#still one of the best reading experiences of my LIFE

[aleksatia]

Don't know if you will accept this one because not everyone is comfortable with writing for pregnancy trope. But i will try. 😭

Imagine the reader is pregnant, and for some reason, she can't get to the hospital or opted for giving birth at home, and the labor starts with just the reader and the boys, how would they react? (Zayne would go well, I guess lol)

Anyway, I gotta say I am obsessed with your writing ✍️ 🤤🥰

It honestly took me forever to get this request done, but here it is—finally! I ended up splitting it into two parts, including a bit of my own experience with childbirth.

The main challenge was that, even when extreme, birth tends to follow a similar pattern. I didn’t want to lean into unnecessary drama, so I approached it differently: wrote one complete mini-fic and turned the rest into short drabble-style sketches, which I’ll be posting here.

You can read more about Xavier/MC’s story here. I chose him simply because I hadn’t written anything focused on him in a while—and it just flowed (from pen... well, keyboard) that way.

CT/WT: birth scene, childbirth, emergency birth, home birth, water birth, airplane birth, snowstorm birth, intense emotional content, partner support, soft!men, vulnerable!men, protective partner, found family, twins, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy, fatherhood, new dad energy, birth fic, drabble collection, first-time dad, emotional whump, soft smutless intimacy, love confession, trauma comfort, birth complications, raw vulnerability, medical emergency, no smut just feelings, domestic intensity. Headcanon!!!

🖤 SYLUS — The Moment He Realizes It’s Up to Him (Home Birth, Unprepared Conditions)

The Second It Clicks: You gasp. Double over. He’s at your side in a heartbeat. “Is it time?” You nod. Pain. Panic. Wet warmth. His blood freezes — then boils. No hospital. No doctor. No help. Just him.

His First Thought? “Fuck. No. Not like this. You deserve better.” Not chaos. Not uncertainty. Not cold floors and towels that aren’t sterile. He’s Sylus — he controls everything. But this? This is the one thing he can’t delay, buy, or dominate. It’s coming. Now.

Terror?Not for himself. For you. For the pain in your eyes, the grip of your hand, the sheer fragility of the moment. His entire being rallies like a war horn blaring inside his chest. “If the universe put this in my hands, then it’s getting the best fucking performance of my life.”

What he does first:He lowers you carefully to the bed. Kisses your knuckles, even as he’s barking quiet orders into a phone no one picks up. His voice is deep, steady. But his heart is galloping. He never lets you see it. Never lets his fear break through. You deserve certainty, and he’ll give it to you — even if he’s unraveling at the seams.

What He Says:“Kitten. Look at me.” You do. Eyes wide. Brave. Terrified. “You trust me?” You nod. “Then breathe. I’ve got this. I’ve got you. I always have.”

What He Feels:You’re vulnerable. And you’re still the strongest creature he’s ever seen. He wishes he could take the pain. Rip it from you and carry it in his own bones. But this is your war. And all he can do is be the sword and the shield. “Don’t you dare break on me, baby. You’re almost there. We’re almost there.”

And when you cry out —Something inside him shatters. Not weakness. Not panic. Love. The kind that could burn cities. The kind that makes gods kneel. He wipes your brow with trembling fingers, and for the first time in years, he whispers: “Please. Just let me do this right.”

The First Push:Your nails dig into his forearm. Hard. He doesn't flinch. He leans in, forehead almost touching yours. “That’s it. Breathe through it. I’ve got you.” Your body trembles. He sees it — the pain, the fear, the fight. And God, he’s never loved you more than in this bloody, imperfect, holy moment.

The Next Contractions Hit:They're relentless. And so is he. He’s on his knees beside the bed now, sleeves rolled, jaw locked, hands steady but heart breaking. “You're doing so good, kitten. So fucking good. I'm right here. Ride it. Ride it out. You're the strongest thing I've ever seen.” He keeps talking because your cries are the sound of his soul ripping open. He wants to scream with you — but he doesn’t. He can’t. You need him iron-clad.

When the Baby Crowns:For a split second, he freezes. The sight undoes him. It's real. His voice catches. He swallows hard. Then acts. Fast. He speaks softly but firmly. “Almost there. Just one more, baby. Give me everything you’ve got.”And when you do — when you scream and bear down and sob his name — the world shifts.

The Birth:The baby slips into his hands. Warm. Fragile. Alive. He catches it like it’s made of light. For a moment, he just stares. His lips part, but no words come. This. This is his child. His hands are shaking now. Bloody, trembling. But when the baby cries? He lets out the most ragged breath of his life. “You did it,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “You fucking did it.” He ties and cuts the cord. Precise. Careful. Reverent. Wraps the baby in a soft towel and places it in your arms. And then? He just watches. Like the world cracked open to show him something he never thought he was worthy of.

When the Medics Finally Arrive:He doesn’t move from your side. Doesn’t let go of your hand. The men in white bark questions. He answers in clipped growls, still on alert. They try to move in too fast, and he snaps, “She’s fine. You move when she says so.” The room is full now — but all he sees is you.

Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:He sits beside you, one hand on your leg, the other gently stroking the baby's tiny back. His shirt is soaked, his knuckles still stained, his eyes rimmed red. He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just breathes in the shape of you. Watches you like you might disappear.

And then he says it, raw and low:“I’ve killed for less than the pain you just went through.”“You scare me,” he adds, almost smiling. “Because I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did.”A pause. His voice softens. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

How He Is With You After: He won’t leave the room for the first 24 hours. Won’t sleep unless you sleep. Won’t speak unless it’s to you. Every time you shift, he’s there. Water. Blankets. Warm palms. He touches you like you’re made of fire and stardust. And maybe you are. You brought life into the world — and now he’s a man who’s seen a goddess bleed and survive.

What’s Changed? Everything. You’re no longer just the woman he worships. You’re the mother of his child. And he’s never been more dangerous, more devoted, or more in awe. And when he finally holds the baby in his arms, whispering something in a voice only the stars can hear, you catch the look on his face — as if the king of the underworld just met the one soul that could make him believe in heaven.

🎨 RAFAYEL — Water Birth Gone Off-Script (But You're Still His Masterpiece)

The Second It Clicks:You gasp. A real one. Water shifts behind the door. He hears it — not the splash, but the silence that follows. Brush mid-stroke, he freezes in the studio. Palette still in hand. Then he hears you call his name. Soft. Urgent. Different. His heart misses a beat. Oh. Oh, fuck. It’s time.

His First Thought?“Cutie, not yet — where’s the damn midwife?” This was supposed to be smooth. Music, candles, soft towels, help. He practiced. Took notes. Learned everything. But you’re contracting, you’re gripping his arm like a lifeline, and that carefully prepared plan just drowned.

Terror?Only for a split second. Then? It turns into motion. His version of war. No armor. Just bare skin, water, and wild love. He tears off his silk shirt, drops to his knees beside the tub, and cups your face. Eyes blazing. Smile trembling. “You’ve got this. I’ve got you. Let’s be legends, sweetheart.”

What He Does First:Lights dimmed. Calm playlist turned off. That’s not helping. He speaks instead. Constant stream of velvet and madness — anything to keep you in your body. He checks your breath, strokes your arms, pours warm water down your back. He holds your thighs when the cramping gets too much. “Breathe, Cutie. Moan if you need to. Scream. I’ll scream with you.”

What He Says:“You’re the most divine creature I’ve ever painted and you’re not even trying right now.” “Do you know what it does to me — to see you bring life into the world? I’m ruined.” “I love you. You’re terrifying. It’s magnificent.” “I’m not ready, but I’m so ready. Are you ready, sweetheart?” He laughs and cries all at once. Classic Raf.

What He Feels:Absolute awe. Like watching a volcano give birth to the moon. You’re in pain, and he’d trade his soul to take it away —

But you’re also gorgeous. Power and surrender. Fury and grace. He watches you like a living epic, memorizing every second. And somewhere deep down: terror. Because he’s about to meet a little soul that already feels like the most important thing he’s ever waited for.

And When You Cry Out —He flinches like someone hit his body. Then kisses your forehead. Then your shoulder. Then your fingers. “I know, I know, my love. You can hate me right now. But when it’s over, you’re going to be a fucking goddess in my arms again.”

The First Push:He holds you. Literally. Behind you in the tub, your back pressed to his chest. Whispers in your ear like poetry, nonsense, love confessions. His hands steady your belly. His cheek presses to yours. “Push. With me. Right now. Pretend the stars are watching.”

The Next Contractions Hit:You sob. Scream. Curse. He laughs through tears. “That’s my girl. Go feral, baby.” He doesn't pretend it's easy. He matches the chaos. You scream louder? He screams louder. You sob? He hums a lullaby in broken Lemurian. And when you break? He stitches you back together with every ridiculous, poetic, stupidly beautiful word.

When the Baby Crowns:He feels it before he sees it — the shift in your breath, the way your body tenses like a storm breaking. “Cutie — he’s here. He’s really here.” He helps you lean forward, moves behind and then lower, one arm steadying you as he shifts to kneel in the water. And then he sees it — the beginning of everything. His voice is gone. His hands shake. But he stays.

The Birth:The baby slides into the water. Raf catches him like he’s catching a star falling into the sea. He brings him up gently, lets him cry, and then stares — completely undone. He places the baby on your chest with reverence. Then breaks. Just breaks. Weeps silently as he holds you both.

When the Medics Finally Arrive:He answers the door shirtless, soaked, with red-rimmed eyes and a feral look. “Too late,” he snaps. “She did it herself. I just got to be lucky enough to watch.” Then walks past them, back to the bathroom, because he’s not done looking at you.

Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:You’re in bed. Baby asleep. Candles flickering low. Raf’s lying next to you, propped on an elbow, fingers lightly tracing invisible constellations on your arm. His voice is almost a whisper. “You made something I could never paint. Not with all the colors in the universe.”

Confession:“I used to think love was chaos. Fire. Tragedy.” He swallows. “But you — carrying him, birthing him — you made me believe in something bigger than all that. Something gentle.” Beat. “Still chaos. But now… now I want to live in it.”

How He Is With You After:He won’t stop touching you. Ever. Cheek pressed to your stomach. Hand around your ankle. Lips to your collarbone. He calls you his ocean, his cathedral, his everything. Gets jealous when the baby gets more attention, then sulks dramatically — only to melt the moment the baby yawns.

What’s Changed? He didn’t think he could love more than he already did. But now he’s ruined. Completely, gloriously yours. He paints you every day. He stares at the baby like a spell. And every night, he murmurs: “Cutie, I would live a thousand lifetimes just to land in this one with you.”

🛩️ CALEB — 35,000 Feet Up, When the World Falls Apart (And You’re the Only Thing That Matters)

The Second It Clicks:Your breath hitches. You shift. Then freeze. He knows your body too well — something is off. You whisper, "Caleb…" He looks at you. And in that one heartbeat, he knows. It’s happening. Here. Now. Too early.

His First Thought?“No.”Not like this. Not at cruising altitude. Not without equipment, backup, time. You were supposed to have two more weeks. He had a plan. A perfect one. And the baby just threw it out the emergency exit.

Terror?It brushes him. A ghost against the back of his mind. There’s a moment — sharp, almost blinding — where every instinct screams: get to the cockpit, take the controls, force the descent, get her to a hospital, make it stop. Not the birth — your pain. The helplessness. But Caleb is a fortress — fear doesn’t get through the walls. Not when you need him solid. Not when your breathing goes shallow and your fingers dig into his thigh. He shuts it out. Cold. Calculated. He stays. Right where you are. “Handle it.”

What He Does First: Turns to the nearest flight attendant — she’s pale, shaking. “Get blankets. Towels. Water. First aid kit. Everything. Now.”Then he takes your hand. Squeezes once. He shifts the cabin — clears seats, turns it into a command zone. Straps you in, kneels in front of you like you’re his entire mission.

What He Says:“Breathe.” “Look at me, not the chaos. Me.”“You're safe. I'm here. I’ll get you through this.”“No one’s going to touch you but me. You hear me?”Low, controlled. The voice of command — but laced with something raw. The kind of voice that means he’d rip this plane open and land it with his bare hands if he had to.

