. I thought—maybe I was just sleep-deprived. Grieving a little. Missing my partner too much.”

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh.

“But then you corrected me. Like it was instinct.”

You shift your weight, words stacked up behind your tongue like cars in a traffic jam. He isn’t accusing you. He isn’t angry. But the way he’s looking at you—like he’s watching the edge of a mirage to see if it holds—it’s making your ribs feel too tight.

You could lie.

You could say nothing.

Then he says, more gently than you expect, “You’ve got that look.”

You blink. “What look?”

“The one I figured you’d get when you’ve got twenty tabs open in your head and half are on fire.”

You let out a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh in better lighting. “That obvious, huh?”

He shrugs. “You forget, I’ve heard that voice talk me through surveillance, satellites, and a collapsing tomb in Guatemala. I’ve got a bit of a database.”

“You’re exhausted,” you deflect. “And jetlagged. You shouldn’t be trying to decode students on zero sleep.”

“Probably not.” His smile comes tired and crooked. “But you did teach me to trust my gut.”

You flinch at that. Just slightly. He sees it.

He looks down, scuffs his heel lightly against the floor. For a second, you both just breathe. No questions. No accusations. Just the warm, humming electric weight of something too big to name.

Then, because one of you has to say something and you’re too tangled to be first, he asks it:

“…Do you want to come to my office?”

A simple question. Plain words. Neutral tone.

But beneath it—invitation. Tension. A choice.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice yet.

He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t grin. He just steps back and waits for you to walk beside him like he’s done a thousand times on a hundred missions.

Except now the terrain’s completely unfamiliar.

The walk to his office is quiet.

Not strained—but not easy, either. Not like it used to be, when you’d stay on the line with him just a little longer after a mission. When the silence meant calm, not calculation. Now, every step echoes with the weight of what he might say. What you might admit. What both of you already suspect.

He’s so close. Closer than he’s ever been. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. See the slight bit of stubble along his jaw. Smell the hastily applied cologne. His eyes keep sliding to you, as though to ensure you’re still there.

He opens the door and gestures for you to go in first.

It hits you the second you cross the threshold.

This space—God, this space. You’ve never been here before, but you know it. The subtle scent of old paper and spiced tea. The worn bookshelf crammed too tight with both field manuals and fiction. The relics tucked in along the edges—authentic, well-loved, one or two of them carefully, guiltily smuggled.

His coat is draped over the back of the desk chair. His notes are spread messily across the worktable, handwritten and half-translated, with annotations in the margins that match the scrawl you’ve scanned a hundred times before.

It aches. Viscerally.

This is the room where he works when he’s not in danger. When he’s still, if only for a moment. And you—who’ve only ever known him at a distance, through cracked comms and remote feeds—are suddenly here. Breathing the same air. Inside the life he never shows anyone.

You head for the guest chair, already bracing for the comfort of distance—the kind a desk provides.

But he doesn’t claim the other side. He doesn’t let the desk stand between you.

He drops his bag next to the bookshelf, then rounds the corner of the desk without hesitation, settling into the chair beside yours. Not facing you directly, but close enough to feel the shift of air when he moves. His knees brush lightly toward yours before he adjusts, giving you space.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits with his elbows braced on his thighs, hands folded loose, head bowed like he’s lining his thoughts up one by one. The silence is steady. Not punishing. Not expectant. Just... San, in that way he is when he’s choosing his words like they’re part of something sacred.

Finally, he speaks—quietly. Carefully.

“I didn’t want to confront you in front of anyone.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He glances at you, soft-eyed. “And I didn’t want to push. I still don’t.”

You look at your hands, flex your fingers against the urge to fold into yourself.

“But, angel—”

Hearing it in person, with no crackle of comms between you, sends something tremulous through your chest.

He exhales. Shifts like the question hurts.

“Why did you hide?”

A breath.

“Why did you run?”

Another breath, tight and quiet.

“Did I… do something to make you not trust me?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. There’s a lump forming in your throat now, slow and steady, rising with every second of silence that passes between you.

He’s waiting. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just waiting—in that impossible way he has, like time bends differently around his patience. Like he has all the time in the world if it means you'll let him see you.

Suddenly, it hits you—he’s hurt.

Not angry. Not betrayed. But hurt. And it’s the kind of pain that blindsides you. Because you always thought of him as larger than life. A whirlwind in fieldwear. A storm with soft hands and a steady voice. Someone too confident, too anchored to be wounded by anything you could do.

But you did. Somehow, you did.

Your breath stutters.

Then, softly—almost too softly to be heard—you whisper, “No.”

He looks up at that. Not fully, not sharply. Just enough to let you know he heard.

“You’ve never done anything to make me not trust you,” you say, and now the words shake a little, because this is the part that matters. “I just…”

You draw in a breath like it might hold you together.

“I like us, San.”

Your eyes find his. There’s no escaping this now.

“It’s easy. It feels right. You and me, in the field. Over comms. It works. It’s steady. And I know how to exist in that space with you.”

He doesn’t move. Just listens.

“And now it’s different,” you finish, voice gone smaller, rawer. “You looked at me in class. You saw me. And I wasn’t just the voice in your ear anymore.”

You try for a breath. It catches halfway.

“And the thing is… I don’t know what happens now. Because you’re you. And I’m me.”

His brow creases. Just slightly.

“Because I’m me…?” he repeats, quietly, like he’s trying to make sense of a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

You flinch inwardly. Not because he’s upset—he isn’t—but because he looks genuinely lost. Like you’ve handed him a sealed map and torn off the legend.

“You’re you,” you say, trying again. “Dr. San Choi. World-class archaeologist. Field genius. Chaos incarnate with a passport and a death wish. Everyone knows your name. And then there’s me.”

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“You, who’s kept me alive more times than I can count?” he says, slowly, like the words are obvious. “You, who talks me through traps and codes and half-collapsed ruins like it’s just another Tuesday?”

You look down, jaw tight.

“You’re the one I call when it matters,” he says, voice softer now. “You always have been.”

That breaks something loose in your chest.

But he isn’t finished.

“I don’t see some giant difference between us,” he admits, leaning forward, elbows on his knees again, trying to meet you at eye level. “I never have. You’ve always been real to me. Even if I didn’t know your name. Even if I couldn’t see your face. You were you. And I—” he huffs a breath, shaking his head like he still can’t believe any of this is happening, “I liked that version. But I also like this one.”

He gestures, vaguely, at you. “Hoodie. NASA sweatpants. Fire in your eyes even when you’re scared out of your mind. I like this you.”

Your breath catches.

“I know you’re worried the dynamic’s different now,” he says. “But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

Silence stretches again. Not heavy. Just full.

Then he adds, quieter:

“Unless… you don’t want it to change. Unless you want me to forget I know who you are.”

You glance up. His expression is open, quiet. Waiting.

“…You can’t,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re you. You don’t forget.”

His smile is small. Aching.

“I would try,” he says. “If you asked me to.”

You go still.

Not out of fear. Not even shock. But because something in you short-circuits. Like your body’s trying to make space for a realization too big to process all at once.

He’s said things like this before—casual, teasing, cloaked in the half-light of distance and static. He’s called you angel, thanked you for saving his life, told you he trusted you with his back. But that was always over comms. Always safe. Always buffered by space and circumstance.

Now he’s here. Inches from you. Real in a way that strips away every excuse you’ve ever given yourself.

And he just said he’d try to forget you—for you—if that’s what you needed.

It sits in your chest like a live wire.

“Why are you like this?” you breathe.

His brow furrows slightly. He’s searching your eyes now, expression so desperately open. Another one you’ve never seen before.

“Like what?”

You nod at him. Tiny, helpless.

“Stupidly sincere. You’re not mad. You’re not accusing me. You just…” You swallow. “You just say shit like that.”

He breathes out. Not a laugh. Not quite. More like a quiet, disbelieving exhale—soft at the edges.

“Stupidly sincere…,” he murmurs, voice low and frayed with exhaustion. “I’ve meant all of it. Every word.”

You blink.

“I—” He shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to organize something too long left unsorted. “I’ve been trying not to say it. For a long time. Because it felt unfair. Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

He glances at you, gaze searching. “But now I’m sitting next to you. You’re here. And I can’t pretend I don’t know anymore.”

Your breath catches again. His voice is soft—so soft. Like if he says it too loud, it might scare you away.

“I’m in love with you.”

There’s no flourish. No grand gesture. Just a man, tired and real and wide open in the quiet space where he’s always let you in.

“I think I have been since Cairo. Maybe before.” A wry smile flickers. “You yelled at me for almost dropping a satellite relay off a roof and I just… knew.”

He shrugs, a little helpless. “And I didn’t know if you’d ever feel the same. But I wanted you in my life however I could have you. So I didn’t push. I just… stayed.”

He meets your eyes again.

“But I’m here now. And you are too. And I need you to know.”

You feel like the earth has dropped out from under you.

Your hands go still in your lap. The air feels thinner somehow—like the atmosphere in this room has changed and your body hasn’t caught up. Like you were mid-step over a canyon you didn’t realize was there.

He said that.

To you.

Not to the voice in his ear. Not to the analyst on the other end of a comms line. Not to the woman hidden behind call signs and secure tags.

To you. Sitting beside him in his office with a hoodie you’ve worn three days in a row and too much fear packed under your skin.

“I…”

The word hangs there, half-formed. You don’t know how to finish it. There are a hundred things you want to say, all crashing into each other.

You look at him again—really look—and he’s not pulling back. Not retreating. Just waiting. Steady, like he always is when things fall apart.

“You’ve been…” You swallow, trying to find a foothold. “San, I didn’t—I never let myself think—”

Your voice breaks off. It’s not pretty. It’s not polished. But it’s real.

“You’re you,” you say again, like maybe that explains everything. “I thought—God, I thought if I told you, it would ruin things. That you’d laugh, or—”

His expression flickers. Something wounded and desperate, like how could you ever think that?

“I would never,” he says, hoarse now. “I couldn’t.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the distance between you closes like it never existed at all.

His hands slide beneath your elbows, warm and steady, knees brushing yours. You can feel the heat of his palms through your sleeves and it’s surreal—too real, too much, too him.

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his wrinkled sleeves, gripping hard. Anchor points. Something to hold onto while the rest of you spirals.

He’s so close now. Close enough that you can feel the brush of his mussed hair against your temple, the quiet hitch of his breath.

“Angel,” he murmurs, and it lands somewhere deep. “I could never. Never make you feel small.”

Your breath trembles, eyes warming. Fuck. He’s here. Touching you. Grounding you. Murmuring soft things near your ear. You can feel him—solid and real in a way that rattles every defense you’ve built.

Still, that fear squats in your gut like a weight, driving you to throw up one last barrier.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice thin. “San… you don’t know me.”

His grip tightens just slightly. Steady. Sure.

“I do. I know you, angel. And you know me. We’re a pair. Partners.”

A soft sound catches in your throat. Half-pain, half-belief.

“We don’t match. People will—”

He cuts you off with a firm press of his lips to your temple, like he can silence the whole world with that one touch. You nearly come out of your chair with the force of it.

“We do match,” he says fiercely, breath warm against your skin. “We match so well. And I don’t care if anyone believes otherwise.”

The breath punches from your chest. That fear claws for a new excuse—anything to hold between you—but he’s already torn through them, and you’re left with nothing but this.

You try again. One last shield, flung up in sheer desperation.

“You’re older than me.”

It comes out quiet. Almost childish. You hate how small it sounds.

San blinks. Pulls back just an inch to look at you. Like he’s trying to figure out whether he heard that right.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head and an almost bewildered smile:

“…Does that bother you?”

You swallow. Can’t meet his eyes now. “No. Not really. I just…” You shrug, helpless. “It’s one of those things. The kind of thing people might—say.”

He watches you for a long beat. Then exhales—a quiet breath shaped by disbelief and something too tender to name.

“Angel,” he says, voice impossibly soft. “This wasn’t about timing. It was about you.”

our mouth parts—some protest stammering to form—but his hands are already there, grounding you again.

“And for the record?” His eyes shine, tired but clear. “You’ve always met me move for move. No part of me has ever looked at you and thought ‘you’re younger.’ I only ever thought—‘thank god she’s mine.’”

He squeezes your elbows slightly, brows pulling together as the warmth in your eyes finally spills down your face.

“Don’t cry, angel. You’ll make me cry, too.”

Your chest folds in on itself like paper. You try to swallow, try to breathe, but nothing steady will come.

Because this is San. San, who’s crossed oceans with your voice in his ear. Who’s bled on the ground and still made time to ask if you were okay. Who now sits beside you, tired and steady and so fucking sure.

And you—

You press your hand to your mouth as another breath shudders loose, and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to hold it in.

“I do,” you whisper. “I do love you, San.”

His breath catches.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice breaking open like a fault line. “I tried not to. I didn’t want to risk it, or lose the us we already had, or ruin everything by wanting more—”

Your voice cracks. Your eyes burn. Your fists curl tight in the fabric of your sleeves.

“But I do. I love you. I think I’ve been loving you for years.”

He moves before you can hide again. No hesitation. One arm slides around your back, the other up to cradle the base of your skull as he folds you into his chest like something he’s meant to hold.

“Thank god,” he breathes into your hair. “Thank fucking god.”

Your fingers dig into his shirt. You cry in his arms, quiet and trembling and finally, finally letting go. And he holds you like he means it. Like you’re not a revelation, but a return.

Like he’s been waiting for you.

And now—he’s not letting go.

You wake up to warmth.

Not the filtered light of morning or the hum of your apartment—but something softer. Closer. Real.

Fabric rustles as you shift. A heartbeat thuds beneath your cheek. Your knees are curled up. A worn corduroy pillow cushions your back. And somewhere beneath you—San.

You blink into the weave of his shirt. Chest rising and falling under your ear, slow and even. One of his arms is looped loosely around your waist, the other tucked beneath the throw blanket you don’t remember grabbing.

It takes you a full five seconds to register where you are.

His office couch. Small. Old. Just big enough for two if you’re tangled.

And you are so tangled.

You inhale—and his scent hits you. Warm and familiar. Field-dust and old paper. The faint trace of that spiced cologne he always applies in a rush.

Your hand’s fisted near his collarbone, curled like it never meant to let go.

Carefully, you shift to glance up.

He’s still asleep. Eyelashes low against his cheeks, mouth parted slightly. Hair a soft, chaotic mess. His face, usually so sharp when he’s awake, looks young like this. Bare. Peaceful.

You’re afraid to move. Afraid to breathe too loud and wake him. But more than that—you’re afraid of how safe this feels.

You both collapsed. After everything—confession, tears, that endless, aching tension finally breaking—you must’ve just… folded into each other and never let go.

You press your forehead gently to his chest. And whisper, more to yourself than anyone:

“…I really do love you, don’t I?”

San shifts a little beneath you. Not fully awake—but close. His arm tightens around you. His thumb traces the edge of your hoodie without thinking.

“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Love you.”

You freeze. “San—are you—”

He hums again. Definitely half-asleep. “Still real?”

You smile, helpless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Still real.”

He nuzzles into your hair like he heard you, even if he’s already gone again. You let yourself rest there, tucked into him, heart steadying at last.

It’s peaceful until an incessant buzzing begins.

San shifts again, this time with a grumble. The sound is low and groggy, somewhere between annoyance and resignation. His arm tightens reflexively around you as his other hand fumbles blindly toward the buzzing phone on the floor near the couch.

You feel the moment he snags it, the vibration cutting off as he brings it to his ear without even opening his eyes.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice raspy and muffled against your hair. “I canceled class for today… jetlagged. Mhm.”

He pauses, listens.

“Yeah, I’ll email them too. Just…” A long sigh. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He hangs up without another word, lets the phone drop somewhere near the couch edge with a soft thunk. His arm slides back around you like it belongs there—like it’s not going anywhere.

You don’t move.

Not because you’re pretending to be asleep—but because this is the first time you’ve ever had the luxury of just listening to him like this. Not through a mic. Not distorted by static. Just his voice, low and rough with sleep, vibrating gently beneath your ear as he shifts and resettles.

