#technically i don't even have my full stash here and what i have is already more than two trash bags full (temporary home)

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

It's that time of year again where I don't feel bad about buying discount yarn by justifying it as an birthday present to myself.

At least this time I had a strong idea of how I was going to use everything I bought. Keyword "had", now that I can see the yarn in person I'm not feeling as confident.

The orange hanks (Koigu Premium Merino in colourway 1113) look really good on camera but is much more peachy in person. Which isn't to my taste and not what I expected. I'm no longer sure what I want to make with it, probably something either purely practical (like a knee/elbow warmer) or a gift for someone, maybe a colourwork cowl? Or a hat for my dad to keep in his car during the winter time

The blue skeins (Paintbox Socks in Kingfisher Blue 1434) are a little bit more on me, I expected a lighter, brighter blue and didn't do enough research to double check. It's still very pretty so I'm not too disappointed, but I had planned to knit a shawl with the paintbox, the more teal blue hank (Cloudborn Fibers Superwash Sock Twist in Lagoon), and the light grey hank (Cascade Heritage Sock in Grey 5660). I still think there's a project in there somewhere, but I'm not happy with both blues together.

I've been trying not to just buy yarn because it's pretty and only buy when I have an actual project in mind, I have a big enough stash that I don't need to add more to it (arguably i need to give some away/donate it/sell it, a lot of it does not spark joy anymore now that i know what i like to create). Hopefully it doesn't take long for me to figure out what I would like to do with them.

[blarrghe]

This chapter of Strange Feelings in the Party camp got a comment about its ending, and on a re-read I remembered how this came out of a much older scene of just dialogue I had posted on here - probably one of the first things I wrote for this blog. And now with it fleshed out for the fic, it feels like a little ficlet in itself.

The full fic is here, but i just wanted to post this again.

“Well, I’m not going to try to steal from Morrigan’s secret cheese stash again, I just got the feeling back in my arm. So, truth.” 

Violet leans back with a wooden tankard of ale and allows Alistair his turn. She has taken mainly dares from Alistair, lightening the mood by acquiescing to his silly ideas. To Zevran she largely answers truth , and Zevran has asked about little of importance. 

He himself has opted for almost nothing but truths as well, which is surely a change for him. Violet asks about sexual proclivities with enthusiasm and bright eyes, Alistair asks mainly after his tattoos. 

Alistair, on his turns, has only been dared. Zevran has not asked him to do anything extraordinary, though he is getting temptingly close to daring him to allow him to give him that tattoo he so obviously wants. 

“Who was your… first time?” Alistair asks, rather timidly. Alistair has had two tankards of ale, and is finally beginning to get the point of the game. 

“A gardener at our estate. Her name was Vanna,” Violet shrugs, “broke her heart.” 

“I knew it,” Zevran says with a grin. “Slayer of dragons, breaker of hearts. It suits, no?” 

Violet frowns. “It was only one summer, but… left her on some bad terms. Said I’d never loved her.” 

“I’d be heartbroken too,” Alistair mutters through a grimace. Then he looks at Zevran guiltily, and then away. 

“My turn, then,” Zevran cuts the tension with another swig of his own ale and another bright grin. “And I have just the thing. So, Alistair, truth or dare?”

"Well I certainly don't like the sound of that." Alistair eyes Zevran's grin suspiciously. "Truth." 

"Shame. Not even just a wing of the Grey Warden crest?" He sighs dramatically as Alistair pulls a face. "Very well, I’ll let you have an easy one. Who was your first kiss?" 

Violet rolls her eyes, but Alistair nearly chokes on a swig of ale. 

"Boring," Violet declares, "we already know." 

Zevran levels his smirk Alistair's way. "Do we?" 

"Well... technically…"

"Hold on," Violet darts a betrayed glance at Zevran's growing smirk. "No gossip, hm?" she nudges Alistair, "what does he know that I don't? I thought it was me." Her pout is not really offended, but Alistair begins to stutter. 

"Well, Alistair?" Zevran intones with a waggle of his brows. 

"I suppose, technically, it was Zevran," Alistair manages to get the words out, slowly. 

Zevran grins. Violet spins from her pouty scrutiny of Alistair to flash wide, surprised eyes at him. 

"Zev!" She shouts, half a laugh. His smile widens and his cheeks warm. 

Sometimes she shouts his name like that, half of it and half laughing. He hadn't thought that she still would, after he'd caused her to cry, but sometimes she does. He reminds himself again that he is lucky to have such friendship. 

Violet turns back to Alistair, giving him one of her too-hard playful punches. "When?" She demands. 

"Do you want to tell it, or shall I?" Zevran offers, rising to take up their empty mugs and bring them to the cask for new pours of ale. 

Alistair stammers wordlessly as Zevran takes and returns his cup, so still standing, he begins.

'"Very well then. You see, we had just finished killing the revered saviour Andraste, reborn as a dragon, and all the pesky beasts up the Frostbacks—" 

" — we didn't kill Andraste —" Violet begins to Interrupt. 

"Hush, amor, let me tell the story. You were off doing whatever Warden business it is you get up to —" 

"Recruiting the dwarven forces to fight the blight?" 

"Yes, all that. And while you were away, the rest of us were stuck back at camp getting painfully bored. And poor Alistair, this was before the two of you figured things out, you see, well he was fretting so over this rose he wanted to give you. So, naturally, I wanted to help." 

Alistair is sinking down in his seat. "I’m sure," he groans. 

"Out of the goodness of my heart," Zevran continues, "and to see you two together and happy, of course." 

"He said," Alistair cuts in now, putting on a thick mockery of an Antivan accent, “you know, back in Antiva, I was known to be an exceptional teacher on the arts of love. A love master, if you will.”

Violet laughs loudly. "Love master?" 

Zevran had not actually said any of that, but he directs a proud smoulder at her anyway. "Hmm, do you deny it?" 

She keeps on laughing, waving him off. "Go ahead, go on." 

"I offered him some advice. But poor Alistair, he was still so nervous. So I offered to help him more practically. I suggested, since the poor man had never so much as kissed another, that he might feel more at ease if he could try it once without any attachment or expectation. He refused at first, of course, but as you well know, none can withstand the charms of this master lover for long." 

Alistair slumps over to hide his face in his hands. "Maker, kill me now." 

"He says to me, desperate and pleading. Zevran, I cannot sleep! I can think of nothing else! All I do is imagine kissing her and it all going terribly wrong! Our teeth will surely clash! My big honking nose is going to bash into her perfect face and give her a nose bleed! Help me, Zevran!" 

"That’s not what I —" 

"Hush, darling, let him tell the story," Violet interrupts, leaning in, her elbows at her knees. 

"So I offered again, 'I could kiss you, Alistair. I am sure it will not be so disastrous as you think.'" 

"It was a beautiful sunset, the forest was glowing... he said I had pretty eyes," Alistair defends himself in a pout.  

"You do." 

"Mhm," Violet agrees. "You do." 

Alistair resumes his shamed posture,  head in hands. 

"But yes, as he said, it was quite a romantic little scene." 

Violet is shaking her head in disbelief. She gives Alistair’s hunched back a gentle pat. "Alistair…" 

"I’m sorry!" He lifts his head, "I was just, I was so nervous." 

Violet is chuckling lightly. "That is the most adorable thing I have ever heard," she says. She appraises Alistair with affection in her gaze, and he smiles meekly under it. 

"And it worked out well, yes?" Zevran declares, "no nosebleeds. You’re welcome." 

Alistair drinks deeply from his new tankard of ale. Violet's eyes flash up to Zevran's, and he has known her too well not to know what she is thinking. 

"Well, my turn, right?" She smiles deviously. "Zevran, truth or dare?" 

"Dare." 

"Do it again."

[97-liners]

ok sorry it took me forever to get to this, i was moving when you posted it and believe me i've been on the edge of my seat waiting for this ever since you posted the first snippet of the wip last year and nearly killed me

as always review under the cut:

literally from the very first sentence, you knock it out of the park... i've said this before but you're SO GOOD at prose and i love the turns of phrase you use. just technically, you're sooo good. like you're too good to be writing on tumblr

It's underneath a layer of paper-thin egg yolk pasta where you think you see god. Spoon meets whipped ricotta, white truffle, sage oil. A sip of 1979 cabernet, punishing and oaky. Rinse and repeat. None of these words are in the Bible, yet you are having nothing short of a religious experience.

like come onnnnnn 😭😭

"So Joshua decided to quit. Just like you said," Jeonghan says, but it's like he's speaking to you through a wet paper bag because it takes every working brain cell of yours to read the email. As you may know, Joshua has decided to step down from his position as our current Lifestyle editor.

this part was so funny to me also aflsjdfl

and also

This whole situation is so cosmically awful that all you can do is ask for dessert in a takeout box and watch Jeonghan calculate tip without a calculator because that's all you learn in business school.

lmao u bitch 😭😭😭😭😭 ur the funniest writer on this fucking website

also of course seungcheol wars a rolex.... ostentatious and ugly. the banter between y/n and coups is also so funny. like, you pack in sooo much humor in the details

You wait for the door to Wonwoo's office to close before looking at him right in his wet, cow eyes with the most malice you can possibly muster.

SHUT UP NOT THE BIG WET BABY COW EYES......

at the end of the office scene and beginning into the bagel shop, i love how there's so much malice and derision directed towards seungcheol, but y/n still doesn't miss the chance to talk about how attractive he is..... so true...

and then when you launch into y/n's plan to crash seungcheol's date and cause a scene i was sitting here like noooo babygirl no

i love how through the interactions with seungcheol at the restaurant, you intersperse little column titles... it's so funny 😭

lily i need to know. how many food stories and restaurant reviews did you read in research for this fic. the way you write about food is incredible, like YOU could be an award-winning nyt food columnist if you wanted to be

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

DFSHKJAJFL

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

again, you're just so good at writing, like idk how else to say it. you're good at writing!!!

and then i got to this part, the part that you posted last year and has been living in my head ever since

That’s how you end up in the parking lot of a random 7/11 off the freeway. In any other circumstances, it would be a cruel and unusual punishment, but you've already been whittled down enough to actually care about Seungcheol, even if just a little. That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you watch him finish the last of the takeout. "So I'm bad at food, and you're bad at love. Why the fuck did Wonwoo even think of promoting either of us?" Seungcheol kicks his shoes off and props his feet up on the dashboard. You notice his socks have dogs on them, little linty brown ones, and you feel a little worse about openly bullying him about his fashion taste in front of the entirety of copy staff. "I may be bad at love, but you're worse. Especially for someone who does it for a living," you retort. "Don't think I forgot our earlier conversation." You try to read the tiny text on a receipt he's got stashed in the center console, among his graveyard of snack wrappers. (2) CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH…8.78. (1) M MT DEW BAJA BLAST…1.00. Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself. "You think I'm not kicking myself right now? That I have a beautiful girl in my car right now, and all we do is argue?"

like, damn, you really know how to make a moment, huh? like, creating a little snowglobe within a fic, a moment that's like,,, so real ...

