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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, birth, post-birth emotional disconnect.

Notes — Feeling sentimental. I really love you all so much. Thank you for your support and interest in this fic. It has meant the world to me. That said... TWO MORE CHAPTERS TO GO

2024

This was not the plan.

Barefoot was not the plan. Leggings soaked through with amniotic fluid and pain spiking low in her back like white-hot wire as her mom helped her out of the car was not the plan.

Thirty-eight weeks wasn’t pre-term. Everyone kept reassuring her, saying that she was full-term. Normal. Fine. But it wasn’t the plan. Her spreadsheet had said forty weeks. Her due date was still two weeks away.

Her brain had been prepped for forty. And this — this was chaos.

The private maternity wing at Northamptonshire General was everything she’d asked for. Calm. Modern. Quiet.

But not now.

Now it was too bright. Too noisy. Too uncontrolled.

Amelia flinched as the double doors to the ward opened automatically, the high-pitched whirring mechanical sound cutting sharp through her head. She shrank in on herself as the fluorescent lights bounced off polished linoleum and made her vision haze.

Her hands fluttered in midair, then pinched hard at the inside of her elbows. Over and over. She knew it was going to leave bruises. She didn’t care.

“Contraction,” she gasped, one hand bracing the wall. “Stop. Wait—”

Tracey was there, one hand between Amelia’s shoulder blades, the other pressing the call bell. “You’re okay, baby,” her mum whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

Amelia shook her head rapidly, breath catching in her throat. The pain wrapped around her middle like a vice and pulled. The floor tilted. The lights burned through her skull. Her mouth opened but nothing came out except a panicked inhale.

“Amelia?”

The voice was low. Calm. Warm, but neutral. Controlled.

Fiona.

Familiar. Early 40s. Irish accent. Quiet shoes. Soft jumper. Smelled like vanilla and Dettol. Amelia had met her a handful of times now, for appointments. She liked Fiona. Fiona didn’t make her feel like she was wrong for needing things said twice, or for needing silence, or for asking for bullet points on birth options.

“Alright. Hi, honey. It’s good to see you. I’ve got you,” Fiona said, stepping in close without touching her. “You're safe. The lights are bright, I know. We’re going to move to a quiet room, and there’s some fairy lights strung up in there. Would that help?”

Amelia nodded so fast her braid whipped against her shoulder.

“Can I take your hand?” Fiona asked gently.

Another nod. Shaky this time.

Fiona’s hand was warm. Dry.

They turned the corner into a private room, and as soon as the door shut behind them, Fiona moved with crisp efficiency — lowering the lights, drawing the blinds, speaking to the nurse in a clipped whisper. The temperature adjusted. The tones softened.

Still, Amelia kept stimming — fingers now tapping the underside of her chin in fast, repeated bursts. The pain was stealing her words.

She needed Lando.

“I’m going to say everything out loud before I do it, okay?” Fiona said. “Your blood pressure, then we’ll get you on the monitor. You’re safe. Nothing’s being done without your say-so.”

“Where’s—” Amelia rasped.

“Lando?” Tracey translated from her side, rubbing her shoulder. “He’s coming, baby. Three hours. Your dad just text. They're already on the plane.”

Amelia shook her head again, furious tears springing to her eyes. “He should—he should’ve answered the phone. Why didn’t he—he should have answered my call.”

“I know,” Fiona said softly, and she meant it. “I know. But you’re doing this. And you are not alone. Do you want your headphones?”

Amelia blinked.

“I remember you had sensory overload in your birth plan. I’ve got noise-cancelling ones I can give you. Music, white noise, or just silence.”

“White noise,” Amelia croaked.

Fiona pulled them from the drawer. Slid them on gently. Adjusted them without touching her ears.

The static hum clicked on and it helped.

The room dulled. The air stopped buzzing so loud. Her limbs stopped flinching like she was being shocked.

“Better?” Fiona asked.

Amelia gave a thumbs up.

“Okay, love. We’ll time the next contraction together. You just let it happen. I’ll talk you through everything. Then I’m going to pop your legs up, and we’ll see how dilated you are, okay?”

Amelia nodded.

Squeezed her mom's hand with bone-breaking force.

And held tight to the image of Lando — messy curls, warm eyes, that breathless voice — walking through the door.

He would come.

She just had to hold out until he did.

—

Lando was pacing.

Still in his race suit, hair matted to his forehead, jaw locked so tight it ached.

The garage was quiet—the kind of quiet that only follows an early retirement. It wasn’t peace. It was tension. It was post-mortem silence.

It was stunned mechanics and snapped radio comms and the faint echo of tyres being wheeled away.

On the overhead screen, Oscar was being handed the P2 trophy on the podium.

Lando couldn't even look.

He was still reliving Turn 3.

The outside line. Max. The squeeze. The goddamn nudge.

The second he felt the contact, he knew it was done.

Puncture. Floor damage. Game over.

Both of them out. Two DNFs. No points. Just fury.

He’d thrown his gloves across the garage the moment he climbed out.

Now his hands were still shaking, chest still tight with adrenaline and rage.

“Fucking dickhead,” he muttered under his breath, pacing. “Every time. Every single fucking time—he can’t help himself.”

No one said anything. No one dared.

The media would already be writing the headlines.

‘Norris cracks under championship pressure.’

He didn’t care.

His phone had buzzed three times. He didn’t look at it.

He didn’t want to see who the hell was brave enough to be the first one to call him.

Didn’t want to deal with PR or statements or apologies.

He just wanted to scream. And maybe punch Max in the face.

He spun again—too fast. Nearly walked straight into Zak.

“Jesus, Lando—” Zak grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” Lando snapped, still breathless, still fuming. “Sorry. I just—Max—he fucking ruined it.”

Zak didn’t even flinch. “Forget Max. You need to listen to me. We have to go. Now.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What?” he said, blinking. “Go where?”

“Home. To England. Amelia just called.”

The words hit harder than the collision.

His face drained. All the heat of his anger snapped to cold panic.

“What—what's wrong?” His voice cracked.

“She’s in labour. Tracey’s with her. She tried to call you—she’s okay, far as I know—but it’s happening. Now.”

Lando staggered back a step, pulling out his phone with shaking hands.

Three missed calls. Two texts. One from Tracey. One from Amelia.

Amelia:

IN LABOUR!

Tracey:

She’s okay. We’re on our way to the hospital. Northamptonshire, as planned. Get here fast.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing the phone to his forehead. “I didn’t answer—she called, and I didn’t—fuck.”

The guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

Two weeks early.

Was it the crash?

The stress?

She was watching. She always watched. She was on the comms today too, wasn’t she?

Did watching him get taken out—watching the car spin, the team panic—did that trigger something?

Did he do this?

His throat felt raw. “Is she in pain? Is she scared?”

“I don’t know. All she did was tell me to come and get you,” Zak said quietly. “That’s all. But if we don’t move now—”

Lando didn’t wait.

He ran.

Helmet abandoned. Suit unzipped. Gloves forgotten.

Sprinting down the paddock like the lights had gone green again and everything was on the line.

He nearly collided with Oscar, fresh from the podium, champagne still drying on his suit.

“Lando?” Oscar said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Amelia’s in labour.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. “Wait—now?”

“Yes, now!” Lando barked, eyes wild. “And I missed her call. I missed it. I’m not there, and she needs me—fuck—”

Behind them: rapid footsteps. Heavy breathing.

“What the fuck is going on?” Max, fresh from media, damp curls plastered to his forehead. Still in his suit. Still furious—until he saw Lando’s face.

“Amelia’s in labour,” Oscar said, breathless.

Max went still. “Shit.”

“She’s on her way to the hospital,” Lando said, voice cracking. “And I’m not there. I didn’t answer—I was so fucking angry, and I didn’t check, and she—” He clenched his fists. “What if it was the race? What if we stressed her out so much that it happened early? What if I fucked this up too?”

“Hey—no,” Oscar said quickly, stepping forward. “No, mate.”

Max grabbed his arm. “Fuck the race. I don’t give a shit. We need to go.”

“You just crashed into me,” Lando snapped. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Max didn’t even blink. “Because she’s my family, mate.”

There was a beat of silence. Lando swallowed.

“My jet’s at the airfield,” Max added. “Fastest way to England. No bullshit. Let’s go.”

Zak jogged up behind them, car keys in hand. “You can bring the whole damn grid for all I care. But we leave now if you want to make it in time.”

Lando’s lungs hurt. His heart was racing.

Oscar beside him. Max right behind. Zak in front.

Don’t let me miss her, he thought, over and over. Please. Please don’t let me miss her.

—

The receptionist barely looked up before buzzing the doors open.

Lando didn’t wait. He shoved through them, sprinting.

His shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.

His heart was hammering. His brain was a mess of white noise and guilt and prayer.

He was too late. He was too late.

He should’ve answered the phone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve been there.

The midwife at the station looked up just as he rounded the corner.

“Norris?” She asked knowingly.

He nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes. I’m—yes. I’m Lando. My wife—Amelia—”

“She’s okay,” the midwife said quickly, already standing. “Room 307. I’ll take you.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving.

The lights were too bright. The walls too white. His skin itched with leftover adrenaline and travel-sweat. He still wore his fireproofs under his hoodie, and he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin.

You weren’t here.

He turned a corner.

She needed you.

He reached the door.

And stopped.

He could hear her.

Not words—just breath. Short, shallow, uneven. The sound of someone trying not to panic.

He opened the door.

Amelia was there. On the bed.

Half propped up on pillows, her hospital gown pulled tight over her belly. Her hands fisted in the thin blanket. Her face flushed with pain.

A yellow golf-ball in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she saw him.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You took so long,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Lando crossed the room in three steps, already shaking. “I know. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t check my phone—I was—I was pissed off with how my race ended and I didn’t think and I should’ve known—fuck—” He dropped to his knees beside her, pressed his forehead to her arm. “I thought I’d be too late,” he said into her skin.

Amelia reached out—tangled her fingers in his hair—and tugged, sharp. “Stop,” she said, voice hoarse. “None of that.”

His eyes were already red. His cheeks wet. He didn’t know when he’d started crying.

She looked exhausted. Pale under the flush. But she was here. And so was he. Finally.

“You didn't miss it,” she said. “She waited for you.”

“Of course she did,” he whispered. And then he kissed her. “And you. You’re the strongest fucking woman in the world. You know that?”

She exhaled a laugh. “I’m also five centimetres dilated and out of patience, so if you want to be helpful—please hand me that cup of ice.”

He did. With shaking hands.

“My mom braided my hair,” she added after a moment, voice softer now. “You missed that part.”

“I’m not going to miss anything else,” he promised.

He kissed her forehead. Her temple. Her knuckles. Gave her mom a small smile.

Tracey was sat in the corner, near the window, working on a knitting project. They looked like tiny booties from what he could see.

He’d hug her later. Thank her a million times just for being there — even though he knew she wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world rather than at Amelia’s beck and call.

“I ran through the paddock,” he murmured. “Max and Oscar came too. We took Max’s jet. Your dad nearly had a coronary at the airport.”

Her eyes softened. “They came?”

“Yeah.” He brushed her damp hair back. “They’re all downstairs. Waiting. Your dad wasn’t sure you’d want him here, didn’t want to overwhelm you. They’re freaking out. Because they love you.”

“I want them to come and say hi after,” she said. Her face twisted with discomfort. “But— I just it want it to be you and my mom, okay? Until she’s here.”

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” His fingers slid over hers. “I— I need to call my parents.”

“I already took care of that, honey. They’re on their way.” Tracey said.

Lando exhaled with relief.

Then he leaned in and kissed his wife and said, “You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.”

—

It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a cry.

And then hands, gentle, practised, passing something small and slippery and impossibly alive onto Amelia’s chest.

“Here she is, Amelia,” Fiona said softly. “You did it. She’s here. Healthy and pink.”

Amelia couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

Because everything in her brain was screaming: “this isn’t real.”

This wasn’t how she’d rehearsed it in her head. In her spreadsheets. In the checklist she’d kept taped to the fridge.

This wasn’t theoretical.

This wasn’t a due date or a biometric scan or the size of a cantaloupe at 38 weeks.

This was weight. Heat. Movement.

A baby. Her baby.

On her. In her arms.

Not inside anymore.

The disconnect hit her like a crash.

Amelia flinched; only slightly, but enough that Fiona paused, watching.

And so did Lando. And her mom.

Her breathing had gone shallow again. She was blinking fast, trying to recalibrate.

The baby; the baby, the baby — it wasn’t a concept.

It was a person. With skin and breath and a heart that was beating fast.

A heart that had come from her.

Amelia’s whole body trembled. Not from pain, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.

Ada.

Her name had been a theory. A hope.

Now it was a face. A body. Tiny hands.

But faces were hard. Faces moved. Eyes blinked. Skin flushed. Tiny limbs twitched.

And she was touching her. Skin to skin. The warmth was overwhelming.

Every sensory processor in Amelia’s brain screamed. She wanted to dissapear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to understand — and she didn’t.

“You’re okay, baby,” Lando whispered from beside her, voice cracked and reverent. “Just let yourself have a few minutes. Just… just look at her.”

Amelia’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, a few inches away from Ada’s damp, curled back. She couldn’t bring herself to touch.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, voice paper-thin. “I don’t—I don’t know her.”

Fiona gently nudged Ada higher. “She knows you. Smell, heartbeat, voice. She knows you, Amelia.”

But that made it worse.

Because Amelia was so full of love she couldn’t speak — but she was also full of fear, static, disorientation. Her brain was desperately trying to map a new universe with no manual.

Lando leaned in. Rested his forehead to hers. One hand on Ada’s back. One over Amelia’s hand, still hovering.

“You’re doing it,” he said softly. “You’re already doing it.”

Ada made a small sound — nothing loud, just a hum. A nuzzle. A twitch of her mouth.

And Amelia finally, finally, laid both hands over her daughter’s back. Just fingertips.

Ada shifted, rooting instinctively.

“She’s a hungry girl,” Fiona said, voice warm and gentle. “Would you like some help?”

Amelia nodded, but her eyes stayed locked on Ada — this tiny, impossible thing who had been an abstract dream for nine months and now weighed heavy and warm on her chest.

She guided her with Fiona's aid, shaking slightly; and Ada latched like she’d done it in a past life.

“Look at that,” Fiona whispered. “First try.”

Lando made a choked sound. “Daddy’s girl.”

Amelia didn’t even look at him. She reached blindly, grabbed the empty bedpan from the table beside the bed, and whipped it in his direction.

It bounced harmlessly off his leg. He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he murmured.

Amelia still didn’t look away from Ada.

Her fingers, once frozen, were now stroking her daughter’s back. Tentative. Learning.

“I don’t understand how she’s real,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Lando said, voice barely a breath. “You’ve got a lifetime to learn her.”

Amelia’s throat closed. A single tear slid down her cheek, hot and sharp.

Ada suckled rhythmically, peacefully. Her skin flushed. Her impossibly tiny hands curled into fists.

And Amelia fell in love.

—

The room was quiet.

Tracey had slipped out to tell the world that Ada Rossella Norris had arrived safely. That Amelia was okay.

In the soft lamplight and afterbirth hush, everything stood still.

Lando sat half-on the bed, one arm wrapped around Amelia’s shoulders, the other curled around her waist.

Ada lay nestled between them, tiny cheek resting against her mother’s chest, her breath a faint whisper of warmth.

Amelia hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not since the first latch. Not since the bedpan throw.

She was staring down at Ada like she couldn’t possibly look away. Like if she blinked, this would all turn out to have been a dream.

Her fingers moved slowly—carefully. Memorising. Mapping. A tactile inventory.

“She has your nose,” Amelia murmured, her voice cracked and reverent. “But flatter. Less of the Norris ski slope.”

Lando huffed a laugh against her temple. “I don’t have a ski slope.”

“You do,” she said, brushing a finger over the curve of Ada’s. “But it’s endearing. Especially in winter photos.”

She stroked over Ada’s tiny forehead. “And my pouty lips. Poor thing.”

“Baby.”

“It’s okay. She’ll grow into them.” Amelia paused, then added, “Her ears are yours. Exactly. Same tilt. Same soft cartilage. She’s going to hate them in school and love them by the time she’s an adult.”

Lando’s grip on her tightened, just slightly. “She’s perfect.”

“I know.” Amelia’s voice cracked. “She’s so real.”

Ada squirmed softly, stretching a hand, and Amelia caught it — thumb gently placed against tiny fingers.

“She has fingernails,” she whispered, as though it shocked her. “Actual fingernails.”

Lando kissed her hair. “Yeah. She’s a whole person.”

Amelia was quiet again, but only for a second. And then, still not looking up, she began to speak.

“Ada,” she said, voice low and even, like she was introducing the baby to the room, to her own existence. “You were born on a Sunday. In a maternity ward in Northamptonshire. At 38 weeks and three days. You came early because you are, apparently, impatient. Or maybe just a bit dramatic. Your dad swears it had nothing to do with the fact that he and Max crashed and stressed your mummy out. I’m not convinced.”

Lando groaned softly, head tilted back against the wall. “Don’t blame her dramatic entrance on my DNF.”

“I’m just saying,” Amelia murmured, brushing Ada’s cheek, “the timing is suspicious.”

Ada twitched, shifting closer into her chest.

“Well, then, let’s see. You’re part British, part Belgium, part American, but I’m not sure you’ll be jumping to claim that last one. You have a Formula One driver for a daddy. And an engineer for a mummy.”

Lando chuckled. His hand came up to rest over hers, both of them cupping their daughter together.

“You’ll grow up in paddocks. You’ll learn to walk in motorhomes. Your first sunscreen will be whatever your mummy can find in the team stash. Everyone’s going to spoil you rotten. Oscar, well, that’s your Uncle Ducky — he’s already bought you this sweet little onesie with a hundred tiny little cartoon ducks on it. And Max, Verstappen, well, that’ll be your uncle too. I don’t have a brother, but he’s the nearest thing.” She whispered. “But you’ll have another Uncle Max too, and that might get a bit confusing for you, but we’ll be patient.”