He’s warm. Steady. Real in a way that makes your throat tighten.

You curl in closer, cheek resting just above his heartbeat, and let the soft silence stretch.

“I love you,” he says again, barely audible—like his half-conscious mind is looping the truth until it roots itself deeper.

You smile, press a tiny kiss to the center of his chest, and whisper it back—just in case he’s awake enough to catch it this time.

“I love you too.”

He hums, content, and you glance up.

“You’re gonna be sore from sleeping like this.”

His only response is to squeeze you tighter, wrapping you up like he means to keep you there forever.

“Shhh,” he mumbles. “Don’t care.”

The rooftop glows with low golden light, all quiet clinks of glassware and soft music. Below, Madrid pulses in the evening haze—warm and alive. The sunset’s just faded beyond the horizon, leaving the city bathed in a gentle amber wash. You lean back in your chair, wineglass cradled in one hand, trying very hard not to look too enchanted.

Across the table, San beams at you like he’s the one who arranged the sunset.

You narrow your eyes. “When you said ‘date in Madrid,’ I didn’t realize you meant field excursion.”

He just grins wider. “You can’t be cooped up forever.”

You gesture at the table. “San. I’m a tech. That’s what I do. I coop.”

Wooyoung hums through the earpiece still tucked behind your hair, smug and perfectly timed.

“You should have seen this coming.”

You lift your glass toward the sky in dramatic betrayal. “I was gaslighted.”

“Enriched,” San says.

“Ambushed.”

“Romanced.”

“You bribed me with jamón and rooftop sangria.”

“And you’re smiling,” he points out, smugly pleased with himself.

You try to hold the line, but it crumbles fast. Because the view is stunning. The wine is perfect. And San, in his slightly-wrinkled linen shirt and sun-warmed grin, is watching you like you invented the stars.

You scoff into your wineglass.

“Dumbass.”

“Your dumbass.”

The glass does nothing to hide how you fail to contain your smile.

“Yeah. My dumbass.”

The silence slips between you, warm and unhurried. Madrid spreads out behind him like a painting—gold and crimson fading into twilight. The candles flicker against the soft rise of evening breeze.

San’s still watching you. Not like he’s waiting. Just… there. Present. Sure. That steady field presence you’ve always trusted now wrapped in linen and candlelight, looking at you like you’re his favorite discovery.

You set your glass down slowly.

“San.”

He leans in just slightly, like speaking his name pulled him closer.

“Yeah?”

“This is really unfair,” you murmur, a half-smile tugging at your mouth. “You bring me to a rooftop under Spanish moonlight and expect me not to fall a little harder.”

His breath catches—not loud, but enough that you feel it more than hear it.

“Then don’t fight it,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Just go with it.”

You hesitate—only for a breath. Then you lean in.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss isn’t explosive. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t crash through you like lightning or burn like wildfire.

It grounds you. Anchors you.

His hand comes up to your cheek, slow and reverent, thumb brushing lightly across your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His mouth is warm, steady, certain, like he’s been waiting years to get this right—and he won’t rush it.

You melt into him before you realize you’ve moved. One hand finds his shirtfront, curling in the soft fabric, the other steadying yourself against his knee beneath the table. He shifts just slightly, angling deeper, and your breath catches at the sheer tenderness of it.

When you finally pull back, it’s slow. Natural. His forehead tips gently to yours.

“You’re real,” he whispers, almost like a prayer. “You’re mine.”

You smile, eyes closed, heart racing in the best possible way.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Yours.”

And then—

“JOONG! IT HAPPENED! YOU OWE ME MONEY!”

You jerk back so fast you nearly knock over your wine. San’s head whips toward the horizon like someone just shot at him.

“Wooyoung,” you hiss, “Are you serious—”

“I told him it would be Madrid,” Wooyoung crows through the comm like he’s announcing an Olympic victory. “I knew it would be Madrid. And technically, I was closest on the date, too—so that’s double payout, suck it, Mingi!”

“Oh my god,” you groan, hiding your face in your hands. San’s laughing, shoulders shaking, but it’s the kind of laugh that means you’re not surviving this alone.

Then his expression shifts.

He straightens, one hand already reaching for the earpiece tucked behind his collar. His body language changes—completely. Casual warmth gives way to field alertness, sharp and focused.

“What was that?” he says into comms. “Repeat that.”

The line crackles—then Hongjoong’s voice cuts in, low and tight. “You’re going to want to see this. Something just surfaced in Cairo. High-profile. Moving fast.”

A beat. Then Wooyoung, noticeably calmer: “You’ve got a three-day window before it disappears again. Maybe less. Don’t stop to make out too often, yeah?”

San glances at you. That spark in his eyes—the one that lives for the chase, the mystery, the next answer—flares bright.

This time, though, you aren’t watching through a camera. And when he offers his hand across the table, you don’t hesitate.

You take it.

Chapter 1: Part One

#long post #ateez #ateez fanfic #jay writes fanfic #roderickprime #ateez writing #ateez au #san fanfic #choi san #jeong yunho #kim hongjoong #jung wooyoung #song mingi #voice in his ear

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shattered-matrix · 10 days ago

Text

Chapter 1: Part 1

Indiana Jones inspired AU | San x Reader

Themes: secret identity, slow-burn romance, academic tension, emotional pining, rooftop kisses, chaotic tech team support, fieldwork shenanigans, San falls first (hard)

12k words

Taglist: open

The thrum of adrenaline is familiar. Your fingers never still, shifting from readout to readout, monitors casting a glow across your workstation. Blueprints and maps, vital pings, drone and bodycam footage, translations of ancient texts. Everything that might possibly be needed for the success of the mission.

It isn’t the displays themselves that have your heart racing. It’s what they show—a hallway that looks empty. And you’ve been in this game long enough to know that empty hallways are never good.

“Well, angel?” your partner’s voice murmurs in your ear, “Think it’s safe?”

“Don’t even play that way.”

You shift the drone with a practiced hand, sweeping it slowly across the floor. The analysis software doesn’t flag anything—but it’s not always right.

“Pressure plates?”

He crouches, one of his scuffed boots at the edge of your screen.

“Don’t think so. Hard to tell with the masonry like this. Wanna check for trip wires?”

You hum in affirmation, taking the drone ahead.

Barely five feet down the hall, you spot the remnants of a tripwire, severed with age. Just beyond it, the software pings—pressure plates. Diabolically arranged so anyone dodging whatever the tripwire triggered would step right onto them.

“Sadistic bastards,” you mutter, “Four plates. Marking now.”

The drone spritzes a bit of red on each stone, the biodegradable coloring stark against the grey.

San lets out a low whistle.

“Smart. Their engineer was good.”

You scoff softly.

“Only you would admire something meant to kill you.”

“Respect is respect.”

His bodycam inches forward and you spin the drone back around toward him. He glances at the camera with that familiar dimpled grin. Sweat sticks his dark hair to his skin and he’s covered in grime. But he looks vibrant. Alive.

What do you think?” he asks, carefully testing each step before applying weight. “Spears? Stones? Arrows?” He glances at the camera, brow raised. “Or my favorite—poison darts?”

“You’re morbid,” you deadpan, taking a quick sip of water.

He chuckles, drawing nearer to the spots you’ve marked.

“Keep talking,” he adds lightly, “I like knowing you’re watching.”

And there it is—the real reason your adrenaline hits harder than anything else on these missions.

Dr. San Choi might be one of the best in the field. Might be fun to work with and genuinely care about what he’s doing. But he’s also an incorrigible flirt. And with that face, build, and voice?

It’s unfair—and he knows it.

“Don’t trip, Romeo. I haven’t been watching your back for five years just for you to blow it by flirting too hard.”

He huffs a soft laugh, stepping carefully between the marked stones. When you’re sure he isn’t about to be decapitated—or meet whatever other charming end these ancient engineers had in mind—you zip the drone ahead to scan the next section.

“Mm. Not poison darts,” he murmurs, “Disappointing.”

“Hm?”

Nothing in the next five feet. You move to the last section.

“Spears,” he says, like that explains everything. “And... huh. Looks like they rigged a mechanism to drag the bodies away when the spears retract.”

You pause, frowning.

“…what? How can you tell?”

“There’s a skull making eye contact with me through the wall,” he replies conversationally.

In any other situation, you’d close your eyes and let out a slow breath. As it is, you settle for a pained sigh.

“Let me guess- you respect that too.”

“Of course. Keeps future interlopers from knowing where the traps are. I’m really hoping this engineer left a signature somewhere. I think I’m becoming a fan…”

The software doesn’t pick up the next trap, but you do. What you had mistaken for grasping vines on the floor is actually a cleverly hidden mechanism. You pan around—then up. There: a thin slit in the ceiling. Guillotine-style death. Nice.

“If the spears got you excited, this one will be a wet dream.”

San audibly perks up and begins his careful path to the drone.

Up ahead is a door, which will be mostly on him to figure out. For now, you remain where you are. Or, rather, keep the drone where it is.

As soon as he reaches the spot, San crouches down, one hand bracing on the stone as he leans in to examine the floor’s edge—right next to the trigger seam.

“San,” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

He freezes, then tilts his head toward the drone’s camera, brows raised. A silent question, waiting for your next instruction. Trusting you to ensure he walks out of this alive.

You take a breath, trying to reel in your worry in. Your reply still comes out tight. “Don’t touch it. Not yet.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not the usual playful kind—the air shifts.

“I wasn’t going to activate it,” he says softly, almost amused, but there’s something else beneath it. “Just wanted a closer look.”

“I know.” You exhale hard through your nose. “But you crouched like you were about to start poking at it with your damn pencil.”

Another beat. Then:

“Well,” he says lightly, “you’ve yelled at me before for writing notes on the floor. I’m trying to be good.”

You groan into your hand. “This isn’t about your field notes.”

“I know,” he echoes, quieter this time.

He stands then, tilting his head as he looks at the camera with something far too serious and soft for your liking.

“You do a good job. Keeping me safe.”

Your stomach tries to do something strange and swooping inside you. You clear your throat, trying to will away the heat in your cheeks. Damn him for being so sincere when he says things like that. Damn him for having become so dear to you.

“You’re stressful as hell,” you deflect, “I’m applying for a transfer. I’ve heard Jeong’s easy on his techs.”

San’s lips part and his brows draw together in real offense.

“You-! Seriously?! I thank you and you- Yunho? Really?”

You can’t help the grin that pulls at your lips. Just like that, he’s no longer making your heart trip over itself.

“That one’s going in the scrapbook,” you reply lightly.

At that, his disbelief turns into something dangerously close to a pout.

“Cruel. I’m putting myself in danger, collecting artifacts for the sake of human history, and you’re teasing me.”

He steps over the trap, looking at it rather than the camera. You laugh softly, taking the drone toward the door.

Only a few seconds later, you hear an almighty crash followed by a delighted ‘ooh’. Your eyes dart to San’s bodycam. A frankly massive blade has slammed down into where he was standing just moments ago. As you look on in horror, a trench slides open on the floor, revealing piles of bisected bones. Skulls and ribcages and pelvises severed in half.

After a beat, the floor closes. The blade retracts. And you can spot the remnant of one of San’s grappling devices.

Your hands twitch on the controls.

“San! What the fuck!”

The man has the nerve to giggle.

“What? You were right. It was a good trap.”

You’re still pissed when the mission draws to a close. The artifact’s secured. A polished piece of obsidian carved with intricate runes, cradled in the inner pouch of San’s vest like it’s something sacred—and not something he nearly died retrieving.

You watch through the drone as he makes his way out of the ruin, brushing dust off his arms, one hand casually patting the pouch like a proud parent. He hums as he walks. Like he didn’t give you another grey hair just a few hours before.

You’re going to strangle him. With your comms cord. Or maybe with his grappling hook. Whichever’s closer.

“I can feel you glaring at me through the feed,” he says, amused.

You don’t answer. You’re too busy trying to breathe through the fact that his bodycam is still speckled with dust from ancient skeletons and he giggled like a child at a pop-up book as a death blade missed him by inches.

By the time he clears the threshold and steps out into the sunlight, you’ve gone completely silent.

“Angel?” he tries, voice quieter now. Not teasing. Testing.

You still don’t speak.

He sighs. “Okay. Look. I’m sorry.”

You blink. “You’re—?”

“For scaring you.” He adjusts the strap of his bag, then looks straight into the drone’s camera. “I wasn’t trying to be reckless. I just... sometimes forget that what’s exciting for me might feel different to the person watching it happen.”

A pause.

“I really do trust you to have my back. I don’t ever mean to make that harder.”

The tight coil in your chest loosens just a little. Not enough to forgive him. But enough to let yourself exhale.

“You’re still a dumbass,” you mutter.

He smiles, dimple and all. “I know. But I’m your dumbass, right?”

You know what he’s fishing for. And you don’t give it to him this time either.

“You’re way too happy about that. Don’t you have like…two degrees or something?”

“Three,” he corrects casually, setting off down the trail. “Speaking of which—your classes start when?”

“Next week.”

He nods, deftly navigating the jungle roots crowding the path.

“Anthropology, right? Excited?”

The drone follows and then circles out and around. Even now, you don’t stop watching. There was a time during that first year when he’d walked out and found a group of pirates waiting to ambush him. While that was the only instance of violence outside the ruins, you’ll never forget the fear you felt when the first gunshot rang out.

“Yeah. Never thought I’d go this route. But with what we do…it fits”

He hums in agreement.

“What university?”

You pause. Then slowly- pointedly- turn the camera back toward him. He glances up innocently.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Prying.”

A quick smile flashes.

“Come on, angel. Five years and I feel like you know everything about me…give me just a piece.”

You sniff, going back to watching.

“I give you plenty of pieces.”

A soft chuckle in your ear. The kind that sends a shiver directly down your spine.

“You know this is my field, right? I could tell you what I know about the professors… maybe even put in a good word.”

He pauses—your pulse does too.

“…Help you with classwork if you needed it.”

You swallow dryly.

It started seven months into your partnership—after the first time you saved his life. Small pushes to know you beyond the voice in in his ear. You’ve given ground on some things. But location and identifying information? No.

Because while you know San’s got some sort of feelings, they’re tied to adrenaline and whatever other endorphins take over in the field. He’s got a thing for his ‘angel’. Not for you. The woman behind the screen. And that’s fine. Because you’re a mid-20-something who stumbled into this work and would wear hoodies year round if you wouldn’t swelter. And he’s…Dr. San Choi. Hearththrob. Golden Boy. Legend.

“Thanks. I know you mean that.”

He sighs, soft and knowing—reading the deflection for what it is.

“I do. And it’s an open offer, angel….just like dinner.”

And there it is. The reminder he’s made ever since that first time, seven months in. Sometimes its teasing. Sometimes its tired. Sometimes it’s almost pleading. But after every mission- it’s there. Some variation of “have dinner with me, angel”.

He breaks through the treeline and you spot the helicopter waiting in the clearing, the Institution’s logo emblazoned on the side. A man in a security uniform opens the door and you relax.

Mission officially over. San’s safe—back with people who, if you’re honest, can protect him better than you ever could.

“Travel safe, San. I’ll see you next time.”

He pauses at that, reading the more clipped-than-usual goodbye. And then he replies, voice warm as ever.

“Be safe, angel. ‘til next time.”

You finally take off the headset, your skull aching from the prolonged usage. The weight of it lifts from your head, but not from your chest.

The comms line goes silent, the screen fades, and with it—San’s voice, his breath, the low hum of his equipment, the sound of boots against ruin stone. The absence aches like a pulled muscle. Familiar. Tolerable. But always there.

You exhale and start typing.

The report writes itself, mostly. Location secured. Artifact retrieved. Personnel unharmed—barely. Minor trap activity. Field partner continued his streak of being both brilliant and criminally reckless. You don’t type that last part, but it sits heavy between the lines anyway.

The door creaks open. You don’t look up. A cold can taps lightly against your elbow.

“Watermelon punch,” Hongjoong says by way of greeting.

