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chimcess · 1 day ago

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❆ Chapter Two: Number 10 Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Hockey Player!Jungkook, Figure Skater!Reader, Hockey Player!Taehyung, Hockey Player!Jimin, Hockey Player!Namjoon, Hockey Player!Hoseok, Figure Skater!Jin, Coach!Yoongi Genre: Hockey!AU, Figure Skating!AU, Olympic!AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Self-Discovery, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn Word Count: 19k+ Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has always been destined for greatness as a competitive figure skater, her dreams of the Olympics sparkling like the ice beneath her blades. But when a devastating injury sidelines her, those dreams seem to melt away. Just when she feels lost, she unexpectedly meets Jeon Jungkook, a talented NHL hockey player. Warnings: Reader is injured and still using crutches, toxic mom, absent father, parental issues, pining, low self-esteem, reader has anxiety, reader is very stressed out, honestly my girl is just exhausted, self-doubt, insecure, virgin!reader, verbal abuse, parental abuse will be a common theme in these warnings, overbearing friends (but we love them for it), hocky playing, might be some inaccuracies because I've never played and only watch in passing, hang over, honestly everyone is so sweet to our girl (except her mother), stage mom, controlling behavior, awkward humor, bad jokes, Tae is so obnoxious sometimes, horrible self image issues, all Kook wants to do is be nice to her, idiots in like with each other, but mostly Y/N being a complete overthinker, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: Aaaaaand we're back. Sorry it's taken a while to update. I've gotten distracted by another series I've been working on. I will be better about making sure I don't lose track of this though. Thanks for reading!

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Fucking hell. My head… Jesus Christ…

I groaned before I even opened my eyes. The pounding wasn’t just behind my temples—it was everywhere, echoing in my jaw, reverberating through my neck, pulsing like my head had its own heartbeat. I squeezed my eyes tighter, like maybe I could just wish the pain away, but that only made it worse. Light crept in through my eyelids, sharp and invasive, like needles made of daylight and shame.

I let out a low, pathetic sound and yanked the pillow over my face. Maybe if I smothered myself gently, I could slide back into unconsciousness. That had to be better than this.

My mouth was dry. Like desert-dry. Cotton-ball, sandpaper, someone-stuffed-a-towel-in-there-while-I-slept dry. My teeth felt... weird. Fuzzy. Like they had grown sweaters overnight.

And then, it hit me.

The kamikazes. The wine. Titanic. Lucy trying to reenact the “I’m flying” scene on top of the coffee table. Mina snorting soda out her nose when I confessed I’d never had a proper date. The entire ridiculous, amazing mess of it.

Right. So this is what a hangover feels like. I wasn’t impressed.

A shrill, persistent beeping cut through the fog like an airhorn through a funeral. I ignored it. It beeped again. And again. It wasn’t going to stop. I whimpered as I flung the pillow aside and cracked one eye open.

Big mistake.

The brightness of the room was criminal. My apartment looked like a war zone. Blankets and pillows were everywhere, a trail of snack wrappers lined the floor like breadcrumbs leading to poor life choices, and there was an actual wine bottle with a straw sticking out of it on the coffee table.

God help me.

I sat up slowly, testing gravity. The sheets were twisted around my legs, the evidence of someone who had clearly tossed and turned all night like a possessed burrito. I peeled myself free, shuffled to the bookshelf, and spotted the source of the beeping.

My phone. I picked it up and squinted at the screen. Twelve missed calls. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was from.

Nine calls yesterday, starting right after I declined the first one. Three more already today. I winced. A part of me felt guilty, but the rest of me was still too hungover to care.

I checked the time. 12:08 p.m. That couldn’t be right.

I stumbled into the kitchen and checked the clock on the stove. Also 12:08. My jaw dropped slightly. I had never in my entire life slept this late. Sleeping past eight usually gave me hives. Sleeping past noon? That was borderline criminal. It felt... indulgent. Wicked, even.

Weirdly, it also felt kind of great.

Still, I wasn’t about to take a call from my mother in this condition. That was a form of self-harm. I set the phone down, started the coffee maker, and dragged myself into the bathroom for a shower. Twenty minutes later—face scrubbed, teeth brushed, hair shoved into a bun—I was feeling mostly human. The caffeine helped. So did the Advil. So did the complete silence.

Time to check on the damage.

I knocked on Mina and Lucy’s door, weakly. Mina opened it like she’d been waiting all morning. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, her skin glowing, and she was already dressed like she was about to go to brunch with the Kardashians.

“Hey, sleepyhead!” she beamed.

I scowled. “That’s just cruel. Please tell me you’re secretly dying inside too.”

“Nope,” she said, far too cheerfully. “I’m blessed with a steel liver and a high tolerance for cheap vodka.”

“I hate you.”

“Most people do,” she said, stepping aside to let me in. “Come on. Lucy’s clinging to her coffee like it’s the last branch before the fall.”

Sure enough, Lucy was slumped over the counter, her cheek mashed against the granite. She lifted her head one centimeter when she heard my voice.

“Mmh.”

“That’s all I get?” I asked.

She blinked at me, slowly. “It hurts to exist.”

Fair.

Mina clapped her hands, far too chipper for the current emotional climate. “Alright, grumpy girls! I know exactly what we need today.”

“Sleep?” I offered.

“Silence?” Lucy tried.

“Grease-fueled breakfast burritos?”

“Nope.” Mina beamed. “Shopping.”

Lucy perked up immediately. “You said shopping?”

“Et tu, Brute?” I muttered.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Lucy said, already reaching for her shoes. “You haven’t even been to the mall yet.”

“I’ve seen malls before,” I said. “They have food courts and bad lighting. It’s not a cultural experience.”

“You wound me,” Mina said, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “This isn’t just a mall. This is the Mall of America. Four levels. Five hundred stores. An aquarium. An actual roller coaster.”

I stared at her. “You want to drag me through five hundred stores? I’ll be a corpse by dinnertime.”

“Please,” Mina scoffed. “Half of them are for children or tourists. We’ll only go into, like, two hundred.”

“Not helping,” I deadpanned.

“Get dressed,” she said, nudging me back toward my apartment. “It’ll be great cardio. Think of it as physical therapy.”

I sighed, knowing I was outnumbered. “Fine. But I swear, if I see a single pretzel stand, I’m throwing myself into the koi pond.”

Back in my apartment, I threw on a pair of jeans, a flannel, and my most supportive sneakers. I didn’t bother with makeup. If I was going to be emotionally and physically assaulted by capitalism, I was doing it with a clean face and minimal effort.

As I grabbed my purse, my phone buzzed again. I didn’t even read the message. I powered the phone off and shoved it in the drawer. Not today.

Keeping up with Mina was going to be a full-time job.

We took my car—Lucy driving, since I still didn’t know my way around—and Mina declared it had the best trunk space. That made me nervous. Like this was the shopping version of “we need a bigger boat.”

“This,” Mina said, buckling her seatbelt, “is why it’s so great that none of us work traditional jobs. Weekday mall trips. No crowds. All the discounts.”

“Tuesdays are the best,” Lucy said. “Peak performance shopping day.”

Tuesday.

The word hit me like a slap.

I froze in the passenger seat.

Jungkook. The bar. Tonight.

I had looked it up the moment I got home from the airport. Saved the address, noted the parking situation, mapped out the route. Seven minutes away. Easy.

Except it didn’t feel easy now. It felt like a hundred miles. A whole different life. I stared out the window, chewing the inside of my cheek.

I wanted to see him. But I also wanted to crawl under a blanket and pretend I wasn’t the kind of girl who had no idea how to navigate whatever this was. I’d never dated. Never flirted. Never had a boyfriend. The boys I grew up skating with were more interested in eyeliner than eye contact. The rest? Coaches, managers, staff. Off-limits.

Jungkook was different. He had this quiet confidence, this way of seeing me like I wasn’t just my résumé or my rink time. Like I was someone interesting. Someone worth noticing.

What if I screwed it up? What if he wasn’t who I remembered? What if I went tonight, made a fool of myself, and destroyed the one genuinely exciting possibility I’d had in years?

What if he expected me to be someone I wasn’t? Someone experienced. Someone sexy. Someone who didn’t flinch every time someone got too close. What if I disappointed him? What if I disappointed myself?

I felt nauseous.

“Earth to Y/N,” Mina sang, snapping her fingers in front of my face from the passenger seat.

I blinked. “Huh?”

“You okay? You haven’t said a single word since we got on the freeway.”

“Oh.” I fumbled for something to say. “Just thinking.”

She exchanged a glance with Lucy in the rearview mirror. The look said everything—they knew I was full of it, but they didn’t press.

Instead, Mina just looped her arm through mine the second we stepped out of the car and headed toward the massive glass entrance of the mall. I hadn’t even realized we’d parked.

“Easy, Seabiscuit,” I muttered as she tugged me along. “Some of us are still walking with one leg and a half-functioning knee.”

She grinned, slowing her pace just enough. “You’ll be fine. Think of it as a warm-up.”

As we neared the doors, Lucy perked up like she’d just remembered something exciting. “Hey, are you coming out with us tonight?”

“Out?”

“Yeah. Tuesday’s our night,” she said, like that should’ve been obvious.

“I don’t know...” I hedged. The words came out slower, more cautious than I meant.

Mina clutched her chest in mock betrayal. “Come on, Y/N! Taehyung and Jimin would be so excited to see you again.” Her voice pitched up as she clasped her hands together. “And it won’t be the same without you.”

I smiled weakly. “I might already have plans.”

Mina narrowed her eyes like she was trying to read a lie in my expression. “Then we’re definitely finding you a new outfit. Just in case.”

And just like that, my fate was sealed.

We disappeared into the sprawling, multi-level madness of the Mall of America. Store after store. Rack after rack. It was like stepping into another world, one filled with dizzying amounts of fluorescent lighting, pop music, and pushy mannequins in overpriced denim.

Half the time, I didn’t even know where we were. Mina and Lucy, though—they moved with the precision of seasoned hunters. They had a sixth sense for clearance racks and hidden gems, and somehow, they pulled me along like I’d agreed to this willingly.

By the third level, I was holding more bags than I could count. My arms ached. My feet throbbed. I had no idea how it happened—how I’d ended up buying four different tops, a dress I wasn’t sure I could pull off, and a pair of boots Mina swore I “needed.” There was something dangerous about shopping with people who actually thought you deserved nice things.

The mall was exactly what they promised: huge, loud, overwhelming. But there were moments—small ones—where I forgot everything else. Where I laughed at Lucy’s commentary on the store mannequins. Where I actually liked the way I looked in the mirror for the first time in a long while. Where I let myself be just a girl at the mall, not an injured athlete trying to pretend she wasn’t falling apart inside.

I hadn’t touched my phone since that morning. I hadn’t thought about Emily. Or skating. Or the weight of the last six months.

Mina filled every silence with something—jokes, fashion debates, weird questions that came out of nowhere. Lucy followed up with commentary like a one-woman sitcom. All I had to do was keep up, and even that felt optional.

By the time we finally called it quits, the sun had dipped low behind the parking structure and the bags digging into my arms made me feel like I’d just run a marathon. We packed into the elevator like clumsy thieves, arms full of shopping trophies and half-finished iced coffees.

Mina unlocked her door like she was clocking in at a job she loved, already talking about reorganizing her closet before I’d even reached mine.

“Hey—what about tonight?” Lucy called down the hall before I closed my door.

I hesitated. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know soon, okay?”

“No rush. We usually head out around seven.”

I gave her a weak smile. “Sounds good.”

As soon as my door clicked shut behind me, I let go of everything—literally. The bags hit the floor in a heap of rustling tissue paper and overly optimistic purchases. I dropped onto the couch like someone had cut my strings, head falling back, arms limp at my sides.

My knee throbbed, but it was a manageable ache. The kind that told me I hadn’t overdone it—maybe even that I was getting stronger.

I let myself close my eyes for a minute. Just one.

When I opened them again, the clock read 4:25 p.m.

Just enough time.

I picked up my phone, hesitating for a second before powering it on. The screen lit up immediately. Twelve missed calls. Four voicemails. One new text. All from Emily.

I stared at it for a beat, steeling myself, then hit speed dial.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Well, well,” she said, voice sharp and polished. “I guess you’re still alive.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“‘Hi, Mom’? That’s all I get after ignoring my calls all day?”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” I said, already tired. “I was busy.”

“Busy with what? You don’t have a job. You don’t have school. You don’t even have skating right now.”

I rubbed the heel of my palm against my eye. “I was out with some friends.”

“You were too busy making friends to update me on your knee?”

“I’m calling you now, aren’t I?”

“A full day later. For all I knew, you missed the appointment.”

“I didn’t. It went fine.”

“I wouldn’t call not being cleared to compete fine, Y/N.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. “He said I’m healing well. He’s optimistic.”

Emily scoffed. “Well, he would say that. But optimism doesn’t get you a spot at Nationals. That requires action. Discipline. Commitment.”

“I haven’t lost any of that,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

“You’re not acting like someone who cares about their future.”

“And what does that look like, exactly? Refusing to rest? Pushing myself back onto the ice before I’m ready?”

“You’re twenty-four. This is your prime. You don’t have time to waste.”

“I know that,” I snapped. “I’ve been living it.”

The line went quiet for a moment.

“You’re being dramatic.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m being honest.”

Another pause. Heavier this time.

“Are you finished with your little tantrum?”

I dropped the phone onto the couch and grabbed the nearest throw pillow, pressing it to my face before letting out a long, guttural scream. Three times. I didn’t care if the neighbors heard. I didn’t even care if the building collapsed around me.

It didn’t fix anything. But it let some of the pressure out, like cracking the lid on a soda that’s been shaken too hard.

I stayed like that for a while—still, quiet, my heart pounding in the silence she’d left behind. Even though the call had ended, Emily’s voice still echoed through the room, clipped and clinical and so deeply embedded in my nervous system that I almost expected her to start talking again.

My eyes drifted to the mess on the floor. The shopping bags, the tissue paper spilling out like ribbons, the dress Mina had declared “life-changing,” the boots Lucy insisted were “man-bait.” They were supposed to be fun. They were supposed to be part of tonight—just in case I went out, just in case I saw him.

Just in case I had a life that felt like mine. The phone buzzed in my hand. I stared at it. Another call from her. Of course. I closed my eyes, drew in a breath, and—against my better judgment—answered.

“Yes?” I said quietly.

“Do you think you could manage to fill me in on what the doctor said?” Her tone was sharp, but smug. She knew she’d reeled me back in.

I pressed my fingers to my temple. “I’m off crutches. I’m setting up physical therapy this week. I’m cleared for basic activity—no pivots, no sudden stops, no cutting. He wants a follow-up in April. That’s when we’ll know more about training.”

I kept my voice flat. Short. Bullet points. That’s how she preferred things—concise, efficient, like a coach reviewing footage.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? You should’ve said all this yesterday. I want that PT appointment scheduled immediately. Maybe once you’re moving again, you’ll feel motivated. And April? Honestly. That’s excessive.”

“It’s what the doctor said.”

“I doubt it. He’s probably being overly cautious. But fine. We’ll be aggressive once you’re cleared. I’ve already started talking to a new coach.”

I froze.

“What?”

“I’ve been in touch with someone new. A coach with the kind of training approach you need now—someone who’ll actually push you.”

“What about Yoongi?” My voice sharpened without my permission. “Why would I need a new coach?”

“Yoongi is soft, Y/N. You’ve outgrown him. He doesn't have the fire to get you back to Olympic level after so much time off.”

My stomach turned. A tight, anxious knot pulled just under my ribs. “Did you fire him?”

“Not yet. But I will if I have to.”

I stood without realizing it, pacing across the room like I could walk off the panic. “You can’t do that. Mom—he’s been with me since I was twelve. He knows me.”

“I know what’s best for your career. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Don’t I?” I snapped. “Don’t you think I should have a say in who coaches me?”

Emily sighed, the way she always did when she thought I was being difficult. “You don’t need to get emotional. This is why I handle the logistics.”

“Maybe I’m tired of not being asked.”

“You’re not thinking clearly. You’ve always been like this when you’re hurt.”

My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You mean like when I was fourteen and had a stress fracture, but you still made me perform at Regionals?”

“That was a strategic decision. And you medaled.”

I stared at the far wall, feeling something inside me slip sideways. “You keep acting like this is about strategy. Like I’m a product. But I’m not. I’m your daughter.”

“Exactly,” she said crisply. “Which is why I care more than anyone. I’m the one who got you here. Don’t forget that.”

My chest burned. I pressed a hand flat against it, like that might help. “Then maybe start acting like it.”

Another pause. Heavy. Tense.

“Are you finished?”

I laughed, but it was brittle and joyless. “You know what? Yeah. I think I am.”

“Y/N—”

“I’m not talking about this anymore,” I said. “Not today. Not until I’m cleared to compete. Right now, none of this matters.”

“We can’t afford to wait—”

“You’re going to have to.”