What He Feels:Failure. Because this wasn’t the plan. Because he let you on this plane, knowing the risks.  Because you’re in pain and there’s nothing he can shoot or order or carry to fix it.  But above that — something bigger. Something anchoring. You’re about to give him a child. His child. And he’s never been more terrified or more in love.

And When You Cry Out —He stops breathing. Just for a moment. Then grabs a wet cloth, wipes your forehead, presses his mouth to your knuckles. “It’s okay. I know. I know it hurts. Just hold on, love.” He doesn’t flinch when you scream. He braces for you. Becomes your wall.

The First Push: He helps you brace your legs. Talks you through it. Counts your breaths. His voice doesn’t shake. You’re gripping his shoulder like you want to break him — and if it helps, he wants you to. “Push. Right now. You can do it. I know you can.”

The Next Contractions Hit:They come fast. Brutal. You’re soaked in sweat, sobbing, slipping in and out of focus. He holds your gaze. Forces you to stay present. “Stay with me. Just me. Eyes on mine.” He’s not just commanding your body now. He’s anchoring your soul.

When the Baby Crowns:His jaw locks. There’s blood. Pain. A sound from you that breaks something in him forever. But then— “I see the head. One more. One big push, baby. Do it for me.”He’s never begged in his life. Until now.

The Birth:The baby slides into his hands — hot, wet, alive. He holds it like it’s a grenade and a prayer. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then moves on instinct drilled in from every medical video he obsessively watched in the weeks before. Wipes the face. Rubs the back. Hears that first cry. And his shoulders slump like he just survived a war. He lays the baby on your chest with military precision— But his hands are shaking. And his voice is gone.

When the Plane Lands:Paramedics are already waiting on the tarmac. The moment the wheels hit the ground, he’s on his feet, securing the baby, then lifting you into his arms — no hesitation, no discussion. Your body wrapped in his jacket, his grip unshakable. “She stays with me,” he tells them — low and final. He carries you down the stairs himself, eyes scanning every face like a soldier clearing a field. And when the medics move in, he doesn’t flinch — but he watches every hand. Every word. His eyes never leave you. He’s still on the battlefield.

Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again: The baby’s wrapped and asleep. You’re in a hospital bed now, monitors quiet, lights dim. Caleb sits beside you — still in his flight-worn clothes, hands resting on the edge of the mattress like he’s holding the line. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you breathe. As if any second, the universe might try to take you again.

Confession:“I don’t know how to do this part.” Soft. Almost a whisper. “I know war. I know strategy. I know how to keep you alive.”A pause. “But you just gave me everything, thirty-five thousand feet above the world. And I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

How He Is With You After: Hypervigilant. Keeps you warm. Fed. Rested. Checks the baby’s breath every ten minutes. Doesn’t leave your side — not even to sleep. Carries you to the bathroom if he has to. Barely talks. Just does.

What’s Changed? He always thought his job was to protect you. Now he knows — you are the reason he fights. You made life, in midair, with nothing but pain and instinct. He’s seen you soft. He’s seen you in love. Now he’s seen you divine. And no enemy will ever get close again. Not even turbulence. And definitely not labor at 35,000 feet — because he’s never letting you board a plane pregnant again. He’s already planning the next birth. Controlled environment. Ground-level. Walls. Doctors. No sky. No chaos. Just you, safe — the way you were always supposed to be.

🧊 ZAYNE — Snowcrest Emergency (Twins, a Storm, and You in His Hands)

The Second It Clicks:You’re at the stove, stirring a pot of mulled wine, the scent of cloves and orange peel curling through the wooden walls of the chalet. Snow presses against the windows like a soft white fist. Then something shifts. You freeze. One hand goes to the edge of the counter, the other to your belly. Your breath catches — once. Twice. Too sharp. Zayne looks up from the hearth, where he was stacking firewood. Sees your face. Sees your hands. His mind clicks into motion before you can speak. Contractions. Strong. Rhythmic. A month early. Twins. It’s happening. Now.

His First Thought?“No hospital. No OR. No neonatal equipment. Two infants. High-risk environment.” His mind races: What’s missing? What can he improvise? What matters most? You. He recalibrates in milliseconds. The plan has changed. You’re the plan now.

Terror?He doesn’t let it register. But for the first time in a decade, he feels his pulse spike without choosing it. This is not a patient. Not a clinical environment. This is you. And his hands — hands that saved hundreds — suddenly feel too slow, too human.

What He Does First:Takes control. Quietly, precisely. “Lie down. Left side. Pillows under your knees.” Gets gloves. Clean cloths. Lantern light. Wipes the counter. Boils water. Checks your pupils, your breath rate, heart rate. Starts counting contractions. Voice — steady as marble. “Vitals are within threshold. We’ll manage.” He doesn’t say "I’m scared." He sets his jaw and becomes the machine you need.

What He Says:“Cut the noise. Focus on me.” “Deep breath in. Hold. Now exhale slowly.” “You’re safe. I have you. Nothing’s going wrong under my watch.” And softer, almost like it slips out against his control: “You’re not doing this alone. I’m here.”Then quieter still, barely audible over your breathing— “I don’t want you to be afraid. Not with me.”

What He Feels:A depth of protectiveness so massive it short-circuits logic. He can’t afford emotion — so it burns quietly behind his ribs. Every sound you make, every twitch of pain — he catalogs it, files it, calculates it. But somewhere behind the math, something whispers: “These are my children. And she’s the one I never deserved.”

And When You Cry Out—He doesn’t flinch. But his jaw locks, and he moves faster. More towels. More warmth. Calmer voice. He adjusts your position, murmurs into your hair: “I know. I know, love. It hurts. You’re strong. You’re going to get them here, and I’m going to catch them. I promise.”

The First Push:““Push with the contraction. Not before.”He watches your breath, cues your muscles, syncs with your rhythm like surgery. You scream. He doesn’t blink. Just steadies your knee, keeps his voice low and close. “You’re doing it. This is the part that ends it. The worst is behind you.”

The Next Contractions Hit:They come harder, closer. You’re shaking. Your body starts to give. Zayne grips your hands, brings your forehead to his. “You’re not breaking. You’re giving life. Do it. I’m right here.” He says it like a command. But his voice catches.

When the Baby Crowns:It’s fast. First twin is anterior. Textbook. Zayne’s gloves are slick, but his hold is perfect. The baby slips into his hands — screaming. He wraps, clears, breathes. Then glances up at you, and — for half a second — his breath stutters. One down. One more.

The Birth (Second Twin):This one’s trickier. Breech. Zayne’s hands move with silent grace, guiding you, shifting your hips, protecting you from the risk. It’s intense. It’s dangerous. But he handles it like a master. The second baby arrives blue. He doesn’t panic. Just acts. Clears airway. Stimulates. Waits — cry. Only then does his chest move again.

When the Medics Finally Arrive:He meets them at the door. Calm. Precise. These are his colleagues — people he trusts. He listens to every reading, watches every movement. They confirm what he already knows: vitals are steady. No signs of immediate risk. He should transfer you. He planned to. But then you look at him — raw, pleading, exhausted. And he recalculates. “We’ll monitor here. Twelve-hour window. I’ll oversee everything myself.” He’s already wrapping you and the twins in fresh blankets, resetting the monitors. His voice is steady. His posture sure. But his hand doesn’t leave yours. He’s not just responsible. He’s personally invested. In this. In you. In all three lives now resting in his hands.

Confession:He speaks only when you touch his wrist. “I’ve never been this scared.” A beat. “And I didn’t let myself feel it. Until now.” Another pause. “You and them — you’re the only variables I can’t solve. And I think I’m okay with that.”

How He Is With You After: Meticulous. Attentive. Understated. Charts feed schedules. Tracks sleeping patterns. Never wakes you if he can help it. Takes night shifts. Warms bottles. Still quiet. Still reserved. But touches you more often now — almost absently. A thumb to your wrist. A hand at your back. Like he can’t not.

What’s Changed? Something in him has shifted — quietly, irreversibly. He was a man of logic. Now he’s a man of you. He doesn’t smile often — but when he looks at the twins, something in his eyes softens in a way he can’t quite explain. And every time you cry — from exhaustion, or joy, or pain — he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “Tell me what to fix.” Even if he knows he never could. Because he’ll try anyway. For as long as you’ll let him.

[sqgeism]

If I may make a request?

I saw your vampire reader x Anaxa fic and absolutely loved it! Would you be willing to do it the other way around? (with Anaxa being the vampire) lowkey obsessed with the idea of vampire Anaxa. I can just imagine him doing another wild experiment on himself again and accidentally turning himself into a vampire. So now his S/O takes care of him by letting him feed off them.

Also happy birthday!! Hope your day is wonderful!

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 l - i - licky - c - k - licky - y ! | anaxagoras x gender neutral reader

love mail — 🍒 ⨾ hiiii thank u for the bday wishes!! cw suggestive.. 🧘‍♀️ thank u anaxacannibalau for helping me w this when i asked lol ❤️‍🩹 more vamp stuff coming eventually when i lock in.. also this was supposed to be short but i got carried away (*´▽｀)

coming home to your husband as a vampire should have been one of the things you had expected from the young genius, but you didn't. so now you've walked in on him draining a dead dove in the living room, how.. symbolic.

but he seemed to be relatively the same, just sharper teeth, red eyes, and far too much strength for him to need. oh, also the blood issue, that was always a concern.

you began unintentionally studying anaxa's behavior ever since he turned, taking down notes on things that may be helpful for research or understanding his new.. form. something of note was his reaction to his 'diet'.

animals and alike were working but anaxa never seemed to like them, not so big on their flavor and he always needed some sort of drink to 'wash away' the flavor, since he seemed much more relaxed after a glass of water. human blood bags were better, but he always grumbled that they were cold. never quite comparable to the real thing.

however something of note, was that the one and only time he fed on fresh blood, yours, was probably the best he had ever been. he was stronger, not at all crabby about it, and seemed to really like biting you. he got pretty into it until he could feel your pulse almost weakening, and immediately pulled away to care for you.

though since then, it seems he's trying to punish himself for almost 'killing' you. his vampiric urges won over his humanity, which almost scared him, he knew he still held great control compared to his bloodsucking kin. it still doesn't erase the fact he almost lost it, though, and has refused to drink from you ever since.

except you've always been a stubborn little thing, wouldn't be you without constantly worrying for his well-being, insisting he take the bite—to drain you, as if he's the victim. as if he didn't do this to himself and is just a helpless fledgling.

no, he was an intelligent man—with heightened senses and means of reading someone.

so yes, he could see right through your concern.

and yes, that means he knew your real intentions.

you wanted him to bite you, you were into it.

and by the titans he couldn't agree more.

even so, he still held some sort of restraint. whereas you began to wear much.. looser clothing around the house, exposing skin that was just soft to the bite, he stayed together.

till he didn't.

"titan forbid a man wants a little restraint around you." he huffed, pushing you down onto the bed firmly but not quite forcefully. "i want you safe," he says, making sure your head is comfortably rested on the pillows. "protected," one of your legs is lifted onto his adjacent shoulder to it. "but here you are. testing me like i'm some kind of hypothesis to study, do you really value yourself so little?"

breathless, you reply. "it isn't endangering myself if i know you wont hurt me."

seeing him looming over you, his eyes softly glow in the darkness of the room and there is nothing stopping him between the major vein behind your knee, and his teeth.

he then whispers quietly. "are you sure you trust me?"

"with my life, anaxa. with everything i am."

the chuckle he lets out shouldn't be attractive, but it very much is. especially with the fact he's leaning down to your thigh to bite.

"just tell me when it starts to hurt."

he presses a delicate kiss to your thigh, and you listen to the quiet hiss he lets out before biting.

while he could undoubtedly rip off the flesh from your bones, anaxa loves you too much to let his urges do so. and so he almost nibbles, and sucks on your thigh so gently you could mistake it for a kitten.

"mmgh." he grumbles, his brows furrowing as his eyes close shut—lost in the flavor of your blood, in you. but when is he not?

how is he supposed to ignore how pretty you are when you're forcing yourself to keep quiet, biting your bottom lip and making the prettiest noises. all while you still reach for his hand, for his comfort, which he's happy to give through reaching out to you and gently caressing your leg. "doing so well, dove. so well."