You grunt, taking the can. “He’s fine.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just slides into the chair beside you, backwards like always, arms draped over the backrest like a lazy jungle cat. You keep typing, but you can feel him watching as he idly rotates one way and then the other.

“…You’re quiet,” he says.

“Because I’m working.”

“You’re rattled.”

“Because he’s stupid.”

He hums, unconvinced. “He’s also sweet. You know that, right?”

You freeze for half a breath—then keep typing. “Sweet doesn’t matter if he gets himself turned into cave paste.”

Before Hongjoong can reply, chaos erupts in the next room.

“OH MY GOD IT’S JUICY. WHY IS IT JUICY?!”

A beat. Then:

“DON’T TOUCH IT YOU PSYCHOPATH! HAVEN’T YOU SEEN ‘THE MUMMY’?!”

You and Hongjoong both pause. A few seconds later, Wooyoung’s voice again—muffled, but indignant.

“…I hope it curses you. I hope you wake up with scorpions in your sheets.”

You raise a brow. “Bogs?”

Hongjoong nods. “Yup. Dunno how his agent handles him screeching at her. I would have broken something by now.”

As if on cue:

“EW! EWEWEW! FUCK YOUR SAMPLES! PUT IT BACK! I THINK IT JUST BLINKED AT YOU!”

The two of you sit there for a moment, basking in the familiar weirdness of your department.

Then, softer:

“You gonna tell him?” Hongjoong asks, glancing at your monitor.

You glance at him, cracking open the can of punch and sipping.

“Tell who what?”

He just looks at you. Then snorts, sipping again. “Mmhm. Right.”

The empty bottle lands in the bin beneath your station a moment later.

“By the way, I heard that threat earlier. You can’t have Yunho, he’s mine.”

That draws a laugh.

“You sure? I heard you complaining about him being clueless the other day. Something about not knowing someone was flirting with him ‘even if they grabbed him by the ass’?”

Hongjoong groans, dragging a hand down his face. “No, seriously, it’s like watching a rom-com in slow motion, but everyone’s blindfolded and no one knows they’re in a movie.”

You smirk, sipping your drink. “Still mad about the archaeology contact?”

“She had smoky eyeliner and an accent. She leaned in while handing him the field permit like it was a love letter.”

“What did he say again?”

Hongjoong switches to a flat, Yunho-esque tone: “‘Oh, she was nice. I liked her dress.’”

You wheeze.

“And don’t even get me started on that guy in the bar,” Hongjoong continues, pointing a finger in exasperation. “Literal smolder. Offered to buy him a drink and Yunho just—” he mimics big puppy eyes, “‘Oh, that’s alright, I’m not actually drinking much tonight.’”

“He’s six-foot-one and beautiful, how does he survive?”

“No earthly clue. I think he’s just too pure to perceive thirst.”

Another crash from the next room interrupts whatever retort you were about to make, followed by Wooyoung shrieking something about supernatural slime and bodily autonomy.

The chaos fades into a dull roar while you turn back to your screen, tagging mission timestamps. Hongjoong finally goes quiet, sprawled sideways in his chair, spinning just enough to be annoying but not helpful. You're halfway through the log when the door hisses open again.

You don’t look up. “If that’s another cursed sample, I swear to god—”

“Just me,” comes Mingi’s voice. “Promise.”

You glance up.

He’s got a clipboard tucked under one arm and a slim cardboard box balanced in the other. Sweat clings to his collarbone from whatever he was doing in the loading bay, and there’s a strip of dark smudge along his jaw. He doesn’t seem to notice.

He holds the box out. “Drop-off for the comms goblin. Came through logistics.”

You frown. “I didn’t order anything.”

“San requested the delivery a few days before the mission. Something about ‘being supportive’ and ‘you sounded stressed last week.’” He squints. “…did you guys finally…?”

You blink. “…finally what?”

Mingi just shakes his head and sets the box on your workstation. “There’s registrar mail in there too. From the uni. Figured I’d bring it over.”

He makes it halfway out the door before tossing one last comment over his shoulder: “He really likes you, you know.”

And then he’s gone.

You stare at the box.

Dangerous.

It’s too neat. Too thoughtful. Too him.

You open it.

Inside are school supplies you’d offhandedly mentioned needing while checking San’s drone diagnostics two weeks ago. Notebooks. Pens. A new adapter cable for your ancient tablet. A book you'd been debating ordering—An Anthropologist’s Guide to Post-Conflict Cultures, still shrink-wrapped. At the very bottom is the envelope from the registrar, tucked neatly beside the receipt.

You hesitate before opening it.

Your updated class schedule is printed in neat columns. Most of it you’ve already seen in the student portal, but you scan it anyway.

And then you see it.

ANTH 604: Applied Fieldwork Theory Instructor: Dr. San Choi

Your stomach drops like a trap door.

No.

No, no, no.

You knew he worked for the university. You knew he taught. But it’s a big campus. You thought you could keep your head down. Audit your classes. Stay invisible. You thought—naively, stupidly—that you’d be safe.

You sit back hard in your chair, the paper still clenched in your fingers like it personally betrayed you.

“Everything good?” Hongjoong asks, not looking up from his sudoku.

You don’t answer at first.

Then, flatly: “I’m in his class.”

That gets his attention. He glances over, then—without warning—snatches the schedule from your hands. He scans it, deadpan.

Then he grins. “Nice.”

“No! No, Joong, not ‘nice’.”

He shrugs, handing the paper back like you didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your own peace of mind.

“Why are you freaking out?” he asks, easy. “You said it yourself—the uni’s easy to get to, the Institution’s footing the bill, and San’s literally one of the best in the field. You work with him. You’ll probably crush the class. Hell, you’ve lived half the stuff he teaches.”

You shake your head, grip tightening around the schedule.

“We’re professional,” you mutter. “I’ve worked really hard to keep it professional. I didn’t even let them put my name on the file. I’m just Tech 05.”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you for a moment, foot tapping lazily against the leg of his chair.

Then, softer than you expect:

“Yeah, well... Tech 05 is about to show up on a class roster.”

You don’t respond.

He drums his fingers once against the edge of the desk.

“And I mean... I know you think you’re subtle, but the man’s not blind. I give him one week before he figures it out.”

You sigh, the crash of that trap blade still far too fresh in your mind.

“He’s an idiot.”

Hongjoong snorts. “Sure. But he’s an idiot who knows your voice better than anyone. You don’t think that’s gonna register?”

You look away.

He sighs too, leaning back in his chair with a creak.

“Look, I’m not trying to make this worse. I don’t get it. I don’t. But I know what it’s like to care about something and feel like the second you touch it, you’ll ruin it.”

That gets you.

He shrugs again, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “Just saying. Maybe it’s not about keeping the distance. Maybe it’s about figuring out why you need it.”

You don’t say anything.

Hongjoong doesn’t push. He just lets the silence settle, spins lazily in his chair once, then stands.

“Lunch run,” he says, already halfway to the door. “Text if you want something.”

The door hisses closed behind him.

And then it’s just you.

The mission footage is still up on one screen. The empty comms channel on another. And beside your elbow, the open box San arranged—unassuming, generous, and unbearably kind.

You reach in, fingertips brushing over the shrink-wrapped book. An Anthropologist’s Guide to Post-Conflict Cultures. The exact edition your TA said would be most helpful. San doesn’t even know he’s your professor yet. Doesn’t know he’s about to walk into a lecture hall and find you sitting there.

He just knew you sounded tired.

Your fingers hover over the cover, not quite touching. Like it might burn. Like it might know.

The adapter cord is coiled neatly beside it. You remember him teasing you about your ancient computer on a comms call last month. You’d laughed. Said you’d replace it after the semester started. He’d remembered that.

A knot rises behind your ribs.

You close the box gently. Push it just out of reach. And stare at the place where it was like the silence might tell you what to do next.

It doesn’t.

You’ve been a nervous mess for four days.

The morning after that mission, you opened your school inbox to find a welcome email from San. It shouldn’t have meant anything—just a short message confirming the required text and a polite “see you all Wednesday morning.”

But something about seeing it in writing, that kind of writing—formal, impersonal, professor-mode San—hit you sideways.

Wednesday morning. First day of classes. 10:00 a.m.

You’d been intrigued when the course first appeared on your roster. Applied Fieldwork Theory. It sounded like something useful. Grounded. Familiar.

Now?

You’re slightly terrified.

Hongjoong had told you to figure out why it mattered so much.

You already know.

Because what if San looks at the awkward, hoodie-clad creature sitting in his classroom... and realizes she’s the voice in his ear? The woman he nicknamed “angel.” The person he’s held space for again and again.

And worse—what if he realizes she isn’t worth it?

Not that you’ve said that part out loud.

No. You’ve just resolved to be quiet. Unnoticeable. Background. It’s worked for five years over comms. You can survive one semester in person.

Probably.

Your stomach still revolts enough that breakfast is out of the question. You settle for water and an electrolyte packet, hoping it’s enough to keep your hands from shaking.

Your backpack is the same one you drag into the tech center. The same one you used in undergrad. Now it’s filled with items he gave you—because as wary as you are, you couldn’t bring yourself to replace what was already there.

Besides, everyone’s going to be using notebooks and pens and laptops. It isn’t like they’ll stand out.

Still, you pick a seat near the back, center row. Blending into the crowd. A facemask covers the lower half of your face. Allergy season is in full swing, and for once, you’re grateful for the excuse.

If he calls roll, you’ll raise a hand. Let the mask speak for you: Sore throat. Don’t ask me to talk.

And San?

You know he’s kind enough that he won’t.

Others begin to file in. The seats slowly fill.

You’ve heard his classes are popular—especially among female students. You’d braced yourself for a packed room. For whispers. For curious glances and stares.

Instead?

No more than sixteen.

It’s quiet. Comfortable, even. Too intimate.

This must have been a late-added section. One where his name wasn’t attached until recently. Fuck.

Either the universe is actually against you or someone’s pulling strings. If it’s the latter, you will gleefully have Wooyoung hunt them down.

Ten minutes before class starts, the door opens and the professor himself walks in.

Your body tenses instinctively, swaddled in an overlarge hoodie and soft, nondescript pants. You make yourself smaller. Still.

He looks different. And yet, exactly the same.

Gone are the clothes meant for crawling through ruins and jungles. Today, it’s smart slacks and polished shoes. Clean. Fresh. Composed.

A professional. A professor.

The polite smile he flashes the room is a throwback to the early days—when he used to bow politely to the drone camera after each report. When you were still just a voice.

Despite yourself, you clock the details:

The way he keeps weight off his left leg—That sprain from two missions ago is still healing.

The faint purple shadows under his eyes—Not enough sleep last night.

You read him without thinking. Like a map you’ve memorized.

His gaze drifts over the room—

And skates right past you.

You let out a soft breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

A student near the front waves him over, gesturing excitedly. San leans in slightly, listening—and then smiles, eyes crinkling at whatever they say.

A few rows behind you, someone whispers, just loud enough:

“Holy shit, it’s actually him. Damn, and I thought this class would be boring.”

There it is. The celebrity status.

Dr. Choi—professor and archaeologist extraordinaire.

Credited with over forty significant finds in the past five years alone. Guest lectures. Published journals. A face occasionally featured on documentaries when they need the “young, brilliant academic with field cred.”

You almost wish you could be as into it as your classmates.

For those serious about this field, being taught by him is exciting.

For you?

It’s complicated.

You busy yourself with getting set up. Notebook out. Pen laid across a blank page. Textbook glinting in the overhead lights. Your computer open with a word doc ready. It’s just routine. Doing the things you found worked when last you were in school.

And then—

“Miss?”

His voice. Too close. You glance up, startled. He’s moved, come closer to lean against the empty desk diagonal to you. Those dark eyes are fixed on you with polite interest.

“Hi,” he nods, amused by your surprise, “Noticed your laptop. Self-built?”

You glance at it. Because yes. It is. And shit. No one else’s is. And of course Dr. Choi, famous for his desire to connect with his students, noticed.

Tentatively, you nod.

“Yeah,” you breathe, keeping enough presence of mind to remember that you’re supposed to have a sore throat.

You busy yourself with getting set up. Notebook out. Pen laid across a blank page. Textbook catching in the overhead lights. Your laptop open with a word doc ready to go. It’s just routine—the motions that worked for you back in undergrad. Familiar, mechanical. Something to focus on that isn’t the professor standing at the front of the room.

And then—

“Miss?”

His voice, too close.

You glance up, startled. He’s moved—come down off the platform to lean casually against the empty desk diagonal from yours. Those dark eyes are fixed on you with polite interest, his tone mild but engaged.

“Hi,” he says, a small nod accompanying the word. There’s a trace of amusement in his expression, clearly entertained by your surprise. “Noticed your laptop. Self-built?”

You glance down at it. Because yes, it is. And shit—no one else’s is. Clunky, piecemeal, the result of too many late nights in the lab and one perfectly salvaged thermal plate from an old Institution scrap heap. You’d almost forgotten how different it looks until now.

Of course Dr. Choi, famous for his habit of connecting with students over the smallest things, would notice. Of course he’d zero in on the one detail that screams you.

Tentatively, you nod. “Yeah,” you breathe, keeping your voice low. Just enough to carry. Sore throat. Don’t make me talk. You rest your hand lightly on your water bottle, as if to drive the message home.

If he picks up on the excuse, he doesn’t press. He just smiles—easy, genuine—and gives a small hum of approval as he straightens up and turns to greet another student.

But in the space he leaves behind, the air still feels shifted.

You’ve never been that close to him before.

Not really.

You’ve seen him through bodycam footage, drone feeds, security angles. Observed him from afar at headquarters once or twice—dust-covered, sun-burned, his posture loose and sure as he spoke with a colleague. You’ve memorized the cadence of his voice through a headset. Listened to him breathe on long, tense nights where neither of you spoke for hours.

But this?

This is the first time he’s been within reach.

And now, everything you’ve known—everything you’ve cataloged and studied and quietly admired—is up close. The fine creases beside his eyes when he smiles. The slight curl at the end of his hair where it’s still damp from a rushed shower. The faint edge of a healing cut just under his right ear—probably from the ruin last week. The one you warned him not to lean into too far.

The detail isn’t new.

But the nearness is.

It wrecks you a little more than you expect. Because he’s just there. Solid. Warm. Real.

And he has no idea.

Class begins, and just like that, you’re reminded—Hongjoong was right. Again.

San doesn’t teach like other professors. There’s no stuffy jargon for the sake of sounding smarter than the room. No grandstanding. He paces when he talks, hand in his pocket, voice even but animated. When he speaks, it feels like he’s letting you in on something—like field theory is less a subject and more a conversation. Like he wants you to get it, not memorize it.

And you do. You get it.

The structure of his lecture is clean, intuitive. Concepts build logically. He explains things the way you explain things—to yourself, to others, in reports. The way he talks about risk mitigation in the field, the way he breaks down active site ethics versus post-contact protocol—it all makes sense. You’re nodding before you realize it. Writing notes not because you’re lost, but because the language is familiar.

Because he’s familiar.

But the longer he speaks, the more the ache sets in.

This is not the San you know.

This is Dr. Choi. Professional. Polished. The sharp lines of him smoothed by tailored clothing and institutional poise. There’s no sweat on his brow, no dirt under his nails, no headset tucked behind one ear with your voice feeding him readings and updated maps. He doesn’t lean into the camera with a teasing smile. He doesn’t call you angel.

He doesn’t even know you’re here.

And it hits you, with quiet, inevitable force—the San in the field is personal. The one who grins through dust and danger, who listens when you whisper, who trusts your voice like it’s a compass.

This version?

He’s kind. Brilliant. Generous with his knowledge.

But he belongs to the room. Not to you.

That somehow makes it worse—knowing he has something he reserves for you. The confirmation that every invitation, every laugh, every “angel” isn’t a routine kindness. It’s real. It’s personal.

Class ends and you start packing up quickly. Notebook closed. Laptop shut. Textbook stowed with quiet efficiency. If you move fast enough, maybe you can clear the door before anyone—

“Hey!”

Too late.