She was already revving up for another counterattack, but I didn’t give her the chance. I ended the call, set the phone face-down on the coffee table, and walked away like it was made of fire.

My hands were shaking. I could feel the rage thrumming under my skin, not explosive, but steady. Persistent. Like a hum in my bones.

I picked up the same pillow and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud and landed in a slump. I sank onto the couch and pulled my knees to my chest, pressing my forehead into them.

Of course, the phone started ringing again. I stared at it. Ringing. Again. Ang then again. My jaw clenched so hard it ached. I reached for the phone—and powered it off. The silence that followed was like breaking through the surface of deep water. Shocking. Still.

Tears threatened, burning at the corners of my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. Not yet. Not for her.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my mother. I did. In my own way. But I was so tired of being something she managed instead of someone she knew. Fifteen years of this—of letting her make every decision, schedule every training session, dictate every moment of my future. I had let her. Because I thought that’s what it meant to be good. To be successful. To be loved.

But I wasn’t sure I could do it anymore.

I pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and walked to the window seat. Curled up in the corner, knees tucked under me, I hugged a pillow tight to my chest and rested my forehead against the cool glass.

Outside, the river moved slowly along its curve, calm and indifferent. Unbothered. Like time existed differently out there—measured not by medals or seasons or recovery timelines, but by the quiet, steady rhythm of water meeting shore.

I breathed in through my nose. Let it out slowly.

By the time the sky turned that moody shade of dusky blue, the anger had drained out of me completely. All that was left was something quieter. A kind of sadness that settled low in my chest and refused to move.

Despair, maybe. Or the beginnings of it.

She hadn’t asked how I was. Not once. Not if I liked living alone, or if I was making friends. Not whether I was sleeping okay, or eating anything other than frozen protein waffles. Nothing about the move, or the adjustment, or if I’d stopped waking up every morning convinced I was already falling behind.

Just the usual questions—when will you train again? How soon until you’re back on the ice? Can we salvage this season?

As if that was all I existed for. Jumps. Spins. Gold medals and press appearances. The choreography of usefulness.

I hugged a pillow tighter to my chest, wishing it felt like something solid. Something that might, just for a second, hug me back.

Outside the window, the last hints of sunlight faded, leaving only the reflections of streetlamps on the river and the soft, muted flicker of headlights. I watched them for longer than I meant to, blinking slowly, mind quiet. Not really thinking. Just... feeling. Letting the ache in my chest take up space for once.

A knock at the door pulled me out of it.

I flinched. Shit. Mina.

I hadn’t even noticed the time. A quick glance at the clock told me it was just after seven. The plan had been to go out. I was supposed to be getting dressed, figuring out what version of myself to wear tonight.

Instead, I padded to the door and pulled it open, every movement heavier than it should’ve been.

Mina stood there in a fitted black dress and heels I wouldn’t survive five minutes in. Her hair was pinned back in soft waves, and her lipstick was the perfect shade of dangerous. She looked beautiful—effortlessly so. And happy. Until she saw me.

Her smile faltered. “Hey... what’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing.” I blinked at her, tried to smile. It felt clumsy. Like trying to fake warmth with a burnt-out bulb.

Mina tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Y/N, come on. I may not have known you that long, but even I can tell when you’ve been crying.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Really, it’s nothing.”

She crossed her arms, not budging. “If it were nothing, you’d just tell me. But you’re hiding it, which means it’s something. That’s how friends work, by the way. We notice things.”

I exhaled, slow and shaky. “I’m just... not up for it tonight. That’s all.”

Mina stepped closer. “Then I’ll stay. We can order takeout, watch trashy reality TV, do literally nothing.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Please. Go. You should go. You’ve been looking forward to this all week. Jimin’s probably already there.”

She hesitated. “I see him all the time.”

“I know. But it’s okay. I just need a quiet night.”

She studied me for a beat, and for a second I was sure she was going to argue. But then she softened. “You promise you’ll be okay?”

I nodded. “I promise.”

“Fine,” she said, exhaling. But she didn’t leave. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me without another word.

I froze. The instinct to pull back kicked in before I could stop it—too tight, too close—but then I exhaled and let myself lean into it. Her hug was warm and firm, not rushed or careful, just there. Steady in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. And it hit me, sharply, how unfamiliar this felt. How rare it was.

When was the last time someone hugged me like that? Not because I won something, or finished a clean program, or needed comforting after a bad skate—but just because?

She pulled back but didn’t let go entirely. Her hands rested on my arms, grounding me. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”

I swallowed. Nodded. Blinked too fast.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said softly. “You can pretend you’re okay until then. But I’ll be back for the full breakdown.”

I smiled, watery but genuine. “Okay.”

She left without needing another word, her heels clicking softly down the hallway. I shut the door behind her and slid the chain into place.

Then I leaned back against it, body sinking slowly to the floor.

Goddamn it, Emily.

She wasn’t even in the same zip code, and she was still managing to pull the strings. Still controlling my thoughts, my emotions, my everything. I hated how easily she got in. How quickly she could dismantle me with a few words, a few carefully placed criticisms wrapped in concern.

I looked at the shopping bags scattered across the floor, some still half-open, tissue paper spilling out like an afterthought. A pair of boots. A slouchy sweater I’d never normally pick for myself. That navy wrap dress Mina had insisted was a “game-changer.” Little things. Things that felt indulgent, yes—but also strangely personal. Things I had chosen. Things I liked.

Things that were mine.

And yet all it took was one phone call with Emily to unravel that sense of ownership. One conversation, and suddenly I was thirteen again—sitting silently in the passenger seat of her SUV, hands curled around the straps of my skate bag, scared to say the wrong thing. Scared she might look at me and see disappointment.

But today, I had said the wrong thing.

I hadn’t just thought the words. I’d spoken them out loud. I'd told her no. Not angrily, not with dramatics—but plainly. Honestly. That terrified me more than anything. Not because I feared what she might do. But because I knew it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t hear me. She never did.

Maybe it was distance that made the difference. The physical miles between us. Or maybe it was time—these quiet days away from rinks and routines, away from the pressure of being whoever she needed me to be. Maybe it was Mina and Leera.

Leera, with her sharp laugh and sharper mind. A woman thriving in a world that had tried, more than once, to shrink her. Mina, who radiated energy like she manufactured her own sun, who built her business from the ground up and did it on her terms.

They didn’t wait for permission. They didn’t need anyone to define them. I admired them so much for that, because what had I been doing all these years?

Chasing approval. Trying to live up to an expectation I never helped set. I trained longer. Jumped higher. Skated harder. I collected medals like they were evidence in a trial only Emily was judging. I told myself if I just worked harder, if I got better, if I won bigger—she’d see me. She’d be proud. And maybe, finally, she’d stop looking at me like I was a project halfway to perfection.

Deep down, I knew the truth. Even Olympic gold wouldn’t have been enough, because it had never really been about me.

Yes, I loved skating. Yes, there had been joy in the triumphs, in the beauty of movement and music and flight. But the pressure? The sacrifices? They weren’t mine. They were hers, and I couldn’t do that anymore.

I pushed myself up off the floor, my limbs heavy but sure. Something inside me had shifted. I didn’t have answers. I didn’t have a next step. But for the first time, I wanted to find one. A step that was mine, even if it was small. Even if it was quiet.

Whatever came next—it wasn’t going to be for Emily.

In the kitchen, I opened the freezer and pulled out the pint of Ben & Jerry’s Mina had insisted I needed. “Emergency ice cream,” she’d called it, throwing it into the cart like it was medicine. I’d rolled my eyes at the time.

Standing barefoot on cold tile, spoon in hand, staring into nothing in particular—it felt like the most rational choice I could make. I dug in.

The first bite was numbing. The second—comforting. I didn’t bother with a bowl. Mina would’ve been proud.

I leaned back against the counter and glanced at the clock.

7:53 p.m.

My chest tightened slightly.

Jungkook would be at the bar by now. Or arriving. The thought hit me harder than it should’ve.

I wondered if he’d remember mentioning it to me. If maybe he’d glance at the door once or twice, casually, just to see if I’d show.

Probably not. Guys like him didn’t wait around. He probably had girls lined up without even trying—girls who knew how to play the game, who could flirt without blushing, who wore confidence like perfume and didn’t have a mother in their head critiquing their every move. Girls who didn’t second-guess everything. Girls who didn’t freeze in the middle of a moment because they weren’t sure if they were allowed to want it.

I wasn’t one of those girls.

Still, the thought of never seeing him again left an ache behind. A quiet kind of ache. The kind that hums under your skin and doesn’t really go away, even after you’ve tried to reason it out of existence.

I stood there, spoon in hand, eating my way through the pint until it was nothing but soft, half-melted swirls at the bottom. Then I rinsed it out and dropped it in the sink.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. I curled up on the couch with a blanket and reached for the remote. After a few seconds of scrolling, I landed on The Cutting Edge. Comfort movie. Familiar. Predictable.

Somewhere between the second argument and the first glimpse of choreography, sleep pulled me under.

The rest of the week passed in a strange, blurry haze—like I was watching my life on fast-forward but couldn’t find the remote to slow it down. The days came and went, marked more by weather shifts and coffee refills than anything memorable. I woke up, did my rehab exercises, pretended to text Emily back, and tried not to think too hard about anything.

Mina showed up the next morning, just like she said she would—armed with two lattes, a cinnamon roll big enough to qualify as a cake, and that look in her eye that I’d come to know meant she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“You promised me a breakdown,” she said as soon as she walked in, kicking off her shoes and settling into my kitchen like she lived here.

“I promised you coffee,” I muttered, accepting the latte.

She smirked. “You promised tomorrow. And guess what? It’s tomorrow.”

Mina had this talent—a gift, really—of making her interrogations feel like casual conversation. She didn’t press too hard. She didn’t push. But somehow, over the course of a few sentences and sips of caffeine, you’d find yourself saying things you hadn’t meant to. Secrets you’d sworn you’d keep. It wasn’t even sneaky. It just felt easy with her. Like breathing.

Unfortunately for her, I’d been breathing around Emily for most of my life. And that meant I was professionally trained in the art of holding everything in.

So we had a friendly little standoff: Mina asked carefully worded questions, and I offered vaguely acceptable answers. She poked, I dodged. She made gentle suggestions; I gave noncommittal shrugs. She brought up “trust” at least three times.

I gave her just enough to keep her from worrying. That I’d had a rough call with my mom. That we’d argued—nothing new there. That I was still figuring out what I wanted, and maybe that wasn’t the worst thing. That sometimes healing isn’t just about your body.

What I didn’t tell her—what I couldn’t bring myself to say—was that I’d stood her up. That I didn’t go to the bar Tuesday night. That I didn’t see Jungkook again.

Because if I told her, she’d ask why. And I didn’t have a good answer. Not one that made me look like someone I wanted to be.

If I did tell her, she’d launch into full Mina Mode—talk about bravery and seizing the moment and how life wasn’t going to wait around for me to feel ready. She’d quote a rom-com, probably Notting Hill, and say something about regret being worse than rejection. And she'd mean it.

But I wasn’t in the mood to be inspired.

I was still mad at myself.

Mad at the way I froze up the second I thought about going. Mad that I let fear win. That I let Emily’s voice echo louder than my own. I’d told myself I was tired. That I needed rest. That I wasn’t in the right headspace. But really, I was scared. Scared of what it would feel like to want something just for me—and then risk not getting it.

Now it was too late. The Jungkook ship had sailed. He’d said Tuesday. He’d given me an opening. And I didn’t take it. I didn’t even try. What stung most wasn’t the idea that I’d never see him again. It was that I hadn’t shown up for myself.

That I’d let the moment slip away, standing frozen on the edge of possibility while the chance disappeared quietly into the night—leaving nothing behind but an aching kind of what-if and a soft, stupid crush I couldn’t seem to shake.

Mina didn’t push again. Maybe she saw something in my face. Maybe she just knew when to let silence do the heavy lifting. She finished her cinnamon roll and told me I needed to get out more. I agreed, even though we both knew I didn’t mean it.

That was the thing about Mina. She never gave up—but she gave space.

So she stood, kissed the top of my head like a sister might, and told me she’d text me later.

And when the door closed behind her, the quiet came rushing back in.

The last few days felt different. Not perfect, not painless—but better. Not like I was suddenly back to who I used to be, but like I was finally brushing up against someone I recognized. A version of myself I hadn’t seen in a long time.

It started with small things. I made it back to the gym—a dusty, underused little room on the first floor of our building that smelled faintly of disinfectant and old ambition. Nothing fancy. A few cardio machines, a weight rack, and a yoga mat that had definitely seen better days. But it was something. A place to move again. A place to feel my body do more than just exist.

Progress was slow. Frustrating, honestly. Ten minutes on the stationary bike felt like a full workout. My knee protested with every step, but not in the sharp, hopeless way it used to. This pain was different—dull, manageable, like the soreness that reminded you your muscles were still in there. Still trying.

I stuck to what Dr. Jeon told me—brace on, pace steady, no sudden movements. But God, it was already getting old. My old routine would’ve crushed this one in the first twenty minutes: Pilates, a five-mile run, three hours on the ice, then back to strength training after lunch. Days that left me wrecked and exhilarated. Days that gave me purpose.

Now? Some stretches. Light weights. A glorified power walk. Still, it was something. And that counted.

Mina and Lucy stopped by the gym once or twice—not to exercise, but to keep me company. They brought iced coffees and gossip, sat on the mats next to me like we were at some wellness retreat instead of a basement-level fitness room with flickering overhead lights. I didn’t say it out loud, but it helped. Just having someone there. No pressure. No judgment. No stopwatch.

I knew I couldn’t rush it. I repeated that to myself like a mantra. But the itch to do more sat just beneath my skin. To push. To get back to the version of me who felt strong.

So, I called a physical therapist.

Malichi was young, easygoing, and had the kind of dry humor that put me at ease without trying too hard. He cracked dumb jokes while adjusting my form, and always seemed to know when to reel me back in just before I overdid it.

“You’ve got two speeds,” he said during our first session, grinning as I scowled through a round of banded leg lifts. “Too slow and way too fast. We’re gonna find the middle.”

I liked him. PT was still going to suck, but at least it wouldn’t suck alone. I’d be seeing him twice a week until April. Lucky him.

Meanwhile, Emily was still a constant presence—without ever actually being present. My inbox filled up with clipped emails, her voicemails bouncing between cold, professional concern and passive-aggressive digs disguised as “constructive input.” She was furious beneath the surface, and I could feel it, even when her words were polite. She hated not having control. Hated that I hadn’t given her one inch of it since that phone call.

And maybe that was why I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not because I missed her, exactly. But because I was starting to see how much space she’d always taken up in my head.

I was twenty-four years old, and it still felt like I was just now figuring out how to live on my own. I didn’t understand taxes. I barely managed my own schedule. I hadn’t booked a competition or a press appearance in my life—someone else always did that for me. I showed up. I skated. I smiled.

That was my job. And I was good at it. I wasn’t sure who I was without her voice in my ear.

The girl in the mirror felt… plain. Not ugly, just unremarkable. The only thing that ever made me feel different was the body I’d carved from years of training—muscle layered over bone like armor. But even that felt foreign now. Softening. Shifting.

The world had called me beautiful, but only when I was dressed for it. On the ice, with flawless hair and strategic lighting. I didn’t hate it. But it never felt like me.

What I hated—what I was only starting to admit—was the way Emily had coached me off the ice. Every word, every gesture, every smile that wasn’t mine. She dictated everything: what I ate, how I spoke in interviews, when I slept, who I talked to. And I let her.

But this week had been different.

This week, I wore leggings and old T-shirts. I ate snacks for dinner. I took naps at weird hours. And no one told me I was doing it wrong.

Mina might raise an eyebrow now and then, but she never tried to change me. She accepted me exactly as I was—even when I didn’t know who that was yet.

So when I looked at the clock and saw it was almost six, I decided I had time for a quick yoga session before we went out.

The hockey game was tonight—Mina and Lucy had been talking it up for days. Apparently, it was a whole event, not just a game. I was kind of looking forward to it. It’d be nice to see everyone again. Maybe even feel... normal.

I rolled out my mat, shifted the coffee table aside, and let my body fall into familiar movement. The flow of breath and stretch and balance. Yoga had been part of my routine for years, but it hit different now—less about performance, more about presence. Each pose reminded me that I was still here. Still in this body. Still healing.

I was mid-Scorpion when the door burst open.

“Knock knock!” Mina’s voice rang through the apartment like a bell, sharp and cheerful. Her heels clicked against the floor as she walked in, eyes already scanning the room.

She stopped in front of me, tilting her head.

“Has anyone ever told you your laziness is truly disgusting?”

I laughed, lowering my legs and shifting into Child’s Pose. “Some of us weren’t born with magical metabolism and perfect skin, Mina. The rest of us have to try.”

She perched on the arm of the couch, watching as I transitioned into Flying Crow. “That looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“It’s easier than it looks,” I said between breaths. “Kind of peaceful, actually.”