Amelia leaned her head on Lando’s shoulder. Her voice dipped lower, like she was confiding a secret to Ada, or maybe to herself.

“You’ll be so loved,” she said. “So much. By people who’ve waited their whole lives to meet you. By a daddy who would cross the continent in race boots to get to you in time. By me, even when I’m tired and anxious and unsure of how to be your a mummy and a person at the same time.”

She sniffed hard, blinking fast again. “You’ve been born into a world that’s chaotic and messy and fast and loud—but it’s ours. And we’re going to make sure it’s yours, too.”

Ada breathed. Soft and slow. Eyes still closed. Tiny fist curled against her cheek.

Lando rested his chin on top of Amelia’s head.

—

Dim afternoon light pooled in soft gold across the linoleum floor, filtered through thick hospital curtains. Machines beeped softly in the background, steady and forgettable.

Amelia was sleeping.

Not deeply — her body too raw, her brain too wired — but enough to rest. Enough for her face to soften, for her lashes to flutter, for her breath to even out against the pillow.

Lando hadn’t taken his eyes off her for hours.

But now — just for a moment — he was pacing near the window, his arms full of something precious.

Ada.

Swaddled and warm and impossibly small in his hoodie-covered forearms, her tiny head nestled into the crook of his elbow, mouth parted, breaths soft. She smelled like hospital linen and baby powder. Like nothing and everything.

Lando couldn’t stop looking at her.

He kept glancing back to Amelia, as if to make sure she was still there — still breathing, still safe, still his. And then back down to Ada again, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d made it out of someone so extraordinary.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d miss it.”

He swallowed. Looked down at the little bundle blinking slowly up at him — unfocused, unaware, content.

“I was so fucking angry. You wouldn’t believe it. Max and I — well, you’ll hear those stories when you’re older. But I was in the garage, ready to murder someone, and I missed three calls.”

He shifted Ada gently in his arms, pacing another slow length of the room.

“And then your grandpa Zak came in and told me your mum was in labour and I…” He laughed under his breath. It cracked in the middle. “I think my heart actually stopped.”

Ada scrunched her nose, then relaxed again.

“I thought you might be born without me there. And I would never have forgiven myself.”

His voice dropped to a hush, as though even the words themselves were too loud.

“And knowing that your mummy was in pain, and overwhelmed, and everything would be moving too fast and she needed me — and I wasn’t there.”

Lando exhaled, slow and ragged.

“But she waited. You waited. And now you’re here.”

Ada shifted slightly, a little sigh escaping her lips like the smallest secret in the world.

Lando smiled, tears pricking at his lashes again. He bounced her gently, rocking her as he gazed out the window, the hospital grounds bathed in quiet light.

“I don’t know if I’m going to get this right,” he admitted, voice barely audible now. “Being your dad. Being your mummy’s husband. Balancing all of it. But I swear to you, Ada—” He glanced down again, kissed the side of her velvet-soft head. “I swear I will love you so much that even on the days I get it wrong, you’ll never doubt that part.”

Behind him, Amelia stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Lando turned, adjusting Ada one-handed so he could settle into the armchair beside the bed, still cradling her close.

She was falling asleep again.

He watched her eyelids flutter.

“Everyone’s going to want to meet you soon. Oscar and Max and your grandpa Zak. My mum and dad are coming too, and they’re your other grandparents. Nanny Cisca and Grampy Adam. You’ve got a whole army of people who love you already.”

Ada didn’t respond, of course. But Lando smiled anyway.

—

There was a soft knock.

Amelia stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open.

Lando was beside her, Ada nestled in his arms, both of them silhouetted against the low amber light from the window. He turned toward the door at the knock, but didn’t speak.

Tracey peeked her head in first. “They’re climbing the walls out here. You ready for visitors?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away — just nodded, slow and small.

The door opened.

Her dad entered first, still in team gear, face flushed and drawn with tension that hadn’t quite released. Max followed close behind, jaw set, eyes scanning every inch of the room. Then Oscar, quietest of all, hovering in the doorway, his hands clenched around the hem of his t-shirt.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Zak exhaled sharply — a sound that came out almost like a sob — and crossed the room in four long strides.

“She’s here,” Lando said, voice thick with emotion.

He was smiling — tired, tearstained, messy-haired, beaming. His hoodie had been peeled back at the chest, skin-to-skin with Ada, whose sleepy face peeked just above the blanket.

Zak made it to them first. He didn’t ask permission — just leaned in, reverent, pressing one palm gently to Ada’s impossibly small back.

“Wow,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

His voice cracked.

“She’s healthy,” Lando said. “They both are.”

Max stood frozen for a beat, as if unsure if he was allowed to move — then his whole body softened, and he stepped forward, too. No jokes, no bravado.

He leaned down and kissed the top of Lando’s curls — and just like that, the tension of the day, of the collision and the angry team-radios, were forgotten.

Then, he looked at Ada.

“Dag meisje,” he murmured, voice low and Dutch-soft. Little girl. “What a beautiful girl you are.”

Amelia blinked over at them; Lando, crying silently, Zak with both hands now cradling the baby’s tiny back, Max brushing a finger over her little cap of dark hair.

But Oscar hadn’t moved.

He stood just inside the door, eyes locked on Amelia. Not the baby. Not Lando. Just her.

She gave him a nod.

And in an instant, Oscar crossed the room. No words — not yet — just a deep, shaking breath as he dropped to his knees beside her bed and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

He was warm and real and trembling just slightly.

“I thought—” he choked on the words. “I didn’t know if you—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

Oscar nodded into her shoulder.

“Sorry I made you worry.” She told him.

“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely, voice muffled. “Did you see my podium?”

Amelia let out a breathy laugh and nodded. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed.

Behind them, Max was now peppering Lando with questions — rapid-fire Dutch, mostly — about the birth, the midwife, whether Ada had opened her eyes yet.

Zak hadn’t stopped touching Ada, like if he let go, she might disappear.

Oscar still hadn’t looked at the baby.

“Can I see her?” He asked Amelia softly.

Amelia gave another nod. “Yeah, ducky. Of course you can.”

Oscar stood, eyes wide, cautious like she was made of glass; but when Lando held Ada out to him, he took her without hesitation.

She fit perfectly into his arms.

“Hi,” he breathed, eyes going impossibly soft. “Hello, baby Ada. You look just like your mummy.”

Amelia lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Her dad come and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Max kissed both of her cheeks and told her that she looked beautiful.

And then Ada was back in her arms, all scrunchy nosed and wet-eyed, and the world narrowed down to her.

—

The house was too quiet.

Which was absurd, given they were no longer alone.

But that was exactly the problem.

The silence left too much room for Amelia’s thoughts.

She stood in the nursery, arms crossed tightly over her chest. In a baggy tee and oversized cotton pyjama pants, hair still braided but frizzed at the edges.

She hadn’t let go of Ada in hours — not really.

Even now, with Ada asleep in the crib just a few feet away, Amelia felt like she hadn’t let her go.

Lando stood a few paces behind, leaning against the doorframe in his joggers and a white t-shirt, barefoot and watching her with soft eyes.

“We don’t have to leave her,” he said gently. “Not even for a second. There’s a basket in our room for a reason, baby.”

Amelia didn’t answer.

She rubbed one hand up and down her arm, fast, rhythmic. A stim. Comfort.

“She’s just so small,” she said eventually. “And she was inside me and now she’s not, and my brain hasn’t — hasn’t caught up to the idea that she’s real and separate and still… fine.”

Lando stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. Not because he thought she’d snap, but because she was stretched thin and too full and too raw, and he knew better than to rush her.

“I know,” he said. “It’s weird, right? How quiet she is? How not imaginary?”

Amelia exhaled sharply, a little laugh catching in her throat. “I keep expecting someone to come take her away. Like — like we’re just the transport team.”

Lando reached out, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. “They handed her to us, remember? In the hospital. And no one looked worried. Not a single nurse said ‘actually, we’ve changed our minds��.”

“I don’t feel qualified.”

“You grew her.”

“I did,” she whispered, blinking hard. “And now I’m supposed to… put her in a crib and go to bed like she’s not still part of me?”

“You don’t have to,” he said again. “We can pull the moses basket all the way next to your side of the bed. You can have your hand in there with her, baby, if that’s what you need to do. And we got those little toe clips, didn’t we? To make sure she’s still breathing. I’ll set up the white noise machine. I can hold her while you shower. Or while you lie down. Whatever feels okay.”

She stared at him.

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to stop looking at her.”

“We can take turns.”

“But you need to sleep.”

“I’ll nap tomorrow.”

“Lando.”

“Amelia.”

She cracked a smile then — barely, but real.

And he took her hand, warm and grounding. “Come lie down. Just lie down. I’ll keep one hand on her and one on you. I’ll be right there.”

Amelia hesitated.

Then nodded.

She let him guide her back to their bedroom. Lando had already rearranged everything — bassinet beside the bed, a lamp dimmed low, muslins folded with surgical precision. He lifted Ada gently from the crib and laid her into the basket with infinite care.

Then he slid into bed, propped up by pillows, and held out his arms.

Amelia didn’t need to be told twice.

She curled into his side, one hand reaching instinctively toward Ada’s sleeping form, her fingers resting just beside the basket.

No blankets. No teddies. No safety hazards.

Just a perfectly swaddled baby in a white onesie, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm Amelia was already memorising. A monitor was clipped gently to one of her toes — nothing intrusive, just a soft band — but if anything changed, even slightly, it would ping Lando’s phone in an instant.

“I’m going to check on her every ten minutes,” Amelia mumbled, eyes already heavy but refusing to close.

Lando kissed her hair. “That’s okay. I probably will too.”

She nodded once, almost automatically, and settled deeper against him — but her fingers didn’t move from the edge of the basket. Her mind was moving too fast to follow, darting down rabbit holes.

“Did you ever get nightmares as a child?” She asked suddenly, her voice a little hoarse.

Lando blinked. “Um. Yeah. A few. Why?”

“I read somewhere they can run in families. It’s neurological. Patterns of sleep. And I just… I want to be prepared.”

He didn’t say 'You don’t have to worry about that right now.'

He didn’t say 'Let it go.'

He knew better.

So he said, “Only when I was overtired. I’d sleepwalk too, sometimes. My mum said I used to go looking for my kart in the middle of the night.”

That made her smile a little — soft and crooked. “Of course you did.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What else do you want to know?”

“Did you have a favourite toy?”

“Plastic steering wheel. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. It had a red horn button. I’d sit on the living room rug and pretend I was racing.”

“Were you scared of the dark?”

Lando glanced down at her, at the way her brow was pinched just slightly.

The questions weren’t idle.

They were a defence. A rhythm.

A way to keep the storm in her head at bay.

“I hated the dark,” he said simply. “I used to leave the bathroom light on; on purpose. It used to drive my dad mad, but I didn’t want to admit that it was because the dark hallway scared me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hand still resting near the basket.

“I need to hold her,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t wobble, but her lip did. “Just for a minute. Just to make sure she’s… she’s okay.”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “She’s yours, baby,” he murmured. “Ours. We can hold her whenever we want.”

So he got up and placed Ada gently in her mother’s arms, careful not to wake her.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she pulled their daughter close, cupping the back of her tiny head, pressing her lips to soft baby hair and inhaling like she was trying to fuse them back together.

And Lando just watched.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, eyes still locked on Ada.

“I know.”

“But I love her so much I can’t even — there’s no room left in me for anything else, Lando.”

He brushed her curls back from her forehead. “I know. Baby, I know.”

She smiled at him wetly. “Thank you for giving me her.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle.

—

By day three, the house had softened.

They’d settled into a new kind of rhythm. One shaped around feeds and burps and naps so short they barely even counted. The clock meant nothing anymore. Light filtered in and out of the windows. Lando had stopped checking the date. Amelia had stopped pretending not to be terrified by every sound Ada made.

But the bleeding had slowed. The cramps had faded. The adult diapers were gone — finally, thank God — and Amelia was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants as she sat cross-legged on the couch with Ada against her chest.

The baby nursed noisily, fingers flexing near her mother’s collarbone, head resting in the crook of Amelia’s arm.

In her free hand, Amelia held her iPad — an older engineering article open, written by Adrian, full of dense paragraphs and complex diagrams about brake duct airflow and thermal optimisation. She read it aloud like a lullaby, her voice soft but steady.

“‘By increasing the front duct’s diameter by 2.3 millimetres, the delta in peak rotor temp dropped below critical thresholds in high-deg circuits, including Catalunya and Marina Bay…’ You hear that, Ada? Heat efficiency. That’s how we stay fast and safe.”

Ada made a small noise — halfway between a sigh and a snuffle — and latched more firmly.

Lando passed through the room with a laundry basket in his arms. His curls were still wet from a rushed shower, and he wore mismatched socks. But he smiled when he saw them.

“She asleep yet?” He asked, pausing.

“Almost.” Amelia didn’t look up from her screen. “We’re learning about regenerative braking.”

“Alright, baby,” Lando said, and disappeared toward the washing machine.

The doorbell rang just as Amelia was settling Ada into the bassinet. Ada didn’t flinch, but Amelia suddenly startled and stared at her little sleeping form with a frown.

Was she too cold? Was her neck at the wrong angle? Had she been burped properly—

“It’s okay,” Lando said, his voice low. “She’s fine. I’ll get the door. You stay and watch her.”

She nodded, stepping back, watching the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And then: voices. Familiar ones.

Max (Fewtrell) and Pietra. Their laughter was gentle, not loud — filtered with care.

“Hey,” Max said, stepping into the living room with a Tupperware box already in hand. “We’ve both antibacced our hands. We come in peace.”

Pietra went straight to Amelia, arms already open. She didn’t say anything, just wrapped her up in a firm hug — grounding, real, warm — and kissed the side of her head.

“You have done so well,” she whispered.

Amelia didn’t cry, but her throat caught. “Thanks. She’s… she’s perfect. I’m just tired.”

“We know.”

Meanwhile, Max clapped Lando on the shoulder, hard. “Mate. You look like you’ve seen things.”

“I’ve seen things,” Lando muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Go sit down. We’ve got this.”

They didn’t ask to hold Ada. Didn’t hover or coo or crowd. Pietra pulled on rubber gloves and started wiping down the kitchen counters like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max took out the bins. Then he came back in and started unloading the dishwasher without asking where anything went.

Amelia watched all of it from the couch, stunned by how quickly the air changed — less pressure, more breathing room.

“You don’t need to do all that,” she murmured.

“We want to,” Pietra said, straightening up with a dish towel in her hand. “This is the bit no one helps with, and it’s the bit that matters.”

Lando appeared beside Amelia, dropping onto the couch, sliding a hand over her knee. She leaned into him automatically.

“Tell them thank you,” she whispered, eyes half-shut.

He did. She already knew he would.

And for the first time since Ada’s birth, Amelia let herself fully exhale. Not just a breath. A letting-go. Just a moment.

The baby was sleeping.

The house was quiet.

And they were not alone.

—

They took Ada out for her first proper walk on a Tuesday.

The sky was low and soft, pale blue smudged with thin clouds. Not warm, not cold. Just… fresh. There was the smell of cut grass in the air and the quiet hum of summer insects returning to their business.

The pram rolled smoothly along the country trail, thick tyres handling the uneven gravel without so much as a jolt. Lando had triple-checked the suspension before they left the house.

Now he hovered two steps behind Amelia, a muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, spare dummy in his hoodie pocket, checking the pram’s hood every three seconds like the sun might have suddenly grown sharper.

“Do you think it’s too bright?” He asked, squinting up. “Should we have brought the other hat?”

Amelia didn’t break stride. “She’s fine.”

“What if she gets cold?”

“She’s in a fleece-lined sleep suit and the foot muff, Lando. She’s not cold.”

He hesitated. “I just—she’s so little. Doesn’t feel right to have her out here.”

Amelia’s expression softened, but only a little. She didn’t stop walking. “Fresh air is important for newborns. It regulates their circadian rhythm. Improves lung function. Strengthens immune development.”

Lando jogged a step to fall in beside her, peeking into the pram. “I know. I just feel like she should still be wrapped in bubble wrap. Or, I don’t know… a titanium exosuit.”

Amelia side-eyed him. “She’s a human baby.”

“Yeah. But she’s our human baby.”

Amelia finally looked over at him, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes still scanning the trail ahead. “Lando. She’s okay. I promise.”

He huffed, shifting closer to peer into the pram again. “I know. I—I do know. But she’s just… so small.”

“She’s also fast asleep.” Amelia nodded toward the pram. Sure enough, Ada’s tiny features were slack with the soft stillness of newborn sleep, one fist curled near her chin and her lips parted slightly, breath feathering.

Lando smiled, almost reluctantly. “She really is perfect.”

Amelia slowed a little, letting the rhythm of her footsteps match the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Her hand brushed against his, and when he didn’t pull away, she laced their fingers together.

“She’ll be okay,” she said, softer now. “I’m going to be good at this part. The structure. The systems. The planning. Schedules. Routines.”

“You’ve been good at all of it,” Lando said without hesitation.

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not all of it.”

“Name one thing you’ve been bad at so far,” he challenged, raising a brow.

“Holding her while she cries,” she replied instantly, too fast and too honest. “I never know how to help. I just freeze.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t count. You can just wear your ear defenders.”

“I think they scare her,” she admitted, glancing away. “She cries harder when I put them on.”

Lando nudged her shoulder gently. “Nah. She’ll get used to them. Babies cry. That’s literally their job.”

She gave a quiet laugh, tugged closer by his steadiness. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They walked in silence for a minute, the trees rustling softly around them, the path dappled in filtered light.

“You want me to push her for a bit?” He asked.