"an— anaxa— it hurts.."

then he's off just as quick as he bit, licking the mark and softly applying pressure to it. "good dove. now let your mind and body rest, i'll take care of you."

the most tender kiss is placed on the bite, slowly lowering your leg as his kisses trail upwards, all the way to your lips. "thank you, my sweet dove. sleep well."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[anyshowwitharainbow]

Cooties pt. 3 (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary:

Your wives spend some time with their little bunny. (Recommended songs for +10 coziness: this one and this one and this one.)

Warnings + Tags: 18+ MDNI, fluff and mentions of smut, sick!reader, caring Agatha and Rio, Rio g!p, bottom reader, mommy!Agatha, daddy!Rio, cg/l themes, no mention of pronouns except a few 'they's, clit/pussy/cunt used for reader, pet names, bottle feeding, mentions of breastfeeding

Words: ~4.8k

A/N: Guess who's back in the house, heels click-clackin' about (where my rupaul girlies at?) Anyways, its me!! Have some feel goods for the middle of the week. Mind the tags!! See you at the end. As always I will edit as I re-read. Please forgive the errors I'm very tired and I know I missed some things!

AO3 | My Fics | pt. 1 | pt.2

Cooties pt. 3

There is hardly oxygen left in the small space you share with Rio. Her tongue works to persistently and purposefully claim your mouth and you are wholly at her mercy. The air you gasp for is thick and sooner than usual your lungs begin to protest. You remember the scratchiness in your throat as a dry cough rocks your body.

Rio pushes away from you and situational awareness colors her face. She got far too distracted by devouring you and her original task seems to push its way back to the forefront of her mind.

“You didn’t take your medicine,” she frowns, seemingly at the realization and not at your antics.

“That’s because it’s still in here…”

Your attempt at flirting catches no wind as you do your best to out-will the coughs begging to escape. The sly effort to grab Rio’s balls to add emphasis to ‘here’ is thwarted as she catches your wrist and pins your hand to the pillows.

“Nice try, bunny,” she slips out from under the covers and shivers at the temperature difference of the open air.

You’re glued to the pattern of the chill bumps that heavily freckle her skin, so you don’t notice the clear medicine cup at your lips until she continues.

“Better open up,” she casually warns.

The cup is tilting at the line of your lips and you know with certainty it will continue to whether you open your mouth or not. You quickly let your mouth fall open. Not out of compliance, but because these are Agatha’s favorite sheets and you value your life. Your scowl is firmly planted on the smug, satisfied smile that had settled into Rio’s face before you even moved to ensure the medicine will make it into your mouth.

You will never say it aloud, lest Agatha deem you an instigator, but you love the casual chaos Rio is prone to. You endlessly admire the way she is undeterred by the threat of mess and has little interest in approaching life the way others might expect. ‘Unfazed’ has never seemed like a worthy descriptor. ‘Unfazed’ implies she pays mind to the status quo, but you’ve never known Rio to care to be aware at how others do things. She really only shows interest in yours and Agatha’s behaviors.

Even still, her studious observations are never applied to her own practices. Rather, she uses the knowledge to make sure she can help provide a life and home that meets your needs- in ways both big and small. Rarely does Rio wear matching socks, claiming that she has two feet for a reason and they deserve their own experiences. You, on the other hand, wince at the thought that one sock could be slightly tighter than the other or fall at a different place on your ankle. Every morning she puts a mated pair into the dryer so they are warm for you.

Once, in a similar- though much grander- effort, she had banned you from entering the highest floor of your home.

—

The space hadn’t ever been used for much, mostly a resting place for storage totes full of old clothes and various decor that was long retired. Within the month, you and Agatha arrived home to Rio waiting at the door to grab you by the wrist and usher you up the steps.

“Careful, Rio!” Agatha had called.

You thought Rio had paid the warning no mind until she quickly wrangled you into her arms to dart up the steps. You didn’t care to question if this was actually any more careful- the warm buzz that filled your chest from her excitement was far too intoxicating to risk losing. Her soft words to you upon reaching the top of the steps remain tucked away in your mind to listen to at your leisure.

“Close your eyes, bunny.”

Once you complied you were carried a few more feet before being deposited into a fluffy, cloudy mass. You quirked your brow when your body was rocked by Rio flopping into the mass next to you. She snuggled in close before granting you permission.

“Open them, my love.”

Your excitement snapped back into your chest like a taut rubber band released from its grip. Time stood still as you absorbed the view above you. Stars looked down upon you from their place nestled against the sky and you were mesmerized at how they so easily shared your home.

“What do you think, bunny?”

You turned to find Rio closely examining you, smile full of pride as she cradled the back of your neck and ran her thumb over the dimple just behind your ear lobe.

“I— Wha—”

“You’re always looking up at the stars. You hesitate when you’re coming in at night and I figured its cause you wanted to look at them longer.”

Rio gave a little shrug through a big, goofy grin and you were speechless. Your brain had to work overtime to get yourself to absorb your surroundings, but through the clanking and churning of its efforts you recognized the space Rio had carved for you in your home was designed just for you.

Two expansive panes of glass took place of what had once been a shed ceiling. A vastly oversized recliner was tucked into the farthest corner, lit perfectly to read one of the many books that sat in rows on a meticulously crafted wall of bookshelves. Underneath you was a giant, softly upholstered cushion that sat below the skylights. It was certainly larger than your Alaskan King sized bed and could swallow both you and Rio whole.

“You…this is for me?” you said dumbly, brain misfiring at its most fundamental level.

“Everything is for you, bunny.” Rio spoke sweetly just in time for Agatha to make her presence known and throw herself down on the cushion next to Rio.

“It’s true. She kept me in line the entire time. I almost spoiled it twice.” Agatha said matter-of-factly while wrapping her arms around you both.

“Twice?!” Rio countered, the warmth in her tone turning incredulous.

“Maybe, like, six or seven times. Irrelevant.” Agatha winked at you and you chuckled at them both, climbing in between them.

“So…” Rio wondered aloud, her attention having moved far past Agatha as it settled back solely on you.

Peaking up at her you saw excitement and pride coloring her face, but what made you melt was the hope pooled in her eyes. You glanced at Agatha and she was equally mesmerized at Rio’s anticipatory demeanor.

“It’s perfect.” you granted her release and have always cherished the all-consuming smile you received in return.

—

Your scowl fades into a soft, warm reverence and you let your eyes fall over Rio’s features. An unmistakable glint of pride floats lazily through her eyes like it’s passing through right on schedule.

“I knew you'd behave, bunny.” She coos and sets the small, now empty, cup onto the nightstand.

She chuckles at the grimace that tenses the muscles in your neck, amused at how repulsed you are by such a small dose of liquid. You don’t allow the smugness of her victory room to breathe before you dive your head into her lap and wrap your arms around her. Your tight squeeze pushes the breath out of her and it comes out in a confused chuckle.

“Woah, what is it, baby?” Her fingertips rub soft circles on the back of your neck before she uses her blunt nails to light scratch under the collar of your shirt.

Your skin prickles under the delicate attention and you feel much lighter than you did moments ago. Rio was, likely unknowingly, releasing you into a space only the three of you ever shared. Corners and edges are much softer here and responsibilities unmoor from their worries. Here, you only ever need one of two things: Mommy or Daddy. When you’re lucky, you have both.

You pull away and see subtle shifts in Rio’s features, but the reasoning as to why floats just out of reach. You know you can reach out and try to grab at it. If you think hard enough you could probably conclude that Rio has seen a change in your eyes. But why would you want to? The effort of such a task threatens to fetter you and stop you from exploring this happy place.

The threat doesn’t last for long. You don’t allow it, posing a question before it can bargain for your attention.

“Stars?” you ask, your voice confident, but much more vulnerable than it had been all day.

“Of course, bunny.”

Rios thumb brushes over your cheek before a kiss takes its place. She pulls away, but her hand clasps yours and tugs, encouraging you to stand.

“You know…” Rio drags conspiratorially, “I know a guy who knows a guy. Says the stars were hung up just for you.”

Your instincts urge you to brush the flattery as far away as possible, but you’re entranced by the woman it comes from. Your cheeks have just enough bite to reveal Rio’s attention has rooted you in bashfulness. She seems to enjoy your response, as she crouches down and presses her lips softly to your forehead.

“Esas mejillas rosas son tan lindas, conejito.”

You aren’t entirely sure what she is saying, but you recognize the term of endearment easily. Rio calling you her little bunny in her native tongue pools you into the shape of her affections.

“Stars, Daddy!”

The softness in Rio’s demeanor makes it easier to see your instincts for what they are. Here, in this moment, you don’t want to deny her praises or dismiss her doting. You want to believe in the reverence her gaze adores you with, that you are worthy of the sweet musings she offers to you. Somehow, it feels as though you’ve lived a thousand lifetimes and also none at all. You vaguely recollect a lifetime of doubt and insecurity, but it feels so far from you when brown eyes sing so sweetly to you.

It all seems so far now, a hazy string of memories you observe from where you sit- whole, new, and loved. Yes by Rio, but also by you. You deserve this softness. You deserve this attention.

You are worthy of the love you are receiving and it is always there, even when disbelief is determined to be your destiny.

“Daddy can make that happen. Do you want to walk or ride?”

“Up!” you declare easily.

“I probably could’ve guessed that one,” she muses before turning around.

She lets you clamber onto her back and carts you off. You make it to the top floor unscathed, though Rio’s occasional ‘drifting’ almost had you both in the floor.

It wouldn’t have been the first time Agatha came home to an injured pile of her spouses. Though, considering that night ended with Rio eating your cunt while Agatha had a belt around her neck and was forcing her to apologize, you’d be willing to take another tumble.

“What are you sorry for, Daddy?” Agatha demanded.

Rio’s words were carelessly mumbled into your center. She was far too lost in the taste of you to consider her circumstance. You could hear the leather of the belt creak when Agatha tightened her grip and pulled harshly. Rio let out a guttural noise followed by a gasp.

“For turning our little bunny’s piggy back ride into a Nascar race.”

Your body lowly, but happily, buzzes at the memory. The fondness of intimacy warms you, but your body makes no further demands for it. You steep lazily in the promise that your forever will be full of time for a more physical connection. Right now, your focus is on finding the comfiest way to curl into Rio on the oversized cushion- fittingly coined the ‘cuddle cushion’ within days of its first use.

“Snuggle up, conejito. Are you ready to learn all about star science with Daddy?”

You giggle, but roll your eyes and are met with an offended scoff.

“Hey! I know things. Like how the most stars that are seen by the human eye at any given time is two thousand. Give or take.”

You squint and look to where the stars glitter through the glass. You try to count a small patch, but lose your place amongst the multitude.

“It’s mostly true,” she continues, “For everyone except me, of course.”

You scrunch your brows together, a mix of lingering suspicion at Rio’s ‘star science’ and curiosity of her train of thought.

“I could never see that many stars at any given time. I only ever see one.” She spoke under her breath, like the truth of her words would level cities if spoken too loudly.

The certainty of her claim carries more weight than you have room for, so you let it overtake you. Playfulness rests over your skin, but something much more consuming swells in your chest. It doesn’t scare you, though. It isn’t that kind of consuming. It does quite the opposite.

Suddenly safety is such a certainty that it’s no longer a concept or question. It just is.

There are so many things you don’t know, but that’s okay. Because here, now, you are safe. You are calm. Here, serenity sings to you from where it has been sown tenderly, purposefully, by a love few are lucky enough to ever know.

You long to be impossibly closer to Rio. You settle on tucking your hand under her shirt to rest on her belly, soft and warm, and nuzzling in to her chest.

“There are also 275 million stars born every day,” she speaks only loud enough for your ears to hear, “Most of those 275 million stars will travel in clusters. Most stars in general do. Not our sun though. It moves alone.”

“That’s sad,” you decide easily.

“Why?”

Rio’s curiosity is gentle, not questioning for her own understanding, but to bask in the gift of your perception of the world around you. She hangs on to your every word in a way that consumes you. When you speak she listens.