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

aauuggghhghghghhhhhh

What a wonderful, terrible thing to see all your history on a plate, the I could never eat peas, the once I ate mangos till I was sick, the guilty spoon in the vanilla ice cream after a bad day and the dark chocolate you keep in your purse. He remembered that you like your noodles just a little bit overcooked, and you don't even think you told him that.

you're insane you're so good

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

and not only are you so good you're also so funny "Of course. If it was, I'd be asking stuff like…Where you're from. But I already know—h, e, double hockey—" "Chicago."

YOU BITCH HAHAHAHA

ok and then this is the part where i stopped writing down my reactions and thoughts because i got sucked soooo hard into the story and the progression. i love y/n in this story-- i love how you make her so earnest. and the fight over ramen. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn't for you." was a punch to the gut. and then the swift transition into grocery shopping, like even after the fight, the next scene is still so full of love.

the parking lot scene was cute and it felt good, it didn't feel like a hamfisted reconciliation just for the purpose of having all the loose ends pull together. it felt real and it felt like something teetering on the edge of a happy ending, which in the end is a lot more real than "and then we kissed and everything was fine"

also loved wonwoo being a little loser through this whole fic, i loved seeing him, and also i loved shua being insane and annoying, and seungkwan being the best.

anyways. what can i say that hasn't been said before? lily, you're such a good writer. like truly. like you're too good for fanfiction, let alone tumblr fanfiction. you could write professionally if you wanted to. how do you do it!???? the characterizations, the perfect impeccable humor and prose that rolls off the tongue, the pacing and structuring of the whole fic, the way the first half is a perfect slow burn, the way there's soooooo much romcom energy infused in every crevice of this fic...... like. i wish i could write like you do. i'm going to be revisiting this fic over and over again.

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

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

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

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

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

"I—he," you stammer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what?"

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

"What?"

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

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

"I'd rather starve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

"You'll never guess what I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hide behind your computer screen.

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

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

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who said I was pretending?"

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

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

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

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

"I never said that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm no quitter."

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

Definitely not that one.

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

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, pity looks good on you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

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

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

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Field trip?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, thank you."

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

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

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

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

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

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

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

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who hurt you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wouldn't say nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You in a rush?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

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

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

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

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

"Stop that."

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

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

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

"Is it working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

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

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

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

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm running out of options."

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

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

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

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

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you're definitely going to cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

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

"Hey, you ok?"

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

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

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

"Whoa," he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I-I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Here. Drink."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks…?"

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

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

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

"You're literally the definition of easy."

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

"This is not a date. Dream on."

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

"It wasn't."

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

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi."

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

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

The elevator dings.

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

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

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

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

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

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

So you get drunk.

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

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

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

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

"You got that right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours or mine?"

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

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

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, too many dates to cover?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table stops rocking.

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

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

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

"You asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh—"

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

"Get. Out."

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

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

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

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

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

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

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Monday feels tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ask Samuel!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats."

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

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

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

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

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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

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

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

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

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

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

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

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

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

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"H-how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afternoon, boss."

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

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

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

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

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

"You are the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

[ducknotinarow]

03 MikeyYvonne  🍷💖

| send 🍷💖for my muse to drunkenly flirt with yours

"Don! Don please save me!" Mikey cried out regressing back to the little brother role he loved to take advantage of when ever it was well convenient for the orange banded turtle. As he ran over to his older brother making his desperate plea more apparent as he dropped to his knees and hugged them around their waist. "please Don save me and make her stop!"

Don't get him wrong he was pretty fond of Yvoone for a number of reasons. For one she seemed to make Donnie happy so that was reason enough to like her. But she also was pretty nice to him as well, even helping him out with his own business which he appreciated a lot. She also had a similar vibe to Don so she could be kind of claiming like his brother was. What he couldn't handle to much of? was the questions. Not the ones about Don, nah that was different. It was the ones about begin a mutant and such something research or whatever but once she got started? Boy could she talk! And Mikey had hit his limit a bit ago. Assuming Don was going to help him assuming she would listen to him at least he feel his bother pat his head and he offers a smile before moving to get back up no that Von caught back up to him. Mikey watched as his brother stood up from his chair and worked his way to the butterfly mutant. Relief already settling on his shoulders. So grateful to his brother, look Mikey could talk about himself for hours if asked but the questions she asked were more technical. And Mikey needed a break. Why couldn't she talk to one of the other mutant turtles in the liar today, or Master Splinter even hell LH was mutant they could talk. He was a brainy guy himself he might like it.

Mikey hummed when he heard Don says his name smiling expecting Don to have talked him free of his torment. Only to have a slight twist in his stomach when he noted how Don set a hand to her shoulder, gesturing his arm out towards Mikey. The followings words of 'go ahead ask him' had Mikey hanging his mouth.

"Traitor!" Mikey whines nearly, "I your only little brother by the way Donatello!" Full name being used as he walks over to his betrayer in the moment. "Come to you for help and you help in my pain!" HE wanted to add for a girl in there but he didn't want to throw in any wrenches between them. "I can't not believe you!" He huffs in a clear none dramatic move as he huffs his way out of the lair.

Well least his little stunt did seem to get Von off his shell for sometime. Still slightly hurt with his brother though in part he knew he was being a bit over the top here. But still the sting was there finally venturing out of his room after getting sometime to drift away into his favorite comic story lines. Having been going back over Civil War he understood the pain Capetian America felt being at odds with Tony Stark. Mikey found there little stash of alcohol it was mostly beer cans thanks to Casey. But didn't mean Mikey could add something with it to cut that bitter taste. Grapefruit juice was the usual go too since it was easy to get their hands on. Mikey went and made up his little at home attempt of a mixed drink as he settled himself at the table. Current issue in hand as he went about reading, never matter how often he read a series or issue alone he always got so wrapped up in what was going on.

At some point he gone threw a few cans and the rest of the bottle of juice and he felt like words just no longer worded as they should. Staring at the same little panel for who knows how long he knew it was an explosion or he thinks it was on the panel when he heard the sound of heels against the floor he lowered his book. And slightly narrowed his eyes not meaning to look like he was upset he just couldn't focus his gaze enough to understand who he was looking at. Till Von stepped in closer. "OH hey Potts" He slurs a little he giggles a bit.

"I call Don, Tony Stark so thata make chu Pepper to his Tony." He soon snorts as he follow the explanation with a giggle soon after. "And leta me yell yous about your Tony though! He's a back stabber!" Mikeys tone soon switched his annoyance still on display, it seemed as he held up his cup and eyed it a moment soon tipping it back to finish The last of it in one firm glump. Before he lowers his chin to the tables surface. Bottom of his beak hung low in a firm pout. "He's a jerk. I'm like captain America and we're meant to be friends. Worse I'm his only little brother!" Slightly complaining over the lack of special treatment he felt that should automatically give him. Curly his arms around his head. So to rest his head in at the moment.

"I think you should be Peggy instead though, she fits better." He randomly suggests mostly out of his drunken hurt emotions towards Donatello in that moment. "She a take charge kind if gal, also you got brown hair like her." He knows Peggy's not in the comic he had laid out in front of him so he went and pulled out his phone trying to locate an image of the charater he's referring too.

"Oh there she's is! See with red lipstick!" He exclaims several octaves than what was needed for this conversation. Mikey smiles though proudly "I bet ya look real pretty with her hair style too oh and the blue blazer she wears! She'd a total babe." He indirectly compliments her. "Man I wish I had hair likes yours it's so nice and wavy and flower. Raph says Casey's got real pretty hair." He pauses a moment "you can tell people he said that, anyway, I think he's wrong I think your far prettier." Mikey says.

If this was someone else maybe it be easy to confuse it all as flirting but he wasn't even flirting not really in that sort of way. "Ya know I bet April's got rollers. Oh! we should have girls' night. But no Donatello talk he's rude. But I still wanna curl your hair mostly outta curiosity? Bicuiosity? Uhh I dunno the word whatever it means I'm using you to experience something I can't." He soon states in a moment of defeat.

"And then because you look so damn pretty well send a picture to Don, and then I'll tell him to bad you can't see her in person!" The plan completed now. Well maybe exposing something here in the open. "Cause he was mean and didn't help me." Then again should he also be upset with Von? Maybe but his mood was aimed at his brother. "Then we'll make him jelly cause im hanging out with you when your all pretty. Then we can can find Raph too and have him join us make Donnie double jelly at that point. Maybe Leo too he'll even casye everyone but Don basically. Well have a marvel party!" Mikeys mind was clearly moving at its own speed here. "You can the Peggy to my Steve!" He exclaims happily. "Sounds good let's do it!"

Mikey went to stand, having forgotten how his legs worked, though he soon found himself well aquinted with the floor of the kitchen. He's prettt sure he hurt something but he could tell as he laid on the kitchen floor. He slightly quirks his beak. "I should tell you to get my brother but im still upset so can you give me an ice pack instead?"

[mangodelorean]

Bad and Crazy – Episode 12 recap/musings [Finale]

Today marks one full week of us not being fed a full episode. I've broken with my lifelong tradition of: "If you don't watch the finale [of a currently running show] then, technically, it never ended!" So this post-show void is new to me. I don't care for it.

Anyway, where did we last leave Supernintendo Dickhead and Co.? For once, it's a scene we didn't leave behind in the previous episode, but a new one entirely:

Su Yeol: [o.s] I don't want to take it!

He's in a straitjacket, with additional restraint from three orderlies. A doctor yells at him that he must, to which Su Yeol screams crazily that he's not crazy. He looks, with all due respect, like air-fried shit. I didn't think it was possible for LDW to get any paler.

He's force-fed a tablet which he spits out. K manifests in his room's doorway to tell him to run. He does, and makes it to the end of a [barred] hallway where he's tackled and sedated by two additional orderlies. K watches in disappointed horror as Su Yeol is dragged – literally kicking and screaming – back to his room.

It's montage time! A vignette of increasingly competent escape attempts by our little meow-meow, ducking and sliding and unlocking gates in the world's dingiest-coloured RPG, as K cheers him on.

K manifests in Su Yeol's bed for a cuddle, where the two reminisce:

Su Yeol: [deadpan] I suddenly had this thought.

K: What thought?

Su Yeol: Out of all our moments together, what was the most messed-up moment?

K: [hyper] When was it? When? Tell me!

A po-faced Su Yeol runs through them by way of a mini clip-show: Gyeong Tae's Inferno, the three of them self-defenestrating, and, breaking into a smile, "getting beaten up all the time".

At this, the two laugh. K asks why the sudden trip down memory lane.

Su Yeol: Whenever I think about those moments, I feel like I can do anything.

Aww. He gets up [a slick shot of K disappearing as Su Yeol rises], and uses a towel and a mug to crush his stashed tablets into a fine powder. Next, he's carrying a kettle into his [not very useful] art therapy class, where K pops up to ask him what he's drawing. It's not just emo eyes: It's a map of the facility, marked with CCTV blind spots. By the time Su Yeol's finished explaining his masterpiece, everyone in the room has already been knocked out by the powder Su Yeol spiked their coffee with. Win!

Dr Hong Seok Gyeong, the shit doctor from earlier, finds Su Yeol at her office desk, joking that perhaps she didn't recognise him from his eyes being so "alert" [Sir, you have 200 eyelids]. Mr Alert Eyes holds up a file and says she's busted for selling prescription narcotics.

Dr Hong: [cornered] What do you want?

Su Yeol: You'll have to get me out of here. Transfer me to the nearest university hospital.

