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husbandhoshi · 1 year

Text

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

summary: being one of new york's top food critics comes with a lot of perks: free dinners, nice awards, and a linkedin profile your parents could be proud of. that doesn't stop you from wanting a lofty promotion to editor, and the only person standing in your way is choi seungcheol. just one problem: his romance column has half of new york under his grimy little thumb. that, and you hate him.

in which your love language is food. seungcheol doesn't have one.

notes: romcom with mild angst, coworkers!au, slow burn enemies to lovers, playboy!cheol, suggestive (one moment in particular) + mentions of sex (otherwise sfw), swearing, lots of alcohol, also you will probably get hungry reading this. extra special thanks a million times over to my fav person @wuahae for bearing with me through literally all 20k words of this. i love you:')

It's underneath a layer of paper-thin egg yolk pasta where you think you see god.

Spoon meets whipped ricotta, white truffle, sage oil. A sip of 1979 cabernet, punishing and oaky. Rinse and repeat.

None of these words are in the Bible, yet you are having nothing short of a religious experience.

"Well, this seems like good news for the place," Jeonghan says. "Wine's tasty. Three stars?"

At this point, you're fairly sure Jeonghan has tuned the explanation of your elaborate rating process out (he's there for the wine, anyway), so instead you top him up and help yourself to a generous portion of his pappardelle.

"Four, then?" He leans forward on his elbows. "Or critic's choice?"

Candied lemon, pecorino, garlic. Derivative, but it's a good bite.

"You're distracting me." You point your fork at him. "You're like 80% alcohol, anyway. Bad opinions."

"Sue me," he laughs. "I would take a client here, is all I'm saying."

You pass on the opportunity to bring up that Jeonghan once brought a client to a Bubba Gump because he was craving coconut shrimp. But Jeonghan isn't a food critic—he's a business analyst and your best friend from college, back when all you cared about was Friday's house party and writing pizza joint reviews for the university paper.

It's a good arrangement. You appreciate his company, and he's never one to turn down a free meal. The both of you keep a small circle—such is the price of discernment.

There aren't many things that can come between you and a delicious meal. But, you have notifications turned on for just three things (all work-related) and you both watch the linen tablecloth light up under your face-down phone in true horror-movie fashion.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. "Popular on a Saturday night," he jokes. "Copy on your ass again?"

"Nothing's in production," you reply, letting the evil claws of your terrible work-life balance encircle you once again as you open your email.

URGENT: LIFESTYLE EDITOR TRANSITIONAL PLANS, it reads. It's from Wonwoo, your editor in chief, who has sent it with priority, as if the caps lock wasn't scary enough.

"So Joshua decided to quit. Just like you said," Jeonghan says, but it's like he's speaking to you through a wet paper bag because it takes every working brain cell of yours to read the email.

As you may know, Joshua has decided to step down from his position as our current Lifestyle editor.

Not a surprise, given his wife is having a kid. You had called it six months ago over the paper's Christmas dinner at Eleven Madison Park, when Joshua spent half of it outside on a phone call and the other half browsing the Baby Gap website.

I have decided to hire internally to fill his position. I and upper management believe you would be a good fit for the position. Please plan for a meeting 9 AM Monday to discuss transitional plans.

It's that part that you have to read over three times. And then you read it over a fourth, just for good measure.

"You're starting to scare me." Jeonghan puts down his glass, which is something akin to a baby separating from their bottle.

Sometimes you need a dictionary to understand Wonwoo, but the email seems clear as day to you. Good fit. Transitional plans. Suddenly you wish Jeonghan hadn't had so much of the wine because you're in desperate need of a drink.

"I-I think…I think I'm getting promoted."

How funny to think your lifelong dream would be realized over a 40 dollar plate of pasta. You want to cry and hug the maître d' and eat the entire complimentary bread basket.

"It's about time." The glass finds his relieved hand again. "You breathe journalism. I'm afraid one day you'll text me in AP style."

You read over all of it again, trying to memorialize the words that undoubtedly will launch your wonderful and long career in the upper echelons of media.

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

Then the proverbial cherry on top, the laughably convenient other thing your eyes had glazed over before.

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

Nothing is ever that easy and it then dawns on you that this is a competition type thing because never in the history of the printing press has there been two editors for a section.

Jeonghan stares at you blankly. It would be funny if you didn't feel like you were being double deep-fried like terrible fair food, all the thrill and elation of the moment boiled down to lead in your chest.

"I—he," you stammer.

Jeonghan mouths check to the poor waiter assigned to watch your table. God bless him.

"Words," he tells you. "You went to journalism school."

You take a syrupy breath that sits in your lungs unhappily. Your food is cold. This is a disaster.

"Well, actually, I'm not getting promoted."

Jeonghan's eyes soften, just enough without making you pity yourself more.

"There's this guy," you start. "He's the love and relationships columnist, the one I complain about all the time." Jeonghan makes a small ahh sound, your predicament finally dawning on him. "I guess we're both under consideration for the position. I didn't-I didn't even think of him. I—"

You slump into your seat, the arancini your only solace despite your complaint that the breading was too salty earlier.

"So? I bet you're a way better fit than him. It'll be a shoe-in. Easy decision."

Jeonghan's confidence in you makes you want to cry.

The problem is that Seungcheol is the human equivalent of Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't recall the last time he walked into the office with a fully buttoned up shirt. You also can't recall the last time one of his advice columns wasn't in the end of quarter recap for popularity.

It's not in you to explain this debacle to Jeonghan. This whole situation is so cosmically awful that all you can do is ask for dessert in a takeout box and watch Jeonghan calculate tip without a calculator because that's all you learn in business school.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jeonghan asks when you're both in the Uber.

"Yeah." You have a headache. You also can't decide whether or not to give the restaurant three or four stars, and you always know by the time you're out the door. "It's fine."

The tiramisu is cold in your lap. Jeonghan squeezes your shoulder. You refresh your email.

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

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The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

Wonwoo, in his lanky taupe sweater vest, says that Joshua is leaving and you and Seungcheol are standing toe-to-toe in the space left behind.

"I'm sure you two are well-acquainted," he begins.

You stifle a laugh, but Seungcheol's cat-like grimace says more than enough. Neither of you have the heart to tell Wonwoo that your very first impression of Seungcheol was that he tried to hit on you at the new recruit party, or that Joshua probably deserves reparations for how often he mediated fights between the two of you during weekly meetings. (Maybe not reparations, but at least an Edible Arrangements.)

For better or for worse, Wonwoo's genius does not extend to social cues, and he follows with a blithe, "Therefore, I hope you two will treat this as a friendly competition between equals."

You almost laugh again, but this time it's because you need the promotion more than you need air, and you cannot allow some Buzzfeed reject with the face of a model take that from you. And you don't doubt Seungcheol wants it as bad as you do, considering how often you've seen him try to schmooze his way up the ranks.

He may have become a columnist by rubbing elbows with the right people, but you'll never forget the late nights you spent sifting through hours of interview transcripts, on the grueling climb up the totem pole to earn your position.

"We'll evaluate an article of your own submission at the end of the month before we decide. Best of luck."

At least Wonwoo knows to quit while he's ahead—he closes the meeting with a succinct nod before returning to his seemingly infinite unread emails.

"Exciting," Seungcheol says. He claps his hands together, Rolex gaudy under the office lights, and sends a nauseating smile your way. "May the best writer win."

He offers you a handshake. You think he has real life cooties, so instead you close your planner and shoot him a very pointed look.

"There's only one writer here. Thrilled to read your next thinkpiece on how men should spend more time on Tinder and not therapy."

That earns you a chuckle from Wonwoo, but Seungcheol is not easily fazed.

Instead he rushes to hold the door open for you on your way out, likely his favorite piece of advice to give his poor, indolent readers.

"I'll book a table for us at Avra next month," Seungcheol gloats. "Consider it a gift from your future boss."

"They don't have a kids menu, you know."

"No problem. I'll have my darling food critic order for me." He places a wicked hand over his polyester covered heart. "Ending misogyny in one fell swoop, huh?"

You wait for the door to Wonwoo's office to close before looking at him right in his wet, cow eyes with the most malice you can possibly muster. You feel it collect in your bones, enough to feel like you can physically hack it up and hurl it at him.

"You have no clue what you're talking about, huh? Do you actually attract women with that attitude? Or are you just a really good liar?"

You are so close to him, you could kiss him if you wanted—luckily for the both of you, you would rather die a thousand fiery, terrible deaths, and then die all over again. Instead, you watch his pout unravel into a grin from hell, and he leans in closer, the scent of Old Spice and break room coffee heavy on him. This morning's matcha latte churns in your stomach, and you wonder if you should have gotten oatmilk instead of dairy.

Up close, he's worse. His hair reminds you of the sad, tired swoop of the washed-up lead of a daytime soap opera. And he has no pores, which is deeply upsetting because he looks like the type to wash his face with Palmolive and a prayer.

"You know what?"

His breath hits your lips and your skin prickles like you have an allergy.

"What?"

"You just gave me the winning idea for my next column." No way, you think. Mind games. Classy. "See you at dinner, sweetheart. Looking forward to it."

The pet name makes you seethe. There are a million things you want to say, all colorful and none workplace appropriate.

"I'd rather starve."

"Better not let Wonwoo hear you with that bad attitude. I'm sure management loves a team player." His cheshire grin somehow gets bigger, all white teeth and pink lip. "Try to smile a little, huh? Have fun writing about snails and black garlic and cwa-ssants, or whatever it is that you do."

you watch all the laminated syllables of croissant go through his paper shredder smile and you think you black out.

He spins on his heel triumphantly, almost bowling over Minghao from Arts & Entertainment, who is undoubtedly wondering if you did, in fact, kiss.

Seungcheol laughs as he walks away, linebacker shoulders rippling under his one size too small shirt.

The metal-red knot of anger swells in your gut as you watch his perfect silhouette and his tiny little waist disappear into the staff room. Then you realize what you've been looking at and let yourself get mad all over again.

He does have a nice ass, though. You'll give him that.

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"You'll never guess what I have."

"Is it better than this lox bagel?" You answer, mouth unattractively full.

Seungkwan's answer is the sound of a straw hitting the bottom of an empty cup and the grating jostle of ice. Phone calls with him are like ASMR because he's always doing a million things at once, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

"Infinitely," he finally says, after procuring the last milliliter of what's likely his second coffee of the day. "Besides, we all know pesto is way better."

"Wrong, but okay," you reply. "What is it?"

"You're not gonna thank me for being the best friend in the world? Me, an editor, keeping nepotism alive for you? A mere columnist?"

"Senior columnist," you laugh between bites. "You need me. Who else would you text during content meetings?"

"Whatever." His eye roll is audible. "I guess I won't tell you."

He shakes his cup again, all ice and no patience.

"Fine! I owe you. My career and my life."

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

You take another greedy bite, letting the everything on an everything bagel get all over your chin. You love dressing up and going to restaurants that cost more than both of your kidneys, but there's something sacred about eating a $10 bagel behind the shield of your computer screen at a cafe where no one knows you.

There's someone laughing really loudly somewhere, and if you weren't otherwise preoccupied, you would look for the offender and give them a hard glare. You don't know what could possibly be that funny at 9 AM, but, then again, you never were a morning person.

"So, I have intel. About Seungcheol." You can picture the glint in Seungkwan's eyes, glittery and caramel. Unfortunately, the news that it's related to your worst enemy makes you sit up a little straighter. "At today's content meeting, Joshua said that he's working on some kind of challenge to go on as many dates as possible. He might make it a series."

"How tacky," you say, but the information clanks around in your brain like shoes in a washing machine. The indulgent, clickbaity headline just falls together perfectly—I Went On 50 First Dates So You Don't Have To. Exactly the kind of article your mom sees on Facebook and sends to you.

"You have to admit it's a decent idea. Not as good as yours, but it'll get engagement," is Seungkwan's reply, but you can barely hear it over the swell of another sitcom-esque laugh, this time, from a woman. "The other editors are very invested in this whole thing, by the way. Of course, I'm betting on you."

You're about to very openly stress about people gambling on your success when your eyes wander to the backside of the Sports Illustrated model getting napkins at the counter. Not bad at all, you think. It may be too early for the comedy club, but appreciating the male figure has no schedule.

And then he turns around, and you're able to see past the curly hair, muscle tee, beauty pageant smile—it's none other than Choi Seungcheol, fully outfitted with the audacity to trespass on your bagel place. You have never been more disgusted by your heterosexuality.

You hide behind your computer screen.

"Helloooo?" comes Seungkwan on the line. "Are you making out with your breakfast or something?"

"Seungkwan, I gotta go," you hiss. Your eyes follow Seungcheol as he makes his way back to his table. "There's a…situation."

You watch him sit across from a beautiful girl in a sundress and Prada sunglasses, and her lips tumble into a brilliant red smile.

It would be really fucking funny if he was on a date, you think, but then you see him make the kind of eyes you last saw in the deepest, stickiest recesses of a frat house on thirsty Thursday. Then you realize he is on a date, that he's been on a date, and it's his laugh that is equally annoying as it is loud.

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

"Ok, talk to you later. Bye!" You can hear the beginning of one of Seungkwan's protests, but you hang up before he's able to properly complain. Maybe you'll have to do a little better than Momofuku—that's a problem for later.

Over the rim of your laptop, you catch glimpses of their conversation. You notice Seungcheol talks a lot with his hands, and you wonder if that's another one of his tips or if that's just him. Him and those big clown hands, illustrating a story that you're unfortunately too far away to hear.

But you can hear her laugh again, and you try to guess what he's talking about. His childhood dog. The insurmountable burden of being prom king and captain of the football team. This little not-competition and this little not-rivalry between the two of you. How the PB&J bagel is the best thing on the menu (it's not, but you see the berry compote all over his fingers and you know that's the hill he's dying on).

No matter how you spin it, it's a hard pill to swallow. Choi Seungcheol is good at what he does, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

You hear the careening lilt of what seems to be Seungcheol whining, and there's a brief flash of something like endearment in your stomach before the repulsion sets in.

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

The question, sinister and burning, writhes in your brain as you chew on the ice from your coffee and stare at a blank Word document, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

It's number 3 on Seungcheol's article titled Revenge and Other Stories. Unsurprisingly, he must not practice what he preaches, because you currently have all nine circles of Dante's Inferno inside you right now.

Play nice, Jeonghan had told you. Looks better to upper management.

And you did, until one of your photo requests mysteriously got deleted. Then Joshua told you to cut 500 words from this week's column because Seungcheol's just "happened" to be a little longer this time.

The knockout punch was yesterday when Seungcheol told you he was using your January critic's choice pick to take Wonwoo out for a friendly dinner, his treat. If you had known, you would've called ahead and told them to poison the hamachi. (No matter. Any foodie worth their salt knows Thursday is the worst day for sushi).

Now you sit on the C train, dressed to the nines, because you have a date with destiny at Nai. Sometimes destiny is a big pan of paella for one, but this time, it's Seungcheol and his next victim on date night.

Getting him there was so easy, it was almost criminal. An obnoxiously loud elevator phone call in which you name dropped the executive chef, a friend of yours, at least four times. Seungkwan very strategically asking you if a press pass can bypass reservations for a booked-out restaurant. Gossip in the break room with the intentional use of "intimate," "sangria drunk," and "affordable."

Affordable was a lie, but you're learning quickly that a hungry fish will take any bait. And seeing Seungcheol's face is never a joy, but you're not opposed to watching him open the menu for the first time.

"I have a killer Spanish accent," Seungcheol told you on the way out today.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The subway car rumbles under you. You're almost in East Village. You don't normally spend your Friday nights crashing dates—you actually don't really spend them outside your apartment at all, but Seungcheol is the exception to the rule and you're making a lot of them for him. A small price to pay for the glory of dethroning Casanova.