A glimpse from a moment hidden in your heart floats by. You had been rattling on about a new ship that was consuming you. Having seen edits of the two characters show up more and more, you had started watching the show out of curiosity- and you hadn’t shut up since.

“Hold on, they did what? Didn’t she just find out they’re first cousins during last week’s episode?”

You started to giggle at how perturbed Rio seemed before realizing you hadn’t said anything since last week about the ‘first cousins’ bomb that the show dropped.

“Wait- you remember that?”

You were pleasantly surprised with her quick catch, but Rio’s shock at the story line morphed into confusion.

“Why wouldn’t I remember it?”

“I don’t know,” you felt your cheeks heat and you cursed your sudden bashfulness, “I know I’ve been hyper-fixating. I’m never sure how much of what I say is actually worth listening to.”

For a brief moment, Rio looked pained. She didn’t speak of it, but you could feel that it wasn’t for her. It was for you.

“If it’s you saying it, bunny, it’s always worth listening to.”

Your heart threatened to skip a beat and your brain must’ve assumed you needed a lifeline, because before you knew you were going to say anything you hear yourself speak.

“Also they aren’t actually first cousins. It’s by marriage. Don’t be a prude.”

“I amend my statement. It’s always worth listening to as long as you’re not insulting Daddy.”

You rolled your eyes and her brow raised in a challenge. You were quickly attacked by hungry, possessive lips and when Agatha came into the room none of your clothes lasted more than a few seconds.

You would later learn how much the statement truly bothered her. She said she couldn’t stand the idea of anyone making you feel like your words were a waste. You have maintained a stance that it’s a bit dramatic of a take, but secretly you revel in her unwavering attention and offense that it isn’t what you receive from others.

The gentle thudding of Rio’s heartbeat calls you back to the present moment and you remember that her question is waiting, perfectly patient, for your answer.

“Because that means the sun is all alone. It doesn’t have a cluster.”

You speak as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The small smile Rio responds with tells you that she agrees, almost.

“It’s not alone, though, bunny. It has you. And it has me and Mommy.”

“Well that can’t be true,” you begin to work through your reasoning aloud.

“How do you mean?”

“The sun can’t have you. You just saids you couldn’t see it.”

She stares at you for a moment before bursting into easy, pillowy laughter.

“Good point, bunny. Can you promise Daddy something then?”

She turns more towards you and you nod lazily. The warmth of her hand lulls you into weightlessness and your body is out-willing your consciousness.

“Promise me that you’ll always be there for the sun for both of us, yeah?”

This time when you nod, your head has lulled much further into Rio’s chest. You open your eyes, and the stars have been replaced with a close-up view of your fingers sitting just by your mouth.

How did they get there?

You don’t have much time to ponder it before Rio is shushing you gently and scratching your scalp. Her wordless instruction wills you to comply and you succumb to the rest that calls to you.

The next time your eyes open, you are being deposited somewhere by Rio. You fuss at the thought of separation and grumble, but you are too tired to protest any further. Gentle shushing works to soothe you, but it isn’t coming from the woman setting you down. You’re settled into a new warmth and you turn to see the source. All discontent melts away from you so quickly that you can hardly remember how it got there in the first place.

Agatha is home which means Mommy is home.

You squirm in her embrace to properly greet her, but she holds you tighter.

“Ah, ah, bunny. Be good for Mommy while Daddy gets dinner ready.”

You still immediately, her words easily becoming your actions. You blink a few times to push your sleepiness aside. You are more alert now, but your body is heavy with exhaustion.

You are still under the stars, but are now being rocked gently by Agatha. A shining glint catches your eye against Agatha’s neck and your fingers follow it. The thin chain feels angrily cold as you trace it, and you tug to free it from Agatha’s scrub top. The wedding ring you and Rio had designed for her hangs loosely against the dark navy fabric.

Three stones glimmer in the low light of your little corner of the world. One for each of you.

Her hand comes closer to the necklace and for a moment you think she will stop you from toying with it. Instead, she pulls your other hand away from your mouth.

“None of that, baby. We don’t suck on our fingers, remember?”

Heat builds in your cheeks and an uncomfortable feeling swells in your chest. It’s tamed nearly instantly when a cool finger tips your chin to meet Agatha’s gaze.

“It’s okay, bunny. You’re not in trouble. I have another option for you, hmm?”

You only need to see her eyes to see that she is deeply exhausted. Her shoulders are tense in a way that only happens when she is on high-alert. It likely isn’t intentional, but her guard is up and denying her longing to be fully centered here with you. Your heart aches to lull her into comfort.

Her eyes trace a path that compels you to follow them. Your gaze lands on a bottle that sits in the recliner’s cup holder and you feel the full attention of blue eyes now analyzing you closely. Agatha softly brushes your forehead with the back of her knuckles before she kisses your temple and whispers in your ear.

“Only if you want it, bunny.”

You’re stilled by shyness, hesitancy. Something about having a choice makes your insides churn and you shuffle uncomfortably.

“What’s for dinner?” You ask, delaying your decision.

Agatha’s lips purse slightly and she seems to be weighing a decision of her own. She makes a show of reading you like an open book and is slowly disarming the fight that threatens to bubble within you.

“Pizza.”

She throws the word into the room like an unpinned grenade.

“Pizza?!”

If there’s pizza downstairs what are you doing upstairs? You attempt to wiggle away from Agatha, but she doesn’t allow you to go far before pulling you in closer.

“But…” she lets the word linger until you are practically on the edge of your seat with curiosity.

Did she get a gross pizza with mushrooms on it? Did she get it from the place off the first exit on her way home? Surely not. She had to get it from the place next to the bookstore…

You hope for the latter, and right as you are about to burst with questions, she satiates you.

“Only good bunnies get pizza. Is that you, baby? Are you going to be a good little bunny and behave for Mommy?”

Her tone is gentle and it dampens the shyness and hesitancy that still tangles within you. It is no where near as consuming as you realize that Agatha needs this. Her need makes it feel easier to acknowledge that you need it too.

Your gentle nod is met with a smile that rivals every star above you. You decide you’d wrangle them all, hand-wrap each one, and gift them to Agatha if it meant seeing it again.

You already felt small, but Agatha’s cooing and shushing have emptied your mind. You are wholly consumed in the intimacy she creates.

“Good, bunny.”

She presses one more kiss to your temple before retrieving the bottle. As she settles further into the chair, she pulls you closer to her and coaxes you to nestle into the crook of her arm. You are almost malleable by the time she brushes the soft rubber nipple against your lips. It drawls you to act on instinct and your lips fall open and latch onto the bottle.

There is no room to be surprised or embarrassed by your reaction, because warm milk captures all of your senses as you give your first suckle. The hint of cinnamon hits your tongue and your insides turn to jelly. She made your favorite.

Your next suck is greedier and your body is rocked by a hearty chuckle.

“Slowly, little one,” she soothes in a coo, “Slowly for Mommy.”

You comply, letting your breath fall in time with hers. As you imagine your hearts beating in sync, you search for her eyes. Her hardened blues have melted into pools of adoration and her shoulders sit much further down than they had moments ago. You feel like you are floating and you’re certain you’re weightless as she continues rocking you, gently humming to you as she helps you finish the milk she carefully crafted to your liking.

She continues her affections, offering praises as she holds the bottle to your lips.

That’s it, bunny. Mommy’s so proud of you.

You’re safe. Mommy’s got you.

Her words and ministrations lull you into a hazy trance. Soon, your suckles produce more air than milk and you scrunch your face in disappointment. The chuckle that comes from above you makes you fuss and the bottle is pulled from your lips.

“All done, bunny,” Agatha coos.

You don’t like that answer and burry your face into her chest with purpose. She hums in satisfaction as she realizes what you are rooting around for. She chuckles as she holds your head still.

“Let Mommy help, baby.”

The softness of her breast is taken from you and she wiggles to pull her scrub top up. She must’ve removed her bra as soon as she got home, because there is no barrier between you and the hardening pink bud that sits against silky, pale skin.

She says nothing as her hand cradles the back of your head and draws you closer to her nipple. Needing no other encouragement, you quickly latch on and warm air dances across your forehead as Agatha releases a shaky breath.

“What an eager little bunny Mommy has tonight,” she observes, letting her thumb gently trace over your eyebrows one at a time.

“Daddy texted me and told me I’d be coming home to our little one. But do you want to know a secret, bunny?”

You peak up from your place nestled against her breast. You’re gently suckling, lapping every so often. On more than one occasion you’ve found yourself wishing Agatha could actually breastfeed you. It always caught you off guard, especially at first. However, the more moments like this you share and the more deeply woven you become with Agatha, the more you long for that sort of connection. The thought of Agatha’s body working to care for you pulled at such a deep string in you that you aren’t sure you’ll ever have words to express the ache.

Agatha patiently waits for an answer, content to share this time with you, and smiles when you nod in affirmation.

“I already knew. My special Mommy superpowers told me you needed me,” she murmurs and draws circles over the center of your chest.

“This little heart was calling out to mine,” she matter-of-factly continues.

She pauses her circles to move your hand to lay on her bare chest just between her breasts. The steady drumming tickles your fingers and you are content to stay like this forever. Agatha snakes her hand under your t-shirt and mirrors the placement of your hand, but on your body.

“We’re always connected, bunny,” she hums with the beating of your heart. “There’s no such thing as us ever being apart. I’ll always know when you need me. And you’ll always know just who you need.”

The tender moment gracefully comes to a close when you hear a soft voice from the doorway.

“Dinner is ready,” Rio offers.

You are too enthusiastic about getting up for Agatha’s liking and she pulls you back down into her lap.

“Only patient little bunnies get presents from Mommy,” she gently wrangles your arms in before softly tickling her fingers at your neck.

It only tickles a little, just enough to draw you into playfulness. You move to tickle her neck in return, but halt when you

“There’s presents?!” you shoot up and feel a little too dizzy at the quick motion.

Maybe the cold medicine has hit you too hard, or maybe you’re a little milk drunk. Probably both…But between the pizza and the presents your brain isn’t sure which to fixate on. You vaguely notice that Agatha is looking over you, brow furrowed in concern. The attention calls to you like a siren and you nearly cave.

You struggle to remind yourself that, whether you go for the pizza or the presents first, the main objective is to make it downstairs. You steel your resolve and focus on the mission at hand.

You dart for the door, but Rio catches you around the waist easily.

“Ah ah ah, bunny,” Rio chides, “what do we say to Mommy?”

You ponder this for a moment and the answer seems clear.

“Dibs on the garlic butter!” you declare as you wiggle to ‘dead-leg’ Rio, successfully escaping and taking off down the steps when her grip loosens.

You hear Agatha’s cackling over the patter of your feet down the steps and aren’t sure if its at Rio or your future.

“I should’ve seen that coming,” Rio assesses.

“Don’t worry, daddy. I’m sure our little bunny is very, very sorry.”

To be continued…

:----:

A/N: But how sorry are you?? Rio wants to know... I'm sorry to leave you with more antici...pation. The smut in part 4 will be well worth it if you've stuck with me thus far. I just wanted you all to have a little fluff as a treat.

Intended translation: "Esas mejillas rosas son tan lindas, conejito." is 'Those pink cheeks are so cute, bunny.'

Is that a like, reblog, or reply in your pocket? Or are you just thinking about Part 4??

I felt shy writing this so fr if you liked it please let me know.😩

:----:

[dropthedemiurge]

Love for Love's Sake - Cha Joowan (Cha Yeowoon role) commentary

[Extra content from Bluray boxset]

If you take it to other platforms, please leave credit and original link. And don't share links to videos publicly as well, thank you ^^

[Translation by AmetistLex]

Q. What did you think when you received the script for "Love for Love's Sake"?

At first, I didn't think I would pass the audition. But then I suddenly received the script, so I was actually very worried. Yeowoon's character has a lot of specific traits that needed to be expressed, so I thought a lot whether I could really pull this character off.

Yeowoon was very quiet, calm, alone and he had no friends – and I'm the exact opposite, so at first I was quite nervous.