Dr Hong: And you'll escape once you're there?

To which Su Yeol responds with a smirk that even I can't resist finding a tiny bit cute. Muppet-faced dickhead.

In the ambulance [Why is its siren on if it's just a transfer?], K sees a message from Hong on a transport staff member's phone and pops up to warn a knocked-out, straitjacketed Su Yeol that they're going to kill him.

Su Yeol, awakening like a dumb vampire: "I've trained really hard for the past five months. I've been waiting for this moment." A mini scuffle ensues, with Su Yeol and K incapacitating both transport dudes.

Cut to Bong Pil screaming at the team that someone must know where Su Yeol is. He exits via a call from the Commissioner, to whom he promises to put out an APB on Su Yeol. The team laments the state of things.

Su Yeol, in biker leathers, watches from a distance as Dong Yeol walks Mama Ryu out of the pizza shop. I'm not a parent so I can't say whether or not this is a cliché, but I've always found it heartwarming wherever I see it: Mama Ryu, her mama-senses tingling, stops to look behind her, but nobody's there.

Back at the station, the team's frustrated at coming up empty. But it's Hui Gyeom that jumps up with a spark: What about the "quack" that Su Yeol used to see? Jae Seon reminds us he fled [for gambling and medical violations] and Gyeong Tae points out the office would now be empty. Everyone gets the same idea at the same time and fucking careen out of the door.

But wait! It's not empty! Doctor Heart Mender is on the phone to a shaman – Baby Prosecutor's mum, in fact, who tells him, from her son's desk, that her son does her finances and that she can get him a discount on legal fees should he ever have the need [I love this]. He's interrupted by a still-leathery Su Yeol, but can't quite clock if it's K or the dickhead. "I have no idea anymore," he giggles nervously, before Su Yeol punches him to the floor.

Amid apologies, Doc tends to his black eye with an egg. He explains that he fled thanks to "a connection in the police" [I can only think of one, and his weights are his babies], otherwise he'd have ended up in jail, too. Su Yeol blames his diagnosis and incarceration on the Doc's absence. Doc tries to bond with Su Yeol over their shared fugitive state, asking why he broke out.

Cut to: Ju Hyeok shooting hoops with Jeong Hun. As the two rehydrate, Jeong Hun expresses concern over Su Yeol's escape:

Jeong Hun: If he finds out that I got out of juvie, will he come and find me again? He must know that I refused to provide a statement.

Ju Hyeok: Did you have something to tell the police, though? I told the police everything, and it all proved to be true. Don't worry too much. That man, Ryu Su Yeol... He'll soon return to where he belongs.

After Ju Hyeok leaves with a shoulder tap, Jeong Hun opens up his phone and saves their recorded conversation. Yes!

Back to Doctor Heart Mender, who's been filled in by Su Yeol: He wants to find Ju Hyeok's psychological weakness to beat him at his own game. It's his only option, given that Ju Hyeok destroyed any evidence. Doc posits this: Prove that Ju Hyeok is Yun Ho:

Doc: Psychopaths who are obsessively meticulous often have psychological weaknesses that are fatal.

[Hello, Jong Woo.]

Doc: Mess with them a few times, and they just fall apart.

Su Yeol: I think I can figure out a way.

As he's about to lead them both in a mini meditation session [and it looks like Su Yeol is up for it], Doc wonders out loud who the real Ju Hyeok is, since Yun Ho claimed his identity. But before Su Yeol can respond, the sounds of shouting spill in from outside.

The team and Ju's team are literally clashing in the hallway, the latter having followed the former. There's a brief respite while they trade notes/insults, but it soon picks up again when Su Yeol bolts out the door. Both teams give chase, but Hui Gyeom heads in the other direction and catches up to him in her car. After THREE attempts because he's an undexterous fucking moron with Haribo foam gummies for hands, Su Yeol finally manages to open the door and climb in. With the face of an escaped lunatic, he asks Hui Gyeom how she is.

Cut to: Her flipping him on the ground again, this time at a junkyard. Ha. She's furious that he didn't trust them and that he fooled them all for months. His half-arsed apology enrages her further, but Jae Seon is impressed by Su Yeol's performance:

Jae Seon: Su Yeol, I didn't know you were such a good actor. Become an actor. Why did you become a cop with that face?

Hui Gyeom: Actor, my foot. He's a con man.

Jae Seon and Gyeong Tae hold her back. Su Yeol's about to launch into a much-needed explanation about proving Ju Heok being Yun Ho when K pops up and semi-shyly asks to be introduced to the team. Su Yeol does, as his "alter ego", but this makes K even more bashful and he hides behind Su Yeol. Gyeong Tae introduces himself to a patch of empty air.

K: [excited] Tell him we've met before. I saved his life.

Su Yeol: [deadpan] You two have met before. He saved your life.

Pfft. A near-tearful Gyeong Tae bows as far as his torso allows, with Jae Seon following suit. As for Hui Gyeom:

K: [doe-eyed] Shall I profess my feelings to Hui Gyeom?

Su Yeol: [yells] Profess what? Don't you know the situation we're in?

Hui Gyeom: Hey, I'm good. I don't need to meet him.

A crestfallen K looks like he's about to cry. Jae Seon steps up, but K just shakes his head. Su Yeol: "He has nothing to say to you." Aw. At this, Gyeong Tae looks notably smug.

Hui Gyeom turns the conversation back to the case. Su Yeol cites the bug painter as someone who knew Yun Ho's identity and that, even though he's dead, they might go back long enough for them to dig up some connections/proof. Hui Gyeom says that the autopsy found nothing, and that his intentionally damaged fingerprints will make it hard to identify him. But Su Yeol says he has to try, because it's his last chance.

In prison, Hui Gyeom visits Yong, who recounts with disbelief the promise that Su Yeol had made to her about catching Andrei's killer. Hui Gyeom admits it all went south but, to fix it, she still needs Yong's help.

Jae Seon and Gyeong Tae catch up to a lead we can assume Yong gave him, but the guy says he doesn't know the painter's name. The two cops make light of/threaten him with police brutality [ugh], which seems to get him to talk: He first met the painter when selling him drugs. The painter was wearing a patient uniform from a mental health clinic, but the uniform had a distinct, memorable angel logo...

...The same shape as the painting hanging in Doctor Heart Mender's office. He was the director of the clinic, but it shut down a decade ago. Jae Seon relays this to Su Yeol and Hui Gyeom in the car. Su Yeol tells him to meet them at Heart Mender's.

At home, Mama Ryu gets a call from Dong Yeol, who asks her to wave in front of the living room security camera. He says he'll be home soon. There's a knock at the front door and a letter slides through. She opens it.

On the phone, Doctor Heart Mender tells Su Yeol that he still has all of the records from that clinic, because:

Doctor Heart Mender: A mental illness relapse is very common. And it's not like my patients magically recovered when I closed my clinic, so I need all the records for reference.

Cut to: Su Yeol in the car, mouthing "YES".

Doc tells Su Yeol that this is just how you do business [In-fucking-deed; he knows what he's doing. He always has!] and Su Yeol agrees via a mountain of fawning plaudits before sending him a photo of the painter.

Doc trawls through some files and finds the file – and the painter's name is *(drum roll)* Sin Ju Hyeok! Speaking of which, Fake Ju Hyeok cuts a menacing figure under the neon glow of the Heart Mender sign. Doc doesn't know who he is, but soon catches on that things aren't looking good when Ju Hyeok 1. draws the curtains closed and 2. grabs a small spy camera from his shelf. Fake Ju Hyeok/Yun Ho: "I installed it over 6 months ago." Uh-oh.

Outside, Su Yeol leaps out of Hui Gyeom's car, saying he'll go in first. But he finds our poor Doc on the floor, stabbed. Outside, Hui Gyeom learns via a call from Jae Seon that Ju is pushing for an "aiding and abetting a fugitive" charge to fuck over the team. Seconds later, she gets a tearful call from a worried Dong Yeol.

Hui Gyeom finds a frantic Su Yeol calling the emergency services. She tells him to run and gives him her phone, Dong Yeol calling.

Su Yeol rushes home to find Dong Yeol sweeping up broken pottery. Big Bro immediately hugs Little Bro, who asks what happened. Dong Yeol says that Mama Ryu was doing well (taking her meds, avoiding the news – a suggestion from Hui Gyeom), but that she somehow found about his escape anyway and keeps saying she has to find and save him.

Su Yeol finds Mama Ryu in her room. He gently takes her hand and tells her he's here. But she doesn't believe him. She asks, fearfully, what he's done to Su Yeol and, becoming more and more terrified, asks who he is. She throws a cup at him and barricades herself against the door, crying out to Dong Yeol that she can't let him get hurt. She grabs a shard of glass from the floor and wields it, telling an increasingly worried Su Yeol she knows everything from "the letter":

Su Yeol: "Letter"? Eomma, what letter?

Mama Ryu: You impersonated Su Yeol and hurt people. You made people suffer. Where is Su Yeol? Where is my son? You scumbag!

[She swipes again; Su Yeol dodges it.]

Mama Ryu: Bring the real Su Yeol back! My son, Su Yeol! I want my son back!

A frantic Mama Ryu aims the shard up at a sobbing Su Yeol, who takes her hand in both of his and gently, firmly brings it down and takes it from her, but draws blood in the process. He tries to assure her:

Su Yeol: Eomma, I am Su Yeol. It's me, your son, Su Yeol! The boy who ran away to survive. You put your trust in me, remember? It's me. I am Su Yeol, Eomma. Your son, Su Yeol! You told me to pull myself together and protect myself. Eomma, you told me that, remember?

After a pause, she recognises him again, and the two hug. After such a gut-wrenching scene, it's a relief. He tells her it'll be OK. She blames herself, but he tells her he's OK, and that he's sorry.

He lets Dong Yeol in and takes a call from an unknown number. It is, of course, Yun Ho, who asks him if every choice he's made thus far has been "wrong" considering the hurt left in the wake of each one.

Su Yeol: Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?

Yun Ho: You just won't accept the fact that Jeong Yun Ho saved you.

Su Yeol: You "saved" me? You committed murder. You think you saved those kids? You just used them to justify the murders you committed.

[pause]

Yun Ho: I'd say it's about time we met.

He hangs up and looks across... at Jeong Hun, and tells him not to look so scared, and that he can stop recording their conversations now. Oh, shit.

Outside the gate of his burnt-out childhood home, K asks Su Yeol why here. Su Yeol says it's because it where it began, with him, and that he needs to fix it.

K: Trust is key.

Su Yeol: [short laugh] Of course, I have to trust you.

K: No. You, not me. [pause] Trust yourself.

[beat]

Su Yeol: [smiles] I do trust myself.

Su Yeol walks in the gate to find Yun Ho, who admits to being Yun Ho. Su Yeol asks again why he's doing this, but Yun Ho just reiterates that he saved him. Su Yeol dismisses him, but Yun Ho continues:

Yun Ho: You see, back then, did we have another option? Let's say I chose not to kill your father. Then do you think you wouldn't have been able to escape that misery? Really? Let's find out.

Su Yeol: What?

Yun Ho: Jae Hui. You really have to accept it, now: Killing your father was the only way to save you back then. Just like now.