The plan is to "accidentally" run into Seungcheol and his Friday night exploit, and then to casually, non-bitterly mention a, that she is about to become a statistic, b, that his idea of chivalry was birthed in the basement of the Alpha Omega house, and c, that you're surprised he's still single because you always happen to catch him on dates. Something like that.

This is admittedly the best you could come up with. Like you said, you don't really crash dates. You don't really sabotage people either, but Seungcheol declared war the minute his Folgers breath hit your face outside Wonwoo's office.

Then you think of all the ways things can absolutely backfire. Seungcheol's warm, carefree whirl of laughter when he explains you're office rivals, or worse, lies and says you're nothing but a jilted, jealous ex. Or this whole thing could simply be immortalized in his winning article as a jaunty sentence about making the most out of a bad situation, yada yada yada.

You picture watching another girl, spellbound, as you dig into your table-for-one paella.

In your mind's eye, she laughs, floaty like his date at the bagel place, and for a moment you understand what it might feel like to want Choi Seungcheol.

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Friday night at Nai is red and glittering and heady with saffron.

You remember when you first ate here, two weekends after the soft open, early in your career at the paper. After a three hour conversation over wine and octopus with the owner, you wrote the restaurant a glowing review that, to your surprise, helped land it several ritzy awards. Now the dining room is never empty, but they always find space for you.

That was the first time you learned that all of this work meant something. Yeah, you loved an excuse to stuff your face and get paid for it, but what was even better was the chance to tell the stories of a working father's hand-pulled noodles, the drunk, midnight origins of a tasting menu, the caramel-greedy fingers of a well-loved childhood.

This is the long way of explaining how you bypass the two hour standby wait time, and how you walk in on a first name basis with the manager.

You're fully prepared to see Seungcheol mid-churro, perhaps four pick-up lines deep and wondering if he still has a condom in his wallet.

That's why you almost miss him on your way to your table. His is empty, other than a lonely, watered down martini on the rocks and two menus.

"Seungcheol?"

He looks up at you, and something like genuine surprise melts into relief, then intrigue.

"Look at who crawled out of her dungeon," he chuckles. "You clean up good."

Whatever pity you may have felt for him vaporizes instantly. Although, when he beckons for you to sit in the empty seat across from him, you do take the bait—you're not about to pass up a good opportunity to humble your least formidable foe.

"Refreshing to see that our love guru isn't above dining solo," you reply. "I have to admit, your acting is impressive. What an elaborate ruse to get another poor, single diner to pity you enough to sit with you."

"It worked, didn't it?" He takes a sip of his cocktail, which is almost a brand new drink because it's 90% water, 10% martini by now.

"I'm no expert, but pretending to get stood up is not a tip I would give the general public."

"Who said I was pretending?"

No fucking way. Your jaw drops. It's too unreal to believe. Even if the slutty cut of Seungcheol's shirt wasn't persuasive enough, surely the prospect of enjoying a free Michelin star dinner would warrant an appearance, even for you. Breaking News: New York's Hottest Bachelor Ghosted at Top Restaurant. If only that were as wonderful to the average reader as it is to you.

Because waiters are trained to enter conversations at the best possible time, you're forced to pause and order a wine for the table and some tapas. (No paella for one? Seungcheol asks, and you try to reconcile your annoyance with the fact that one, he's read your review of this place, and two, that he looks mildly turned on that you can pronounce all the menu items. You tell the waiter to add a paella.)

"You got stood up?" You cross your arms over your chest. "You may think I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb."

"You have no idea how flattering your reaction is." He laughs, and the air shifts around him, drawing you further into his eyes, inky under the lowlight. "I understand you think I'm irresistible, but, alas, not everyone shares your opinion."

"I never said that."

You hate how easy it is for him to push your buttons. You hate how in control he is, and you hate how he's looking at you like you're on the menu.

The waiter returns with the wine, and you decide you're feeling equally as terrible.

"Truly, you can't be that irresistible. After all this time writing about relationships, you would think you'd actually be in one."

Touché, you think. Normally, it would be too low a blow, even for you, except that his column-related debauchery is one of the four thrilling conversation topics he subjects you to at the office. And who are you to bury the lede?

"Coaches don't play," Seungcheol says, leaning back and popping the martini olive in his mouth offensively, as if he's not at a restaurant that takes months to get a good table at.

"Bullshit." You lean forward and chase his gaze. He doesn't shy away; rather, he meets you with an appraising raise of an eyebrow. "Coaches should at least know how to throw the ball."

"What do you think we're doing right now?"

"Oh, please." Your wrist twitches as you fight the urge to down your entire glass of merlot in a single gulp. You picture the title of his next article: Top 10 Ways To Get A Woman Drunk. And then the oh so charming punchline: 1. Be so insufferable she cannot last a conversation without her real life partner, wine.

"See? I've already got you laughing." He notices the generous sip missing from your glass and tops you up.

"No, you do not get to make this about me."

Somehow, you are laughing, but you chalk it up to the spiteful little man in your brain writing headlines for Seungcheol's column.

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

"Need I remind you I'm only here because your actual date stood you up? Too soon?"

"I prefer you anyway," he answers, his expression half-challenge, half-something else that you don't really want to think about.

"Crazy, because I'd rather be literally anywhere else."

Signs You Are In A Hostage Situation, Not A Date.

"You should stick to food. You're a bad liar." He cocks his head to the empty table next to him. "It's still open if you want it."

"I'm no quitter."

Maybe The Male Gaze Isn't So Bad: A Thinkpiece.

Definitely not that one.

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"So, before I try anything," Seungcheol says, leaning across the table. "Teach me how to be a food critic."

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

"You can keep it," he laughs. "I'm gonna be your boss, not your replacement."

You notice he'll linger on the tail end of his sentences, betting on the response you haven't even come up with yet. He's picking apart the furrow of your brow, the marrow of your brain. It's like one drawn out interview, but you suppose that's all dating really is. Maybe your journalism degree wasn't a waste of money after all.

You won't give him the satisfaction of a fight (plus, you don't want the food to get cold), so you change the subject.

"Well, I take pictures first," you say, waving away his overeager fork.

"Genius. They really scammed you out of your Pulitzer, huh?"

You ignore him in lieu of repositioning the chorizo. Unfortunately, Seungcheol is unrelenting. You hear the snap of his phone camera, clearly taking a photo of you and not the meal—clever, but you won't bite.

"Wanna be in my story? I can tag you."

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

"Sure. So the world can know I'm a charity worker too."

He whistles, clutching his heart. If he weren't so annoying, you would find him a little cute. Just a little. You blame the kitchen for whatever aphrodisiac is in the food today.

"Live update: date with food critic going about as well as an episode of Hell's Kitchen."

He says this leaning forward, elbows on the table, so close to you that your knees might touch. You tense at the thought.

"Any date of mine would be on better behavior."

"So you're admitting this is a date?"

"This," you wave your hand over the table. "This is not a date. This is me regretting ever pitying you."

"Well, pity looks good on you."

And there it is again, that accursed, perfect smile. This time, it works, and you fight the losing battle of the wine flush undoubtedly all over your face. It bothers you that there's a little part of you that enjoys this, but that's a confession you plan on taking to the grave.

"Enjoy it while it lasts, because you're not getting any again."

"Fine. I'm still waiting for your grand secret," he says, now biting the tines of his fork like an untrained dog. No rest for the weary, you suppose. "Food is food. Prove me wrong."

Despite the betrayal of your basal human instincts, you're determined to make this a bad encounter. Maybe you hadn't anticipated the full force of Seungcheol's overgrown fratboy persona, but you came here for a reason and you do plan to see it through.

"There is no secret." You split apart an empanada, the guts steaming and fragrant. "You eat."

"Like this?" He crams an entire piece in his mouth, and you watch him recoil and huff the heat out. "Mmm, 's pretty good, though."

Your eyes almost roll back far enough to see the wrinkles of your brain. Of course he wouldn't get it, but you don't know what you were expecting from a guy who thinks Hot Pockets are fine dining.

You put on your most pretentious food critic face. "Eating is about respect. Storytelling. He's retelling the first time someone made him this dish. The ingredients—they're words on a page. An autobiography." Your hand finds your chest and you sigh, a final touch to your Oscar winning melodrama that would certainly annoy anyone with even half a brain.

"Huh. Poetic," he says. He's still fanning his (very full) mouth, but he chews a little more slowly. "I'm respecting. I'm taking it in."

You don't know if he's actually doing any of that, but, when he takes his next bite he asks about what's in it (tomato, raisin, egg) and if someone really made the chef an empanada when he was younger (yes, on the flour-printed counter, every Sunday morning).

You press on. It shouldn't take much to bore him, but with every question, food-related factoid, and snide comment you have, he matches you with genuine curiosity. Either he's an excellent actor or he's secretly culinary school-bound, because you can't actually imagine anyone putting up with any of that, nonetheless I like dick jokes and football Choi Seungcheol.

You spend the rest of the evening like this, spoon to heart to cherry mouth. The wine is abundant, and Seungcheol spends more time listening than talking, which he admits is a first for him.

"You really know a lot about food," he says, likely fighting the urge to use his finger to get the last of the chocolate sauce off the churro plate. "I like that."

It's a cheap compliment in a game of low blows, but it sits warm and content in your chest. You have to force yourself back to the night you met him, when he was all cognac and one-liners and he gave you his spare hotel room key. A good reminder of his true nature, you think, despite the fact that he just listened to you talk about all the different grains of rice, ad nauseum.

"It's my job," is your reply, adequately distant for your liking.

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

"What more is there to know?" You hold up the check. "You're paying, right? Chivalry and all that?"

You're waiting for him to mention the company card, the only one allocated to your section that Seungcheol couldn't possibly have because it's sitting snug in your purse. The one you'll say you conveniently forgot so you get to see a grown man squirm at paying the bill.

"Already did. Gave the host my card when I got here. You're holding the customer copy." His chuckle disappears under the lip of his wine glass. "Bet you were excited to use the company card, huh?"

If shame were a physical object, you feel like your own personal Atlas. Your only option is to stare at the wasteland of empty plates before you and wonder how deep Seungcheol's pockets really are.

"Hardly. More excited that I burned a hole in your wallet." You click your tongue, out of options on how to ruin Seungcheol's night. You would spill wine on him but there's none left. "Anyway, I'm heading out."

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

He calls you a taxi, and you walk out together, night heavy with the rhinestone glare of Friday night traffic.

"I actually had a nice time tonight," Seungcheol says, emphasis on the actually.

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

The taxi pulls to the curb, and he sighs, weighty with exaggerated relief. You can't even take it seriously because he's looking right at you and badly failing to push down the smile at the corners of his mouth.

It's only now that you notice his eyes are really brown, like he's from a cartoon or something. Worse, you'd daresay they're nice, less menacing, when they're tempered by a good meal and semi-public humiliation.

"Text me when you get back to your villain lair."

"If I were a real villain, you would have a lot more to worry about."

Seungcheol opens the cab door for you, and you catch a whiff of the cologne he undoubtedly smeared on in the toothpaste-streaked mirror of his five by five studio bathroom. Pine, leather, and citrus, which is the most pedestrian combination of smells to exist and yet you doubt it hasn't done him any favors.

"I'm terrified. Shaking." You clamber into the backseat, and he smiles at you again, as if you've forgotten what all his other ones looked like. "By the way—"

You have half a mind to shut the door in his face, but you can't find it within you—maybe it's the wine, or perhaps pure defeat. Probably the former.

"This job. It's—" He clicks his tongue and looks at the tops of his leather shoes. He's actually thinking, and you don't like it. "Never mind. See you Monday."

And then the words are gone. He shuts the cab door, and they're left in a plume of exhaust and Seungcheol's tiny waving figure in the rearview mirror.

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"So you're telling me you went on a date with your worst enemy."

It's 8 AM, and Jeonghan isn't pulling punches. Even through the phone, you can see his lazy grin, the pen he's flipping in his hand, the green ribbon of the Dow Jones on his desktop.

The newsroom is refreshingly near empty, except for Joshua, who hovers around the water cooler like a fly on the wall, if flies wore Armani ties and cigarette jeans.

"It wasn't a date, and I wanted to ruin it so he would have nothing to write about."

"No one goes on a date to ruin it. You could have just left."

"Clearly you haven't seen How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days."

"Are you serious." Jeonghan laughs, crackly and bright. "Care to tell me how that movie ends?"

"Except he isn't Matthew Mcconaughey. He says spaghetti like pah-scetti and doesn't use Oxford commas."

Mid-laugh, you endure another beat of extended eye contact with your editor until he beckons you over. He'd likely been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt the conversation he was so subtly eavesdropping on—oh, how you love a newsroom with an "open floor plan" to "facilitate communication." Sometimes you think the reason Joshua's stuck around this long is because reporters can't stay away from drama, especially if they're not the ones reporting it.

"I gotta go," you tell Jeonghan, whose version of a goodbye is a triumphant cackle.

You find Joshua putzing around, plastic water cup incriminatingly full.

"I take it you had an enjoyable weekend?" he asks, eyes sequined with all the secrets they hold.

"Yup. Just working on that Dining Through The Years article." Not entirely a lie—you are hedging your bets on this story, one where you revisit the restaurants you wrote about when you first got your start at the paper (Nai included, although admittedly yesterday's food was the least of your concerns). "You needed me?"

"Glad to see New York's finest chefs are well-versed in Kate Hudson's filmography," he says, grinning something beastly. If he weren't your boss, you'd knock that little water cup clean out of his hand. "Anyway, if your interview is over, I need you to go on a field trip."

"Field trip?"

Surely you're better than a task for the interns. You wonder if they're off fighting their own demons, seeing as you missed the circus in the elevator this morning, the usual juggle of hazelnut lattes and lemon poppyseed muffins for the higher-ups.

"Wonwoo needs you to help pick out catering for the corporate event later next week." Joshua tips his head back at Wonwoo's glass-plated office, where you see him redoing his tie in the reflection of his computer monitor. "My guess is that Yerim is going to be there, and he wants to make a good impression. Like an 'I consulted a food expert' impression."

Classic gossip queen Hong Joshua, always with the unnecessary but incredibly cogent commentary on office politics. You think you're actually going to miss the bastard.

"Flattered," you remark dryly. "Catering from where?"

"That's the thing. It's from this Thai place like two hours out from the city."

Two hours: code for an all day endeavor. He wasn't kidding when he said field trip.

You graciously resist the urge to groan out loud. No one told you taking the high road is one big slog through the mud, but here you are. You tell yourself this will help your campaign to be editor—the stinky, dirt-smeared silver lining.

"Before you ask—yes, I know you cannot take the subway there." You blink at him, wondering why this all feels like the set-up to a terrible joke. "Luckily, as you probably know, Seungcheol drives here every day and has offered to help."

Ah. There it is. You look for the blinking applause sign hanging above your head and the chorus of riotous Seungcheols making up your own personal laugh track.

"Only back to the office, though—" Joshua adds, as if that provides you any solace. "There's a one-way bus going up there at noon."

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

"Something about funds," he replies, shrugging. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"You're not the one I'm thinking of shooting."

"Who knows? Maybe he is Matthew McConaughey." And when your glare turns sharp as the edge of a santoku knife, he holds his hands up like he's getting arrested. "I'm just saying. As your friend, not your editor."

Whatever.

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You have to admit, Wonwoo does have impeccable taste in Thai food.

Three noodle dishes, two curries, and the best mango sticky rice you've ever had: that's what it took for you to finally say "not all men." Certainly not Wonwoo, who's in deep enough to send his goons cross-state for a girl he's tried to woo for almost a whole year now.

A tamarind sunset blankets the countryside in milk and honey. You're sitting on a bench, ridiculously full with leftovers to spare, waiting for your chauffeur from hell.