Q. Are there any memorable adlibs?

After the first kiss scene with Myungha, I say "I'm going home / I wanna go home". Myungha teases me, and then I pout and cutely say "I wanna go home..." That was actually an improvisation, I say this phrase a lot in real life. I added a few similar playful adlibs over the filming.

Q. Any story about post-recording?

This was only the second time I ever did dubbing. Since I play a track athlete, he has a lot of heavy-breathing running scenes. I almost fainted during re-recording because I got very dizzy. So I had a fascinating realization that you can actually pass out from breathing too hard. Also the director, CEO and other actors were outside of the recording booth so post-recording was fun.

Q. What was difficult during filming?

We did a lot of script readings so I thought I'd really show my best on set. But filming on the actual set isn't like acting on rehearsals. There are many unexpected situations. Sometimes I wasn't well-prepared before filming and got confused. So I started preparing for all possible situations.

When I first started acting, I'd prepare for a scene in only one way, thinking I will open the door like this (sliding door to the right) but the door actually had to be opened a different way (with a handle) – and so my brain just froze. So after my acting debut, when I filmed LFLS, I prepared for all possible situations – and even more – before arriving on set. So there weren't many difficult moments, actually.

Q. What was the most joyful thing about filming?

I play a track athlete, and the series had a lot of eating scenes. I was happy when I was eating. I was on a heavy diet so I didn't eat much off-camera. So filming eating scenes made me the happiest. I ate tteokbokki, pizza bread, milk, meat, curry – I ate many things. Meat was the most delicious.

Q. How much Yeowoon and Cha Joowan are in sync?

I think me and Yeowoon are similar for 50%. When we first meet him, he's complete opposite of me. But once he opens his heart, he becomes just like me. I personally don't like staying alone, I always wish for someone to be next to me. But when Yeowoon opens up and shows affection for the people around him, he's very similar to me. This is why I chose 50%.

Q. Outstanding Tae Myungha scene in your opinion?

There's a scene where Myungha experiences that world around him is disappearing, and it has many emotional stages. At first he opens the door and simply is confused, but when he opens next doors, he realizes the world breaks apart, and he goes through gradually increasing emotions. I was really moved by this scene when I watched Myungha express those changes.

At the very end, we meet each other in the classroom, and he has tears on his face. At that moment, I thought it was a really outstanding scene.

Q. What are Yeowoon's strengths and flaws in your opinion?

First of all, Yeowoon's strength is that he's athletic. Also when he loves someone, he doesn't give up or let go of this person. His flaw is that he lacks social skills. He only cares about the person he loves, it'd be better if he paid a little bit more care to other people around him.

Q. Tae Myungha and Cha Yeowoon are still living well, right?

Not Lee Taevin & Cha Joowan but Tae Myungha & Cha Yeowoon? First of all, Taevin and me are doing well. As for Myungha and Yeowoon... I think Yeowoon is currently preparing for a competition, and Myungha prepares for the university. So they are physically away from each other, but Yeowoon just needs to do well. I think if Yeowoon takes a good care of their relationship, it'll become stronger. (To Yeowoon) Because Myungha is going to university now, don't just focus on your track training, take a good care of him too, you hear me? Good luck!

Q. How do you think the actor Cha Joowan will remember "Love for Love's Sake" after 10 years?

LFLS is a project that gave me immense experience in acting. I don't even want to imagine my life without it. Even 10 years from now on, I will still be thinking about it. Because it became an opportunity for me to meet my beloved fans for the first time, it was a project that made me realize that I can feel this kind of happiness too. In 10 years, I'll think of LFLS as my "First Happiness".

Q. From Cha Joowan to fans?

Fans, it's Joowan. Thanks to this amazing opportunity, I get to saw some words to you. You always say very kind and warm things to me, and I want to return that warmth but I'm not really good with words.

It's winter now as I'm filming this, so I hope you stay warm and eat well. Also I hope you'll think of me just once before going to sleep, because I think of my fans before sleeping as well. I love you all, my fans.

I'm still nervous in front of the camera but I'm filming diligently and sincerely after gathering all my courage. It'd be nice if you continued to give me love. I hope you'll remember out first meeting as you watch me act in the future. I love you. Please, keep supporting me.

// other Love Supremacy Zone extra content

[planetpissed]

aaaaaugh…

There you go. You like it? It’s sin-thetic fruit of the Zaqqum tree. Keeps me sane, buddy. Keep it going.

The troll continued to pull from it. 

Who the hell is this asshat?

Please, ‘Asshat’ is my father’s name...

Disturbed the dead fellow read his thoughts, Murder flinched. His diaphragm reacted to the movement and caused him to hiccup and snort boiling, red hot magma-bile up his throat and out his nasal cavity. Part of it splashed onto the living hellhound pipe, it snarling at the startle.

 KEAUGH! KHHHAEGH! KHUEEGH!

aaaaughhh…

RAAUGHRF!! RAAUHFFF RAUGHFF!!

aaauuughh…

It didn’t distract him long, however. He kept smoking - as putrid as the sensations sounded, his demon-troll-state found it pleasant, akin to drinking pints in a sauna. He gathered himself as his tears finally ceased.

 As weird as this random encounter is tonight, the bassist can’t label it as a bad one. Thank you, Son of Asshat, for this… What did the guy say this was again? Better yet, who was this guy? What’s his actual god damn name?

Oh, come on, now!

You know me, buddy... Your band tried to summon me after you all did it for a game commercial, remember? You all wanted to see if I’d ACTUALLY help you order a good pizza if you managed to pull it off? I apologize, but I haven’t a clue what a good pizza would be... Any human food that makes it down here turns to ash once the dead touch it. 

…?

I’m Death. You died not too long ago. God status keeps you golden, though - you aren’t bound here. Lucky bastard.

He hoisted his legs and propped them at the edge of the ferry, revealing a set of stocks around his ankles.

Looks like the both of us are cursed for now, though, aren’t we?

...

Ok. So. He’s dead. Murder kind of gathered that, himself. What an interesting factoid, “Death”.

Pops and buzzes to you, all those words? 

The troll would rather keep smoking. Smoking’s good for you. Doctors used to swear by it, you know? They stopped that health-benefit narrative for Big Pharma-

Uh oh. You haven’t forgotten who you are, have you?

Uh, have you seen him? 

He’s… Murder…? 

Murderkrakish, the Lake-of-Fire Troll? Soon-to-be Gatekeeper of the Doomstar? And he loves eating bones? And hating himself, don’t forget that! Sulking is IN, baby!

…This might help; if you don’t remember, your name is William Murderface. Ring any bells?

..!

Oh, it was ringing many bells. It was as if Death had a bucket of ice water and dumped it onto Will’s head. Murderface stood up, eyes wide in shock he forgot such information, trying his best now to secure it into his mind. 

I AM MURDERFACE! 

Bassist of… A BAND! // My parents died of a MURDER-SUICIDE! //

I am a WARRIOR!

FUCKING CHRIST!

His jaw didn’t drop - it clenched. So hard, if he were still mortal, his teeth would crack. The smoke mix burned into scorching fire;

aaauuuuuggHHHH!!

Hyehhyehhyegh...

Your bull-man mommy’s not here, bubba. How about you join us on the ferry, instead of sulking at the lake crossings of lamentation and woe?

I promise we’ll bring you back before curfew…

Pipe retrieved, now being placed in a pocket,

We need to get some music back into your life. 

He cradled the beast’s head, and looked at him with eons of experience. How can the macabre be so assuring? 

Death understood - he’s complicated, confusing. Harsh. But underneath it all… accepting.

And incredibly disarming.

 Death opened Murder’s mouth wide…

…and crammed his arm down his throat. 

Easy! Easy… We need to… make sure… you’ve got one…

Thereeee we go… don’t be shy.

Relax… Open your heart up…

Ok, don’t move. Stay right there…

You’ve got a big heart for a troll, you know that? Try not to rock the boat...

After some blind searching, he hooked fingers around something, pulling the slobbery object out.

THERE WE GO! PHEW!

It appeared to be a coin, or medallion of sorts.

Here, Charon. Catch.

<<PREV - NEXT>>

[bullet-prooflove]

The First One Is Always The Hardest: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Companion piece to:

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The first death is always the hardest.

For you it was a 35 year old soccer mom, her two kids in the waiting room with their father when Dr Lewis had coached you into delivering the news.

For John it’s a high school kid, still wearing his gym shorts because he was heading to an early morning basketball game when the car hit him.

It’s a tough one to start with and it gets worse when he misidentifies him. It’s an easy mistake, the damage form the car accident distorted some of the facial features. When he shows you the year book afterwards you could barely tell the difference between the two teens.

Still a young death it weighs heavy and you can see that in him as he persists with his shift. He’s quieter, more reserved, his shoulders slumped making his 6’1 frame look smaller as he hunches over his text book, a highlighter in his hand, seeing but not reading.

“Hey.” You say softly, your palm coming to rest on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. You can feel the tension in his muscles as your thumb slowly traces a reassuring circle at the nape of his neck. “The first one is always the hardest.”

He sighs relaxing into your touch before you pull away and take the seat alongside him.

“He was just a kid.” He says helplessly. “One day he was just going about his life and the next…”

“I know.” You say, your hand coming to rest upon his. “It makes it all that more harder because there isn’t really any rhyme or reason to it. It just happens.”

“And how do you reconcile with that? How do you move past it?” He asks squeezing your fingers lightly.

“You do the best you can.” You tell him, dipping your head so that you meet his eyes. They’re darker today, tinged with a sadness that no one in this world can take away. A loss like this, it needs to be felt, to be endured so you know how to handle it the next time. “And sometimes you go out with a friend and get really freaking drunk. I’m talking messy, I don’t remember where that tattoo came from drunk.”

“What tattoo would we even get…” He ponders as he leans in close, your heads bowed together conspiratorially.

“Well if we were going in together we would get one of those best friend necklaces, your know the ones that are split into two pieces. We’d get them right here-” You use your fingertip to trace a heart where his own resides inside his chest underneath his shirt. “-your half would have my name and my half would have your name.”

“That sounds romantic.” He tells you as you sign your name on the fabric of his shirt.

“If you believe in that sort of thing.” You shrug, drawing away.

“You don’t?” He asks, his chin coming to rest on his hand as you pick up his highlighter, toying with it.

“That is not my experience of the opposite sex.” You inform him, leaning back into your seat. “I know it’s different for you with all those society events. The women in your life probably have a lot of expectations, dinner, jewellery, flowers…”

“Noone’s ever bought you flowers?” He asks incredulously.

“My mom.” You say, the edge of your mouth tipping up into a smile. “She’s a real sweetheart.”

“Wow…” He says, sagging in his own seat as he digests that information. “Now I really need that drink.”

“Two hours.” You say as your pager goes off, stealing your attention. “Just two more hours and I’m all yours.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[theshiftingdiariesofficial]

Waiting for that storytime babes <3

Ofc babes!

So I’m just going to go yap about my first shift, but if any of y’all want some more shifting stories, I got you 😘

So, I’d been trying to shift about like 2 months at that point. I used so many methods, like it was insane, because I wanted to get there one way or the other. I’d get symptoms like tingling, numbness, but then nothing. I’d wake up in my CR feeling like a failure and obsessively read shifting stories to convince myself it’s real. But that one night? It just clicked.

That night was literally like one of the worst nights I had had in a while. I was exhausted, I had cried earlier (not shift related, just about my job and finals stress) and after I cried it felt like something cracked in me and I had to get to my DR like right now. I stopped caring about controlling my shift, and just whispered affirmations like “I am already in Monaco” and stuff like that while lying down. No music, no subliminals.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have idk, cause the next minute I opened my eyes I knew something was off. First of all, I wasn’t in my bedroom, I was lying on a white leather couch in a super sleek room with a Red Bull logo on the wall and a TV playing race footage. I could smell engine oil (low-key disgusting) mixed with like really strong espresso. I was wearing the custom team gear I scripted- black fitted top with tiny red and blue detailing, my name embroidered on it. There was tons more but this is like the main stuff I first noticed. I like slowly sat up, just taking in the sight when Max Verstappen walked in. And oh my freaking God, I forgot to breathe. He looked at me like he’d known me forever, gave me a slightly weird look like why is this girl acting like she’d never seen me before, and said “you ready to do your job, Dej (his nickname for me) or are you gonna nap all day?”