He drops a lighter, setting the site ablaze. But the flames illuminate a bound Jeong Hun inside, who calls out for help. Yun Ho expresses mock regret that it had to come to this. Su Yeol is struck by a memory migraine: his father beating him, Yun Ho, in the yellow raincoat, stabbing him, and young Su Yeol running away.

The pain weakens Su Yeol and he drops to the ground. K manifests to try to snap him out of it, and reminds him:

K: Have you forgotten already? Fire doesn't faze us.

Su Yeol leaps into the house and starts to untie Jeong Hun, but Yun Ho appears behind him and sinks a syringe in his neck.

Yun Ho: It was because of K. The reason you believed that I wasn't the one who saved you, and the only reason you rejected my help. It was because of K!

As both Su Yeol and K slump from the drug, Yun Ho demands that Su Yeol acknowledge the truth: that only he can save Su Yeol. He screams for Su Yeol to beg him for help, but when he tells him to fuck off, Yun Ho stabs him in the side. He tells him this was "fun" and leaves, taking one last, expressionless look at the fire.

Inside, Su Yeol begs K for help in getting Jeong Hun to safety. As he struggles to stay conscious amid the suffocating effects of the fire, a string of memories run through his head:

Jeong Hun asking who will save So Yeon; promising Young Joo he'll catch her gaslighter but then holding her as she died; holding a pleading Bok Jun as he dies; K saying he's been here the whole time; K/Su Yeol punching Yun Ho when they were kids; Mama Ryu: "Back then, you were just a little boy who ran away to survive. And I still believe that. So you should trust yourself, too."; K: "Trust is key. You, not me."

It snaps him out of it enough to gasp some breaths: "I can do this." He lifts himself up, then Jeong Hun, and stumbles to safety into the front garden. He tells the boy he'll be back.

Yun Ho gets into his car but a lurching Su Yeol installs himself as a gremlin on the hood. The pair exchange evil sexy smiles:

Su Yeol: You must be sick of me by now. You're scared of me, aren't you? I bet that's why you're doing this to me. Because you can't control me.

[pause: Yun Ho is expressionless.]

Su Yeol: [points; smiles] Look at you, all scared. You see, this is proof right here, the fact that you're scared, now. It proves that you know you committed crimes.

Yun Ho: [voice trembles with anger] In Jae Hui...

Su Yeol: [sighs] I'm Ryu Su Yeol. Ah, you talk too much. Forget it. It's time for you to get beaten up.

With that, Su Yeol lunges. But it's a swing and a miss, and Yun Ho gets in several violent head punches that send Su Yeol to the ground. Su Yeol gets back up but Yun Ho repeatedly pummels Su Yeol's stabbed side. The pair continues to grapple until Su Yeol pins Yun Ho against the car, lets out a delightfully deranged Joker laugh and issues a series of increasingly bloody headbutts to Yun Ho's face. Finally, this leathery dipshit is using his head.

[There's no way he doesn't have a concussion after that, though.] As the sirens approach, he falls to the ground and looks over at Yun Ho, the two of them very bloody boys indeed.

Su Yeol: [smiles] I did... pretty well, didn't I...?

[I'll say.]

In Hallway of the Id, Su Yeol calls out to K. After a few seconds of nothing, K pops up from behind a random doorway:

K: Aish, it's you again. Why did you follow me all the way here?

Su Yeol: [smiles] I thought you were gone for good, but you were hiding here? [excited; mimics punches] You should've been there to see Sin Ju Hyeok get pummelled!

[pause]

K: It's time for me to leave.

Su Yeol: "Leave"?

K: [stoic] Heroes are never afraid to say goodbye. I can say goodbye and just be cool with it.

[beat]

Su Yeol: "Goodbye"...?

[beat]

Su Yeol: Why?

K: What is this, Su Yeol? Are you getting teary-eyed? Are you, seriously? [laughs; Su Yeol flinches] Oh, boy. This is why I was going to just disappear quietly, like the wind.

[pause]

K: Fine. Since you managed to find me, I shall give you a gift: My real name.

Su Yeol: Your real name? I thought your name was K.

K: [shakes head; wags finger] My real name. My full name! K, I, N, and—

Su Yeol: [deadpan] Don't tell me: It's "G".

K: Ding, dong, ddaeng! That is my name!

Su Yeol: [eyerolls]

K: King! Of the world! [laughs]

Su Yeol: [sighs] Just leave.

Pfft. K says he's about to choof off for real this time, but that if Su Yeol grabs him or hits him in the head the second he turns around, or if he gives him a wedgie, he'll pay the price. Su Yeol dismisses him with a hand wave.

K grabs Su Yeol's shoulder affectionately.

K: You're a good guy.

K gives him a thumbs-up, and Su Yeol gives him one back. This couldn't get any cuter, could it?

K walks away, and the hallway morphs to bring forward an exit door. Su Yeol tries calling out "King" but his inner anti-cringe won't let him, so, instead:

Su Yeol: K!

[K turns.]

Su Yeol: Thanks.

[beat]

K: I haven't heard that in a while.

He smiles and turns away, giving a wave as he faces the door. Then, a memory:

Young Su Yeol, terrified, barefoot and covered in blood, catches his breath against the side of a building. A hand gently reaches out to his shoulder: It's K, who asks if he's OK. The boy thanks him for saving him, but K says he should thank himself, "because I am you. It was all you. You saved yourself. It wasn't me." K offers his hand, and lifts him up.

Back to the present, and Su Yeol watches as K closes the door behind him. To the swells of bittersweet music, Su Yeol runs to open the door, and cries out for K, his expression lost, distraught, even, and looks down... to see K, crouched on the floor, biting his own fist to muffle his sobs. When he spots Su Yeol, his puppy face crumples into a heartbreaking mess; Su Yeol, smiling, extends his hand this time, and lifts him up for a big, dumb, warm, happy, wonderful hug.

In hospital, the team's voices talk about Su Yeol waking up soon, why he's smiling, and why he's also crying. As he opens his eyes, the team fills him in: Jeong Hun is fine; the team can prove that the painter's name was Sin Ju Hyeok (and that it wasn't the first time Yun Ho swiped someone's ID); Jeong Hun testified; Doctor Heart Mender is fine. Phew!

Jae Seon asks Su Yeol if he's OK since he was "smiling and crying" earlier in a bit of a scene. Su Yeol smiles: "That crazy jerk..."

He looks around, but can't find K, and remarks that he's "really gone". The word "crazy" triggers a memory in Hui Gyeom:

Hui Gyeom: K?

Su Yeol: No. He's not K. He's King.

The team laughs, but Gyeong Tae has to explain it to Jae Seon ("Wang").

Later, Su Yeol, in full dress uniform, is about to enter his own reinstatement hearing. He recalls Bong Pil telling him to lie that he never had a split personality, that it was just a ruse for the case. Inside, it's revealed that enough time has passed that Su Yeol's name has been officially cleared.

The committee asks about his split personality, and whether or not it was just a strategy. Su Yeol, of course, thinks of that glorious memory in which he thought K was "Gay", which makes all of us – including Su Yeol – crack a little laugh. Bong Pil tries to jump in to say that a psychiatrist cleared him, and showers him with praise. It's a pretty deft step-over of the question, and it works, because they've moved on from it without Su Yeol having to answer it or lie.

Memories flood in: K saving young Su Yeol; Su Yeol remembering it during the hospital fight with the painter; K reintroducing himself as Su Yeol's hero, Su Yeol's action star, Su Yeol's K.

The committee says they'll wrap up, having pretty much said they're going to reinstate him, but Su Yeol pipes up:

Su Yeol: He was real.

[beat]

Su Yeol: K's existence was real. And he was with me.

Bong Pil tries to interrupt, but Su Yeol continues:

Su Yeol: He was definitely crazy. [smiles] But he was a good person, too.

A committee member asks Bong Pil if he's sure Su Yeol was psychiatrically cleared.

Su Yeol: He was real. And I can't deny his existence. K was definitely with me.

[beat]

Su Yeol: And I liked him.

He thanks the committee, bows, and takes his leave.

At Yeol Yeol Pizza, Su Yeol, in casuals [hoodies suit him] pores over the restaurant's books:

Su Yeol: When I see this, it makes me think that we're really biologically related.

Dong Yeol: Why do you say that?

Su Yeol: Ryu Dong Yeol. You've gotten better at stealing money from the pizzeria. You almost fooled me.

Dong Yeol: [laughs nervously] Seriously, you're so good at revealing corruption...! [pause] And a lot of people thought that we were biologically related. You and I resemble each other.

At that, Mama Ryu smacks Dong Yeol with a dish rag, to which Su Yeol asks for her to slap him some more, tells Dong Yeol he has a week to replace the 200k won he nicked, and tells Mama Ryu to ask Dong Yeol about a woman he suspects he's been seeing. Actual Narc Ryu Su Yeol.

The door's bell rings: It's Jeong Hun! Su Yeol thanks him for his statement. The boy says he's here about the delivery driver job ad, since he's done it before. The two exchange smiles, and Su Yeol calls out to Dong Yeol to "introduce" him as their new part-timer. Dong Yeol immediately grabs him to feed him, calling him "Brother". Aww!

The next day, Su Yeol mopes alone on a see-saw, recalling that infamous time on one with K. [The bittersweet, self-mocking humour of this scene is peak this show, and I'll miss it dearly.] Hui Gyeom arrives, and offers to join him.

The two walk and talk; Hui Gyeom says that public opinion of him is pretty decent because it's sparked a viral debate about cops with PTSD not talking about mental health. She asks if he'll come back to work. He says he's not sure, but then stops.

Su Yeol: What else?

Hui Gyeom: What?

Su Yeol: It looks like there's something else. I thought you came here to talk about something serious. That's why you probably came here alone without the team.

Hui Gyeom: Right... [pause] Do you remember the day when we arrested Kim Gye Sik? You stopped by my house briefly because of your wound on the forehead.

Su Yeol: [deadpan] Oh, that day. I can't forget that day. [pause] What? What about that day?

Hui Gyeom: What? [pause] I'm curious about the thing that happened that day. Who were you back then? Were you yourself? Or were you K?

Su Yeol: What do you mean?

Hui Gyeom: What? Who was it? You know, the thing... [sheepish] The one who kissed me.

As Su Yeol's in the middle of making Surprised Pikachu Face, in swoops K – yay, he's back! – and immediately puts Su Yeol in a headlock:

K: I knew it!

Su Yeol: Let go of me, you jerk!

K: I already warned you: When it comes to justice and love, heroes go all out!

Su Yeol: Hey, let go of me! You crazy jerk! It's been a while! Say hi first!

K: "Say hi"? How can I be happy and say hello to you right now? You! Tell me what happened between you and Hui Gyeom that day. Tell me everything!

Su Yeol: Nothing happened! We just watched Amazing Saturday! Let go of me!

K: I will never believe you, jerk!!

The two's cries join in unison as Su Yeol, revealed to be visualising this entirely (instead of acting/speaking it out visibly/audibly), stares off into space until Hui Gyeom snaps him out of it. She asks if K showed up again, but he says that K "doesn't show up anymore" and that, if K had known about the kiss, he'd have killed Su Yeol. He asks Hui Gyeom what she wants to do and, before she can respond, asks if she's going to "stay with our team". She happily takes that to mean that he's coming back, and promises to keep an eye on him since K is gone.