Two years and you still don't know what car Seungcheol drives. Your last memory of it is it being flashy, impractical, and loud, much like him.

You know this, and yet you are still surprised when a gnat of a BMW rips into the curb in front of you. The passenger window crawls down, and Seungcheol has the gall to whistle at you.

For someone so predictable, he sure does manage to find new ways to piss you off. Unfortunately, on brand— according to him, Consistency Is Key (number 2 on Keeping the Spark Alive, August 2022 issue). You've done your reading.

"You're welcome," is the first thing Seungcheol says to you after cranking down the volume of the radio and watching you fumble with the seatbelt.

"You really didn't have to." You look at the array of gas station snacks bubbling out of the cupholders—Sour Patch Kids, a Big Gulp, and Flamin’ Hot Fritos. You didn't even know they sold Sour Patch Kids to full grown adults.

Still, you do feel a little bad. You can count on one hand the amount of people you would do this for and still have one or two cheese-dusted fingers left.

"But, thank you."

"Joshua made me," he says, and what happened this morning starts to make a lot more sense. "Plus, I was a little jealous. I would kill for a day frolicking in the sun, eating delicious food, far, far away from the big city. Not trapped like me in the newsroom, exhausted, toiling away on my magnum opus."

The sigh that crawls from his chapped lips practically shakes the car.

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

You choose to watch the strip of shitty New York highway unravel through the greasy passenger window. No point in picking a fight when you're in a leather quilted jail cell for the foreseeable future.

It's at the thirty minute mark where Seungcheol casts the first stone of terrible, stilted small talk.

"Why'd you get sent all the way out here anyway?"

The red taillight flush of rush hour floods the car, an unpleasant reminder of the real sunset left far behind you.

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

Why does it matter? Is your first thought, but you realize he's attempting to actually have a genuine conversation with you, which you suppose is better than him flinging around another rude remark. Either that, or he's falling asleep, and you'd rather not have the last moments of your life be in Seungcheol's chick magnet car.

"Joshua thinks it's because he wants to impress Yerim at the corporate meeting this week. I guess she likes Thai."

Traffic is slow enough for him to turn to look at you, really look at you.

"Come on, he can't like her that much."

"Yes, he can." you try to read his expression, neon-glossy. "This isn't even that much effort."

"Nah," he shrugs. "There's gotta be some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe he wants to move into corporate."

"Hot take for a romantic." You frown. "Not everything people do is a career move, you know."

You omit the unlike you that sits heavy in the back of your throat, although, his cavalier approach to relationships is starting to make a little more sense. You wonder if this whole thing—the dates, the watch, the Invisalign smiles—is just a long, drawn-out joke to him.

"Seems like a lot of effort to go through for an office crush." His gaze drifts back to the road. "The extravagant birthday present. Always having her favorite flowers in the office. That one cringe voicemail we all heard him re-record ten times. No one likes anyone that much. Come on. Her dad is the CEO of the company."

Suddenly his winning smile doesn't seem so triumphant. It almost feels like a betrayal, but you don't know why.

"Maybe he just likes her," you reply. "I dunno. I choose to believe that. I think it's sweet."

"Maybe you're the romantic." The words come out like an accusation; Seungcheol laughs, but all the joy's been sucked out of it.

"Who hurt you?"

"No one did. I'm just being honest."

You would laugh at the irony if it didn't feel like there was a vine wrapped round your throat. Life is funny, but never so funny as to curse New York's favorite romance writer with cynicism and a lying streak.

"Controversial, but I actually want to do nice things for the person I like."

"And when was the last time that happened?" He's deflecting, which is predictably on brand for him. His grin, now playful, is propped up by a pair of frustratingly well-formed dimples.

You can't even find it within you to protest because he's right—you haven't dated in a long time. Joshua stopped asking if you were bringing a plus one to office parties ages ago.

But it's not that you can't—in fact, the last time you did, you think it broke you a little inside. It's certainly not a story Seungcheol's privy to, though. You already feel strange, cut-open, trying to convince him that people are capable of meaningful relationships.

Childishly, there's also a part of you chasing the truth about him because it takes him further and further away from you. So you do what you do best and deflect again. Two can play at that game.

"Not taking criticism from a guy who's dated half of the city and has nothing to show for it."

"I wouldn't say nothing."

He opens his mouth then closes it again, as if he's revising the words on his tongue. Journalist behavior, which you didn't even know he could still exhibit.

Now you're really thinking. Who hurt him, and how? The development that Seungcheol is more than the playboy slime haunting page 3 intrigues you more than you'd care to admit.

Before you can pry, Seungcheol's stomach growls, almost offensively loud.

"Sorry," he says. "Who would've thunk that corn chips aren't a balanced meal?"

You stare at the takeout boxes snug in your lap. There is a cosmic message being sent right now.

Seungcheol's sad, Frito-filled belly. Fresh noodle that won't keep well in the fridge. Tax and tip for a four hour car ride back to the city. Expanding your repertoire of blackmail so that you can claim your rightful helm at the paper.

These are all the reasons you give yourself for what you ask next.

"You in a rush?"

"How could I be—do you see the blinding speed we're driving at?" He laughs at his own incredibly unfunny attempt at a joke. "No, I'm not."

"I may or may not have an actual balanced meal for you."

That’s how you end up in the parking lot of a random 7/11 off the freeway. In any other circumstances, it would be a cruel and unusual punishment, but you've already been whittled down enough to actually care about Seungcheol, even if just a little.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you watch him finish the last of the takeout.

"So I'm bad at food, and you're bad at love. Why the fuck did Wonwoo even think of promoting either of us?" Seungcheol kicks his shoes off and props his feet up on the dashboard. You notice his socks have dogs on them, little linty brown ones, and you feel a little worse about openly bullying him about his fashion taste in front of the entirety of copy staff.

"I may be bad at love, but you're worse. Especially for someone who does it for a living," you retort. "Don't think I forgot our earlier conversation."

You try to read the tiny text on a receipt he's got stashed in the center console, among his graveyard of snack wrappers. (2) CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH…8.78. (1) M MT DEW BAJA BLAST…1.00.

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

"You think I'm not kicking myself right now? That I have a beautiful girl in my car right now, and all we do is argue?"

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

It gets awfully quiet. The noise of the freeway seems to screech to a fever pitch, all horns and the thrum of the asphalt. You wish anything but John Mayer was playing on the radio.

You will the headlines man in your head to make you laugh. Instead, your brain presses the word beautiful into your neurons and you feel all the heat in your body float to your face, traitorously, dizzyingly. John Mayer croons, your body is a wonderland and your stomach knots into itself over and over again.

"Stop that."

"What?" Seungcheol's head lolls to his shoulder so he can look at you from the corner of his eye. " 's not a big deal. Never been called beautiful?"

A grin plays on his lips, expression dancing on something grim, like he's spoken his final words.

"I'm serious! Stop trying to get me to like you." You huff and cross your arms over your chest, like it'll somehow make you feel more normal. "I'm not some experiment for your column."

"Is it working?"

You don't answer. How can you? There's a yes resting on the roof of your mouth, surely the product of the handful of real, actual moments you've now had with him—far too many for your liking. This whole charade has been a balancing act on the razor edge between rivals and something else, and now you're feeling the sting.

"For the record, I have been called beautiful before."

"And for the record, you're not an experiment for my column. You never were."

There's a relief that pulses through your chest, a breathless, wonderful kind of dizziness. You grab hold of it as soon as it's reared its ugly head. You're flying way too close to the sun, chasing cheap validation from the same guy who ate your lunch out of the fridge last week.

He's no better—he looks like the vulnerability cracked him open a little, and you're the one holding the hammer. It makes for a grubby, unflattering portrait of two emotionally inept people trying to play feelings.

However, much like all other things Seungcheol, any glimpse of something real is gone before you know it. He takes a loud, noisy pull of Diet Coke, and the spell is broken.

"Want any?" And when you shake your head, grateful to swallow the words pressed to your tongue, he says, "Should we wait out traffic here?"

This is an easier yes. You tell yourself you're getting sick of brake lights and reading the license plates on the back of other people's cars. Certainly that makes Seungcheol's gaze, lingering and moonlight-warmed, a little more tolerable.

For once, you don't talk about Wonwoo or your job. You don't talk about love, either.

Maybe this is the reason the next few hours slip through your fingers. Three folded takeout pagodas and a secret—somehow this is all it takes for you to hate Seungcheol just a little less.

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Usually, a good eggs benedict can solve the majority of your problems. Today seems to be the exception. The hollandaise is broken, Jeonghan is already laughing at you, and nothing will ever erase the fact that Seungcheol drove you home last night and now he knows where you live. If you wake up one morning and see a sniper laser pointed at your forehead, you have no one to blame but yourself.

"You look exhausted." An eighth of a buckwheat pancake disappears into Jeonghan's mouth. "You literally eat for a living. There is no reason for them to keep you late."

Jeonghan has a funny way of caring about you, but he's right. You did get home at 2 AM yesterday, but that was on you, not Wonwoo.

"I'm not going to let a corporate slug tell me what is and isn't a real job," you sigh, taking a swig of your half-flat mimosa and reminding yourself to figure out which staff writer gave this place 4 stars in last week's paper.

"Says the girl who needs the company card to afford bottomless brunch," Jeonghan replies.

"At least I'm not a slave to my career."

"What do you call this whole thing with your coworker then, huh? It's all you text me about." The smirk on Jeonghan's face is miserably, tragically righteous, and you can't even be mad about it.

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

"You sent me a five minute voice memo the other day ranting about how he went on a date with another girl." And just like the little shit he is, he even pulls up your mile-long text history, just to rub it in your face a little harder.

"Am I not allowed to wish for his demise? Since when were you the mature one?"

"I wouldn't call keeping track of his whereabouts wishing for his demise." Jeonghan takes a well-timed bite of your hashbrowns. "Something tells me you're wishing for something a little different."

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

You watch Jeonghan power down another mimosa, half-fascinated, half-appalled he would even dream of suggesting something so vile.

The memory of Seungcheol, leant back in the driver’s seat, lowering greasy spools of rice noodles into his mouth, crosses your mind. He had laughed until he cried when he asked you if a pineapple had really fried this rice. That was the kind of man you were dealing with. You can't believe you laughed with him.

"I think it'll be good for you to get back into dating again. Mingyu was, what, three years ago?"

And that's the chocolate chip studded, syrup-covered nail in your coffin. Of course all roads had to lead back to you and your relationship trauma Jeonghan considered unresolved.

You had dated Mingyu when you were younger, softer. It was a love of firsts, of sun-washed mornings and farmer's market Sundays, of raw, black currant midnights and whatever long-winded conversation you had spent all day on.

Mingyu was a chef. His hands, his lips, his eyes—that's how you fell in love with food. Strawberry kisses into fresh pasta into the first time someone had ever cooked for you. What a wonderful, terrible thing to see all your history on a plate, the I could never eat peas, the once I ate mangos till I was sick, the guilty spoon in the vanilla ice cream after a bad day and the dark chocolate you keep in your purse. He remembered that you like your noodles just a little bit overcooked, and you don't even think you told him that.

Food, like some shitty piece of home decor would say in that swirling, curly font, really is some window to the soul. It didn't fully hit you until, one day, you were at the grocery store alone, and somehow you knew exactly what brand of everything Mingyu liked.

You opened a restaurant together after you graduated from college. Then it closed, and you lost Mingyu to Naples or New Orleans or Seoul—somewhere, anywhere to escape the corner of 5th and 40th, the December-pleated memory of his hands in yours and a promise you could never keep.

You're sure you're over it by now, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't look for him in a bowl of his favorite ramyun, the one you could never replicate even though he insisted he just added hot water (Food tastes best when it's a gift, he'd say. You never understood until now.).

Jeonghan doesn't believe you because every time you try explaining this to him, you end up sounding like the most chronically lonely person on planet Earth.

"That is the wrong guy to suggest then," you instead reply, feeling all the food dry up in your mouth.

"I'm running out of options."

"Don't you have a hot coworker or something?"

You shut your eyes, pushing Mingyu back to recall literally any face from one of the many swanky corporate parties Jeonghan bullied you into attending. The only person coming to mind is Lee Chan, and even more than his face, you remember the fat platinum band around his ring finger (Better luck next time, Jeonghan had said, mid-cheese cube).

Worse, amidst all the fuzz, a grainy recollection of Seungcheol's wet cow eyes washes up against your eyelids, and it's not going away this time.

"I thought we were all corporate slugs," Jeonghan replies, enjoying the way you glower at him over your fork. "I was kidding, anyway. Relax."

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

You thank god that Jeonghan is never serious, because otherwise you'd have to consider the fact that he really thought you should date Seungcheol. Jeonghan, who knows the pizza column you, the Mingyu you, and now the you that works late because there's nothing else left to do, really might have thought you should date grifter by day, con artist by night Seungcheol.

The fluorescent glaze of the gas station lights. Seungcheol's hand on the gear stick. His voice, warm and gauzy. It's like there's a flash drive of last night plugged into your head, and you can't take it out.

The stem of the champagne glass finds your hand, and you down the whole thing.

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Monday is uneventful. So is Tuesday, and you wonder what good deed you'd done to deserve such a blessing.

Wednesday, you realize you're just three interviews away from what could possibly be the best article of your life. Unfortunately, two of those won't pick up the phone and the third keeps rescheduling on you.

That's fine—Rome wasn't built in a day, and the same hopefully applies to your future noodle empire.

You're using your lunch break to write an email to number two when you notice Seungcheol hovering around your desk, a plastic straw in his mouth and evil in his eyes.

He's taken to publicly annoying you at work more than usual—Progress, Joshua had told you in the elevator this morning. Towards what? you had asked. He shrugged, letting his crafty, knowing look do all the talking.

"Me, you, and date number two?" is today's opening line. Before you can peel yourself away from your computer and give him a good lashing for whatever the fuck he just said to you, he continues with, "How's that for a follow-up text to my speakeasy date?"

"Lame," you reply, hackles still raised but now re-reading your email for typos.

"Wrong. You were supposed to say incredibly romantic, extremely witty, and unfairly charming." He perches his baseball player ass on the corner of your desk, waiting to be humbled. This is the usual order of things, which has shockingly become more of a familiarity than anything else.

"Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?"

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Just one, but it's the only one that matters."

"Ew. Gross." You wrinkle your nose and attempt to soothe your temper with a sip of the terrible protein shake you got for lunch. "No wonder your column sucks."

"If mine sucks, I'd hate to see what people are saying about yours." And when your reply is a tired, hungry swig of your sad drink, he says, "No lunch today? Even I had something better."

"Lucky you."

The bigger truth is that that the deadline for your article, looming before you, is getting to you more than you'd care to admit. Seungcheol isn't helping, not with his bottomless magic hat of date stories that seems to only grow deeper by the day. Now you're forgetting to pack a lunch, and the highlight of your day has been reduced to punching numbers into a vending machine.

Things are bad, but you'll never say that aloud, especially not to the guy who'll spend the next five years dunking on you if you keep this up.

You stare down the lip of your bottle at the faux-chocolate dregs streaking the bottom.

The month before Mingyu opened his restaurant, you were so preoccupied with making sure everything was just right that you also forgot to eat. One day, leftovers from his work started magically appearing in your fridge. Chow fun (miss you!), salt and pepper shrimp (don't forget to drink water!), a gargantuan vat of hot and sour soup (love you most!).

It was a perfect coincidence until you realized there was no way Chinese takeout was coming out of a very French restaurant, and it was then you learned that love is never really a coincidence.

Now you have no coincidences, mapo tofu, or romance. Just muscle milk and a front row view of the struggling inseam of a man who must shrink his pants in the dryer.