You glance up. A girl near the middle row is waving at you, practically vibrating with extrovert energy. Shoulder bag half-zipped, claw clip askew in her hair, eyes bright.

“I just—sorry, hi, I’m Lani,” she says, bounding over before you can pretend not to hear. “I couldn’t help noticing, you take amazing notes. Like, you even wrote down that case he mentioned during the ethics section? I totally blanked on the name, but you caught it.”

You freeze.

She keeps going. “Do you study this kind of stuff already? You’ve got, like, serious energy. Did you transfer?”

You manage a quick head shake, then tap your throat and lift your water bottle in weak explanation. Mask. Sore throat. Please don’t make me answer anything else.

“Oh no, you’re sick?” she winces sympathetically. “Sorry! You don’t have to say anything, I just—your notes were so good. Like, I literally watched you write the example before he even got to the end of the sentence. You’ve definitely done something like this before.”

And then—

“You’re talking about the ethics example?”

His voice again.

San’s joined the conversation, standing just over Lani’s shoulder with a mild, curious expression. He smiles—not the big grin you’re used to, just the kind of warm, engaged smile professors save for students who genuinely care.

You go still.

Lani turns toward him, delighted. “Yeah! Sorry, Dr. Choi, I just noticed she had it written down before you even finished the part about undocumented cultural ties and restoration etiquette. It was cool.”

San’s gaze flicks to you again. Still polite. Still kind. Just a beat longer than before.

You give a slight shrug. The water bottle. The mask. Your throat. Remember?

He doesn’t push. Just gives you another soft smile and nods. “Great catch,” he says to Lani. “Glad you’re all already picking up on things.”

With that, he excuses himself, moving on to another pair of students.

Your heart’s still hammering as you wave to Lani and make a quick exit.

He noticed. Again.

And if he keeps noticing?

You might not stay invisible for long.

“No, I’m not joking. She put her hand right on it. It oozed.”

You raise your brows as Wooyoung visibly shudders, looking genuinely haunted. Apparently, he’s still scarred from his agent’s handling of some unfortunate bog remains last week.

He’s sharp—retains information like a steel trap—but he doesn’t do spectacularly with the... more external aspects of the job. Which is why he’s an excellent tech, but would make a terrible field agent.

“Dude. I’m trying to eat.” You point at your sandwich.

He sighs and waves a vague hand in apology, still looking mildly green.

“I’ll tell you more later,” he mutters. Then, brightening, “Anyway—how was yours? I heard Sanni set off a trap.”

You almost wince. Not because of the trap—well, not entirely—but because it’s a reminder that your coworker and your field partner are close. Like college-roommates-with-matching-tattoos close.

Fortunately, Wooyoung’s respected your request to keep some distance there. Not that he understands why. He seems convinced it’s just nerves. Shyness. The way he keeps encouraging you to “just talk to him in person, it’ll be even better!” makes it clear he doesn’t see the problem.

You don’t correct him.

You never have.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “Scared me shitless. And he just…giggled.”

Wooyoung grins, all fondness and long-suffering affection.

“You know that’s why I got reassigned, right? We kept getting into trouble with stuff like that.”

You give him a flat look. Because yes, you know. He’s told you this every time San does anything remotely reckless—which is often. It’s become a ritual at this point.

The lore, as it’s been passed down (mostly by Wooyoung himself), goes like this: he and San came in together. Brilliant pairing. Tech and agent with near-perfect synergy. The higher-ups were thrilled.

Until they weren’t.

Turns out, putting two chaos-aligned golden retrievers together in high-stakes ruins just meant double the danger. The “near-death count” allegedly hit double digits in under six months.

So they were separated.

And fortunately—coincidentally—you’d just been scouted. Quiet. Sharp. Unflappable. The opposite of Wooyoung in almost every way.

One thing led to another.

And now San’s yours.

Well.

Professionally.

You move on, shifting to the next matter of San-related stress before Wooyoung can spiral into another story about trap mechanisms and “emotional synchronicity.”

“And then I got assigned to his class,” you mutter, picking at your sandwich crust. “Which is... stressful.”

The delighted gasp from across the table tells you immediately that was the wrong way to approach the topic.

Wooyoung straightens like he’s just been handed front-row tickets to the emotional drama you’ve spent five years hiding.

“You what?” he breathes. “You’re in his class?”

You nod once, minimal.

“I was hoping to dodge him. It was a late roster change. I didn’t know until after the last mission.”

He stares at you like you’ve committed a federal offense.

“How are you not—are you okay?! Do you sit in the back? Did he talk to you? Wait. Don’t answer. Did he recognize you?”

You blink slowly. “No. I wore a mask and pretended to be mute.”

He slaps the table. “Oh my god. You are insane.”

You frown at him, unamused.

“He’s gonna recognize my voice,” you say, quieter now. “If I transfer to a new professor, he’ll wonder why.” You pause, breath catching on the next sentence before you force it out. “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

He watches you carefully now, the grin fading just a little.

“We work well,” you add. “Things are good as they are.”

And that—that’s the real truth. It’s not about being afraid of discovery. It’s about losing what already works.

Because the comms, the partnership, the voice in his ear—that’s something steady. Something known. And if he finds out? If he starts looking at you differently—as you?

It’ll never go back to what it was. Safe. With the smooth banter and trust.

For once, Wooyoung doesn’t fill the silence with noise. No teasing. No quips. Just... quiet.

When he finally speaks, it’s softer than you expect.

“I think he’d be lucky,” he says. “To look at you and see you.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, elbows on the table now, gaze steady but not pressing.

“I’ve never told him. Anything. Even when he asked. And yeah—he’s asked.”

That part stings more than you expect. Of course he’s asked. You knew he would. But hearing it aloud? It hurts in a different place.

“I told him no,” he says. “Because you asked me to. And I meant it.”

You stay quiet, still watching your sandwich as you listen.

“I get why you’re scared,” he adds. “If it goes weird, that’s a whole thing. He’s important to you. I see that.”

Another pause.

“But... I’ve seen the way you two work. And I’ve seen the way he talks about you after missions. He listens to you. Trusts you. Like, actually listens. That’s not nothing.”

You finally glance up.

“I don’t think you’d lose what you have,” Wooyoung says. “But if you’re not ready, you’re not ready. That’s okay too.”

You don’t answer. Not with words. But he seems to get it.

He leans back and grabs one of your fries like it’s his divine right. “Still, though. The whole ‘mute student in a mask’ thing? Hysterical.”

You roll your eyes, and he grins, wide and shameless.

Back to normal.

For now.

The call comes late. Well after dinner, when you’re alone in your apartment, sorting through lecture notes and wondering if you've made a terrible mistake. It's the soft ping of the Institution's call app—audio and video supported, fully encrypted—followed by his name lighting your screen: San (Field Ops).

You hesitate for half a second, then tap 'accept.'

He appears immediately, camera on. San’s sitting back in his chair, somewhere quiet—probably his home office, given the bookshelves behind him. He’s dressed casually now, glasses on, hair damp and pushed away from his forehead. No longer Dr. Choi, lecturer extraordinaire. Just your partner. Familiar. Comfortable.

“Hey, angel,” he greets softly, smiling warmly at the dark screen. He’s long since gotten used to you keeping your camera off, never pushing for more. “Didn’t catch you at a bad time, right?”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, forcing your voice to sound steadier than you feel. “What’s up? Something come through for the next mission?”

He shakes his head quickly. “Nope, nothing like that. Just checking in. Wanted to see how the first day of classes went.”

Your stomach flips. You should’ve expected it—he knew today was your first day, obviously. But hearing him bring it up is surreal.

“Classes were good,” you manage carefully. “You?”

He laughs softly, running a hand through his hair. “Pretty smooth. Good students, good discussion. It felt comfortable.”

You hum a noncommittal response. Comfortable for him, maybe.

“You got the supplies okay, right?” he continues. “Cord holding up?”

Your eyes flick instinctively to your laptop, plugged in and charging perfectly on the cable he sent. Because of course it is.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Everything’s perfect. Thank you, again.”

He waves off the gratitude casually, leaning toward the camera with a playful grin. “Don’t mention it. You sounded nervous about getting everything sorted. Just glad I could help a little.”

Your chest squeezes tight, and you swallow against it. He’s always this thoughtful, this careful. And it’s never felt so dangerous.

“You helped a lot,” you admit quietly. “Seriously, it made today easier.”

He beams at that. “Good. That’s good.” Then, softer, gently teasing: “So, you think you’ll survive the semester, or should I prepare a rescue mission?”

You freeze for a heartbeat too long, before laughing awkwardly. “I think I’ll manage. Probably.”

“Probably?” he repeats, mock-serious. “Careful. Keep sounding that confident and you’ll make me worry.”

You smile despite yourself, grateful he can’t see your face. You hesitate for only half a breath before plunging in. “Well. I mean. The one professor was cute. That was a little distracting.”

You’re playing with fire. At least, that’s what it feels like. But you need this—the familiar narrowing of his eyes, the subtle way his fingertip taps his desk in mild, amused annoyance.

“Cute?” he echoes flatly.

“Mhm.”

He pauses, clearly weighing his response. “You know,” he says finally, tone deceptively light, “if you fail your classes because you’re distracted by ‘cute professors,’ we’re gonna have words.”

“Words?” you prompt innocently.

“Many words,” he says firmly. But there’s the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the one he tries and fails to suppress. “I need you sharp. No academic crushes derailing my tech.”

“Noted,” you murmur, voice carefully neutral.

He sighs, shaking his head like you’re impossible. “You’re trouble, angel.”

You hum again. “Goodnight, San.”

“Goodnight.”

The screen goes dark, leaving you smiling helplessly at your reflection.

San sits staring at the dark screen for far longer than he should.

He tries not to let it bother him. He does. Really.

Because he has no right to be jealous. She isn’t his. Not outside of missions. Not beyond the quiet intimacy of late-night comms chatter and puzzle-solving in dusty ruins.

She’s his tech partner. Nothing more. Nothing official.

And yet—

“Cute professor,” he murmurs aloud, scowling slightly at his own reflection in the now-dark screen. He knows exactly why she said it. Knows that amused, careful little tone she uses when she’s purposefully pressing buttons she shouldn’t.

The problem, really, is that it works every single time.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. He trusts her implicitly—would trust her with his life, actually has on several occasions. But for some reason, whenever she casually mentions someone else, it gets under his skin. Needling. Frustrating.

She must know it, too. And she still does it.

With another resigned sigh, San gives in and reaches for his tablet. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows it's irrational and stupid and crossing lines he shouldn't even be approaching. But his fingers move on autopilot, pulling up the faculty database and selecting a name he knows far too well.

Jeong Yunho.

The page loads easily, and San clicks to the professor’s class rosters. He scans each list carefully, methodically, as if there's a chance he might actually find something—someone—he recognizes. Someone he doesn’t even have a name for, only a voice and a teasing nickname.

Nothing stands out. No hints. No clues. No names that catch his eye.

Of course not. Why would they?

He leans back again, staring at the ceiling and trying to settle the odd, uncomfortable feeling beneath his ribs. It shouldn’t matter. He has no claim. No right to care this much.

But he does.

And the fact that he cares enough to check Yunho’s roster—just to be sure—means he's already crossed a line somewhere he hadn’t realized existed.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath, setting the tablet aside with more force than necessary. He rubs at his face, annoyed with himself, then shakes his head and turns out the light.

But even in the dark, the quiet, teasing lilt of her voice still echoes in his mind.

“Cute professor.”

He sighs again. It’s going to be a long semester.

In truth, San wishes it were simpler. Five years of partnership, five years of careful distance, maintained almost effortlessly by her. Five years of being kept gently but persistently at arm’s length. He’s gotten used to it—almost. But each time she offers him even the smallest crumb, he can’t help himself. Every weary sigh when he does something reckless, every quiet hum of agreement when they’re working through a puzzle, every murmured reassurance whispered through comms at three in the morning, every exasperated laugh—every time she says his name—he slips a little deeper.

It’s absurd, really, how clearly he can picture her without ever having seen her face. He knows her voice so intimately he can read the faintest shifts in her tone, hears when she’s tired or distracted or amused. He knows how quickly she thinks, how fiercely she guards her privacy. He knows she’s careful. Brilliant. Soft beneath the sharpness she holds so tightly.

He’s known it for years. But he’s never pushed past that boundary. Because clearly, whatever the reason, she needs that distance.

He just wishes he knew why.

Wishes he could reassure her—somehow, in some way—that whatever she’s afraid of, whatever keeps her camera off and her name off the files, doesn’t matter. Not to him. Never has.

Because to San, the boundaries are already blurred. He crossed them long ago, quietly, privately. The distance is hers, not his. He’d close it tomorrow, if she asked.

If only he knew how to show her that she could ask.

But for now, it’s late. And he’ll wait another day. Another month. Another year, if he has to. He’s waited five already.

What’s a little longer?

It’s been a week without missions. No headset cradling your ear. No static-smooth hum of comms. No breathless laughter or whispered “you’ve got me, angel” as he presses a roughened palm to ancient stone and waits for your call.

Just school. Just silence in the tech center as you catalogue, research, cross-reference, rinse and repeat.

You told yourself it would be fine. Necessary, even. But you’ve been restless. Untethered. Like your balance point shifted and no one told your body. You miss the rhythm. The work. The sound of his voice without the polish. Without the distance.

Now, it's Wednesday morning again, and you're back in your usual seat—back row, center. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your palms, notebook out, laptop humming softly against your thigh. Your mask is gone today. Sore-throat excuses only buy you so long.

The room smells like whiteboard cleaner and pencil shavings. The overhead lights buzz faintly, casting soft shadows against the beige walls.

San enters right on time, wind-pinked and coffee in hand. His slacks are pressed but not stiff, soft shirt sleeves rolled once at the forearm. No tie. No jacket. Casual-professor mode fully engaged. He carries a slim folder under one arm.

Your stomach drops.

The first graded assignment.

You hadn't meant to give yourself away. You really hadn’t. But the topic—field ethics in undocumented cultural zones—hit too close. And you’d… slipped. Used real scenarios. Sanitized them, sure. Changed names, scrubbed dates. But the logic? The nuance? The cadence?

It was you. The way you debrief after missions, when it’s just the two of you and the adrenaline’s bleeding off like mist.

You keep your head down as he begins class. He moves through the opening material with easy confidence: lecture outline on the board, key terms, a gentle nudge into discussion. A couple names called. Lani all but wiggles when he remembers hers.

Then, twenty minutes in, he opens the folder and begins returning the papers.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as he moves row by row. His tone is calm. Friendly. A murmur here, a nod there.

Until he reaches your desk. And stops.

Your breath catches as you glance up—too late to feign ignorance.

San meets your eyes.

He’s smiling, yes, but it’s not his classroom smile. It’s smaller. Sharper. That look he gets when something in the data doesn’t quite line up. When he's circling a truth you thought was buried deep. You’ve seen it too many times to not recognize it.

He sets your paper down with an unusual softness. His fingers brush the edge like he’s reluctant to let it go.

“This was good,” he says, voice pitched low, just for you. “Really good.”

You nod, trying not to shift in your seat. “Thanks.”

Your voice is quiet. Even. Lower than your natural register, but not forced. Just enough to sound forgettable.

Still, your pulse skips. The facemask is gone now. And god—for all your careful detachment, all your well-maintained distance—if he recognizes you just from this...

“I especially liked the section about post-trauma reconstruction,” he continues, thoughtful. “You made some connections I don’t usually see at this level.”

You glance down at the paper. The pages are mostly clean—just a few ticks in the margin, one underlined quote.

And at the bottom, in neat pencil:

You think like someone who’s been there.

Then, casually—but not really:

“Have you done fieldwork before?”

You freeze.

The question lands sharp and clean. Too pointed. Too close. Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

A pause too long. Then, quiet as a breath: “Not really.”

Half-true.

Just enough.

His head tilts, just slightly. Like he’s testing the sound of your voice against something he can’t quite name. His brow furrows—just a little. A crease of curiosity.

But he doesn’t push.

“Still,” he says after a second, “you’re clearly ahead of the curve. I hope you’ll contribute more in discussion.”