“You’re deeply unwell,” she muttered.

“I’m almost done,” I promised, easing back to the mat. “Didn’t forget about you.”

“You better not have. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Rude,” she said, already kicking off her heels. “Go shower. I’ll figure out your outfit.”

I groaned, dragging myself to my feet. “Mina, it’s a hockey game. Not fashion week.”

“It’s still an event,” she said, hands on hips. “You’re coming out. You will look cute. And no,” she added, cutting me off before I could protest, “I won’t put you in a cocktail dress.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Promise?”

She smirked. “Mostly.”

I muttered something under my breath but headed for the shower anyway.

She was ridiculous. But she was mine.

“No way, Mina. I’m not wearing that.”

I took a step back like the sparkly T-shirt she was holding might leap off the hanger and attach itself to me against my will. Arms crossed. Voice flat. Unmoved.

Mina just blinked at me, expression somewhere between offended and amused. “Are you kidding me right now?”

I pointed at the shirt. “That thing has rhinestones.”

“It’s a team shirt,” she said, exasperated. “It’s cute. Festive. Fun.”

“It’s bedazzled.”

She held it up higher, inspecting it like I might change my mind if I saw it from another angle. “Lucy and I are both wearing one,” she said, as if that somehow made it better.

“That’s not the argument you think it is.”

Mina narrowed her eyes and thrust the shirt closer. “What exactly is your issue with this? It’s not like it’s covered in glitter. It just has the logo. With a little sparkle.”

I took another half-step back, as if distance alone could help me win this battle. “I don’t do rhinestones. Or sequins. Or things that make me look like a disco ball.”

She didn’t say anything—just stared at me, unblinking.

“What?” I asked, already suspicious.

Still nothing. Just that look.

“Mina,” I said slowly. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Her lips twitched. “Because I have literal photographic proof that you both can and do wear rhinestones. I’ve seen your costumes, Y/N. You’ve basically worn a Swarovski factory on ice.”

“That’s different,” I said quickly. “That’s performance. There are spotlights. Judges. Music. I don’t wear rhinestones in real life. Ever.”

“Okay, well,” she said, shoving the shirt into my hands, “tonight’s not ‘real life.’ It’s Girls’ Night Out, Game Edition.”

I frowned down at the shirt. It was… less offensive than I’d thought. Fitted, soft cotton, with the Red Wings logo in the center—outlined in delicate red crystals. Just enough to catch the light. Still unnecessary, but not as aggressive as it could’ve been.

I sighed. “Fine. But I’m wearing jeans.”

“Obviously.”

“And comfortable shoes. Like, ones I can walk in.”

She looked like she wanted to argue but thought better of it. “Okay.”

“And a hat.”

That made her pause. “A hat?”

“Yup. Baseball cap. Something to offset the sparkle situation.”

Mina groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “You’re ruining the vibe.”

“These are my terms. You want me in rhinestones, I get to negotiate.”

She huffed but nodded. “Fine. Can I at least pick the hat?”

“If you or Lucy have a team cap, I’ll wear that. But I’m not going full glam at a hockey game, Mina. I draw the line at lashes.”

She vanished into her room, muttering something about “fashion heathens,” and came back a minute later holding out a simple red cap. It had the Red Wings logo stitched across the front—no sparkles, no fuss.

“This is the best I can do. It’s Lucy’s. Taehyung gave it to her.”

I took it like it was a precious object. “Perfect. Thank you.”

Mina gave the shirt a wistful glance. “If you’re going to sabotage a perfectly coordinated outfit with that thing, can I please do your makeup? Minimal. I promise.”

I gave her a skeptical look.

She held up both hands. “Swear on my favorite heels.”

I hesitated. “No glitter. No false lashes. No contouring wizardry.”

“Done. You won’t even know it’s there.”

“I better not.”

Mina grinned like she’d just won a court case. “You’re going to look so good.”

I rolled my eyes and turned toward the bathroom. “I already do.”

“You’re damn right you do,” she called after me.

Twenty minutes later, I was dressed and ready—hair still a little damp at the ends but tucked neatly through the back of the Red Wings cap, falling in a low ponytail down my back. The makeup Mina had insisted on was surprisingly understated. True to her word, she kept it simple—just a swipe of mascara, a little eyeliner, and lip gloss that tasted faintly of mint.

It felt nice. Comfortable. Not like I was trying to be someone else. For once, I actually looked like... me. Just a slightly glammed-up version.

Mina had run back to her apartment to finish getting ready and track down Lucy. Meanwhile, I sat on the edge of the couch and laced up my new combat boots, tugging the laces tight and double-knotting them for good measure. Easily my best impulse buy in weeks—soft leather, good tread, no break-in time. They were already giving my Converse a run for their money.

When I knocked on Mina and Lucy’s door a few minutes later, I could hear the familiar chaos unfolding on the other side. Music blasting from somewhere in the back, a hairdryer whirring at full volume, and Mina’s voice rising above it all in a tone that sounded both panicked and bossy.

“Come in, Y/N!” Lucy shouted.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Lucy was balancing on the arm of the couch, zipping up a pair of knee-high black boots like it was the most normal thing in the world. Her hair was done in soft waves, and her lips were already painted a glossy cherry red. She looked completely unbothered.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey! Mina’s almost ready. She claims she needs fifteen more minutes, but I’m betting on five. She’s freakishly efficient when she’s running late.”

As if on cue, the hairdryer cut off mid-whine, and Mina burst out of her room thirty seconds later like she’d been summoned by name. She was fully dressed, makeup flawless, hair curled and pinned back with surgical precision. Not even a trace of rushed energy left on her face. She looked—of course—like she’d spent hours getting ready, not five frantic minutes.

And I had to admit, she wasn’t exaggerating when she said they were wearing the same thing as me. The shirts were clearly part of the same sparkly set—Lucy and Mina in the red versions, mine in white. Theirs had deeper necklines and sleeves that barely qualified as sleeves, but it was definitely a coordinated look. At least they’d had the foresight to bring jackets, slung casually over the backs of dining chairs.

January in Michigan wasn’t exactly crop-top weather, especially in an ice rink. I felt cold just looking at them.

From the waist down, though, we might as well have been triplets—skinny denim and black boots all around. Theirs had heels. Mine didn’t. No regrets.

Mina gave me a once-over and grinned. “Look at us. We’re unintentionally aesthetic.”

“Speak for yourself,” I muttered, adjusting my hat.

Lucy winked. “You look great, Y/N. The hat works.”

“Thank you. I fought hard for it.”

“She did,” Mina admitted, grabbing her coat. “It was a whole diplomatic negotiation. Rhinestones for headgear. A fair compromise.”

“I still say you could’ve worn a little red lipstick,” Mina added, eyeing me as she slipped into her leather jacket.

“Let’s not push our luck.”

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. No more beauty interventions tonight.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” she amended, “none that you’ll notice.”

Lucy snorted. “Shall we?”

Mina threw open the door with a flourish, stepping aside like a maître d’ ushering us into a five-star restaurant instead of the apartment hallway.

“Ladies,” she said, “to the rink.”

We stepped out into the hallway, our laughter still echoing behind us like static warmth. The air outside was biting, sharp enough to make our cheeks sting the moment we hit the curb, but none of us flinched. We were too wrapped up in our own excitement—or maybe just too proud to admit how freezing it actually was.

We ordered an Uber to Little Caesars Arena. It wasn’t far—maybe ten minutes in normal traffic—but walking was out of the question. It was January in Michigan, and the temperature had dipped below “maybe doable” hours ago. Plus, Mina mentioned we might meet up with the guys after the game, depending on how it all went. If the team won, there’d be celebrating. If they lost... well, probably still drinks. Either way, none of us felt like navigating parking or arguing over who was going to be the designated driver.

They had a rhythm to these nights, a system honed by habit. I was just tagging along, a guest in someone else’s tradition, but somehow it didn’t feel that way.

By the time our car pulled up to the arena, the place was buzzing. Packed. Everywhere I looked was a blur of red and white and flashes of green from the opposing team’s fanbase. People in beanies and face paint, scarves with player numbers, kids wrapped in oversized jerseys. There was this pulsing energy in the air—familiar, in a way that caught me off guard. It wasn’t unlike the adrenaline of a competition, that low hum of anticipation before something big.

We moved through the crowd slowly, shoulder to shoulder, the three of us keeping close as we made our way toward the entrance. I started noticing names on the backs of jerseys: Jeon. Park. T. Jeon. It stopped me for a second. I don’t know why it surprised me—of course people wore their names. They were professional athletes, fan favorites.

Still, it was surreal seeing those names on strangers. On kids. On grown men with plastic cups of beer. It made it real in a way I hadn’t felt before.

Once our tickets were scanned, Mina and Lucy linked arms with me and pulled me deeper into the chaos. It was like being swept into a current of red jerseys and foam fingers and the unmistakable scent of stadium nachos.

“There they are,” Mina said, pointing ahead as we finally broke free from the crowd bottlenecking at the escalators.

I followed her gaze and spotted Suho standing near one of the tunnels, talking to a woman I hadn’t seen before. She was tiny and elegant, waving wildly when she saw us.

Before I could even register what was happening, Mina took off at a near sprint.

“Wait—Mina!” I called, but she was already gone, weaving through the crowd like it was second nature. Lucy and I shared a look before jogging after her, laughing under our breath like we were chasing a runaway cart at the grocery store.

By the time we caught up, Mina was wrapped around both of them in a three-person hug that looked more like a reunion scene from a family holiday than a quick hello at a hockey game.

Lucy slipped in easily, wrapping the woman in a warm hug before turning to Suho with a mischievous smirk that suggested some long-running inside joke. He laughed, shaking his head, like this was all part of the usual chaos.

I hovered awkwardly at the edge, unsure if I should step in or wait to be pulled.

Suho turned to me, his smile as easy and genuine as I remembered. “Y/N,” he said, his voice warm. “Glad you made it.”

And then—without hesitation—he pulled me into a hug.

I froze for half a beat, not because I minded, but because I hadn’t expected it. It took me a second longer than it should’ve to hug him back, my brain briefly short-circuiting at the casual intimacy of it all.

“Yeah, uh—good to see you, too, Suho,” I mumbled, awkwardly patting his back before pulling away.

He gestured to the woman beside him. “This is my wife, Yuri.”

I turned to her and immediately felt the need to stand up straighter. Yuri was stunning—not in a showy, flashy kind of way, but in that quiet, Old Hollywood way that made you wonder if she’d stepped off the set of a black-and-white movie. Her features were soft, her hair styled in loose waves that looked like they’d fall apart if you touched them but somehow never did. Her eyes, warm and almond-shaped, reminded me of Mina’s—just a little lighter, a little softer. The family resemblance was obvious, but Yuri had her own gravity.

She smiled as she stepped forward and wrapped me in a hug, too—short, warm, completely genuine.

“Honey, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said. Her voice was smooth, like she’d spent a lifetime hosting dinners and knowing exactly what to say to make someone feel welcome. “Suho and Mina have both told me such lovely things. And Taehyung, of course.”

I blinked, surprised. “Oh—um. Thank you.”

What had they said?

She smiled again, like she knew exactly what I was thinking. “Sit next to me during the game, won’t you? I’d love a chance to get to know you myself, since the rest of my family seems to have already adopted you.”

“Oh—sure,” I stammered. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Perfect.” She linked her arm through Suho’s like it was second nature. “Let’s head in before warm-ups. Suho gets antsy when he misses them.”

He grinned and kissed the top of her head like he’d been doing it for years. No performance. No pageantry. Just muscle memory. Love, distilled.

Mina and Lucy darted ahead, already arguing playfully about snacks—something involving nachos and an aggressive popcorn strategy—while I lingered for just a moment longer, my eyes following Suho and Yuri as they walked ahead, hand in hand.

It wasn’t anything flashy. There were no grand gestures or public displays of affection. Just... ease. The way Suho leaned in when she spoke. The quiet way she smiled up at him. The natural way her fingers found his, without looking.

There was something about it that stuck with me. Not just the love—they obviously had that—but something steadier underneath it. Something that felt like friendship, and history, and the kind of trust that only time could build.

They didn’t just love each other.

They still liked each other.

And maybe that was what I envied most. The simplicity of it. The comfort of knowing someone would reach for your hand, and that your own would already be halfway there.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Y/N! Let’s go!” Mina called over her shoulder, waving me forward with exaggerated urgency.

I snapped out of my thoughts and hurried after her, slipping into the tunnel that opened into the heart of the arena. The moment we stepped inside, the sound hit me like a wave. Loud. Electric. Alive. Fans talking, laughing, shouting from every direction. The game was still half an hour away, but the place was already buzzing with anticipation.

We emerged into the main bowl of the stadium, the rink stretching out below us in all its sharp, glittering brightness. The ice gleamed beneath the overhead lights, impossibly clean, like glass waiting to be broken.

Something twisted in my chest.

It was beautiful. Familiar. And hard to look at.

I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d seen a rink from the stands. Usually I was on the other side of the boards, lacing up, blocking out the noise. But from up here, it was different. A stage. A memory.

I felt something ache in my knee—a quiet reminder. I wasn’t out there anymore.

Before the thought could spiral, someone jostled me from behind. I muttered an apology and stumbled down toward our row, letting the crowd pull me forward.

When I reached Mina, I offered a weak smile. “No suite tonight?”

She laughed as she took her seat. “We’ve done it before, but Yuri likes to be in the thick of it. Says it makes her feel like part of the team.”

I had to admit, the view was incredible. We were only a few rows from the glass, right at center ice. Close enough to see every stride, every shift in momentum, every crash against the boards. I settled in between Mina and Yuri, with Suho on the aisle.

“This your first hockey game?” Yuri asked, leaning in slightly.

“Yeah,” I said. “First one in person, anyway.”

“Oh, you’re going to love it,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “It’s fast, it’s messy, and the energy is completely addictive.”

I smiled. There was something about her—genuine and warm and disarming. Like she’d known you forever, even if you’d just met.

Mina turned around in her seat and nudged Lucy. “Snack run?”

Lucy gave a solemn nod. “Popcorn. Nachos. Gatorade for Taehyung. You two want anything?”

“Just water for me,” Yuri replied.

“I’m good,” I added quickly.

Mina narrowed her eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

I was absolutely getting popcorn whether I asked for it or not.

Once they disappeared into the crowd, Yuri turned to me again, folding her hands in her lap. “Mina mentioned you lived in Michigan before?”

“Yeah. I grew up here for a little while. My mom and I moved away after the divorce.”

Her face softened. “That must’ve been difficult.”

I nodded. “It was a lot, but I was pretty young. I think it was harder on my dad. He’s in Washington now, and my mom’s still out in Nevada.”

“Quite the climate change,” she said with a laugh.

“I forgot how cold it gets here. But honestly? I kind of like it. The city, the seasons. It’s big enough to feel alive but small enough that I don’t feel swallowed by it.”

“That’s how Mina always describes it. She says it’s the kind of place where you can breathe.”

I smiled. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

“And you’re settling in okay?”

“Better than I expected, honestly. Mina and Lucy have been amazing. Jimin and Taehyung helped me move in—they even assembled my IKEA furniture, which I’m pretty sure qualifies them for sainthood.”

She laughed. “They really are something, aren’t they? Jimin and Leera have been so good for Mina and Tae. You know, as a mother, there’s nothing more comforting than watching your children be loved the way they deserve to be.”

I nodded. “From what I’ve seen, they’re really happy.”

“They are,” she said, and then paused, her smile dimming just slightly. “I just wish my youngest would find something like that.”

I tilted my head. “Jungkook?”

She nodded. “He’s not like the other two. He’s quieter. He keeps to himself. Doesn’t thrive in the spotlight the same way.”

“People expect him to be a certain way, don’t they?” I said quietly. “Because of the name. The job. The attention.”

“They expect a celebrity,” she said, her voice gentle but certain. “But that’s not who he is. He’s a homebody. He’s thoughtful. He’d rather spend a quiet night in than be photographed at some fancy event. And not everyone understands that. Especially not the women he meets.”

I considered that for a moment. “That doesn’t surprise me. The life of a professional athlete isn’t glamorous, not really. The work is exhausting. The pressure’s constant. And the personal part—the real part—usually gets lost in the noise.”

Yuri looked at me then, really looked. Like she was seeing more than I realized I’d offered. After a moment, she smiled again. “It’s refreshing to hear that from someone your age.”

I ducked my head, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I guess I’ve been around it long enough to know.”

She hesitated, then reached out and gently tapped my knee—the one still wrapped under my jeans, stiff but healing. “Forgive me if this is too forward, but... I’ve admired you for a long time.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“I’m sure you hear it all the time, but you’re a beautiful skater. Graceful. Powerful. You have that rare thing—presence. I remember watching your last Olympic free skate. Mina cried during Clair de Lune, though she’ll deny it. And Suho made the boys watch it on replay. Twice.”