He's peeling a tangerine. Your worst confession to date is that it's easy on the eyes. For once, his hands, always made busy with some scheme, now still over the rind, steady, practiced. Plus, it looks like a marble in his huge hands, which is unfortunately both funny and a little hot.

"Stare any longer, and I'm gonna forget how to peel this."

"Don’t flatter yourself. Just hungry," you half-lie.

Hungry, Stressed, And Delusional—The New Holy Trinity.

It's a catchy headline, but not a great look for you. Never in your life did you think you'd be ogling a man peeling an orange. He even takes all the pith off, and you don't have the heart to tell him that's where all the nutrients are.

"Exactly," he replies. Then he plops the naked, shiny fruit right on your bare desk. "Here. Eat."

You’re so taken aback, all you can do is stare. First at the orange, then at Seungcheol, who suddenly cannot make eye contact with you. Instead, he stacks the peel in his hands, dimpled piece over piece.

"Payback for the, uh, Thai," he says, and although you wouldn't equate a tangerine to James Beard awarded pad kee mao, all you can think of is an lime green sticky note in your fridge and a smile.

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

The idea that Seungcheol was capable of being genuinely nice to anyone, nonetheless, you—probably the most undeserving person of it in the world—makes you feel something close to guilt.

You push through the feeling, instead taking the fruit in your hand and splitting it between your thumbs. The flesh caves so easily, and it's then you remember that food, unlike people, doesn't have to be complicated.

You can feel a better person somewhere inside you, someone easier to care for and with less of a bad attitude. You're not there yet, but there's a dark, satisfying comfort in not being good enough for the indulgence of that kind of intimacy. An arm's length was never too far away for you, except now there's someone sitting on your desk and they gave you lunch. Worst of all, you don't think you mind.

You hold out the half—sticky, guilty fingers and all.

Seungcheol wordlessly accepts it. There's no surprise or confusion—he smiles, you say cheers, and you both take a bite.

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On weekends, the Korean place down the street from your college apartment sold corn dogs until 3 AM. That was when words came easy and love came easier.

It was with sugar all over your nose, eyes pressed to the once forgiving half-moon, where you told Mingyu you would become a writer.

The thing about youth is that it can float anything, no matter how holey, desperate it was. So you sailed through college, that gasping hope wound tight in your fist. Then you started freelancing, just in time for Mingyu’s soft open. You wanted to write, but more importantly, you wanted some way, any way to be useful to the person who had given you so much.

In retrospect, there was no way your crude attempts at actual journalism could ever generate real publicity for him. Not in the heart of New York, where a new restaurant opened every two days and someone wanted to get published every three.

So you eventually sank, and so did Mingyu, leaving you with all this creased, no good love in your chest to shrivel up with nowhere to go.

All of that landed you here. A degree, a dream job, and a laundry list of accolades, but the fruit of that love still hangs heavy and joy-rot on the vine, as you wait for it to be good enough for the taking.

Ironically, it reminded you of cooking. No one ever teaches you when to stop, and now every other joint has dry-aged steak and some version of a three-day demi glacé. But at least demi glacé tastes good—you don't even know what the fuck you're doing some days, and the feeling's never been worse than now, waiting on a call you were supposed to get two days ago.

The phone rings, just in time to distract you from the top button of Seungcheol's fitted shirt, which looks like it's holding on for dear life. He's currently deep in conversation with Mina from design, but every so often, he'll glance your way to see if you're just free enough to be bothered.

The unspoken perils of working late—less people around to pester on Wonwoo's dime.

Mina stuffs her laptop in her bag and checks her watch. Strike three for Seungcheol.

Working Hard Or Hardly Working: A Guide To Office Romances. You're surprised he hasn't written that one yet. Maybe Joshua shot it down.

"Hello?" The dial tone breaks into the warm, risen-bread voice of the woman you know to be the owner of one of your favorite hole-in-the-wall noodle spots. The Friday night after your review was published, there was a line out the door. It honestly felt like a no-brainer to you, and you had no hesitation telling the owner that you were sure her place would become a local mainstay. You watched her crow-footed eyes go moony and you couldn't help but picture the day your yellowed newspaper would be posted up on the wall, framed and prophetic.

You're ready to profusely apologize for not stopping by—truthfully, no bone broth has come close to hers. Instead, she apologizes to you, which you aren't sure is flattering or a sign something terrible has happened.

You hope it's the former, but you should have known that hoping has never been enough.

She tells you that she closed the doors to her restaurant yesterday. It all comes spilling out, one gut punch after the other, the bills and the empty tables and how things just weren't the same the year after your review was published. She thanks you for your time, your writing, and your belief, and then she hangs up.

Not a thing in your body feels capable of moving. All the phone static passes right through you until the week's canned up dread balls up in your throat and some darker-than-black feeling swallows you whole.

The fluorescent ceiling lights sear into you. You think you're going to cry, and that's the last thing you want.

To anyone else, it wouldn't be that serious. Restaurants close all the time, and you know an entry in your silly little column is a far cry from a Hail Mary. But all you can think of is Mingyu’s neon sign on 5th and 40th and the two pairs of hands that had to take it down. You think your fingerprints are still on it, right over the blue shock of the I and the N.

One more dream taking on water, and once again, you're at the sad, cruel center of it.

You try to imagine the gumpaste walls, bumpy and water-stained. Maybe a pale square where your review used to hang.

No, you're definitely going to cry.

Fuck this, fuck work, fuck the article. And fuck Seungcheol, who's packing up his annoying, jingly messenger bag and is the only thing standing between you and an empty office to lose your shit in.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to remember if you're wearing waterproof mascara today. Unfortunately, the cowbell of Seungcheol's bag sounds like it's catching up to you, and, like it or not, you are two shaky breaths away from breaking down in front of the last person in the world you want to see.

"Final touches on another titillating piece about pineapple on pizza?"

You have no stomach for yelling at him. You can't even look at him. Instead, you bury your head in your hands and tell him to never use the word titillating again.

"A little too soon to play editor, in my humble opinion."

You don't reply. You're trying to scare him off without really scaring him off because god knows you've done that with enough people. Either way, he's calling you a crazy bitch at the next holiday party. You can just hear it.

But you should've known Seungcheol, of all people, doesn't flinch at a little silence. You still feel him hovering behind you, probably wondering if it's the half-full vanilla protein shake on your desk that's turned you sour. Or if you'll really make good on your threat to shank him with the plastic knife you keep in your top drawer.

Just walk away, you think. Go the fuck home.

Seungcheol, who gets paid to play cupid like it's fantasy football, would never understand that bite of the dial tone. Not like that. Half an orange is a hell of a toll to pay for your unfortunate work-related trauma.

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

Four is cut short because instead of doing what he should have done and left, he places a hesitant hand at the base of your neck, between your shoulder blades.

"Hey, you ok?"

Easy, noncommittal words, but something in you cracks. You don't know what it is—maybe it's because it's late and you're running on nothing, maybe it's because you can't remember the last time a hand was so warm.

And so, against your better judgment, you lift your streaky, raccoon-eyed face (definitely didn't use waterproof today) from your hands to look at the same eyes you looked at not more than a month ago and swore at.

You're glad you have no idea what you look like, because it's bad enough that all the corners of Seungcheol's face fall.

"Whoa," he breathes.

Now he'll know when to leave me alone, you think, but then that hand slides to your shoulder and his expression becomes impossibly soft and what you thought was confusion, pity even, dips into affection, stinging and raw.

"Listen, I—," he clears his throat nervously. Perhaps he's running through his repertoire of Wikihow phrases to say to a sad person, but you, inexplicably, don't believe that. "I don't know what's going on, but if you, you know, ever needed to talk…" Then he points to himself because that's probably the longest he's gone without attempting to tell a joke.

You're two and a half shaky breaths into this conversation, and the likelihood you will start crying has not changed. If anything, the odds have gotten much worse because the stubbornness of Seungcheol's expression is fooling you into thinking he actually cares. The illusion is comforting—after all the fighting and sabotage and inconveniences, he's still made space for you. That, or he's keeping his enemies close.

Then his thumb rubs over the plane of your collarbone, and all the little walls and hurdles and dams and shields in you drop.

Close friends, closer enemies, and the infinitesimal space between you and Seungcheol.

You'll blame your sorry state of mind for what you're about to do because you can't really cope with any other explanation. That's a tomorrow problem.

Today, you trust Seungcheol. Today, you tell him not everything, but enough.

"Forgive yourself," he says. And before you protest and tell him, through the waves of tears and snot and lightheadedness, that your heart has yet to catch up to the rest of you, he interrupts you before you even start. "I get it. Just try."

You’re all too familiar with his sugar-floss, candy-coated platitudes that make everything seem so simple, but he looks you in the eye, or somewhere even deeper than that, with so much belief, it's contagious.

The words are ripped out from under you. All you can do is what you wanted to do in the first place. So you cry, and when Seungcheol takes you into his arms, at first tentatively and then all at once, you cry even harder.

"Is this ok?" he asks, so quietly, you almost don't hear him.

"Yeah, I-I think so."

You let him hold you, and all the noise and the heat and the static fades into a hum. His chin finds the top of your head and you let him do that too.

Neither of you say anything more. You don't need to.

All that matters is the welcome sound of someone else's heartbeat, a kind hand in your hair, and Seungcheol, with none of the charms and boasts and failed, half-baked insults he hides behind.

Just him, and you decide you like this version best.

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The emotional hangover you wake up with rivals that of every vodka-flavored morning you had when you were in college, plus another two shots.

There is nothing worse than the aftermath of a particularly bad episode of oversharing. There's a reason you don't talk about your personal life at all, but something about Seungcheol makes every single thing claw its way back up your throat.

A need to prove yourself. A tiny, whispering hope that if you give a little, you'll get a little in return. Or your pride, the familiar knife you keep wedged into your side. A million excuses rattle around in your head, but nothing will ever take away the fact that it felt good.

Shields down, heart bleeding—never did you think that's how you would find yourself in a state where you actually liked Seungcheol. It felt good to be taken seriously, to say that all the talk about foie gras and peppercorns and microgreens was just tableside service for a great love and an even greater apology. And you'd like to think somewhere between the tears and the linen of his shirt, you were finally understood.

Just try. The words, sun-warmed stones, float in the hollow of your chest. It felt a little more possible, coming out of Seungcheol's mouth, with that dumb, resolute expression of his.

You don't even know if you would do the same for him. If he came to you, rosy-eyed and breakdown-adjacent, would you drop everything and listen to him? Clearly his problems ran deeper than a pretty girl not calling him back, but you had never really cared to listen.

And that's something you'll give Seungcheol credit for—he puts up with you, with everything, really, albeit with clumsy hands and the mask of reluctance.

You roll onto your side to reach for your phone. There's a text from Jeonghan asking if you're still up for grabbing drinks this evening. (Always). You have your final interview at 2. (Thank god).

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

Somehow this is disappointing, which makes your day that much worse. Maybe the runny mascara wasn't as flattering as you thought.

8 Totally Normal Texts To Send When You're Overthinking.

Not a good headline for a worse situation. Honestly, you shouldn't care, but now you're here, staring at your phone and undecided on if you even want Monday to come or not.

You'll order one (or three) margaritas tonight. You'll ask Jeonghan about his upcoming trip to Seoul. You'll make your favorite overnight oats and you'll go to sleep and Sunday will pass just the same.

You won't think about Seungcheol's arms around you or his head on top of yours or the way he insisted he would drive you to the subway so you didn't have to walk. You almost brushed against his hand on the gear stick and the nearness made you want to throw up.

But you're not thinking about it. You can't. Not without falling in love just a little.

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"Here. Drink."

You set two cups on the table before sitting face-to-face with Seungcheol, who decided to roll up to a coffee date in a somehow flattering polo and slacks.

But it's not a date—you're just talking. It's a meet-up. Not a hangout, which sounds too familiar, and definitely not a date.

Yesterday did not go as planned. Margarita-buzzed and under Jeonghan's terrible influence, you texted Seungcheol. Just to clear up some stuff, you told yourself. Friday night's like a scab, and you just can't help coming back to it.

"So, you're a coffee connoisseur too, huh?" Seungcheol says, tipping his head to the side.

"Not nearly," you reply. "Just wanted to pay for something for once. I'm pretty sure I owe you at least fifty of these."

"I'll hold you to it." He's doing that thing where it's like he stares past you. It's the most impressive eye contact on the planet, and it's making you nervous.

Then the silence, once welcome, becomes awkward—the air turns stiff, clinging to all the things you haven't said yet.

You play chicken with the idea of being an emotionally intelligent person and just talking about what most certainly is on everyone's mind right now. The cup between your hands is burning your palms. Seungcheol smiles.

"I'm—" The exact moment you start, the words crinkle up on your tongue and all the walls come back up again. It's a terrible, inevitable instinct. "I'm sorry. For Friday."

"For…what?" Seungcheol pauses mid-sip to say this. "Also, this coffee is really good."

Arabica, orange, and honey, you want to say. But you can't deflect this time. Somehow Seungcheol has cornered you into this tiny cafe chair with that disarming grin and an overabundance of patience.

"Everything, I guess. You were just trying to leave."

"No, I wasn't." And he laughs, which makes your stomach fold over trying to figure out what there possibly is to laugh at. "I actually liked getting to know you. You…care a lot. And I didn't expect that."

Seungcheol's sincerity staggers you. You could ask what the hell he just meant by all of that, but you decide to take him for his word. You think you've experienced the most honesty from him in the past three days than you have in the entire span of time you've known him, and it almost feels like a privilege.

"Thanks…?"

"Don’t let it go to your head, though," he adds, as if to erase what he just said. "Can't have you walking around the office with a bigger stick in your ass."

"Poetic." You sigh. Once again, the illusion is shattered. You wonder if his kindness has a time limit. "How's your article coming along?"

"Nice try," he replies. "I'm not that easy."

"You're literally the definition of easy."

"Is that a compliment?" There's that challenge in his eyes again, that same look that he gave you outside Wonwoo's office. "You did ask me out on a date, despite saying that you'd rather eat glass. So I guess either there's a half-eaten plate in your trash or you've finally come to your senses."

"This is not a date. Dream on."

"You're right. This isn't a date." He leans forward on his elbows. "Just like our dinner date wasn't a date."

"It wasn't."

"Of course. If it was, I'd be asking stuff like…Where you're from. But I already know—h, e, double hockey—"

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

Not a date, but where'd you go to college? Not a date, but do you have a pet? Not a date, but can I walk you home?

You realize your talk in his car two weeks ago involved everything but your pasts, but you suppose neither of you are the type to unwrap old wounds. Sometimes the bandaid is better on, but, in your case, there's really nothing left to tell.

You divulge that you went to Northwestern for journalism. You have a family tabby, and no, you wouldn't mind being walked home.

You also realize before today, you knew less about Seungcheol than you thought, but there's some give to his secrecy. He went to USC because his parents wanted him to. Played football for half of it until he tore his ACL and got adopted by the sports section of the school paper. He even captained the advice column for three semesters—something he wants to return to, but you're happy to tell him you wouldn't trust his advice as far as you could throw him. (What was your alias? Samuel. Sounds kinda like Seungcheol, huh? You say no. He laughs.)

After circling the same park three times, you reach the doorstep of your apartment building. You cycle through some one-liners to end on a high note, but none of them seem quite right.

It's not a date, but you've noticed Seungcheol keeps glancing at your lips, and it almost seems like one.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol asks some stupid question about if coffee could be considered tea, which you start to answer before you are rudely interrupted.

First, the bump of his nose against yours, then his lips, slow, insistent, dizzying. Your heart jumps all the way to your throat and you think there's so much heat in your cheeks that he can feel it.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol just kissed you and you liked it.