You nod again. Say nothing more. He lingers for one heartbeat longer than he should.

Then moves on.

But you feel it—the glance he throws over his shoulder as he returns to the front. The weight of it prickling along the back of your neck.

You stare at the paper in front of you, stomach twisting tight. Because for one moment—brief, silent, impossible—it felt like he almost saw you.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. Words stack like static. You write notes automatically, pen skimming across the page. Every time he paces close, your breath catches.

Every time his voice lands near your desk, something inside you braces.

It's going to be a long semester.

The ping comes just after sunset.

You’re curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, blanket over your lap and a lukewarm cup of ginger tea on the table beside your tablet. You’d been reviewing a case study for your methods course—one San didn’t teach—but it hasn’t held your attention. Not like it should.

The ping comes again. Institutional call code. Secure. Field ops tag attached.

Choi, S. – Active.

Italy.

You accept the call without hesitation.

His camera’s already on. He’s somewhere dim—warm light pooled across old stone and dark wood. There’s a stack of manuscripts behind him, old enough that even you pause to clock the delicate way he’s laid them out. He’s in a black t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, forearms ink-smudged from what looks like a broken fountain pen. His hair’s still damp. A night in, not out.

He smiles when he sees you’ve answered.

“Hey, angel.”

The words settle into your chest like they always do. Familiar. Steady. You miss this.

“Hey,” you murmur. “How’s the paper chase?”

He leans back in the chair with a long sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Long. Dusty. Rewarding, maybe, if I can find what I’m looking for before the archive boots me out.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s almost midnight over there.”

He hums. “Archivist’s an old friend. I’m bribing her with lemon tarts and opera tickets.”

You huff a soft laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Mmhm. And you’re predictable. You always pick up, even when I say it’s not urgent.”

You go still for a second. Then shrug. “Maybe I missed the job.”

His eyes soften at that. But he doesn’t push.

Not yet.

“I was sorting through cross-references earlier,” he says lightly, tapping the desk with his pencil. “Trying to narrow the field. We think the scroll was transferred out of Carthage in 149 BCE and passed through a monastery in northern Italy before disappearing.”

You nod, already pulling up the shared folder. The digital map of the region loads quickly, layered with pins and tags. Old terrain. A little familiar.

“I’m guessing we’re working off Lucius’ route logs?”

“Exactly.” He grins. “God, I love when you know what I mean without me explaining it.”

“Five years,” you murmur. “I’ve picked up a few things.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the desk, gaze sharp despite the soft lighting. “Hey... random question.”

You don’t look up from the map. “Hmm?”

His tone is casual, conversational. But you know him. You know him.

“Do you remember that mission outside Yerevan? The one where the local records didn't match the stonework and the team had to reroute midway through the ridge collapse?”

You stop breathing.

Because yes. Of course you remember that mission.

You remember the crumbling cave mouth. The way the glyphs didn’t match the documentation. The moment San took a wrong turn and you had to shout through the headset to get him to pivot left, not right when a rockslide nearly drowned out your voice.

You also remember the aftermath—the hours you spent reviewing what went wrong. The way you wrote about it in your paper last week, thinly veiled beneath citations and hypotheticals and fieldwork anonymization protocols. You hadn’t included those personal, specific details.

Of course you hadn’t.

But apparently you included enough.

San is still looking at the camera. Still smiling. But there’s a glint in his eyes now. A question he hasn’t voiced. A thread he’s tugging.

You clear your throat carefully. “...Sort of. What about it?”

His smile stays easy. But it sharpens, just a touch. He taps his pencil once against the edge of the table.

“Read a report about a similar thing recently.”

You force a scoff, even as your stomach coils.

“Really? Some other dumbass walk into a rockslide?”

He chuckles, soft and unbothered. “Apparently. You’d be surprised how often people miss the signs.”

You hum noncommittally. Try to ignore the way your hands have gone cold.

San doesn’t press the point—but he doesn’t drop it either. Just lets it hang there, suspended in the space between humor and something sharper.

Then he shifts, the moment passing like fog in sunlight.

“Alright,” he says, pushing back from the desk, “enough chatting. Time to see if this place actually has what we need.”

He adjusts his headset, straps on his bag, and switches the feed to his chest cam. Your screen shifts instantly—black stone, gold-flecked mortar, and the rough grain of ancient marble archways under his boots. The change in lighting is immediate, lantern glow flickering across curved stone and ancient dust.

“Audio still clean?” he asks, voice already filtering through the feed as he descends the steps into the sub-basement of the monastery.

You run a quick diagnostic. “Clean. Slight background static, but that’s probably from the low ceilings. I’ll recalibrate if it spikes.”

He hums. “Knew I missed you for a reason.”

You roll your eyes. “You could do this alone.”

“Sure,” he says, already angling the camera toward the entryway. “But it’s more fun when you’re in my ear.”

The words are casual. Teasing. Familiar.

But you hear it—just a hair too soft. Just enough warmth that it slides under your skin.

You try not to focus on it. Just like you try not to focus on how steady your hands are when you’re working with him. How fast your brain runs when it’s his life on the line. How good it feels to hear his voice through the feed again, wrapped around you like a favorite song.

Focus.

“Hallway branches three ways,” you say. “Right was sealed in the seventeenth century. Left leads to the wine cellars. Forward’s the crypt archive.”

He whistles low. “How do you even know that?”

“I looked at the monastery records when you first mentioned it. Had time to prep. Some of us don’t run in half-cocked with lemon tarts and charisma.”

There’s a soft laugh on his end. “You love me for it.”

You don’t answer. And that silence says too much.

San clears his throat, like he’s trying to reset the energy. “Alright, angel. Let’s find us a scroll.”

Twenty minutes in, you’re guiding him through layers of corridors most archaeologists would kill to step foot in. The deeper he goes, the tighter the walls become—vaulted ceilings replaced by low beams, dusty air thick with mold and age.

And still, he talks. Not constantly, but... more than usual. Asks you questions he already knows the answers to. Mentions details from the terrain scans—things you usually flag first. Each one casual, but precise. Intentional.

He's testing patterns.

You know that because he’s the one who taught you how to read them.

“Hey,” he murmurs at one point. “This support arch—see how it curves inward?”

You blink at your monitor. He’s pointing at the stone like he’s waiting for a comment.

You nod slowly. “Unusual construction. Late-period restoration.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then, with that same gentle humor: “Mm. Thought you might say that. Someone once told me that exact phrasing on a dig in Turkey.”

Your throat tightens.

He’s cataloging your syntax.

Get it together.

“You want to flirt or find a scroll?” you ask, keeping your voice dry.

He snorts. “Multitasking is a strength.”

“The last time you mentioned multitasking, you almost fell through the floor.”

But even through the teasing, you feel it—he’s orbiting something now. He's not ready to say it aloud. Not yet. But the awareness is creeping in like light through a crack.

Because you’re back. You’re helping. And suddenly, everything feels familiar in the wrong ways.

The cadence. The phrasing. The silences.

He knows your voice. You know he does. But now? Now he’s listening intentionally.

It’s a quiet day. No missions pending, no disasters breaking over your comms. Just the hum of processors, the soft clack of keyboards, the distant echo of Wooyoung arguing with his agent about biohazard containment protocols and the moral ambiguity of slimes.

You’re sprawled on the couch of the lounge. Most of the office doors are shut, but you’d had enough of being cramped at your workspace and chose to emerge for a while. You’re halfway through reviewing an apparent bug with the trap alert software, sipping coffee that’s just barely warm and listening to synthwave on low through one earbud.

For once, everything feels... manageable.

And then—

“Yo,” comes Hongjoong’s voice, casual as ever, from the far end of the room. “Your walking denial is here.”

Your blood freezes.

You whip around just in time to see him passing by, eyes on his phone, already halfway through the door of his office. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t clarify.

Doesn’t need to.

Because you know exactly who he means.

San.

Panic hits like a trap trigger.

You drop your stylus, snatch your tablet off the coffee table, and practically launch yourself toward your office— The door takes too long to slide open, the “Caution: Contents May Be Sarcastic” sticker Wooyoung applied three years ago staring you down.

Your all but throw yourself through it, coffee sloshing dangerously. The door hisses shut just as the outer tech room door slides open.

Too close.

Far too close.

You hold your breath, back pressed to the inner wall, listening hard.

Outside, Wooyoung’s voice rings out, way too loud, way too chipper:

“Dr. Choi! Look at you, showing up in person like we’re honored guests and not just underpaid geniuses!”

You can hear the smile in San’s voice, smooth and amused:

“Thought I’d drop off the secure drive myself. Figured you’d be bored without me.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Wooyoung says, full grin audible. “I’m only bored because my idiot agent keeps poking things with sticks and then calling me to fix it.”

There’s a scrape of a chair. Light footsteps. Muffled laughter.

You stay stock-still, heart jackhammering in your chest.

Because the worst part isn’t that he’s here. It’s that you want to see him. Your traitor of a heart misses him. In person. Real. Close enough to feel.

Which is exactly why you can’t let that happen.

Through the wall, the conversation continues—something about sample degradation, mission scheduling, and Wooyoung threatening to “mail someone a jar of goo as a warning.”

You inch toward your screen, carefully plugging your tablet back in—trying to look casual, just in case someone glances through the tiny port window.

And then—

A beat of silence followed by San’s voice, curious and warm:

“Hey... is she here today?”

Your stomach drops like a trapdoor.

Wooyoung doesn’t even pretend not to know who he means. “Oh, the tech gremlin? Probably. She's always lurking in her cave.”

You glare daggers at the wall.

San laughs, low and fond. “Right. You ever gonna tell me her real name?”

“I like not being murdered, thanks.”

“That likely?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Silence stretches again.

Then San’s voice, quieter: “She sounded good the other night. Steady. Like old times.”

You freeze, breath shallow.

Wooyoung’s answer is softer too. “Yeah. She misses it. Doesn’t say it out loud, but... she’s steadier when you’re on comms. Always has been.”

San hums. It’s thoughtful. Heavy. Just this side of bittersweet.

And then he says, like it’s nothing:

“Feels familiar, doesn’t it? Can’t quite explain why.”

You close your eyes. He’s close. Too close.

A beat later, the outer door hisses open again. Footsteps retreating. San saying something about catching up later.

You wait a full sixty seconds after it closes before you move.

Only when you open the door do you find Hongjoong, lounging casually in what was previously your spot on the couch, phone still in hand.

He glances up at you. “You’re welcome.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “You could’ve given me more than a sentence.”

He shrugs. “You only needed half of one.”

You step out with a muttered curse.

Wooyoung pokes his head out from his office. He squints at you. Then at your office behind you.

His grin spreads like wildfire.

“Oh my god,” he says. “You hid.”

You say nothing.

“Like—full-on spy-movie scramble.”

You glare.

He gasps, delighted. “I love this for me.”

You flip him off on your way to the kitchenette to snag a bottle of water.

Still, as you take a sip, you wonder how many more times you can outrun someone you’re not even sure you want to avoid.

He’s being ridiculous. He knows it. Knows it with the same part of his brain that catalogues pressure plate patterns and tripwire placement. The part that reads structure in stone and meaning in silence. The part that’s never steered him wrong. Knows it, and still—he can’t stop.

The girl in the back of the room—hood up, head down, always quiet. Always watching. She takes notes like she already knows what he’s going to say. Not just attentive—familiar. Like she’s seen him work before. Like she’s studied him.

She doesn’t volunteer. Rarely speaks.

But when she does, it’s soft. Careful. Nearly lost under the buzz of lights and murmured side conversations.

Still, it cuts through him.

He keeps telling himself it’s nothing. A coincidence. A projection carved out of someone he misses too much. His partner—his angel. The voice that’s steadied his hand in too many treacherous corridors. The one who knows when to speak and when not to, whose dry wit lives in the quiet corners of his memory. The one he hasn’t heard from outside a mission brief in too long.

This fixation must be grief in disguise.

That’s what he tells himself.

Because the alternative is harder to face.

If it is her—and she’s here, this close, sitting quietly class after class without saying a word—

What would that even mean?

So he pushes it down. Moves through class like normal. Wraps up the lecture. Takes questions. Smiles. Closes his laptop. Prepares to leave.

And then—

A soft thud near the door. A notebook slips, skids across tile. He doesn’t look up at first. Not until he hears:

“Oh, fuck, sorry.”

Simple. Unremarkable.

Except it isn’t.

His head lifts before he even realizes he’s moving.

His eyes find the girl in the hoodie—already bending down, already collecting her things. She moves quickly, instinctively. Tucks her notebook in with the rest, shoulders angled toward the exit.

Her hood slips slightly.

But it’s not her face that catches him. Not her posture. Not even the way she moves.

It’s the voice.

The cadence. The tone. The dryness clipped into apology. Not performative. Not sheepish. Just... tired. Familiar.

Too familiar.

His mouth moves before his brain catches up.

“Wait—hey.”

It comes out louder than intended. Too sudden for the hush of the classroom winding down. A few students glance over, but she doesn’t.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t pause. She just walks out. Smooth. Steady. Controlled.

San’s still staring at the doorway when it closes behind her.

His hand rests on the edge of his desk. His laptop is still open. He forgets about it entirely.

For a moment, he stays there—caught between impulse and logic. Then he’s moving. Not fast. Not frantic. Just... pulled.

He steps into the hallway. Looks left. Then right.

And there—just beyond a small knot of students—he thinks he sees her again. The hoodie. The way she moves. Drifting down the open corridor toward the courtyard garden.

He follows.

Not running. Just keeping her in sight.

Except the moment he reaches the threshold of the garden path, she’s gone.

Benches, empty. Hedges, undisturbed. No rustle, no shift, no glimpse of motion.

He stands for a moment, blinking in the late morning light.

There’s no way she moved that fast. Not without running. Not without noise.

And yet.

He turns once. Scans the tree line. The upper terrace windows. The corners where the light bends sharply.

Nothing.

Just birdsong. The soft splash of the fountain. A breeze that stirs nothing but leaves.

He’s alone.

His hands sink into his pockets.

Did I imagine it?

The voice. The reaction. The exact inflection. It felt real.

It felt exactly like her.

But the garden is empty. The student is gone. And he's left with nothing but the echo of her voice in his ears and the ridiculous ache of hope cracking through his ribs.

He lets out a slow breath. Tries to laugh. It comes out hollow.

“You’re losing it,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t believe it anymore.

Not really.

Something’s shifted. And maybe he’s imagining things. Or maybe she’s hiding in plain sight.

God, your ribs hurt.

You stay crouched on the upper terrace, wheezing softly and praying the sounds of the fountain and birds below will mask it. How the hell he does this regularly is beyond you.

You heard him following. Knew the moment you slipped that you’d given yourself away. And instinct—his training—took over.

“If you ever find yourself in the field and need to make a quick exit…”

He made you repeat it back. Even when you insisted you’d never leave HQ.

“Just in case,” he said. “Even techs get caught out sometimes.”

You didn’t think you’d ever use it. Certainly not to outrun him.

The moment your notebook hit the floor and his voice snapped toward you, your body moved on its own. Out the door. Into the hallway. Students everywhere—too many variables, not enough cover.

So you did exactly what he taught you: Used your smaller frame. Kept low. Sidestepped gaps. Cut angles. Slipped between bodies, stayed out of sight.. Because he’s faster, yes—but he’s broader. The crowd will slow him.

San taught you that.

But when you hit the garden path and saw the stretch of open stone ahead, all logic left your brain. You didn’t duck behind a hedge. Didn’t veer into the next building. Didn’t play it smart.

No. Because your brain was full of his voice, coaching field maneuvers in that calm, low register that always made you listen.

So instead, you did the least logical thing possible.

You grabbed the old metal trellis and climbed it like an inebriated squirrel.

Now you’re curled on sun-warmed tile, wheezing like a half-crushed accordion, trying not to throw up. Your palms are scraped. Your ribs are bruised. One of your earbuds is missing.

But you're out of sight.

You heard him come into the garden—heard the brief pause, the silence, the soft sound of retreating steps. You juked him. You actually pulled it off.