Oh and before I continue, i just want to tell you guys what my job was. So basically I scripted myself as part of the Red Bull comms/ media team. Like a mix of PR and digital strategist, since I wanted something to dip my foot in before I actually became a driver (I now don’t go to this DR as much as I used to since I have a formula one racing DR as a driver). Basically all I did was travel with the team, write press releases, hang out in the garage, meet other teams, go to post race parties, and flirt with some drivers…

I stayed for about 2 weeks, and I didn’t do any time ratios. I was there during practice, quali’s, and the races. Max even tried to teach me how to drive a race car during one of our off days, and honestly I’m surprised I didn’t do that bad (if we take out the part where I bumped into the racing track wall. I still haven’t gotten over that) And the after parties? ELITE. It was on a yacht, and I remember picking out this sparkly black slinky dress with a little slit up my thigh. Me and Lando talked, and he handed me a drink… someone took a photo of me and Max laughing about something, I can’t even remember what it was.

When I came back, I came back on my own terms. I was scared of shifting back during my sleep, so I didn’t sleep for like 2 days before I knocked out from exhaustion, but it was fine! I decided to shift back because I wanted to tell my sister all about it, and also I was low-key missing my home. So I said my code word, and went back to normal. I literally wrote everything about this experience down in a notebook, so I wouldn’t ever forget. Definitely the best moment I’ve experienced in my life, because I knew it was real. And if anyone says it was a dream, I don’t care. It was too real, too vivid, too emotional. I literally used to go to my messages to message Lewis about some drama (he loves gossip me and him used to literally yap about all the tea we’d picked up) but then realise I was in my CR. So I was eager to get back Asap, which I did a week later.

So yeah, that’s my first shifting story. If you needed a sign to keep trying, this is it. Trust me, this is real, all of it. So go out there and shift babes <3

Xoxo,

The version of you who made it 😘

[niyoriix]

DC/MARVEL characters with Liberian!Reader📚

Characters: Iron fist/Lin lie,Spiderman/Peter Parker,Moon knight(Marc,Steven,Jake),Jason todd.

Warnings: Reader is always Fem so sorry!! Most of them are Based on the comic version's! Characters are most likely OOC- inaccurate depictions of working at a library probably 🙊

An: This is based on my experiences and my library.ᐟ

𝙄𝙍𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝙎𝙏📜:

╰┈➤ he likes it! He finds libraries to be very calming due to the nature of people being quiet in them. Also if you have one of those free library passes then he'll definitely be with you all the time (if he's not fighting for his life-)

He probably takes advantage of the fact that you get to take home free books most of the time. He def only studies at your library even if there's a library closer to his school lmao.

Lin will be staying at the library until you're done with your shift (if he's not fighting that is..)

+ he always walks you home 𖹭

𝙎𝙋𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙈𝘼𝙉/𝙋𝙀𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙆𝙀𝙍📚:

╰┈➤ He's even more in love with you than he already was!! He's a giant nerd so he's incredibly happy that you work at a library. Since you have a library pass he'll most definitely take advantage of it for free books or comics.

He comes by every hour or so to check on you while still doing his job as Spiderman. He also tries helping you with anything while you're on the job and he's off, even if you have a decently chill job. If you have one of those laptop stations then he'll be there half the time too, just playing games or doing some research.

+ he always swings you across new York once your off work 𖹭

𝙈𝙊𝙊𝙉 𝙆𝙉𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏🌙:

╰┈➤ They think it's a nice job, chill and not that hard, Although they know you work hard!! They come by after a mission or if they're annoyed or just having a hard time. It's definitely a safe space of theirs since you work there. Marc mostly just likes grabbing a book and reading while he waits for you. Jake, the best cab driver of all time, LOVES bugging you when you're there. Especially flirting with you while your fixing or cleaning things. Steven's just reading while drinking coffee. They spend a lot of time there.

+ A nice date after work with your favourite people 𖹭

𝙅𝘼𝙎𝙊𝙉 𝙏𝙊𝘿𝘿🗞️:

╰┈➤ Bookworm alert!! His favorite book is literally pride and prejudice, so you CANNOT tell me he wouldn't like a librarian girlfriend. He would spend a lot of time in the library to keep you company and to also scrounge through the bookshelves for himself. If he somehow can't see you due to being busy, then he'll (Reluctantly) send one of his siblings to spend time there with you(for safety purposes he says)

Sometimes he likes to just watch you work. Not in a creepy way but in a suave way( in his own words not mine✋🤚)

(HC that he prefers romance genres over action genres🥸)

+ Riding through Gotham on his motorcycle after a late night shift 𖹭

⌗Requests always open! 𖹭

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[kazutteoks]

GO FOR IT! 𝜗𝜚 ; 18. year is over and we're still the same (1.09k wc)

the one were heeseung and you have been rivals since you started hogwarts, and only takes one event that will turn your world upside down to realize what heeseung's presence in your life truly means for you. you have to do something! you just have to go for it!

pairing: ravenclaw prefect!lee heeseung x ravenclaw prefect f!reader

a/n: taglist open! lmk if you want to be added!

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆. 𐙚 ₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ °. ₊˚⊹

ℋogsmeade station is full of children, teenagers, and recent graduates who have now become adults. there's an air of liberation around, of freedom, of joy, and at the same time nostalgia and sadness.

it's exactly the same every year, but this time y/n and her friends experience it differently.

“i'm going to miss you guys so much!! life is going to be so weird without you around!” says keeho as he squeezes yunah in a suffocating hug. contrary to what everyone thought since they were always fighting, the girl was hugging him as if her life depended on it, babbling and crying non-stop.

“will suck having to beat all those slytherins now that you're leaving. was always easy but, you know, now will be even more easy” wonhee murmurs next to beomgyu. reality is, anyone could notice her red and irritated eyes from crying so much all afternoon. and the fact she hadn't left beomgyu's side since they left the castle spoke volumes more than her attempt to appear nonchalant.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ - read more undercut! ˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ ₊

“i'm sure you will... ah, seems like an amazing day to get you back into the groupchat, doesn't it?” but beomgyu wasn't any better. hiccuping every five seconds, holding back the soobs that begged to come out of his throat loudly.

and speaking of soobs, while wonhee was heard shouting “finally!”, soobin was being hugged by dongmin, wonyoung and y/n at the same time. he tries to comfort them because they couldn't stop crying since the day started. “shshsh, it's okay guys, we're not dying!” something really funny was seeing everyone with tears in their eyes. even gyuvin, who never showed his affection was crying before asking for a 'time out' to go wash his face.

but the only one laughing completely happy with no sign of tears, was soobin, someone everyone expected to see cry inconsolably like a damsel in distress.

he was in fact having the time of his life.

“a-are you sure you don't want to do your internship here at hogwarts?” wonyoung asks, stepping back a little to look at him with a pouty face.

“wonyo i love you, but hell no!” the boy laughs as if it were the best joke he'd ever heard. “i'm finally free! fucking peeves will never see me again! this is actually the best day of my life!” far from comforting those three, they begin to cry louder, insulting the ghost between stutters.

“okay, came back to my senses, stop the drama. we'll continue to see these three— they'll literally move into snow and wonyo's neighborhood together and will come see us every time we go to hogsmeade. they're not dying.” gyuvin begins to separate the three crybabies from the tallest one. he mentally swears if anyone mentions anything about his puffy eyes he'll kick some asses. “plus, next year we're also graduating and moving near them too!”

keeho and yunah complains when they are forcibly separated. “let us have this! i deserve it after nearly frying my brain for those damn newt exams!”

“i didn't even cry for my brother when he graduated and now he lives in the fucking romania. you guys move nearby and have me here crying like a bitch. i've had enough.” everyone starts laughing at gyuvin's statement and they finally start to relax when the train arrives.

all of them starts to get on and finally, when only wonyoung and y/n remain outside, she stops the black-haired girl. “uh wonyo? i'll be with you in a sec.” y/n says without moving from her place, trying to act calm.

wonyoung giggles covering her mouth with her hand and nods. “just don't take too long.” and with a wink she finishes getting on the train.

y/n sighs letting out all the air contained in her lungs, beginning to search around for a certain someone without success. her stomach turns after a couple of minutes, thinking maybe he is already on the train.

“looking for someone?” the voice near her ear makes her jump for two reasons: the unexpected voice behind her, and the unexpected voice behind her she already knows perfectly well, too close to her.

so close she can smell that same scent of chocolate, books, new parchment and ink she smelled during her final potions project.

y/n turns her head just a little, meeting those big eyes that always looked at her attentively, at her, only at her.

“hey... you're still here.” y/n does everything in her power to pretend her heart wasn't about to burst out of her chest.

“i was... busy with something” he lets out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. “ready to go home?” he asks, finally standing next to the girl, where she could see him completely and breathe normally again.

y/n nods softly after a few seconds. “yeah, i think so...”

heeseung smiles. “i know we talked about this last week, but i think it doesn't hurt to ask again... are you feeling better?”

“you worry too much, you know?” she laughs, looking at the floor, flustered. “but yes, i'm fine now... in the end you were right, i gave a lot of my mind to something wasn't worth it. look at us now, nothing i feared really happened... year is over and we're still the same.” last thing comes out of her throat with an uncertain taste, as if she were trying to assure herself before him.

he looks at y/n for a few long seconds with eyes full of warmth and understanding. “are you sure we're still the same?” he asks after what seemed like hours and she finally looks up.

“...just better.” she whispers after swallowing hard.

maybe deep down she knew he was asking that in a different context, but for now she preferred to leave things that way.

you'll figure it out y/n, just not NOW.

heeseung laughs under his breath, as if he had expected such a response, but he doesn't look bothered, not at all, never for her “sure we are.”

before either of them can say anything else, the train begins to smoke, signaling it's time to board and finally depart.

“well, see you next year, head boy.” y/n smiles, gently hitting his shoulder with her fist.

she climbs the first steps of the train before turning to look at him one last time and wave softly.

“until then, head girl” he waves back at her with a smile.

both wishing deep inside september 1st would come quickly.

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a/n: just wanted to say this comeback has literally left me flabbergasted, i have no words so i'll just say: stream desire unleash thank you very much amen etc etc 🙏🏻🙂‍↕️

© kazutteoks 2025

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ꢾ꣒ ; taglist open!

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[aperrywilliams]

The Sound of Winter (Spencer Reid x Gn!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn!BAU!Reader.

Summary: After a really bad case that hit you hard, you’re in denial and not taking the help people are trying to offer. You think it's a matter of time for you to be good again. But the trauma goes deep this time. And it seems Spencer, your ex-boyfriend, is the best card the team has to bring you back due to his experience with major traumas on the field. It's a tricky move, but Spencer is so sick and worried about you that he is on board immediately. You don’t seem thrilled, but maybe Spencer has something to say that you might listen to.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort. +16. Injuries, blood, and people’s deaths are mentioned. Nightmares and lack of self-care are part of Reader’s new routine.

A/N: I wrote this because everyone has their own ways of dealing with trauma, but listening to someone who might have experienced something similar can be actually helpful.

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“Just close your eyes. Inhale deeply. Keep it, maintain it there. Now exhale. That’s it. Let’s do it again.”

It's supposed to be ten repetitions, but although you weren’t keeping count, you can swear there are more than fifteen by now. Should you feel better now? Relaxed? It doesn't seem to work. Your mind is still clouded with vivid images of the past week. So vivid that you haven’t slept properly in days. Every time you close your eyes, you can see them. On the floor. Bleeding out. Eyes on you, pleading for something you couldn’t give them: a chance to live. It was already late when you got to the house. The unsub already hurt them the way any hope was futile. Even though you kneeled there, holding the bloody hand of the youngest girl. What were you thinking? That you could bring her some kind of comfort in her last seconds of life? You could barely say ‘I’m sorry’ when her eyes closed forever.