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The next time you see Seungcheol is in the elevator to the newsroom on Monday.

He sticks his dumb, big arm out of the cabin to hold the door open for you, and his smile bruises your overripe heart.

"Hi," he says, sneaking a glance like a guilty child.

"Hi."

The floor indicators flicker like fireflies, one by one. He sidesteps toward you so that your shoulders touch. You watch the 4 crawl to 5. The air in the cabin is sticky, electric.

And as if taking a great big dive, you kiss him, a fleeting, tender thing that you rolled around in your head for a good thirty minutes earlier this morning—and you never thought the fruit of overthinking could be so sweet.

The elevator dings.

Before the doors open to your floor, Seungcheol slams the close button, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you again.

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

3. You and Seungcheol are no longer mortal enemies, but now you don't know what you are.

(The other day, you both worked late, and he ordered takeout to the office. You sat crosslegged on his desk as he tried to explain what a touchdown was and why he was obsessed with the Steelers. Normally a two hour long conversation about football would be a punishable offense, but that night he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt the next day.)

After Wonwoo's dinner with corporate, he went to the market across the street and picked up a few handles of soju and the fattest bottle of cheap vodka you've ever seen.

You're all getting a raise—you guess the Thai must have worked out well, although Wonwoo must have struck out with Yerim since he's spending his Friday night drinking with you guys instead.

So you get drunk.

Drunk enough to tune out of Jihyo from Sports giving Wonwoo dating advice—riveting, if not for your near double vision—and follow Seungcheol to the staff bathroom.

"Anyone—," you manage. His lips are hot on your neck, and every dizzy neuron in your body seems to be reaching, grasping for him. "Anyone ever tell you that your forearms look really good when you roll up your sleeves?"

"All the time," he replies, and he swallows the laugh right off of your tongue.

"You are so annoying." Your palm finds his heartbeat, and you revel in how it leaps towards your skin every hurried beat. You don't want to think about how many girls came before you, leant back against the bathroom counter just like this, but having a body against yours never felt so good. You guess that's what a three year hiatus will do to you. "Bet you hear that one a lot too, huh?"

"You got that right."

Another kiss, just a nudge of his nose and you're leaning up to him; your lips feel swollen and warm and somehow they still crave the feeling.

"How is it that we still bump noses," you ask, half words, half air. Seungcheol's hands, skin-greedy, skim over the back of your thighs like they're water and find the swell of your ass.

"You make me impatient." Cheshire grin across heart lips and you're toast. "Anyone tell you that you have a great ass?"

"All the time," you squeak out. It's a lie and a half but who cares. His fingers drag under the seam of your underwear and you've never been so thankful you forgot to wear shorts under your dress.

"Need you," he says, lips flush to the skin behind your ear, and your lower half would give out if you weren't propped against the sink.

The idea of Seungcheol on his knees, your thigh hiked over his shoulder, crosses your mind. He'd probably be really good at head, and that makes you dizzier than any ungodly combination of alcohol would. Or would he press you against the mirror, want your skirt pushed to your waist so he could fuck you from behind?

Anticipation tumbles into anxiety into some primordial, horrible shyness because you haven't had sex in years. You feel hot and damp and sweaty and you can't remember if you shaved or not. Plus, you're already seizing in his arms and he hasn't even touched you for real yet.

"H-home," you breathe. "Let's go home."

"Hm?" His hand slows in the dip between your thighs. "You wanna stop? We can stop."

"No, I just…I just thought it would be better if we went home. To…you know."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine’s closer," you answer after a considerable amount of mental gymnastics trying to figure out if you're both drunk enough to not mind the mess.

You know your apartment and you know your bed and you know where the bathroom is in case you have to pee. There's a box of condoms under the sink. You have an extra toothbrush for him. Less variables to worry about because nothing else has really gone to plan. You watch Seungcheol misbutton the top two buttons on his shirt and all the fondness in your heart feels like a welcome stranger in your body.

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

You feel incredibly horny and guilty all at once, but Seungcheol kisses your cheek on the way out and it's like you're able to breathe again.

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It seems that the car ride to your place sucks all the sobriety back into the both of you.

You're lying stomach-down on your bed, Seungcheol against the headboard with his shirt undone. You're in your bra and your still sticky underwear, and somehow, despite being ready to break your three-year spell, you like this much better.

"Imagine if someone needed to piss," Seungcheol groans. "I think we would have gotten fired. Lifestyle would have no editor."

"I honestly think that's why Seungkwan was standing outside for so long."

Upon hearing this, Seungcheol's eyes shoot open. If your phone wasn't charging, you would take a picture. He fell asleep on your shoulder in the car, and now, even with all the affection you can muster, you can only describe his hair as broom-adjacent. Einstein-core. How far you've fallen from grace.

"Don't worry, he won't say anything." And as you watch the color return to his face, you add, "Also, it's not that I didn't want to have sex, I just…" you trail off, hoping he'll get it even though you're making no sense.

"No, it was the right call. I wanna do it when we're both sober."

It smooths your frayed-out nerves knowing that none of this was a performance or a test, just two shy, touch-starved people stumbling in the dark.

"Lemme guess—this is just a typical Friday night for you."

"Flattering but no," Seungcheol replies, grinning something stupid. "Do you always spend this much time wondering what I'm doing?"

"No!" His hands, once busy with scrunching up the fabric of your bedsheets, now find yours, and he runs a careful thumb over your knuckles. You notice he has the care-worn hands of a line chef, or maybe even a baker, which is funny because you don't even think the man knows how to turn on an oven. "I dunno. You just seem so experienced. What about all of those other girls?"

He flips your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm.

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

You want to ask—What about us? Are we serious? But you swallow it all down. You watch Seungcheol's eyes, midnight-weary, fall back upon you, and it feels like he's trusted you with something important.

"Don’t get it twisted, though," he adds, before yawning big and wide without covering his mouth. "I'm a loser, not a virgin. Definitely not."

You bite back a laugh. Killer journalist bio, but that's something to pitch next content meeting.

"Definitely a loser. I think you make me a loser by association."

"Good. So we're both losers. I like that." He smiles at you with so much warmth, it makes your heart physically hurt. Then he clamps down another yawn. "God, I'm exhausted. I think if we fucked in the bathroom, I'd have passed out. Or pulled my back."

"Then sleep," you chide, shucking a pillow at him. "Also take your shirt off. I don't like outside clothes on the bed."

"Say less," Seungcheol says. "I’ll blow your back out another day. Save the date." Between your almost audible gulp and his unfortunately attractive physique, you almost forget the place you're in-between.

Did everyone fit into his arms? Did he lift a hand for just anyone? Two silhouettes in the lamplight—was that how every day with him ended? Or just you, the only other person competing with him for his dream job? The convenient reality scares you.

The thought never seems to cross Seungcheol's mind. His head hits the pillow, and he's out like a light. But not without a not-so-subtle scoot to your side of the bed, near enough that the heat of his skin plays off yours.

You lean into it, liking how your skin buzzes with the closeness.

You're lulled by the sway of Seungcheol's breathing behind you—probably the most quiet he'll ever be. The moonlight oozes into the room; sleep comes over you like water, a slow, gentle wash.

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You can't remember the last time you cooked for two.

You open your fridge, and the hollow insides stare back at you. Rows of condiments and two water bottles. You have finally reached K-drama CEO status.

"Is this the part where I get kicked out?" Seungcheol says, shrugging his shirt back on as he walks out of the bedroom.

"This is the part where I cook breakfast for you."

"Really? You don't have to." He sounds genuinely surprised, which tips your heart a little off-axis.

"I want to," you reply, double checking the fridge as if opening it a second time would repopulate it. "That's what people do when they care about each other."

"Or if they're trying to poison you."

"Will you just let me do something nice for you?" You yank your head out to glare at him, and he looks stung.

"Thanks." He says it after so much pause that you wonder if this is the first time someone has done this for him. You wish you had a better offering, but surely the man with the worst palate in the world could spare his judgment for one meal. "No really, 'cause I am starving."

You let him bask in the rare glory of the unobstructed refrigerator light while you rummage through the pantry for a plan B.

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

"Not always. It's been…a week." All you have is the ramyun Mingyu likes, which feels like a weird, culinary betrayal. But you're hungry, and Seungcheol is eyeing a strange bag in the freezer that you don't even remember putting there. "You good with ramyun?"

"Honestly, I'll eat anything," he whines, gnawing on the ice straight from the freezer drawer.

At least he's self-aware. But he makes all the spaces Mingyu left behind seem a little less empty, and you can't find it in you to be mad at that.

You wait for the water to boil and Seungcheol finds a seat at your tiny dinner table, a misaligned, wobbly product of Mingyu’s inability to read an Ikea manual.

"I'm hoping your week got better?" Seungcheol asks, referring to your capital W week.

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

"Of course it did—you woke up to me in your bed. Can't get better than that."

"Actually, it's because I finished my article yesterday."

Seungcheol pauses before laughing to himself. "Congrats," he replies, now wiggling the table on its bad leg. "Can't say the same for myself."

you watch the starch-foam wash over the mouth of the pot, precariously close to the edge. You overfilled it, which mildly surprises you until you consider that you're cooking double the food.

There's a stretchy, anxious tumble in your stomach. It's not like you were expecting him to cheer or anything, but it just reminds you that you are, still in fact, competitors. When all of this is said and done, one of you is losing, and from every angle, it seems like quite the death knell for whatever you've got going on now.

It's a pity because you actually kind of like this arrangement. If Seungcheol was in your banged-up flea market chair next Saturday morning, you wouldn't be mad. Maybe you would even make him waffles. From scratch, even.

"What, too many dates to cover?"

He laughs again, somehow to no one in particular. "Something like that."

Past the bruising swell of his smile is the much sharper, more unforgiving edge of an unspoken hurt that you're neither trusted with nor owed, and yet you refuse to drop it. What about me? It feels like you're almost there, wrapped around something bigger, a scoop you can't pull your stubborn teeth out of.

"Is there a reason none of those were serious? Come on."

"What's so wrong with that?" And when you don't say anything, he says, "Trust me, it is never that serious."

His voice ticks up at the end like a teenager trying to play cool and the noodle water boils up around your chopsticks as you try to get your portion cooked through.

You won't—can't—turn to face him. You committed to the line, and now you must see it through, no matter how bad an idea it may be.

"That's not true," you finally squeeze out, finding the right footing for your voice. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn’t for you."

The table stops rocking.

"I'm glad. Really." He claps his hands together like a cruel punctuation mark, and it's then you remember that the only person as ill-tempered as you happens to be sitting two feet away.

Like an injured animal, your heart wants to cower back into your chest. You knew this was a mistake—this being everything—but an open wound can't help but bleed and your pride can't do without seeing the knife.

"Look, I don't know what your problem is." The pot hisses, astringent and pleading, beneath your fist. "I don't know what happened with your love life, but don't take it out on me."

"You asked."

"Yeah? Well, what is this?" You turn to face him, feeling the air between you tense, pulled like a rubber band. "You can't sit in my kitchen and tell me you don't care about whatever this is."

After all of the terse meetings, elevator spats, and foul-mouthed encounters in the parking lot, you can now recognize the fresh twist of Seungcheol's mouth and the livewire of a temper you've become so familiar with.

"Who said I didn't care? I'm just tired of you trying to lecture me about my life. I—"

"I'm not lecturing you, I just know you can't really believe what you're saying." Every word stumbles out, trembling and doe-legged, barely audible over his attempts to interrupt you. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you were in love with someone. And if you can't, I just feel really fucking sorry for you."

There’s an incredulous look in Seungcheol's eyes. But it's the worse part of you, ruthless and hungry for acceptance, that makes you say, "Maybe the fact that nothing lasts is your fault."

"Oh, really?" Seungcheol's voice, half-laugh with none of the warmth, rips through you. "You're really gonna act like you're better than me? As if you don't write in your pretentious little column every week, just waiting for your ex to read it and decide he wants you back again?"

There’s a red hot flash behind your eyes and everything inside you feels like it breaks at once.

"You know, at least I had someone who cared about me. Can't say the same about your miserable, sorry ass. Now get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Wh—"

he stands up, table croaking underneath his fists, and you realize you've crossed a bridge that can never be uncrossed.

"Get. Out."

It feels like a stitch in you has come undone. The water has long boiled over the pot and there's no joy to be found in watching Seungcheol stumble over his pant legs on the way to the door.

"I didn't want Mingyu. I wanted you."

it's not an apology, nor is it an indictment. You don't know why you say it, and you guess Seungcheol doesn't either. The door slams behind him, and all you're left with is a bloated pot of ramyun you never really wanted anyway.

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

If you had one day left on earth, you think you would go grocery shopping. It was like a prayer to you—you could close your eyes and know exactly what aisle had the beef broth, or feel the stone weight of a can of San Marzano tomato paste.

That's one thing you can thank Mingyu for—it's true that you don't love him like you used to, but you refuse to believe that any love worth having is also worth leaving behind.

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

You recite your shopping list, slowly, quietly, a rosary.

Baguette is the next item, with a question mark next to it because sometimes your local bakery sells out after 3.

You pass by, expecting to see the shop window cleared out. Instead you see a familiar crown of cowlicked black hair and a horribly well-worn grin that only looks good because it's on Choi Seungcheol's face.

He's paying for a pretty girl's sourdough, and thyme, rosemary gets washed out by a dizzying riptide of heartache.

It was never personal, you tell yourself. Just another date. That's the angle.

You think it hurts a little less, knowing that it all was a business transaction. A long interview.

The thyme is next to the dill. The rosemary is next to the chives, at the end of the shelf.

You watch Seungcheol lean over the tiny cafe table to take a sip of his date's Americano. Did he always laugh like that? Were you really any different?

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Monday feels tilted.

There's the usual gust of cinnamon sugar and cold brew—today's offering from the interns, who have begun to master the art of pressing the elevator buttons with full hands. Wonwoo is wearing his Monday outfit, a wrinkled cream button up under a navy blue sweater vest. Your cubicle is empty, just the way you like it, save for the ass-shaped spot cleared off on the desk edge.

You like days like this, except today you don't and you know exactly why.

"Today's the day," Joshua says, nose buried in a bakery-style muffin, the top pillowing out of the wrapper.

He stares over your shoulder at your article, locked and loaded for submission to copy.

You are not exaggerating when you say you would die for these four thousand words. You ate and cried and argued for them in what you can only describe as the worst literary coliseum of your life, and now their (and your) fate rests in Joshua’s massive Mickey Mouse hands and Wonwoo's bespectacled whimsy.

"Well, don't let me stop you." He laughs and then totters away, sucking a crumb off a finger. Just another Monday.

Your cursor hovers over the SUBMIT button. You've always been a little scared of it—unsurprising, since you're also the type to triple read an email before sending it—but there's a new kind of fear boxed in those little pixels.

Last night, you emptied out your freezer. Stuck on the back wall was a neon green sticky note, behind all the bags. See you when you get home, it said. You laughed and then you cried and then you ripped it up because that's probably what Seungcheol was looking at the morning you chewed him out.

All of that heartache must have been good for something. To say you wasted it on a no-love situationship wouldn't do any of it justice, not when all that's left is most definitely a crude shoutout on Seungcheol's next listicle. If you weren't already getting one earlier, you sure are now.

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

Help! My Friend With Benefits Isn't A Friend Or A Benefit!

At least that one is funny, although if it's the winning line, you don't think you can ever show your face in the office again.

The beginning and the end and the muddy in-between. Entrenched in all of it was this article and this job, and you'll be damned if you let your misplaced faith get co-opted by a sweaty-palmed Casanova.

(8:19 AM; the smell of summer and dried-down cologne. A hand on your ribcage, just beneath your heart. Good morning, Seungcheol says, as if emerging from a long, wonderful dream.)