She nodded and handed over the pram with a small sigh of relief, flexing her fingers. “My arms were starting to ache, and I don’t even know why. I wasn’t carrying her.”

“It’s the new mum muscle fatigue,” he said knowingly. “Totally scientific.”

She snorted, then went quiet for a beat. “I’m so glad I’m not, like, constantly peeing myself anymore. That was weird.”

Lando nodded. “Honestly, I think you handled it really well.”

She gave him a side-glance, almost shy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached out and squeezed her hand again. “I was expecting way more tears. And not from Ada.”

“There were tears. I just cried in the shower.”

He smiled, but it was soft and genuine. “I know.”

Amelia exhaled, some of the tension rolling off her shoulders. The walk, the fresh air, the steady feel of his hand wrapped around hers — it all helped. Ada stirred once in her sleep, a tiny sound escaping her lips, and they both stopped walking for a second, listening.

Still asleep.

They exchanged a glance — equal parts relief and awe — and kept walking.

—

Later that evening, their house glowed with the golden warmth of soft lighting, the scent of something mildly burnt wafting from the oven (Lando insisted it was “crispy” on purpose). The table was already set — half by Lando, half by Cisca, who had taken it upon herself to silently reorganise the cutlery the moment she walked in.

Dinner was simple. Pasta. Store-bought garlic bread. A pre-made chocolate tart that Adam had brought with a proud grin and a whispered, “Don’t let Lando see the packaging — he’ll think his mother spent hours making this.”

Ada had just gone down in her bassinet upstairs.

Amelia hovered in the hallway, half listening, half pacing, fingers twitching at her sleeves. She’d made it through dinner prep, through greeting Lando’s parents and making small talk, but her ears were tuned in a thousand different directions — to the baby monitor, to the creak of the upstairs floorboards, to the faintest imagined cry in the silence.

“She’s okay,” Lando said gently, coming to stand beside her. “She’s asleep.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Amelia said, clutching her elbows. “Or she was and now she’s not. Or she will be and then she won’t be, and then they’ll all want to hold her and I’ll have to say no because she’s finally down and they’ll think I’m rude—”

“Okay,” Lando said, calm and sure and already moving past her.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her.”

“Lando—”

But he was already climbing the stairs. Moments later, he reappeared with Ada bundled in her swaddle inside her moses basket, blinking in that newborn stunned way, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He paused only to press a kiss to the top of Amelia’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.

Amelia followed him, heart caught somewhere between panic and confusion — until she saw what he’d done.

He’d cleared the centrepiece from the kitchen table. Moved the salt and pepper. And right in the middle, like the guest of honour, was Ada. Swaddled and content, her moses basket taking pride of place between the lasagna and the chocolate tart.

Everyone paused.

Then started to laugh.

“Lando,” Cisca laughed. “You did not just put the baby on the table.”

“We can keep an eye on her,” he shrugged, completely deadpan.

Even Amelia, still frazzled, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. Her shoulders dropped. Her heart settled.

“Okay,” she said softly, moving closer and brushing her fingers across Ada’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But she’s calm. And you’re calm too. So I win.”

The rest of dinner was easy. Light. Ada stayed asleep, safe in the middle of it all. Lando’s parents only peeked at her — no passing her around, no unsolicited advice. Just gentle smiles and hands folded in laps and the occasional, “She’s so beautiful.”

Amelia stared at her daughter as she ate her lasagna.

And there would be photos passed around in fifteen years time. Of a baby in the middle of the dinner table, in different outfits during different times of the year. Easter and Christmas and Birthdays. Newborn and then not.

Ada Rossella Norris, fifteen years old, will blush and squeak and say, “Mum, that’s so weird! Why was I on the table?”

And Amelia will swipe her hand across her daughter’s freckled cheek and say, “Where else would you be?”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the couch, one of her old engineering textbooks open in her lap. It was more comfort object than useful now — dense equations and fluid mechanics — but it gave her something to hold, something to do.

From down the hall, the sound of water running filled the quiet.

She turned a page absently. Then another.

Then paused, head tilting slightly.

Lando’s voice drifted out from the bathroom. Soft. Muffled. A kind of singsong narration.

“There’s your little foot… and here’s your other one… look at those perfect toes, Ada-bug…”

Just her husband. Bathing their daughter.

Amelia closed the book, the spine pressing into her palm.

She didn’t need to go check. Didn’t need to see with her own eyes to know he was being gentle, and cautious, and silly, and Lando.

And the realisation landed with no fanfare, no dramatic swell of emotion — just a quiet, settled truth.

She trusted him.

Completely.

With the most precious thing in the entire world.

She tucked the book beside her and got up slowly, padding barefoot to the doorway of the bathroom, where Lando knelt beside the little tub, sleeves rolled up, Ada’s soft, soapy body cradled between his careful hands.

He looked up and grinned when he saw her.

“Hey,” he whispered. “She loves the water.”

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her eyes soft.

“I like it too,” she said. “And I like you. Like this.”

He flushed a little, smiled wider. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

Ada squealed and splashed her fists in the water.

Amelia smiled at her little girl.

—

The paddock was quieter than it would be on race day — a lull before the storm.

Just the low hum of cameras, the occasional mechanical clatter of a forklift, and the shuffle of early-arriving team personnel cutting through the cool morning air. But even that — the muted version of Silverstone — pressed in around Amelia like static behind her eyes.

Too many overlapping sounds.

Too much motion at the edges of her vision, flickering like faulty headlights.

Ada shifted against her chest with a soft grunt, the wrap keeping her snug and swaddled, the rhythm of Amelia’s heartbeat her steady metronome. One of Amelia’s hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s back, her thumb tracing a repetitive pattern she didn’t consciously register. A grounding mechanism. Something to keep her tethered.

Her dad met them at the back entrance of the McLaren motorhome, face gentle, voice pitched low like he was afraid to set something off.

“Hello, my beautiful baby girls,” he said, already holding the door open. “We’ve cleared the top floor. Everyone knows to stay out. You’ve got total privacy.”

Amelia gave a small nod. Didn’t speak.

Her whole focus was on getting inside — away from the press of noise, the open sky, the potential germs and the unknowns.

Lando was already there.

The moment she stepped through the doorway, he turned as if pulled by a thread. His whole expression shifted — softened in an instant — as his eyes landed on them. His daughter, safe and warm. His wife, upright and moving, even if she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world and then some.

“You made it,” he breathed.

“I said I would,” Amelia murmured. “I made a plan.”

And the plan was always the comfort.

He didn’t crowd her, just hovered at her side as she allowed herself to be guided up the narrow staircase to the engineer’s meeting room. It had been transformed — not sterile, not chaotic. Just… still.

The blinds were drawn. The harsh fluorescents replaced with soft lamp lighting. A white noise machine hummed gently in the corner, masking the distant clatter of wheel guns and rolling crates. Someone had set up a chair by the window, a footstool just beneath it, a bottle of water and sanitiser waiting on a little table nearby. She didn’t know who had prepared it. Probably more than one person. That thought, strangely, comforted her.

Amelia sank into the chair and exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.

Lando crouched beside her, fingers light on the edge of the wrap. He didn’t try to take Ada. Just looked at her like he was memorising the details — her milk-drunk mouth, the dusky pink of her cheeks, the faintest tuft of dark hair under her little hat.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “Welcome to Silverstone. A week old and you’re already in the paddock. You know how crazy that is?”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her shoulders loosened slightly.

“We’re only staying for an hour. Maybe less. I just want to go over the strategy notes with Tom. I’ve already emailed them, but—”

“You want to go over them in person,” Lando finished. “That’s fine. That’s perfect.”

She adjusted the wrap slightly, fingers brushing Ada’s tiny back. “It’s too soon for her to actually be here for the full weekend. Her immune system, her ears…”

“I know,” Lando said gently. “She’ll be ready soon.” Then, quieter, “Maybe in a kart.”

Amelia’s eyes snapped to his. “Only if she wants to. Only if it’s her idea.”

He lifted a hand. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door.

Oscar stood just beyond it, holding two coffees and that neutral expression he wore when he didn’t want to spook anyone.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Amelia. “I can come back later?”

Amelia glanced at him, then at the room, then back to Ada — still sleeping, undisturbed. She gave a small nod.

Oscar stepped in with careful movements, like he knew what it cost her to allow anyone near the baby (because he did). He crouched beside the chair, not quite close enough to breach her space.

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

“Amazing, innit,” Lando murmured, standing up to take one of the coffees from him.

Oscar didn’t take his eyes off Ada. “You’re a machine,” he told Amelia. “For coming here. Thank you.”

“She slept the whole car ride,” Amelia said. “I packed enough supplies for three days rather than three hours.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You think that’ll be enough?”

“It's fine. My dad’s probably stashed nappies all over this motorhome,” she said dryly. “You can call Zak Brown a lot of things, but you can’t call him unprepared.”

That made both men laugh, the sound low and soft enough not to wake the baby.

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long Amelia stayed.

Long enough for her to sit in on the strategy meeting, long enough to pass off her annotated packet of data to Tom with a few muttered clarifications. Long enough for her to reassure herself that her world hadn’t spun too far off its axis.

She knew it had been twenty-seven minutes because she set a timer on her phone. Not a second longer.

And when they left — quietly, quickly, Lando carrying her bag, Oscar offering to hold the door open — she didn’t look back.

She had a baby girl to focus on.

And Lando would follow her home when he was done.

—

The front door clicked softly shut.

Ada stirred in her basket. Amelia looked up from her book — well, from the same paragraph she’d read six times — just as Lando stepped into the living room, damp curls flattened beneath his McLaren cap and a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Oscar hovered with two takeaway bags and a sheepish shrug. “He called me stupid for planning on going to the team hotel,” he said. “I didn’t fight that hard.”

Lando dropped a kiss to her temple as he passed. “She’s been awake?”

“Two feeds,” Amelia said, adjusting the blanket draped over her lap. “Four nappy changes. She’s settled now.”

Oscar was already crouching beside the basket, peering in at Ada like he hadn’t seen her just a few hours ago. “She’s still so small.”

“She’s seven days old,” Amelia pointed out. “She’s supposed to be small.”

“I know. But like… look at her.” He grinned, voice hushed. “She’s smaller than my forearm.”

Amelia blinked.

Lando had taken the food into the kitchen. She could hear the fridge opening, the rustle of takeaway containers. Oscar was now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Ada, humming softly under his breath.

The room felt full. But not crowded.

She marked her place in the book — something about fluid dynamics and downforce — and looked around.

Lando came back in with three bowls of food and no cutlery, because he always forgot the cutlery. He kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the sofa beside her, and pulled her close with a casualness that would’ve stunned her thirteen-year-old self.

Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.

She thought about being thirteen. About hiding in the corner of the school library, rereading the same paperbacks while her classmates whispered and passed notes about their crushes.

She’d never understood the obsession. Never wanted the chaos of it.

She’d convinced herself she wasn’t built for any of it — romance, affection, softness. She figured she’d grow up and live alone in a quiet flat with neat shelves and a routine no one could break.

And now she was here. Baby in a basket. Working in the sport she adored. Married. Her best friend sitting on her living room floor, humming to her daughter as she slept.

It made her chest ache, a little. With disbelief. With gratitude.

“Hey,” Lando said softly, glancing down. “You okay, baby?”

She nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable and full at once. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Lando’s brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want it. I thought I wasn’t… wired that way.” Her voice was even. Gentle. “I have never been so relieved to have been wrong about something.”

He kissed her again, this time on the side of her head. “Love you.”

Oscar, still on the floor, looked up with a half-smile. “Is this a bad time to ask if you’re willing to half your naan bread with me?”

Amelia laughed. Then she tore it in half and gave it to him.

Lando passed her a fork.

She hadn’t even noticed him go get it. But of course he had.

And as Ada shifted softly in her basket, a tiny sigh in the quiet, Amelia thought, ‘This. This is what home is.’

And she hadn’t even known to hope for it.

569 notes · View notes

chogiwow · 10 days ago

Text

someone like you | part one.

pairing: heeseung x gn!reader (yang y/n - reader and jungwon are siblings)

genre: slice of life, slow-burn, angst, fluff

au: strangers to friends to lovers

warnings: smoking, mentions of death, food (plays a sort of central role as a means of comfort), topics of depression, anxiety, crying, suggestive (later parts), make outs (later parts), miscommunications

wc: part 1 – 20.4k | part 2 – tba.

a/n: right, so i decided on one singular part, but obv, i can’t write without making a whole ass deal about emotional trauma. so anyway… hopefully just a two-parter for this one :’D

MASTERLIST | PART 1 | PART 2

zero – prologue.

saturdays at yang’s diner moved with a rhythm of their own. something between chaos and choreography.

the lunch hour always brought a full house, with locals hunched over steaming bowls in quiet routine, and tourists crowding near the windows, sun-pink cheeks and frizzy hair swept back with sunglasses perched on their heads. every table was full. the narrow kitchen thrummed with the sounds of clattering ladles, blunt orders, and the sharp hiss of oil meeting metal. and you were half-drenched in dishwater and sweat, barely catching your breath since morning.

soap suds slid down your forearm, soaking into the worn sleeves of your faded cotton t-shirt. there was a growing damp patch near the elbow, but you couldn’t be bothered. your sleeves were rolled up too high, sitting in a bundle right above the chapped skin. you’d been elbow-deep in the sink for over an hour now, drowning in plates that smelled faintly of beef broth, garlic, and the lemon-slick scent of the dish soap.

another ding. the ticket wire by the service window snapped another order into place. cold noodles. grilled pork. barley tea. again. everybody scattering towards their workstations – in essence, it was mostly the same, because the restaurant didn’t offer much when it came to a diverse platter. not that you were catering to people with a refined palette. it was a small local diner tucked into a bend of the hill where everybody knew everybody, and for those who had been living here for years, they didn’t even require menus – now yellowed and curling at the edges, their laminated sheets hot to the touch.

the heat wrapped around you like a second skin. even with the fan buzzing overhead, the air in the kitchen was thick with steam and the smell of fry oil. sweat gathered at the nape of your neck, clinging to the roots of your hair. you wiped your face with your shoulder, careful not to streak it with bubbles. the sink groaned under the weight of new plates.

when the last plate clattered onto the drying rack, jungwon was already stepping in behind you, towel in hand, his sleeves rolled up with the precision of someone who’d been doing this his entire life.

technically, he had. your brother was scrubbing tables and sorting delivery crates before he was tall enough to see over the counter. you remember him as a kid balancing bowls bigger than his head, proud of every trip he made between the kitchen and the dining room. these days, he moved through the space like it was coded into his body – every reach for a ladle, every kick to close a swinging cabinet door, effortless and quiet.

he didn’t need to tell you to move. he just gave you a nudge with his elbow, pointed vaguely toward the front with a tilt of his head, and took your place by the sink without missing a beat.

untying the damp apron from around your waist, you stepped out of the kitchen into the slightly cooler dining area. it wasn’t much, but the change in temperature was enough to lift some of the weight off your shoulders, if only for a moment.

your tshirt clung to your back uncomfortably, damp with sweat. you ran your fingers under the collar, trying to shake some air down your spine. the summer heat had crept in early this year, and it wasn’t just the kitchen. the sun had been ruthless since late morning, bleaching the concrete white and setting the roof tiles ablaze. the diner’s creaky ceiling fan did its best, but the air was still thick and slow, the kind that made your movements feel heavier than they were.

the diner was aging gently. white stone walls weathered to a cream, vines curling up their edges like they’d lived here longer than you had. the wooden sign out front, carved decades ago, was now soft-edged and faded, the name barely legible unless you already knew it. but everyone here did.

the furniture was mismatched. the red-and-white chequered cloths had dulled to a dusty pink in some corners, their plastic coverings bubbling from sun exposure. no one cared. there was comfort in the sameness. in a town like this, places like your family diner wasn’t just a business – it was a fixture.

from the doorway, you could see rooftops sloping down into the valley below. terracotta tiles cracked and sunbaked. fig trees leaning close over balconies. the wide stone steps leading down the hill shimmered slightly in the heat haze. most tourists took the long way up the hill, winding roads shaded by patchy tree canopies. but the locals? they still took the stairs, no matter how slippery the moss or how hot the stone.

you liked it up here, though. the height made everything feel a little removed – like you were watching the world from behind a curtain of birdsong and cicadas.

leaning over one of the tables, you wiped down the surface with a damp cloth, eyes half on the plastic cover, half on the window. it was too humid for your own liking, but you could see a breeze flirting with the tops of the trees. the light filtered through the canopy in dappled patterns across the floorboards.

that’s when you spotted him.

blond hair, practically glowing under the harsh sunlight. a figure climbing the stairs slowly, sluggishly. he paused midway, bending forward with hands on his knees to catch his breath. another tourist, you assumed, from the way he looked around, the strap of a bag slung diagonally across his chest.

you didn’t get a good look at his face. not through the reflection in the sun-glossed window. but the tan lines peeking from his collar and the slightly oversized hoodie – why, in this weather? – were easy to note. it wasn’t uncommon. most visitors were escaping worse heat elsewhere. or maybe just escaping something.

he stood there for a long moment, squinting at the sky, before straightening up with a deep breath. one of the backpack straps slipped from his shoulder, and he pulled it back up in a motion that looked oddly practiced.

inside, someone called for a bottle of soda. you blinked, shook the image from your head, and moved toward the fridge.

you didn’t notice the door opening at first. the bell chimed, same as it always did – faint, rusted from years of sun and rain. but you were busy uncapping the soda, sliding it onto a tray with a small dish of pickled radish.

when you turned around, the boy from the steps was already inside.

he was sitting at the far table near the window – the one with the crooked leg and the floral coaster no one had the heart to replace. his bag lay beside his feet. he hadn’t asked for a menu. hadn’t said a word to anyone. he just sat there, elbows on the table, posture loose in the way people got when they were trying not to take up too much space.

you placed the soda on a nearby table, exchanged a few words with the customer, then turned back toward the kitchen.

just before the door swung shut behind you, a faint gust of air curled through the diner – warm, and sweet with the scent of cut grass, fried oil, and overripe mangoes from the basket by the counter.

behind you, a chair scraped softly against the floor. you didn’t turn.

the rhythm of the day stuttered. then resumed.

one.

the house smelled the same.

old wood and dried herbs and detergent that clung to blankets even after you’d aired them out.

heeseung hadn’t been back in years. not since his debut. not since everything had begun moving too fast for him to keep track. but nothing here had changed. the crack in the front step was still there. so was the chipped tile near the kitchen sink. his grandmother’s favorite slippers, fraying at the edges, still waited by the door, facing outward.

she had opened the door before he knocked twice.

heeseung barely got out a breath before she was pulling him into a hug, her small frame surprisingly firm as she tucked his head into her shoulder like she used to when he was younger. her hands patted his back twice, then once more for good measure.