I laughed, startled and genuinely touched. “That’s... really kind of you. Thank you. Especially now.”

Yuri gave my knee a soft pat, her expression tender. “If it’s meant to be, it will be. I believe that. But even if it isn’t—even if the road ahead doesn’t look like the one you planned—you’ll still find your way.”

Her words hit deeper than I expected, sinking into that quiet part of me I tried not to look at too often. And before I could stop myself, the fear I’d been holding back, tightly wound and buried deep, finally slipped out.

“What if I’m not meant to be on the ice anymore?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “What if I already had my moment and I just... haven’t accepted that it’s over?”

Yuri didn’t blink. She didn’t give me a soft platitude or a well-rehearsed response. She just looked at me with that same calm steadiness, the kind of gaze that came from years of seeing people exactly as they were.

“Then you’ll find the next thing,” she said gently. “The next version of yourself. And it will be just as extraordinary.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how much I needed someone to say that—and how much I believed her when she did.

“I don’t know if I can,” I admitted, the words so raw they felt foreign on my tongue.

Yuri reached out and lifted my chin, her smile slow and sure. “You will. You’re stronger than you realize, Y/N. Most of the remarkable women I know didn’t see their strength until they had no choice but to use it.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just nodded, the lump in my throat growing too tight for words.

Before either of us could say more, Mina and Lucy came clomping down the row, balancing snacks and drinks like circus performers. Mina slid a massive soda into the cupholder beside me and dropped a salted pretzel into my lap like it was a peace offering.

I looked down at the buttery, salt-covered spiral, then up at her with a wry smile. “You’re a menace.”

“Say thank you, menace,” Mina corrected, grinning as she tore open a wrapper around a hot dog. “You looked like you needed carbs and sodium.”

“You’re a bad influence,” I mumbled through a bite. “At this rate, I’ll be a blimp by the time I’m cleared to jump again.”

Mina waved off the comment like it was absurd. “You’re tiny. If anything, this pretzel might save your life. Besides, it’s a hockey game. This is sacred junk food territory.”

“You’ll burn it off with your freakish acrobatic talent,” Lucy added, already halfway through her nachos. “It’s like your body eats physics for breakfast.”

I laughed, and for a moment, I let myself relax. The pretzel was warm, soft in the middle, perfectly salty. The crowd’s energy was rising, a low hum turning into a collective buzz. A sudden roar of cheers echoed across the arena as the players began skating out for warm-ups, and I glanced down at the rink, the lights bouncing off the fresh sheet of ice.

That sound—the scrape of blades, the thud of pucks against the boards, the crackle of movement—sent something humming through my chest. Not quite longing, but close. Something like recognition. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until it was right in front of me.

Lucy and Mina were already waving and whistling, calling out through cupped hands like they were trying to make themselves heard over the whole stadium. “There’s Jimin! And Taehyung! Look at number six skate—God, I love him,” Mina gushed.

Suho leaned forward, forearms on his knees, watching the players like he was studying film. He didn’t cheer. Didn’t shout. He just watched—quiet, focused, analyzing every move with the calm of someone who understood more than he said.

Yuri nudged me with her elbow, lowering her voice. “You won’t get a word out of him now. He’ll be like this the rest of the night. Afterward, he’ll give the boys a play-by-play like he’s their coach.”

“He’s never played?” I asked, surprised.

“Not once,” she said, smiling. “He’s always loved it, though. When the kids were little, he got obsessed with stats and strategies. Started a betting ring in college, if you can believe it. All math and odds. Got into some trouble with campus security.”

I blinked. “Suho? Quiet, dignified Suho?”

Yuri laughed, a rich, warm sound. “Oh, the stories I could tell you. It’s always the quiet ones, Y/N. They’ve got more going on under the surface than they let on.”

I smiled, turning my gaze back to the rink. Players were moving into drills now, sending pucks flying at the net. My eyes swept the ice—recognizing Taehyung’s long stride, Jimin’s low, smooth turns—and then paused when I caught sight of a figure skating toward the blue line. Fast, clean, low to the ice, stickhandling like the puck was magnetized to his blade.

Number ten. J. Jeon.

He stopped, lined up for a shot, and launched the puck into the top corner of the net with practiced ease. And then he turned. The helmet and face guard obscured most of his features, but the moment I saw him clearly, the breath caught in my throat.

It was him.

It took a full second for my brain to catch up to what my eyes already knew. But once it did, the realization crashed into me like a slap of cold air.

That wasn’t just any player. That was Jungkook. The guy from the airport. The one who’d helped with my bags. Who made me laugh. Who looked at me like I was something unexpected. And now, here he was. In full gear. Warming up for a professional hockey game. Wearing his name on his back.

It all came together—the Tuesday night plans, the way Mina talked about her “other brother,” how she said he was quieter, more private. His name. His eyes. Her eyes. How hadn’t I seen it before?

My Jungkook—if I could even call him that—was Mina’s brother.

Panic bloomed in my chest. My palms went sweaty.

I clamped my mouth shut the second I realized it had fallen open. My jaw clicked as it snapped back into place, and I turned to Mina, doing my best to look like I wasn’t in the middle of a low-key identity crisis. She didn’t notice. Too busy elbowing Lucy, eyes shining as she pointed toward number ten on the ice.

“That’s him,” she said, nodding toward the player skating backward across center ice. “Jungkook. You’ll meet him after the game.”

I made a sound in response. Not a word—just a raw, vaguely human noise that might have meant “cool” or “kill me now.” Hard to say.

Inside, though? I was spiraling.

Because I’d ghosted him.

Not flaked. Not rescheduled. Not offered any excuse. I just... didn’t show. No text. No call. Nothing. One minute we were supposed to meet up, and the next I had vanished like smoke. And now, here I was, standing with his sister, about to be formally introduced like none of that had ever happened.

My fingers tightened around the half-eaten pretzel in my hand. I couldn’t feel my legs. My stomach felt like it had been replaced with a washing machine mid-spin cycle. Part of me wanted to sink into the crowd, duck under the seats and disappear into the concrete underbelly of the arena. The other part—the reckless, traitorous part—was already wondering if he’d remember me.

If he’d been thinking about me.

If he’d cared that I didn’t show up.

Mina, blissfully unaware of the internal meltdown unfolding just a few inches to her right, leaned in. “You’ll have to excuse him if he’s a little... off. He’s been weird lately. Not really himself.”

Yuri nodded, her expression creased with genuine concern. “He usually opens up to me when something’s bothering him, but lately he’s just been... I don’t know. Distant.”

“He’s a total mama’s boy,” Mina added with a casual shrug. “Usually you can read him like a picture book. Lately? Not so much.”

Yuri shot her a look, half scolding, half amused. “Mina Lynn, be nice. You know Jungkook feels things deeply. He doesn’t bounce back the way you or Taehyung do. He carries it all.”

“He’s been carrying something, that’s for sure,” Lucy chimed in, eyes flicking to the ice, where Taehyung executed a smooth turn. “My guess? Girl trouble.”

My heart lurched in my chest like someone had yanked it with a string.

“Why do you say that?” Yuri asked.

I sank lower into my seat, wishing the brim of my hat could somehow collapse over my entire face like a cartoon character.

“He was jumpy at the bar last week,” Lucy said. “Kept looking at the door like he was waiting for someone. Wouldn’t sit still. He was fidgeting with his hair nonstop, and by the end of the night, he was doing that thing where he pinches the bridge of his nose and stares at nothing. Classic broody Jungkook.”

Mina frowned. “I would know if he met someone. He tells me everything.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lucy said with a smirk. “You’re not omniscient. Maybe he didn’t tell you because it didn’t go the way he hoped.”

Her words echoed in my chest, knocking loose the secret I’d buried: what if it was about me?

What if he’d been waiting for me at the bar?

What if he’d been hurt?

The idea hit like a punch. I shoved it aside, unwilling to let myself fall down that particular rabbit hole. It was too neat, too perfect, too... hopeful. But hope, cruel and persistent, clung like static.

And then Jungkook looked up.

Our eyes met through the glass, and the noise of the arena vanished. The roar of the crowd, the clack of skates, even Mina’s voice—all of it faded into a dense, ringing silence.

His gaze locked on mine. Electric. Steady. Like he knew exactly who I was.

I forgot how to breathe.

Should I wave? Smile? Look away? My limbs wouldn’t cooperate, my body frozen in place while my pulse pounded like a drumbeat in my ears. The air felt too thick to swallow.

Then someone stepped in front of me, and the moment shattered. Sound came crashing back. The crowd, the music, the sharp buzz of an overhead speaker—it all returned in a rush. Jungkook was still looking in our direction, but Taehyung had joined him now, nudging him playfully. Jungkook laughed, shoving him back, but his eyes... his eyes didn’t stray far from mine.

“He’s cute, right?” Mina said suddenly, jarring me back to reality. I jumped, nearly spilling my drink as I blinked up at her.

“What?” I managed, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly.

“Jungkook,” she said with a grin. “You think he’s cute.”

“Uh... yeah. Sure,” I said, fumbling for words. “I guess.”

“Don’t ‘I guess’ me, Y/N.” She narrowed her eyes, her grin turning sly. “You’re blushing. Even under that tragic hat.”

I tugged the brim lower, wishing it could hide more than my cheeks. “You’re imagining things.”

“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “I can practically see the butterflies flapping around in your stomach. He’s got you twisted.”

I scoffed, mostly to cover the truth. “Other girls are staring too. You said it yourself—he’s cute. It’s not a crime.”

“Sure,” Mina said, nodding. “But he’s not looking at them.”

That pulled me up short.

I turned slowly, heart lodged in my throat.

Jungkook was still watching. Just a flicker of a glance, a subtle tilt of the head—but enough. Enough to feel it in my bones. His expression shifted when our eyes met again. That same crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted one gloved hand in a wave—small, almost secret, just for me.

I couldn’t help it. I waved back.

My hand trembled.

And I was smiling. Helplessly, stupidly, completely. Like someone had cracked me open and poured sunlight inside.

The buzzer blared—sharp, jarring—and Jungkook skated toward the bench, his strides fluid and purposeful. The rest of the team trailed behind, sticks tapping against the ice, helmets glinting under the overhead lights. But just before Jungkook disappeared into the tunnel, he turned.

And looked straight at me.

My breath caught. Just a second. That’s all it was. But it felt like something opened and closed in my chest, like the moment had hooked into me.

“Ahem.” Mina’s voice was louder than necessary, and I flinched, tearing my eyes away from the ice. When I turned, she was already watching me with a smug little smirk, eyebrows raised like she’d just caught me sneaking out of someone’s bedroom.

“Really subtle,” she whispered, nudging Lucy as she leaned in, and the two of them exchanged a look.

I’d get an ear full from them later.

I ducked behind my drink, hoping it was tall enough to hide behind. My cheeks were on fire. Yuri was talking to me—something about a coffee shop near the bookstore she liked—but it was hard to focus. Everything around me felt loud, too sharp, like someone had cranked the volume on life itself.

The Zamboni swept slowly across the ice, trailing glistening water behind it like a brush over glass. Lights dimmed overhead, throwing the arena into near darkness. Then a pulse of sound hit—hard rock blaring from the speakers, pounding out a rhythm that made my ribs vibrate. On the jumbotron, a montage of last week’s goals lit up the screen, bodies slamming against the boards, fists in the air, helmets flung off in celebration.

The crowd roared, and I couldn’t help but be swept up in it, the excitement crashing over me like waves.

Then the music shifted—louder, sharper, something anthemic and aggressive. A kid skated out onto the freshly smoothed rink, no older than eight, grinning from ear to ear as he planted the team’s flag at center ice like it was a mission from God. The crowd clapped in unison. It was the kind of moment that sent chills up your spine, even if you didn’t know a single thing about hockey.

“Okay, Michigan, on your feet!” the announcer shouted, and like a switch had been flipped, the arena erupted. Everyone stood, stomping and cheering like they were trying to shake the walls. Lucy grabbed my hand and yanked me up with her.

“Here they come: your Michigan Red Wings!”

A foghorn wailed, and the team poured onto the ice like they were shot from a cannon—jerseys flying, blades slicing the rink with brutal precision. It was chaos in motion, and my heart was hammering against my ribs like it was trying to keep up.

“Let’s meet your starting lineup!”

Jimin’s name was called first for defense. A roar went up around us—Mina and Yuri whooped like proud sisters.

Then: “Starting at center... number ten... Jungkook Jeon!”

The sound that followed could’ve lifted the roof off. I swear, I felt it in my teeth.

And maybe I imagined it, or maybe I just wanted to believe it, but in that split-second before lining up with the others, Jungkook’s eyes flicked our way.

No—my way.

The national anthem began, sung by a woman with a haunting voice that carried through the rafters. Jungkook stood at center ice, head slightly bowed, eyes on the flag, but every few seconds, he’d glance over—quick, barely there. But I felt it every time. Like a thread tugging me forward.

When the final note echoed into silence, the players fanned out, readying for face-off.

Jungkook crouched into position, tense and coiled. It was like watching a panther mid-prowl. My breath stalled as the puck dropped.

And the game was on.

Suddenly it was all motion—bodies crashing, pucks slapping, the sharp staccato of skates carving through ice. Mina and Lucy shouted with every pass, every hit, while Yuri surprised me by turning into a tiny coach, yelling strategy like the players could actually hear her from the stands.

Suho sat motionless, his arms crossed, but I saw the twitch in his jaw every time the puck changed hands.

I tried to keep up, clapping and nodding when Mina pointed things out. But my attention kept drifting.

To him.

Jungkook moved like nothing I’d ever seen—fast, sharp, almost too fluid for the violence of the game. It wasn’t soft, not in the slightest. He was like a controlled burn. Raw power, tightly wound.

And then it happened again.

He looked at me.

A quick glance. Barely more than a beat. But it was real. Direct. My stomach flipped like I’d gone down a drop on a roller coaster.

“What the hell is his problem?” Mina said beside me, her voice low and annoyed.

“What?” I said, trying to act casual and failing miserably.

She tilted her chin toward the ice. “Jungkook. He’s totally off tonight.”

My heart thudded uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“He’s making stupid mistakes. Missed a clean pass, offside twice. He’s distracted.”

I looked back at the rink, just in time to see Jungkook collide hard with the boards. I flinched. So did Mina. The sound echoed.

But before I could really react, Jimin was there, helping him up, giving him a quick shove like get your head back in the game.

Jungkook’s face was tight, jaw clenched. He shook it off and shot up the ice like he was running from something—or toward it.

Seconds later, he had the puck.

He faked left, cut right, and fired off a shot so clean and fast that it stunned the goalie. The puck slammed into the net with a thud, and for a beat, the arena paused.

Then it exploded.

I jumped up, hands in the air, screaming with everyone else, heart in my throat. The energy surged through me like lightning. It wasn’t just watching him score. It was something else entirely. Something electric.

His teammates tackled him in celebration, gloves slapping his helmet—but even through the chaos, Jungkook found me.

That grin—the one he’d given me the first night we met—spread across his face.

It was a little cocky. A little wild. And unmistakably his.

I grinned back, caught up in it, feeling ridiculous and elated and totally alive.

The energy in the arena didn’t dip—not for a second. The score bounced back and forth like a rubber band stretched too tight, snapping between teams, each goal setting off another eruption of cheers or groans. It was relentless. Bodies collided against the glass, sticks clashed like weapons, and the puck zipped across the ice with a kind of ruthless intent.

And Jungkook—he was everywhere.

He wasn’t just skating. He was commanding. Scoring, assisting, checking players so cleanly it looked choreographed. There was this sharpness to him tonight, something fiery, coiled just beneath the surface. He didn’t just play the game.

He took it.

Next to me, Lucy was mid-sentence—something about icing and neutral zones—when suddenly the crowd gasped. Everything shifted.

Taehyung had just been slammed, hard, into the boards.

The hit came out of nowhere—cheap, unnecessary. I didn’t even catch the number of the player who did it. Just the crunch of contact and the way Taehyung’s head snapped back before he crumpled slightly against the glass.

Leera let out a sharp gasp, her hands flying to her mouth.

Yuri erupted. She shot to her feet like a rocket, voice slicing through the sea of boos like it had been building in her chest all night.

“Are you serious, Ref? That’s cross-checking! Are you blind, or just incompetent?”

I blinked. Hard. For a second, I wasn’t sure if I should be laughing or ducking for cover. People in the rows ahead of us actually turned around. One guy raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed.

But Yuri wasn’t embarrassed. Not even a little. Her eyes were locked on the ice, jaw set.

Mina leaned toward me, barely holding in her laughter. “Don’t mess with Mama Bear’s cubs,” she whispered.

I laughed—more from nerves than anything—but I didn’t disagree. Yuri had snapped, and it was kind of amazing to watch. She sat back down eventually, her arms crossed tightly, muttering under her breath about suspension-worthy hits.

“That guy should be in the box,” she said, still fuming. “Total garbage hit. The league’s gonna review that. Mark my words.”