In court, Yun Ho's lawyer suggests a defence based around his childhood trauma. In the bathroom, Yong incapacitates a guard, and attacks Yun Ho, who didn't even get a chance to wash his hands. He tries to fight back, but she has the upper hand throughout, and literally tears open his jugular vein with her bare teeth, killing him. Good. Fucking good.

A year later, Su Yeol struts the hall of (Ex-)Detective Lim's club, noting its "upgrade". In a private room, he refuses a drink from both Lim and Ju, who's also there, and showering him with compliments. Lim offers an envelope of cash, but Su Yeol balks at this, saying he's just there to catch up. Lim takes the hint and offers, as before, a second, fatter envelope (with another "ta-da!"), at which Su Yeol makes his previously seen "I would fuck this money if I could" face. The trio exchange naughty grins. But!

Su Yeol: By the way, if I keep digging, how far will I get? I can't help but get curious.

He laments that it's so obvious that Lim is bribing him, and takes out his phone to snap photos of the envelopes. He bats their hands away ("Don't touch it; it will only make it worse") and calls his "students" to move in.

In the hall, Jae Seon and Gyeong Tae fight Lim's cronies, while Hui Gyeom takes down Lim herself. Back in the room, Su Yeol cuffs Ju and jabs that it must feel crappy being arrested by him. Ju tells him that this goes all the way up to the commissioner, who's collecting bribes before he dicks off to the National Assembly. He warns Su Yeol that if he starts this fight, his career will be fucked.

Cue: Bad and Crazy theme music, that fucking banger of a choon, and Su Yeol walking down the station's steps. Wait – we've seen this before. We've definitely seen this before! To the familiar chorus of his team yelling "No! Don't do it!", Su Yeol descends the steps in his best running shoes, calls out to the commissioner and, with a maniacal grin on his face, runs, jumps and, with a cat-like, K-like leap, gears up for another Big Kick!

And, with a freeze-frame sandwiching a mini run-down of the show's greatest clips, we're done. For good. Thank you, Team Bad and Crazy x

-------------------------------------------------------

At the risk of clichés: What a ride it's been, huh? I wish we'd gotten more than just 12 episodes, but that might be my own greed talking. [I've never been a proponent of the USian-style 24-episode format, though. It always sounded exhausting.]

I'm happy with how all of this ended, especially the way it reduced Yun Ho's fate, after all of his self-important grandeur, to a mere narrative footnote: offed in the loos by a Russian vampire. And a sombre but fittingly violent note on which to end Yong's story. As for other arcs, I've enjoyed watching Jae Seon bond with an an increasingly confident Gyeong Tae, and Jeong Hun come into his own despite what he's been through. Another "found family" success story!

I also liked the subtle, implied duality of every conversation between Hui Gyeom and Su Yeol. While they were staunch professionals who kept their minds on the case at every turn, it was rather sweet watching the little moments that hinted at an "almost" conversation about their relationship, but you can tell that these two didn't need to have said actual conversations. It's a more grounded romance angle that lets both of these characters be realistic human beings.

As for Su Yeol himself, well, this dickhead endeared himself to all of us through his de-Grinchifying by way of spending more time with Hui Gyeom, Gyeong Tae and, most of all, his family. You can't be as much of a selfish wanker when Mama Ryu and Dong Yeol remind you, through food and love, of when you used to not be a shitheaded reprobate. His journey has been by turns both fun and heartwarming, as we watched various people repeatedly (and sometimes literally) shoving Su Yeol towards the direction he needs to be in to make himself into a better person. Especially K, that yappy little puppy of a human pokémon, and who's been such a consistent joy to watch yet also such a powerful metaphor for a topic that's still woefully under-discussed.

The show has handled a litany of heavy subjects – from gaslighting, to child abuse to Alzheimer's – but the take on mental health has impressed me. Su Yeol is routinely shown speaking to multiple doctors (admittedly, with varying results) about his condition and, to the end, never wavers from acknowledging the very real existence of K. From what I've read about Dissociative Identity Disorder, alters are genuinely real because they are valid parts of a person's identity, and they're neither inherently bad or good. There's no cure but, rather, it's a managed condition, and the fact that Su Yeol now internalises his interactions with K is definitely progress. It also fits in with Doctor Heart Mender's assessment that mental health conditions don't just go away (and can often relapse).

I don't know the state of things around mental health discussions in Korea, but I wonder if a lesser show might have had Su Yeol lie about K's existence. But he didn't – he stood up for K, for his own mental health, at the risk of his own job. The footnote about Su Yeol's case "going viral" on the agency's website, and how it prompted discussions around cops talking about their own PTSD, also signals a much more progressive take on men's mental health issues. I'd be happy to see this trend more.

But I'm still sad it's over!

Even with other shows threatening to fill the gap, this show has left a sizeable hole. I'll miss watching these two complete fucking idiots raise incompetent chaos twice a week. There'll be nobody else quite like them. [raises glass] To you, Supernintendo Dickhead, and his King.

<3

Stray thoughts:

The use of straitjackets is a generally outdated practice. There are far better tools (pharmacological, non-confrontational, etc.) to safeguard potentially dangerous patients. This article basically compares it to using leeches. But, given the standards that the episode's hospital (and that doc) seems to espouse, their use of it doesn't surprise me.

I've been enjoying the "eye" motif this entire series, particularly when set against things that the characters are either blind to by trust (Hui Gyeom/Gye Sik) or choice (Su Yeol being a dickhead and turning a blind eye to injustice).

I wonder what "artist" Moon Jo would think of Su Yeol's drawings.

You could measure this finale entirely in Su Yeol's cartoon faces.

I'm choosing to take Su Yeol disappearing from Mama Ryu's periphery as a SFH nod/Moon-jo-ism. [Nobody's stopped me yet from unearthing these from where I choose, no matter how much of a reach some of them are.]

I see Doctor Heart Mender has softened his stance on shamans.

Doc's summary of the show's core conflict is chef's kiss: "A lunatic has finally learned to handle a psychopath."

My Episode-3 prophecy about Su Yeol being shit at doors came true!

The Brothers Ryu reunion was touching. Lots of hugs, lots of asking if things are OK. As it should be.

I may be wrong, but it seems like we purposefully weren't shown whose hand was cut when Su Yeol was taking the glass from Mama Ryu's hand. Or, indeed, if it was both. Given the symbolism (family/sharing struggles, especially given they're not blood relatives [which doesn't matter]), I don't think we needed to know, no?

I understand we're watching the icily unflappable Yun Ho lose it/take off his "I'm not a psycho" mask but Jung Sung Il's OTT facial expressions in the fire scene were just too panto for me. I think this is down to the director rather than (just) the actor, though.

Yun Ho leaving the fire but hearing Su Yeol still call out for K in what he thought was his final moments. The man's made his decision, and it ain't you, Doctor McBastardpants.

During Su Yeol's recollections as he (almost) succumbs to the fire, the train of thought as depicted, from one memory to the next, is brilliantly, plausibly lucid. You really can connect the dots yourself.

Su Yeol telling Yun Ho he's scared of him but Su Yeol's own body language and posture saying the absolute opposite. In this situation, though, I wholly support fake-it-til-you-make-it.

Su Yeol: "Ah, you talk too much", he says, TALKING THE MOST IN THIS SCENE (Yun Ho literally said three words).

God bless the DP who decided to use POV shots for the headbutts. Derangement level definitely conveyed.

Hallway of the Id, now devoid of scary colour and lighting, and sound-mixed to record as boringly and non-threateningly as any other hallway. Su Yeol also looks taller when walking through it.

The bits of English in this show continue to be fun, especially K with "full name!"

K saying "Ding, dong, ddaeng!" (to mean "Correct!") – is that a Running Man reference?

The music, the emotional beats, the running, the lighting, the hug, the bloody overhead pyrotechnics. This is a romance scene. Specifically, a Bollywood romance scene. And I adore it.

Even on its own, K's crying, Su Yeol's warm smile and the two hugging would have been enough to make me sob. Two years into this pandemic and not having hugged my friends since 2020, this hits especially hard.

I already wanted these two idiots to win Best Couple at the Baeksang Arts Awards but after the abject purity of that hug and everything it stood for, I think they're in with a chance.

200,000 won = 123 GBP/167 USD.

As Su Yeol's become less of a piece of shit, his clothing has slowly gotten more comfortable and/or more practical.

Su Yeol: "K doesn't show up anymore." That doesn't mean he's not still there, just that maybe his manifestations are now something that Su Yeol can visualise entirely rather than play out their interactions for everyone else to see and hear.

Yong, episode 11: "Do you think I can see that scumbag in court?" Yong, episode 12: Sees said scumbag in court.

Between Hallway of the Id, the reinstatement hearing and the club, Su Yeol walks down a fair few corridors in the show's final scenes, with increasingly positive results.

[punkscowardschampions]