“took you long enough,” she murmured into his jacket.

he didn’t say anything – just nodded into her shoulder, letting the silence fill in what words couldn’t. when she finally let go, she looked him up and down, lines creasing deeper at the corners of her eyes.

“you’ve lost weight,” she said, matter-of-fact. “and your hair’s a crime.”

he huffed a laugh, the first real one in days. she stepped aside, still muttering about bleached boys and missed meals, and he stepped into the house that smelled exactly like he remembered.

the door shut behind him with a dull click.

he paused just past the threshold, his duffel bag still slung over one shoulder. a weight that settled onto his shoulders not from pressure, but from familiarity.

the hallway stretched ahead, dim and soft in the early evening light. his socked feet almost glided across the wooden floor as he moved. the hallway light flickered once when she turned it on, but it still worked, casting a soft amber glow over the photographs lining the wall. he caught glimpses of himself – smaller, rounder, laughing with a mouth full of cake. his parents at a temple. him and grandma at the beach, her sunhat threatening to fly off in the wind.

in the living room, the couch was the same overstuffed brown velvet, the arms sunken in from years of use. the same old photos on the walls, yellowed and with worn down wooden frames. the coffee table still bore the small dent from the roughhousing he had often had with his cousins, age eleven and way too lanky for his own good.

he stood in the center of the room and turned a slow circle. the space felt smaller now, but not cramped.

in the kitchen, his grandmother had already put the kettle on. the clatter of her opening a cupboard filled the space with its familiar music. he walked in without thinking, placing his bag in the corner, out of the way. the stool at the end of the counter wobbled just like it used to.

he sat, letting the quiet pass between them. she moved with the same easy rhythm, pouring barley tea into mismatched mugs. she slid one to him and he caught it between his palms, the heat soaking into his fingers.

his grandmother returned a moment later with a cup of barley tea. she placed it in front of him without a word, then sat on the chair opposite, knitting needles clicking into a rhythm he hadn’t realized he’d missed. he drank in silence, the tea earthy and warm against the chill that clung to him despite his layers.

after a while, she asked, “you staying a while?”

he nodded. “if that’s okay.”

she clicked her tongue. “foolish boy. this house is yours too.”

his throat tightened. he took a sip to cover it.

outside, the sky faded from gold to blue. the wind picked up. the trees rustled softly, branches brushing against the house like fingers on skin. somewhere down the hill, a dog barked once. then again. then silence.

after tea, she waved him down the hall. “your room’s dusty. but i didn’t change a thing.”

heeseung walked slowly, trailing after his grandma who seemed to have aged slightly now in the dimming light outside, the yellow glow of the lamps in the hall accentuating her curved back and limping gait.

the room smelled faintly of cedar and laundry. the same pale curtains hung by the window, though one side had come unclipped and sagged just a little. his bed, narrow and neatly made, sat beneath the window. above the desk, his old posters were still tacked in place. the ink had faded. one of them had a torn corner, curling away from the wall.

the hallway was dimmer now, light fading through the windows at the back of the house. his bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open. the hinges had always done that.

the guitar was there too – leaning against the bookshelf, half-forgotten and slightly out of tune just by the look of the strings. his fingers itched to reach for it, but he didn’t. not yet.

he sat on the edge of the bed. the mattress sank beneath him, familiar and unchanged. he lay back slowly, letting his eyes trace the ceiling. cracks spread through the plaster in thin lines. he used to pretend they were maps. now they looked like veins.

his hand fell over his stomach. the silence wrapped around him, thick and kind. heeseung didn’t sleep, but he didn’t move either. he just breathed and time seemingly passed like that, without offering a single thought to his heavy head.

eventually, his grandmother called from the kitchen. “dinner!”

dinner was simple – kimchi stew, scallion pancakes, anchovies glazed in soy sauce and sugar, and a soft block of tofu dressed in sesame oil. nothing fancy, but it made his stomach ache with hunger he hadn’t felt properly in weeks.

they didn’t talk much at first. not because there wasn’t anything to say, but because there was so much that silence felt easier.

she poured him a glass of barley tea and nudged the rice bowl closer. "eat," she said, the same way she used to when he came home late from school, eyes ringed with fatigue even then.

the first spoonful of stew burned his tongue. he didn’t even mind. the heat of the broth curled through his chest, grounding him. heeseung didn’t realize how long he’d gone without a hot meal that wasn’t packaged, rushed, or eaten standing up in a greenroom.

she ate slowly, methodically, chewing each bite with the kind of patience only age and quiet taught you. occasionally, she made small sounds and concerned observations – clicks of disapproval at how skinny he’d gotten, hums of satisfaction when the pancake crisped just right – but mostly, they ate in companionable quiet.

heeseung lingered in the kitchen even after the last dish was stacked neatly in the rack. his fingers trailed over the edge of the counter, over the small chip in the tile he remembered once being sharp enough to cut his thumb on. it was still there. dulled now. like most things in this house. softened, worn down, but steady. still here.

his grandmother had disappeared into the living room, her slippers making that soft, shuffling sound against the wood floors. the tv was on low – some variety show playing reruns, the canned laughter occasionally bubbling up through the hallway. it was background noise more than anything, but it filled the space like warm air.

outside the window above the sink, the porch light buzzed, drawing in a few stray moths. the air was thick with the sound of cicadas now, a constant summer buzz that grew louder the quieter everything else became.

heeseung opened the back door slowly, careful with the hinge that had always creaked if you pushed too fast. the screen door stuck a little, but he nudged it open and stepped out onto the back porch. the boards flexed under his weight, groaning softly like they were acknowledging his return.

it was warm outside. thick, still air that smelled faintly of cut grass, earth, and something floral – maybe the wild jasmine that used to grow near the fence. the garden was mostly overgrown now. patches of tall grass, a few stubborn tomato vines clinging to the rusted wire frame his grandfather had put up years ago. heeseung let his eyes wander over it all, the cluttered neatness of a space that had always been a little wild around the edges. like her.

he sat on the step, mug in hand, and leaned his elbows onto his knees. sweat gathered at the base of his neck, dampening the collar of his shirt. fireflies blinked lazily in the distance. he could hear the low hum of a neighbor’s air conditioner, the faint sound of a cat leaping onto a fence, and the occasional crunch of gravel from a car turning into a nearby driveway.

his shoulders sagged. not from exhaustion – though that never left – but from something else. the feeling of being allowed to stop pretending he wasn’t tired. he let his head drop forward for a moment, forehead resting against the edge of the cup, before taking a slow sip of the lukewarm tea. it was bitter.

inside, the laughter track on the tv swelled again. his grandmother called something out – probably asking if he wanted sliced fruit or yakult – but her voice was faint through the screen and the buzz of the bugs. he didn’t answer. just smiled a little into the rim of his cup, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

the air clung to him like a blanket, sticky but oddly comforting. summer in the hills was always like this – heat lingering even after sunset, the wind never quite strong enough to cool you down but enough to rustle the trees and remind you it was alive.

heeseung closed his eyes for a while. didn’t sleep, but drifted. sat still long enough for his muscles to forget the tension they carried. for his mind to stop racing ahead to the next schedule, the next meeting, the next post, the next perfect performance.

just this.

just the creak of wood, the hum of insects, the scent of jasmine and soy and old wood varnish still clinging to the sleeves of his shirt. the soft shape of home curling around him like a fog.

eventually, he stood. took his cup back inside, rinsed it out in the sink.

in the hallway, the lights were dim. the clock above the living room door ticked with the same slow rhythm it always had. his grandmother had fallen asleep on the couch, her head tilted back, arms folded gently across her stomach. the tv cast a pale blue glow across her slippers, still facing neatly toward the front door.

he watched her for a moment. the rise and fall of her chest. the way her hand twitched now and then, like she was dreaming something small. he grabbed the folded blanket from the arm of the couch and draped it over her knees, tucking the edge gently beneath her elbow.

heeseung didn’t say goodnight. just turned off the tv, dimmed the lamp, and made his way back down the hall to his room. the door creaked again as it opened. this time, it didn’t feel jarring. it felt right. like punctuation.

he sat at the edge of the bed and toed off his socks, feeling the cool wood floor beneath his feet. he reached for the guitar without thinking. it was dusty, the strings a little loose. he plucked a few notes. they sounded soft and uneven.

he didn’t try to tune it, didn’t try to play a full song. just let his fingers move. a few chords. a rhythm that didn’t ask anything from him.

when he finally crawled under the covers, the sheets smelled faintly of sun-dried linen. clean in a way hotel beds never managed. he lay on his back again, one hand on his chest, the other curled loosely against the pillow.

the house exhaled with him.

he slept like someone who’d been holding their breath too long.

two.

the last of the customers left with soft goodnights and tired smiles, and the door clicked shut behind them like a sigh.

outside, the sun was low enough to paint the hilltops in amber. inside, the diner had settled into that strange stillness it only found after a long day – quiet but not empty. warm, with the residue of conversation still clinging to the corners. the radio was playing something older than both you and jungwon combined, a slow instrumental that slipped through the open windows like it belonged here.

you wiped the counter for the third time, not because it needed it, but because your hands didn’t know how to be still just yet. the cloth moved in slow circles. your body still hummed with the rhythm of the day – table seven needed extra napkins, table three didn’t want pickles, the rice cooker finished too early, the ladle slipped again – all of it still echoing somewhere in your limbs.

jungwon was crouched by the fridge, counting bottles for tomorrow. his t-shirt was stuck to his back, darkened with sweat. the back of his neck was flushed pink from heat, or exhaustion, or both. you could hear him murmuring under his breath, the same way he always did when he was focused. lips moving in rhythm with his hands. like he was reciting a song only he knew.

you didn’t say anything. just watched him for a minute.

he looked older, you thought. not in a dramatic way. just in the small things – the way his shoulders filled out his shirt now, the steadiness in his movements, the careful way he sorted labels without rushing. there was something quietly grown about him. not the kind you noticed overnight, but the kind that built up quietly, summer by summer, year by year.

he’d grown into something dependable and steady too. the one who fixed the fridge fan when it sputtered, who handled the supplier phone calls you couldn’t stomach, who made your dad laugh on the bad days. who knew when to tease you, and when to just sit beside you in silence.

he was your little brother, by minutes only – but in many ways, he carried you.

he caught you staring. didn’t say anything at first. just raised a brow, one corner of his mouth quirking up like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“what?” he said.

you shrugged. “nothing.”

he stood up with a soft groan, cracking his back. “that’s your staring-into-the-void look. you always get like that when you’re tired.”

“maybe i’m just admiring your incredible fridge organization skills.”

“my fridge organization skills are incredible.”

jungwon smiled; a small, soft thing that barely curved his lips but made his dimple dip deep into his cheek anyway. he still had that boyishness to him, even now. it lived in the tilt of his head, the way his hands tapped out invisible beats on the counter, the way he still moved to music even when there wasn’t any playing.

even when you were kids, jungwon had this way of bringing the air back into a room. you were the quiet one – head in your books, fingers always tapping out melodies on tabletops, and he was the light. always moving. always humming. he danced before he walked, or that’s what your mom used to say. couldn’t sit still to save his life, but give him a beat and his whole body came alive.

you remembered him at nine years old, moonwalking through the kitchen with your mom’s scarf tied around his head, claiming he’d learned it from a youtube tutorial. you remembered the first time he spun a perfect pirouette in front of your dad and nearly knocked over a tray of soju bottles. you remembered how proud he’d looked, how you’d clapped like you were witnessing greatness.

he still moved like that, you realized. not in big ways, but in the little ones. the way he rocked on his heels while waiting for the tea to steep. the way he snapped his fingers without thinking when a song he liked came on. the way his hand twitched sometimes, like muscle memory chasing a step he hadn’t danced in years.

and you – you weren’t like that. never had been.

you’d tried to dance once, when you were younger. not because you wanted to, but because jungwon had asked. he was nine, all limbs and energy, convinced he could teach anyone with a beat and enough patience. you, unfortunately, tested that theory to its limits. it was a short-lived lesson – a blur of mismatched steps and offbeat turns, your limbs refusing to cooperate no matter how hard you focused.

at some point, jungwon had sunk onto the floor, face buried in his hands like the weight of your two left feet was too much to bear. it was the closest he ever came to tears out of pure frustration. he never tried again. but for weeks afterward, he’d still hum that routine under his breath, glancing at you like he was remembering something both tragic and funny. it became a quiet joke between you – unspoken, but never forgotten.

you remembered sitting cross-legged in the hallway, guitar on your lap, ear pressed close to the wood so you could feel the vibrations run through your ribs. you weren’t graceful on your feet, for sure, but your fingers learned the strings like second nature, calluses growing without complaint. you used to write lyrics in the margins of your math homework. sang under your breath while stacking crates in the back room.

your mom used to say music ran in your blood. sometimes you wondered if it ran out.

jungwon made it look easy, always had. but he had your mom’s tempo. you had her voice. that was all a long time ago.

now your hands were more used to detergent than chords. your voice rasped if you hadn’t spoken much all day. and your guitar – the one tucked behind the rice sacks in the back pantry – hadn’t been tuned in months.

still, some nights, when the diner was quiet and jungwon was wiping the last table and your dad was muttering about soy sauce levels from the back, you felt something press soft against your ribs. like a rhythm trying to remind you of itself.

your dad emerged then, wiping his hands on a towel. he moved slowly, like his knees were tired, but his eyes were alert. scanning the shelves, checking the corners, muttering under his breath about ginger storage and how the soy sauce shouldn’t be this close to the vinegar.

“everything alright?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

he waved a hand. “just need to reorganize. who moved the sesame oil again?”

“you,” you and jungwon said in unison.

your dad frowned, unconvinced, but didn’t argue. he tugged open a drawer and began shifting lids around like it was a personal vendetta. you glanced at jungwon, who was already halfway through rolling his eyes.

you didn’t mind. this was how your dad worked. how he parented – through repetition, through care that rarely made itself obvious, through small acts like refilling the soy sauce bottle without asking or making sure your tea mug never sat empty.

after your mom passed, he hadn’t known what to do with the quiet. so he started filling it – one bowl of stew, one customer order, one clean kitchen at a time. he didn’t talk much about the grief, but you saw it in the way he folded your aprons, the way he always turned the radio on before anyone got here. like silence was too loud now.

“we should close up,” he said, eventually. “i’ll finish the rest.”

you started to protest, but he shook his head. “go home. rest your feet. your brother’s turning into a mop.”

jungwon straightened with a grimace. “i’ll have you know this mop beat you in arm wrestling last week.”

your dad snorted. “because i let you.”

you shook your head, already untangling the strings of your apron. “don’t start. we’re leaving.”

your brother grinned at you, towel slung over his shoulder. “race you to the door.”

“you’ll lose,” you said, but you didn’t move.

you rolled your eyes. he flashed his dimple at you, then turned toward the path leading home, hands in his pockets. the street was quiet. the cicadas had started up again, buzzing somewhere out of reach. the wind carried the scent of someone’s dinner, something grilled and peppery, maybe a few houses down.

you lingered outside the diner for just a breath longer, key turning smooth in the lock. the night settled around your shoulders like a shawl.

you didn’t know it yet, but tomorrow, he’d walk in. blonde hair and tired eyes. the boy from the house up the hill, searching for something nameless.

but for now, it was just you. your brother up ahead, humming something you half recognized. the streetlights flickering awake. and your feet, aching in that good way, reminding you that you’d been here all along.

three.

heeseung woke to the smell of rice.

soft, steamed, clinging to the air the way early light clung to the windows – pale and warm, dust hanging like fog. he blinked once, twice, then let his eyes close again. the bedsheets felt soft under his skin, and for a moment, he stayed there, suspended in the kind of morning that asked nothing of him. no alarms, no calls, no voices saying five minutes till wardrobe, three till mic check.

just a bird somewhere, the soft creak of the hallway, the water heater clicking to life.

he dragged himself upright only when he heard his grandmother moving about in the kitchen. there was no rush in her steps, only rhythm. she moved like the house did – like it had all the time in the world.

he padded out barefoot, yesterday’s shirt crinkled and loose around his frame, hair a tangled half-mess. she didn’t comment. just pointed her chin toward the table, where a bowl of rice and a plate of rolled omelet waited. miso soup, still steaming. a folded napkin. chopsticks lined up straight.

“eat before it gets cold,” she said.

he did, for once, actually chewing and savoring his meal unlike he usually did – slurping hot ramen while scrolling through emails or nodding politely at some manager mid-meeting, taste always coming second to speed. but this was different. this meal held warmth that lingered. not just in his chest, but in the corners of the room, in the silence between spoonfuls. the miso was rich, a little salty, with just enough tofu to remind him of the mornings he used to sleep through when he was fifteen and too cool for breakfast. the eggs were soft and a little sweet. the rice was perfect.

he ate slowly, chopsticks moving in rhythm with the tick of the kitchen clock. his grandmother didn’t say much. just sipped her tea at the far end of the table, flipping through the newspaper with the kind of attention people didn’t really give to news anymore. she looked like part of the furniture – not in a tired way, but in the way something fits a place so naturally it doesn’t need to announce itself.

when he finished, she handed him a folded slip of paper. a list written in her slanted script – half korean, half shorthand only she could decipher.