I’m sorry. I should have been here sooner, and I should have been able to stop him. I’m so sorry. I failed you and your family. I’m so sorry.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m -

“You can open your eyes now.”

The therapist's voice is soft, and a faint, reassuring smile graces her lips.

You don’t feel better, but when she asks you exactly that, you lie.

“Much better, thank you.”

Are therapists accustomed to being lied to their faces that way? If she knows, she doesn't say anything.

“Okay. Our time is up for now. See you next week?”

“Sure.” And you are not lying. Your reinstatement depends on your ability to pass the psych evaluation. Emily already told you she won’t make any exceptions for you.

It's on you: or you magically can overcome a major trauma after doing your job in the field, or you can be convincing enough to let people think you’re cured of trauma after some mandatory therapist appointments.

It’ll be what happens first, you think. And it's kind of obvious what it will.

With the mandatory therapy sessions, you’re on leave for two weeks until the psych evaluation is done and discussed. You don’t think being at home will do any better for your mental health. But again, Emily wasn’t keen to even discuss it. And you already have pissed your boss enough in the past days to try to act sly about it.

When you come home, it's late. You can’t exactly say why you chose sessions this late, having all day at your disposal.

The apartment is quiet, the same way you left it two hours ago, but now it's dark. You only flick one lamp on next to your couch, where you plop with a huff.

Why do you feel tired? You haven’t done anything all day besides being out of home the past two hours. Eyes on the ceiling, you try to think of something to do before going to bed. Watch TV? Read a book? Drink a full bottle of tequila? All the above?

If you were working, you wouldn’t be spiraling like this. At least you think that.

Fuck you, Emily!

If I had been faster, I would have stopped him, and I could have saved them. I didn't do my job. They should fire me. I’m not good at this anymore.

Knock-Knock-Knock.

Your head snaps. Who the hell is knocking at this hour? Maybe you summoned Emily with your thoughts and she’s here to check on you. Jeez, you don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Standing from the couch, you only hope it's a lost delivery man.

But when you open the door, neither of your possible outcomes becomes true.

Spencer Reid is who’s standing there, a neutral expression on his face. Hands in the pockets of his coat.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice hints more incredulity than annoyance.

“I wanted to know how you are doing,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It is a sign that he’s not sure how you’re taking the fact he came to see you.

“How am I doing? Great, wonderful. Thanks for asking,” you reply sarcastically. “Is that all?”

Spencer doesn't seem surprised by your reaction. He kind of expected it.

There is no explicit animosity between you both, but it's difficult to say you have maintained a closer relationship after your breakup. You can work together pretty well and behave professionally and civil most of the time. That doesn't mean you are friends, much less that you trust him with your issues.

But even though that’s the reality of your relationship, after what you went through in the last case, Spencer can’t look another way. Especially with something he knows by experience and with the suspicion of how bad it’s hitting you. The fact you’re not together anymore doesn't mean Spencer can just turn his back on you.

Life’s irony, if you ask him, considering he was the one who walked away first when everything went wrong a few years ago.

“No, that’s not all. I know it's late, but Emily told me your sessions end late.”

Emily. Of course.

“So she sent you? I told her if she wanted-”

You want a fight. You don’t know why, but everything looks like a good reason to pick a fight. Spencer cuts you off, though.

“She didn’t send me. I wanted to come. Can I come in, please?” His voice is firmer this time like he is talking about something serious.

Does he? Are you ‘something’ he needs to take care of? Truth or not, it doesn't matter; only having the idea in your brain intensifies your disgust.

So you think for a second. You don’t want to talk to anyone, but you know Spencer enough; he won’t leave if he isn’t getting what he wants. And you want a fight. Who’s better for that than your ex-boyfriend?”

Without a word, you swing back the door and step aside so he can come in.

The place isn't a complete mess, but as Spencer knows you, this is chaos by your standards. Things are out of place: coffee mugs and plates stacked in the sink, a coffee table full of papers and books, blankets sprayed on the couch, clothes in the back of chairs, and that smell. Cigarettes? Did you start smoking again? At least you have the windows open. But it’s December, not the best weather to do that at night. All those things travel through Spencer’s brain in the short walk from your entrance to your living room. You stand behind him. You know what he is doing, but you won’t even bother to explain yourself.

“I would offer you coffee, but I ran out of it today,” you say as you go to close the windows.

“It's okay. Thank you.”

Spencer sits on one corner of the couch, not waiting for you to invite him to. It’s like he owns the place, you think. A time ago, it was like that, though. You both could spend hours on that same couch.

You sit in the opposite corner.

“So?” you start. “If Emily didn't send you. Why are you here?”

Spencer clears his throat. You think you know what’s coming: a string of complicated, far-fetched, and rehearsed words just to say you’re a disgrace and an inconvenience to the team.

“Because we’re worried about you.”

There you go. Worried. That's a nice way to say you’re being a headache to a group of people who have better things to do than worry about a derailed member.

“We? Worried? So, are you some kind of team spokesperson now? And why are you worried? I probably won't even be able to return. I'd be relieved if I were you.”

You're all about sarcasm and provocation, something you know Spencer hates. You may well remember that during your big arguments, one thing that always got on Spencer's nerves was your inability not to say something snarky when he was trying to say something serious. The same way you’re doing now.

“Can you at least acknowledge you’re not okay?” Spencer says, exhaling sharply. “You don’t want us in the middle of this - whatever it is? Fine. But you’re hurting and not doing something about it.”

Aren’t you? The audacity of this man. You’re taking care of it but on your terms. Why should people mess with it?

You stand, huffing an incredulous laugh.

“How could you even know what I’m doing or not? Are we living together, and I didn’t know? Oh wait, we have not since a pretty good time!”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. You’re doing excellent work getting on his nerves.

“Can you stop that, please?” He asks, trying to sound still collected.

“Stop what, Dr. Reid? What I’m doing that is stressing you out?”

Oh, petty girl. Petty, petty girl. Even you feel the urge to slap yourself across the face. But you can’t stop. You don’t know how.

Spencer stands, biting his lower lip, contemplating how to proceed. He knows what you’re doing, and leaving right now would be a win for you. Not that he cares if he ‘loses,’ his reasons for being here are beyond his comfort or needs. That's why leaving is not an option for him. Do you want to play punching ball with him? Okay. He’ll take it if it means you're getting everything out of your chest. If it helps you, it's okay. He owes you this much or even more.

“Okay,” he prefaces. “Due I’m the one intruding here, it is fair I get to endure whatever you want to throw at me. So, go ahead.”

“Oh, poor baby,” you coo, condescendingly. Spencer rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. That too. Do that, I don’t care,” Spencer deadpan. You cross your arms over your chest, eyebrow raised.

“What are you trying to prove, Spencer? You’re trying to prove you can be here for me? When is it supposed I need it?”

He doesn't flinch at your comeback, his expression remains serious, though.

“Believe it or not, I’m not trying to prove anything. I'm just trying to provoke you enough to make you react and do something to stop sinking.”

It's raw and direct, and you didn't expect it that way, so you don’t have a retort to throw immediately. It makes sense, though. You have been spiraling for days with no end, and no one has been able to break the circle of shit and self-loathing in where you are. Not Emily and her mandatory leave imposition, not Garcia’s encouraging daily voice messages, not JJ’s calls to check on you, and definitely not the therapy sessions.

Those damn therapy sessions.

The ones you adamantly encouraged Spencer to take back then, and he didn't want to. Now you kind of understand why.

“What’s your problem, pal? I’m not sinking. My therapist doesn't think I am,” you say in the most nonchalant way you can. A statement that tries to look as a triumph, as a truth.

“Is that so? Then you have to stop lying to your therapist,” Spencer argues—an obvious truth to him.

“Excuse me?”

“It's clear you’re not talking to her. Almost can hear you saying, ‘It’s fine, I’m fine, everything is fine.’”

You huff in disbelief.

“Bold of you coming here to lecture me about the things I may say or not about me, don’t you think?”

“Well, didn’t you stop to think that's precisely why I’m doing it? I have been there. I know damn well how it is to want people to stop asking questions and leave me alone. With the pain, with the guilt.”

You don’t respond because you know exactly what he is referring to. You knew ‘that’ Spencer. You were one of those people asking him questions. But it was different back then. Your relationship was different. You were his partner, his best friend. And he pushed you away. And now you’re doing the same these days with practically all the people around you.

It's funny because Spencer is the one who knows better what’s happening to you, but he has less right to call you out about it, too.

“What do you want me to say? Uh?” Your voice has a tint of defeat on it. And exhaustion, a lot of exhaustion. You got what you wanted: a fight. But now you feel drained. Apparently, now is when Spencer gets what he has wanted from you since the beginning.

“The truth. Even if it's not to me.”

You furiously rub your eyes with your palms, trying to ease the sting in your eyesockets. You’re tired. So tired.

Tired? No. You’re weak. And useless.

“It's nothing you don’t already know.”

This time, you are fighting yourself. You are fighting to keep everything inside.

Don’t let it out. Prove you have left some strength. It's your burden—no one else.

“Try me.”

No. No. Yours. No one else. Don’t make another mistake.

“Spencer, don’t- I don’t think-” You shake your head no, avoiding making eye contact. You don't trust yourself anymore.

Weak. You can’t even handle it by yourself without spilling, can you? What a waste.

“Don’t listen to it. Please.”

What?

“What?”

Your head snaps up to him, eyes wide in confusion. Can he hear ‘it’ the way you do?

“The voice. Don’t listen to it. Talk to me. Please.”

A mist clouds your vision. You feel stripped to nothing. The voice in your head keeps torturing you. Your heart is pounding faster as it wants to jump from your chest. Your hands are trembling, and your legs are about to give in.

And there you are again. Kneeling on that floor, holding the little girl’s bloody hand, her eyes pleading.

‘Come on. Squeeze my hand. Help is on the way.’

‘I don’t want to die.’

And you want her to live, but you know there is no chance for her. Neither for her family lying lifeless on the floor around her. What can you do? What can you possibly do?

“I didn't save her! I couldn't - I-”

Tears flow freely as you scream at the top of your lungs. Spencer is now on the floor with you, holding you. Arms around your body, swaying you both back and forth.

“It's okay. Let it out,” he mumbles in your hair, a hand rubbing your back.

“Why? Why she-?”

“I know. It's unfair.”

You cling to Spencer’s shirt for something to ground you. Your sobs fill the room. It's like a dam was broken, and now you can’t stop.

It's unclear how much time has passed. Spencer keeps rocking you in his arms, and your cries have subsided a bit.

“Hey, I need you to inhale and exhale, okay? Focus on that,” Spencer encourages, and then it’s when you realize your breathing is irregular and full of hiccups.

Your eyes are fixed on one of Spencer’s shirt buttons as you do what he says. Breathe in and breathe out. Every exhale is shaky, but you can feel how your contracted muscles relax, and you’re not shaking anymore.

“That’s it. You’re doing great.”

Now that you feel more like yourself again, your voice comes back.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see her. There. Pleading. And then I see my face on her, doing the same.”

It has been your awake nightmare for the past five days. You haven’t slept because of the fear of closing your eyes.

“You know you did what you could, right? There is no way we could have gotten there in time.”

“Why not? If we had delivered the profile an hour before. Or if I had called Garcia at the exact moment when I saw the pattern. Maybe if I had run faster.”

Spencer tightens the grip he has on you and kisses your temple.

“Unfortunately, we don't know what would have happened if all those ‘ifs’ had gone true, but I'm sure of one thing: she wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself like this, not when you were who held her hand at that moment.”

Spencer must be right, but why does it feel heavy on you nonetheless?

Taking a deep breath, you can say your body is more yours than twenty minutes ago. Your brain, though? Another story.

“Am I going insane? This is a sign telling me I’m not cut for this anymore?”

The question pretends to be rhetorical, but Spencer doesn't think it is.

“No. It's your defense mechanism against the lack of control: trying to make sense of something that is beyond you. Trying to gain some certain between incertains.”

It sounds pretty clinical for you, but it feels like hell.

“Was it different back then?” The words leave your mouth without thinking. You’re not trying to antagonize Spencer with what happened in the past anymore. It's for real curiosity. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. I know you’re trying to help,” you apologize.