Rio & Buster

Rio: Do you think I need to report or tip the deliveryman for taking advantage of the unlocked front door? Rio: can't decide Buster: Are you sure it was unlocked? Rio: Well I was sure I locked it actually but apparently not Rio: Indie also swears she didn't forget so must've been me Buster: Unless she swore on her stash there's no reason to take it as gospel, babe Rio: True Rio: thanks anyway 😚 they look really pretty in the kitchen window Buster: Hold on, I didn't send you anything Buster: What kind of delivery was it? Rio: Yeah, tbh, I didn't think it was you Rio: but I was hoping Rio: [the picture] Rio: they look kinda cheap Rio: cannot work out who they're from Buster: Is the address right? Maybe they're for next door but yours was open Buster: Fuck it, throw them out and I'll replace them for you Rio: There isn't one, there's like nothing Rio: Maybe Drew's planning to give 'em to someone Buster: Ask him Buster: Could also be one of Indie's friends, you said they were cheap, like Rio: Awh, how sweet Rio: yeah, I'll ask Rio: how are you anyway? Buster: Better before I was worried about your home security Rio: Don't be Rio: You've never forget to lock up before? Rio: Be Drew that'd be 😥 Buster: Course not Buster: My parents would kill me Rio: Guess you have more stuff to steal Rio: luckily we've just been gifted something so that's as good as you can hope I suppose Buster: No bullshit, are you okay? Rio: It just shook me up a bit Rio: but now I've had time to calm down Buster: You can stay here any time and for any reason Buster: You know that Rio: I know Rio: I promise I don't need that though Rio: even though I miss you Rio: wish you were here Buster: I miss you too Buster: I'll come and see you this weekend Buster: Move some shit around Rio: Can you? Rio: don't if you can't Buster: I can Buster: And I want to Rio: I wish they were from you Rio: not an unsubtle hint Buster: I don't need any hints Buster: I just ordered some Buster: But we can track the delivery on these, like Rio: I love you Rio: see who gets here first, you or the flowers Buster: I love you Buster: But they better or else we are gonna have to have a word with whoever the fuck delivers shit to your place Rio: 😂 Rio: its not quite that rough that the postie throws it and runs Buster: Says you Rio: What does that mean? 😏 Buster: It means I've only got your word for it since I can't exactly forgo the hotel and sleep over Rio: You'd prefer your hotel, I'm not gonna oversell it that hard, like Buster: I ain't gonna deny that either Buster: Unless you stayed there and left me alone at the hotel Rio: That just ain't gonna happen Rio: never ever Rio: least no one here is really keeping that close a check on where I am Rio: much easier Buster: Yeah fuck knows where I'm gonna say I am if anyone asks Buster: I'll obviously think of something as per but the standard excuses are gonna start sounding like they are exactly that one of these days Rio: I know Rio: be easier if visiting your sister was a little more in question Rio: but that would require actually doing that so Buster: As much as I love you, babe Rio: I know Rio: she's settled well though Buster: No need to try and make any friends when she's got Junior, is there? Buster: He more or less guarantees her an easier life Rio: Alright for some Rio: lucky he's such a nerd they let him skip Buster: Exactly Rio: Why you gotta be so overachieving, huh Rio: I'm so bored without you Buster: I didn't get put forward a year, I'm clearly not working hard enough actually Rio: Nah, you just don't have crazy genius brain Rio: which I think is probably a good thing Rio: and your school would never, doing everything by the 100 year old book Buster: Cheers Buster: For the compliment and the reminder Rio: You know you're still going to get everything you want Buster: Course I am Buster: I've earned it despite my lack of a genius level IQ Rio: Are you mad I called you not a genius? Buster: Like you said, it's a good thing Buster: Fuck being a weirdo Rio: Bit rude Buster: Come on Rio: You don't need to call anyone a weirdo if you're not mad Buster: You know what I mean Buster: I'm perfect as I am Rio: Okay Buster: Don't get mad Buster: Just 'cause I ain't Rio: 🙄 I'm not Rio: shh Buster: Convincing Rio: Well I will be if you keep going on Buster: Behave Rio: Come over and make me Mr. Perfect 😏 Buster: Friday afternoon Buster: Soon as school's over and done with Rio: 😾 I guess I'll behave then then Buster: Are you gonna be perfect? Rio: Aren't I always? 😇 Buster: You know you are Buster: But you also know I wanna hear you promise Rio: I promise I'll be perfect for you Buster: Good girl Rio: Buster Buster: Rio Rio: You're so rude Rio: distracting me Buster: What are you doing that needs your full attention? Rio: I'm trying to cook Buster: I'll leave you to focus then, yeah? Buster: Wouldn't wanna be even ruder or anything Rio: Don't you dare Buster: You know I always dare Rio: Oh, so we're playing now? Buster: Yeah Rio: And you aren't playing nice Buster: I didn't make any promises to be Rio: Me either Rio: 'til Friday Buster: You can't help yourself though Buster: You're an angel Rio: For my sins Rio: and yours Buster: What sins are those? Rio: If I need to remind you, then its really been way too long since we last did a visit Buster: Or I need to remind you how heavenly everything we've ever done together is Rio: I wouldn't mind that reminder Buster: Call me Rio: [does] Buster: Tell me the kitchen ain't on fire Rio: It ain't Rio: Dinner is gonna be late Rio: but we'll all survive Buster: Well I'm not sorry about that Buster: I've gotta wait til Friday to have dinner with you Rio: I can't wait to cook for you Buster: Don't make me miss you more Rio: You wait 'til I have my own place proper Rio: treat you like such a 👑 all day every day Buster: I'm not sure I can wait, baby Buster: Jesus Rio: Next time your parents are away, tell me and I'll get the next flight Rio: never guaranteeing a free house here but we can play then Buster: Hold on, I'll check the calendar Buster: [a date] Rio: It's done Buster: Easily Rio: then when you go uni we can be together all the time Buster: Every day Rio: Can't we just be 18 now? Buster: I swear I feel older than that already Rio: Me too Rio: its crazy we've been doing all this over 2 years now Rio: never mind everything else Buster: Yeah Buster: Looking at their calendar only proves that my parents treat me like I'm older when it suits 'em Rio: Good for parties Rio: good for me and you Rio: but it must feel so big when its just you in that house Rio: my poor baby Buster: Technically not good enough though 'cause I can't move out or change schools Buster: But I ain't complaining Buster: Especially when I've got you to keep me company if it gets lonely Buster: Just one call away, like Buster: And like you said, the parties and visits mean I rarely am alone anyway Buster: We'd definitely have gotten closer to getting caught if I had different parents as well Rio: It won't last forever, even if it feels like it Rio: best place for you to be right now Rio: and I'll always be here Rio: no matter what Rio: sometimes I forget no one knows Rio: when I'm talking to you Rio: but then its painfully obvious again when we have to hide it Buster: I know Buster: Me too Buster: But that doesn't have to be forever either Buster: We can tell 'em when we're older Rio: We'll have to Rio: I can't just suddenly decide I wanna move to America when you happen to be going too Buster: And when I propose, you won't be able to hide a diamond that big Rio: You can't just say things like that Buster: Don't you wanna marry me? Rio: Of course I do Buster: Good Rio: You really want to marry me Rio: and be with me forever Buster: Of course I do Rio: Buster, I love you so much Rio: how are you real Buster: I could ask you the same question Buster: But I reckon whatever you think makes me unreal does the same to you Rio: You're just Rio: I'm just so glad you're in this as much as I am Rio: we want the same things Buster: I've never half arsed anything in my life, I'm not about to start with the most important part of it Rio: That's why I love you Rio: you're so dedicated and passionate and Rio: fuck Buster: It's for you as much as it is me Buster: I ain't forgotten the future you want Buster: I'm gonna give you everything Rio: Just marry me now Rio: Jesus Buster: Not until you can openly wear the ring every single day Rio: Okay Rio: deal Buster: I'll get you something else to wear in the meanwhile Buster: A ring that's not so obvious Rio: Baby Buster: I fucking love you Buster: There needs to be another word for it that's more descriptive or whatever Buster: Just more everything Rio: I get it Rio: I get you, you get me Rio: There's nothing I wanna do where I don't want you with me Rio: other people don't even register, never mind compare Buster: I feel that too Buster: Since I was a kid Rio: No one else could hold my attention like you Buster: 'Cause there's nobody else like me Rio: Not even close Buster: You won't ever regret choosing me Buster: I'll make sure you don't Rio: I know Rio: but it was never a choice really Rio: not in a bad way just in a Rio: I don't even know Rio: like we was meant to be from the start Buster: I know Buster: Like you said, we're the same in that and loads of other shit Rio: Plus you're the hottest boy to ever walk the planet so obviously, you're mine 😋 Buster: Yeah, that too, like Buster: But even if you weren't the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, I'd still want you to be mine Buster: 'Cause you're the best in so many other ways as well Buster: And I'll never be over how perfect you are or what you make me feel like Rio: Stop being perfect and sincere when I'm just trying to live over here Buster: We've established I can't Buster: Or won't Rio: How do you do that Rio: cheer me up Rio: make me forget Buster: 'Cause I always get what I want Buster: And I want that for you Rio: You're the best Buster: I know Buster: So I deserve you Rio: What do you wanna do when you're here? Rio: Aside from have me be perfect, obviously Buster: We need to get you a ring, of course Buster: Unless you want me to surprise you with it Rio: 😁😁😁 Buster: If that's what you actually look like, show me Rio: [the most excited selfie] Buster: Baby Rio: Daddy Rio: tbh Buster: Tell me what you wanna do when I'm there Buster: Aside from saying that again, obviously Rio: 😏 and again and again Rio: Hmm Rio: just be with you Rio: I don't care what we're doing, as long as its what we wanna do Rio: makes a change from my routine Buster: Well that's the least I can do Buster: Don't worry Rio: I'm never worried Rio: not when I'm with you Buster: Good Buster: You're safe with me Buster: Even if you forget to lock every door Rio: I won't Rio: I'm not a total idiot Buster: I know how smart you are, babe Rio: 🙄 Buster: Don't Buster: I'm serious Rio: Its whatever Rio: I don't need to be smart Rio: just work it Buster: You are though regardless Rio: Whatever you say, babe Buster: You gonna listen to whatever I say? Rio: 🙉🤭 Buster: Alright then Rio: Awh, you mad at me? Buster: Is that what you're trying to do? Rio: Maybe Rio: has it worked? Buster: Try harder Rio: 😤😠💪 Buster: Come on Rio: . Rio: That's me not replying, 'cos nothing makes you madder than being ignored Buster: Well played Rio: Thank you Rio: If I do it for real will you call me again? Buster: How could I resist? Rio: Don't Rio: only me who's gotta resist talking to you Rio: which is really really hard Buster: I'll make your efforts feel worth it Rio: 😣 Buster: I promise Rio: Okay Rio: I can do it Buster: Prove it Buster: [calls]

[lefthologramdeer]

I Can’t Do This Anymore Part 2

Words:

Warnings: none

AN: I am so sorry it has taken me so long to write something. These past few months have been stressful and crazy.

It had been a week since Y/N had left Sam and Dean at the hotel. She took her time getting back to the bunker, stopping at every roadside diner and attraction that she happened to come upon. Every day brought at least 10 phone calls from Sam, a few from Dean, and a handful of texts from Castiel.

The only people she would actually answer her phone for were Jody and Donna. She would talk to them at least twice a day, updating them on where she was, how she was doing, and also reminding them both not to tell the boys they had spoke to her.

"Honey, you have to tell Sam that you are okay. Just tell him that you made it back to the bunker safe and that you still need time to think." Jody told Y/N as she sat outside in front of the bunker.

"Well technically I made it to right outside the bunker. I haven't been able to talk myself out of the car yet." Y/N answered while fidgeting with the door handle.

  Jody audibly sighed before answering Y/N. "Listen, you are the one who said that you were going to go back to the bunker to think about everything. You told him to go home so you guys can talk. You are the one who wanted this so get your ass out of that car, take a warm shower, then call your fiance and fix things."

Y/N rolled her eyes at Jody's words but she knew she was right. Damn her she thought before she took a deep breath. "Why do you always have to be right?"

Walking into the bunker alone was weird for Y/N. As soon as she opened the door, all the memories of the last time she was there flooded her mind, making her second guess Jody's advice.

"Come on Y/N put on your big girl pants, it's just the same old bunker that you've been in hundreds of times." She told herself out loud as she walked through the darkened hallway leading to the library.

The bunker was oddly warm for no one living in it for almost a month she thought to herself as she made her way through the library towards the war room. She stopped in her tracks when she saw that the war room light was on. Slowly, Y/N took her back pack off of her shoulder and placed it on the floor, then grabbed the knife she had tucked in her boot.

Quietly she placed her back against the wall next to the door way and listened for any sign of an intruder. After a few minutes or silence she figured it was safe enough to continue through the bunker.

The war room was empty, except for the books that Sam had left on the table the last time he was there. "How different things were only a few weeks ago." She thought out loud, placing a hand on the table and shaking the memories from her head.

Y/N pushed herself away from the table and started to head for the stairs when she heard a slight banging coming from the hallway. Turning into hunter mode, Y/N went to one of the book shelves lining the war room walls and grabbed the emergency stash of salt and holy water.

I really hope she likes this, Sam thought to himself as he made his way around the bunkers kitchen. He knew Y/N for years, knew what all her favorites were but after their last fight he didn't think he knew anything anymore.

He knew he had to hurry though, Jody called him half an hour ago to let him know where Y/N was which didn't give him enough time to finish getting ready so Sam put Dean on flower duty while he did the cooking, and Cas was on fluffy blanket detail.