“She’s right,” Lucy added, eyes tracking the puck again. “But Taehyung’s not the type to forget. Just wait.”

And sure enough, we didn’t have to wait long.

Barely a minute left in the period when the same opposing player who’d hit him skated by again, puck on his stick, skating just a little too casual. Taehyung spotted him and moved in fast—silent, deliberate. Then—bam. He slammed into the guy with a precision check that knocked the wind out of the whole section. The crowd roared. I winced, but there was something deeply satisfying about it.

Taehyung scooped the puck before the guy even hit the ice and flew down the rink. One crisp pass to the left, a teammate picked it up, and the puck was in the net before the other team knew what had hit them.

The place exploded.

It was chaos. Mina was yelling, Lucy was on her feet. I was clapping before I even realized it, adrenaline buzzing through me like I’d scored the goal myself. Taehyung didn’t celebrate much—just a quick nod—but the fire in his eyes said everything. That wasn’t just a play.

That was payback.

By the time the third period rolled around, I could hardly sit still. Every time Jungkook took the ice, my heart jumped. He was unstoppable now. His third goal slid into the net like it had always belonged there. A hat trick.

The crowd lost their minds. I could barely hear myself think over the screaming.

But when I turned to Mina, she just rolled her eyes and gave me a dry look.

“What?” I asked, still a little breathless from cheering.

She tilted her head. “He’s showing off.”

I raised a brow. “You mean... playing well?”

“I mean, first period? He was all over the place. Off his game. Now he’s practically leading the league. He doesn’t usually pull a hat trick out of nowhere. He’s good, yeah, but this? This is... weird.”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a shrug. “Weird.”

But I knew. Or at least—I thought I did.

Every time he’d messed up earlier, he’d glanced in my direction. Like the mistake burned a hole through him, and he was trying to recalibrate. Refocus. I understood that. I’d been there—in skating, in auditions. When I blew a jump or missed a step, I couldn’t stop replaying it in my head until I made up for it. Maybe Jungkook was like that. Maybe he needed the mistake to flip the switch.

Or maybe it was more personal than that.

The final minutes ticked down, the Red Wings holding the lead, and by the time the buzzer sounded, the arena was still buzzing—shouts and laughter and post-game commentary echoing all around us. The team saluted the crowd before skating off toward the tunnel. The lights started to come back on full strength, brighter now, revealing the emptying seats and discarded popcorn boxes. But the energy still lingered, like the game had left its mark on the air itself.

Suho finally blinked, coming back to life. “Good game,” he said with a half-smile, high-fiving Yuri as they both stood.

“Proud of them,” she said simply, eyes still scanning the ice.

We lingered, chatting in that soft, warm haze after something exciting ends. No one seemed in a rush to leave. Eventually, Mina and Lucy filled me in—there was a post-game hangout planned at some local place the guys liked. They’d be going. Yuri and Suho were heading that way too.

Before they left, Yuri surprised me by hugging me—not a polite, surface-level thing, but a real one. Like she’d decided I was in.

“We should grab coffee sometime,” she said as she pulled away, her voice low but genuine.

I didn’t even hesitate. “I’d love that.”

It wasn’t just small talk. I meant it. There was something solid about Yuri. No nonsense. No posturing.

And then... they were gone.

I sat back in my seat, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the game. Mina and Lucy were still there beside me, chatting about the bar’s playlist and which players were most fun to go out with, but I was barely hearing them. I was nodding when I was supposed to, giving vague smiles, the occasional “Mm-hmm.”

But my focus was gone. Completely hijacked.

I was scanning the arena like I’d lost something—no, someone. My nerves buzzed under my skin like static. I kept smoothing down my jacket, shifting in my seat like maybe if I got comfortable enough, I’d stop feeling like my insides were tap-dancing.

And then I noticed it.

The way Mina and Lucy kept leaning into each other, whispering, casting glances my way with matching grins. They knew. They definitely knew. And I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to crawl under my seat... or run straight into whatever was coming next.

Somewhere across the arena, I heard it—loud, playful, and entirely unmissable.

“Newbie!”

Taehyung.

My heart jumped before my brain even registered the sound. I turned just in time to see him barreling toward me like a one-man stampede. He didn’t slow down—not even a little—before sweeping me into a hug that lifted my feet clean off the ground.

“Hi, Taehyung,” I wheezed, ribs protesting as he crushed me to his chest.

“Missed you too,” he grinned, finally setting me down with a little bounce like I was made of air.

He stepped back, surveying me with his usual mischievous glint. “Flying solo tonight? What happened to the flyboys?”

“Retired,” I said dryly, brushing hair out of my face. “Hopefully for good.”

He gave a satisfied nod, all dramatic approval. “Excellent. Now I can throw you around without anyone getting jealous.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing despite myself. “Mina doesn’t let you do that?”

“She bites,” he said, deadpan.

“Damn right I do,” Mina chimed in, suddenly appearing beside me with Lucy right on her heels. “You learn survival skills when you grow up with a human golden retriever for a brother.”

“Squirt, you wound me,” Taehyung said, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. Then he messed up her hair with one large hand before she could duck away.

“God, you’re the worst!” she squealed, scrambling behind Jimin, who had just strolled up looking completely unbothered, like this circus was perfectly normal.

Unfazed, Taehyung swept Lucy into a massive hug next, spinning her slightly before planting a loud kiss on her temple. She shrieked with laughter, shoving at him half-heartedly.

And then—he was just there.

Jungkook hovered behind the group, just slightly out of the spotlight, but somehow still the center of it. No gear. No helmet. Just a dark grey long-sleeve tee that clung in all the right places and jeans that looked like they’d seen a few years of good wear. His hair was damp, curling slightly around his forehead, and the scruff I’d noticed at the airport was gone, leaving his jawline sharp and freshly shaven. He looked unreal. Ridiculously good-looking in a quiet way that felt unfair.

And then he looked at me.

My stomach flipped like it had a mind of its own. I dropped my gaze too quickly, cheeks heating, and when I looked back up, he was already stepping closer.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, a little rough around the edges.

“Hey,” I echoed, softer than I intended.

For a moment, it felt like the noise faded, like everything around us had dimmed and the only thing that existed was the space between us. There was something electric about it. Charged. I wanted to say I’m sorry, or I missed you, or maybe just hi, again, but none of it came out. So I just stood there, feeling my pulse skip in my throat.

And then, right on cue, Mina crashed through the silence.

“You two know each other?” she asked, glancing between us with a knowing smirk.

“Sort of,” Jungkook said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to sound casual.

“We met at the airport,” I added quickly, a little too quickly. I winced. Nice and cool, Y/N.

Mina’s eyes lit up like she’d just won something. I realized, a second too late, that I’d made a mistake. A rookie mistake.

“Ohhh,” she said in a syrupy tone, dragging out the vowel like it was laced with every ounce of teasing she could muster. “So this is your airport crush. Well, I guess I don’t need to do introductions after all!”

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

“Y/N Y/L/N, meet Jungkook Jeon—my brother,” she added with a flourish, in case I’d somehow missed the fine print on the situation.

Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver. His lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh, but when he spoke again, his voice had gone softer.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he repeated, and hearing my full name in that voice did something weird to my lungs. Then he held out his hand. “Nice to finally meet you... officially.”

I slipped my hand into his, and it was like touching a live wire.

Warm. Steady. Something underneath it that made me feel like I was being pulled forward without moving.

“Nice to meet you too,” I murmured, not even bothering to hide the smile tugging at my lips. His grip was firm, but not rushed—he held on just a beat longer than he needed to, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Neither was I.

“Let’s goooo!” Jimin’s voice cut in from across the lobby, dragging us back to the real world. He had Mina piggybacking on him now, her legs swinging like it was just another Tuesday. “We’re heading out. Drinks await!”

Jungkook glanced at me. “You’re coming, right?”

There was something quiet in his voice. Not quite pleading, but definitely hopeful.

“Yeah,” I said quickly, a little breathless. “I’m in.”

We fell into step together, trailing after the others. Jimin was carrying Mina like it was no big deal, and Taehyung had one arm casually slung around Lucy’s shoulders, the two of them laughing at something I couldn’t hear.

The doors swung open ahead of us, and the night air swept in like a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It was crisp, laced with the scent of cold pavement and distant car exhaust. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest, rubbing my hands over my sleeves as we stepped out into the street.

Jungkook walked beside me, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. We didn’t talk, not at first. We just walked. The silence wasn’t awkward, though. It was the kind of quiet that felt… shared. Comfortable. Like neither of us wanted to break whatever was stretching between us.

Across the intersection, a neon-green sign glowed against the stone facade of a low-slung building: The Liffey. An old-school Irish pub, all dark wood and warm light, with music spilling out through the open door like a welcome mat. Inside, it was packed. The kind of post-game crowd that buzzed with leftover adrenaline and cheap beer. People clapped the guys on the back as we made our way through, a few of them yelling out congratulations or waving phones in the air.

I stuck close behind the group, trying not to get bumped or trampled, until we reached a quieter corner table tucked away from the noise. It was one of those high-top setups with mismatched chairs and scuffed-up edges, and I was grateful for it—grateful for the bit of space, the lower volume, the chance to breathe.

The group settled instinctively into their usual pairings. Mina curled up next to Jimin, Lucy dropped into the seat beside Taehyung with an ease that came from years of practice. Which left me and Jungkook, standing next to each other in a small awkward pocket of space, unpaired and slightly out of sync.

I pretended to study the beer list scribbled on the chalkboard behind the bar, then slipped into an empty seat. Jungkook followed, dropping into the one beside me. I could feel the warmth radiating off him, even from a few inches away.

A waitress showed up moments later, barely giving us time to open our mouths before Taehyung launched into what sounded like a well-rehearsed order.

I raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Jungkook, who caught my look and leaned in slightly.

“It’s a thing,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“What is?”

“The order,” he explained. “If we win, Tae orders for everyone. If we lose, we each do our own thing.”

I blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugged. “Everyone copes with a loss differently.”

He gestured across the table. “Jimin drowns his in Southern Comfort. Taehyung swears by Captain and Coke. Says the sugar makes him ‘funny again.’”

“Is he not always funny?” I asked, smirking.

“Oh, he thinks he’s hilarious,” Jungkook replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But he once tried to reenact a cologne commercial after three of those things and ended up falling through a folding chair.”

I laughed, the image too vivid to resist.

“What about you?” I asked.

Before he could answer, Taehyung piped up from across the table. “Jungkook loves the girly drinks.”

Jungkook let out a groan, shooting him a withering look. “Seriously?”

“One strawberry daiquiri,” Taehyung declared proudly. “One! And he sipped it like it was a damn mimosa at a garden party.”

“It was summer,” Jungkook said, shaking his head. “And it was delicious.”

I raised a brow, fighting a smile. “You don’t strike me as a strawberry daiquiri guy.”

“Don’t let the muscles fool you,” he said, his voice quiet but playful. “I have layers.”

“You’re like an alcoholic parfait,” I said before I could stop myself, and then immediately wished I hadn’t.

But Jungkook laughed—an easy, genuine sound that made something flutter just beneath my ribs.

Meanwhile, Taehyung was still going. “You know he once called it refreshing? Like a damn spa day.”

“Remind me again why I’m still friends with you,” Jungkook muttered, batting away Taehyung’s hand as it reached over to muss his hair.

“You’ve tried to quit me, Kookie. It never sticks.”

Across the table, Mina sighed dramatically. “Can we not start this again? It’s been three hours since your last fake breakup.”

“Three and a half,” Lucy chimed in, sipping her water. “I’m keeping track.”

Just then, the waitress returned with a tray of drinks—pints of Guinness, each topped with a thick, creamy head. She slid one in front of me and I blinked at it like it might bite.

I hesitated. “So… this is the famous Guinness?”

“Never had it?” Taehyung asked, eyes widening like I’d confessed to never seeing snow.

“Nope.”

He gasped in mock horror. “Y/L/N. I expected better from you.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Mina added, rescuing me. “Don’t listen to him. It’s bitter as hell.”

Taehyung placed a hand over his heart. “It’s smooth. And rich. And sacred.”

“It’s beer,” Jungkook added, a little more practically. “Irish beer.”

“And I’m Irish,” Taehyung said in a terrible accent. “Green as the hills of Galway, lass.”

“You’re a quarter Irish,” Mina cut in, unimpressed. “Maybe. And I think Dad’s side cancels it out.”

“The only part that counts is the part that drinks,” Taehyung declared as he raised his glass.

Lucy joined in with an accent even worse than his. “Shall we raise a glass, boyos?”

Taehyung looked personally offended. “Please never do that again.”

“Oh, I will,” she grinned. “Especially after two of these.”

The conversation buzzed around us like static—snappy, familiar, full of half-teasing jabs and deep belly laughs. Jimin was leaning back in his seat, smirking as he egged Taehyung on about something that had happened in the locker room. Mina, with a warning look and a playful threat, was poised to dump her beer on someone if things got out of hand. It was the kind of chaos that made you feel like you’d stumbled into a sitcom.

And right in the middle of it, Jungkook leaned in again, just slightly. His elbow brushed mine—casual, not deliberate, but somehow very much there—and then he tapped the rim of his glass gently against mine with a soft, “Cheers.”

“Well played tonight, guys,” Lucy chimed in, lifting her glass. “Seriously. That was electric.”

I raised mine in quiet agreement, but as I tilted it to my lips, my gaze met Jungkook’s over the edge of the pint glass. The moment stretched, just for a breath. The pub around us, full of clinking glasses and background laughter, seemed to blur. His eyes held mine, unflinching, and when he took a drink, his throat moved with that effortless kind of grace that somehow made my own feel dry.

The Guinness wasn’t what I expected. Rich, slightly bitter, smooth. It was the kind of flavor that lingered—bold but not overpowering. Like Jungkook’s voice when he wasn’t trying to be heard. Low. Measured. Intimate.

“You like it, Y/L/N?” Taehyung asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

I set the glass down and nodded. “Surprisingly… yeah.”

“Hope for you yet,” he said, pleased, and winked like he’d converted me to some exclusive club.

The table’s energy kept rolling forward. Talk shifted back to the game—what the cameras didn’t catch, the inside jokes, the minor disasters that made perfect stories. Apparently one of their teammates had forgotten his cup before the first period.

“I’m not kidding,” Taehyung said, leaning forward with a laugh that bounced off the table. “It was like the Canucks knew. The guy took three hits to the family jewels before anyone could figure out what was going on.”

I winced. “Oof.”

“He walked back into the locker room and just lay on the floor. Flat. No words,” Jimin added. “We gave him a moment.”

Everyone laughed—loud, unfiltered, the kind that made strangers glance over and smile without knowing why. Mina and Lucy jumped in next, recounting their run-in with two overly enthusiastic superfans dressed in sequins and team beads. One of them had apparently been keeping stats in a glittery notebook.

“I thought he was going to propose to the mascot,” Mina said.

“He blew a kiss to the goalie,” Lucy added.

I was laughing so hard I nearly choked on my drink. The stories, the rhythm of it all—it felt weirdly effortless, like I’d been part of this group forever. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was just them, but there was something about how they included me without making it feel like an effort. No one was posturing. No one was performing. They were just... real.

But even with the warmth of the group around me, I was hyperaware of Jungkook’s arm when it moved—slowly, casually—along the back of my chair.

I stiffened for half a second, unsure if it was intentional. But when his fingers brushed my shoulder lightly, and didn’t move, I realized it was.

My breath hitched. Just a little. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that I noticed. Every time he shifted slightly or leaned in to laugh, the warmth of his arm stayed close. Close enough to make me forget what we were talking about.

And then, as if he felt the shift in my focus, he cleared his throat and turned toward me slightly, pulling his arm back but keeping his eyes on mine.

“So,” he said, quieter than the rest of the table. “You’re the hotshot.”

I blinked. “The what now?”

“Mina’s been hyping up the new girl next door. Olympic skater, total legend, star athlete… no pressure.”

I groaned softly, slumping back in my chair. “She did not.”

“She did,” he said, smiling. “Several times.”

I exhaled a laugh. “I wouldn’t call myself a hotshot. More like... moderately coordinated.”

He chuckled, eyes still fixed on me. “You were on crutches at the airport. I just thought you were clumsy. Turns out, you're an elite athlete.”

I bit my lip, smiling as I picked up my glass again to hide how flustered I felt. “I don’t usually lead with the crutches.”

“I don’t know,” he said, leaning in again, voice just for me. “Kind of made you stand out.”

Something in my chest pulled tight. I felt it—clear as day—that he wasn’t just flirting to pass time. He was really looking. Seeing me.

“Well,” I said, finding a smirk somewhere in the blush creeping up my neck, “if you’re jealous, there’s always figure skating. I can lend you a sparkly costume. Do a little jazz hands.”

“Jazz hands?” He blinked, confused.

“You don’t know jazz hands?” I demonstrated with exaggerated flair.