You picture the byline with editor tacked next to your name. To run your finger over the ink spackled serif of a paper hot off the press, as if somehow it would radiate the misery you had to endure.

(11:41 PM; jajangmyeon and a pack of rice crackers. Seungcheol had given you his chopsticks because you dropped yours. The hum of the broken light outside Wonwoo's office sings in the silence of an empty newsroom. Your eyes meet, and you don't look away.)

There's a sinking feeling in your chest. You close your eyes and hit submit.

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Ask Samuel!

It's 6 PM on a Thursday and if you weren't already on your last thread, you are now. The angry red of the Daily Trojan website glares back at you from your phone as you step into the elevator with none other than your editor-in-chief.

You've resorted to reading Seungcheol's old advice columns. Not because you miss him, but because you want to know if he was ever a competent writer capable of talking about something other than how to score on a second date.

That's the only way he's beating you.

(There's also no way you miss him. The thought would make you laugh out loud if you weren't standing next to your boss).

One column became four became ten. After thirteen you concluded Seungcheol must have sustained a head injury some time before starting his job here—you can find no other explanation for how someone so generous and intuitive could've gotten lost in the chaff of articles with more pictures than words.

"Congrats," Wonwoo says, seemingly speaking into the void.

"Pardon?" You close out a particularly riveting query about estranged childhood friends to look up at him.

"Congrats."

"F-for what?" You get that head rush again, the same one you got a month ago at the Italian restaurant with Jeonghan.

"The job. You got the position." Wonwoo clears his throat calmly, as if he's not delivering the most important news of your life. "I wanted to let you know in person before we sent out Monday’s email."

For once, you have no words. In a wonderful instant, they are all zapped out of your brain. You feel hot and clammy and anxious all at once and you half expect to close your eyes and see either god or the flare of a hospital light, waking you up from an impossible coma.

"Holy shit," the primordial ooze inside you says instead. "T-thank you."

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

"I haven't told him yet, but he should be aware." Wonwoo pauses. "He didn't submit anything."

"What?!"

There are only so many surprises your body can handle. You feel like you are being held together by a fast-unraveling string on a poorly made sweater. Your stomach is somewhere in your feet and you don't even know where your heart is. Part of you is waiting for the elevator to stop so the entire office can jump out of the walls and laugh at you.

"I too was surprised," Wonwoo says, now checking his smartwatch for messages. "He must have changed his mind. No matter—I'm confident you will be an excellent fit."

The elevator jerks to a stop at the first floor. You feel boneless, like a can of cranberry sauce.

"Forgive me, I have a dinner appointment." Wonwoo ends the conversation the best way he can—with his trademark parentheses smile and a nod of the head—and leaves you in the elevator cabin alone.

All the times you've dreamed of this moment, you're tear-dizzy, joyous, fumbling with your phone to call your parents.

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

To make croissants, you fold a slab of butter into a square of yeasted dough. You roll it out thin and then fold it into itself before leaving it to rest in the fridge. Then you take it out again, roll it, and fold it. You do this until you've forgotten how many times you folded it and you no longer crave croissants.

When you were five, you pressed your nose to the window of your favorite patisserie and decided this is how your mind works.

You've had ample time now to flatten out Saturday morning, to watch all the little layers of doubt and loathing form, and now you're sick of it. It's not often you're star witness to your own unhappiness, but, as if you were called to the stand, you can easily play back the moment you lit the match and then watched everything explode.

You're not sure what either of you were expecting. A playboy and you, who loves so insistently, almost as if out of spite—there is truly no reality in which it makes sense. The fact that you fought over a literal pot of ramyun only proves this.

And now he's saddled you with the final blow. The position of your dreams with none of the glory because he gave up.

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

You're standing outside the office, waiting for your ride to your celebratory dinner (this time, on Jeonghan). The little headline man in your brain is silent for once. Instead, you try to enjoy the breeze, honeyed with late June, and not dwell on the horrible twist in your stomach every time you think about your new position. It's been 24 hours since you found out but it is no less raw.

It's then that you catch Seungcheol, creeping out the double doors of the office like some sort of criminal. You're not sure if it's the plod of his Sasquatch feet or that bag you hate so dearly, but you could recognize that walk from anywhere.

His pace quickens when you turn to face him—he's running away. You won't grant him the satisfaction. Not when he's fucked up what little you had left, and then some.

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

"Funny way of saying hi," he responds, bracing himself on the sidewalk as if you're about to hit him.

"Why didn't you submit anything? What the fuck were you thinking?"

"What does it matter to you? You got the position."

"Look, I—" You shut your eyes, feeling the frenetic ice-cream churn of your brain try to put together a million broken up words. "I'm sorry for Saturday. But I never wanted to scare you off from the job. You deserve it as much as I do, and, as much as I hate to say it, I care about you too fucking much to watch you throw away your shot."

Saying the words is like cutting something loose from your chest, a million strings coming undone.

Seungcheol takes a deep, unsteady breath. You watch the crest and fall of his shoulders and the inescapable tar pits he calls eyes get big and shiny.

"No, I—" He pulls himself from your gaze. "I'm sorry. I should have never said that to you. And I should have never treated you like that."

The silence between you ripples, as if after a long rain.

"I was scared. A long time ago, I threw myself into a relationship. I thought we had something really, really good, and then I found out she was also seeing someone else."

Being right never felt so bad. It's even worse that something you would look forward to—the I told you so, the jokes really write themselves—no longer holds any satisfaction, only a sense of loss and a terrible urge to make it right again.

"And it's not right, but I decided that it was a mistake to take chances like that again. And it was fine, fun even, going on all of these casual dates and getting paid for it. Then you just had to mess it up."

"H-how?"

"You were so dead-set on convincing me otherwise. You wouldn't let it go, not with your weird sayings and the way you talked about your ex and when you told me you were making me breakfast. I started believing you, and it really fucking scared me."

There's a sharp pain in your head. It feels like, at once, you were skinned like a fruit. Like the interlude between dream and waking, all the sheets of sleep yanked from your person.

"What…what about the article?" you ask, scrambling. You don't really want to contend with what he just told you. You don't think you can.

"You deserved it more. And you really love what you do. I used to think it was all bullshit, but I was wrong."

You take a hard swallow. The image of Seungcheol, head bowed, a nervous hand on the back of his neck, swims in front of your eyes.

"Whatever. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore," he laughs, mirthless.

"No, wait," you say. "I-I also…never took you seriously, not even when I should've. You know, I read your advice columns. Crazy, I know."

"I do have to say that is one of your more insane claims."

"No, I thought, they were actually, you know…really good." You watch him blink, mouth already twisting up as he fights a smile. "What I'm trying to say is that I think we messed up. In a lot of ways. But I want to be friends again. Or at least not enemies."

Seungcheol takes a long pause before he sticks his hand out.

"Choi Seungcheol. Writer. It's nice to meet you."

Some force, as if you had always been connected, pulls your skin to his. You shake his hand for the very first time, and starting over never felt so good.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You're booking Eleven Madison for the office dinner again, right?"

Wonwoo pops his head into your office, his Monday uniform now festive with a holiday tie. Today, it's snowmen with glasses.

"Naturally," you reply. "Unless you have plans on that Friday."

You're referring to last week, when Wonwoo took a call in the middle of a staff meeting and revealed that yes, he would most definitely be available for drinks with Yerim that evening. He ended the meeting thirty short seconds later, and you think you saw him skip to the elevator.

He laughs, deep and caramel. "Not this time. Also—don't forget to review those job applications. Sent them to your email."

Before you can tease him again, he leaves, and you are forced to look at your teeming inbox, the only unfortunate side effect of your new position. But you've never been happier, and a hundred new unread emails never seemed so wonderful. The first time Jeonghan saw you in your new office, you were so giddy he thought you were coming down with something.

You take a hefty sip of today's coffee (ginger, molasses, cinnamon). On the side of the cup, the one you keep facing away from the door, reads SEUNGCHEOL and OAT, in loopy marker letters.

After you shook hands in the parking lot, you agreed to take it slow. You thought bringing everything to a simmer would cure you of your affection, but it wasn't even a month before Seungcheol was back in that same seat in your kitchen, eating the blueberry waffles you promised him.

But if slow meant long phone calls and the nervous twine of your hands after an ice cream date, then you think you like slow. You could do slow for a while.

He's taken to bringing you coffee in the morning. He claims it's your editorial right, but you think he just likes having an excuse to barge into your office. (And close the door behind him. And kiss you. But that's aside the point.)

Plus, Seungcheol's had plenty of legitimate reasons to be in your office. The newest one is the launch of Ask Sunny! , which you think is the best idea he's had since deciding to get you coffee every day. He spent the last few days campaigning to reuse his old alias, but you're pretty sure he was just looking for reasons to argue with you.

"Afternoon, boss."

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You always seem to learn the hard way with Seungcheol.

He swaggers in, ear-to-ear smile on his face, before taking a seat at the designated corner of your table.

"I think I like this desk better," he says, folding at the waist so he can lean close to you. Instead of reminding him it's the same desk, you just choose to make space for him, you let him press his nose to yours.

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

He interrupts you with just a touch of his lips, which should be considered no less than a war crime by now.

"You are the worst."

"Not what you said last night. Not even close." He places another wet kiss on your nose before sliding off the table edge to his feet. There's a horrible warmth in his eyes as he watches you very clearly remember what exactly he's referring to. (A wandering hand. A cherry. Dark hair, wound through your fingers). "Anyway, I've got serious problems to solve. Or should I say Sunny? I still think we should have gone with Samuel."

"Executive decision," you tease. "Now if you don't need anything, scram. Out of my office."

"Just wanted to remind you I made reservations for us at Avra today," Seungcheol says, lingering in the doorframe with the shit-eating grin he tends to sport nowadays. "I'll even let you order."

There's no fighting the familiar bloom of laughter in your chest. It boils up, sparkling and citrusy, as you roll your eyes and watch Seungcheol return to his desk no less starry-eyed than how he walked in.

If cooking is a language, then love is the words, and you finally think you're learning to speak them.

You open the email at the top of your inbox: Seungcheol's last draft of the article he never published. You urged him to let you consider it for the next issue, and he finally caved (although you're learning that he really doesn't take much convincing when it comes to you).

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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#mine #seungcheol #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol x you #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #scoups x reader #scoups fluff #scoups x you #seungcheol imagines #seungcheol scenarios #scoups imagines

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kiss-me-muchoo · 2 years

Text

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘵 || 𝘌𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘔𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 2)

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺• 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘶𝘣 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘌𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘔𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘉𝘶𝘵… 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴•𝘣𝘧𝘧𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘐𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘌𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘔𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘈𝘕𝘎𝘚𝘛, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘚𝘈𝘚𝘚𝘠. 𝘌𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘉𝘐𝘎 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘭ó𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘑𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘈/𝘕• 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘢, 𝘴𝘰 𝘛𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘔𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘋𝘙𝘈𝘔𝘈. 𝘊𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 800 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴, 𝘭𝘺. 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 1

𝘊𝘖𝘊𝘖𝘔𝘖𝘑𝘐𝘛𝘖’𝘴 𝘐𝘕𝘋𝘌𝘟 (𝘮.𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦) 𝖤𝖣𝖣𝖨𝖤 𝖬𝖴𝖭𝖲𝖮𝖭 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

___

It’s the third slice of a mushroom and olives pizza, served with truffle oil you eat, and you need more. There’s a little glass of champagne on your nightstand, your mother said that you were mature enough to drink a little inside your house, under her supervision. But you knew she let you drink because you looked depressed.

Saturday, just a day after encountering Eddie at dinner. When you came home with your friends, you handled it well, they didn’t ask a lot of questions, and they tried to distract you, which helped a lot. But now it was just you, and you couldn’t hold the tears you had contained the whole day before.

Someone knocks on your door, you know it’s your mom. She slowly opens the door and finds you sitting on your bed, with the box of pizza and the glass of champagne she gave you empty.

“Okay. What’s going on?” she asks, her brows questioning you, making you shrug. “You have… three calls from Mike, four from Jeff and Garrett, six from Dustin. Eddie called fifteen times, and this morning he was here asking for you. I told him that had a sleepover with Sally”

“I don’t even know. But they’re not my friends anymore” you try to brush it off, but you know your mother, and she won’t let go very easily.

“And why is that?…” when she takes a seat at the edge of your bed, you know you’re gonna have to tell her everything.

“I swear I didn't do anything wrong. Some day Eddie met a new girl from his chem class and suddenly she became a sensation in the Hellfire Club” you don’t want to be mean with her, but you don’t feel in the mood to remember everything, significantly because it’s the cause of your demotivation. “After a week they were ignoring me, and this girl is such a bad influence. So I tried to talk with them, especially with Eddie, and when I find them… they’re talking crap about me”

“I see now…” her eyes dance across your room, and you can see your collage capturing her attention. There are pictures of you as a baby, and some of your parents, but the most predominant pictures are Polaroids with Eddie. Him offering you ice cream, both of you in a park, some of the whole Hellfire Club, and the most painful, Eddie hugging you with a cheesy sunset in the background. “Crap about what?”

“My appearance. What the hell does that have to do with us being friends?… it’s because of that girl, I don’t know if she brainwashed them or not. But… I didn’t do anything wrong, mom” she nods, rubbing your leg, trying to comfort you. You paraphrase to her all the events that happened after that.

“That happened to my best friend, in the early sixties, every girl wanted the twiggy makeup and pastel thighs that matched our dresses. My friend Thea was more interested in bacteria and microscopes.” she laughed, and her smile made you laugh too. You knew Thea, she was a professor at the University of Arizona, so probably she reached her dreams. “Her boyfriend broke up with her because she wasn’t very girly. And all of her friends ditched her, and that’s when I met her, she joined the gymnastics club with me”

“Oh so, she was adopted by my popular mom?” both of you burst into a laugh.

“Yeah. She managed to be focused on science and being a gymnast, and that’s when all wanted her back” you frown, analyzing her words.

“So… you’re saying that when we found ourselves… it’s when people want us back?” your mom giggles, standing up.

“Eddie and the guys used to be with you, every day. Suddenly this girl appears, it’s a novelty, the opposite of you. So they think now you're boring, but when you leave them and explore your full potential, they miss you” it was probably 5:00 pm, you had already taken a shower, and you were planning to see a big marathon of Casper the friendly ghost. But you are just thinking about what your mom is saying. “Boys are stupid, for sure. They commit all these silly errors, but I know they didn’t mean it. I’ve seen Eddie here at 6:00 am ready to take you to your practices, he’s been here taking care of you when you were sick. He just wasn’t thinking”

“Well, just because he wasn’t thinking doesn’t mean I have to feel awful and heartbroken, mom.” The cold was starting to feel more prominent, your windows were slightly fogged, and the sunsets were starting earlier. The fact that the cold could possibly be making you feel more devastated, resulted in masochism for you. You loved the fall, but this wasn’t a good time to feel depressed.

“Of course not. Sometimes it’s fun to have everyone crawling just to get your attention. Just show them that you are doing good without them, and if your heart says you should forgive them, you will. If not, then you won’t” she gives you a warm smile and starts to walk out of the room.

“Wait… what about Eddie?. It’s different with him because he’s like… my crush. And I don’t think it will work the same” you aren’t sure if Eddie will crawl to prove his love for you, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to see that.

“I think he has already shown that he cares for you, but in this period you will know if he truly loves you.” When she closes the door, you sink against your pillow, groaning.

Oh, fuck this. I will avoid this whole thing as long as I can. Hopefully, I will forget about it and I will never have to talk about it again, you think to yourself.

The smell of your perfume hit Eddie, he arrived early to the music engineering class, and he hoped to see you there already. You weren’t in the classroom or course, he took a seat and waited.