He doesn’t know you’re up here.

Probably.

Hopefully.

God, you’re going to die. Of embarrassment. Of exertion. Possibly both.

You lie there a minute longer, heart hammering, trying to convince yourself this wasn’t a total disaster.

You could just drop the class.

Or fake your death.

Either one.

The hallway is quiet when you finally descend.

Mostly.

Your hair’s a mess, your hoodie’s crooked, and there’s still a leaf stuck to your thigh from the half-hedge, half-wall climb you executed like an undercaffeinated cat burglar. Your legs ache. Your ribs scream. You’re reasonably sure there’s gravel in your bra.

But you made it down. And as long as you walk like nothing happened, maybe the universe will let this slide.

You limp into the lounge almost twenty minutes later. Wooyoung looks up from the vending machine, pretzel halfway to his mouth—and stops dead.

He stares. You freeze.

Then: “…What the hell happened to you?”

You glance down at yourself. Debris. Dirt. One sneaker untied. A twig, somehow, sticking out of your pocket. Fantastic.

You attempt nonchalance. “...Lunch run.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrow like he’s just spotted a wild lie in the underbrush.

“Did the food fight back?”

You scowl, making a beeline for the kitchenette. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad, huh?”

He follows. You snatch a bottle of water from the fridge and crack it open like hydration will cleanse the shame.

Wooyoung leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying you. “So, which poor soul were you avoiding this time? The admin with the weepy allergies? That guy from acquisitions who smells like celery?”

You drink.

He tilts his head. Squints. “Wait... was it San?”

You cough. Choke. Regret everything.

“Oh my god.” His whole face lights up. “It was San.”

“Wooyoung,” you rasp, voice still half-wrecked from adrenaline and rooftop air, “shut your entire face.”

It’s too late. He’s already grinning like a man who’s just won a bet no one else knew he placed.

“Did he see you?”

You pause for a long moment before relenting.

“Almost.”

“Did you run?”

A pause.

“...Define run.”

He gasps, delighted. “You scaled something, didn’t you?! You scaled something to get away from him. Look at you. Leaves. Dirt. That’s trellis debris, I know it when I see it.”

You glare.

He clutches his chest like your betrayal is personal. “I am so proud of you.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re hilarious.”

You toss the leaf at him on the way out. He tries to catch it like it’s a trophy.

Chapter 1: Part 2

#long post #ateez #ateez fanfic #jay writes fanfic #roderickprime #ateez writing #ateez au #san fanfic #choi san #jeong yunho #kim hongjoong #jung wooyoung #song mingi #voice in his ear

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shattered-matrix · 10 days ago

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Sometimes I see those stage costumes and my Adhd brain says "ah, yes, good stim material"

#ateez #jay speaks #“Excuse me sir I'd like to pet your sleeve”

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shattered-matrix · 10 days ago

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I need Yunho to know this video exists. I need him to be shown it on a variety show. And then I need him to recreate it.

#ateez #jeong yunho #reblog #This man just shaking his ass unprovoked when left alone too long

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shattered-matrix · 13 days ago

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My bias line destroyed me at the Wrigley concert.

Jeong Yunho did indeed set me free from my sanity

Song Mingi came out in a ponytail and glasses and lit up the stage

Park Seonghwa was taking no prisoners

I was dangerously close to being bias-wrecked by Jongho. Hongjoong knows how to party. Yeosang was...impressive in a way I didn't expect. San's eyebrow game was strong.

And yes, I did have to keep an eye on my two Wooyoung-stan companions. They both cried at some point.

#ateez #in your fantasy #ateez tour #ateez chicago #jeong yunho #song mingi #park seonghwa #choi jongho #kim hongjoong #kang yeosang #choi san #jung wooyoung

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shattered-matrix · 17 days ago

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Chapter 1: Death of the Swagger

Tattoo Shop x Cafe AU | Tattooist Mingi x Barista Reader

Themes: Instant crush / mutual pining, blushy slow burn, awkward flirting, accidental sincerity, tattoo shop meets coffee shop, found family energy, domestic tenderness, emotional intimacy through physical care, soft boys with scary aesthetics

2.7k words

Tag list: Open

The bell above the café door gives a cheerful little ding as Mingi shoulders it open, already feeling that post-ink buzz in his bones. Two clients down, one to go. His hands ache in that satisfying, sun-warmed way—the vibration of the machine still tingling at his fingertips. He was more than satisfied with the piece he did for the last client. Now he needs sugar, caffeine, and a few minutes to heckle his best friend before diving back in.

The door swings closed behind him, dulling the summer traffic to a muffled hum. It shoves the heat back out, the air conditioning taking over. Inside, the café is its usual mix of lo-fi beats, hissing steam, and the low murmur of conversation. Cozy without trying too hard. Mismatched mugs clink gently on the dish rack. The air smells like espresso and vanilla syrup with a hint of sugar from the pastry toaster in the back. Mingi breathes it in and relaxes. Smells like the promise of a pick-me-up.

He strides in with practiced confidence. Rolled sleeves, tattoos peeking out from under a soft, sun-faded hoodie. His work pants are streaked with stencil ink and stained from prior spills. His hair’s twisted into a loose half-bun, a few strands escaping to frame his face. He’s humming something under his breath, probably the same song he’d been bobbing his head to while finishing his last linework pass. Absent and a little out of tune.

He zeroes in on the bar counter, the path far too familiar. The counter’s scuffed in the corners, the tip jar still full of dumb puns scribbled on sticky notes.

Yunho’s there, behind the bar. Black tee, calm smile, wiping down a milk pitcher like he’s got all the time in the world. Familiar. Steady. One of Mingi’s oldest constants.

“Yo,” Mingi calls, voice a little rough from a day of talking over buzzing tattoo machines. “Still got anything decently sweet?”

Yunho glances up and smiles. “Pretty sure there’s a few blueberry bagels left.”

Mingi snorts, leaning one elbow on the counter. His sleeve rides up just enough to reveal the edge of a wolf skull below his elbow, clean and dark against his skin.

“Damn. Busy morning?”

Yunho shrugs. “A little. Come earlier if you want something.”

Mingi grins, fully ready to clap back.

That’s when he hears it.

A quiet, careful tamp. The soft knock of metal against metal. A voice he doesn’t recognize murmuring something to itself—half under breath, focused and sweet. Deliberate.

He turns his head, just a little.

And there she is.

Back turned. Shoulders tense but not stiff. Long sleeves. Weight shifted to one side as she presses the espresso handle in with both hands. There’s a shine at her ears—metal catching the overhead light—and her hair’s pulled back just enough to show the curve of her neck. He can’t see her face.

Not yet.

But Mingi’s grin stretches a little wider. That familiar, slow curl of mischief. The one that promises someone’s about to be very flustered and it’s not going to be him.

Yunho follows his line of sight. Groans.

“Seriously?”

“What?” Mingi says, all innocence, already leaning a little closer to the pickup counter. “I’m just being friendly.”

Yunho raises a brow and keeps steaming milk, unconvinced. Mingi is already running through his mental Rolodex of dumb pickup lines, the espresso bar a stage, and the curtain about to rise.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to get knocked on his ass.

The shop is cooler than you expected. You’d been worried about the long sleeves—worried you’d overheat, or that they’d make you look stiff, unapproachable. The air conditioning hums quietly overhead, keeping the café somewhere between cozy and “should’ve brought a cardigan.” You’re grateful, honestly.

You meant to ask Seonghwa at the interview if visible tattoos were okay. But by the time you remembered, he was already handing you the job and complimenting your earring choices. So you erred on the side of caution. It’s your first day. You’d rather make a good impression before you show up with your ink out.

So far, everyone’s been kind. Yunho greeted you like you were an old friend. San offered you half his muffin and then stole bites from it for dramatic flair. Seonghwa gave you a list of starter drinks and told you to “breathe like you mean it.” Which helps. Mostly.

You're still nervous, but you’re settling in. Getting comfortable with the espresso machine—slowly, carefully. The steam doesn’t hiss at you quite as loud as it did this morning.

You’re alone at the bar for the first time, focused on your shot. Grind. Dose. Tamp. Pull. You mutter the steps under your breath like a grounding spell, fingers wrapped around the portafilter.

Then—

“Hey cutie. Haven’t seen you before. First day?”

The voice is low and rough in that sort of accidental problem way—like it was made to be whispered against skin. It’s not teasing exactly, but it’s flavored.

And it’s definitely directed at you.

You jolt, just enough to jostle the milk pitcher. It knocks against the counter with a soft metallic clang, not quite a spill, but louder than it should be.

You turn.

And your brain forgets how to function.

He’s—

Tall. Broad. Dark hoodie pushed to the elbows. Black linework tattooed across his forearms, peeking from under sleeves like living art. His hair’s tied back in a messy half-bun, a few strands loose around his face. He’s got one elbow resting on the counter and a smirk that could ruin lives casually plastered on his mouth.

And he’s looking right at you.

Like you’re not just someone behind the bar. Like you’re interesting.

Your stomach dips.

You fumble for words.

“Uh—yeah. First day.”

It comes out breathy. Awkward. You want to crawl into the espresso machine and let it hiss you into another dimension.

You mean to ask his order, but all you can think about is:

Why are his eyes doing that.

Why does he smell good from this far away.

Why is your heart doing that.

You are not allowed to develop a crush on a customer five hours into your first shift.

At the register, Yunho looks entirely too amused.

You try to look composed as you reach for the tamper.

You drop it.

It falls to the tile with the worst possible clunk, and in the following silence, you can practically feel your soul leaving your body. Then, from the kitchen:

“You good?” San calls.

“Yeah! Just dropped something.”

You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You glance back at the guy. He’s still looking at you, but the smirk is gone.

Now he just looks… wrecked. Like something short-circuited him.

And somehow, that’s worse. Because the expression looks real.

She turns. Not fast—just a startled shift of motion. Her eyes find his, wide and a little uncertain, and it’s like the air in the café dips in temperature. Like everything sharpens at the edges and goes quiet. Her lashes are dark, her cheeks already flushing, and she’s got the kind of mouth that makes him forget what words are supposed to do. There’s a moment—barely a second—where she looks at him like she’s not sure she’s allowed to, like she hadn’t expected him either. And it undoes him.

She’s got a soft voice, a little breathy, the shape of the words brushing the air more than speaking it. “Uh—yeah. First day.” That’s all she says. But it curls in his gut and stays there, hot and rooted.

And then it’s everything at once.

The way her fingers twitch when she reaches for the tamper. The glitter catching in her earrings. The edge of a laugh curling in Yunho’s throat somewhere to his right. The rush of warmth under his hoodie, like the AC isn’t doing a damn thing.

He was going to flirt.

That was the plan.

That was always the plan.

But she looks at him like that, with her mouth slightly parted and her eyes too full of something he doesn’t know how to name, and he just—blanks. Forgets his line. Forgets his drink. Forgets the fact that his arm is still resting on the counter like he’s holding himself up.

It hits low. Steady. Like impact after a long fall. The kind that steals your breath.

He makes a noise. Not a real word. Something vowel-adjacent. It tastes like panic.

He doesn’t dare look away. Not yet. He doesn’t know what just happened. Only that it did. And that he’s not going to stop thinking about it anytime soon.

Yunho lets him flounder.

Of course he does.

He finishes wiping down the milk pitcher with the slow precision of someone actively enjoying the show. Mingi can feel it—radiating amusement, low and steady like steam off a fresh pull. His brain is still rebooting, voice still jammed somewhere behind his ribs, and Yunho chooses right now to be helpful.

Sort of.

“This is Mingi,” Yunho says casually, looking over at her like this is just any normal interaction and not a complete social collapse unfolding in real time. “He’s a regular.”

Mingi feels his mouth go dry.

And then Yunho adds, like it’s no big deal, like it’s just a reasonable, supportive suggestion and not the equivalent of throwing him into traffic:

“Think you can handle his drink?”

Mingi's spine straightens instinctively, but it’s too late to save him. His moment of swagger has long since died. He lifts one hand in a small, pathetic wave—nothing like the confident lean he opened with. His fingers twitch awkwardly halfway up.

“Hi,” he manages.

It comes out too soft. Embarrassingly soft. Like he’s the one who got flirted with, not the other way around.

He wants to disappear. Or time travel. Or at the very least, turn into one of Yunho’s mugs and yeet himself off the shelf.

She nods, fast. Too fast. And that kills him all over again because she’s clearly nervous too and that somehow makes it worse. His brain tries to spin it like a compliment—like maybe she’s flustered because of him—but honestly? He doesn’t even have the ego left to commit to that thought.

Yunho’s already turning back to the machine.

“Oat milk latte,” he says, all innocent. “Extra shot. Vanilla. You got this.”

She repeats it back.

“Yeah. Got it.” Her voice is steady. Barely. But her hands shake just slightly when she reaches for the cup.

Mingi stares at the counter. Then his shoes. Then the chalkboard menu like he’s trying to decipher an ancient code.

Behind the counter, San’s head pokes out from the kitchen. He takes one look at Mingi, seems to realize what’s occurred in record time, and grins. Then he saunters up to the counter to rest against it.

“Bro,” he whispers, far too smug. “You okay there? Blink twice if you need help.”

Mingi considers flipping him off.

Considers actually leaving.

But then she turns back toward the espresso machine, and he catches the profile of her smile—small, tight-lipped, like she’s trying not to laugh too—and it anchors him.

She’s fast, but not rushed. Mingi watches her work with hands that are definitely steadier than his right now. There’s a rhythm to her motion. Familiar and focused.

She doesn’t look at him while she moves, and thank god for that. He’s not sure he could handle it.

Instead, he watches the way her fingers move over the buttons. The way the sleeve of her shirt rides up just enough to show the curve of her wrist. There’s a delicate bracelet there—silver, maybe. Matches the shine of her earrings.

God. Her earrings.

The closer he is, the more he can see the shapes—tiny stars, moons, a little cluster of something that looks like a sunburst. Like a whole constellation mapped across the soft curve of her ear.

The espresso machine hisses. The scent of coffee and vanilla curls up into the air, sweet and steady. His usual. He should be relaxed by now. He’s not.

She finishes the drink with a lid and a sleeve, then turns toward him. Carefully. Both hands on the cup. Her eyes flick up to meet his—nervous, but open.

“Here you go,” she says, just above a whisper. “Oat milk latte, extra shot, vanilla.”

Mingi reaches out to take it. His fingers brush hers.

It’s not even a long touch—barely more than a moment—but it shorts him out completely. His pulse jumps. His mouth moves before he can stop it.

“Your ears are pretty.”

There’s a pause.

A long pause.

Her eyebrows lift slightly. Her lips part. She blinks—twice, like she’s not sure she heard him right—and then the pink spreads over her cheeks like blooming watercolor.

He wants to die. Right there. Right in front of the condiment bar.

Yunho coughs unconvincingly. San chokes on air.

Mingi does not wait for consequences.

He grabs the cup like it’s evidence and speed walks out of the café like he’s late for a flight. The bell above the door gives a cheerful ding as he shoulder-checks it open, muttering something that might’ve been “thanks” or “goodbye” or “kill me now.”

He doesn’t stop until he’s across the street, inside the shop, leaning against the counter like he just escaped a hostage situation.

Hongjoong looks up from his iPad and raises a brow.

“You good?”

Mingi lifts the drink. Stares at it like it personally betrayed him. And mutters:

“I complimented her ears.”

You blink.

Once. Twice.

Because you’re pretty sure he just said—

“Your ears are pretty.”

Which is… not what you were expecting.

Not after the way he walked in. All sleeves and smirk, leaning on the counter like he had every intention of wrecking your ability to form sentences. Not after the flirtatious opener. Not after the way he watched you with that dark, laser-focused gaze that made it hard to breathe.

He’d been holding his latte like it might detonate, blushing so hard it was reaching his ears, and looking like he wanted to be literally anywhere else.

You say nothing.

You can’t say anything. Because your brain has entirely evacuated the premises and left you to stand there with a rapidly warming face and a single intrusive thought:

Why is that kind of adorable.