He frowned. “I think I’m more of a power-slide-into-a-fist-pump kind of guy.”

“Ah yes,” I said. “The gold medal move of champions.”

He grinned, and something about it—soft, amused, unguarded—made my stomach flip. From there, conversation came easy again. We fell into it like we’d done it a hundred times. Music, books, food, weirdly specific YouTube rabbit holes. He told me he played piano. I told him I sang, but only in the shower or when I thought no one was home. We discovered we both had a weird soft spot for sad girl music—Billie Eilish, Amy Winehouse—and neither of us understood the appeal of MGK.

I told him about my favorite childhood coach. He told me about his first time skating on a frozen pond in his neighborhood, how he cracked the ice and ended up waist-deep in freezing water. We laughed, and it wasn’t just surface-level banter—it was comfortable, the kind of connection that sinks its teeth in before you even realize you’re caught.

At some point, I reached for my drink and realized it was empty. I glanced around, blinking at how much the crowd had thinned. The hum of the room had faded to something softer, quieter. Taehyung was leaning back, arm slung loosely around Lucy, who looked half-asleep on his shoulder. Mina was still animated, probably running on pure caffeine and stubbornness, while Jimin watched her with a lazy kind of affection, like he’d long since accepted that she’d never tire before 2 a.m.

I glanced at Jungkook just as he looked at me. Neither of us said anything, but in that small silence, I knew we were both thinking the same thing—we weren’t ready for the night to end. Not yet.

The group was slowly collecting their things near the bar, the energy softening as the post-game glow started to settle. Voices lowered, jackets were shrugged on, and someone—probably Lucy—had already asked the bartender for change to split the bill.

“You guys are heading out tomorrow, right?” Mina asked, her voice casual, but her eyes tracked each of them like she already knew the answer.

Jimin, arms loosely wrapped around her from behind, grinned against her hair. “You know we are, baby.”

“And you’re back Sunday morning?” she pressed, already mentally juggling the next few days.

“Early,” Taehyung groaned, throwing his head back with theatrical agony. “Like, ‘why-does-this-flight-even-exist’ early.”

“We should do something!” Mina perked up, glancing between me and the rest of the group. That spark in her eye—the one that meant she was planning something I’d probably get dragged into—was already there. “All of us.”

“Don’t even think about making me get out of bed before noon,” Taehyung warned, flexing his arms like he needed to prove how heavy they were. “You couldn’t lift me even if you tried.”

“Please,” Lucy snorted. “You’re the first one awake in every hotel room. You’re literally doing push-ups before most of us are conscious.”

Mina nodded solemnly. “He’s the only person I know who stretches like he’s about to do a triathlon... to walk to the hotel breakfast buffet.”

“I have to maintain this physique,” Taehyung shot back, smoothing down the front of his jacket.

“Anyway,” Jimin cut in, “the Winter Carnival kicks off this weekend. Campus Martius should have the outdoor rink set up by now.”

Mina lit up. “Perfect. We could all meet up, skate, get cocoa after—like something out of a rom-com montage.”

My eyes flicked instinctively to Jungkook, who was already watching me.

“Is that okay with you?” he asked, his voice quiet, thoughtful. “I mean, you’re still healing, right? Probably shouldn’t be pushing it.”

There was something about the way he said it—casual, but laced with concern—that made my chest tighten.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, offering a small smile. “Your dad gave me the green light to take it easy. I won’t be doing spins or jumps or anything. Just... slow laps. I think I remember how to glide.”

Jungkook gave a small nod, but his eyes lingered for a second longer, like he was still debating whether to believe me.

“One o’clock?” Mina offered, looking around. “That gives everyone time to sleep in. Even you, Tae.”

He sighed dramatically but didn’t argue. “I guess I could grace the ice with my presence.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Don’t act like you’re not already planning your entrance.”

Mina gestured to me. “Y/N will probably be home, fed, stretched, and halfway through a yoga flow by the time I’m peeling myself out of bed.”

I grinned. “Old habits.”

We started moving toward the exit. Jimin stepped outside to wave down a cab, and the night air wrapped around us the moment we stepped through the door—cool and quiet, the city humming in the background like a distant lullaby. The air smelled like damp pavement and the last whispers of winter.

One by one, the girls climbed into the back of the cab, crowding together with the ease of people who’d done this a hundred times before. Mina settled in first, Lucy curling up beside her. The door was left open behind them, space enough for one more.

But Jungkook didn’t move. He stayed by the door, one hand resting on the top of the frame, his posture loose but watchful.

I turned toward him. His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and familiar.

“Feels like we’ve been here before,” he said, eyes lit with something quiet and amused.

“Déjà vu,” I murmured, a smile blooming before I could stop it. “Except this time, I’m not disappearing.”

He looked at me for a second longer, like he was measuring something behind my words.

“You sure?” he asked. Lightly. But I could hear the real question in it.

I nodded. “Pretty sure. You know where I live now.”

That made him smile wider. “Guess you’re out of excuses.”

I was about to reply when he stepped forward, reaching up slowly to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was gentle, but my breath caught all the same. His fingers grazed the side of my face, warm even in the cold, and for a moment, the city felt still.

“See you Sunday?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” I said, and my voice felt steadier than I expected. “Sunday.”

“Y/N!” Lucy called from the cab, dragging the vowel out in dramatic agony. “Let’s go, lover girl!”

I laughed, but as I turned to climb in, my foot caught on the edge of the curb. I stumbled slightly—nothing dramatic—but before I could catch myself, Jungkook’s hands were already on my arms, steady and sure.

“Déjà vu indeed,” he murmured, helping me back upright.

His hands lingered for a second, sliding gently from my elbows down to my wrists, then curling briefly around my fingers before letting go. It was soft. Intimate. Enough to leave my skin tingling.

“I’ll have to stay close,” he added with a crooked grin, “just in case you fall again.”

I bit my lip, trying not to grin too hard. “I’ll try not to make it a habit.”

“Goodnight, Jungkook!” Mina sang from inside the cab.

“Night, Nana. Lucy,” he replied without looking away from me.

Then, softer: “Y/N.”

I met his gaze one last time. “Night, Jungkook.”

The door clicked shut, and the cab rolled forward, leaving him standing under the pool of amber streetlight, his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders a little hunched from the cold. Taehyung and Jimin flanked him, already lost in their own banter, but he didn’t take his eyes off the cab until we turned the corner.

I stared out the back window for as long as I could.

The cab had barely pulled away from the curb before Lucy turned toward me, practically bouncing in her seat.

“Oh my God, Y/N,” she said, eyes wide. “I can’t believe Jungkook was your airport baggage claim hottie! How did you not say anything?”

“Seriously,” Mina added, twisting around to face me from the front passenger seat, her eyes sharp with curiosity. “When did you figure it out?”

“And more importantly—do you like him?” Lucy asked, already grinning like she knew the answer.

I opened my mouth, but Lucy was already barreling ahead.

“Because he definitely likes you. That was not subtle.”

“You should’ve seen you two at the bar,” she went on, now directing her words to Mina like I wasn’t sitting right between them. “It was like watching the first ten minutes of a rom-com. All dreamy stares and soft smiles.”

Mina gave an exaggerated sigh. “I know. If he wasn’t my brother, I’d be kind of jealous. That look he gave her when she got in the cab? Please.”

Lucy clutched her chest dramatically. “Ugh. To be young and in love.”

“Oh, please,” I finally cut in, raising both hands like I was trying to hold back a tidal wave. “First of all, Lucy, you’re literally one year older than me. And you’ve been making heart eyes at Taehyung all night.”

“Yeah,” Mina said, glancing back at me with a smirk, “but that’s different. Tae and I have been together for three years. That early-stage, slow-burn, butterfly-stomach kind of thing? That’s its own kind of magic.”

“And right now,” Lucy added, pointing at me like I was exhibit A, “you’re kind of glowing, so...”

“I’m not glowing.”

Mina laughed softly. “You kind of are.”

I groaned, pressing my fingers into my temples. “Okay, just to set the record straight—yes, I figured it out when we got to the bar. Yes, it surprised me. Yes, he’s attractive. But—and this is important—there’s a big difference between attraction and love.”

Lucy tilted her head, unconvinced. “We never said love. Just... interest.”

“And you looked interested,” Mina added, voice warm but teasing. “He did too.”

“I don’t even know him,” I said, trying not to sound panicked. “I don’t know what I’m doing with this stuff. Dating. Flirting. Whatever this is.”

Mina’s tone softened. “You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”

“Some people actually like dating,” Lucy said, nudging my leg. “You get to hang out, eat good food, find out if you click. It’s not a test.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I admitted, my voice a little too tight. “What if I say the wrong thing? What if I mess it up?”

“You don’t have to do anything, Y/N,” Mina said gently. “Just... be who you were tonight. You were relaxed. You were laughing. He liked that.”

“It didn’t feel like a date,” I mumbled.

“Because we were there,” Lucy said with a grin. “But you guys barely acknowledged the rest of us. We might as well have been ghosts.”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” she said, one eyebrow raised.

The cab slowed in front of our building, headlights cutting through the dark. Mina reached into her coat pocket and pulled out some cash for the driver.

“Sunday’ll be easy,” she said as we climbed out of the car. “We’ll all be there—Tae, Chim, Lou, me. No pressure. No expectations. Just skating and hanging out. Okay?”

I nodded, though the nerves were still stirring under my skin.

Back upstairs, I went through the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, the same old hoodie tugged over my head. But even in the comfort of my routine, my thoughts refused to settle. As I crawled into bed, Mina’s voice echoed in my head.

Just go with it. See what happens.

It sounded so simple. But to me, it felt like the edge of a cliff.

Still, as I curled beneath the blankets, I found myself thinking about Jungkook. The way he’d looked at me when I stumbled—calm, steady, amused. The warmth of his hands on my arms, the quiet way he said my name. That lopsided smile, like he was letting me in on something no one else knew.

I couldn't get him out of my mind no matter how hard I tried.

Taglist: @smartkookiee @knightofmidnight @mar-lo-pap @jjeonjjk7 @somewhatjungkook @lovingkoalaface @jimineepaboya @iswearimover5feetall @blissingtaehyung @futuristicenemychaos @kooloveys @jenniebyrubies @8thmuse @beattiestreet @tatzzz-25

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strawberry-nugget · 1 day ago

Text

Chapter 1

~Technically this should be your fresh start. Moving to Japan as a single mom and getting a regular job, living the peaceful life you've always wanted. But trouble finds you in every corner, taking either the form of those weird monstrous things you catch in a blurry half gaze ocassionally, or of that extremely hot single dad, whose son, Megumi is friends with your daughter.

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW (not in this chapter tho sry), MDNI, canon divergence, single parents au!, slow burn(ish)

Word Count: 8.5k

“This ain't the type of car for a kid”

This is the first thing he ever sputters to you. An all too smug face is paired with the douche-y comment— for a moment you think that your fist won't even be strong enough to shatter his face no matter how hard you wish it was.

You give him a mean look instead; eyes slant, nose scrunched and angry, pouty lips. And mind you, he finds it so amusing he's laughing in your face about it. A bird chirps in the back, as the cold breeze of this spring afternoon finds release through your hair and your brain is so dry of a reply that the person standing before you must think you've gone mute.

Shooting a quick look between your car and the man you begin to wonder if he looks like he's on his right mind. Who, ever, looking this scary too, approaches a mother trying to get her toddler into her car? Right outside a kindergarten?

“Uhm, this is a Mazda Rx-7 sir”

“I know” He laughs again. “Need help to get her into the car?”

You don’t care that he’s pretty, frankly. Despite the shaggy black hair and the full lips —the heavy muscles even— you think he’s nothing but a creep. And being a single mother trying to make it overseas all on your own has made you paranoid that you shouldn’t trust anyone for your daughters safety.

However, your toddler, smiles at him from the passenger seat. You shoot her a confused gaze, but now that he’s in all of her vision you watch as she giggles.

What the fuck? Why does your four year old reckognize a man this old?

“Ey Toji” she chirps and your eyes widen in surprise.

The man—Toji— waves back to her politely, big smile adorning his features. You settle for looking him up and down, just a quick scan, but even if he looks dangerous as ever you notice he has his own four year old attached to his hand.

Damn, okay, how is his kid holding such a big hand?

Your heart starts skipping again. Somewhere between being an antisocial mess and having an overly social child, you’ve seem to have lost the notion that you’re literally picking her up from school. The thought that he’s a creep completely slips your mind, he too, is picking up his kid from school, just like you.

“Hey Megumiiii”

“Hi,hi”

Taking another look at the kid attached to this man’s arm, you think, you recognize him. He’s the one in most photos your mother would send you of your baby while you were away. Right. Megumi. Her friend.

It’s insane to think that there are more than 50 photos with Megumi and Mai-mai in your phone and you couldn’t even make it out it was him at first glance.

“Oh you’re Megumi” you speak and the kid nods coldly.

Of course he does, he doesn’t know you, he’s probably having the same reaction to you, because he has never seen you again, as the one you had for his father. What was his name again? Ah— Toji.

“Uhm” you clear your throat “sorry that was so unkind of me, I’m fine getting her in the car on my own”

Toji watches as you bow to him politely, blinking steadily so. He studies you softly and only for a moment. Your features are too similar to Mai-Mai, save for her lighter hair color and that’s the only confirmation he needs to make sure you’re not some rando picking her up from school, or worse— abducting her. He’s seen way too many good looking strangers like you with bad intentions trying to pick up a kid from school and in a fatherly instinct he thought approaching a stranger that’s struggling to get his son’s friend into her car was a good idea.

The car is… surely an addition to your image, it’s light, porcelain blue, detailed, with tinted windows, but oh well, he figures, maybe you do have money to spare to modify your car like that. Not that it’s his place to talk about this. Your parents must have had enough money to buy this for you if they can afford to send what he thinks is your sister to such a prestigious kindergarten.

“I don’t know if your mom told you, but we’ve got a playdate with your sis today”

“Excuse me? Sis?”

You stare, back and forth, between him and Mai-Mai. It's flattery that creeps up on you now, to be considered old enough to be her sister, not her mother and then it’s guilt that poisons that thought, for having missed six entire months of her at school, for having your parents stay in Japan for six whole months to take care of her, just so that her friend’s dad thinks of you as what he stated.

It’s not Toji’s obligation, however, to have known Mai-Mai has such a young mother but it’s baffling, at least, that your parents never mentioned you to the father of your daughter’s friend. Even if they’ve helped you raise her with all they’ve got, they’re still opposed to the idea of a 25 year old raising a child on her own, in a country across the globe too.

Your jaw clenches.

Normally you’d settle for just the flattery of being mistaken for someone younger, seeing that you deeply and still care that the life you had planned out for yourself in your teens hasn’t played out the way you wanted it to. You wish you were someone less responsible and younger, like your friends back in your country that you can’t even afford to fly to Japan to visit you.

But seeing as this is the reality you chose, you straighten your spine, arms crossed right under your breasts. The way he said the word ‘sis’ so casually, like it’s obvious, just absolutely shouldn’t be so destructive to your mental health. Even if it hits like a shove to the gut you weren’t braced for.

Your expression is pulled tight when you blurt it out. “Im her mother, not her sister”

A fact. An unforgiving one at that. A fact that you speak like it’s a poem you’ve practiced to recite. You’ve said it a hundred times and still your spit goes dry in your mouth because saying it makes you feel like you’ve swallowed a grovel full of dirt.

Yes, you are going to let a complete stranger think that your daughter was a mistake, and yes he's going to be right to think so. You should have thought about that earlier, not after she was born.

“Hmm, Aight, figures”

Right. That’s… it!? No joke, no backpedal. Even if you let it linger in the air for him -or you- to take in, he doesn’t react in any other way. No questions about a dad being in the picture, no flinch, no stumble. This might be the most humble and normal reaction you’ve ever gotten and it still somehow irritates you. You're used to interactions like these being a battle and it’s emptying that you’ve got no battle to fight right now.

Toji is almost paused, mid-motion as he’s picking Megumi up in his arms seeing that the little kid is set off kicking a few rocks off the road, waiting until the adults do their grown up things that don’t include him. Despite that nonchalant look on his face you catch a glimpse of what you think is surprise and step on it like the start of a staircase, just to clear your conscience as to why he’s never seen you around.

“My parents were watching her while I was away,” you add, because you suddenly need him to understand. “Work, overseas. I just got back.”

Toji shakes his head sharply in surprise.

Backtrack, baaaacktrack, this definitely doesn’t ease the awkwardness.

At least you're not a deadbeat mom.

You shift your weight to one foot, trying to ignore how your cheeks feel hot. Toji’s eyes soften a little, brows twitching like he’s filing that away, and now he looks at you different. Not younger, not like a stranger, just… like a parent.

Now he knows how you came to buy this car, he thinks, but doesn’t look twice, he still has a few manners left in him.

“Makes sense,” he murmurs. “You’ve got the same eyes.”