Spencer rubs your arm soothingly.

“It's okay. Don’t apologize. And the answer is I don’t know. I have an idea this might be pretty similar to what occurred to me before things between us went to the trash, but I can’t tell exactly if what you are feeling right now is the same as I did.”

You have wondered a thousand times - before it happened to you - what could you have done to help him, but he never talked to you. It’s pretty much like you right now.

“Would it really help me if I talk about it?” There is incredulity floating in that question. Spencer nods.

“Definitely. It’s something you were right back then, and I didn’t understand until a long time since that.”

“Who should have known one of my advice would return to bite my ass.”

Spencer chuckles. There you are. The woman he knows.

“Come on. It's not a good idea to stay on the cold floor. Besides, you need to eat something and get some rest.”

After he stands up, Spencer helps you by taking your hands and gently pulling you up. Your legs still feel weak, but you're able to stabilize once on your feet.

“Thank you.” And you're not only talking about him helping to get up from the floor, literally.

He smiles at you. “You're welcome.”

You insist on going into the kitchen with him to help prepare something to eat, but Spencer won't let you.

"I'll take care of it. Go to sit on the couch. If you want to put on some music or TV, that's fine."

It's hard not to reminisce about those nights you both shared in each other's homes, whether it was preparing dinner or simply coexisting in the same place. It was undoubtedly one of the things you resented the most when you decided that breaking up was the only option you had left.

It wasn't without much searching when Spencer realized your fridge and pantry were empty. "Well, pizza delivery will have to do the trick this time," he announced, taking out his phone and dialing the place he knows you love.

“I’m sorry; besides the mess of this place, I don’t have any food left,” you sigh from your spot on the couch. Your body feels as heavy as your eyelids, but you still don't want to close your eyes.

“Don’t worry. We can do some shopping tomorrow. To stock up,” Spencer says absentmindedly when he’s searching for plates and cutlery. When you don’t reply he notices what he said.

“I mean, I can go to buy things and bring them here if you don’t want to go.”

Spencer thinks you could be uncomfortable with the idea of you and him doing things together, like if he’s trespassing a line.

Your silence isn’t exactly meant that way. It's more about the domesticity of the situation, although you know this is related to exceptional circumstances.

“It's okay. Either way, I need to stock up,” you say, brushing it off.

The pizza arrives, and you both settle on the couch to eat.

You now realize how hungry you were. You’re practically devouring the whole thing.

“Good?” Spencer asks, sipping his water.

“Embarrassingly good,” you admit. “I know I’m not a pleasant sight right now, but I guess that’s has been the pace since I opened the door.”

Spencer giggles, "There's nothing that food and a good night of sleep can’t improve.”

“I admire your positive approach. It's like listening to myself at other times,” you joke.

“Yeah. Weird coming from me, but I’m sure this time it fits,” he winks, making you huff a chuckle.

Spencer gets another bite of his slice and there is something at the tip of your tongue that you need to say.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?” He replies in a mid-mouthful. You sigh, changing your expression to one more serious.

“I know I said some hurtful things tonight. And I’m sorry. I took it against you, and it wasn’t fair.”

Spencer is still swallowing as he ruminates on your words.

“Please, don’t say that,” he decides. You arch an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

With no pizza on his plate, Spencer lets it on the coffee table as he shifts on his spot to get a better view of you.

“Look. I don’t want to sound self-centered or anything like that, but I should have approached a long time ago and not waited until now. I’m months overdue.”

You sip your drink, trying to make sense of what he just said, but you don’t want to overinterpret.

“I don’t think I follow, but it's okay if you don’t want to explain to me.”

Pushy is the last you want to be right now.

“I do think it's not the right moment to talk about some things. But I want you to know I want to help. Really help. Not that shit I gave you back then.”

The memory makes your stomach churn. Those were difficult times for everybody. Spencer was facing a major depression; you didn't know how to help him, and the team played like they didn't notice. Most of the weight fell on you, and you weren’t ready to be what Spencer needed. Neither Spencer knew what he needed at the time. It was chaos, fights, and tears.

“You were right all along, and the less I can do now, it's trying to help you to see on time what I didn’t.”

In your still vulnerable state, you try to gauge if there is a hint of deception in his words. Honestly, you don’t see any. But he’s right. It's not the moment to bring it in.

“Yeah. That could be a worms can we’re not ready to open.” Spencer nods.

“If it is okay with you, I would like to be here all steps in the way, as your friend, as someone who really cares. I don’t expect anything in return, I promise, just the chance to see you to get your life back again. A reminder of the great profiler you are and how the team is lucky to have you, even if you don’t think it’s true now.”

You’re tempted to ask why he is so adamant about that purpose. He says he cares, but you assume Emily, JJ, Garcia, and Rossi care too. What's the difference? You don’t think you’re ready for that answer. But having Spencer in your corner feels right and washes you with relief you didn't know you were craving so badly.

As you eat pizza while sitting on your couch, you think it's the most peaceful you've been in weeks, and you're truly grateful to Spencer for that. Perhaps being more persistent could have prevented the failure at the time. But who knows, maybe you'll have a new opportunity to do it differently this time and thus win back that person as important to your life as Spencer Reid.

Falling asleep in his arms on the couch that night could be the first step to building better foundations now.

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[chxseversion]

THE FOREVER LOVE|| Kimi x fem!youtuber!reader

Summary: She’s not that big of a youtuber, he’s a big F1 star, how’d they keep their close relationship

Warnings: SMAU!, Reader is 17, Reader is ‘Ivy’ for my own convenience, Swearing,

A/N: This is for my own enjoyment you don’t have to like it, you don’t have to read it, you are not being forced to watch this

━»•» ❀ «•«━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━»•» ❀ «•«━

Calmnotsocalm

liked by KimiAntonelli and other

Calmnotsocalm Day 1 of coachella was a success. had a blast thank you for @revolve for giving me this opportunity for getting to go despite i can’t drink or attend any of the parties still something i’d never pass up

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User10 who’s the guy?

User11 outfit? slay. quality? slay. Guy? unknown

KimiAntonelli adoro le foto (love the photos)

❤️ liked by original creator

User12 i’d love to go to coachella with you. your videos are the best thing ever

User13 are we going to be getting a Coachella vlog?

⇉ User14 it would be so cool to have her first Coachella on vlog for reference when she goes again

⇉ Calmnotsocalm i filmed a pack for Coachella and then forgot my camera 😔

Revolve our favourite girl getting a not so calm weekend

⇉ Calmnotsocalm i see what you did…

User15 Revolve giving opportunities is so beautiful of them

User16 KIMI LIKING AND COMMENTING? what does this mean?

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

Calmnotsocalm

liked by KimiAntonelli and others

calmnotsocalm DAY 2!!!! and we still eating these beautifully kind people up 😅

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user10 girl… your all a slay

user12 her being respectful while mothering everyone

user13 she’s gonna be the tyoe of mother that goes ‘i was cool. look’ and shoves a whole box full of albums towards her kids and it’s filled with her outfits

KimiAntonelli Dannazione (Damn)

❤️ Like by original creator

⇉ calmnotsocalm Dannazione yourself handsome

⇉ user14 love seeing popular youtubers supporting poor unfortunate people

⇉ user15 most definitely my favourite thing

⇉ user27 do you guys know he’s a F1 driver?

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

Calmnotsocalm

Liked by KimiAntonelli and others

Calmnotsocalm DAY 3!!!! best experience of my life and i’m forver greatful for the the fans i met at this, the chances i got to wear beautiful clothes and the chance to go to such a major event. Love you all 🫶 packing for Coachella video is up in an hour

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KimiAntonelli Mi hai rotto un po' il cervello, amore (broke my brain a little, love)

user10 how did Kimi beat me here?? NEW VIDEO!!!!

user12 Kimi was waiting for the notification to comment

Mercedesamgf1 hiiii 👋🏻 - admin

⇉ calmnotsocalm HIIIIII!!!!

user13 Mercedes and Kimi commenting… what is happening to us?

user14 she’s so pretty… can you fight Kimi?

⇉ user15 he can’t fight all of us

⇉ user16 no he can’t

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

KimiAntonelli

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KimiAntonelli Miami was a roller coaster weekend- but one I leave with a good feeling 🙌

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Calmnotsocalm you did so good bubs

⇉ KimiAntonelli thanks amore

❤️ liked by Calmnotsocalm

⇉ GeorgeRussel ahh… young love. i remember those days

user10 the best rookie driver we’ve ever seen

Mercedesamgf1 you’ll do great things in the near further Kimi

⇉ KimiAntonelli i hope

user11 the best weekend we’ve see yet

user12 congratulations Kimi

user13 starting to think we might need to fight Kimi for his girlfriend…

⇉ user14 fair… i’m ready

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

KimiAntonelli

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KimiAntonelli Home, track and tortellini this weekend 🤩🇮🇹

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user10 his smile is so cute!!!

Calmnotsocalm not so calm right now… MY MAN!!!!!

⇉ KimiAntonelli slight concern…

user11 his girlfriend gets us… LOVE HER

⇉ Calmnotsocalm your the sweetest thing to exist

user12 the fact that he was probably looking at his girlfriend or Ollie in the second picture

⇉ user13 still not entirely sure they aren’t the same person…

⇉ user14 truest thing yet

Mercedesamgf1 we love to see it

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

KimiAntonelli

liked by Calmnotsocalm and others

KimiAntonelli three intense weeks are over… stopping for a break then ready for canada 🇨🇦

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user10 best three weeks we’ve seen kimi

user12 he’s so pretty boyfriend coded

GeorgeRussel you better some back in one piece kid

⇉ KimiAntonelli 🫡

⇉ Calmnotsocalm what about me!!! thought i was your faviourite 😔😔😔

user13 he’s the coolest, prettiest and best rookie ever

Calmnotsocalm guess i better get prerecording done then…

⇉ KimiAntonelli my break is good with our without your camera around amore

⇉ user14 NOOOO!!!!!

⇉ user15 worst heart break i’ve ever experienced

Mercedesamgf1 don’t get up to too much trouble

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

Mercedesamgf1

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Mercedesamgf1 HAPPY 2 YEARS!!!! it’s our rookie and his girlfriends two year anniversary. This is also the only post we will ever make due to the fact that we thought everyone should know that we love both of them equally.

P.S. George is in a corner crying shouting ‘MY KIDS’

Creator has limited comments

KimiAntonelli thank you!!! wouldn’t have gone as far as i have if it wasn’t for her by my side and you guys rooting for our relationship. George will be fine

⇉ GeorgeRussel i’m deeply proud of you two… not gonna cry again…

⇉ Mercedesamgf1 …he’s crying again

Calmnotsocalm oh how this makes me happy to call him my boyfriend for another year and many more to come

⇉ KimiAntonelli love you Mia Vida ❤️

⇉ Calmnotsocalm you keep me calm bub

[pocketneophyte]

Day 16 Snicketober catch up:

uhhh UHHH UHHHH favourite ship is (SORRY) sugarbowl gen era olaf and kit <\3333333333

never would I want them to actually be together but the implied angst / tragedy / betrayal just adds so much GRAHH feelings to the characters we see in asoue

Prompt by @free-my-boy-grumbot , ref photo under the cut!

[soov]

how many aura points do i get when ppl shut up when its my turn to talk and other 5 say they want to get to know me better 🙏🙏

[averageestrogenenjoyer]

Brienne of Frickin' Tarth!!!! best girl!! best girl brienne!!!!

Oh my god oh my god oh my god but thinking about Brienne and how she didn’t reject her femininity by choice but everyone else rejected it for her because she wasn’t conventionally attractive so the only role she felt she could fit in to in society’s eyes was that of a warrior and how she was in love with Renly because he was nice to her and danced with her and treated her how all the other girls her age were treated even if it was just for a night and how she never feels like she fits in as a woman because she’s ugly but she never fits in as a man because she isn’t a man but she can’t go back now that she knows what its like to be free from those constraints but there is still a small part of her that wonders what it would be like if maybe, just maybe… and I just… George had absolutely no right to write a character that good

[norristeria]

Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?��

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.