Like—dangerous adorable. He’s big. Broad. Intimidating on paper. The kind of guy you’d expect to be slick and cocky and totally unbothered. And he just…complimented your ears. Like it was the most sincere thing he could think of. And then flees the scene.

The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind him. You don’t even see him go—you just hear the retreat. The silence he leaves behind is almost louder.

San shifts away from the counter, grinning.

“So glad I’m on shift today.”

He’s humming as he returns to the kitchen.

You remain where you are, your pulse thudding in your ears and your thoughts tripping over themselves. There’s a strange warmth in your chest—half embarrassment, half what just happened, and all of it somehow him.

You could probably stand here and short-circuit for another five minutes, if left unsupervised.

Yunho steps into your peripheral vision with that easy, soft-edged expression of his, as if he’s just checking on a shift change and not the fact that a fully grown man just complimented your ears and fled the building.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just offers you a gentle nudge with his elbow and a nod toward the espresso machine.

“Still have a few more orders in the queue,” he says lightly. “You good to keep going?”

His voice is steady. Warm. Completely free of judgment. Like nothing unusual happened.

You nod, a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Yep. Totally good.”

He gives you a smile. One of those Yunho smiles—reassuring and understanding and just a little too knowing. The kind that makes you feel seen in a way that isn’t scary. Like he’s silently saying, you’re okay. That was cute. You’re okay.

Then he steps back behind the register like nothing happened. Like this is just another Thursday. Like your face isn’t on fire and your heart isn’t doing double-time in your chest.

You breathe in. Breathe out.

Turn back to the machine.

Start the next drink.

Because apparently, this is your life now.

Next (Coming Soon)

#ateez #ateez fanfic #jay writes fanfic #roderickprime #ateez writing #ateez au #long post #mingi fanfic #mingi x reader #ink me where you feel it too

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shattered-matrix · 18 days ago

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...Ponytail'd tattoo artist Mingi fic perhaps?

#because I don't have enough wips #jay speaks #mingi fanfic #mingi x reader #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez writing #ateez au

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shattered-matrix · 19 days ago

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Me: I would like to wear lace half gloves to the concert and embrace the dark elegance vibes My ADHD sensory issues: =aggressive hissing-

#ateez #jay speaks #the adhd is real #adhd

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shattered-matrix · 21 days ago

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#This is the man who sings baby got a type #ateez #yunho #jeong yunho #daddy i love him #jay speaks

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shattered-matrix · 23 days ago

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Y'all, last time I saw Ateez live I had to literally hold my sister upright because Wooyoung smirked just right. She literally squeaked and her knees buckled.

This time a friend is going with us, and she is also a Woo stan.

I have a feeling imma need to be in the middle just to do damage control 😂

#ateez #jung wooyoung #jay speaks #Been avoiding concert clips like a champ #Bracing

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shattered-matrix · 26 days ago

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...like i understand the context of this post

but my adhd brain is hella distracted by the movement of their hair.

like, you can tell Wooyoung got some product in there bc it just holds form.

meanwhile, Mingi's is blowing like a fucking d*sn*y princess in a breeze.

Another example of Mingi letting the members do whatever they want to him.

#song mingi #jung wooyoung #ateez #the adhd is real #daddy i love him #princess minki #jay speaks

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shattered-matrix · 26 days ago

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Chapter 14: Perfect Hugs

Chimera/Hybrid au | Yunho x Reader

Themes: comfort, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, trauma recovery, soft alpha energy, gentle trust, strangers to friends to lovers

5.8k words

Tag list: @woosmaid (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

You wake to sunlight warming the edge of your pillow and your phone buzzing softly against the nightstand. For a second, you blink in confusion, hazy and unmoored. What time is it? Groggily, you retrieve the phone and flip the screen toward yourself.

As soon as you see the name on the most recent text, the reality of the previous day comes crashing in.

You had a date.

With Yunho.

And you both agreed to do more.

The haziness clears like fog in a strong wind and warmth floods your cheeks. Heart threatening to climb up your throat, you open the text.

[Yunho] good morning, sweetheart🩷

You stare for a long moment.

There’s nothing earth-shattering about the words—no grand declarations or poetic phrasing. Just him. Just one word, unassuming and wrecking in equal measure. And somehow, that single word settles behind your ribs like you’ve been waiting to hear it.

Your thumbs hesitate. You try to think of something clever, something cute—something worthy of the butterflies currently launching a full-blown air raid in your chest. But all you manage is:

[You:] morning :)

You send it. A heartbeat later, the phone vibrates again.

He’s calling.

Heart lurching, you fumble the green ‘answer’ button. As soon as the phone is at your ear, you breathe out a shaky “Hi.”

His voice slips through the speaker like sunlight through an open window.

“Hey. I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

That’s all it takes. You melt. Completely. All over again.

The image of him—smiling at you across a garden bench, fingers twined with yours, saying you make me happy—floods your chest so fast and full it’s a wonder you’re still breathing.

“It’s barely eight,” you whisper, voice soft with sleep and something more.

“I know,” Yunho murmurs, warm and unhurried. “Still missed you.”

A grin threatens to spill, so you bury your face in your pillow and hope your heart doesn’t levitate.

“You saw me yesterday.”

He laughs, soft and a little sheepish. “I know. It was a long night.”

You don’t need him to clarify. You already know. The same way your mind kept drifting back to him—his hand in yours, the way he looked at you like you were a comfort he’d never dared reach for.

The line goes quiet for a moment. You can hear the steadiness of his breathing. The clink something—a mug, maybe? Like he’s just…going about his morning and bringing you along.

“I didn’t imagine it, right?” you murmur. “You and me. The… trying this.”

“No,” he says instantly. “You didn’t imagine it. We’re really doing this.”

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, heart climbing steadily into your throat again.

“…Okay.”

There’s something in the way he exhales—like you just handed him the sun.

“When can I see you again?”

You bite your lip to hold in a smile. The soft eagerness in his voice sends warmth curling through you—slow and honey-thick. Like it’s been waiting just under your skin.

You tuck the blanket closer around your shoulders, grounding yourself in the warmth of it—and him.

“I get off at six,” you murmur. “If I swing by the studio… will you be there?”

There’s a beat of quiet on the line. You can hear the faint creak of his chair, and you wish you could see him. His expression. The comfort in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be there. I’ve got a few classes this evening, but you can come whenever.”

The way he says come whenever feels less like a suggestion and more like a promise. Like the door will be open the moment you need it to be.

You glance toward the window, the soft spill of light across your comforter. “I don’t want to interrupt you at work…”

He hums. “You’re my girlfriend. You won’t be interrupting anything.”

Your breath catches.

The silence stretches—long enough that he seems to register the weight of what he said.

“I mean—only if you’re okay with that. I wasn’t trying to rush anything, I just—”

“I’m okay with that,” you say quietly, before he can talk himself out of it. “I like the sound of it.”

You hear the smile in his voice before he even speaks.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a soft exhale, and something in your chest warms at the knowledge that you caused it.

“Okay. Then I’ll see you tonight… girlfriend.”

Your whole face flushes.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you accuse gently, like the butterflies aren’t in full riot formation.

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’ve been waiting so long to say things like this.”

You bury your face in your pillow again, smiling like an idiot.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll let you go. Didn’t mean to hijack your morning.”

“You can hijack it whenever you want,” you say before you can think better of it.

A soft sound on the other end—a groan, maybe? A laugh? A helpless sigh?

“Dangerous words,” he mutters. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

You end the call. And promptly collapse into your pillow.

You're still grinning when the soft thud-thud-thud of socked feet slapping against the floor warns you of impending chaos. You barely have time to lift your head before your bedroom door bursts open.

“I knew it!”

Wooyoung stands triumphantly in the doorway, fists on his hips, wearing a hoodie with a smug cat on the front. His expression is somewhere between feral and gleeful.

You freeze.

“Good morning,” you say cautiously, like you’re trying not to startle a wild animal.

“You thought you could escape,” he hisses dramatically, marching in with the determination of a man on a mission. “You dodged me last night. You slithered home and went straight to your room. Straight to your room! Didn’t eat dinner with me. No eye contact. No debrief. I was robbed.”

“I was tired!” you protest, sitting up as he flops—boneless and loud—onto your bed like a judgmental housecat. You wheeze as his weight hits you. “It was a big day!”

“You were glowing. I could see it through the walls.” He narrows his eyes. “You think I didn’t hear you just now? I heard the voice. I heard the laugh.”

You drag your hands down your face.

“Oh my god.”

“‘You can hijack it whenever you want,’” he mimics in a swoony voice, clutching an invisible phone to his chest. Then he gasps and flops backward, jostling you again. “You’re in a relationship. A real one. With, like, hand-holding and forehead kisses and embarrassing pet names—”

“Sweetheart,” you mutter into your hands.

He sits up like he’s been summoned.

“No.”

You nod.

His expression goes from offended to gleeful.

“SAN! SANI! GET IN HERE!”

There’s a beat. A pause long enough for you to wonder if maybe—just maybe—he didn’t hear. Then: slow, even footsteps in the hall.

San appears in your doorway like a man arriving precisely when he meant to. Holding a mug. Wearing joggers and the neutral expression of someone who has seen far too much and fully endorses every moment of chaos.

He takes one look at Wooyoung sprawled across your bed and you half-pinned beneath him, then lifts the mug to his lips and says, “Finally.”

You groan. “Not you too—”

“I live with you,” he says calmly. “And I work with him. You both have the same face when you’re in denial. It was like Bridgerton but less British.”

Wooyoung makes a delighted sound and flops harder against your legs. “I told you. I told you they were already halfway mated.”

“I don’t even think they realize how bad it is,” San adds, mildly. “You should have seen him facedown on the floor after she gave him those cookies.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, dragging the pillow over your face.

“Oh no,” Wooyoung grins. “No shutting up. Not today. You’re dating. I have dreamed of this moment. There’s celebration. There’s—” he gasps dramatically, “—wardrobe planning.”

San tilts his head. “For what?”

Wooyoung throws his hands up. “The wedding, San. Keep up.”

You groan into your pillow. They high-five over your knees like this is a victory they won together.

“Are you two done?”

“No,” Wooyoung says brightly. “But I’ll pause for dramatic effect.”

San doesn’t say anything right away. He just sips from his mug and studies you the way he always does—quiet, steady, seeing far too much. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, next to the tangle of comforter near your hip. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough to anchor.

His voice is gentler when he speaks again.

“How are you doing, really?”

The question pulls the air right out of your lungs. Not how was the date. Not how’s Yunho. Just—you.

You pull the pillow down to blink at him, suddenly unsure how to answer.

“I’m…” You trail off, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “Happy. I think.”

“You think?”

“You mean about…the alpha canine thing.”

He nods. Wooyoung rolls onto his front, arms wrapped around your legs, chin resting against your thigh as he watches sharply.

You sit up a little more, pressing the heel of your hand to your sternum like you can sort through everything lodged there.

“I mean…I met Yunho through the Friendship Program,” you say softly. “But…I haven’t thought of him…like that in a while. He’s just…him.”

San sips from his mug again, humming in understanding.

“Good. I know we’ve been over the top, but we really do think you’re good for each other. Just him. Just you.” San’s smile softens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “If you make each other happy, that’s all we care about.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just nod. A quiet, grateful motion that lands somewhere between thank you and I’m still processing all of this.

And then—because the Universe thrives on comedic timing—Wooyoung pipes up again.

“So,” he says, casually propping his chin on your thigh, “you gonna tell your parents now or wait until you’re posting engagement photos?”

You freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, “They don’t even know he exists.”

Both men go still.

San lifts a brow. “You haven’t told them anything?”

“No,” you groan, flopping back into the pillows like they’ll somehow shield you from obligation. “You know how they are. They get weird about Chimeras, so I didn’t tell them about the Friendship Program and now he’s my boyfriend…”

“Ooh, yep, that is not great,” Wooyoung sing-songs. “He’s definitely a boyfriend. With a tail. And a job. And thirst traps.”

You drag your hands down your face. “They’re going to be awful about it.”

“Maybe,” San says evenly, reaching for his mug. “But maybe not.”

You sigh and sit up fully, rubbing your face one last time like that’ll help you steel yourself.

“I’ll call them later. After work. Before I go to the studio.”

Wooyoung pouts. “Can I be in the room? I promise to behave.”

“You never behave.”

He grins. “I didn’t say I’d succeed. I just said I’d try. I’ll be good emotional support either way.”

San stands and stretches, already heading for the hallway. “I’ll make tea. You’ll need it.”

You make it to work on time—barely—and spend the morning pretending you’re a fully functioning adult with a normal job and not someone who spent the last twelve hours emotionally combusting over a boyfriend with a tail and an obscenely good smile.

It’s mostly successful.

Until Jongho appears in your office doorway without knocking. Again. Coffee in hand. Smugness radiating off him like heat.

“You’re stressed again.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “Hello to you, too.”

“Hi,” he says innocently. “Does it have anything to do with being our department’s new trailblazer?”

You frown, finally looking up at him. “Our what?”

Yeosang chooses that exact moment to appear behind him, a bagel in hand.

“She’s the first of us,” Jongho continues, glancing over. “Right?”

Yeosang raises his brows.

“Is she?”

He doesn’t explain. He just takes a bite, nods politely, and leaves.

You stare after him.

Jongho blinks, then mutters, “…I don’t think he’s actually seeing anyone. He just likes being dramatic.”

Then he’s gone, too, back to his own office.

You shove the moment into the back of your mind—next to every other mystery you’re not prepared to deal with—and go back to pretending you’re totally normal and absolutely not counting down the hours until six.

Because you are. Very much. Counting. And the hours wind past all too slowly.

You step outside just before six, bag slung over your shoulder and heart thudding a little too hard for someone who's technically off the clock. The sidewalk is bathed in the late glow of evening light, and you keep your eyes on the corner as you wait for the familiar rumble of Gary’s cab.

Your fingers twitch around your phone.

You could just scroll. Lose yourself in the void until the cab shows up.

But instead… you open your contacts.

Hover. Stare.

Then—with a quiet breath—you press Call.

It only rings twice.

“Hey sweetheart!” your mother chirps. “Didn’t expect to hear from you today!”

You shift your weight, bracing the phone between shoulder and ear. “Yeah, I had a little time before my ride. Figured I’d check in.”

“Well, that’s lovely. Your father’s in the garage. You know how he gets about that old bike. How was work?”

You offer the usual responses—fine, busy, no, you haven’t caught whatever’s going around. She chatters a little about the neighbor’s new fence and the upcoming library fundraiser. You hum and respond where it counts. It’s comfortable, in the way old shoes are comfortable—familiar, slightly pinching, but easy to slip into.

Then comes the pause. You feel it before it happens.

“Everything alright?” she asks, a little too gently.

You stare out at the road. No sign of Gary yet.

“…Yeah,” you say. Then, swallowing, “I actually—wanted to tell you something.”

Another pause. “Oh?”

You wrap your arms around yourself. It’s not cold, but your skin feels tight.

“I’ve been seeing someone. A guy.”

She’s quiet for a beat too long. “Seeing someone… like dating?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Like dating.”

You don’t elaborate on how new it is.

“Well,” she says slowly, “that’s… new. What’s he like?”

Your voice is steady when you answer. “He’s kind. He’s thoughtful. Funny. Steady. I feel safe with him.”

“That’s… wonderful,” she says. But her voice doesn’t rise with excitement. Just steadies. Warms slightly. “What’s his name?”

“Yunho.”

Another small pause.

Then, carefully: “Is he… human?”

You knew it was coming—but it still hits like a shove.

“No,” you say quietly. “He’s a Chimera. Canine fauna.”

The silence stretches so long you think maybe the call dropped.

Then—softly—“Oh.”

You wait. You wait for the disappointment. The concern. The gentle but insistent pushback. But what you get is something more tangled. More tired.

“…You know we just worry about you, sweetheart. You’ve been through so much. And it’s… it’s different.”

“I know it is,” you say. “But he’s not.”