You weren’t ready for that. To be reminded that your daughter looks like you and someone else, that there’s a single feature of hers that isn’t yours, but she does have your eyes and your expressions, and your face shape. You don’t expect Toji to tell you this.

You look away, pretend to fix the strap on your bag just to have something to do. Or just so you don’t tear up.

Inside the car, Mai-mai is talking to herself, narrating something about a magical dinosaur kingdom to no one in particular. She taps at the window rhythmically like she’s in a completely different reality than yours, one where people don’t get mistaken for their child’s sibling, one where six months isn’t a chasm you have to cross barefoot.

Megumi waves at her and tries to lean closer to the car window, away from Toji’s embrace and you giggle at the struggle of this hunk trying to get his son to stay put.

Toji shoots you a side glance at the sound of your laugh, and for a beat, he looks at you like he wants to say something else. But then Megumi starts squirming hard in his arms, feet kicking, voice growing more determined.

Whatever moment you could have had for the fraction of a second, vanishes into thin spring air.

“Alright buddy, we’ll do the play date later, since Mai and…” there’s a sudden pause before Toji clears his throat. Oh shit, this is where you should have told him your name. “her mom need to go home”

You blurt out your name to correct him, as in to tell him you’re not just your daughter's mom but a person too and then rush— to text your mom and ask if he’s legit (to which she immediately replies that he is and that he’s lovely) and to open the drivers door at your car, before you hear it.

The shriek doesn’t come from your kid. You’d know that banshee wail anywhere—this one’s different. Lower-pitched. Angrier.

“Down, I said! I go now. We go now! Playdate!”

Toji grunts, adjusting his grip.

You’re already trying to slide into the driver’s seat, ready to shove the entire encounter into the mental junk drawer labeled ‘Weird Interactions I’ll Pretend Didn’t Fluster Me’, when you hear it once again.

“Nooooooo”

You freeze.

Your eyes flick toward the side mirror just in time to see Toji trying to meet Megumi’s face. The kid’s got his little fists balled up at his sides like he’s powering up for a street fight, and Toji’s rubbing his temple like he already regrets being someone’s father today.

You crack your window.

“Megumi,” Toji says, exasperated, “it’s not a no, it’s just not right now.”

“But you said today,” Megumi wails, voice wobbling into that dangerous emotional territory where crying is two seconds away and unstoppable once it starts.

Your daughter perks up in the seat beside you, face lighting like a lamp. “Gumi wanna play!” she shrieks joyfully, banging her palms against the window like a tiny gorilla, in support of his tantrum. “Gumi wanna come house!”

You close your eyes. Briefly. The pout of your toddler's face you can handle, but seeing Toji struggle with his own little gremlin just centimetres away from you isn’t something you can just ignore.

Maybe it’s because you’re too sad to see Megumi throw a tantrum, seeing kids being sad had always been your greatest weakness.

You step out again. This was not supposed to become your problem. You were supposed to say no, go home, pretend Toji’s smile didn’t do whatever it did to your stomach given the fact you. Just. Met. Him. and get back to your regularly scheduled anxiety spiral in peace.

Instead, you find yourself walking over to them.

Toji looks down at you, one brow raised like he’s surprised you’re coming back for more. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Told him it’d be another day.”

Megumi, upon seeing you, levels you with the full force of his betrayal. “You said! You said I can play with her!”

“Toji and my mom said,” you correct quietly, smiling like you know why you bother as if making the kid understand that you’ve got a mommy too will stop him from being the menace that he is right now.

“They did!!” Megumi screams with finality, like that closes the case.

Mai-mai is now unbuckling herself, climbing halfway out the car window before you bark her name with your Real Mom Voice, and she slinks back inside like a cartoon criminal caught mid-heist.

Toji scratches the back of his neck. “I mean. It’s technically my fault. Told him yesterday, figured if it didn’t happen he’d forget.”

“He’s four,” you deadpan. “They never forget.”

Toji exhales hard through his nose, looking at Megumi like he’s the second mortgage of his life. “Alright. If you’re up for it,” he says “I can bring him over for a couple hours.”

You blink. Then there’s this eerie feeling that glooms around his aura that punches your stomach, but strokes gently on your cheeks.

And it hits you that there is no way this man has ever been invited anywhere by another parent. He looks like he’d drink beer in a sippy cup just for fun. You imagine other kindergarten moms go out of their way to avoid eye contact with him at drop-off, scared he’s going to steal their soul or something. Or …. Not? Is he just attractive to you or are other moms swooning when they see him?

God, it’s the first fucking day of picking up your daughter from school and you already have a crush on a dad. The man could be married for all you know and you’re kinda, sorta too preoccupied with thinking that he’s never been invited to a house before.

This is usually stuff moms handle, you tell yourself. Maybe there’s no mom in the picture.

But your daughter is squealing now, feet swinging back and forth, and Megumi has gone silent, waiting for the final jurisdiction of his father.

“Ask your mom if we can come” he says, to you and you smile because your plan has worked. Megumi sees you as someone who has a mom too, he’ll probably listen to you if you tell him no.

I'm sorry I just met your dad and I don’t trust him.

My mom said you can’t, but once I get to know your dad you're free to come whenever.

But your heart— your heart swells in your chest because you can’t say no to Megumi.

“Alright. But just for an hour or two. And only if your dad doesn’t mind being stuck with me in my weird little apartment for the duration.”

Toji grins, something sharp-soft behind it.

“I’ve survived worse places,” he says.

You arch a brow. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Once spent three hours in the soft play zone at Joypolis. Got puked on twice.”

You snort despite yourself. Great. Now you’re amused and flustered. And that big ass, extremely attractive scarily looking man you just met is coming to your house.

Toji just jerks his head toward the car. “Lead the way, mom.”

And damn it—you hate that the way he says mom is starting to sound less like a mistake, and more like a compliment.

You only realize you’re staring when your daughter squeals again, a high-pitched victory noise that rattles your eardrums, and you snap out of it with a jolt. Megumi’s hand is already in hers through the open car door, like they’re comrades heading off to war and not two toddlers preparing to demolish your apartment with glitter glue and snack crumbs.

“Toji,” you murmur under your breath, testing the name like a new language on your tongue, as he leans closer. Why must you be so iradical when it comes to developing a crush? “My car isn't fit for more than two people”

You say it gently, like you’ll ruin a moment that only you think is there, like five minutes with a pretty stranger is all it takes for you to be enticed.

Maybe your best friend was right, maybe you do fall in love when someone gives you so much as a glance because you need the attention.

“Right. I’ll take mine and follow you then”

A slight bell rings inside your head. Ding ding, stranger… and you pay it some mind. Just enough so that you ask; “Wait, you've never been to our house?”

You’re sure your mother has sent you a photo of your daughter and Megumi inside your apartment.

“I have, I just figured, you know, for the courtesy of it…”

Yeah, right, you just have a very hard time accepting people you don’t know are kind.

You’re rounding the car when he looks up at you again.

“You always this trusting?” he asks, but it’s not sharp. It’s not a dig. It’s genuine curiosity, tucked behind the half-laugh that edges the corner of his mouth.

“No,” you reply without hesitation, pulling your seatbelt on. “You just looked… equally tired.”

He laughs. Really laughs. And it’s the kind that scrapes the back of his throat, like he hasn’t had a reason to in a while or you're simply deluded, thinking this is the start of some romance? How would it have turned out had you punched him earlier?

“You sure this isn’t inconvenient?” he says eventually, eyes still forward.

You shrug. “You think I’m gonna say no when I’ve just earned, like, a week’s worth of toddler goodwill? No way.”

He smirks. “Smart.”

“And besides,” you add before you can stop yourself, “I’ve survived worse places too.”

His eyes flick sideways, and there’s something in them this time. Less amusement, more… recognition. Like he knows exactly what you mean, even if you haven’t said it out loud.

The drive is short, ten minutes max through the traffic but your gut is about to burst, you haven’t been accustomed to this—accommodating a playdate for your daughter because it’s only ever been your friends that would come and visit but this? This is real. Your daughter having friends is real.

Perhaps this is how your mom felt when you’d beg to have your friends from preschool visit.

You turn into your street and the familiar weight of your life settles back over you. The smallness of your space, the clutter you left behind this morning, the meal you were supposed to cook that now might have to be ramen and chopped-up string cheese if things get desperate.

Toji steps out of his own car first and grabs Megumi like he’s done this a thousand times. You envy how natural it looks. How secure Megumi seems in his arms.

“You sure you don’t want to eat first?” Toji’s crouched in front of Megumi now, doing that calm, almost parental negotiation thing that never actually works when a four-year-old has already made up their mind.

Megumi stares back at him with the unblinking determination of someone who’s tasted the freedom of an unsupervised playdate and will die before relinquishing it.

“No.”

Toji blinks. “There’s leftover curry at home.”

“No.”

“Chicken nuggets?”

Megumi squints like that offer is offensive.

“You said play,” he accuses, and now he’s folding his arms, a tiny statue of betrayal. “Not eat. Play.”

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the entire thing unfold like it’s free theatre. Mai-mai’s already skipping circles around Megumi in excitement, chanting “Playdate! Playdate!” like a spell that’s only fueling the child-sized rebellion.

Toji exhales through his nose. He looks up at you briefly, deadpan. “You ever try to reason with a fridge magnet?”

You snort. “Welcome to the club.”

“I brought this on myself,” he mutters, rising with the dramatic weariness of a man thirty years older.

Megumi sees his dad stand up and immediately grabs your daughter’s hand again like he’s making a political statement. He juts his chin up.

“Im not hungry.”

“You will be,” Toji warns, voice lightly threatening in that exhausted-dad way. “And don’t come crying to me when you turn into a gremlin an hour from now.”

“I am not a gremlin,” Megumi says with conviction. “Im Megumi.”

Toji mutters something like “coulda fooled me” under his breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

You bite back a laugh. “I’ve got food at the apartment. If that helps.”

He looks at you like you just offered him a parachute mid freefall. “You sure?”

You shrug. “I mean, it’s nothing fancy. Sandwiches. Cut fruit. String cheese if no one’s too proud.”

Megumi lights up like you just said magic potions. His grip on your daughter tightens and he starts tugging her toward your front door like this is his show now.

“Play and snack,” he declares. “Now.”

Toji sighs, clearly defeated, rubbing a hand down his face. “This is blackmail, right?”

You grin. “Kind of. But they’re cute, so.”

He gives you a look like he doesn’t want to agree, but he does. He definitely does.

“Alright,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair and staring toward your car with the kind of resignation that only comes from fatherhood or debt. “Let’s see if your place survives two four-year-olds and one suspiciously calm single mom.”

“Suspicious?” you echo, walking beside him to the door to your apartment

“You’re not panicking. That’s always suspicious.”

You smirk. “Don’t worry. I’ll panic internally. I Should warn you,” you say as you unlock the door, “there’s no toy box in sight. She’s got, like, one Barbie with no arms and a broken xylophone. Everything else is a mess. As in, her mom just came from overseas and she hasn’t had the heart to do all her chores mess.”

“We’ve got worse,” he replies. “Megumi’s best friend at home is a pinecone. And he also has a dad that doesn’t have the heart to do all his chores too”

You snort. Why on earth does he sound like he gets you? You won’t dare ask if he’s trying to tell you that he’s single as well and if you did catch anything in his statement, you’ll simply let it slide, despite feeling curious to know.

You know you won’t take it well if someone asks you about Mai-Mai’s dad when they’ve just met you, having some context as to that you're a single mom.

The kids barrel into your apartment like it’s a castle. You don’t even try to stop them. There’s some yelling. A crash. Someone’s giggling maniacally. It’s chaos—utter chaos since the first second, but despite it, you rush to take off your shoes and wash your hands.

Toji hovers by the door until you nod toward the couch.

“You can sit, you know. I won’t bite.”

He lowers himself down like he’s afraid of breaking something, and you wonder, briefly, how many places this man’s been where he didn’t feel like he belonged or if he has ever felt like that!? Like, ever?

Maybe, you settle for seeing that little nervousness one would feel while being in an almost stranger’s house.

Your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter — your mom, probably. Or work. But you don’t check it. Instead, you hand Toji a juice box — one of the last ones — and he takes it with a raised brow.

“What?” you say. “Equal treatment. You come into my home, you drink apple juice.”

He grins around the straw like he’s never been given anything so ridiculous and kind at the same time.

And you grin back before climbing the kitchen counter and hurling under the ventilator.

You’re still tired as you pull out your pack of cigarettes, still too tired to think that you shouldn’t smoke inside the apartment, but the weight of the world on your shoulders is… excruciating. It shouldn’t smell if the vent’s on. And for all that's worth on good manners, you offer Toji a cigarette too.

Toji eyes the cigarette in your outstretched hand like it’s an invitation to something more complicated than nicotine. You can tell he’s debating it; maybe he’s trying to be polite, or careful, or something that people like you usually don’t get from strangers who were almost punched in a preschool parking lot.

But then, finally, he takes it. He takes it anyway, brushing your fingers in that subtle way that probably means nothing and feels like something. His grin tilts just enough to make you think he knows that, too.

You light yours first, exhaling toward the vent, and he follows suit like it’s a ritual you’ve both done before in other lives, just not together.

“Equal treatment,” he murmurs, echoing your earlier words, and there’s something dry and fond in the way he says it. Like he gets it.

The vent hums above your head, a lazy background noise to the distant shrieking of toddlers turning your home into a disaster zone. Toji lights up, takes a drag, exhales slowly like it’s been a week—and maybe it has. Maybe it’s been a year, maybe a lifetime. You wouldn’t know.

Not until he says “I’ve stopped smoking for a while”

“I haven’t” you reply, like you’re flirting, when you really aren’t, yet your voice does that smooth, fake enticing thing you have only ever been able to master when you’re not into anyone.

Toji almost grins

“Riiight”

You’re an enabler when it comes to smoking, you know that.

“Im sorry, I always offer, it’s easier than asking if you're a smoker or not”

Toji leans back against the kitchen wall, eyes flicking to the narrow hallway where the chaos continues.

“…Fair.”

There’s a quiet between you—not awkward. Something easier. Comfortable, in a way that surprises you.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” he says around the cigarette, his voice a little hoarse now, softer.

You shrug. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d willingly follow a stranger home because of toddler politics.”

He huffs a laugh, shifting his weight against the counter. “I like to live dangerously.”

You glance sideways at him. “Yeah, I got that vibe when you didn’t flinch after I almost punched you.”

He takes a slow drag. “I don’t flinch.”

“That’s tough”

Fuck— you hate yourself for another flirty line.

He doesn’t respond and the quiet lingers for an agonising amount of time. You glance at him. “You okay?”

He pauses, like he wasn’t expecting the question. Then, with a small shrug: “Yeah. I mean—no. But yeah. Y’know?”

You do. You really do.

You blow smoke toward the vent, watching it curl and vanish. “I didn’t think I’d be doing this alone,” you admit, more to the ventilator than to him. “Not forever, anyway.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Same.”

Your eyes flick over to him, but he’s not looking at you. He’s watching the hallway again, where Megumi’s laughter rises like a battle cry. You don’t know if he means the parenting thing, or the being here, in someone else’s kitchen with a juice box and a cigarette, but you think it doesn’t really matter.

You let out a quiet snort and return your attention to the vent above. Smoke rises, the kids shriek-laugh from the other room, and Toji’s still there.

After a beat, he says, “So… you were abroad?”

You blink. It catches you off-guard—his voice, that question, the fact he remembered what you said despite your total awkwardness, it does something inside you. It stirs your stomach.

“Yeah… I'm not from Japan. I moved here for a fresh start last year, then I got this summer job in my country and I had to stay over for six months instead of three. So naturally Mai-Mai started school and I had to come in later… I'm honestly surprised my mom didn’t tell you all this. Then again she hates what I'm doing with my life.”

“Your mom is nice,” Toji says, clearing his throat. “I think it’s just a very personal issue to share with me” he lets out a soft, low breath that could be a laugh. “She’s sweet. Protective.”

“She was very against me moving here. Said I wouldn’t last more than three months.” You smirk, then add, whispering, rolling your eyes to the side just to meet his. And spoiler alert— he’s already looking at you

“I think im gonna last way more than that, even without her”

“Longer than that?”

You hum, letting your chest fill with pride as your face is adorned in an almost comically induced expression.

The notion of lunch is forgotten, choked underneath that fake fullness in your stomach that comes after smoking and seemingly the kids forget about it too. You wish you had the mind to eat, or the physical need of a growl in your stomach but you’re so sucked in this conversation with Toji that you can’t even think of moving away.

There’s an aura about him. Magnetising. Like it’s pulling you in—not to punch him, but to trust him, to set foot in your house when you’ve known him for an hour or two.

Your eyes are glued on him even if that eeriness about his aura remains.

Toji doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—an acknowledgment, maybe, or approval. The kind that doesn’t ask questions or offer sympathy. That it’s fine for you to just look, take him in.

He taps ash into an ashtray you’ve set nearby and says, “You’re tough.”