"Dean, you go get a dozen white roses. Cas, you go get the softest and fluffiest blanket you can find. But both of you need to hurry!" Sam ordered them around.

Dean scoffed at his younger brother and rolled his eyes. "This situation calls for a lot more than just a dozen roses and a fluffy blanket. Don't worry about it, we got this, you just handle your part."

Slowly making her way down the hallway, Y/N checked each room silently waiting for another noise to give away the location of the intruder.

The only rooms left to check were the kitchen and the holding room where they usually kept Crowley tied up. She decided to check the make shift holding cell room, "maybe we forgot to cut him loose this time.." she thought out loud.

As Sam pulled the hot pan off of the stove, he saw his phone light up from the counter. He placed the pan back on the burner and walked towards it to see who it was.

Jody: hey just an fyi, Y/N is right out side. I just talked her into going inside. You might need to hurry!

"Shit!" He shouted and dropped his phone on the tiled kitchen floor.

The holding room was surprisingly empty, which meant that there was only one more room to check. She made her way out of the room and closed the door behind her. Taking a deep breath as she stepped into the hallway, Y/N tightened her grip on the knife in her hand.

"Dean, you both need to hurry. Jody just texted me that Y/N is right outside." Sam whispered into the phone that was resting between his ear and shoulder.

"Would you calm down Sammy, everything is already taken care of. Cas and I are waiting in the garage to hear the good news. Now take a deep breath and go win your woman back."

When Y/N got closer to the kitchen, she could see that the light was on. "Someone really broke into the bunker to steal our food?" She whispered to herself. She inched her way closer to the open doorway, stopping to rest her head against the door trim.

She tried to figure out when her plan of attack should be on the intruder in her kitchen but when she heard someone cough, her plan went out the window and she charged at whatever was in there.

Her body met the intruder's with a hard thud as they both lost their balance and fell to the floor. As they both fell   Y/N's knife got knocked out of her hand and went crashing to the floor. She cursed under her breath and braced herself for the fall.

The intruders body hit the ground first, causing Y/N to slam right into their chest. "Fuck!" She shouted as she felt one of her ribs crack and she fumbled to get herself up off the floor.

Finally gaining her balance, she stood over her intruder, placing a boot to their chest. "Who are.....Sam?"

Sam realized who it was as soon as she charged threw the door way. He felt bad for not saying anything as soon as he heard something crack but as soon as she stood up, the kitchen light enveloped her head like a halo and he was too mesmerized to speak.

"Sam?" Y/N asked confused. "Why are you sneaking around the bunker like you broke in?"

"Surprise." Sam answered as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Y/N rolled her eyes and backed away bringing her hand to her side. "Surprise, really? Surprise what? Surprise here's a heart attack!" She yelled down to him.

"Can you at least help me up before you start yelling at me." Sam laughed and he out stretched his hand for her to grab.

Y/N stared at his hand for a second before she grabbed his hand, letting him pull himself up. "I'm pretty sure my rib is broken, so thank you for that." She told him after he was standing right side up.

"I thought you would realize it was me before you attacked, but I should have known the hunter in you would attack first and ask questions later." Sam chuckled.

"Yeah, you should have." Y/N answered him, slight annoyance in her voice.  "So why did you decide to give me a heart attack and break my rib?" She asked as she leaned against the counter.

"I'm sorry you got hurt, that wasn't my intention at all. Jody has been calling me with updates and told me that you were on your way home.  So we raced home to get here before you. I wanted to surprise you with dinner, and then talk afterwards."

"Jody told you? I asked her and Donna not to tell you guys anything."

"Don't be mad at her, I begged her to tell me." Sam answered, taking a step towards her. "Why don't you go get changed into something comfy while I finish dinner. We can eat and then talk, okay?"

Y/N grabbed the bag she said left in the library and headed up the stairs to her room. It had been a long week of driving and she couldn't wait to peel off her jeans and throw on some sweats. 

As soon as Y/N reached her bedroom door, she saw a faint glow coming from underneath it. She pushed the door open slowly and her jaw fell to the floor. Her entire bedroom floor was covered in white rose petals, tea lights outlined her bed and a basket full of candles and a giant fuzzy blanket laid on the corner of her bed.

"Oh my Chuck." She whispered as she tried to take everything in. She dropped her bag on the floor and stared at the scene in front of her. "He's really trying hard isn't he?" She asked herself out loud as she headed for the bathroom to wash her face. 

The same faint glow came from under the bathroom door, causing herself to giggle. "Oh yeah, he's definitely trying hard." She added as she opened the door.

Floating candles were lit and waiting for her in an already drawn bath. "I swear, if that water is still warm..." she trailed off, bringing herself to the edge of the tub.

She placed a hand in the tub and quickly pulled it out. "How the hell?" She yelled as she pulled her hand away.

Y/N heard a muffled laugh in response coming from downstairs, causing her to smile. "Maybe I should hear him out."

"Dinner was amazing Sam, thank you for cooking." Y/N smiled as she took both of their plates off the table and walked them to the sink.  And thank you for the bath...and the rose petals." She giggled.

"Don't thank me, your room and bathroom was all Dean and Cas. I haven't even seen it yet." Sam replied as he went to go meet her by the sink. "I uh..have been wanting to apologize to you since the night you left." Sam started, watching Y/N for any sign of her not wanting to have the conversation right now.

Y/N hopped up on the counter by the sink and nodded her head for Sam to continue.

"I know I should have called you that night and told you how the hunt was going. And not just that night, every night. I know you get worried when Dean and I go out on a hunt. I'm sorry for making you worry."

"Thank you for your apology."Y/N said, as she took a deep breath before continuing. "Honestly, that's all I've ever wanted from you. I know that hunting is what you have been doing since you were a kid, I'm not doubting your skills at all. I know you can handle yourself out there, but I still worry about you both. You don't even have to call, just a short text saying that you are okay is all I need and then we can talk about the hunt when you get home."

Sam took a step towards Y/N, moving her legs so he could stand in between them. "I promise to text you hourly updates while we are on a hunt. I promise to call you if things are really bad." Sam told her, moving closer to Y/N and resting his palms on her thighs. He felt her legs shudder under his touch, and moved his face closer to her.

Y/N could feel Sam's hot breath on her lips, and it took everything in her not to jump off the counter and onto him. "Do you promise to never have to share a room with Dean and Cas again?" She winked at him.

"I can definitely promise that."

Y/N couldn't take the tension anymore, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle.

"Does this mean that we are okay?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Oh, we are more than okay." She answered before she attacked his face with kisses. "Now let's go put that warm bath to good use." She winked playfully.

Sam lifted Y/N off of the counter and into his arms, heading for her bathroom. "One more question though." Sam said. "Are you still my fiance?"

"I never stopped."

Tags: @coffee-obsessed-writer @kazosa @padasteph-nie @sorenmarie87 @waywarddaughter @xxdragonagequeenxx

[bewareofchris]

I don't actually trust you to write a strictly happy story or commentary or any kind of writing. However I enjoy your stories and writings too much to leave unattended and I do want more information. So, on to the obvious year, 2017.

1. rude (but true.  I mean, I wouldn’t trust me either).

PG-13?/R | Altmal | sexual situations off and on, mostly fluffy baby-related things

2017 is the year Kadar gets married (in June) and the year that Maria would be pregnant with Jaida.  It’s a good year.

(April)

“All I’m saying,” Maria slurred in the space between her mouth and the glass of liquor she was holding, “is that I’m about to commit myself to nine months of hard physical labor with a list of agreed upon restrictions, I should get some compensation.”  (At least, Malik thought that was what she was saying.)  It was hard to know with the English accent and the drunkenness if that was exactly correct.)

“Like what?” Altair asked.  He’d tried arguing her into taking money and she’d countered him every single time, saying that he’d done her a favor and she wanted to repay them.  (When pressed, she would admit that she liked the idea of a child but she didn’t want to be bothered with the care and feeding of one.)  “More booze?”

“Sex,” Maria countered.

Malik laughed (bright and loud, and a little tipsy) at that.  “You’e a lesbian.”

“So?” was indignant.  “Look,” and she slid out of her chair to come sit next to him.  Her drink spilled on his shirt as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders.  Her voice was close and warm.  “We can share, you can go first.”  Her fingers were working their way through the spaces between his shirt buttons.  Her nails scratched across his skin in a way that wasn’t anything but promising.  

Altair leaned forward to glare at them, working up to being offended about Maria groping his husband (most likely), but Malik said, “you should give us head,” because those ideas Maria was whispering into his ear were practically perfect.  

There was his husband, all but stripping off his clothes in joy, staring down the offer like working out how much it would cost him.  Thinking it through didn’t stop him from easing off the couch, or pulling his shirt off or dragging Malik forward so he could get easier access to his dick.  But once he was there, warm and real and comfortable between Malik’s thighs he said, “this counts as something off your list.”

“Fine,” Malik said.

Maria was delighted with soft little kisses against Malik’s cheek.  “Can I kiss you?” she asked, and then louder, “can I kiss you husband?”

“You can try.  He gets mouthy when he gets head,” Altair said.

(May)

It wasn’t that Altair had forgotten.  Because he didn’t forget things that Malik remembered (although it was hard to know what Malik would choose to remember and at which time).  In fact, he had been standing in the kitchen spinning his wedding ring on his finger while he considered doing some sort of landscaping with the muddy hellhole of the backyard when he very suddenly was reminded that he needed to remember:

“So,” Malik asked across the kitchen island.  He had appeared with bedhead and a surly frown, as if summoned from the discontent Altair felt about the dirt that refused to grow grass staring him down through the back windows.  Dirt was not a proper substance on which his child could play.  It would have to be replaced.

“So?” Altair repeated.  (He began the mental review of important dates and arguments they may have had recently to see what he’d misplaced.)

“So, its our anniversary,” Malik prompted.  “The anniversary of the day we were married.  The first anniversary.”

“Are we celebrating that?” came springing right out of his mouth before he could think.  “I thought you said we couldn’t celebrate more than one anniversary a year and I already made you go with me to London for our we finally met again anniversary.”

Malik was glaring at him.  “You’re cute.”

“I would prefer the term gorgeous, I’d settle for handsome.  I don’t have the right face for cute.  Kadar’s cute.”

“What is it?  What did you get me?”  Malik didn’t sound like the sort of person that should receive a present or even the sort that would enjoy one.  He sounded much more like Lucy who was still working through the notion she was wealthy beyond reason.  Malik started drumming his fingers on the counter top to really punctuate his point.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Altair said.  “You told me that I couldn’t buy or make you anything.  You said if I tried to celebrate more than one anniversary a year that you would divorce me and take half my net wealth.”  (Those were, in fact, Malik’s exact words.)  “I like the we met for the first time anniversary.”

So when his husband smiled at him, it was a surprise.  Malik reached behind his back to pluck an envelope out of the waist band of his sleep pants.  “I got you something,” he said.  He set the envelope down on the counter but didn’t push it forward where Altair could get it.  “The first wedding anniversary is paper and I wanted this to be meaningful.”

“You did?” Altair said.

“Yes, so, here.”  Malik slid the envelope forward and then just stood there watching him (very carefully) as Altair opened it.  The paper inside looked like any other folded over sheet of printer paper.  It was otherwise entirely unremarkable.  When he flattened it out, it took him a few tries to fully understand what he was looking at.  