When you entered the room, he noticed you looked fine, no eye bags, no red eyes, no big hoodie to hide your unkempt outfit. A colored dress with purple thighs and some cute black shoes, hair in a ponytail, and bright red gloss.

The way you ignored him made him feel worse than he had already been. You passed his seat, and moved to a seat in the back, alone. He remembered you only chose that class to be with him, your seat was beside him, but now… you were sitting in the last row, alone… reading some book.

For Eddie, the class passed quickly, while you struggled a little more, it wasn’t your favorite class, but at least it was easy. Yet, distracting, because from your lonely seat you could see Eddie’s long hair, the back of his vest, and the way his hands moved in the most overactive way.

When the bell rang, you got into the big bubble you’ve been building up to ignore Eddie.

…

When you opened your locker, embarrassment flooded you. Tons of notes from Eddie were glued to the door of it, pictures with him, even some ticket he got for exceeding the speed limit from two years ago. You quickly rip them off, throwing them in the can, then, it’s books and papers you start putting in your bag when you feel someone near you.

When you look up, it’s not only one person. It’s Garett, Mike, and Jeff, you frown. After some seconds it was becoming weird, so you raise an eyebrow, questioning them.

“Hi y/n. We… uh…we-, us…” you want to laugh when Mike starts babbling, but you make your biggest effort to remain neutral.

“The thing is…, we wanted to uh, know if you wanted to…” unconsciously you roll your eyes, you are wasting your time with this. So you slam your locker, and after a quick look at them, you leave the hallway. Maybe it was slightly mean, but you didn’t want to be near them.

That was so weird, you weren’t sure if they wanted to apologize or ask you something, but it was not what you were expecting for a relaxed lunch.

You are so deep in your thoughts when Chrissy taps your shoulder and scares you.

“Oh my God. Sorry, I-, I didn’t hear you, Chrissy” she shrugs happily as usual. She starts escorting you to the cafeteria.

“What happened? You looked very occupied thinking about something. Oh no… Did Eddie try to reach you?” you shake your head, sighing.

“No, but… the guys. They stepped on my locker just to babble like babies, I’m not sure if they wanted to apologize or something but, I left” she giggles when you enter the cafeteria, and you prefer to ignore your right side since the hellfire club table is in that direction, probably Eddie sitting there.

“Working their way back to you!” the way Chrissy said it made you laugh. When you reach the table, Sally pulls you as soon as you brush her, forcing you to sit down.

“What the fuck?” she gets closer, to whisper in your ear.

“I’ve just heard from the math class of the juniors that Munson yelled at Catherine the day of the assembly. Reports declare that he made her cry” it’s impossible to laugh when she’s narrating it with a funny voice , imitating girls from the news.

“And…according to some statements from students of Hawkins High, it was all because of Miss y/n” you burst into a laugh, pushing her playfully.

“Shut up! Wait but… oh my God. I don’t want to think it was because of me.” the red-haired shrugged, eating some fries with ranch.

“What are you talking about?” Chrissy asks, so Sally goes and tells her what she heard. Chrissy opens her eyes surprised, leaning closer to Sally.

“No way! y/n, that boy is at your feet.” After her words, you deny making a face of disgust.

“Chrissy, that’s the same boy who said I was pathetic for dressing like a princess” your attention lands on your lunch, apple jelly and cheese sandwich, chopped fruit, and strawberry milk.

“I saw the way he was staring at you the day of the dinner. He loves you, but… you know, boys are stupid” she says in a low voice to avoid Jason and the guys heard her, you laugh opening the sandwich.

“That’s what my mom said…” the girls agree, but you realize… How noticeable is Eddie's love for me? Your mom said she knew Eddie loved you, now Chrissy says the same.

But it didn’t make sense. If he loved you, why he said all those stupid things? it was an error, okay. But you weren’t sure yet if he deserved to be forgiven, nor the boys.

—-

You were running late, Jason would drive you and the whole group to your ice skating session. Delilah was the best instructor, and she hated when anything distracted you, but she low-key loved having people cheering you. So she agreed to bring your friends, with the condition that they would help clean the little food store they had inside the building and not to scream.

You wash your hands and look at yourself in the mirror, correcting your gloss in the way.

“How does it feel to start at the bottom and be at the top now?” you turn, confused because you thought you were alone in the restrooms of the school. You notice Catherine entering. She’s wearing a black dress with some chunky boots and her classic punk makeup.

“Catherine, I don’t have time right now” she gets closer, and you can appreciate her face. She’s pretty, and you can see why Eddie was interested in her, but… what’s beauty without a brain, or moral?… nothing.

“You have everything! You had the whole club praising you, a cute hobby on the ice. You had a boy like Eddie Munson behind you!” you step back when she raises her voice. “You know how hard it is to find a guy like Eddie? bet you don’t. Hope you are happy, because you just slipped him away from me”

“Good to know you’re accepting how insane you are. I didn’t slip anything away from you. You became friends with the Hellfire Club, they liked you. You had Eddie all the time with you, actually, you slipped him away from me” you say in a very calm tone when in reality your heart was beating very fast, and some rage was peeking into your pores. “You had them in the palm of your hand. It’s not my fault whatever you did to turn them against you. So don’t try to hate me when you don’t have any reasons to do so…”

You grab your bag from the sink and leave the restroom as fast as you can. While walking in the hallway, you try to catch your breath, the feeling of being uncomfortable hitting you. Somehow the whole situation was turning bigger day after day, and honestly, you wanted it to stop.

—

“Jason, play the song again…” Delilah instructed Jason to play for the fourth time the music from Sleeping beauty. It had been an hour, and neither Delilah, your friends, nor you could suggest a good song for your routine.

“I don’t think it’s gonna work, it’s too slow…” you say after hearing the music. Delilah nods.

“Well, we wouldn’t be changing the song if someone hadn’t bought another costume” the guys laugh at you, while you just cross your arms, pissed.

“It was cheaper, Delilah. Plus, Carmen's music is very old-fashioned. ``You were supposed to have a red dress to match the music of Carmen, but, money is money.

“Okay, then let’s go for the next cassette” Brady passes the little box full of cassettes to Jason, who replaces the third one while drinking some soda.

Chrissy is trying to leave the edges of the rink, while Sally laughs at her. None of them knew a lot like you but Sally was way better than Chrissy, she could balance herself, while Chrissy couldn’t even stay on her feet.

Jason plays music from Swan Lake, Paquita, Bolero, and more.

“No… no, no. Wait!, play the last one again” everyone waits for Jason to play the song you said again. He does it and the song starts to play. It’s different, it’s not classical, it’s seductive, attractive, and very creative, it’s a tango song. The more it plays, the more you love it.

“That one, is perfect for the short program” Delilah walks closer, she’s outside of the rink, holding a hot coffee in her hand. You assume she’s analyzing the song, meanwhile, you skate closer with your friends.

“Today Catherine confronted me in the restrooms” Sally and Chrissy gasp in shock, turning to see you.

“No way, What did she say?” you were avoiding talking about the whole drama, but you needed to tell the girls what was going on.

“She blamed me for what she did. I assume she liked Eddie so she wanted to get rid of me, and when she did, well… she did what she’s good at, tearing friends apart. But she made them turn against her” the girls nod, listening, and in the background, you can hear Delilah talking with Jason about her floor, probably saying that he would need to mop if he kept eating.

“She’s crazy, ignore her. Even if I told you to give Eddie a second chance, right now you only can concentrate on this.” She’s right and you know it. Chrissy was very good at hearing, and you appreciated her for all she’d done for you.

“Hey, stop gossiping. I need this girl to concentrate!” Delilah yells suddenly, making you all jump, scared. “It’s a good song, we’ll use it.”

There’s a big smile on your face, now the only thing you could use as a distraction was ice skating.

…

After an hour you have most of the choreography ready. You finally are free to go at 6:30 pm. Brady is gone, and Chrissy and Sally are still on the rink, laughing when they are close to falling. Meanwhile, you are taking off your shoes with Jason beside you.

“So… Chrissy told me the nerds have been after you…” you sigh, putting the blade guards on the shoes.

“Yeah. They have been calling almost daily. And… Eddie tries to reach for me in the hallways but I run away” Jason nods. It’s a little weird for him to talk about Eddie Munson, but he’s grown fond of you. You were smart, pretty, kind and a good friend for Chrissy, so he had no excuses to despise you.

“Tell me about him, I want to know why you were so close to him. I want to understand why you didn’t see what I do in him” his statement surprises you. A part of you wants to defend Eddie because he’s a good boy, but… what he did was so stupid.

“He’s… he’s not a freak. He is just a nerd and kind boy, he loves dungeons and dragons, the hellfire club is not a satanic cult, it’s the nerdiest and most fun club to be at. He cares about the kids, he is in a band and they play at the Hideout” Jason looks interested, especially with the last part.

“He has a band?” you nod smiling. A lot of the time you were cheering him at the Hideout, you knew a lot of songs from them and everytime they finished, you were the biggest fan who ran to hug Eddie.

“Yeah, they’re good. Also, he used to drive me here every time, when I got sick he was always in my house taking care of me, he even helped my parents to get free tickets for a concert in a bar near here.” The memory makes you laugh because your dad used to hate Eddie being around you, but after giving him those tickets, he started to like the boy.

“He sounds the opposite of what I’ve heard” you understand Jason, if you didn’t know Eddie, you would agree. He looks like a bad guy, someone who you should avoid.

“He is. Nevertheless, he and the guys were mean, they basically betrayed me, so… things are the way they are, that’s it” your heart wants to forgive Eddie. And the boys, but… your head says the opposite. Because you don’t hurt the person you intend to love.

“Look, now that I’ve heard this, maybe Munson is not that bad. But this is not time to forgive him, y/n” he says in a serious tone, and you know he’s being honest. “Boys do that kind of stuff, like what he did. A man won’t, but if he cares for you, he will prove It. Unfortunately, they show how much of a gentleman they can be once it’s already fucked up”

“Damn, Jason. You can open a therapist business if you want!” The boy laughs hard, catching the girl's attention, you laugh too.

“Your boyfriend it’s the best therapist, Chrissy!” She smiles, and Sally curses, mocking Jason. “No, but, thank you. I really appreciate it, Jason”

He smiles, rubbing your back in a friendly way. You will listen to his advice, you have a competition to be focused on, and your heart has to wait a little more.

—-

You’re going to the nationals, you made it.

You run through the corridors of the school, and a big smile is planted on your face. Eddie is seeing you from his usual table in the cafeteria, it’s only Garett and him. You enter running and when you stop at the popular guys' table, you let out a little scream. Most of the cafeteria turns to look at you, but you don’t even notice, you are saying something to your friends, and they start cheering, by being loud. Chrissy stands up to hug you, Sally is screaming too, and Jason is clapping with the rest of the basketball team and the cheerleaders.

“Something big happened,” Garett says, and Eddie notices it too. It’s been a month since you left them, and everything was normal, but… it was weird without you. He missed you so badly, he stopped talking to your house, but he hadn’t lost his hope yet.

Something inside him changes the moment he sees Brady Richmond hugging you by your waist, smiling at you, and making you laugh.

“I’m gonna talk to her today, I don’t care” he’s jealous. He was the one hugging you all the time, and now he can’t even talk to you.

“Good luck, none of us had it” Eddie was aware of your behavior, and he couldn’t lame it, you had all the right to hate him. Still, it was enough.

…

You had to start packing, one more week and you were gonna be in Illinois for the nationals, you weren’t hoping to get the gold medal, bronze would be awesome.

It’s the end of the day and you’re ready to leave the school, which is almost empty. The parking lot is empty, you don’t even notice Eddie’s van.

“Hey!” You yell when someone pulls your arm, dragging you to the other corner of the school. You get stamped against the brick wall. Not in a violent way, but unexpected, and finally, you can see Eddie there.

“We need to talk, like right now…” suddenly you realize you haven’t talked to your best friend in a month, and it tears you apart.

“I can’t…” you avoid looking at his beautiful eyes. But it’s true, you can’t talk or even breathe around him, you would break the big bubble you build to be concentrated on the competition.

“Why not?. It’s been a month, y/n. I’ve given you space, the boys try to talk with you. I miss you like hell. Why can't you take at least five minutes to listen to me?” you want to give him all of your days, you want to tell him that you love him, but not yet.

“Because I’m doing things! Important things and I don’t have time to distract myself with this whole drama again” he shrugged, forming a line with his lips. His hands are on his pocket jeans, you know he's angry.

“So what? Are we never going to be friends again? At least… Could you confirm that you also loved me?” this is exactly why you don’t want to talk with him right now, he makes you emotional, and your eyes are getting red due to your growing tears.

“I really can’t do this right now” you hear him yelling at you, but you don’t dare to turn around and face him again. You wipe some tears, heading to your car.

Eddie looks at your figure, walking across the parking lot. He curses himself when he sees that you are the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, your appearance was right. Your talks about lipsticks were cute, and your delicate princess aura was his other half. He knew it wasn’t over, he had to keep trying, but he was about to ask for help.

—

“I need help…” everyone looks at their dungeon master. The campaign was over, but none of the guys wanted to leave yet.

“Yeah, we know, Eddie. There are good therapists around…” Jeff says. The whole group giggles but Eddie huffs irritated.

“No, seriously. Y/n keeps ignoring me, and I want to do something special for her, I want to show her that I care for her” he says, feeling desperate.

“You could write a song for her…” Mike suggested. Eddie laughed, followed by everyone.

“That’s cheesy… but good start” somehow they end up brainstorming about it.

“What about a big letter? With a present… something like a ring or a necklace” Garett’s option is better than Mike’s idea, but Eddie isn’t sure.

“She’s an ice skater! We should go to her competition and apologize” Finally, Dustin Henderson suggests the best idea.

“You got it, Henderson!” Eddie starts walking around the room, and he thinks about it. He knows Delilah is your mentor, he’s been there in your past training.

“The local competition must have already passed” your excitement at lunch wasn’t for that. So he had to think of a plan.

“Wheeler. Your sister Jumbo Wheeler could help! She can get closer to y/n to know what’s going on with her ice skating things” the boy frowns and waits for Eddie to finish his sentence.

“Bro, Nancy, and y/n aren’t friends. Y/n would notice it, she’s very smart for that” Eddie sighs. The competition was the best opportunity to show you that he cared, it was something important for you, and you would be surprised to see him and the boys there.

“Robin could do it,” Dustin says after some silence. Mike nods, and they remember Lucas is not with them anymore. He would’ve agreed, but their little error made him completely leave the Hellfire Club.

“Who’s Robin?” Jeff asks, but actually, he’s asking for Garett, and Eddie, who doesn't know who’s that.

“She’s in the school band, she’s our friend.” Eddie steps forward, going straight to Dustin, patting his shoulders.

“Good Henderson, tell your friend we need to know if y/n is going to another competition” the boy sighs, and he wonders if Robin would accept, or if you would believe she wanted to be your friend.

“Alright, but I can’t promise she will agree right away”

You’re hours away from going to the nationals, fresh out of the shower. You see your purple dress ready to be packed in the early morning. The short program was going to be the tango piece with a simple nude dress, while Working song from Nina Simone was for the long program, with a triple axel waiting for you to be completed successfully. If you made that jump, you had secured a place on the podium.

Your friends were supposed to be at your home at 6:00 am, your parents were going to drive to the club with Delilah. Your mentor had other three skaters, but you didn’t know them very well, because they were younger and they trained at different hours.

Setting your eyes on the dress, you feel excited.

“Honey… Eddie was here” you don’t say anything, not even a sound. Your dad makes his way into your room, holding a pink box, like the ones for food, and there was a smaller one on the top, with a pink glittery ribbon around it. “He wanted to give you this”

“Thanks, dad” he nods, giving you a small smile. He knows you’re not on good terms with the boy. “Dear, I know I’m no one to interfere in your situations but… you should consider talking to this boy. He’s been very persistent, in a very good way”

“I know, but I can’t think about that right now, dad” he nods, and after kissing your forehead, he leaves, closing the door.