And you can’t help it—you laugh. “I smoke inside, feed my kid string cheese, and just let a man I barely know into my house. I don’t know if that’s tough or stupid.”

He tilts his head like he’s weighing the difference. “Could be both.”

Another silence. Not heavy though.

Then he says, quieter this time, “Megumi… he doesn’t take to people easily. You noticed that?”

You nod. “A little.”

“He doesn’t laugh a lot either. Not like that.” He gestures loosely toward the hallway, where Mai-Mai’s now proclaiming herself Queen of the Pillow Fort and Megumi is swearing fealty in loud, confused syllables.

Something flickers behind his eyes then—barely there. Gone as soon as it comes. Like a window cracked open in a room you shouldn’t be in.

“I don’t bring him places much. Not like this.” His voice is rough, but not guarded. Just used to silence more than talking. “Figured… maybe it’d be different this time. Your mom has always been nice to us and to think you’re as nice too…”

You should say something. Only one little thing. A ‘thank you’. Something, anything, but you’ve never been a good responder, you’ve never had your way with words like he does. You're short on spit and words, stuck in a loop where no syllable can tell him all the thoughts that are going through your head.

Instead, you nudge the juice box closer to him. “Drink. That stuff’s elite.”

There. The only thing you can actually say.

He chuckles under his breath and takes a sip like he’s humoring you.

“You always joke when it gets heavy?” he asks, not accusing, just curious.

You shrug. “I'm bad with words. Too bad. I'm a disaster. It’s just better to not speak sometimes y’know”

“At least you’re real” he says, like it’s a good thing.

Toji nods once, eyes lingering on you like he’s seeing something past the words, past the smoke, past the carefully stacked joke-shaped bricks you build around your feelings.

You shrug. Being real hasn’t gotten you anywhere, at all, except for maybe sharing your living room in Japan with someone you’ve just met and a new friend for your daughter.

“Real’s good,” he says. Simple. Quiet. A little serious. “People forget how to be that.”

You scoff, like that kind of talk shouldn’t affect you—but it does. You feel it slide down your spine like warm water, a little uncomfortable because it’s true.

“Yeah, well. Being real doesn’t pay rent,” you mutter, flicking the ash off the tip of your cigarette, “or get your kid to sleep on time. Im kind, there’s a difference”

He huffs again, softer this time. Almost fond. “Still better than being fake. And rude.”

It’s not a compliment exactly, but it lands like one. And maybe that’s worse. Or better. You can’t tell. You inhale too deep and cough once, embarrassingly, and Toji passes you the juice box like it’s a goddamn medical prescription.

You take it, roll your eyes, and sip.

He watches you the way you’d watch a stray cat coming close for the first time—careful, patient, a little surprised you haven’t bolted.

You don’t even mind drinking off the straw of someone you just met but this… this drumming in your chest, the palpitations you can feel in your heart knowing this means something in the cultural context of Japan— it makes your skin crawl and tingle.

Ultimately, you decide the world won’t end if you catch on to the pass you were just thrown.

Right now, your daughter is laughing in the next room, and a scary-pretty stranger is in yor kitchen, and the world hasn’t ended yet.

“So what do you do?” Toji asks and snaps you away from your inner thinking “for a living I mean”

You pause. Not because you’re trying to decide whether or not to lie. Not because you think he’s gonna turn misogynistic and act like women aren’t allowed to do what you have done—but because you haven’t answered that question honestly in a long time. Not in a real way. Not in the way he’s looking at you now, like whatever you say will matter.

“I used to race cars,” you say.

Toji blinks, sharply. It’s the first time today that he’s visibly caught off guard. “What, like… professionally?”

You nod. “Back home. Small circuit stuff at first, then bigger. I got signed by a sponsor when I was twenty-three. I needed the money. But I’ll save the sob, too cliche story of a racer that gets into an accident for another time.”

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something—then closes again. He leans back against the opposite counter, jaw working like he’s trying to imagine you behind the wheel of something with horsepower and death baked into the seat.

“Damn,” he says finally, voice low. “Didn’t expect that.”

You smirk, eyes half-lidded behind the smoke. “What’d you expect? Barista?”

“No I just— anything but that.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“No. Fuck that shit, because this isn’t something people tell you every day” he pauses “so that explains the car”

You hum. “Well it got me enough money to be able to move here, but at first it was out of spite. Mai-Mais dad was obsessed with cars and I wanted to prove that I'm better than him.”

Toji lets out a low whistle, long and soft. Not mocking—impressed. Like maybe now he’s seeing you differently. Or maybe just seeing more of you. There’s a different kind of spite -petty- you have to have in you in order to show off like that. He understands what petty is, to his fucking core and it’s still amusing.

“So… you raced out of spite and ended up making it a job,” he says. “That’s kind of badass.”

You laugh, sharp and a little bitter. “Yeah, well. Turns out rage has a pretty good fuel economy.”

Toji chuckles at that, a real one. The sound vibrates low in his chest, and it’s honestly unfair how nice it sounds. He flicks ash into the tray, then glances over at you with something like curiosity, or respect, or whatever that look is that makes your stomach tighten.

“Still race?”

You shake your head. “Nah. Well I mean, I had to in order to save some money for a year in Japan. But… Too many late nights, too many close calls. You don’t think about dying until you have someone small waiting for you at the finish line.”

His face changes just slightly—less in expression, more in energy. It settles. Quiet, thoughtful and slightly pained. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t say something cliché. Just listens. Which you’re learning is a thing he’s oddly good at. A trait that feels rarer than it should be.

The silence that follows is a little heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Like it’s been earned.

You lean back on your elbows, sighing. “Anyway, now I'm gonna teach English part-time and pick up temp work when it comes. Not as cool as racing, but it’ll keep us afloat.”

Toji nods slowly. “Cool doesn’t feed kids,” he says. “But for what it’s worth… I still think that’s one hell of a past life.”

You tilt your head at him, like a puppy would, hungry for more information. “What about you?”

He raises a brow, then shrugs like the answer’s not worth too much weight. “Odd jobs. Stuff that pays in cash and doesn’t ask questions. Construction sometimes. Security. Whatever keeps things quiet and Megumi fed.”

You nod. You get that. You get it more than you’d like to admit.

Then, without thinking—just because it slips out before you can catch it—you ask, “How old are you anyway?”

Toji glances at you sidelong, something sly behind his expression. “Thirty four. Why?”

You sip from the juice box again, feeling ridiculous and too full of adrenaline. “Just checking if I should be worried.”

“And?”

“Well I should, but it’s fine. I mean. It’s okay, I'm just jealous… you had your son at a normal age”

“Yours isn’t?” He asks

But this time you don’t expect him to understand. Even when knowing so little about his life you could assume that someone having a kid at thirty means he could have had a chance to go to college, go out with his friends, work for their own sake. You gave all that up when you decided to have your daughter at twenty one.

“I just. I'm twenty five and my life didn’t turn out like I wanted it to. Save for the Fast and Furious dream car”

Toji goes quiet, and not in the awkward way people do when they don’t know how to comfort someone—they fidget, they backpedal, they tell you “but look how strong you are” or “at least you have your kid”. None of that. Toji’s still. And his eyes, when they meet yours, hold none of that uncomfortable pity. Just awareness. Recognition.

He takes one last drag and stubs the cigarette out, his voice low. “Yeah. But I got married at twenty five”

You blink, straightening slightly. “Wait. Really?”

He nods, lips twitching like the memory tastes half-bitter. “Didn’t feel like a normal age back then. I was broke, angry, stupid. Thought I’d wrecked everything. Felt like the rest of the world was on some train I missed, and I was standing on the platform with just being in love as my only possession.”

The confession slips out so easily that you’re stunned for a second. You weren’t expecting that honesty—not so soon. Not from him.

Toji looks toward the hallway again, where the kids are quieter now. Still chattering, but sleepily. Slower. Like their little bodies are running out of chaos.

“I never had time for much else,” he says. “College, friends, the normal stuff? Didn’t happen. All I had was rage and a lot of nights I didn’t sleep. Still don’t sometimes.”

You study him now—this man who looked like he was carved out of street brawls and bad decisions, who grinned when you challenged him and drank juice boxes without complaint. You realize he’s probably never had someone ask how he got here. Or maybe he has, but they never stuck around for the full answer.

Assuming things for other people has never gotten you anywhere, but this? It’s dazzling to find out that people struggle. Globally. And you knew that before but it’s now taking flesh before you.

You try not to pry—so you don’t ask about the wife but you do let the statement concerning his rage float in your head. Saying that you’ve felt something so similar shouldn’t feel like a burden. And yet for a moment, you’re out of words.

You study his face again, but now you can see it in a light that's different than the one under the vent. You can now see past his sharp eyes and he has black circles underneath them, you can see that scar on his lip. You’re studying a face, yet you can see the tiredness that negative emotions manifest.

You wet your lips. “I'm full of rage too… ugh… Why does it sound better when you say it?”

He looks back at you. “’Cause you’re still living it. I’m just remembering it.”

And damn. That’s the first time all night you feel like your heart drops a few inches lower in your chest.

You offer him your cigarette pack again, even though neither of you really need another. He waves it off this time.

Then, because you feel like the moment needs air—you get up, plucking another cigarette from the pack and in your mouth, trying to convince yourself it’s the only way to get your hands to stop from shaking.

Toji sets the juice box down on the counter like he’s placing something valuable. Like it matters, somehow, to treat even this small thing with care.

You lean back, shoulder hitting the cabinet, arms crossed now. Your stomach growls now—but the thought of cooking feels like climbing a mountain in flip-flops. Toji cocks an eyebrow at the sound and your embarrassment fills the room.

You try another pathetic attempt at excusing yourself.

“I can’t cook,” you admit, deadpan. “I mean—I can, but not right now. I’ve got nothing left in me. We should order something. You like noodles?”

Toji shrugs. “I like free food.”

You snort, paying his comment no mind. “That’s not what I asked.”

He gives you a lazy grin. “Yeah. Noodles sound good. And some sides”

You reach for your phone on the counter, flicking it open to your food app, and halfway through picking a place, you glance over at him.

He watches you type in the order, then leans a little closer over your shoulder like he needs to see what you’re picking. You try not to freeze when his arm brushes yours—casual, unthinking, but enough to send a little zip of electricity straight through your tired body.

“You okay with spice?” you ask, barely masking your voice wobble.

“Bring it.”

You hit order and toss the phone down like it just said something incriminating. The kids scream again from the hallway—something about dragons now—and you sigh, but you don’t move. You’re still anchored here, somehow, and Toji doesn’t look like he’s leaving either.

You’re the first to pull away.

And then, as if you can’t ever allow yourself to get lost in a moment, the inevitable occurrence there is about having two toddlers playing freely in your house, happens.

CRASH!

Toji groans and pushes himself away from the kitchen counter. “Guess I better go make sure Megumi didn’t convince your kid to build a ladder or jump off a closet.”

You laugh despite the fact that your stomach lurches and let Toji pick up the pieces of what sounds like a devilish scheme of children that went rogue, verified by the ultimate silence instead of shrieking and crying that comes from Mai-Mai’s room.

Outside, the sun’s starting to dip, casting your kitchen in gold and long shadows. The smell of apple juice and ash lingers in the air. The vent hums quietly above you like it knows you still need the white noise to cancel out your anxiety.

You sit on the couch and kind of hope the food takes forever to get here.

Not even seconds later,Mai-Mai interrupts your thoughts again by launching herself into your lap with the energy of a child who has never known gravity. Megumi follows shortly, dragging a blanket and a shoe behind him like trophies of war and Toji— Toji takes the walk of shame from down the hallway with a broken bed plate, mouth pursed to the side of his face and shoulders shrug like he’s trying to say ‘sorry’.

You know what this means; that the kids were jumping on Mai’s bed and now you have to let her sleep with you tonight until you fix this tomorrow. Perhaps it’s one of her schemes, but you can’t blame her for it. She’s just a child that’s missed her mom.

“Snack,” your daughter demands.

“Snack,” Megumi echoes with slightly more menace.

Toji raises his hands in surrender. “I knew this was a trap.”

You groan, shifting under your daughter’s weight. “I ordered food”

The kids start bouncing again—Mai-Mai wiggling in your lap, Megumi climbing up on the couch like it’s Fuji—and you can feel your patience and your bones grinding down into the same exhausted powder. But Toji doesn’t look fazed. If anything, he reaches over and hauls Megumi into his own lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, casually anchoring the boy with one arm while leaning back into the cushions like he’s done this a hundred times before.

You realize you’re still watching him. That he looks too comfortable here.

That you do, too.

“Food’ll be here in fifteen,” you mutter, mostly to remind yourself this night has a timestamp. “Try to survive until then.”

Toji glances at you, something lazy and amused curling at the corner of his mouth.

——

The food arrives in a plastic bag that smells like heaven and costs more than you want to admit.

You don’t ever ask for money from the pretty stranger on your couch.

You set the containers on the coffee table and everyone just kind of migrates around them like feral animals gathering at a watering hole. You offer the kids milder stuff—yakisoba, some sweet potato tempura—while you and Toji take the spicier dishes.

The four of you eat like you’ve been starved, in a kind of comfortable silence only broken by the occasional slurp or half-choked laugh from the kids. Your daughter acts like the most behaved child in the world—until, Toji casually announces that he and Megumi have to leave.

“No,” Mai-Mai says immediately, gripping Toji’s sleeve like she’s about to drag him back down to the floor. “Stay. Sleep over.”

She does her best — perfecting her pleading pout, lower lip all poked out under her puckered upper one and eyes deery big, as a messy strand of hair sticks to her small sweaty forehead.

Toji freezes, a half-finished dumpling between his fingers. He glances at you, one brow raised in that way that says ‘this is your problem now’.

“Mai,” you sigh, already bracing yourself. “We’ve talked about this. Guests don’t have to stay just because you’re giving them a cute face.”

“But he said he’d show me that other karate kick if I ate!”

You stare at Toji. “Seriously?”

“She asked.”

“Did you show her one?”

“She said please.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling—can’t help it. Your daughter is practically climbing him now, and Megumi is draped over a cushion nearby with the unmistakable weight of a kid who is about to pass out in five minutes or less. Still pouty over the fact that he has to leave, but at least he’s not rebelling over it.

Toji gently peels your daughter off his arm. “We’ll come by again sometime,” he says, directing it to her like a promise, but you feel the weight of it land on you. Then, to you, quieter he says “If that’s alright and mommy says yes.”

And you sigh, knowing full well that the face your daughter tried to pull on Toji is going to work on you.

“Mommy can Gumi and Toji come over again?”

“Yeah,” you say, hands running through your hair before they rest awkwardly on your hips.

Toji stands, lifting Megumi up like it’s second nature. The kid doesn’t even blink. Toji adjusts him with one hand and glances back at you as you walk him to the door.

There’s a weird pause. Not uncomfortable. Not rushed. Just quiet lingering.

Then, he tilts his head. “Hey, uh… You got socials or something? Number?”

You blink, surprised. Not by the question, but by how casual he makes it sound. Like he’s asking if you’ve got a lighter. Even though he was the one with the lighter when he wasn’t supposed to be smoking.

“Yeah,” you say. You reach for your phone, trying not to make it obvious how fast your heart’s beating. “Here, let me”

And sure, there it is, that subtle touch of his fingers on yours, like before. Electric, insanely hot, in a way that’s completely unreasonable for how brief it is.

You look at him and notice that his eyes are green.

He hands you his phone, screen already open to a new contact. You type in your number and name, then hesitate before adding your handle. You figure if he wants to snoop through your photos, let him. You’ve got nothing to hide, no photos of an ex you don’t want to see the light of day.

When you hand it back, he looks at the screen for a second, then glances up at you, pressing the button to call you, hanging up once he sees the call reach you.

Toji gives you a look that lingers, not too long, not too sharp, just precise.

You don’t hand him your phone.

Still you ask, “Toji?”

“Fushiguro” he states, but as you type, he continues “but you’re not gonna meet many Tojis around”

“Oh im sure”

“You need anything, you call”

You nod, like you understand what he says without intending to take action toward your agreement.

Then, with a grin that’s halfway to a smirk, he adds, “And you owe me a race, show-off.”

“Drift—” you start, raising an eyebrow.

“‘Scuse me?” he cuts in, playful, almost teasing.

“I used to drift race,” you say, and his laugh rumbles out low, his grin cracking wider.

And then he’s gone, his steps echoing down the hallway, the smell of soy sauce and cigarette smoke still faint in the air. You lock the door behind him, back pressed to the wood, heart loud in your ears.

It’s not until an hour later that your phone lights up from your nightstand. A text— that one is definitely not from your mom or work.

Toji: Next time I see you, you better show me how you drift.

You don’t reply. Not because you don't want to—but because your brain short-circuits a little and you don’t trust yourself not to say something stupid like only if you wear something right.

What could he possibly wear that wouldn’t be right. With his built.

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