You’re not sure where that comes from, but it lands like truth. “He’s just Yunho. And he makes me feel… whole. Not broken. Not something to fix. Just… me.”

Your mother breathes in slow. You can almost hear her trying to sort through the response that won’t come out wrong.

“Well,” she says at last, “I suppose I’ll have to start asking about him instead of your coworkers.”

You blink. “…You’re not mad?”

“I’m confused,” she admits. “And I still worry. But if you say he’s good to you, I’ll believe you.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you.”

The familiar rumble of Gary’s cab pulls around the corner, paint chipped and music faintly blaring through the windows. He waves from behind the wheel.

“I have to go,” you say quickly. “My ride’s here.”

“Alright. Love you, sweetheart. Send me a picture! Be careful, okay?”

“Love you too,” you murmur. “Talk soon.”

You hang up just as Gary pulls up to the curb.

“Evenin’, professor!” he chirps as you climb in. “You look flushed—good day or weird day?”

You huff a laugh, settling back into the seat.

“Little of both,” you say. “But I think it’s getting better.”

Gary grins in the rearview as you buckle in. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He pulls away from the curb, launching into a meandering story about how his niece is trying to convince her ferret to wear a birthday hat—“she swears he understands her, but I think he’s just judgmental”—and for once, you don’t tune him out. You let the words wash over you, bright and harmless and full of nothing pressing.

The tension in your chest loosens by degrees. You didn’t expect the call to go well—not really. But it did. No repeated ‘are you sure?’. No unwelcome reminders of the available humans back home. Just… processing. Quiet care, even if it came with hesitation.

You stare out the window, city streets slipping by, and let it settle in your chest like a stone placed gently rather than thrown.

They know. And it didn’t break anything.

“You’re quiet back there,” Gary says, glancing over his shoulder at a stoplight. “Everything good?”

You blink back to the present and nod.

“Yeah. I think it is.”

“Good,” he says firmly, as if that settles it. “If it ever stops being good, I know a guy with a crowbar. He’s harmless but he’s got the meanest mug I’ve ever seen.”

You snort. “Appreciate the backup.”

“Anytime, professor.”

He taps the wheel again as the light changes, humming back into the chorus of the retro song filtering through the background. You close your eyes for a moment and let it ride.

You're okay. And tonight, you get to see Yunho.

That thought alone sends a warm little spark dancing beneath your ribs.

Yunho has checked the studio clock so many times today that San threatened to take it off the wall. Fondly. But it was still a threat.

He paces the length of the lounge, then turns and leans against the counter by the fridge like he might somehow make time move faster through sheer force of will. His phone rests screen-up on the coffee table, untouched for a record twelve minutes, but only because he turned on notifications so he wouldn’t miss her.

They’ve been texting, as always. But the usual litany of memes is missing, replaced by a conversation stilted by the shyness of something new.

Their conversation had turned to favorite movies, and her observation of how unsurprising his love of Spiderman was left him grinning, his tail wagging so hard he had to physically grab it before it hit something.

God, he’s a mess.

But a happy one. A vibrating, can’t-sit-still, grinning-at-nothing-like-a-fool mess.

“Okay,” Mingi calls from the back hallway, voice laden with suspicion, “I’m hearing suspiciously happy sighing. What did I say about that?”

Yunho doesn’t even look up. “I’m not sighing.”

“You’re always sighing lately. And smiling. And making noises like a drama lead in a hallway scene.”

Mingi rounds the corner and flops dramatically onto the couch, legs sprawling. “I’m just saying, if she’s coming here again tonight, I can make myself scarce after class. Give you privacy.”

Yunho shoots him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“Oh no,” Mingi grins, “the worst would be letting you two flirt your way into third base on this couch. Which, respectfully, is my couch, and I refuse to live like that.”

“We’re not going to—” Yunho starts, then cuts himself off, ears burning. “That’s not even—this is new, okay?”

Mingi hums. He carelessly tosses an arm over his eyes and settles in. “Is it? Because you looked like you wanted to propose yesterday when you came back from lunch.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Yunho mutters, glaring at the ceiling. “I was just… happy.”

“Bro. You glowed.”

Yunho opens his mouth to retort, then… closes it again.

Because yeah. He did glow. Still does, if he’s being honest. He hasn’t stopped thinking about her all day. The sound of her voice that morning, soft and sleepy. The way she said girlfriend like it was something precious. The way she told him she’d come by tonight.

And that’s all it takes—just the thought of her walking through the door—for his tail to betray him again. It gives one heavy thump against the fridge before he grabs it on instinct, muttering a soft curse.

Mingi lifts his head just enough to give him a look of deep, theatrical suffering.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “I thought you smelled strong before.”

Yunho flushes. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Well, your instincts are doing the equivalent of pulling up a lawn chair and waiting at the door.”

“I can’t help it,” Yunho mutters, ears twitching. “She’s coming here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mingi says, waving a hand as he drops his head back onto the cushions. “I know. You’re in love. It’s beautiful. It’s adorable. I hope I choke on it.”

Yunho just exhales, the smile tugging at his mouth too real to fight.

Because yeah.

She’s coming here.

His phone buzzes.

Yunho nearly knocks over his water bottle lunging for it.

[You:] I’m outside

For a full second, he just stares at the screen, something warm and wild and too-big swelling in his chest. Then—

“Don’t run,” Mingi calls without looking, still sprawled across the couch. “I swear, if I hear paws skittering on the floor—”

“I’m not running!” Yunho yells over his shoulder—while already halfway down the hallway.

His sneakers definitely skid a little. Just once. He slows, tries to walk like a normal person. Casual. Chill. Like his heartbeat isn’t trying to launch itself out of his ribs.

He makes it to the front doors, pauses, takes a breath. Two. Then opens them—

And there she is.

Standing just outside, bag slung over one shoulder, hair wind-tossed and cheeks a little pink from the breeze. Her eyes find his instantly, and the soft smile that lifts her face nearly folds him in half.

She came. She’s really here.

Yunho feels his tail flick once, betraying him again, but he doesn’t care. He’s already moving—like she’s the axis his whole day’s been turning on.

You’re still catching your breath from the cab ride—part nerves, part residual Gary chatter—when the studio doors swing open.

And he’s there.

Yunho steps into view like someone threw open the curtains on a warm spring morning. His jacket shifts with the breeze. His hair catches the last of the evening light. His expression—

Oh.

It’s not subtle.

He’s lit up from the inside out, like seeing you hit some hidden switch that turned his whole world golden. And he’s trying. Really, he is—walking with something like restraint, hands stuffed in his pockets, posture calm. But you see it.

The barely-restrained bounce in his step.

The soft, helpless grin pulling at his mouth.

The way his tail flicks once behind him like it knows better than to be chill.

You almost laugh.

You almost melt.

You definitely forget how to breathe for a second.

Because this six-foot-something man—broad and beautiful and emotionally devastating—is looking at you like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft and reverent. “You came.”

You smile, nerves fluttering but less sharp now. “Of course I did.”

He shifts his weight like he’s debating something. His hands flex inside his coat pockets, and for a moment you think he might reach for you—but he doesn’t. Just smiles, all stars and restraint, like holding back is costing him a Herculean effort.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Worse in the best way.

He wants to hug you. You know he does. You can see it all over him. But he’s waiting—giving you the space to move first. To be sure.

The butterflies riot all over again.

Because you’ve imagined that. A lot. What he might feel like. What his heartbeat might sound like if you pressed your ear to his chest. The way it would be so nice to just rest against him.

Heat suffuses your cheeks as you realize: you could ask. You’re together now. You could just… reach.

So you do.

Tentative, uncertain, but brave in the way that matters, you step closer—just enough to close the space between you. Your hand curls gently into the front of his jacket, and you look up.

“Can I—?”

You don’t even finish the question.

Because Yunho is already moving. Not fast. Not urgent. Just sure. One arm slips around your back, the other anchoring gently between your shoulder blades, and he tucks you against him with the kind of care that feels like home.

His warmth envelops you instantly. So does the scent of him—familiar now, comforting in a way that makes your knees feel a little loose. His heartbeat is steady against your cheek, exactly where you imagined it would be. Strong. Real.

He exhales against your hair, low and relieved. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

You don’t say anything. Just curl your arms around his waist and hold him tighter.

Because yeah. You needed this just as much.

For a while, neither of you moves. The breeze brushes past. Somewhere down the block, a car honks. But here—in this pocket of stillness—it’s just you and him. Quiet. Close.

He adjusts his grip slightly, pulling you in like he’s trying to shield you from the world, and your voice slips out before you can stop it—muffled against his chest, half a laugh, half awe.

“Oh my God,” you murmur, “how do you give perfect hugs?”

Yunho huffs a startled laugh, low and warm. “What?”

You lean back just enough to tilt your head up, but not so far you have to let go. “You’re… comfortable. And warm. And very structurally sound.”

That earns a full laugh—soft and bright, like sunlight through late-summer leaves. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he leans down to rest his forehead gently against yours. The closeness makes something in you twist. Because oh—you’d imagined that, too.

“I’m just glad you like it,” he murmurs, voice a little shy. “Because I’ve been dying to hold you since that first time you called me.”

You bite your lip, but your smile still spills out. “You can keep doing it. If you want.”

“I really want,” he says, and hugs you a little tighter.

You stay like that for a while. Longer than you probably should, tucked into his arms at the edge of a parking lot. But it’s warm here. Solid. Safe in a way that’s still startling.

And God, it feels nice.

Nicer than you expected.

Because you’ve had hugs before. You’ve had comfort, closeness, even safety. But this—this is something else entirely.

Yunho doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t shift away like he’s marking a time limit. He just holds you, patient and steady, as if your presence is something to settle into—not manage or fix. His hand strokes once down your back, slow and instinctive, and it knocks the breath right out of you.

And when you tilt your head—just slightly—to glance up at him, he’s already watching you. Not with nerves. Not with expectation. But with that same quiet contentment that’s always disarmed you.

Like this is enough.

Like you are enough.

The nerves don’t stand a chance. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

So you smile back. Small and real.

His thumb brushes the back of your shoulder, his voice barely a murmur: “Let’s get you inside.”

Even with that said, you’re both slow to pull away. Reluctance lines every movement as he lets go, his hand falling to take yours.

His fingers curl gently around yours—like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far, like he still needs that thread of contact. You squeeze back, just a little, and his smile returns in full: crooked, warm, and hopelessly fond.

He opens the studio door with his free hand, holding it for you as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And when you step past him, he leans in just enough to murmur at your shoulder: “After you… girlfriend.”

Your face goes warm all over again, and you don’t even try to hide the way your smile tips into something soft and ridiculous.

“You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Every chance I get,” he grins, following you inside.

“Gross.”

You startle, eyes darting to where Mingi sits at the front desk, glasses reflecting the light of the computer screen.

He doesn’t even glance up. Just types something, sips from his can of soda, and continues in a deadpan voice. “Keep the PDA off my couch or I’m installing sprinklers.”

Yunho snorts. “We’re literally just holding hands.”

“For now.”

You blink. “Are you threatening to… spritz us?”

Mingi finally looks up. “I’m threatening to protect my upholstery.”

Then he gives you a quick wink and turns back to his screen like nothing happened.

Yunho leans in slightly, voice conspiratorial. “He’s actually really happy for us.”

You glance between them, your smile growing. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Mingi waves a hand at them.

“Shoo. We’ve got class at seven. You’re still leading.”

Yunho walks beside her to the lounge, every step steeped in the soft hum of something real. His hand stays loosely in hers, thumb brushing over her knuckles, and every few seconds he has to resist the urge to look over just to confirm she’s still there. Still with him.

He doesn’t ask where she wants to sit—just nudges open the fridge with his foot and gestures inside.

“Drink?” he offers, glancing back at her.

“Whatever you’re having.”

He grabs two bottled teas and bumps the fridge closed with his hip. Hands one to her, opens his own.

He sinks onto the couch first and watches her settle in beside him. Not too close. Not too far. Still handling the newness a bit gingerly. But close enough that when he reaches over—slow and open-handed—she meets him halfway. Fingers slotting between his.

The smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth feels unstoppable.

“I missed you today,” he says softly. “How was work?”

Her scent falters. A slight edge of sour nerves curling at the edge of all that warmth.

He doesn’t tense. Just waits, regarding her with that same softness.

“I, um.” She hesitates. Her hand tightens around his. “I told my mom. About you.”

Yunho blinks, surprised. Then his chest goes warm and tight in equal measure. “Yeah?”

“She didn’t know before today,” she admits, voice small. “Not about you. Or the program.”

He squeezes her hand gently. “That must’ve been a hard conversation.”

She nods, eyes flicking down. “I didn’t want to hide you. I just… I was scared of how they’d react.”

Yunho stays quiet for a breath. Then turns his palm to cradle hers.

“Did she take it badly?”

A pause. Then—“No. Not badly. Just… slower. She’s confused, but she said if you make me happy, she’ll trust me.”

The exhale he didn’t realize he’d been holding leaves him slow and steady.

“I’m glad,” he says, eyes warm when she looks back up at him. “I do want to make you happy.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just lets herself relax a little.

“…I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

Yunho’s brows draw together—just a little. Not in hurt or anger. Just concern.

“What for?”

She shrugs, the motion subtle where her shoulder brushes his. “For not telling her sooner. For not telling you I hadn’t. For being… nervous. About all of it.”

He shifts to face her more fully, their joined hands resting on the couch between them. His voice stays low, even. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

Her eyes flick up, uncertain.

He meets her gaze with the same calm he’s offered since the beginning. “It’s your story. Your timing. I’m just grateful I’m part of it now.”

She breathes in like she might say something—then falters.

Yunho smiles, tilting his head.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says gently. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to be ready all the time. Just… be honest with me. That’s all I’ll ever ask.”

And maybe it’s not a grand speech. Not flowers or poetry. But the way her posture eases—the way she leans into him, shoulder to shoulder—tells him it landed anyway.

She nods shallowly.

“Okay,” she murmurs.

Then she fidgets a little, eyes flickering to him and then to their joined hands.

“How was your day? The classes?”

The question is gentle, almost shy, like she’s trying to shift the focus without dismissing the moment they just shared. Yunho doesn’t mind. Not even a little.

He gives her hand a light squeeze, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Good,” he says. “Busy. San threatened to remove the clock again.”

That earns a quiet laugh from her—small, but real. He holds onto it like it’s treasure.

“I kept checking it every ten minutes,” he admits, cheeks tinting pink. “Pretty sure my students thought I was waiting for a pizza delivery or something.”

She smiles at that, and his chest warms all over again.

“Mingi caught me smiling at my phone and told me I was ‘emotionally sighing like a K-drama lead in a hallway.’”

Her laugh comes fuller this time, and Yunho feels it bloom through him like sunlight.

“Well. You’re good looking enough to be one.”

His ears flicked forward, perking at that.

“Are you flirting back?” his tone is dangerously near delighted.

“No. I’m just making an observation,” she asserts quickly.

Yunho grins, ears still perked, tail giving one slow, smug sweep where it rests against the couch.

“Ohhh,” he says, drawing the syllable out. “So you objectively think I’m attractive.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, clearly starting something. “I’m just saying… my girlfriend thinks I’m hot.”

She groans, tipping her head back against the couch. “Forget I spoke.”

“Nope.” He leans closer, voice lowering like a secret. “Too late now. It’s canon.”

She turns her head to glare at him—only to find his face inches from hers, still smiling, but soft around the edges. Like he doesn’t need the joke to land—he’s just happy to be here. With her.

The heat comes rushing back to her face, and he watches with a sort of fascinated delight as the blood suffuses her cheeks and reddens them. Cute. She’s cute. Always, but especially when flustered.

“You’re the worst,” she mumbles.

His smile deepens. “And yet.”

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t let go of his hand. And despite her blush, he registers the happiness in her eyes. Her scent. Like she’s just as content as he is, right here in this moment.

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#ateez #ateez fanfic #yunho fanfic #ateez writing #jay writes fanfic #roderickprime #ateez au #yunho x reader #a/b/o dynamics #something like safe #long post

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