“Maria’s pregnant?” 

Malik was smiling at him from the other side of the island, as if he hadn’t masterminded the deception that the doctors Altair had been paying (for too much) for hadn’t just been ignoring his inquiries.  As if the bastard hadn’t literally, two days ago, been telling him that it might not work the first time.  Fertility was a touchy thing and neither him nor Maria had ever tried to have a child before.  And the bastard had known.  “Congratulations,” Malik said. “You’re going to be a Dad.”

There were simply no words.  He went around the island and pulled Malik into a hug and kissed him and held onto him while he reread the whole paper again (most of it was medical jargon that he didn’t understand) and Malik leaned against his body.  “We’re going to be parents,” Altair repeated.

“Yeah,” Malik said.  He kissed Altair again, “we are.”

(June)

Malik was just as happy to erase the entire clusterfuck that was the month of June from his memory as to try to recall any series of events from that month in order.  It was easiest to refer to it as ‘Kadar’s wedding’ and not thing about how they had been stuck in Delaware (the first state to ratify the Constitution) with half of Italy for almost an entire fucking week.

The only good thing to come of it was his stupid brother’s decision to gift every close male relative with single pack Viagra.  Not just for the obvious reason, but also because Kadar had somehow managed to fill an entire bowling bag with the stupid little packs and snuck it into Altair’s luggage.  So Malik had the absolute delight of watching his husband freak out about trying to hide his unwanted stash of dick drugs for three straight days.

The rest of the wedding was shit, Altair panicking and protesting how he hadn’t bought the Viagra had been the only memorable event.  (Never mind Malik had been laughing too hard to participate in the conversation.)

(July)

Altair was good for frightening statistics.  He’d memorized all kinds of numbers about how pregnancies could go bad and when and how they shouldn’t make plans or make purchases before a certain point because it was bad luck.  He wasn’t superstitious by nature.

Malik was good at pushing his fingers through Altair’s hand when he wandered off in his head, “if I tell you that it’ll be okay, will you believe me?”

“Will you make it sound believable?” Altair asked.

There was a pause, Malik moved so he was standing right in front of him.  They were out-in-public (shopping with Peyton, meandering past the baby section).  “I do not believe any rational argument could counter an irrational fear.  What if I promised that we can have completely filthy sex when we get home?”

Altair shrugged, “I like filthy sex.”  

“I know,” Malik agreed.

But the baby section was just staring at him.

Malik looked over his shoulder at it.  “What if I promise you that I’ll let you drag me to every single unreasonably priced baby store in the country to buy far more supplies than can ever be used for our first child?”

Altair stopped staring at cute outfits and bibs and looked at Malik’s perfectly patient face.  He was smiling at a technicality long before Malik realized what he’d said, “first?” he repeated.

“If you survive this ordeal, we’ll talk about having another.”

“You said first,” Altair repeated.  “Deal,” before Malik could take it back.  

(August)

Maria looked distinctly uncomfortable.  Pregnancy had not given her (what Malik would consider) a glow but exaggerate the paleness of her skin.  She had a bag full of snacks (fully approved to be healthy for the baby) at her side that she was picking at now and again while they waited, but mostly she shifted in her seat and grumbled under breath.  

“Is there anything I can do?” Malik asked.

“At this juncture, I do not believe there is,” Maria snapped back.  She didn’t look even slightly repentant about it either.  In fact, when Altair was not there, she was more or less a fire-breathing demon.  

Malik didn’t fight her.  His Mother would have shown up just to slap him if he’d tried.  Instead he said, “it’s only a few month months.”

“Yeah, I’ll shove a watermelon up your ass and tell you it’s only a few more months.”  She shifted again and found that it did nothing to make her more comfortable.  “Is Altair going to show up?  I don’t like these clothes.”  She plucked at the dress she was wearing.  

“Yes,” Malik said.  

Maria let her head fall back and mumbled something under her breath.  When she turned to look at him, she said, “this is just more uncomfortable than I thought it would be.  I’m not unhappy to have your baby.  I just,” and there was the important bit, “I feel like it means to much to the idiot.  You understand, I say I hate you, I mean I’m uncomfortable and you understand.”

Malik nodded.  “I do.”

“Altair would think it meant I don’t want to have the baby.”

That was true.  “It’s okay.  You can vent all your anger at me.”

Maria smiled and (thank God) that was the moment Altair chose to walk in.  He sat in the chair between them, falling into a conversation about any updates he might have missed and somewhere in the middle of Maria saying everything was good (again) and being called back to to the ultrasound (at last), Altair remembered Malik existed long enough to kiss him.  

(September)

They were having a daughter.

“What are we going to name her?” felt like it had been punched straight out of his chest.  They were sitting at the breakfast table, Malik sipping coffee and looking over the morning paper as if life could continue to be so mundane in the wake of such news.  It felt like they’d been whispering ‘the baby’ for months, ever since Maria was confirmed to be pregnant and all that time it had been an abstract notion.  A baby.  A formless sort of thing, devoid of personality or future, just a notion.  It shouldn’t have mattered, and who cared about the sex of the baby, but it seemed to drown him regardless.  

They were having a daughter.

“I’d prefer not to name her after a fruit or vegetable,” Malik said.  He even looked up from his paper long enough to join the conversation in progress.  (Not that there was much of one.)

“So, Cucumber Jane is a no go?”

Malik narrowed his eyes at him, like he did when he didn’t want to smile, and then said, “why not name her Michelle?”

That was a callback, one might say, to a previous argument.  About the girl in Paris that had done her very best to flirt with Altair in open view of the whole world (and her parents who disapproved of the whole thing almost as much as Malik).  It had been a friendly argument over an absurd but delicate matter of extracting himself from the lovesick gaze of a teenager mooning over him.  (And that, Malik said, is why you shouldn’t go to the pool shirtless.)  “I’d prefer we not name our daughter after our affairs.”

“I suppose Leona is out then,” Malik said so very calmly one might have mistaken him for being serious.  But his lips were coiled up in a sly grin.  

“Lenora isn’t a bad name,” Altair said.  “Although if you name our daughter after the guy Ezio is still fucking, it’ll make Christmas more complicated.”

Malik snorted at that.  “Heaven forbid.  Alright,” was serious, “I’m sure you have a list.”

“I’m sure you have one,” Altair countered.

“Of course I have a list.”  And it just so happened, he had that list on his phone.  As it happened, so did Altair.  

(October)

Malik was not annoyed by how easily Altair was distracted by baby things.  It was charming.  When he seemed annoyed by it, it was only because they were trying to shop for Peyton’s Halloween costume while the girl in question was two and a half breaths away from a full meltdown.  Her Mother, Lucy, and her Uncle, Altair, were over in the baby section of the costume aisle, awwing over babies in sheep costumes.

“LIttle Baby Jaida can be a sheep and you can be Little Bo Peep!” Lucy was saying.

Altair was delighted, full of light and laughter and love, “I��d have to get a longer skirt though.”

Peyton was filled head to toe with hateful spite, glaring at them while she held onto Malik’s hand.  She turned her face to look at him (accusingly), “who is baby Jaida?”

“Oh!” Lucy said, “look at this one, it’s an owl.  Look at how cute this.  If she comes out with Malik’s skin it would be adorable on her.”  And she let her hand move away from the costume to add, quieter, “and if she comes out with Maria’s she can be this,” and she held up a baby vampire costume complete with exaggerated black widows peak.

Altair cracked up.  Peyton started making the noise that preceded a fit.  Malik cleared his throat to call back Lucy because he loved his niece well enough, but it was his last Halloween before he was obligated to dress small children in colorful costumes and he was going to spend it not consoling a screaming child.  He traded Peyton for his husband.

Altair slid an arm around him when he was close enough and said, “the sheep is cute.”

“It is,” Malik agreed.  Because it was.  All the baby costumes were cute.  (And would be made cuter by the addition of their child.)  “But you cannot wear the sex costume outside.”

Altair smiled with pink all in his cheeks and pulled Malik in so he could kiss him.  “What if I wear it tonight?” was whispered very quietly against his cheek.  Malik pinched him (but he didn’t say no) and Altair laughed again.

(November)

Maria had shown up at the start of November looking like she had finally reached the point at which she could no longer pretend not to be uncomfortable (for his sake, he understood).  She dropped her bags at the front door and slapped her purse on the table and said, “make me a fucking apple pie or I’ll have to cannibalize someone.”

Altair had not had the things to make a pie in his house because he did not usually make them except at Thanksgiving but he went on a brief trip to the store and returned with what he felt was plenty of supplies.

That was before Maria asked for another two days later, and then another two days after that.  By Thanksgiving he had gotten so practiced at making the pies that Desmond (who liked his pie before he was an expert) remarked, “this is amazing.  Did you do something different?”

Maria was dangerous enough even without a knife in her hand but as she happened to have one in her hand when Desmond asked, Altair just smiled, “nope.  Same pie as always.”

(December)

Maria cornered him (literally, in a corner) to say, “we need to throw your stupid husband a baby shower.  I know he has everything he thinks he needs but my understand of baby showers is that it’s not about gifts.  Find a way to make him go to the mansion, I’ll take care of the arrangements.”

Malik had only said, “you need his permission to hold any sort of gathering at the house, it’s impossible to get anyone to go there if he hasn’t agreed to it.  Not the family, but caterers and event planners also won’t go near it.”

Maria smiled at him, “you’re his husband.”

“I don’t own his Grandmother’s house,” Malik countered.  (Because he didn’t and it was simply one thing he had no interest in ever challenging.  Altair owned the house, Malik visited it once in a while.)  “I could maybe get him to agree to a Christmas party there?  An early one in case you have the baby early?”

“Good,” Maria said.  “So do that.”

–

Altair had been dragged to the mansion under false pretenses.  He had been dressed in a holiday sweater, shoved in a car and driven to the mansion under the guise of early Christmas. 

But the ballroom in the back was filled with tables covered in pretty pink table clothes.  Maria met him at the door with a baby bottle on a string that she offered to him and said, “if you say the word baby, you have to give up the necklace to whoever catches you.  Whoever gets the most at the end of the party gets to keep this baby.”  And her smile was pure evil.  (That couldn’t possibly be the real reward.)  Then Malik threw a T-shirt at him that once unfolded said ‘new Mom’.  

“It’s your baby shower,” Maria said.  “Eat cake, open presents, watch the morons try to chug alcohol out of baby bottles.  I found a lot of games, I couldn’t decide which I liked.”

Altair hugged her and Maria hugged him back.  “Thank you,” he said.  She shoved him back when she was tired of being held onto (because she got hot, she said, all the time).  “Who’d you invite?”

“Everyone,” Maria said.  

(January)

Malik had thought, despite what he was told, that there was simply no way to love anyone on sight.  It was as impossible a notion as any, but there he was, leaning up against his husband’s body, the pair of them looking down at their brand-new-daughter.  She was discontent at her living conditions, surly as her Mother had been all through labor, pink and healthy and beautiful.  

“I love her,” Altair whispered.  Like a revelation, like he hadn’t thought it was possible.  There were tears in his eyes as he smiled and Malik ran his finger down her perfect little cheek.  “This is our daughter,” Altair whispered.  “We have a daughter, we’re fathers.”