“walk to the market,” she said, like it was more of a suggestion than a command. “take your time. don’t come back with the tomatoes bruised.”

he blinked at her. “this is punishment for sleeping in, isn’t it.”

she only raised an eyebrow. “and stop by the temple on your way back. light a stick for your grandfather.”

and that was that.

he didn’t argue. didn’t groan or ask how far it was. he just pulled on a faded hoodie, slid into his old sneakers still by the door, and pocketed the list like it meant something. the house door creaked softly shut behind him.

the sun had warmed the gravel path already. light filtered through the trees in long, lazy stripes, and the wind tugged gently at his sleeves. he kept his head down as he walked – not out of habit, but because the quiet here still made him feel like a guest in his own skin. he wasn’t used to this much air. this much stillness.

halfway down the hill, a neighbor’s cat slipped between his legs, nearly tripping him. he muttered a sorry, as if it could understand, then caught a glimpse of himself in a window – tired eyes, hoodie hanging loose on bony shoulders, hair still defying gravity. he looked... normal. or at least invisible. like someone people passed without staring.

he took the long road, just like his grandmother said. passed rows of wildflowers growing in sidewalk cracks. passed the old elementary school, its paint still chipped the same way it had been when he’d last walked by. he paused outside the market for a second, eyes adjusting to the cluttered storefront – crates of greens spilling into the street, handwritten price tags fluttering in the breeze, the scent of ginger and spring onions sharp in the air.

the woman behind the stall gave him a curious look. maybe she recognized him. maybe she just thought he looked like someone who hadn’t slept well. either way, she didn’t ask for a picture. just offered him a better bunch of spinach when she saw him hesitate. he paid in cash, bowed slightly out of habit, then folded the bag into his arms like it was something precious.

heeseung walked slower on the way out of the market, the weight of the spinach and spring onions settling into the crook of his arm. his hoodie clung faintly to his back where the sun had warmed him through, and the sharp scent of ginger followed him down the next bend in the road.

he turned left when he should’ve gone right. the temple was uphill, tucked behind a row of aging rooftops, the path to it marked only by a leaning wooden sign and the faint echo of wind chimes. the stairs came into view soon enough – chipped stone worn smooth by time and weather, laced with weeds and fallen pine needles.

he hesitated at the bottom. not because he didn’t want to go. but because something about this place always made him slow down. like it asked for permission. like it remembered everyone who’d ever passed through and expected you to remember, too.

heeseung took the steps one at a time, careful not to crush the smaller flowers growing from the cracks. halfway up, he stopped to catch his breath. when did he get so out of shape? or maybe it wasn’t that; maybe city life had just stripped him of the softness required for this kind of quiet effort.

the temple stood simple and still at the top. red paint faded around the doorframes, stone lanterns lining the edge of the courtyard, the soft, earthy scent of incense already curling through the air. a pair of sandals sat abandoned near the entrance.

he walked around to the side where the offering station was. a small wooden box. a bundle of thin sticks bound by red string.

he lit one, holding it steady until the flame curled into a glow, then planted it in the sand beside the others. smoke lifted into the afternoon sky in slow, dreamy spirals.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t whisper wishes or mutter names. just stood there, palms tucked in his hoodie pocket, eyes on the hills behind the roofline.

a breeze came through, tugged gently at his hair. cicadas had started up in the trees nearby. not the deafening summer chorus yet, just a few of them, buzzing like someone tuning a guitar slightly out of key.

he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

he stayed there longer than he meant to. long enough for the sun to climb higher, for the soles of his sneakers to start sticking to the heated path on the way back down. his hoodie felt too warm now. the spinach had started to wilt slightly. the sweat at his nape was more persistent.

by the time he hit the lower street, his thoughts were slower, dulled by the heat and effort. he rubbed at the back of his neck, wishing he’d brought a water bottle.

he wandered without much direction, letting his feet lead while his eyes scanned for somewhere to rest. somewhere with shad, a place he wouldn’t be looked at too long.

and that’s when he saw it. yang’s diner.

just around the corner, tucked between a laundromat and a hardware store with half its shutters drawn. it looked like it had always been there. like no one had ever built it; like it had just arrived, weathered and unbothered.

door slightly ajar, light bleeding out of the windows like honey, the sound of clinking cutlery and running water filtering through the open eaves.

heeseung stood across the street for a minute, adjusting the bag in his arms. he wasn’t hungry. not really. but there was something about it – a pull, quiet and persistent, like a song he hadn’t heard in years.

he stepped inside without thinking.

and there you were. not at the front counter, not polished and smiling, but half-crouched behind the sink, sleeves rolled to your elbows, soap suds clinging to your forearms. your shirt stuck to your back. a fan overhead turned too slowly to be useful, barely moving the heat around. you didn’t notice him. or maybe you did and didn’t care.

he eased into the nearest booth. the air smelled like soy sauce and grilled garlic. someone hummed behind the kitchen pass, light and boyish.

heeseung glanced toward the sound, catching only a flash – the curve of a cheek, a head of dark hair moving in rhythm with the clatter of dishes. a part of him stilled. something about that hum, that cadence, tickled the edge of his memory. he couldn’t name it. like trying to recall a dream already half-forgotten. it made him press his palm flat to the table, grounding himself.

he let his eyes roam slowly. the diner was small, cluttered, lived-in – nothing like the sleek, sterile cafés where he used to sip overpriced americanos and try not to flinch when someone recognized him. this place had soul. the kind that left stains on the tables and faded photographs on the wall.

he was almost sure he’d been here before. maybe once. maybe years ago. the peeling wallpaper near the window, the way the ceiling fan creaked on its turn – they nudged at something lodged deep in the back of his brain. summer heat. a scraped knee. the sound of laughter and chopsticks and someone calling his name. had he come here as a kid? with his mother, maybe? or during some long-forgotten holiday when things were still simpler? before everything tilted sideways?

he was still turning that thought over when your footsteps approached, soft but steady. he looked up.

heeseung blinked up at you, caught off-guard.

you’d appeared beside his booth so quietly he hadn’t noticed you until your shadow fell across the table. a pen was tucked behind your ear, and your notepad sat open in one hand, already scribbled with a dozen orders in sharp, slanted handwriting. your other hand rubbed absently at your neck, like it ached, like you hadn’t sat down all day.

you didn’t smile. not in the polished, plastic way he was used to. just looked at him, patient and a little unreadable.

“take your time,” you said. “menu’s on the board. water’s self-serve.”

heeseung nodded, eyes flicking toward the chalkboard near the counter. most of the writing was smudged, but a few items stood out in neat block letters.

kimchi stewsoy-glazed chickenspicy tofu over rice

it wasn’t a long menu. no laminated sheets, no qr codes, no overpriced seasonal specials. just food. real food.

you waited for a beat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. he caught the faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone, the frayed edges of your apron, the way you tapped your pen against your notepad like a ticking clock.

he cleared his throat. “uh. the soy-glazed chicken, i guess.”

you scribbled it down. “comes with rice. you want soup too?”

“sure.”

you nodded once, spun on your heel without fanfare.he watched as you disappeared into the back, calling something out over your shoulder. a faint clang answered from somewhere near the stove.

left alone, heeseung let his fingers drift along the edge of the table. the varnish had chipped in places, and someone had carved the word “hello” faintly into the corner with what looked like a fork. he leaned his head against the wall behind him and let his eyes close.

the fan creaked overhead. a glass clinked somewhere. a fly buzzed near the window before disappearing out of sight.

you moved around the space like you’d grown into it. balancing plates on one hand, nudging drawers closed with your hip, sliding cups across the counter without looking. once or twice, you paused to talk to the boy at the back – the one who hummed. the banter between you was low and easy, your words barely carrying past the booth.

heeseung didn’t watch you too closely. but he noticed things. the way your shoulder brushed the doorframe when you leaned into the kitchen. the way you tugged the pen from behind your ear with your thumb, like it was second nature. the way your hair stuck to the back of your neck, damp with heat.

and when you finally placed the plate in front of him – soy-glazed chicken, golden and steaming, with a neat bowl of rice and miso soup on the side – you didn’t linger.

“careful, it’s hot,” was all you said before walking away. he murmured a quiet thanks, though you were already gone.

the food was good. really good, actually. better than he expected. the chicken was crisp on the outside, soft inside, slick with sauce that struck the perfect balance between sweet and salty. the soup tasted like home – not his, exactly, but someone’s.

he didn’t rush. just ate quietly, chopsticks moving steadily, letting the sounds of the diner fill the spaces in his head that had been too loud for too long.

he didn’t notice when you slipped past to refill a water jug. didn’t see the way you paused beside the kitchen pass, arms folded across your chest, gaze sliding to him for a fraction too long. you knew who he was. maybe not in any dramatic, screaming way – but the jawline, the voice, the memories of a youtube video you had watched a long time ago.

but that was years ago, and he didn’t seem to know that you knew.

heeseung left cash tucked beneath the edge of his bowl and slipped out with the soft ring of the doorbell behind him.

later, when you were wiping down the tables and jungwon was tying up the trash, he peered over his shoulder.

“hey,” he said. “was it just me, or did that guy look kinda familiar?”

you didn’t look up from the table. “which guy?”

“the one with the hoodie. blonde hair. kinda tall. big eyes. like, big big.”

you shrugged. “just a customer.”

jungwon nodded slowly. “yeah, probably. he just reminded me of someone, that’s all. like... one of those music show people.”

you flicked the cloth toward his face. “stop watching so much tv.”

jungwon ducked away from the flick, laughing under his breath as he carried the now-empty tray back behind the pass.

you kept your eyes on the tabletop, moving the cloth in slow circles. the lunch rush had faded into late afternoon, and the diner had thinned out to a soft lull – just one student with her headphones in at the corner booth, a man reading yesterday’s paper by the window, and the quiet tick of the ceiling fan overhead.

you hadn’t really thought about the guy again. hoodie pulled up like he didn’t want to be seen, fingers drumming against the table while he waited. he’d ordered something simple and eaten quietly, eyes drifting now and then toward the window like he was trying to remember where he was.

still, he’d said thanks when you dropped off the plate. voice soft, polite; barely there. he’d finished everything, even wiped the last bit of yolk with his spoon like he’d missed home-cooked meals. and when he left, he didn’t linger. just nodded a little in your direction and slipped out into the light, one hand tugging his hood up again.

you didn’t give it much more thought than that.

jungwon always thought he recognized people. once swore he’d seen a drama actress buy soju from the corner store, only to realize it was just your old high school english teacher with her hair dyed red.

besides, if he was someone, it wasn’t your business.

you leaned against the counter, stretching your back, watching a fly struggle near the edge of the screen door. it was the kind of afternoon that felt too long and too short at once.

jungwon started stacking the clean bowls with his usual rhythm, humming a tune you half-recognized from somewhere – a late-night music show, maybe.

you turned back to the table he’d left behind. the soy sauce ring he’d left behind was already drying into the surface. you wiped it away with one clean swipe.

four.

heeseung stood at the edge of the courtyard, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, gaze skimming the low makeshift stage. it wasn’t much – just a couple of crates stacked under a crooked lamp, a mic stand someone had dug out of storage, cords taped down like afterthoughts. nothing curated. nothing official. just... familiar.

a guitar case leaned open nearby. plastic stools ringed the edges of the space, half of them already claimed by neighbors. fairy lights dangled from the branches overhead – someone must’ve put them up last week. their glow blinked gently against the rising dusk.

honestly, he still can’t quite grasp how he ended up here in the first place.

heeseung had been pacing.

not dramatically, just the kind that circled the same three rooms in the house. kitchen, hallway, front step, then back again. arms folded, sleeves tugged over his hands, earbuds in but nothing playing.

his grandmother watched him from the kitchen, eyes flicking between the steaming pot of radish soup and her grandson’s fifth lap past the sliding door.

“if you walk one more round like that,” she said, not looking up from her ladle, “you’re going to wear a hole into the floor.”

heeseung paused mid-step, blinked. “just stretching.”

“stretch outside,” she replied. “with people. where there’s air.”

he didn’t respond. just leaned against the wall and scrolled through absolutely nothing on his phone.

a beat of silence passed. then a thwap and a clean shirt smacked him in the face. he caught it on instinct.

“put that on,” she said. “we’re going out.”

he looked down at the shirt, soft cotton, a shade less tragic than the one he was currently wearing. heeseung frowned. “i don’t think—”

“enough,” she said, already putting on her shoes. “you’ve been sulking like a divorced man all week. come on.”

“i’m not sulking.”

“and i’m not eighty-two. hurry up.”

she didn’t wait for him to argue. just grabbed her cardigan, swiped a container of fruit off the table, and was out the door.

that’s how he found himself here – standing awkwardly at the edge of a courtyard that smelled like grilled mackerel and citron tea, with a cup of barley punch in one hand and the faint hum of a guitar weaving through the air.

his grandmother was already somewhere deep in conversation, balancing a paper plate of side dishes and gossip like a pro. heeseung scanned the space, debating escape routes.

on the other side of the courtyard, you slipped in behind jungwon, your steps slow, tired, but practiced. you were not planning to be here either.

you’d nearly talked yourself out of going – work had run late, the mop bucket had splashed up your shin, and you’d ripped the corner of your order sheet trying to jam it into the register – but jungwon had just raised an eyebrow and gone, “if i have to go, you have to go.”

“you’re not the boss of me.”

“but i’m the one who’ll tell dad you ate half the mochi he made for the temple.” rude. and effective.

so you’d changed into a clean top, shoved your hair out of your face, splashed your face with the cold water over the kitchen sink, and followed your brother through the quiet streets, both of you ducking into the low hum of the gathering as the first song began. the speaker crackled faintly. someone tuned a guitar offstage. the breeze tugged at your sleeves.

your dad hadn’t come, of course. not since your mom. it was the one thing he couldn’t make himself do, even after all these years. but you came. because she used to love these nights. because someone had to.

“i’ll get the drinks,” jungwon said now, already heading toward the table where someone’s auntie was pouring from a kettle into mismatched cups.

you hovered near the edge, scanning for a seat when you caught a glimpse of him.

not hoodie-clad anymore. not slouched into the corner like earlier that afternoon. he stood with his arms loose at his sides, one foot tapping lightly to the rhythm of the music. that same quiet presence. sharp jawline tilted up slightly as he watched a little kid try to play the tambourine and miss every beat. the glint of his earring – something you had missed at the diner – caught the light and shimmered playfully.

heeseung turned slightly, and your eyes met. his gaze didn’t linger – just dipped, flickered, then moved on. not rude. not even distant. more like someone brushing past a memory they couldn’t quite place. still, it stuck. like the way a scent clings to fabric long after it’s gone.

you exhaled, long and low, and looked away too.

someone cleared their throat behind you. a girl in her teens, arms full with extra stools, giving you a look that said “you gonna stand there all night?”

you muttered a quiet sorry and stepped aside, letting her pass. jungwon returned a moment later, balancing two paper cups and nudging you toward the food table.

the crowd shifted as someone took the stage; old mr. kim spoke with his gruff baritone into the mic – the usual jolly welcome and a cheers to a fun evening. a smattering of claps rose and fell, someone whistled, and the mic buzzed faintly before the next speaker stepped up. an older woman in glasses took the stand, cradling a worn haegeum and flashing a grin.

as the strings began, you eased onto a nearby stool, letting your shoulders drop. the music unfurled slow and warm, like broth on a tired stomach. the kind of sound that didn’t demand anything from you. your fingers tapped lightly on the cup in your hand.

across the courtyard, heeseung shifted, hands now in his pockets, head turned toward the melody. someone brushed past him and offered him a skewer of tteokbokki, which he took with a quiet bow. he ate the first bite absently, eyes flicking from the instrument to the players to the small kids giggling under the string lights.

he eased himself into a chair without thinking, the kind of plastic one that wobbled slightly on uneven ground. one hand still loosely held the skewer, though he'd forgotten to take another bite. his eyes remained on the stage.

the sound of the haegeum cut through the dusk like smoke—thin, bright, aching. not perfect. not polished. the woman playing it paused once, adjusted her grip, and kept going, undeterred. the audience didn't flinch. someone even clapped encouragement.

heeseung blinked slowly. the notes reminded him of something he couldn’t name. not a song, exactly. more a feeling. an echo of afternoons where nothing needed to be fixed or tuned or layered just right. where music didn’t have to be marketable. where it just… existed.

in his world, everything was curated. even silence. someone was always adjusting levels, pushing rehearsals, suggesting another take. there were monitors and metrics and metrics about the metrics. it wasn’t bad. it was just… endless.

but this was rare.

he sat a little further back in his chair, let the wind move past his ears and the strings carry through it. no earbuds. no chords to memorize. just sound, curling out into a sky that didn’t need to applaud.

his grandmother, across the courtyard, caught his eye and raised a brow like she knew something he didn’t. he looked away with a huff of breath – half amused, half caught.

and when the haegeum faded into a shaky last note, followed by cheers and polite claps, he found himself clapping too. not loudly. not performative. just enough to mean it.

a boy stepped up next, beatboxing badly, and laughter rippled through the crowd. someone called out encouragement in dialect. a group of middle schoolers waved sparklers they weren’t supposed to have. an uncle tripped over a cord and got gently booed. heeseung smiled, for real this time.

he didn’t know why he stayed after the second performance. or the third. but by the time someone nudged the mic and asked, “anyone else want to come up?” – he was halfway standing up, wondering how long was polite enough before leaving, when his eyes found your figure.

you were sitting one row away, your shoulders touching the boy beside you and at second glance, he could tell you were siblings. he saw the boy tap your shoulder.

you groaned. actually groaned – loud enough that he saw your shoulders slump from across the space.