You breathe, looking down at the two boxes. You open the little one, and it surprises you with the content.

It’s a little music box, the littlest music box you’ve ever seen, it’s golden, made of metal, and has little flower details scattered around. You gasp when you notice it seems expensive, even if it’s almost miniature size. Before you open it, you make the music play, revealing the most beautiful classical song ever. You can’t figure out which song it is, but you love it. The more it plays the melody, the more you start to feel emotional, it’s delicate, if you were happy, you’d think it was the most elegant melody, but you feel overwhelmed by all that has happened, so the song feels sad, and before you even notice it you feel the pain in your throat.

It gets worse when you open the biggest box, a cake is centered inside it. It’s baby yellow, with pink letters in the middle.

Please stop ignoring me :(

That’s when you can’t help anymore, you’re crying. You wanted to hate Eddie, but you couldn’t, it was impossible to hate the person that made you feel alive every day at every fucking hour.

Avoiding him was becoming more painful, and you couldn’t let that pain eclipse what he did. You cover your mouth to silence your sobs while wiping the tears that seemed to be unstoppable. After some minutes of thinking, you decide that Eddie Munson doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, but he might deserve a second chance.

—

“Dude, we’re not gonna make it. Shouldn’t you accelerate more?” Eddie sends a killer look to Dustin, who’s in the passenger seat of his van. Mike, Jeff, Garett, and Lucas are in the back. Somehow, Mike made Lucas come back to them, and all of the boys realized that they could have just asked Lucas about their plans instead of asking Robin, who asked for 25 dollars in exchange for her services.

“Can you shut up, Henderson? I’m not exceeding the limit” the freeway was almost empty, but even so, Eddie wasn’t going to get another ticket.

“Robin said it was at 4:30 pm. It’s 3:58…” the long-haired boy rolls his eyes, before shushing Dustin.

“Robin also said I was dumb and that if I didn’t get y/n back, she would have her way on her. She could have been lying…” Robin wasn’t your friend for sure, but you talked to her during some training for band and cheers. So you had no problem telling her that you were going to the nationals of ice skating and where. You didn’t suspect anything.

“She wasn’t lying. Y/n said it…” Lucas said from behind. “She’s almost the last girl to participate. And the boy’s rounds go first, so we have extra time”

“Sinclair, tell me… Has she changed a lot?” Lucas giggled, looking at the window. He has spent a lot of time with you since he joined basketball, he was your refugee in the first days after the incidents.

“She’s funnier, she talks more and she’s not very shy. She helped the whole basketball team to pass their foreign language test” Eddie smiled, of course, you would. Even after hearing, you were more confident, you were still a total sweetheart, helping everyone and managing to be a good student and ice skater.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Mike said suddenly, and Lucas frowned, confused at him. “I mean, that she left the club and joined the cheerleaders. And now we’re going to Illinois to apologize, because we screwed up”

“Yeah, but… the jocks and cheers are not bad. They assumed the hellfire club was a satanic coven, but… even after what you did, y/n proved them wrong” Eddie’s heart melted when he heard that. And he remembered that he said that you should have been more like him to fit in the club, he wanted to kick himself off from the tallest bridge for saying that.

“She did?” Jeff asked, and Lucas nodded. Suddenly the whole van felt a little stroke on their hearts, feeling bad again.

“Hope she can see the poster we made for her” before Dustin can add anything, Eddie pulls his arm, excitedly.

“We’re here! We made it!” Everyone looks at Eddie pulling to the big Oakton Ice arena. A lot of cars were parked, and tons of families with balloons, bouquets, and more were heading inside.

“Garett, now is a good time to call Delilah” the boy nodded, pulling out the big block of cables that was considered a cellphone in 1986.

A week ago, Eddie had to go to your ice skate club to beg Delilah to let them be in the competition. He had to tell her the whole story, and even so, Delilah made him go and ask your parents if they were okay with that big distraction for you. They accepted, but they couldn’t see you, only after you performed.

That was more than enough for Eddie.

“She said she will be at the entrance to let us in” after picking a spot to park the van. They all hopped out. Delilah greeted them, and Eddie practically jumped in her direction.

“Are we late?” Delilah escorted them through security and a little after, they were looking at the big ice rink.

“No, not really. The boy's programs are done, now we are mid part going with the lady's short programs. `` The music was loud, but Delilah was trying not to speak very loudly. A black-haired girl was performing a boring orchestra song, to Eddie’s dismay.

He knew what he was getting into, most of the ice skating routines were classical musicals from a hundred years ago.

“Y/n can’t see you now. No matter if she wins or not, you can’t see her until the competition is over” everyone nodded. Delilah indicated to them their seats, which were in a good spot. Eddie felt nervous when he saw Jason Carver, with Brady, Chrissy, and Sally seated near your parents.

“Thank you…” Eddie said to the woman, who only gave him a brief smile and disappeared into the crowd of people.

Eddie is very impatient, it’s been five girls' turn and you haven’t come out to perform. The time feels eternal for him, meanwhile, for you it is going very fast.

You don’t know he’s out there, if you were aware of that, you would be extremely nervous, trembling, and babbling. But you can only focus on the music playing through your big headphones.

“Hey, ready? It’s time…” Delilah surprises you, making you stop the music.

“I’m not nervous, just anxious…” you say when you start walking beside the woman who was your mentor. Delilah got you a sponsorship with Macy's and it was making your image more famous, which you didn’t like, but you would never let them know.

“That’s normal, just breathe before the music starts, relax all your muscles and let it flow, don’t force anything.” you nod, noticing the ice rink was in front of you now. A lot of o people were in their seats, cheering and talking. Thank god you weren’t able to hear all the cheers and applauses for the other competitors.

“There she is!” Dustin almost screams when he sees you coming under the bleachers of the rink. Eddie turns to see you too, you’re talking with Delilah, and taking off the blade guards of your shoes. Your dress is nude, if the little stones that made the dress shine weren’t placed across the fabric, everyone could miss it and think you were naked from the top half of your body. Evident mascara and bright red cherry lipstick on your lips, with your hair in a half ponytail.

Eddie feels his eyes are dilated just by seeing you, feeling twice in love with you, he hears your name being presented, followed by the name of your presentation, which is Dark eyes.

He follows your movements as you enter the rink, a lot of people are cheering, and he can swear he can hear Sally screaming so loud for you. After a couple of seconds, you position yourself in the rink and the music starts.

—

“Eddie!…” the boy turns to see your mother, she greets him with a short hug, which he hurried to reciprocate. “I’m glad you made it, well, you and the boys”

“Yeah, we were close to losing it” she giggled, looking at the boys and waving at them.

“Listen, I never had the chance to say how much I’m sorry…” your mother offers him another smile, leaning to caress his shoulder.

“Boy, don’t worry. You’ve been there for y/n longer than anyone, don’t let one error destroy everything” Eddie smiled slightly ashamed. Your mother’s words give him hope. “Be honest, Eddie. Do you love her? don’t think about it’s her mother asking you this”

“I have. Since I was sixteen.” she smiles and pats the shoulder she was caressing.

“Then you just have to wait one more hour to tell her” his heart beats happily, and after thanking your mother, she tells him she has to go to help him get ready for the long program.

—

The big mirror in the room lets you look at your new costume, this time, the dress is the infamous purple one. It has a degraded effect from the chest to the edges of the skirt and sleeves. The cleavage is heart-shaped, with a transparent purple fabric covering your shoulders and arms. The bun in your head is lowered, and with your hair combed by the middle, you feel amazing.

Your mother zips the back of your dress when you hear Sally and Chrissy entering the room.

“You are in third place!. That’s amazing, babe!” Chrissy says, hugging you, and Sally joins too.

“The girl from New York got so mad, his mentor had calmed her on the screen, and everyone was laughing at her!” Lisa Chen didn’t like you for some reason, the New York skating team wasn’t very friendly.

“Lisa Chen doesn’t like to lose” they agreed, and they join your mother to apply your makeup.

“You’re going to freak when you…” Chrissy pinches Sally, and she gets quiet, making you giggle.

“What?…” your mother smiles at them, which makes you more confused.

“You’ll see…” before you can ask further, Delilah comes again.

“Four minutes to go out…” your body shakes a little, but you are stronger enough to sigh and stand up, forgetting about what your friends were saying.

“Good luck, Jason and Brady said you’re gonna be awesome” an aww goes out of your mouth, and after a little goodbye, you are on the edge of the rink again. This time, you enter the ice and a wave of confidence hits you.

From his seat, Eddie sees you again, this time your costume is more interesting. It’s dark, your makeup it’s dark too, even your lipstick, in a berry tone. He dares to think you look sexy and elegant but still perfect. The music starts and it’s more intriguing, it’s jazz, from the fifties or sixties. As the choreography develops, everyone starts holding their breaths when you’re close to making the axel.

Eddie wasn’t an expert on ice skating, but for sure he knew what an axel was, the most difficult jump in the whole sport. During the chorus of the song, you prepare to jump, and Eddie can feel sweat forming on his forehead.

When you land, everyone starts yelling and cheering. Eddie stands up and claps excitedly, while the boys imitate him. Only one girl beside you completed the jump clearly, without penalties.

“Fuck!, that’s my girl!” Eddie curses while smiling at the sight of you, he discovered you could look more beautiful and perfect than he thought. He knows your performance is close to the end when the people continuously cheer, watching you spin and dance across the rink. Finally, you’re done, a lot of people stand up, they throw flowers and some plushies, and you thank them while giggling happily, catching your breath.

Delilah waits for you, helping you go out of the ice rink.

“That was very good, y/n” she hugs you, making you feel proud of yourself. The adrenaline in your body was slowly going away, but your excitement was persistent, as your mentor walked you to the spot where judges would read your scores. A new wave of applause starts when the judges announce you are in second place, escalating one position, making you gasp in surprise, hugging Delilah again.

“Oh my God, I’m in second place!” The woman makes you drink more water after laughing with you.

“I don’t think the last two competitors will beat you.”

She was right, they couldn’t. You ended up in second place, you knew it the moment the scores of the last girl were announced. That’s when the rink was cleaned again, and there was a brief break. You are down with your mentor, talking with the rest of the team, even if you didn’t know the girls that well, they were being nice and giving you warm congratulations.

“Hey…” you turn when someone calls you, expecting it to be Jason or Brady. But you freeze when you encounter Eddie Munson. You stay quiet, looking at him, he is wearing his black leather jacket, his messy hair as usual, but he looks more elegant with a black turtleneck sweater and grey jeans. You manage to give him an awkward smile, and he notices how red you’re getting.

“Hi…” suddenly you feel shy again like you were meeting him for the first time again. “What are you doing here?”

“What? You thought I was gonna miss one of the most important events for you?” you thought you couldn’t get redder, but you did.

“Well, yeah. It’s not like we have been the closest for the past weeks” you want to hide some hairs behind your ear as an excuse to avoid his gaze, but your hair is in a perfectly accommodated bun, so you can’t.

“I know… this is for you” for the first time, you notice he’s holding some flowers, pink lilies. The emotions build up very fast, and once again, you feel like you could cry, he was being very cute.

“Oww, thank you. I…, I don’t know what to say” the flowers are your support, he knows you’re nervous, it’s on his hands to build up a conversation.

“How about I start apologizing for being an asshole?” a little smile perks from your face, and Eddie gains more confidence to keep talking.

“Okay…” his face grabs your chin, making you look up to see him, his beautiful eyes scream honesty.

“I don’t know why I said all those stupid things. It was so stupid and immature” your body relaxes when he starts caressing your cheek, it feels right. “I wanted to befriend Catherine so badly, that I was becoming like her, and… that’s not what I wanted. I’ve always wanted you”

“Really?” The shyness in your voice sounds cuter than ever, and Eddie’s smile grows.

“Of course, I started talking to you because I had a crush on you. I never said anything because I thought we were just friends…” it felt like you weren’t about to receive a medal, that you were at the entrance of an ice rink, music playing in the background to make the break more enjoyable, you could only see and hear Eddie’s eyes and voice.

“I loved the music box…” you say, stroking the petals of the pink flowers, trying to calm your nervousness.

“Yeah?, I wanted to give you something related to ice skating, but… this was better I guess.” unconsciously, you two are closer, chests almost brushing. You don’t notice it, but your friends and family are looking in your direction.

“So…, Now what?” Finally, you look at him again. His hand moves closer to your lips, his thumb is near your lower lip now.

“I don’t know. Do you forgive me?`` The intensity between his eyes and yours is big, the connectivity is inevitable, he wants to kiss you so badly, just like you want to kiss him. “Because I’m am sorry, and I would never dare to do some shit to hurt you again”

“Kiss him, y/n!” you hear someone yelling. You turn to see it’s Jason, so you send him an ashamed smile. Then Brady and Sally start yelling the same. But you end up completely surprised when you notice the hellfire club on the other side of the bleachers.

“You brought them too?” Eddie nods smiling. Dustin and Lucas are carrying a poster that says <Eddie loves u, and so do we ♡>, they are also yelling.

“Kiss him, kiss him!” Your horror grows when most of the arena starts cheering and yelling the same, even the cameraman is pointing at Eddie and you, projecting the image on the large display where the scores are being presented. You turn to see Eddie, who’s giggling like you.

“I love you,” he says as if he was trying to calm you. And you realize he really proved he loved you, just like the hellfire club did. Your new friends knew it, you discover that maybe that’s why Robin Buckley was trying to talk to you. Your mother, Delilah, and your friends knew that he was coming.

Fuck it, you love him too.

“I love you too, Eddie” so you end up leaning completely to kiss him. Your shoes make it easy for your height difference. You decide to close your eyes and let it go. You hear a big crowd cheering and screaming, and you can feel Eddie smiling through the kiss. It was perfect, you wanted to archive the moment for eternity.

“I’m lucky to be kissing the winner of the nationals. Just letting everyone know that the future Olympic athlete is my girl” his words make you laugh very hard. His hand is interlocking with yours.

“Eddie, I am in second place, and I’m not sure if I will ever participate in the Olympics. Plus… Who said I’m your girl?” he seized his smile, looking worried.

“Oh no… I thought…, I-“ you laugh again, loving that all the attention is not on you two anymore.

“I’m kidding, of course, I am your girl, metal boy” he sighs, relaxed again. So he wraps his arms around you, hugging you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, y/n. I will never disappoint you again” you correspond to his hug.

“I know…” the distant and barely noticeable sound of his heartbeat was enough to confirm his words. “I know you after all”

“Yeah, you do, doll.” Before he can add anything else, Delilah taps your shoulder.

“Sorry champ, but I need to borrow her. She’s all yours after the medal is hanging off her neck” you roll your eyes yes happily, while Eddie and you looked like two idiots in love.

“I’ll see you after this, love you” Delilah pulls you away, and Eddie waves happily.

“Love you too. We’re gonna celebrate tonight!” you nod giggling before you have to enter the ice rink again and skate towards the podium where you would receive your medal.

You make a brief recap of everything that happened in one month, and you accept that it was a lot, but it was worth it. The happiness you felt when the silver medal was given to you, plus the recent acquisition of your new friends, reconciliation with your old friends, and your new era with Eddie as your boyfriend, was more than enough.

When you look to see him standing beside Delilah, he throws kisses in the air for you, making you laugh, and capturing your best smile for the pictures. All that happened was weird but beautiful.

——

Requests are about to start in late October 💖

Taglist: @shelbycillian , @aedicn , @sad-darksoul , @ali-r3n, @plk-18, @englishmensbitch16 , @myfavoritesareproblematic .

#eddie munson x reader #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson angst

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