“do not sign me up.”

“i didn’t,” jungwon said, voice carrying as he held up his hands, innocent. “but someone else might have.”

“jungwon.”

“what?” he grinned. “i’m just saying, if your name gets called, it’s purely the universe at work. nothing to do with me. or the very persuasive auntie kim.”

you stared at him, betrayed. then narrowed your eyes. “you bribed her with extra mochi, didn’t you.”

jungwon gasped. “how dare—”

“you are so dead.”

“you say that every time.”

heeseung watched this entire exchange from a polite distance. he wasn’t trying to listen, not really, but it was hard to look away when someone was that visibly done with their sibling and still begrudgingly fond of them.

and sure enough, heeseung hears a name being called into the mic and you visibly glare at jungwon.

“y/n!” someone called brightly into the mic, followed by a cheer that seemed to ripple out in waves – people clapping, someone whistling, a chorus of go, go! from the kids by the steps.

heeseung registers your name, slipped so casually into the air it almost didn’t feel like a reveal at all. a label to anchor the face he’d seen bent over a table, hair sticking to your neck, soap suds on your arms.

you sighed, rubbed your palms on your jeans, and got to your feet with the weight of someone walking into the ocean.

heeseung blinked. you were moving toward the mic. instinctively, he sat up straighter without meaning to. suddenly, he wasn’t watching the gathering anymore. he was watching you.

he hadn’t even known your name yet.

you stepped up with the kind of reluctance that wasn’t fake. it was heavy and real and lived-in. like this wasn’t the first time you’d been dragged into something like this. like you’d once said yes and regretted it ever since, but still said yes again because… well, that’s what people like you did. you adjusted the mic stand with practiced fingers, muttered a soft “ah, test,” then cleared your throat.

your voice, when it came, wasn’t loud. it wasn’t polished or theatrical. you spoke for a second – something about not wanting to be here, which got a good laugh – then raised a hand toward someone off-stage. a soft strum followed. just a guitar, low and warm, fitting itself under your voice like it had always belonged there.

heeseung didn’t realize he’d stopped fidgeting.

he sat there, watching as your words unfurled across the courtyard. something easy. something local, maybe. not a pop song or a cover, but a melody that sang of a story that took place years ago. he didn’t know if you wrote it or if it had always existed in this place. but your voice bent with the lines like you knew every turn.

your voice didn’t soar. it didn’t crash or tremble or beg to be remembered. it just stayed with a kind of quiet persistence that made people stop whatever they were doing without realizing why. it held a gritty undertone to it, like a thumb pressed to bruised skin – not painful, exactly, but tender.

there were imperfections, too. a note that caught on your breath. a phrase you softened more than the last. but they worked in your favor – made the whole thing feel like a conversation half-whispered between old friends. like the song didn’t exist without you there to carry it.

heeseung didn’t breathe until you stepped back, head ducked slightly, one hand curling behind your back as if to tuck the moment away. and maybe you were used to this – used to finishing a song and sliding straight back into the noise of the world – but he wasn’t.

when the song ended, it wasn’t explosive. no roaring applause or encore chants. just a long, appreciative pause. a few claps, some murmured comments about a good song choice. but heeseung found himself clapping again, this time a beat longer than the rest.

five.

you wake up with a dry throat and something like a memory sitting behind your ribs. it isn’t sharp and it doesn’t ache. but it’s steady and lingering, like the way certain songs echo even after the room has gone quiet.

the fan above you hums a lazy rhythm, blades creaking in the morning heat. sunlight bleeds in through the edges of the curtain. your back sticks slightly to the sheet, and the taste of last night’s barley punch still coats your tongue. you lie still.

what comes to you first isn’t the song. it’s the way people look at you. not in any pointed, judgmental way. just – eyes. faces turned up, some familiar, some not. the press of attention, casual but undeniable. a few smiles. a few kids nodding along. and one pair of eyes, just past the string lights, unmoving.

you don’t even remember what he looked like in that moment exactly. just the soft glint of his earring and his steady gaze on you.

and you recall the time you had wanted it all.

back when you were a wide-eyed teenager, hunched over your cracked mobile screen, watching some grainy livestream of a televised concert. a singer stood center stage, backlit by a flood of yellow light, voice stretching across octaves like it cost them nothing. the crowd swayed. the camera panned to the front row – teary eyes, mouths moving with the lyrics, hands reaching forward like they could hold the moment in their palms.

you had stared for hours, knees tucked to your chest, headphones balanced too carefully in one ear. no one else knew you stayed up for those clips. you pretended it was just homework. that the notebooks beside you weren’t filled with half-written verses and lyric fragments circled twice.

once, you downloaded a free beat-making app. tried to write your own song over it. the loops never quite matched your tempo, but you’d stayed up anyway, whisper-singing under your breath while the fan sputtered overhead.

for a while, it was everything. you wanted the stage lights, the audience, the hush that came before the first note, the roar after the last. you wanted people to hear something you made and feel like it was meant for them.

you’d imagined interviews. open mic nights that turned into talent scouts. imagined climbing the school stage steps with something other than dread in your lungs. imagined your dad sitting in the crowd and clapping like he meant it.

and then life happened. not all at once. just in a slow sort of undoing.

money got tighter. school got harder. grief settled into your home like furniture no one dared move. songs got written less often. notebooks got filled with errands instead. you never fully gave up, not exactly, but the dream thinned out at the edges – became quiet and occasional. something you touched only on soft nights when the house was still and your heart ached for no reason.

but sometimes the music still found you. in someone’s humming, in your mother’s favorite lullaby that jungwon mumbled in his sleep. in the crackle of a radio during market hours. and now, in that moment, under the fairy lights and citron wind.

it wasn’t the same dream anymore. but you had still sung. not because you wanted to be heard, but because something in you still needed to speak.

you shift now, brushing hair from your cheek, sitting up with a groan as your spine protests. the clock blinks late. the room is warm and outside, you can already hear neighborhood sounds beginning again – wheels on gravel, a radio echoing from two doors down, the tin clang of someone preparing to mop the front step.

you shift onto your side, arm tucked under your cheek. the memory keeps low, not demanding anything. just resting with you. you’re not sure how long you stay like that – half-blanketed, half-awake – until the world outside the window starts to fill in.

you sigh, slow and full, then peel yourself off the mattress. the floor is warm beneath your feet. your knees pop when you stretch.

in the bathroom, the tap groans a little before it runs. you cup water to your face and blink through the cold. the mirror is foggy with nothing but it has no big revelations. just your face, puffy-eyed, slightly crooked from sleep. you look exactly like someone who sang last night in front of neighbors and strangers and made it out alive.

your voice cracks when you hum, just to check. not broken, nor brilliant. still yours.

by the time you shuffle into the kitchen, jungwon’s already halfway through his toast, phone in hand, legs swinging where he sits on the old dining table.

“morning,” he says around a bite.

you grunt, opening the fridge. “why is there half a tangerine in here wrapped like it’s a newborn?”

“dad,” he replies. “called it his ‘vitamin emergency.’”

you snort. jungwon glances up once, then says nothing for a while. the quiet is companionable, like it always is after long days or late nights. eventually, he nudges the plate toward you.

“you were good yesterday.”

you look up. jungwon’s not smirking, not teasing like you expect him to be. his phone’s face-down now, toast half-forgotten, and he’s just watching you – honest and simple, like it isn’t hard to say.

“shut up,” you mutter, but it’s too late. your ears warm anyway.

he shrugs. “just saying.”

you break off a piece of toast and chew slowly. the silence stretches again, this time lighter. the kind that fills kitchens on lazy mornings and lets itself settle into the corners. your back still aches a little, your voice is still rough, but the weight in your chest has evened out. whatever lingered from last night has softened now, no longer caught in your throat.

there were still echoes of the courtyard in your head. folding chairs creaking. that one toddler clapping out of sync. the way the mic buzzed just slightly under your voice, like it was old and tired but trying its best.

and – those eyes.

not all of them. not the aunties who nodded encouragingly or the kids who whispered through your verses. just one. near the back.

you couldn’t place why it stayed with you. the way he hadn’t fidgeted, hadn’t looked away. hadn’t smiled, even – but also hadn’t blinked, like you’d said something that made sense in a language he almost knew.

you’d spotted him again briefly while you and jungwon helped fold up the plastic chairs. he’d been standing near the food table, shoulder brushing the lantern pole, half-listening to his grandmother recount something dramatic with hand gestures. he wasn’t talking to anyone. just looking around again.

you had recognised him in that moment. the blonde hair that was darkening at the roots, the face bare under the stringed lights, so different from what you had seen on the covers of some old magazines. the hollows of his cheek accentuated by the way he tilted his head.

it didn’t hit you all at once. just a vague itch at the back of your mind – like deja vu, but softer. you weren’t even sure how you knew him at first. you didn’t really keep up with the pop music scene.

but then your eyes adjusted to the low hum of the aftermath of the night, and you recalled.

the late-night corner store magazine spreads. an ad poster for some health drink, in the back of a convenience store. a name you’d heard in passing, once or twice – lee heeseung.

and yet here he was. in your town. your too-small, too-slow town where nothing ever really happened and nobody ever really stayed.

he wasn’t dressed like someone famous. just a soft cotton button up, the sleeves flaying around his arms in the wind. his hair slightly unkempt, as if he hadn’t cared much to fix it. and his eyes – when they lifted for a second and flicked in your direction – held none of the polish or performative shine you’d expected.

but the shape of him stayed in your mind as you rinsed your cup and left it to dry. you weren’t reading into it. or at least, that’s what you told yourself. maybe it was just the aftertaste of performing again. maybe it was just the lights. the fact that someone had listened and hadn’t clapped the loudest or laughed the hardest, but still stayed through the end.

you didn’t think about it more than that.

but across town, at a kitchen table set with too many side dishes and not enough urgency – heeseung was thinking just a little.

not obsessively. not even consciously, really. just enough to pause mid-bite when his grandmother said your name.

“ah, y/n?” she’d said, flicking water from her fingers as she rinsed a plate. “that one sings like their mother. you remember her, right? used to teach music at the community center. died young. such a shame. left behind two kids and a husband who hasn’t come to one of these things since.”

heeseung didn’t answer right away. the soup in his mouth went lukewarm before he swallowed.

“they live around here?” he asked, like it was nothing.

his grandmother hummed. “just up the hill, they own the yang’s diner. jungwon and y/n. good kids. help out a lot since their mother passed.”

heeseung nodded like that meant anything to him.

he didn’t mention that he already knew your name. that he’d heard it announced into the mic like a low tide rolling in. didn’t say that he’d been watching when you stepped up. that he’d watched you the entire time.

“you should meet them,” his grandmother added casually. “jungwon’s around your age, maybe a little younger. always polite. and y/n—” she paused, cutting a piece of pear — “well. i suppose it doesn’t matter.”

heeseung poked at his rice. “what doesn’t?”

his grandmother didn’t answer. just handed him the plate with the sliced fruit and changed the subject.

but the thing about curiosity is that it’s never loud at first. it comes like background noise. like a tune you hum without realizing. like a name that lingers for no real reason.

heeseung leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, the wood cool beneath his arms. his grandmother had moved on to cutting chives now, her knife rhythmic and sure. there was nothing urgent in the room. no reason for his pulse to feel louder than usual.

he tapped his chopsticks once more, then let them fall still. his bowl was half-finished. the fruit untouched.

“you said their mom used to teach music?” he asked, pretending to glance at the calendar pinned to the fridge, like he wasn’t thinking too hard about any of this.

“mm-hm,” his grandmother answered without looking up. “she had a good ear. didn’t fuss with sheet music too much, just taught what she knew. said music should feel lived in.” she smiled a little, soft around the eyes.

she didn’t offer more, and he didn’t push. he didn’t need a full biography. just enough to sketch a shape around the feeling he’d been carrying since last night. not infatuation, not quite. not even interest, not in the loud, flickering way he’d come to expect it in his world. it was something quieter. like knowing the first line of a story and wanting, very simply, to hear the next.

after breakfast, he helped rinse the bowls. his grandmother didn’t comment when he offered, just slid the sponge toward him. they worked in comfortable silence – water running, dishes clinking gently in the sink, the air heavy with the kind of summer heat that made everything feel slower.

heeseung wiped his hands on a dish towel, then leaned against the counter. “do they come to these things often?”

his grandmother gave him a look. not sharp, but knowing.

“sometimes,” she said. “jungwon more than y/n. but it’s good that they came. their mother would’ve liked that.”

he nodded, unsure what else to say.

he didn’t ask more. just drifted back to his room, the fan still spinning its lazy circles overhead, and let the day unfold.

later, when he passed the diner on the way to the store, he didn’t look in. not fully. just enough to catch the outline of someone inside – shoulders bent over a receipt book, a hand tugging at the back of their neck.

he kept walking. but the rhythm of your voice – soft, steady, not trying to be anything but true, lingered in his chest, quiet as breath.

he didn’t know what would come of it. maybe nothing, but now he had a name. and sometimes, that was enough to begin.

six.

the morning air clung thick and slow, already warming with the promise of a scorcher, but inside the kitchen, there was rhythm.

heeseung stood barefoot on the cool tile, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, watching his grandmother knead dough like it had wronged her. the table was dusted with flour, the bowls were lined up with military precision, and the fan in the corner clicked with every slow rotation. the windows were thrown wide open, letting in the sound of cicadas and neighborhood chatter.

"for the market," she said, not glancing up. "i make these every year. they're gone by noon."

heeseung nodded slowly, like this was something he had always known. it wasn't. this whole week had been a discovery of things that had gone on without him: the way the neighbor’s dog barked exactly at seven, the daily delivery boy who flirted with someone’s sister, the fact that his grandmother made nearly a hundred rice cakes every june and passed them off like it was nothing.

"you want to stir that syrup? gently, don’t burn it."

he moved to the stove, picked up the wooden spoon, and eased it through the darkening syrup. the smell hit first – toasted sesame, hints of ginger, sugar just before it turned bitter.

she moved with purpose, palms deft, her hands old but certain. he watched the way she folded each sweet into shape, tucked a little red bean in the center, closed it like muscle memory. no recipe in sight.

"you did this alone every year?"

"mm. had help, sometimes. y/n’s mother used to stop by sometimes, fold with me. that was a long time ago."

his hand faltered slightly at your name. not enough to spill, just enough to register.

"right," he said. "you told me. she taught music, right?"

"yes. had a lovely voice. y/n does too, though they hide it like it’s a curse." she shook her head, then looked up with a small, sharp smile. "funny how some people shine by accident."

heeseung said nothing, just stirred.

when the sun was high and the trays of rice cakes cooled under mesh covers, they loaded the baskets into a trolley and made their way down the narrow slope toward the market. the path was uneven, cracked from years of sun and rain, but his grandmother didn’t stumble once.

by the time they reached the square, it was already filling. stalls with bright umbrellas. children darting between crates. the air thick with heat and the scent of fermented vegetables and grilled skewers.

their corner was next to the temple wall, shaded and familiar. heeseung helped set up the table, lay out the trays, pin down the corners of the cloth with smooth river stones. his grandmother arranged the rice cakes into careful rows, muttering about presentation.

he took a step back, wiping his hands on his pants, letting the noise of the market wash over him.

the market, he was starting to learn, wasn’t just a summer event – it was a ritual. people didn’t just show up; they returned. to their favorite stalls, their usual corners. they greeted one another like the year hadn’t passed. aunties handing out pickled plum samples like gossip, uncles arguing over the best vinegar brand, toddlers running loose with sticky palms and crumpled bills.

heeseung watched from behind the table, arms loosely folded. his grandmother’s rice cakes were vanishing in sets of three and four. some old man declared, half-joking, that her recipe had healing properties. she only scoffed, but there was pride in the line of her shoulders.

this world moved without needing spectacle. no stages, no screaming fans, no countdowns to releases. just habit and history, packed into plastic tubs and handwritten price signs.

he wasn’t sure what he was doing here, exactly. he told himself it was a break. some time to reset. to breathe away from studio lights and back-to-back schedules. but the truth was – he didn’t know what rest looked like anymore.

and then there was you. not a face in a crowd or a voice through headphones, but something steadier in the rush of the market. it's as if he’d stumbled into someone else’s tempo and found it strangely fitting.

heeseung glanced toward your stall. you were focused, sleeves rolled up further now, a smudge of syrup on your arm. a little girl was asking for the “shiny peach one,” and you leaned down to help her pick it out. you didn’t see him watching.

a soft breeze stirred the market stalls. overhead, the temple bell chimed once – no ceremony, just time passing. the scent of hot oil drifted from the fried snacks stall three rows down. someone turned up an old radio. the signal was fuzzy, but the song was familiar.

heeseung took a slow sip of a fizzy drink one of the aunties had dropped by with. it was sweet – syrupy and cold, with hints of lychee and basil seed floating near the bottom, clinking against the glass like tiny beads. condensation rolled lazily down the sides, wetting his fingers. a little too sweet, maybe, but in a nostalgic way, like the kind of treat you got as a kid just for tagging along to the vegetable stand.

people who passed by often paused, not just for the rice cakes. a few aunties leaned in close to his grandmother and muttered something behind their palms, not so quietly. "your grandson? such a handsome one. looks just like your son did at that age." one even nudged another with her elbow, whispering, "look at that hair – like a drama actor. and he’s polite too!"

his grandmother just waved them off with a shake of her head, but her cheeks had gone a shade pinker than the radish slices in the side dish tray. when he caught her glancing at him with a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, he pretended not to notice.

heeseung leaned back against the edge of the stall, letting the drink rest in his hand, cool and slick. he took another sip, slower this time, the chill of it cutting pleasantly through the late-morning heat.

wandering a few steps from the stall, he passed by your side of the square again. you were crouched awkwardly by a crate tucked beneath the table, trying to shift the weight of it with one arm while balancing a jar in the other.

he didn’t say anything at first. just reached down and took the crate’s edge.

you looked up, startled. he wasn’t too close. not hovering. just there, like the help had appeared before you asked for it.

“i’ve got it,” you said, not unfriendly.

he just offered a small smile. "didn’t doubt that. figured i’d make it faster."

a beat passed. then you tilted the jar into a safe spot and nodded. together, you guided the crate into place. it bumped lightly against the table leg. you straightened, brushing syrup off your fingertips with a napkin.

“thanks,” you said. “they always tilt if you don’t stack them right. but it’s too hot to care.”

“you’re doing better than most,” he replied, half-glancing at the toddler currently attempting to sit inside a cooler box a few feet away.

you smiled a little. just a flicker, like you hadn’t meant to.

“you’re helping grandma lee?”

“yeah. she said i owed her a week of labor.”

“you’re her grandson?”

he nodded. “just visiting.”

you hummed, mostly to yourself. the name hadn’t clicked before. now it did. you looked at him properly then – hair a soft, overgrown blond, an earring catching the light when he turned. he looked like the kind of person who might’ve been somewhere else entirely before this – an airport maybe, or a soundcheck, but stood here like he didn’t mind it.

and you remembered his gaze the night you sang. remembered not the stare, but the way it had rested. and you try not to let the fluster show on your face.

“what?” heeseung asked, head tilting just a little. not smug. just curious. “do i have something on my face?”

you blinked. maybe a second too long. “no,” you said, quickly. “just – didn’t recognize you. i mean, i didn’t recognise you as grandma lee’s grandson.” yes, very eloquent of you.

he grinned, then glanced down like he hadn’t expected that to land. “right. yeah.”

a pause. the breeze swept past again, tugging lightly at the edge of the tablecloth between you.

“i liked your singing,” he said.

you looked at him then. “you mean, last week?”

he nodded. “the mic was a little off, but you kept going. what was that song though, i don’t think i’ve heard it before.”

“it’s a song by some old indie band – kind of obscure.”

“thought so,” he said, giving a small nod. “didn’t sound like the usual stuff people cover.”

you shrugged. “it’s my favorite.”

he looked at you then, and for some reason that answer made him smile – not big, not teasing. just kind of real. “good pick.”

you glanced away, heat creeping into your ears. something about the way he said it, like he actually meant it.

you reached to straighten the lid on one of the jars. “i wasn’t even planning to sing, really.”

“guess i showed up at the right time,” he said.

you tried not to fidget. your fingers brushed over the edge of a paper napkin, twisting it slowly. “you don’t look like you’d hang around for local poetry.”

he raised an eyebrow. “what do i look like i’d hang around for?”

“i don’t know,” you said, then gestured vaguely toward his earring, his blond hair, the way he looked like a walking music video frame. “less… folding chairs. more flashing lights.”

heeseung laughed at that – really laughed, soft and full, like something warm being poured into a quiet room. “maybe. or maybe i just have good taste.”

you looked away before your smile could give you away again.

“y/n!” jungwon’s voice came from somewhere behind the stall. you turned just as your brother rounded the corner with the change tin in one hand and a peeled lychee in the other. he stopped short when he saw heeseung beside you.

“oh,” he said, with all the poise of a startled cat. “hey.”

“hey,” heeseung replied.

“he helped with the crate,” you offered.

jungwon glanced at the now-stable stack like it might betray something. “appreciate it.”

“i’m heeseung,” he said, wiping his hand quickly on the side of his jeans before offering it out.

“jungwon,” your brother replied, shaking it once before setting the tin down with a light clink. “you’re here with grandma lee?”

“yeah. i’m her grandson. visiting for a bit.”

jungwon blinked. “huh. didn’t know she had one our age.”

something about the exchange settled. nothing profound. just the slight unclenching of a held breath. three people under a shared tent of heat and shifting shadows. the tin radio a few stalls down warbled something upbeat now – an old love song sped up a notch too high, the treble too sharp, but comforting in its own way.

your attention drifted to a girl tugging on her mother’s sleeve, pointing at the jars on your table. you moved to help her, crouching again, fingers sticky as you handed over a wrapped sweet. behind you, you heard them talking – heeseung and jungwon. just questions about how long he’d be around, what kind of rice cakes sold fastest, whether he’d tried the skewers from the stall near the temple wall yet.

by the time you stood back up, wiping your palms on your apron, heeseung was holding a paper cup.

he offered it wordlessly. the drink was cold.. “here, to beat the heat,” he said.

you hesitated. then took it. the cup was sweating in your palm. the fruity scent of lychee evaded your senses, bits of coconut jelly floating around like milky cubes. your favorite. not that you’d ever said so aloud.

you glanced up at him, but he wasn’t watching you. just turned slightly, shading his eyes against the sun to look toward the temple. and then he stepped back, nodding at jungwon, then you, before returning to his corner of the market.

you watched him go. watched the way he moved, unhurried but not lost. like he belonged to the moment, even if he hadn’t meant to.

you finished your drink slowly, fingers tacky against the paper. the syrup clung to the roof of your mouth, a taste that stayed even after it was gone.

and the radio kept playing. and the sun kept rising. and nothing big happened.

the lychee was too sweet, the jelly too soft – but it reminded you of childhood. of market mornings where you were too small to see over the counter, clutching a straw drink with both hands. of your mother’s palm resting light between your shoulders as you sipped and looked up at everything.

now, you stood behind your own table, apron tied and palms sugared with work, and someone had handed you a drink without asking what you liked – but somehow gotten it right anyway.

you pressed the cup to your cheek briefly, letting the condensation cool your skin. the chatter of the market folded around you again – laughter, bargaining, a motorbike sputtering past the main road. jungwon was calling to you from the other end of the stall, asking where the extra change had gone. someone was asking for a second sample.

you moved, automatically, your body already knowing the rhythm of market days. but the sweetness lingered on your tongue.

seven.

the heat had dulled to a heavy warmth by the time the sun dipped low behind the temple roofs, casting long shadows across the square. cleanup was slow – stall owners packing crates with the lethargy of a day well spent, vendors trading leftovers for change, stray kids helping themselves to unsupervised snacks. you and jungwon had managed to clear your table just as the last round of customers drifted away, your sleeves still sticky with syrup, your throat dry.

“the diner?” he asked, nodding toward the street that led to the diner.

“yeah,” you replied. “dad’s probably already yelling about dish towels.”

the walk there wasn’t long. a shortcut through the alley behind the temple wall, past the old vending machine and the peeling mural with half its colors washed out.

tonight, yang’s diner was full.

locals spilled into booths, sunburnt and still talking about the market. bags rested at people’s feet. the air smelled like hot oil and grilled meat and a bit of citron floor cleaner. someone had put on the radio – real radio, not the bluetooth speaker, and the fuzz between tracks was comforting.

you and jungwon moved on instinct. he ducked behind the counter to grab a tray, and you tied your apron tighter as you slid behind the till. orders were already half-written, and your dad gave you both a raised eyebrow that passed for approval.

“evening rush,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “don’t mess up the orders, yeah?”

“wouldn’t dream of it,” jungwon replied.

you barely noticed when they walked in – grandma lee with her woven bag over one arm, and heeseung behind her, slightly sun-flushed and still wearing the same shirt from the morning. it was only when they sat at one of the booths near the window that something in your chest tugged a little.

he didn’t look around much. just helped his grandmother settle in, listened while she pointed out someone she knew from across the diner. you saw your dad lean over and greet them – a familiarity in his voice you didn’t expect. and when he turned back to the kitchen, he said to you, "take table seven, yeah? grandma lee’s here. get them the usual."

you grabbed two glasses of water and a notepad, trying not to think too hard.

“hi,” you said, as you reached their table.

grandma lee greeted you warmly. “look at you, already on your feet again. long day?”

“getting longer,” you replied, setting down the glasses.

heeseung glanced up then. just briefly. not too much weight behind it. but his fingers brushed yours as he took the glass, and something about the cool condensation and the memory of lychee syrup lingered.

“thanks,” he said.

you nodded, scribbled down their order, and turned back to the kitchen. but you felt his eyes on you a second longer than necessary. and for some reason, you didn’t mind.

half an hour later, the diner was still buzzing. plates clinked, kids bounced in and out from the front steps, and someone was trying to convince your dad to add shaved ice back to the menu. jungwon was dealing with a jammed soda gun. you had just wiped down table three when your dad tells you to check the alley, for piling garbage bags.

you slip outside through the back door, letting it swing shut behind you with a soft creak. the alley behind the diner was narrow, flanked by the kitchen vent and a few milk crates, and for a moment, it was just you and the hum of the exhaust fan.

until you caught the faint glow of a cigarette.

heeseung was there, leaning against the brick wall, one foot crossed over the other. his phone was pressed to his ear, but he looked distracted, like whoever was on the other end had been talking too long.

"no, i told you. not this week," he said. a beat passed. "look, it’s not a big deal. i just needed—"

he stopped mid-sentence when he noticed you. blinked once, cigarette halfway to his lips.

"uh, i’ll call you back," he muttered into the phone, thumbed it off, and pocketed it.

“you smoke?” you asked, not judgy – just genuinely surprised. in fact, you hadn't even meant to ask, but sometimes words just spill out of one's mouth faster than they can acknowledge it. he didn’t seem like the type. something about him still felt too clean, like someone who smelled like stage fog and expensive conditioner.

he shrugged. “only sometimes. when i’m trying not to think. doesn’t help much.”

the cherry at the tip flared dimly as he took a shallow drag, then tapped the ash against the crate beside him. he didn’t look embarrassed. just tired.

you crossed your arms, leaning your shoulder against the wall opposite. “didn’t think singers risked their lungs like that.”

“you recognised me, then,” he said – not smug, not fishing, just plain and simple, like it had been on his mind.

you blinked, caught off guard. “kind of hard not to,” you replied. “but it took me a while.”

he gave a short nod, exhaling smoke. “figured. most people either stare too long or act like they don’t see me at all.”

“i don’t follow music that closely,” you said. “not the pop scene, anyway.”

somehow, this revelation amuses and disappoints him at the same time – you don’t follow pop music. but you know him enough to know that he’s in that industry.

he doesn’t know what he expected – not recognition, exactly, but maybe a beat of hesitation, something in the way you looked at him that said you’d connected the dots. but you said it like it didn’t matter. and maybe it didn’t.

he’s used to the way people clock him. the double takes, the careful pretending. sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes not. but you looked at him like he was just some guy on break behind a diner, smoking a bad cigarette and wasting time. and weirdly, it throws him off more than being recognized ever does.

it’s not a bruise to the ego. it’s not even personal. just… unfamiliar. like being in a room with the volume turned down after months of shouting.

he doesn’t hate it. he just doesn’t know what to do with it.

so he doesn’t do much. just taps the ash loose and lets the quiet stretch, pretending the moment doesn’t hum a little differently now.

“makes sense,” he said after a second, voice quiet but not heavy.

you shifted your weight against the wall, the back of your shoulder brushing a loose strand of ivy that had curled down from the roof gutter. the air between you both wasn’t tense, just quiet in that way the end of a long day tends to be. the way time feels slower after work, like everything’s cooling off. settling.

“you worried i was gonna ask for a selfie or something?” you said, not teasing exactly, but a little amused.

heeseung laughs, his lips curling up and splitting open. eyes crinkling at the corners like it’s caught him off guard a little. "honestly? kind of. not from you, though."

"what’s that supposed to mean?"

he shrugged again, easy. "you just don’t seem the type." he took another drag. the cigarette was burning low now. "are you gonna rat me out?"

"for smoking behind the diner?"

he nodded, blowing the smoke sideways, away from you.

"not unless you’re also leaving cigarette butts out front. then we’ve got problems."

you moved toward the bins, dragging the first garbage bag out by its knot. it was heavier than usual.

"besides," you add, pulling one of the garbage bags upright, "not really my business."

he doesn’t reply, but he watches as you haul the second bag out, your body shifting with the weight.

you straighten up once the bin shut with a hollow thud, wiping your hands on your apron more out of habit than hope. heeseung hadn’t moved much, still leaning against the wall like the bricks behind him were holding him up more than anything else.

you patted your pocket, then fished out a half-crushed pack of gum. held it up.

“mint?”

he looked at it like he hadn’t expected the gesture. then at the cigarette burning between his fingers. “i mean,” he said, voice dry, “might be a little late for that.”

you gave a half-shrug. “you’d be surprised.”

he took it. let the cigarette dangle loosely between two fingers as he peeled the foil, slow and careful. the wrapper made that soft crackle sound that felt too loud in the quiet.

“thanks,” he said, after a pause.

“don’t mention it.” you meant it, too. it wasn’t some grand offering. just one of those end-of-shift things. you share what you’ve got. someone gives you a mint, you take it. someone needs a hand, you offer it without turning it into anything more than that.

he tucked the gum into his cheek. didn’t chew right away. just let it sit there, like he wasn’t in a rush.

“do you always carry gum?” he asked after a moment.

“yeah. comes with the job,” you said, nudging the last bag into place with your foot. “grease and onions don’t exactly leave quietly.”

you stepped back, brushing your palms off again, though they were already clean. the silence between you felt looser now. easier.

you didn’t say anything else right away. just looked up at the narrow strip of night visible between the rooftops. some kind of moth flickered near the light above the back door. the air was cooling down properly now – not just less hot, but actually cool.

when you turned back, he was still watching you. not in a weird way. just… there.

you gestured toward the diner door. “i should get back.”

“yeah.”

but you didn’t move immediately, and he didn’t say anything else, so the pause stretched again – not awkward, but a little aware.

“thanks,” he said again, quieter this time, thumb still rolling the empty gum wrapper in his palm. “for not making it a thing.”

you nodded. “you’re an adult. you can smoke behind the bins if you want.”

that got him to smile, a softer one this time, less shaped by habit. you pushed the door open with your elbow. it gave the usual groan. a rush of warm, fryer-scented air met you, voices and clatter from inside folding over the quiet of the alley.

“see you around,” you said over your shoulder. you’re gone before he can even begin to respond.

outside, he let the last of the cigarette burn out between his fingers. didn’t light another. just stood there a little longer, the gum softening slowly against his teeth, the wrapper tucked into his fist.

eight.

the place wasn’t packed, but it was brimming with energy and chatter. the ceiling fans whirred lazily above, barely shifting the warm air, and the clatter from the kitchen mixed with the low murmur of conversations, spoons knocking against glasses.

near the counter, jungwon was crouched by the shelf under the till, elbow-deep in a mess of cords and dust. the radio – that old brown box with the dial that always stuck on 87.5 – was spread open beside him, guts out, wires trailing like spilled spaghetti.

“why can’t we just buy a new radio?” you ask, leaning against the counter with a rag still slung over one shoulder.

jungwon muttered something unintelligible, brow furrowed as he nudged a wire into place with a capped pen.

you crossed your arms. “just saying. we could buy a new one. they’re like... twenty bucks? thirty, max.”

“don’t need a new one,” your dad called from the kitchen window, where he was scoping up warm udon noodles into a bowl. “just needs a little love.”

“what it needs is a better antenna and probably a mercy killing,” you said under your breath, watching your brother wrestle the tuner knob.

“it’s still got soul,” your dad said, appearing through the swinging kitchen door, wiping his hands on a towel like always. “they don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

“they make them better,” you replied.

“they make them louder,” he corrected. “not better.”

jungwon looked up, sweaty and half-defeated. “i think something’s loose near the power input. it cuts out if i move it.”

“then stop moving it,” your dad said, like that solved everything. he stepped over to the coffee pot, poured himself half a cup, took a sip, and added more sugar.

you exhaled, gaze drifting toward the booth near the windows where a young couple had just left. empty glasses lined the table. you grabbed the rag from your shoulder and went to wipe it down, the conversation lingering behind you.

the radio had been in the diner since before you could remember – older than both you and jungwon, probably. it was the kind that picked up frequencies no bluetooth speaker ever could, fuzzy edges and all. still, it barely held a signal now, the knob had to be turned just right, and if someone slammed a door too hard, the whole thing gave up and fell silent.

you returned with the rag, dropped it near jungwon. “we’re not exactly running a vintage museum here.”

“we don’t throw out things just because they get difficult,” your dad said, voice softer now. that made you pause.

“besides,” he added, draining the last of his coffee, “if jungwon can’t fix it, we can take it to mr. park’s shop.”

“he’s still open?” you asked incredulously.

your dad nodded. “old man’s still there most days. fixing tvs no one watches and record players no one plays.”

jungwon adjusted the casing, nudging it closed again. “i think mr. park is the only one who can help, there’s no way i can fix this.” his brows furrow. you know enough by now that your brother’s penchant for tinkering with things doesn’t always come with a follow-through. he likes the puzzle of it more than the solution – the digging around, the figuring out, the quiet moment of challenge. but eventually, like now, he gets frustrated.

he sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on his jeans, a small smudge of dust on his cheek. you catch it out of the corner of your eye as you lean on the counter again, arms crossed. the radio gives a sharp pop of static and then, miraculously, a voice crackles through – faint, tinny, but alive. but just as abruptly, it flickers out.

you reached down, flicked the radio’s on switch. the red light blinked on, flickered, then held steady. you watched it flicker with static, the cracked plastic casing warm under your fingertips. your dad’s proud grin softened as he wiped his hands on the towel again, eyes drifting out the window toward the square where the market had emptied earlier.

“this thing’s been with us since before you were born,” he said quietly, voice almost to himself. “your mom used to sit by it when the kitchen got too hot, humming along to whatever was playing. sometimes she’d sing too, soft and low, like the radio was keeping her company.”

the mention made your chest tighten. your fingers tightened on the rag.

“i guess,” he continued, “some things aren’t just things. they’re the sounds, the stories. the way someone you love used to fill a room.”

jungwon glanced up from the radio, nodding slowly. the diner felt smaller for a second – like all the noise and bustle were pushed back just enough to hear those memories.

as it happens, it is evening by the time you make your way to mr. park’s shop. the radio, nestled inside a cloth bag and tucked under your arm, felt heavier than usual.

the repair shop was tucked behind the bookstore, barely visible from the street. its sign was missing a letter, and the inside smelled faintly of solder and old vinyl. the door creaked open with the familiarity of places that refused to update themselves.

the shop smelled like old wires and older paper, with a faint metallic tang that reminded you of school labs and attic corners. you shifted the radio under your arm as the door clanged shut behind you, the soft jangle of the bell fading into the ambient fuzz of the untuned radio in the corner.

mr. park hadn’t looked up. he rarely did right away.

“give me a second,” he muttered, hunched over his desk, soldering iron poised like a pen over some small tangle of copper and plastic.

you nodded out of habit, even though he couldn’t see it, and moved to set the radio down on a low table cluttered with loose knobs, screwdrivers, and a half-dismantled vcr. only when you straightened did you notice the figure in the back, by the shelves – heeseung.

he didn’t see you at first. he had a guitar string pack in one hand and an old record sleeve in the other, fingers trailing the dust-softened edge like he was reading it with touch alone. the sunlight through the side window hit his hair at a slant – it looked almost gold like this, messy and undone, a little flat at the sides like he’d fallen asleep on it earlier.

you considered not saying anything. but something about the moment – maybe the quiet of the shop – made you speak.

“didn’t know you were into antiques,” you said, half-smiling.

he walked toward you slowly, still holding the sleeve. it was some jazz album you didn’t recognize – sepia-toned and a little warped at the corners.

“technically, i’m here for guitar strings,” he replied, holding up a slim plastic packet. “but i got distracted. this place is kind of unreal.”

you nodded, glancing around. “a little bit of everything. somehow nothing’s labeled, but mr. park knows where everything is.”

“like a hoarder wizard,” he said.

you let out a soft laugh. “exactly.”

there was a pause. not awkward – just the kind that stretched while two people decided whether this was a passing hello or something else. you chose something else.

“old radio’s being fussy,” you said, nodding toward the table where you’d set it down. “dad refuses to let it die.”

heeseung drifted closer, glancing at the radio. “that model?” he said, crouching slightly to peer at the dials. “my middle school band teacher had the same one in her office. wouldn’t let anyone touch it, even when it started buzzing like a wasp nest.”

he smiled at the memory, thumb brushing over the side of the record. “she used to swear it only played properly when it rained. said the static softened.”

you huffed a laugh. “that’s oddly poetic for a middle school teacher.”

“she also threw a music stand once when we botched a recital.” he held up a hand as if in defense. “not at us. just, like, into the void.”

you smiled, eyes tracing the dusty trail he’d left on the floor from where he’d walked across. “sounds like she was due a vacation.”

“she retired the next year. moved somewhere coastal.” he tucked the record back into the crate gently, like it mattered how it sat.

the shop was still humming low – mr. park occasionally muttering under his breath at some loose wire, the faint warble of the untuned radio spilling from a speaker somewhere above the shelf. the scent of solder and vinyl hung in the air, warm and slightly metallic.

heeseung drifted toward the opposite shelf, fingers trailing across a row of cassette tapes stacked in uneven piles. you followed at a slight distance, rocking back on your heels as your eyes grazed the rows of vintage cassettes.

“you actually play?” you asked, nodding toward the string pack still in his hand.

he looked over. “yeah. mostly the piano these days, but i started off with learning the guitar. i used to be better at it though.”

“used to be?”

“touring messes with routine. you don’t practice the same way when everything’s noisy.”

you hummed. “makes sense. hard to hear yourself think when the world’s that loud.”

he turned back to the shelf, his voice quieter now. “it’s been a while since i restrung that old guitar. figured i’d try.”

the light caught the edge of his profile – sharp jaw, a bruise-colored shadow under one eye that probably wasn’t from sleep. there was something almost weightless about the way he stood there, like he wasn’t leaning on anything but gravity.

you nudged a wooden crate with your foot. “i used to play a little,” you offered, casually. “when i was younger.”

he glanced at you, but didn’t push. just nodded once. “what kind?”

“classical, mostly. my mom taught it. strictly no chords unless they were bach-approved.”

that earned a soft grin from him. “sounds intense.”

“it was. but… comforting, i guess. in a rule-bound kind of way.” there was a pause.

“do you still play?” he asked, not pressing – just gently curious.

you shook your head. “not really. the guitar’s still around somewhere, but it’s probably dusty as hell.”

“could be worse,” he said, examining a cracked tape case. “mine was missing a string and had a sticker of a cartoon frog on it. no one ever explained why.”

you snorted. the overhead light flickered once before humming steady again. from the workbench, mr. park cursed softly under his breath. he still hadn’t looked up.

you leaned on the shelf’s edge, watching heeseung idly flip through records now. not in a rush. not exactly browsing either. just… being there.

you weren’t sure how long the two of you lingered like that – just drifting between old albums and stranger conversation, the kind that filled up the quiet without pushing against it. the low hum of the radio overhead made the whole place feel slower, like time itself had sunk into the wood-paneled walls.

heeseung ran a finger along a weathered cassette spine, head tilted. “this one,” he said suddenly, pulling it out. “my dad used to play this during sunday clean-ups. loud enough to wake the whole house.”

you leaned in slightly to see the title. the movement was small, casual – but from where heeseung stood, it brought you just close enough for him to catch the faintest trace of something warm and herbal on your sleeve. not perfume, something like clean soap, maybe, and the tiniest hint of mint, the same you had offered to him that night in the back of the diner.

he looked down at the cassette again, but his mind snagged a little – on the way you tilted your head as you read the label, the way your hand braced lightly against the edge of the shelf for balance.

“did it work?” you asked, and he blinked once.

“only on the neighbors,” he replied. “my brother and i used to fake-sleep through it until my dad brought out the vacuum.”

you laughed under your breath, a sound that cracked lightly in your throat and stayed there, and somehow that felt realer than anything he’d heard in a long time.

he wasn’t sure what it was exactly; just a feeling, like the thread of something starting to take shape. something he didn’t expect when he walked into this shop for guitar strings. he came in because it was quiet, a break from the noise. but you were standing there, talking like you’d known him before you knew his name.

you glanced at the clock above the door. “crap, they’re probably closing soon.”

“who?” heeseung asked, still thumbing the edge of the record sleeve before gently sliding it back into the crate.

you grabbed your bag off the stool near the counter. “the snack stall near the post office. they do this stupidly good ginger syrup soda, but only in the evenings. like, it’s not on the menu. you just have to ask.”

he raised an eyebrow. “and you’re going… now?”

“yeah. figured i’d pick one up. it’s kind of the only thing i have looking forward to the whole day.” and as if to accentuate your meaning, you pinch the front of your loose top, airing the fabric around your neck to cool yourself down. it really had been a hot day.

“is it weird if i come?”

you blinked. “what, to get soda?”

“yeah. i mean—unless it’s, like, a solo ritual or something.”

you gave him a look. “do i look like someone who gatekeeps carbonated sugar?”

he laughed under his breath. “guess not.”

“then come on,” you said, already halfway to the door. “if we’re lucky, he’ll still have ice left.”

you called out to mr. park over your shoulder, saying you’d come back for the radio tomorrow. he just grunted in reply, barely lifting his head.

outside, the air had dropped a little – not cool, exactly, but enough to breathe easier. the sun had dipped below the taller buildings, leaving the streets bathed in gold-edged shadow. your footsteps echoed faintly off the pavement, mixing with the distant clatter of carts being dragged home for the night.

heeseung walked beside you, not too close, but not far either. the kind of distance that felt like a pause, not a gap.

nine.

the stall was exactly where you said it’d be – wedged beside the post office shutters, under a low awning faded to a kind of bruised red. the man behind it didn’t even look up when you approached, just reached for the glass bottles with practiced ease.

you took yours with a soft thanks, passing the second one to heeseung.

he held it up, peering at the thin slice of ginger floating near the top. “it looks like a science experiment.”

“it tastes like salvation,” you said, already taking a sip.

he mimicked you, took a cautious sip – then winced, blinking hard. “what the hell – why does it feel like it’s punching my sinuses?”

you wiped your mouth on your sleeve, grinning. “that’s how you know it’s working.”

he took another sip, slower this time. “is this what you meant by salvation, or was that just marketing?”

“depends,” you said, voice lighter now. “did it make you forget today sucked for a second?”

he paused. swallowed. nodded. “yeah. kinda did.”

you both walked aimlessly after that, the street dipping into the quieter part of town where windows glowed warm and laundry lines swayed overhead. the sky had turned a dusky blue, the air holding that brief, forgiving moment between heat and night.

heeseung glanced at you sideways – eyes soft, mouth still curved at the edges from the afterburn of the soda. you weren’t saying much now, just sipping slowly and walking like you knew exactly where you were going, even if you didn’t. and something about that – about the way you moved at a pace that didn’t demand an urgency, that didn’t look like you were bending to the world’s bustle – settled deep in his ribs.

he didn’t come here expecting this. didn’t expect your dry humor or the way your silences never felt empty. didn’t expect to follow a practical stranger down a side street just because you said soda, and mean it.

heeseung had always thought the city sounded loudest at night – traffic, signs buzzing, too many people chasing too many things – but here, walking beside you with the bottle sweating in his hand, everything felt dialed down and clearer.

you both continue walking, following a narrow footpath branching off the side street. the ground slopes gently upward, flattened only by years of quiet passage – barely more than a sheep-trail, really. dusk settles around you, shadows lengthening between low shrubs and wild grasses.

eventually you reach a small clearing. it's elevated, set back from the path, almost hidden. from here, the hillside curves down and opens onto the town below. houses cluster like scattered fireflies; warm lights flicker in windows, and the streetlamps hum softly, lining the road like pearls on a necklace.

you settle onto a flat rock at the edge, feet dangling toward the drop-off. heeseung crouches beside you, careful not to sit too close, but close enough that his arm nearly brushes yours. between you, the bottles rest in the grass, condensation gathering at the base.

for a long moment there's only the evening air. cicadas hum low, insects stir. you both take slow, deliberate sips.

heeseung breaks the quiet first, voice low. “i don’t think i’ve ever seen the town from this angle.” a pause, then he adds, “so... do you come up here often?”

you shrug. “when i need to think.” you pause, then smile, half embarrassed. “or when i need to get away from dish towels.”

he didn’t answer right away. just looked out at the town below, brow relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen earlier. the soda bottle tipped lightly in his fingers, catching a bit of the fading light.

then, almost absentmindedly: “you really didn’t recognize me?”

you blinked. “huh?”

he didn’t look over. just kept watching the flickering lights below, voice casual. “at the diner. or the repair shop. you knew my name, sure – but… you didn’t say anything. most people say something.”

you took another sip, thinking. “i mean. i recognized you.”

he finally glanced at you, one brow lifted, waiting.

you shrugged. “not like... fanfare recognize. i think i’ve seen you on someone’s story? or my cousin’s spotify playlist. one of those dance clips maybe.” you tilted your head.

he let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “that’s new.”

“i told you, i don’t really follow the pop scene much,” you added, more to yourself than to him. “it always feels like everyone’s chasing noise. i like... quieter things.”

he turned back to the town, the silence between you both humming just enough to feel full.

“my manager would have a stroke if he heard that,” he muttered.

you smiled, soft and crooked. “tell him i said sorry.”

he didn’t reply. but his shoulder brushed yours lightly as he shifted, and you didn’t move away.

somewhere below, a car horn honked. a dog barked once. a moth flitted across your line of ght asind disappeared into the dusk. the whole hill seemed to exhale with the two of you.

“sometimes,” he said. “i miss the music more than the noise. the rest just makes you forget why you started.” heeseung says, with no particular segue – just to fill the silence.

you nodded, thumb running idly along the ridges of your soda bottle. “that’s what my mom used to say. about teaching music. that the hardest part wasn’t the students – it was staying close to the reason why she taught in the first place.”

“my grandma did mention that she was a teacher.”

you nodded again, this time slower. you leaned back on your hands, watching the houses below blink to life one by one, windows lighting up like slow-blooming stars.

neither of you said much after that. the bottles, now empty, stood like little monuments between you. the light was almost gone, dusk giving way to a soft indigo, the kind that doesn’t announce nightfall but just lets it happen.

“she used to keep this little metronome on top of the piano,” you said. “one of those wooden ones that clicks instead of beeps. said the tick helped her think.”

heeseung smiled faintly, tilting his head. “that’s old school.”

“i know. but she liked it. said if the rhythm was steady, everything else would fall into place eventually.”

he hummed softly. “that sounds like something i needed to hear about six months ago.”

he leaned forward, arms resting over his knees. “tour was brutal this time. new setlist every week, press constantly shifting things. no rhythm to anything. just movement for the sake of motion. no time to breathe.”

you didn’t rush to respond, just watched the way the breeze caught the edge of his sleeve, the way his fingers tapped idly against his leg like they were still catching phantom rhythms.

“my mom had this thing she’d say,” you offered eventually. “‘don’t confuse noise for meaning.’”

his lips twitched. “she sounds kind of brilliant.”

“she was annoying as hell sometimes,” you admitted, smiling. “but yeah. kind of brilliant.”

the quiet lapped around you again. someone down the hill called out to someone else – a short bark of a name, a laugh, the whirr of a scooter engine passing by. it made the town feel closer than it looked.

you tapped your bottle again, watched it wobble in the grass. “so… what was the weirdest gig you ever did?”

he let out a low laugh. “oh man. easy. outdoor venue in busan. the stage collapsed mid-performance.”

your eyes widened. “wait – collapsed?”

“not completely. just… tilted. like halfway through the encore, we all shifted left. it looked choreographed, but we were trying not to roll off.” you laughed, covering your mouth.

“my manager had a meltdown. fans thought it was part of the set. kept screaming for a second encore.”

“that’s insane.”

“welcome to pop music,” he said, raising an imaginary glass.

the quiet after that wasn’t awkward. just full. heeseung’s bottle was empty now, resting by his foot. you thought maybe he’d say something else – but his phone buzzed once, sharp against the stillness.

you catch his furrowed glare across the screen. “you should take it,” you say softly.

he dipped his head in a quick nod, muttered, “sorry,” and stood, walking a few paces away toward the edge of the clearing. his voice dropped low as he picked up.

you didn’t mean to listen, but there wasn’t much else to do. the sound of his voice, measured and polite, threaded through the dusk in fragments. a few seconds passed, then a shift in tone. something firmer, the edge of weariness creeping in. even when he tried to mask it, you could hear it – that particular kind of tired you’d seen in others who smiled for a living.

you watched his silhouette against the night-faded hillside, broad shoulders held just a little too straight. he wasn’t tense exactly, but he wasn’t relaxed either. his hand tugged briefly through his hair as the call dragged on, and when he hung up, it was with a short, clipped exhale.

he turned back toward you slowly.

“everything okay?” you asked, when he sat beside you again.

he hesitated. “manager. just wanted to confirm i’m still alive and not tangled in a barbed wire fence somewhere.”

you huffed. “good to know he cares.”

“he cares because he has to.” heeseung leaned back on his palms, bottle resting between his feet. the quiet settled again. this time, a little heavier.

you didn’t say anything, didn’t ask for details. he noticed that. noticed that you weren’t watching him like he might tip out of place, like he owed you a performance or explanation.

and then, for some reason – maybe because the call had pulled him back into that other version of his life, the one always on camera – he noticed you again. really noticed you.

it was the scent at first – this time, soap and clean cotton mixing together in the wind that breezed past your hair. your presence felt different too. not sharp, not heavy. as if you were comfortable not saying anything just to fill space.

you didn’t look at him; your lashes caught the fading light, casting a fine shadow across your cheek. your thumb tapped absentmindedly against the glass. it hit him then – how surreal this was. how surreal you were, sitting next to him like you’d never really cared who he was. when was the last time he had spent time like this with another human?

and maybe that was what made it feel stranger: you hadn’t once asked about the music. the band. the drama, the headlines, the bits and pieces strangers usually latched onto. hadn’t tried to offer him comfort like some fans, hadn’t sought out details about his life. not once.

you turned to him suddenly. “it’s weird, right?”

he blinked. “what is?”

“this.” you made a vague gesture between you. “this whole thing. us. sitting here like we’re—” you stopped, lips curving a little. “like we’re not who we are.”

he let out a soft laugh, surprised. “you mean like i’m not who you think i am?”

“maybe,” you said. “maybe like you’re just some guy who followed me to a soda stall and didn’t spit it out.”

heeseung tilted his head, amused. “you make it sound so romantic.”

“no,” you said, too quickly, then laughed into the back of your hand. “no, i mean—just. i don’t usually do this.”

he raised a brow. “do what?”

“talk to people. like this. share drinks, go walking, sit on rocks.”

he was quiet for a second. “me neither.” but for a minute, he does think how absurd this all is.

not in a bad way though. just in that quiet, staggering kind of way where your own life sneaks up on you. he’s perched on a rock on the side of some hill, drinking spicy soda with someone who doesn’t care that he’s lee heeseung from whatever magazine cover or viral fancam.

it’s not the kind of moment that gets scheduled or captured or even remembered in the ways he’s used to – it just happens. and somehow that makes it feel more real than anything he’s done in weeks. your laugh still echoes faintly in his ear, unpolished and accidental, and he thinks about how rare that is, too. he doesn’t know why he followed you, exactly, or why he hasn’t checked his phone again. maybe it’s because you don’t look at him like he’s disappearing. maybe it’s because, up here, he doesn’t feel like he has to perform his own name.

whatever it is, it tugs at him – unexpected, unannounced, but unmistakably there.

#enhypen imagines #heeseung imagines #enhypen heeseung imagines #heeseung enhypem imagines #enhypen x reader #lee heeseung x you #heeseung x reader #my works #my writings

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